The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  “Done!”

  I heard a stop watch click.

  Duane’s assistant Leatty walked over. I stood, panting, holstering the empty Glock.

  Leatty gave a long low whistle, holding up the stopwatch. "Not bad, Harmon. Two minutes, forty-four seconds. And I don’t think you missed one kill zone."

  He handed me the final target, writing my perfect score in the upper corner. I carried it outside, ready to gloat. Ready for redemption. That idiot who left her gun in the car was yesterday—look at this target! I needed something to seal the lament inside my heart. Something that said I wasn't that dumb.

  But as soon as my eyes began to burn, I knew what was wrong. I smelled pepper in the air. Pepper and poison. Within seconds my throat was in flames, and by then it was too late to change anything.

  John was yelling -- "How many times do we have to say this?"

  My weeping eyes had shut. I could hear Duane now. He was yelling too.

  “Don't use the Mace! Not when we're here!"

  The police academy instructors liked to test the mettle of new recruits. First-hand lessons. So they sprayed the newbies with heavy doses of Mace, discovering what the recruits were made of. But this low valley had strong breezes, and the noxious clouds always seemed to float over to our building.

  "You idiots!" John bellowed. "We're firearms testing -- and now we're blind!"

  I blinked, trying to see through the tears. There was a blue circle, the police officers. John waving his arms. Men and women were staggering past them. Crying. Doubled over. And I could hear the accusations. You idiots. You bunglers. You morons.

  Holding my target, I turned away.

  And let the tears roll.

  Chapter 31

  Back at the carriage house, I cranked up the air conditioner and took a long cool shower, rinsing my still-burning eyes. When I got out, staring at my face in the mirror above the pedestal sink, the bruise had deepened to purple.

  In the hall closet I found my grandmother's makeup kit. Selma Harmon only wore Charles of the Ritz face powder, custom blended by a famous dragon lady at the Thalhimer's counter. As I dabbed her powder puff on my skin, the sweet talcum scent brought back images of my dad’s mother. Small and fierce and southern. When I finished, the bruise looked worse. The powder had too much Old Lady Pink.

  I was washing it off when I heard my cell phone ringing in the living room. Holding my towel I walked over and checked caller ID. 202 area code. Washington. Not Phaup.

  "Raleigh Harmon,” I said.

  "The hair follicle doesn't match either of the deceaseds,” Rodriguez said. “And none of their clothing matches the fibers on that silly First Aid tape you brought in." He sounded mad, like a prank was being played on him. "And the red fibers on the building didn't come from those red-and-black tennis shoes."

  I stared out the window. "That can’t be.”

  "First of all, the blue threads you collected are rip-stop. Nylon. The kind used in windbreakers, sleeping bags, that sort of thing. None of the clothes match it."

  "There must be some mistake."

  "What?"

  "No," I said quickly. "Not you. I'm saying something must be wrong with the evidence."

  "Yes, well. That's why I'm an examiner," he said. "The evidence is what it is. Good luck, Raleigh."

  He hung up.

  ===============

  On the way to the office, for some merciful reason, my car radio picked up an actual station again. Hank Williams felt lonesome, and the DJ claimed it was ninety-two degrees, if nobody counted the humidity. It was just past 6 p.m.

  I was walking toward Phaup’s office rehearsing my speech when I stopped. Her door was closed. She was apparently busy bothering another agent. Feeling almost giddy, I turned to leave. But Phaup's secretary Claudia took off her dictation headset.

  "She'll be done in one minute," she said.

  "I'll come back."

  "No, really. One minute."

  "Exactly?"

  She nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Her upper limit is twenty-three minutes. This meeting is going on twenty-two. If you leave, it will take you four minutes to get downstairs, but you won't reach your desk for another seven because you haven't been in the office for several days. You'll stop and talk. Then you'll spend another five minutes getting back up here because she's been calling you and wants to see you. Immediately. So, please, save me the trouble because—” Claudia paused, turning toward Phaup's door as it opened—"here she is."

  An agent stepped out. He was cradling a brown accordion file under one arm. Hugh Blundell. Former CPA. He graduated from Quantico the year after me. He now worked White Collar Crime.

  Hugh winked at me, whispering, “She’s all yours.”

  Claudia replaced the headset, dropping her voice.

  "Go on,” she said. “Get it over with."

  ===============

  Like any good investigator, I was constantly looking for clues in Phaup's office. But there were none. No family portraits. No pictures of pets. Not even one memorable vacation shot. Only a small Navajo rug that lay between her desk and the interrogation chairs. From her last assignment. In Albuquerque.

  She pointed at the chair. “I’ve been trying to reach you, Raleigh.”

  "Yes, ma’am."

  "I realize agents sometimes need to screen calls. If you're busy for a moment, fine. But two days out of touch? Too long."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "That won't happen again." She yanked at her bra strap. "Now, update on the 44."

  First, I reminded her that both men carried a distinct soil in their shoes. The matching soil meant they were both in an identical location before meeting on the roof. Perhaps together, perhaps separately. But it was likely that Hamal Holmes was linked to a cold case that the detective was working. “And new information reveals the detective had keys to the building.”

  She didn’t react to that fact.

  So I started to explain Rodriguez's report on the hairs and fibers.

  She interrupted me. "I got a call this morning.”

  I braced myself. More People Magazine inquiries.

  "The Charles City Sheriff wants to know what line we’re taking for prosecuting the guys who attacked you."

  I opened my mouth. She cut me off again.

  "Because if we say they attacked you because you're an FBI agent, then obviously it’s a federal crime. If not, it's a state matter." She paused. "What do you suggest, Agent Harmon?"

  "I was taking soil samples." My voice practically croaked.

  "Soil. Samples. What in the – this is how you resolve a case? With dirt?"

  For the third time, I explained that both men were in a specific location. So specific it was equivalent to a fingerprint.

  She stood and walked around her desk, pulling at her skirt. "I'm suspending you for two weeks."

  I didn't hear that. "Pardon?"

  "You're suspended. For leaving your weapon in your vehicle."

  "How—" But I closed my mouth.

  “You thought I wouldn't find out?" There was a smug expression on her face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, it wasn’t that bad.”

  "Let me tell you a story." She leaned against her desk and began describing two agents on stakeout, sitting in a car. Watching nothing happen. “After five hours, their backsides ached, and their stomachs were growling. An Indian restaurant down the street was pumping curry into the air, and finally one of the agents offered to run inside to grab some takeout.”

  I wasn’t following but kept quiet.

  "The agent calls the restaurant, makes sure the food is ready before running inside. But while paying the bill, the agent sees a man walk into the restaurant. The man has a gun. He tells everyone to hit the floor and he proceeds to empty the cash register. Only the Indian restaurant owner isn't cooperating. He fights the perp, and the perp shoots him dead."
She paused. "This is a sad story. But the real point is: why didn't the agent neutralize the situation?"

  I was supposed to guess. Not hard. "Because the agent didn't have his gun."

  "Correct. Where was the gun?"

  "In the car."

  "Correct."

  "It won't happen again."

  "No, Raleigh. It won't. You will never again forget that weapon. Your suspension is effective immediately."

  "Today?"

  "Leave your weapon with me. And the case goes to John Breit."

  John, who would close it. No questions asked.

  “It was one mistake—“

  "You failed to take proper precautions, Raleigh. No gun. And you didn't take any backup. You didn't even tell the office where you were. Which is why I'm writing a letter of censure for your personnel file."

  “Censure?” I waited for the nightmare to end. But the monster only seemed to grow larger.

  "What were you really doing out there, anyway?" she asked.

  "I told you, taking soil samples." And then against my better judgment I started to explain myself: I didn't ask for backup because she wanted the case resolved quickly. Within hours. And I couldn't wait for another agent’s schedule to clear. "And when I started out there was plenty of light."

  "But some rednecks decided you were an easy mark. Guess what? You were." She gave a shoulder pad a shove. "What are the Bureau requirements for firearms?"

  I recited like a schoolgirl. "Armed on duty, in the office, or while conducting FBI business."

  "What part don't you understand?"

  "I understand it all. Ma'am."

  "I'm recommending OPR look into this."

  She couldn't be serious. OPR. Office of Professional Responsibility. Whatever their final verdict, it almost didn’t matter. Any OPR investigation was a permanent black mark on an agent's record. It would affect the rest of my career.

  "Suspension, letter of censure. I get it. You don’t need to call in OPR."

  She shook her head. "What if the sheriff had phoned this morning to inform me that your body was in the morgue?"

  I couldn't answer.

  "Lock up your firearm. Drive your vehicle home. But after that it's off limits until your suspension is completed."

  "When would that be?"

  "Fifteen days from now."

  Just over the two-week mark. So the suspension looked even worse.

  "Report back here when the fifteen days are completed. In the meantime, expect OPR to contact you."

  When I stood, the room was floating. And the walk to the door took ten years.

  But it was enough time for me to figure out something. I turned around. She was already back at her desk, pawing through the mass of papers.

  "You were that agent," I said.

  She didn't even look up.

  “In the restaurant,” I said. “That was you.”

  "And I've never forgotten my gun again," she said.

  Chapter 32

  I parked the K-Car several blocks off Monument Avenue and walked to the alley, stealing into the carriage house by the back entrance. My answering machine held two messages: Wally asking about my schedule for the weekend -- boy, did I have a surprise for him -- and DeMott wondering about that date my mother proposed.

  In the sky, the evening sun gleamed with brass and melted gold. But the charcoal clouds loomed, a distant rumble in the air. But my heart was jangly in a bad, bad way. I threw on shorts and a t-shirt and ran down the steps.

  The bruise on my face throbbed with every footfall. And I didn’t care. I jogged down The Boulevard past the Daughters of the Confederacy headquarters where the iron cannons still pointed north. I headed down Grove for two miles then ran around St. Catherine’s School, my high school alma mater. On my third lap around campus, I decided this school was one of those places where failure was not an option.

  And now failure had come.

  I kept running until the first crack of lightning. Cutting down Somerset, I ducked under the lowest, widest oak, pressing my back against the coarse trunk. Bolts of lightning began ripping open rain's vessel, pouring the water into the streets. Rain pummeled the oak leaves, drowned the gardens, and danced on the grass. The rain sounded like a stadium filled with applause. In the road, cars pulled to the side, and drivers snapped on their hazard lights, warning the blind coming up behind them.

  For one extended moment, Richmond stopped dead while rain beat a proud city into submission.

  And then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the storm ended. Thunder murmured into the next county. Cars pulled back onto the road, sloshing through puddles already draining into the storm grates.

  Birds chirped.

  I ran for home. The sky was still blue and black, bruised with the spent clouds. The early darkness tripped the streetlights as I ran down Grove Avenue. The lights flashed against the puddles and the evening air smelled of wet clover and electrolytes. The city felt freshly baptized, its sins forgiven though never forgotten.

  I slowed to a walk by the Daughters of the Confederacy, staring at the cannons. The forged iron rims dripped with rain.

  This defiant city. It was willing to acknowledge its troubled past, but it refused to turn that bygone era into a complete wasteland. It was a city that said cruelty and affliction don’t eliminate grace and gentility. The hope of salvation. I turned and walked down Monument Avenue. General Lee and Traveller glistened with bronzed water.

  For better or worse, this city was in my blood. In my bones. My heart.

  I could no more turn my back on Richmond than the Daughters could reverse those cannons.

  Despite its troubles, despite wounds stretching back centuries, Richmond was my home. And asking me to forget what happened on that rooftop was like asking General Lee to turn and ride north. It wouldn't happen.

  I couldn’t let it happen.

  Chapter 33

  Later that night more storms rolled through, and when I crossed the courtyard early the next morning, the air felt thick as honey.

  Wally sat at the kitchen table, perusing the newspaper for gossip. I didn’t see my mother anywhere.

  "Where is she?" I asked.

  "Building an ark."

  "Seriously."

  “Seriously?” He dropped the paper. "She got up in the middle of the night and made some weirdo herbal tea that stunk up the place. Smell gave me nightmares. I came downstairs, thinking I was dying. She just smiled and told me to go on back to bed, night-night. I still couldn't sleep. I finally got out of bed an hour ago, and she's sound asleep in her room. That dog’s with her. And I am choosing to greet this day with my usual good humor despite feeling the way tofu looks."

  I poured a cup of coffee.

  The only bread in the house was something called spelt. Worse than the name was the testimony on the plastic bag, insisting the bread had no flour. That seemed wrong. But I dropped two board-like slices into the toaster, and without turning around I explained my suspension to Wally. Two weeks. “And I don't want her to know.”

  I heard the newspaper rustling. The toaster popped.

  "Is this because of what happened down at the river?" he asked.

  The bread resembled meatless meat loaf, which my mother has also served. I spread something on it that resembled butter. Maybe. "Disciplinary action. I made a mistake. A serious mistake. Now I have to deal with the consequences."

  "What a load," he said. "You should fight it."

  “I am,” I said.

  ===============

  In the cold case file that Detective Greene lent me, I found several small photographs of the murdered girl. Her name was Cecille Saunders. She was seventeen when she died. But government documents chronicled her prodigy-like career in prostitution, beginning at age thirteen. Child Protective Services said Cecille's father was "Not Known." One younger sister lived at home. And their mother worked sporadically at a post office on Southside. Cecille had been diagnosed with AIDS and was also picked up for possession of
crack cocaine. The medical examiner's report completed her abbreviated biography: Cecille Saunders was shot in the back of the head in Chimbarazo Park by a .38-caliber pistol.

  Closing the file, I snuck down the carriage house steps into the garage. My mother was still sleeping, so I didn't ask permission to drive the Benz to Southside.

  When I pulled up at the Jefferson Davis Apartments, steam was rising from the black tar roof, the morning sun evaporating last night’s downpour. In a playground beside the building four children were playing on a metal swing set whose legs bucked out of the mud with each trajectory.

  I found apartment 109A in a shared alcove with 109B. The neighbor’s door had an eviction notice from the sheriff's office nailed to its frame, but nobody was answering my knock on 109A either. Lifting my fist for a third time, the door suddenly opened and a woman stood staring at me. Her hair was an orange-yellow hue, radiating in a halo around her dark narrow face. With her tall straight body she resembled a sunflower.

  “Mrs. Saunders?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Raleigh Harmon.” I held out my hand.

  Her shake was weak. Her eyes were bloodshot. I could smell a sharp chemical odor wafting from the apartment. I decided she was high.

  "I don't know where those people went," she said.

  It took me a moment. I glanced at the eviction notice next door. "Ma'am, I'm not here about that. I wanted to ask you about your daughter."

  "I don't know where she went neither.” She waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “Took off last week. Or maybe even the week before. Ain’t even called to see how her kids are doing."