A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1)

by Ben Miller

  “Hmmm,” Camilla murmured with a hint of approval at Corinne O’Loughlin’s investigative skills.

  “Yeah. It may not amount to anything, but it gives us something to look into when we’re done here.”

  “You don’t think we’re going to find anything useful here?”

  Reilly took a deep breath, held it, and shook his head. He let out his breath in a soft sigh. “I don’t. I think he’s too good, at least at this point. We’re going to have to find him; he’s not going to offer himself up to us.”

  “Yeah,” Camilla agreed.

  “Arriving at 487 South End Way, on left.”

  Camilla guided the Expedition into an open spot on the street across from the Coulter family home. She recognized the unmarked police car across from them, parked at the curb in front of the home. She felt some relief that they wouldn’t be the first investigators there that day. It somehow eased the burden of their impending mission.

  The Coulters owned a modest home. The wood siding could have used a fresh coat of paint, but it otherwise stood in good repair. They shared a driveway with their neighbors to the right. Camilla and Reilly walked up the driveway, then along the curved sidewalk that led to the Coulters’ front door. Before they reached the small front porch, a terrier abruptly appeared at the front window, barking annoyingly. It must have perched itself atop a couch or another piece of furniture on the other side. Camilla and Reilly paused simultaneously, both briefly taken aback by the canine. Camilla restarted up the steps of the porch first, followed by Reilly. When she rang the doorbell, the dog took a brief break from its yapping as it jumped off the couch and ran to greet them inside the screen door.

  “Hazel, easy,” a raspy man’s voice called from inside the house. The dog stopped barking and looked behind her. “C’mere girl.” Hazel looked back at Reilly and Camilla before jogging away, directly between the shins of Hank Hanley, walking toward the front screen door. He wore a jacket, tie, and neatly pressed slacks, in stark contrast to the T-shirt and jeans from yesterday.

  “Hi, guys,” Hank said. He pushed the metal release on the door and shoved it open. Reilly grabbed the door and signaled for Camilla to enter the home before him.

  “Hi, Hank,” Camilla said as she walked into the small living room.

  “Hey,” Reilly said before his lips pursed, preparing to put on his sympathetic face for the bereaved parents.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Coulter are in here.” Hank signaled to a room past the living room. Camilla followed his pointing hand, and Reilly trailed several steps behind.

  When they turned the corner from the living room into the kitchen, they saw Mr. and Mrs. Coulter sitting at the circular pressed-wood kitchen table. At first they both stared at the coffee cups in front of them. As if following some unseen, predetermined cue, they both simultaneously raised their heads slowly to look at the two FBI agents. If there had ever been color in their expressionless faces, it had all drained away. The deep indigo circles under their eyes suggested they hadn’t slept in days or even weeks, instead of just the one previous sleepless night. Reilly noticed that Hazel had curled up between them on the floor under the table, resting her head on her paws.

  Camilla purposefully moved forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Coulter, I’m Special Agent Camilla Vanderbilt with the FBI. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  As they dropped their eyes back down to the surely lukewarm coffee, they both nodded slowly; they had heard this a dozen times already, and it hadn’t once meant anything to them.

  “And I’m Special Agent Reilly,” Heath said as he also moved forward, though still staying behind Camilla. Neither Coulter raised his or her gaze again to greet him. At this distance Reilly could notice the myriad tattoos covering most of the man’s exposed skin: a Chinese symbol on the right side of his neck, barbed wire, flames, knives, and other various objects—including more symbols in foreign languages—up and down each arm. The woman’s complexion, on the other hand, bore no memory of any blemishes. Even in her exhausted state, Reilly found her quite beautiful, with that girl-next-door kind of purity and simplicity. What an odd couple, he caught himself thinking. With the man’s hands cupping the coffee mug, Reilly made note of a tattoo in the inside of his right wrist: a red heart with the name “Danielle” written in fancy script in the middle. A pang of sadness shot through Reilly, but he quickly forced it to pass. “We’re with CASMIRC, a division of the FBI that investigates crimes against children.”

  The woman’s head tilted to the right, like she heard a distant sound and waited for it to repeat itself. A second later her eyes narrowed, signaling that she had made some connection. “Jackson Byrne?”

  Camilla and Reilly, somewhat startled, looked at each other. “Excuse me, ma’am?” Camilla said.

  “I seen him on the TV, on the Goodnight Hour.” She looked up at Camilla and Reilly, then at the empty space behind him, like she expected Jack to arrive at any second.

  “Yes, Special Agent Byrne is with this division,” Camilla responded. “Is it OK if I sit down?”

  The man nodded, so Camilla pulled out a chair on the kitchen table and began to sit. The woman ignored the question. “Where is he?”

  “Special Agent Byrne?” Camilla asked.

  “Yeah. Jack Byrne. The guy on TV. The mastermind FBI guy.”

  “He’s…” Camilla began.

  Reilly stepped forward a little, sensing a time to show his authority in this investigation. “He’s not an active part of this investigation. Special Agent Vanderbilt and I are—”

  “What?! We’re not good enough for him?!” Color began to rush back into her face as the woman quickly became much more animated. “We’re not some fucking famous fucking football player, so he doesn’t need to… grace us with his… his almighty fucking presence?!”

  “Amy…” the man said, as he slowly reached out toward her arm.

  She jerked her arm away before he could touch her. “What, Carl? Fuck!” She shot him an evil glare. She suddenly didn’t seem quite so angelic in Reilly’s eyes.

  “I assure you, Mrs. Coulter, that we have all of our resources actively working on this case,” Reilly offered. Her evil glare switched focus toward Reilly, who instinctively took a half-step back, which he immediately regretted.

  “Whatever.” Under her breath, but clearly still audible, she muttered, “Fucking ridiculous.”

  “Can we ask you a few questions about Danielle?” Camilla queried gently, seemingly unfazed by this outburst.

  Both nodded slowly. The woman lazily rolled her eyes before retreating to her withdrawn state nearly as quickly as she had exploded.

  Hank Hanley stepped forward, close to the kitchen table. “I’m going to excuse myself.”

  Lucky bastard, Reilly thought.

  “I need to head back down to our office to meet up with some of my key people on this investigation,” Hank continued. He turned to Camilla and Reilly. “Will you folks be joining us when you’re done here?”

  “Yes,” Reilly replied.

  “Great.” Hank turned to face the Coulters. “Mr. and Mrs. Coulter, do you have any family coming in? Would you like me to talk with anyone else?”

  Reilly’s cynicism kicked in, internally questioning the genuineness of Hank Hanley’s kindness.

  Both Coulters shook their head slowly. Without looking up to make eye contact, Amy Coulter said, “His folks are both dead, and my folks are both assholes.”

  “My sister is coming in from Parsons. She’ll be here later this morning,” Carl Coulter mumbled without lifting his chin.

  “Bawlin’ like it’s her child…” Amy Coulter muttered, then trailed off.

  “OK. We’ll send on officer by later to check on you, but you call me if you need anything or think of anything.” Hank waited for a reply, but got none. He tapped the top of the table twice with his knuckles. “OK,” he said again before turning and walking out of the kitchen. They could hear the screen door squeak open and closed as he left through the front door.<
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  Camilla pulled a notebook out of her jacket pocket and opened it up on the table in front of her. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Danielle?”

  Both shook their heads. “No,” Carl Coulter said softly.

  “Have you seen anyone around lately, any strangers or anyone out of the ordinary?”

  Heads shook, no. They clearly had been asked these questions innumerable times already.

  “Had she ever mentioned seeing someone following her or threatening her?”

  No.

  “Do you have any friends or family in York, Pennsylvania, or Frederick, Maryland?”

  Both Coulters met her eyes with blank stares. Camilla had asked this seemingly odd question deliberately, in part to see if they were still paying attention.

  “No,” the woman said with a sneer.

  “Have you visited those places before, especially recently?”

  “No.” Amy Coulter began to seem annoyed again.

  Keeping his distance, Reilly asked from his position behind Camilla, “What about Washington, DC?”

  The woman directed her stabbing gaze toward Reilly. He had to fight the urge to look away or take another step backwards. After about ten seconds, she looked back at Camilla as she answered Reilly’s question. “No. We don’t travel much.” She emphasized “travel” by separating the T, so it came out like “tuh-ravel.” Reilly sensed that she intended to make a point that life had not afforded them the luxuries of such things as travelling, even if only one state away.

  Camilla looked back down at her notebook. “OK…”

  Reilly’s phone rang, interrupting Camilla. Thank Christ, Reilly thought. He pulled his iPhone of its belt carrier. “Excuse me,” he said to the Coulters as he stepped back out of the room. He looked down at the screen: Harringer. He walked back through the living room as he slid the bar on his phone’s display to answer the call. Hazel trotted pleasantly after him. “Heath Reilly,” he said into the phone as he opened up the screen door and walked out onto the front porch.

  “Reilly, it’s Harringer.”

  “Morning, sir.” Reilly looked back at the screen door. Hazel stood there, her nose touching the wire mesh. She looked at him, almost longingly. He imagined that she implored him to take her with him, away from the misery inside that house.

  “I wanted to let you know that I finally got a hold of Terry Friesz.” Typical Harringer, going right to business. No need for pleasantries.

  “Good. Where was he?”

  “Out to dinner, I guess. He said that he doesn’t typically work weekends, so he didn’t realize the importance of answering calls or checking voicemails.” Reilly clearly heard the disdain in Harringer’s voice.

  “He really hasn’t been with the Bureau long, has he?”

  “Guess not,” Harringer said quickly, not caring to dissect the reasons for Friesz’s misconduct. “You need to fax him a copy of the note found on your girl, and he’ll get right on it.”

  “Can do.” Reilly entered Friesz’s fax number into his iPhone as Harringer read it off to him. He gave Harringer a quick run-down of their plan for the day, to which Harringer uttered a curt approval. They signed off and Reilly hung up.

  He looked out over the Coulter’s front yard, procrastinating. He had no desire to go back into that house. Almost on cue, the front screen door opened. Relieved, Reilly turned around, expecting to see Camilla emerging from the house. Instead, Carl Coulter walked through the door, onto the porch beside him. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and removed one, which he fluidly placed between his lips. He held the pack forward towards Reilly and raised his eyebrows.

  Reilly put up his hand. “No, thank you.”

  Carl nodded and put the pack back into his pocket, from which he removed a disposable lighter. He lit the cigarette, closed his eyes, and took a deep drag, holding his breath for several seconds. He opened his eyes and his mouth simultaneously, with gray puffs slowly billowing from both corners of his mouth. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the thin metal railing running across the porch, and joined Reilly in a visual survey of his front lawn. The two men stood silently for a few minutes. Despite never having met before, and the tension that had brewed earlier inside the home, Reilly never found that silence with Carl Coulter uncomfortable.

  Carl put his hands to his mouth and inhaled the smoke again. “Quit ten months ago.”

  Reilly just looked at him, nearly startled by his speaking. “What’s that?”

  Carl removed the cigarette and put his hand back on the railing. He took a deep breath and coughed once as he exhaled. “I quit. Smoking.” He held up the cigarette, offering Reilly a visual demonstration. “Danielle was on me for years, tellin’ me I need to quit.” He looked down at the cigarette, suddenly not knowing how to regard it. “Finally did, ten months ago. Almost eleven. She was so proud.”

  Reilly noticed tears welling up in the corner of Carl’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could think to say.

  Carl Coulter nodded without making eye contact. He swallowed hard, then sniffled abruptly, pulling back the moistness in his nostrils. He rubbed the cigarette against the top of the railing, extinguishing it. He then tossed it behind a shrub in front of the porch. He nodded again, as if in appreciation for Reilly’s empathy, before he turned and went back inside. Hazel yipped once excitedly.

  Reilly stayed in place, gazing at the door where Carl has just disappeared.

  Back inside, Camilla had finished asking questions of Amy Coulter. The two of them had gone upstairs to examine Danielle’s room. Amy stayed outside in the hallway; neither she nor Carl had entered Danielle’s room since they learned of her murder. She had given Camilla carte blanche to look into whatever she needed to, but she watched Camilla closely for the entire seven minutes. Camilla didn’t find anything of interest or importance, just a typically messy bedroom of a typical nine year old girl. No diary, no photo albums, nothing that might reveal secrets unbeknownst to her parents. They went back downstairs.

  Carl Coulter stood idly in the living room, staring at the ceiling with his arms folded. He looked at his wife when she and Camilla came down the stairs. She went to stand beside him and rested her head on his upper arm.

  Camilla supplied each of them with her business card that included her personal cell number. “Please call me anytime, day or night, if you think of anything that you want to tell me. Big or small. You never know what might tip the scales in an investigation like this.”

  Amy Coulter looked at the business card in her hand, then back up at Camilla. Her upper lip folded under the bottom one and she began to cry. “Why our baby?”

  “We don’t know. We think that a very sick person did this to your daughter. He picks on little girls, and we don’t think there’s any reason why he chooses them.”

  This explanation apparently sufficed, for Amy Coulter nodded.

  Camilla walked over and shook each of their hands, which they participated in half-heartedly. “We’ll be in touch if we find anything. And don’t hesitate to call me.”

  With that, Camilla turned and walked out the front door. She noticed Reilly still standing on the porch and shot him a questioning and somewhat disgusted look. He shrugged self-effacingly and followed her off the porch down the sidewalk.

  “Hey!” Amy Coulter called from behind them. They turned around to find her standing behind the closed screen door, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Tears stained her cheeks, but her voice came out clearly and confidently. “You find that fucker. You find him and you fucking bring him in. We don’t need fucking… Jack… Fucking What’s-His-Name. We need you. You do it. OK?”

  Now Reilly and Camilla were the speechless ones. They simply nodded.

  51

  One of Vicki’s best friends from college, Brenda, married a cop named Troy Scharf. Jack and Vicki had double-dated with the Scharfs on several occasions, and Jack quickly grew to enjoy their company. He found Troy earnest and genuine—a straig
ht shooter, Anthony Byrne would have called him. Three years ago Troy moved from Narcotics to the Homicide Branch of the Criminal Investigation Unit in the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department (MPDC). In that time he and Jack had never officially worked together. However, like most people who share similar vocations, they often conversed about their individual cases during social gatherings. From those discussions Jack had developed an appreciation for the way Troy approached his job. He knew he could feel comfortable working with him if their professional paths would ever cross. Like today.

  After making some pancakes for Jonah (and some for himself), Jack plopped his son down in the family room to enjoy some Sunday morning cartoons. Vicki currently indulged in one of her favorite weekend pleasures: she had slept late and now stayed in bed, reading the Sunday paper. Jack walked out onto the back deck for some privacy and called Troy. They had exchanged personal cell numbers several years back, intending to get together to play golf sometime. They never had hit the links; in fact, this marked the first time either one had used the other’s number.

  Troy answered after the first ring. After exchanging quick introductory pleasantries, suddenly Jack realized that he didn’t know exactly what to say. He needed to tell him about the voice mail from Melissa Hollows, but he didn’t know how. An empty void filled the line.

  Awkwardly, Troy finally broke the silence. “So… what’s going on, Jack?”

  “Yeah.” Jack cleared his throat. “I saw on the news last night about Melissa Hollows.”

  “Oh, yeah—you knew her, right? From working on her daughter’s case?”

  “I did. Right.” Jack paused briefly again. After the phone call ended, he would convince himself that he simply imagined it, but in the moment he felt as though Troy were judging him, now remembering the tabloid rumors about Jack’s illicit affair with Melissa. Before he could let this settle in, though, he continued. “Did you get her case?”