by I.B. Holder
Chapter 1 Key
A sudden urgency pulsed through Legacy’s body; it was like someone had called his number and he had been waiting for a long time. He wasn’t in a waiting room; the stark but serviceable area around him was his basement office at the FBI building in Alexandria, Virginia. It was 4:30 and almost time to leave. The sharp feeling reasserted itself, confirming that there was something that needed his attention. He clicked his knuckles together in an act of concentration he’d used longer than he could remember. His fists came together and his muscular forearms began a contest. The stress on the joints in his hands was audible. His eyes searched over the desk. He hadn’t followed up on the one case that was farthest from the trash.
The brass nameplate on the door said Martin Legacy, Special Services, FBI. But that did very little to describe the man who had occupied the basement room for just over five years.
A better indicator of his personality might be the music that perpetually played in the background: a dissonant ringing that churned on for hours until unexpectedly it would erupt into a beautifully crafted and complex melody before falling apart again. The hallways around his office were famous for complaints of just having to pass his doorway and hear the racket – the workers couldn’t believe that anyone could possibly choose to be around that noise day in and day out.
The tapes were from a collection of unedited studio recordings with savant musicians. It was the kind of thing that one might find playing briefly in a psychology conference. The patients playing the music had a condition that pushed them so far into their own minds that they communicated solely through music and organized their thoughts into tones, melodies and cadence. Legacy claimed that the noise did two things: it helped him think, and it kept others away. The flat, expressionless way he would relate the two results gave nothing away as to which he valued more.
Legacy scanned his broad mahogany desk searching for the item that he’d been waiting for months. An old paracentric key was the only tangible connection between living criminal and victims long dead.
A case as cold as the late autumn breeze that blew down the streets of northern Virginia had one last gasp of air because of Legacy. The crime had been committed over twelve years ago. At that time Legacy had been in the military – leading a much different life than now. The rigid discipline of his former life had almost completely vanished.
Legacy considered organization in its traditional form to be a hindrance to his pursuit of understanding human motives, and even when pushed to organization by the necessity of his job, his efforts were less than inspired. He had marked out five sections on his desk with masking tape; each area was home to a wide array of pictures, police documents, press clippings and evidence from a single case plucked from the archives. He kept his least favorite case to the far left side of his desk and had been known to sweep an entire docket into an abnormally wide trashcan, which resided just below.
A special janitor was assigned to the office, and all of the papers that landed in the bin were processed and returned to evidence files. Legacy had no concept of the web of special treatment that surrounded him, but his breakthrough moments were enough to justify any unreasonable fuss. His genius made the world around him bend and flex to meet his needs.
After exasperating seconds of complete helpless searching, he saw something foreign on top of his phone, something he’d never dream of using.
A goldenrod sticky note read, “Check your inbox and enjoy the coffee.”
The inbox, how could that possibly be of use to anyone? Legacy never checked his inbox; the interdepartmental, departmental, cross-agency, internal external memo pipeline was a direct connection into the inane bureaucracy he considered functionally useless. Yet today, sitting on top of a stack of papers, most of them marked “urgent”, was an envelope marked in block letters LOCKSMITH.
Legacy gently slid the key out of the manila housing and felt the weight on his fingers. The original he’d formed in his mind, long ago, would have been brass. The duplicate that pressed against his skin was a clean silver-plated composite metal. Legacy was prone to distraction. His mind wanted to debate the origin of the metal that he weighed in his hand – but then, he heard a single beep of his watch and came back to the present moment. Five o’clock, not much time.
How had the delivery of this key slipped past him during the day? He quickly went over all of the comings and goings into his office that day. Eleven twenty-five, the regional director had entered and asked him something; it hadn’t registered of importance, he hadn’t even replied. The director got impatient and left seven minutes later. One twenty-five, someone had entered and spoke to him, couldn’t recall what. Random comings and goings of no distinction until someone had entered and set a cup of coffee, prepared exactly how he liked it on the desk. He picked up the cup and tasted the jet-black liquid, now cold, and deduced that the key must have come in with the coffee. There had been no other interruptions during the day. The internal phone had rung, but Legacy never answered the phone. His taste buds worked over the coffee until he decided that it was exactly room temperature, 72 degrees, and that enough sugar had fallen out of the solution to fix a time on the delivery. The key had been there for just over four hours.
A melody emerged from the piano clanging in the background interrupting his train of thought, a sweet harmonic sound that died as suddenly as it came to life. Legacy turned to the tape player with an uncharacteristic look of complete engagement.
He thought about how in the regular world people respond to people and leave background music in a place of inconsequence. Legacy’s experience was the opposite. He thought of all the people who had passed through his office today. Background music held his full attention, and the sounds that most people placed great importance upon were akin to the stroke of a graphite point across an interoffice memo. They meant little or nothing at all.
The key Legacy was holding in his hand was where worlds overlapped. It meant the end of a search for a killer who left absolutely no trail of evidence back to himself, and it meant the end of Legacy’s involvement in the case. It was the precipice of discovery, and even set back four hours by the interference of the inbox, it felt immediate.
As Legacy reached across the table, the cuffs on his suit started to ride up revealing two burn scars on top of his wrists. These were the cause of many discussions, and even appeared in his psych file. He always answered any questions with a blunt statement “they were self inflicted” and depending on who was asking he’d add “I’ve put others through worse, much worse.”
His hand found what it was looking for. He pulled out an old rusted sea captain’s lock from a plastic bag. On the label included with the lock it stated, “Slain Couple, Barbaric Discovery Bound and Gagged”
He paused, thinking about how barbarians never would waste their time on such deviant behavior. Barbarians had a clean, brutal way of life that didn’t offer much time for perverse fantasy. The minute a barbarian started planning the elaborate death of two people, he’d get his throat slit for thinking small.
Fifteen minutes passed. The key was now warm in his left hand, and the lock had rusted imperceptibly more. He needed to put his wandering mind to better use, a quick review. Legacy looked again at the folder that contained the documents on the case. A note on the front page in clear, official handwriting read, “this one isn’t going to be easy.” He began to draw his hands together; the key would either fit the lock or not, and it would be over. He looked at the clock and started packing up the file.
He remembered vaguely where it all belonged, a long filing cabinet marked “Fridge.”
The Fridge was the area where the coldest cases got their last official stamp of final review. They certainly never got solved. That was until Legacy came to preside over the Fridge. The resolution rate was something over ten percent for his predecessor, and that figure included cases that were resolved by confession or reclassification while sitting in the Fridge. Not a
ll crimes stay crimes, almost five percent become accidents, or acts without any consequence. The regional director, prone to simplifying, called those cases AWACs.
The chief had explained the lingo to him on the first day, chuckling and snorting through what seemed to be a hilarious jargon-driven FBI anecdote.
Legacy had had to pretend he was listening, and resorted to resolute nods to convey attention; it was irrelevant to him what others called things or how things came to be. Each case was its own chaotic tune, played over a simple constant rhythm.
A silence blossomed as the chief waited for Legacy’s reaction. Nothing. Legacy should have known better and laughed, but he didn’t have much to laugh about at the time. The chief knew that Legacy was a special case, sent down from the central office. He probably forgave Legacy’s lack of interest on that day because the clothes covering him were the same he’d worn for the entire first month of his tenure at the Alexandria office - as gossip claimed, the clothes that he wore to his wife’s funeral. Actually, Legacy owned several identical dark suits and that their perception wasn’t quite true, but Legacy recognized that it was quite true that he had never completely taken off the clothes he’d worn to his wife Laura’s funeral.
Now five years later, key in hand, Legacy couldn’t muster a sign of satisfaction as the key reached the lock.
CLICK, it skated on the rusty metallic surface. There it stayed. A furl on Legacy’s brow, it wasn’t like him to be this wrong. He turned the lock to the light and realized that the keyhole was covered with a brass swivel guard that had to be moved out of the way before the key could be inserted. He’d studied the lock for hours, a thousand times in his mind, and could have described it down to the last detail with his eyes closed, but this close to the end of the day, Legacy always lost concentration.
The door opened. A woman’s voice spilled into the room, commanding and distant: she sounded like she was hailing a cab. The interruption didn’t sound the least bit important. Legacy slid the guard away from the keyhole, and that’s when someone grabbed his hand and pressed their own palm up against it, shaking it professionally.
“Hello.”
Legacy looked up, something about her impatient tone didn’t seem to mix with the perfectly applied make-up, and cropped black hair framing her fresh young face. She had a stiff, official posture. Legacy didn’t need to hear another word. She was a product of the academy, down from Washington on orders: ambition and charisma shared signature marks on the defining lines on her figure. It took him no time to realize that whatever she said next was going to be a lie.
“I said, ‘Hello’.”
Well, maybe he would have to wait. Legacy had perfected a completely expressionless expression in his days in the army, and he was wearing it now. She continued.
“I’m here to help,” There it was. “I’m your new partner.”
“I had an old partner?” Legacy quipped.
“Agent Traxel has been your partner for three years.” She pointed to a desk across from Legacy’s. “He packed up over a month ago.”
“He wasn’t my partner.”
Wagner ran a curious eye over the papers on Legacy’s desk. “I know they let you do whatever you want around here-”
“Listen, if introducing yourself will finish this conversation, just do it and move on.”
Wagner took an awkward step backward, like she felt the force of his words flow into silence, even the piano clanking from the tape player took a rest as if it were in some silent complicity with the moment. Wagner cocked her head and spoke.
“I’m Agent Spears. Brittney Spears.”
Legacy regained his momentum, “Well Agent Spears –”
“What kind of music sounds like that? I mean I’ve got a cousin who plays like that, and I certainly wouldn’t reproduce it amplified.”
Legacy found himself answering the question before taking offense at the remark. Later, he realized he could have ended the conversation right there.
“You have to be patient, this tape was produced by a boy who can’t effectively tie his shoes.”
The rattle became a loud pounding, it sounded just like -
Agent Spears chimed in, “Is that him banging his head against the keyboard?”
A voice in the background of the recording asked if they should stop the recording.
Wagner took quick steps around the desk and scanned Legacy’s tape collection. Each tape was labeled with an instrument, a name, recording time and the word “savant”.
Wagner continued, “Is this what you’re going to listen to all the time? My God, who could listen to a glockenspiel for 14 hours?”
Legacy looked up and found himself staring into Wagner’s deeply sarcastic green eyes. He was compelled to answer from a rusty internal social reflex. “Recordings like this remind me how much can be hidden under layers of resistance, real or unreal.”
Her words had the graceful arc of razor wire “Are you a recording, too?”
Legacy looked her up and down and then let his eyes settle on her shoes.
“The music has the additional benefit of keeping civil people away.”
“Considering this particularly charming reception, you must be beating them off with a stick.”
Legacy smiled inside, the tumblers in his brain had finally clicked, but he remained visibly unchanged as he regarded Wagner. He sat in his chair and looked straight ahead. The words were directed at Agent Wagner’s waist.
“Now, are we almost finished?”
It wasn’t a question. She wouldn’t, however, give up.
“Is that the key? Does it fit?” Wagner continued. “They want me to learn from you. I tried being polite earlier when I delivered the key, it didn’t work.” The phone rang, Legacy didn’t move. Wagner fixed on Legacy’s eyes, which remained totally still, as if the sound didn’t even register.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Pointing to the cradle attached to a curling wire that brought the phone into Legacy’s world.
“What if it’s a call from your daughter?”
The word “daughter” brought Legacy back into the world where people pick up phones and listen to other people’s voices.
“I have a cell phone.” It was a reflex; he’d trained himself to always immediately respond to anything concerning his daughter. He wondered, as he continued, if he’d been trapped into a conversation by Agent Spears or if coincidence was keeping the communication lines open. A part of him wanted to believe that it was pure manipulation on the young agent’s part. He could respect that. Coincidence was the cowardly way the world kept things in motion. The notion that he might have wasted ten minutes on coincidence angered him.
“I haven’t tried the key yet. I don’t answer questions, those are my rules.” Legacy found a crumb of sympathy crunching under his foot. “Ask for a transfer, today. I am your superior, right?” She nodded, “You are dismissed.”
Legacy had no way of knowing that her orders had come from the very top; there was no way to change her assignment. Something about his tone said that she would have to set the place on fire to get his attention again. She had one last ploy.
The agent’s cell phone rang, a melody of Bach she’d downloaded off the internet. Plunging her hand into her coat pocket, she headed for the hallway, reaching the door. Legacy’s voice called out from the office, unexpected, forceful.
“Wait!” Legacy was standing. Whatever had caught his attention, it was now more than merely a passing interest. “Who are you?”
Wagner silenced the phone. “I told you –”
“I know, you’re Brittney Spears. Listen, my daughter is fourteen, I noticed the humor when you introduced yourself.”
“Does anyone really notice humor? I think you either get it, or you don’t.”
“That’s the ringbone my daughter chose for my phone.”
She took a step back into the office. “Look, I have an important assignment. It’s only my s
econd assignment and the first didn’t end up well, so this is it for my career at age 23.”
“I went through the same thing at 29.”
“Did you go through it as a woman?”
Legacy hadn’t expected that; a hint of interest lit his eyes.
“I see you are beginning to get me.”
Legacy paused, put all aspects of her behavior since she had entered the room into an equation. An invisible timeline of events dangled in the periphery of his thoughts and like a three-dimensional puzzle, all he needed to do was focus his eyes on an indistinct point in front of him. He squinted as his mind went through a series of approximations that usually led him to a definite conclusion. When his eyes focused again on the room, Wagner was standing in front of him, holding the key; he could tell that she wanted him to offer up the lock. She was unlike anyone who had knocked on his door in years – everybody wanted something from Legacy. She did too, but it was clear that Agent Wagner understood that asking was the surest way not to get an answer in Legacy’s realm.
A single beep from Legacy’s watch made him flinch. “Is that your wake up call?” Agent Wagner asked in a surly tone. Legacy checked his watch, and the time indicated that he had to go. In a quiet, ritual fashion, Legacy stood and prepared to leave. He blew past Wagner with the same even stride that took him to the door.
Legacy knew everything about Wagner from the moment he’d first seen her. She was the type who believed in laws, rules, and the distinct pleasure of being right by pointing to a code in a book and winning an argument without a thought wasted in contemplation of a solution. She could not be stopped, climbing the ladder in the official ranks of the bureau. He was equally sure that she had ammunition in her gun that would stop him, but short of that, he was leaving. But at the door, the room went silent. The plug to his cassette player had been ripped from the wall and Wagner stood holding the chord like a prize, daring him to notice.
Legacy stopped, still facing the door in front of him. “Plug it back in before you go.”