by MF Moskwik
“I’m looking for an Officer Swift? Officer Swift?” announces a dark-skinned man in scrubs as he emerges from the ER double doors.
“I’m Officer Swift. This is my partner, Mark Jameson.” Izzy and Jameson rise to meet the doctor.
“Doctor Washington. I’m treating your guy, Larry Davis.”
“How does he fare?” asks Jameson.
“He’s stabilized. If it weren’t for you finding him when you did, we would have lost him. He owes his life to you two,” explains the doctor.
Izzy nods. “We have to ask him a few questions about a case we‘re working. Would it be possible to interrogate him?”
“Our questions will be brief, and we will respect the wishes of your medical personnel in our interaction with Mr. Davis,” volunteers Jameson.
“I’m afraid Mr. Davis stopped breathing after he arrived at the hospital. We intubated him and have him on naloxone IV to reduce respiratory depression. Until we can stabilize his breathing, I’m afraid the tube stays in.”
“How long will that be?” asks Izzy.
“We don’t know. We have to wait until he’s able to breathe on his own and then we can take out the tube.” The doctor sighs and looks at the clock on the wall. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but if it were me, I’d go home, come back tomorrow, and check on his condition. The amount he OD’d, he’ll be here for at least 24 to 48 hours.”
“Thank you, doctor,” replies Izzy.
“Ah, one more question, if I may, Dr. Washington,” interrupts Jameson. Izzy gives him a curious glance, but Jameson persists. “Mr. Davis’s infusion pump?”
“Yes?” replies the doctor.
“I was wondering if you noted any malfunction with the pump? Is it possible that an overdose occurred not through user error but through mechanical malfunction?”
The doctor takes a deep breath and considers his question. “We did look at it. It was completely empty, which was unusual. Usually it beeps to let the patient know it’s time for a refill, but because it is for chronic pain after surgery, patients usually are on top of it. In Mr. Davis’s case, his records show that he’s made sure to keep it refilled. For it to be empty is, as I said, unusual.”
“So it could be mechanical malfunction?” asks Izzy.
The doctor shrugs. “Or it could be user noncompliance. It’s possible, but non-definitive.”
Izzy waits as Jameson processes the information. After a beat, he gives the doctor a polite smile. “Thank you for the information, Doctor Washington.”
***
Izzy and Jameson walk toward her cruiser in silence.
Izzy climbs in and looks at the clock as she turns the ignition. “4:52, Jameson. Quitting time. You headed somewhere? Want a ride?”
“Only to my hotel, if you please.” He gives her directions, and in a few minutes, they are parked outside of his hotel.
Jameson gathers his belongings and turns to Izzy with a smile on his face. “A drink, Officer Swift? To celebrate the end of our first day of partnership?”
“You mean kick back? Let off some steam?” asks Izzy. She shakes her head. “I think I’d just end up . . . trying to process everything that happened today. Come up with theories and shoot ’em down.”
“Ah, the ever-active mind of a detective.” Jameson nods. “If you were to take me up on my offer, I most likely would sit with you and argue for alternative hypotheses to your theories.”
“Hmm. After a day like today, you’re offering me a beer and more arguing?” Izzy shakes her head, but not without the shadow of a genuine smile on her face.
“But between the two of us? I would venture a guess that before night’s end, our case would be solved,” Jameson says with a small smile.
“Or maybe that would just be the beers talking,” counters Izzy.
Jameson opens the door of her car and exits the vehicle. “Then, I wish you a pleasant dinner and for the rest of the evening, I hope you continue to be well.”
Izzy chuckles with amused disbelief. “Excuse me? What did I say about the handsome charming thing?”
“Only that it would not work on you, not that it shouldn’t be tried,” Jameson replies with a smirk. His smirk turns into a smile and a slight bow. “Good night, Officer Swift.”
“See you tomorrow, Jameson,” she replies.
As she watches Jameson enter his hotel, Izzy realizes with relief and guilt that she hasn’t thought of Carter all day.
Chapter Seven
Izzy is running.
As she swiftly weaves and dodges her way through the foliage, the leaves and sticks of the forest floor tickle the undersides of her bare feet.
How did he find me? She looks behind her. She sees nothing, nothing but the streaky purple-red sky of evening, but she can feel it—she can feel him—and she knows that if she doesn’t do something soon, something terrible will happen.
A sharp pain claws her torso, and the long-building ache in her side forces her to stop and bend over, panting. Drops of sweat that have beaded at her brow streak down her face in rivulets, dripping small streams in the space between her and the forest floor. Her feet burn; she is shoeless and the roots and rocks that line her path have raised welts and cut into the tender flesh of the soles of her feet.
Izzy reaches around to where her gun should be but finds only the smooth, supple skin of her lower back. Her ankle strap pistol also is missing.
Please. Please, help me, she thinks, but she is no longer protected by the gray-bearded giant she once called a mentor and partner. Ben Carter is dead, and none of her other work acquaintances shares his uncanny ability to know when she needs help.
She looks over her shoulder and sees the shiver of trees as a shadowy figure disturbs the web of branches in the distance behind her. She begins her run again, away from the quivering branches of the forest and toward the safety promised by the familiar, bolted door of her apartment.
SNAP! Izzy’s foot snags a root, throwing her hard to the forest floor.
Pain blossoms from her cheek to her hands to her shoulders, and then down the length of her body. For a moment, she is stunned, but the sound of feet on grass comes quickly behind her.
Go! Go! GO!
With a sob of pain, she pushes herself off the ground and resumes her desperate race toward her apartment. It is close, but so is the pursuer who would hurt her.
She rounds a turn in the trail. She is out of the forest, finally, and the green-brown façade of her apartment building greets her. Her home, her safe place, is fifty feet away, and with a bolt of a lock on her door, she will be safe.
She covers the distance in the span of twenty steps, and with a jump, she makes it over the small sidewalk and onto her stoop.
The door is jammed.
The throbbing of her heart echoes the pounding of blood in her ears, and both drown out the sound of her pursuer behind her. She twists the shiny brass knob and yanks desperately at the door, but still it won’t budge. She hears now the slap of shoe on soil, and she knows, without turning to look, that the man has broken free of the woods.
Only fifty feet, twenty strides, and fifteen seconds separate them.
Izzy closes her eyes and gives the door a hard wrench, throwing her body weight fully backwards away from the stuck frame.
The door opens.
With a surprised gasp, Izzy flings herself inside.
Just as the door shuts, a large body thuds against the door. With all her weight, she is just able to keep the door closed. As she leans against the door, she struggles to let the bolt find its hole. The door beneath her cheek shakes and shudders as the man throws himself against it, but with an angry grunt, she leaps against the door and with a swift twist, locks the deadbolt.
In shock, she backs away from the door and watches it shake. The lock holds, and Izzy sinks to the floor in relief.
Safe, she thinks with her eyes closed.
A pair of sinewy hands seizes her neck, and before a coherent thought can for
m, Izzy feels her head twist sharply on her neck with a loud SNAP!
With a start, Izzy wakes.
She is tangled in her sheets, sweating. She sits up, still clawing at her neck, struggling with her dream assailant.
Light is just beginning to peek through her windows. A glance at the clock on her left shows her it is 6:07 a.m.
Time to go to work.
Chapter Eight
“Glass,” Izzy announces as Mark Jameson throws open the passenger side door to her cruiser.
“No, a paper to-go cup. Containing a somewhat decent cup of tea, even if it was made from hot water poured over a pre-assembled tea sachet.” Jameson places his disposable cup of tea into the cup holder between the two seats, next to the police officer’s own disposable cup of coffee. Jameson flings himself easily into the passenger seat and pulls the door shut.
“No, I mean the glass. From the forensic lab? I think we should start there, check whether the state has any new evidence first thing, then call the hospital and see whether Larry is awake.”
“I wonder if, in addition to fingerprints or blood, it would be possible to identify conclusively the identity of the explosive in the lab?” asks Mark. “Perhaps if we can identify the compound used during the lab break-in, confirm that it indeed was mercury fulminate, then we would have the evidence needed to connect the previous, earlier case and ours.”
“That’s a good idea,” replies Izzy. “We can also check out Larry’s infusion pump.” She pauses and gives Jameson a curious glance. “After you tell me what his empty infusion pump has to do with stolen tech and a set of deaths you haven’t told me about.”
Under her watchful gaze, Jameson’s face colors. For a few seconds, he considers her command. He opens his mouth to reply, and then, thinking better of it, closes his mouth again, no sound or word having left his lips.
A honk from a car behind them draws Izzy and Jameson from their tête-à-tête.
“A hearty good morning to you to, sir,” Jameson says as he turns to look at the car behind them. After a moment, a look of realization flits across his face, and he turns to Izzy. “And I intended to say to you sincerely, Officer Swift, good morning, and thank you for providing me a ride this day.”
Izzy grins. “Good morning, Jameson. And you’re welcome.” As Izzy puts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb, she gives Jameson a glance. “Politesse?”
“Indeed. The backbone of every good partnership,” he replies as their car glides over the narrow suburban streets toward the police station.
***
Izzy and Jameson make it to the sheriff’s station. As they enter, a trickling stream of night-shift staff exit, making their greetings to Izzy on their way out.
Izzy drops Jameson off at his makeshift station and goes to her desk. After an hour of phone calls, she moves back to Jameson and finds him scanning the local obituaries. As she approaches, Jameson shuts his computer screen and gives her his full attention.
“I called the state. They’re still going through the prints at the lab and the prints on the glass, comparing them to the exclusion prints they pulled off the lab staff. There’s progress, but no hits.” Izzy sits on the corner of Jameson’s desk. “Larry’s still out. Stable, but unconscious. Says it might be a while before he wakes up. I asked Dr. Washington to contact us as soon as he does.”
“And the chemical compound?” Jameson asks.
“I asked them to identify any residue they find that’s been left on the glass. The GC-mass spec will take some time, but less than cataloguing the finger prints.” Izzy gives him an expectant look. “Well?”
“Hmm?” asks Jameson.
Izzy blows a frustrated grunt. Jameson’s face has taken on a practiced, blank expression, and the BS detector that Izzy’s developed in her three-years of police work alarms maniacally. “I’ve watched you, Jameson. Every time I turn around, you’re pulling up obituaries, death notices.” She leans on the desk toward Jameson and invades his space. “If we’re going to work together, if we are going to help each other solve this case, I need to know what you know. Now.”
Izzy whispers quietly, but with an intensity of need akin to desire. The intensity of her focus is enough to raise the goosebumps she sees erupt just above the edge of his shirt collar.
Jameson leans back out of her space, pushes the swivel chair another six inches for good measure, and rubs a hand over his face as if to clear himself of her sway. “You are aware, Officer Swift, that the nature of the device stolen has been deemed classified by the state? And that information regarding the device is to be kept within the strictest confidence?”
“If what happened to Larry is somehow connected to the case, and you have a theory about how it is connected, I need to know that information, Jameson,” Izzy declares.
“And as I am an agent for the state, which has deemed that information classified, I am unable to give it to you, Officer Swift,” he retorts.
Izzy leans back and crosses her arms. “We do not have time for a pissing match, Jameson. We both know you’re here as a courtesy to the state and that it’s the county running the show.”
“And we both know that I easily could ask another officer be assigned to work with me, Officer Swift.”
“And you’d run into the same problem, Jameson. Until some sort of physical evidence comes in, we need information to solve the case.” Izzy shakes her head in disapproval and gestures to the precinct full of officers behind her. “Whether it’s me, Rodriguez, or another cop, if you have information that you aren’t sharing with us, you are getting in the way of solving this case.”
Jameson sighs. “Your forest, Officer Swift, is obscured by the foliage of secrecy to which I am bound.”
Izzy blinks. “What in the damn hell did you just say?”
Jameson shakes his head. “I cannot give you the information that you seek.”
For a moment, Isabel looks at him and considers her options. She can either push the issue now by forcing Jameson to tell her the meaning behind his mysterious activities, or she can back off and find another way to find the truth and solve the case.
If she pushes Jameson, she knows she risks being kicked off the case.
Unbidden, the memory of her mentor’s deep, fatherly voice comes to her. There’s always another way, kiddo.
With a step backward, Izzy holds her hands up in surrender. ”Fine. Have it your way.” She turns and grabs the keys off of the desk. “You know, maybe it’s better if we spend some time apart today.”
“Officer Swift!” Jameson protests.
She shakes her head. “You want to spend all day interrogating Professor Google about our case? That’s your prerogative. I’m going to chase down some actual leads. One of us needs to try to solve the case.”
For a brief moment, Izzy sees anger flash across Jameson’s face. Just as quickly as the expression appears, it leaves, and the forensic scientist’s expression is blank once more. “I respect your decision, Officer. Perhaps we shall speak when you return to the station later.” He pauses. “But should you require aid in your investigation today—”
“Then I’m sure I can find someone else to give it,” she says curtly.
Jameson is visibly taken aback, and his mouth hangs slightly open in shock. “I’m sure you will, Officer Swift,” he sputters.
Izzy relents a little. “Jameson—”
“A productive day I wish you, Officer Swift,” he says as he sits back down at the desk. He opens up his laptop once more and ignores her.
Izzy sighs. “You too, Jameson,” she says quietly. After a final moment of frustrated indecision, she turns on her heel and, without looking back, walks away from her partner.
Chapter Nine
As Izzy navigates her cruiser through the narrow familiar roads of Westchester County, the alphabetized list of the county’s custodians and their contact information burns a whole in her pocket. In addition to Larry Davis, nine other men and women take turns cleaning the county for
ensics lab, each doing two week shifts before moving to another county building for work.
Maybe the other custodians will know something about Larry Davis that will connect to this case, she thinks as she pulls up to the first of her day’s interviews.
***
“Can I help you?” a woman with long, brown curly hair and tan skin asks as she opens the door.
Izzy flashes her badge. “I’m Officer Swift, I’m with the county.”
“Of course, I recognize you,” the woman says as she motions for Izzy to come into her home.
“You do?” Izzy asks.
The woman nods her head, and the cascade of curls brushes lightly against the tan skin of her neck. “Of course. Once a quarter, I end up at the station. Everyone’s so nice and says hello to me. Even the captain.” She indicates a floral sofa at Izzy’s right. “Care to have a seat? I just put some coffee on.”
“Thanks.” Izzy sits and pulls out her notebook. “You know Captain Williams?”
“’Know’ is a strong word, Officer. Just like everyone else at the station, he and I say hello when I’m around,” the woman calls from the kitchen, where the sound of saucers and cups accompanies the whirring of a coffee machine.
“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, Ms.—”
“Almaguer. But please, everyone calls me Gabriela, and don’t worry about it,” Gabriela says as she brings sugar, milk, and mugs of coffee into the room. “What can I do for you, Officer Swift?”
“Last night, my partner and I found a janitor, Larry Davis, unconscious in his home.”
“Oh my god!” Gabriela gasps. She drops her spoon into her mug, and the motion sends coffee splattering onto the beige carpet of the small, comfy home. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry to hear that. Oh, Larry. Is he okay?”
“Were you two close?”
Gabriela shakes her head. “Yes. No. I mean, we cover shifts for one another when we get sick or need time off, but everyone does that.”