The Severed Thread

by Dione C. Suto

  I tried to be as quick as possible getting showered and changed, so we ended up arriving at the Bureau’s offices downtown within my two hour allotment. Joshua insisted on accompanying me even though I assured him it was unnecessary. I had nothing to hide and was secretly more than a little worried that he might be a hindrance, after his dismal performance earlier with the agents.

  There were news vans at the Bureau offices too, but since this was a government building and we were expected, we were able to park in secured visitor parking. I was all for anything that prevented my being bombarded with horrible questions like those directed at me at the hospital.

  As Joshua and I approached the reception desk, I made a promise to myself to hire my own attorney. It was likely that I would need further legal assistance as the investigation progressed, and I really wanted someone working for me that was unconditionally on ‘Team Abigail’. I was not entirely confident that Joshua was clear about what was best for me versus what was best for Senator Lassiter and Lassiter Enterprise Holdings. My friend Corbin was at the top of my list of candidates. He was a defense attorney with a good track record and more importantly, he would work for me, not my father.

  “Joshua Levy and Abigail Lassiter, to see agents McCabe and Smathon,” Joshua told the security guard at the front desk.

  “Please sign in here. Your attorney too,” he said, handing me a register. “You will also need to wear visitor badges.” He produced two badges from behind the counter, one of which I silently passed to Joshua.

  “Agent Johnson will escort you up.” The security guard informed us after we signed the register and secured our badges.

  I turned to view Agent Johnson. I would guess he was somewhere close to seven feet tall. At five eight, I was on the taller side for a woman, so most people did not register as excessively tall to me. But Agent Johnson? He appeared to me a veritable colossus of a man, especially when one took in his combined height and bulk.

  He indicated we should follow him with a wave of his massive hand. He had to duck to clear the elevator doorway and turned out to be a blessedly silent companion on the ride. Not a smile, grunt or word crossed his lips.

  The ride up to the 7th floor was brief, and we were greeted by Agent Smathon as we stepped off the elevator. Well, Agent Johnson was greeted – we were barely acknowledged.

  “Thanks Bob,” he said to Agent Johnson, who stayed in the elevator as we got off. He offered only a brief inclination of his head before the doors closed and he was gone.

  “Follow me,” was the terse command we got from Agent Smathon who led us down the hall to the third office on the right. Correction, make that ‘Interrogation Room 3’ if the sign on the door was accurate.

  “Wait a minute,” I sputtered, stopping cold at the doorway. “Why are we going into an interrogation room if I’m not a suspect? I thought I was just here to answer a few questions.”

  “Standard procedure,” was Agent Smathon’s reply.

  “Is there a problem?” Agent McCabe asked from where he stood just inside the room.

  “My client was just asking a very good question,” Joshua said. “Why are we being taken to an interrogation room to make a statement if she is not a suspect?”

  “You have already made us wait. I suggest you start cooperating before you cross the line into obstruction of justice,” Smathon threatened, fairly bristling in anger that we were questioning their methods.

  “What my partner means,” interjected Agent McCabe trying to tone down Smathon’s words, “is that it would be helpful to have your statement recorded so that we don’t miss anything important. We have OsmoRecorders in Interrogation Rooms 3 and 6. They make less paperwork for us later.” I nearly groaned out loud. If they wanted to question me with an OsmoRecorder present, my little faux pas in the elevator earlier must have raised a few eyebrows.

  Everyone who watched television or read the newspaper had heard of the OsmoRecorder. It had made international headlines two years ago when it was first invented through a collaborative effort between the University of California, Berkley and Dr. Evelyn Crawlford, a renowned pixie researcher in biomechanics. It could record a witness or suspect interview in its entirety, transfer all gathered data directly to the database and fill out and file all necessary forms based on the case file code. And do it all using negligible amounts of energy. That sounds benign, right? Yeah, not so much.

  It was when you better understood the level of detail that the OsmoRecorder was able to record that the sticky civil rights concerns came up. It made DNA profiling appear mundane by comparison, and it did not even necessitate the subject provide a blood or tissue sample. All it required was proximity. As long as you were within a certain radius of the device, it could draw information about nearly everything that made a person unique – species, Interspecies Skill Score, gender, height, weight, BMI, blood pressure, the list goes on and on. It apparently drew in all these details, much like the movement of solvents in osmosis, hence the name. All that was required was a negative information chamber to be loaded.

  I was perfectly happy to see it used on criminals in the news and on television crime dramas. But despite my awe that such complicated and collaborative technologies existed, I was not so excited to share my virtual fingerprint with the nice agents today. My Interspecies Skill Level in particular was something I didn’t want the government to be privy to – it was my business and mine alone. Every non-human was expected to submit to an Interspecies Skill Level evaluation at the age of eighteen to determine their individual skill set. Everything from empathic to pyrotechnic abilities was measured. It was a very difficult test to deceive, but I had done it with a little coaching from my mother.

  I was currently registered as a Level Two Communicator because I could project my voice directly into someone else’s mind, but my best skill was the one I hid. I was an unregistered Locator. If I had been more forthcoming at my testing, I would have been added to the official registry as a Level Three Locator. Location skills were rare, and those possessing them were often inundated with requests to find everything from the missing family pet to treasure hunters looking to locate sunken ships. A Level Three Locator was the rarest of the rare and most worked almost exclusively for the government – and not always voluntarily. A Level Three Locator with a second skill set, especially a second skill Level Two or higher, was nearly unheard of. I would definitely have been forced into a government position, willing or not. I didn’t want to be a Locator, and tried to use the talent as infrequently as possible, because no matter how great the skill might seem, some things once witnessed just can’t be unseen.

  By the time I was ten, I was already intimately familiar with the scary side of my gift, and had had several frightening encounters accidentally locating things. The worst incident occurred when I was only eight years old. I saw a news report for a missing girl on television. I remember thinking that surely someone should know where to find her, and trying to imagine where the girl might be. The next instant I had projected my consciousness to her location, and was looking in on a scene worse than any nightmare my young mind could have contrived.

  “I see you little one,” said the horned, black creature holding a bloody knife over the mutilated body of a teenaged girl. And even though it should have been impossible, its glowing evil eyes were looking right at me. I felt an icy tingle settle around my soul. It was at that point that I started screaming, overwhelmed with terror. I don’t know how long I would have stood at the edge of that dingy room witnessing what no one should ever witness – let alone endure – if my mother had not heard my screams. She tried shaking me and yelling my name in an unsuccessful attempt to pull me back from the place my mind had transported me. It was the sharp sting of her desperate slap that finally ripped me from the terrifying images.

  My mother was frantic as I recounted my tale, especially when I told her the creature could see me. She had wanted to know if the girl still lived, and if I knew the address for the building th
at contained that horrible room. I told her that the girl was alive but barely. I was also able to give her an address. I was completely baffled how I knew those details, I just did. She took my sobbing eight year old self into her arms and told me everything would be okay. She also made me promise never to tell anyone what had happened. I did not understand until I was much older the two things that she had understood from the start. First, if I came out publicly as having witnessed this particular crime, the perpetrator might decide I made a perfect next victim. And if anyone knew I was a Locator, I would have very few other options in life. Even my father was not privy to the information. I can only assume my mother felt he would find some way to exploit my talent for his own gain. She was probably right.

  The incident haunted me for years. Finally, when I was thirteen I got up the nerve to research the news files about what happened to the girl. She was found as the result of an anonymous tip. The only information about the caller was that it was woman. I suspected my mother had called that tip into the authorities hoping to help the girl and still protect me.

  “Ah no,” I said, shaking my hands in front of me while backing up a step. I definitely did not want the OsmoRecorder outing my Location skills to the agents.

  “I suggest we move this to someplace more appropriate,” Joshua demanded. “Unless you are charging Ms. Lassiter with something, taking her statement with an OsmoRecorder present is a huge invasion of privacy.”

  “Let’s take it to my office then,” Agent McCabe finally said after a few tense moments of internal debate. Agent Smathon looked ready to argue but backed down after receiving a quelling look from his partner. Frankly, I was surprised he gave up so easily, but he did, and our little group moved further down the corridor to McCabe’s office.

  “Please take a seat,” Agent McCabe indicated the two chairs in front of his desk before going around and taking a seat himself. Smathon took up a post in the corner, propping his hip against an ancient looking three drawer file cabinet and watching us intently. It was uncomfortable to feel as if someone was staring a hole through the back of my head, particularly him. He gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  “Now that we are all settled, I would like to ask you a few questions about this morning.” Agent McCabe looked at his notes. “Can you tell me why your brother came to your house this morning Ms. Lassiter?”

  “Jason called around seven-fifteen to say he was picking me up on the way to the office.”

  “Why was he picking you up?”

  I hesitated before responding; a fact that did not go unnoticed by Agent McCabe. I sighed. Looking like I did not want to answer his questions was not going to be helpful. I did want to help. Really, I did. The problem was that I already felt conflicted about what I suspected Jason wanted to discuss. Having to put those suspicions into words was difficult.

  “He didn’t give me a reason,” I finally answered. “He just said he wanted to enjoy the morning. It was something we did sometimes, especially if the weather was nice.” He had a convertible that he loved to drive with the top down. He said that early mornings with the top down made for the best ride.

  “But?”

  I was suddenly fidgeting in my seat, loyalty to my brother making me squirm. I didn’t want to be saying negative things about him. I loved him, dammit! I sat up straighter in my chair, looking at Joshua speculatively for a moment.

  “Do we need to talk privately?” he asked, his pale blue eyes searching my face, trying to understand my hesitancy.

  “No, no,” I said, taking a deep breath. “It’s just that when Jason wanted to take a fraternal bonding drive with the top down, he was usually planning to bounce some crazy idea off me that he was sure I would just love but would, in reality, make me uneasy.” He would get this excited glint in his eye that was a sure sign he was really high on an idea. It was never something I approved of, but that rarely mattered to Jason. He would float an idea, I would point out all the cons to the scheme, he would tell me I was an old prude and then merrily proceed ahead as if I had cheered him on, instead of made every effort to dissuade him.

  “Did he mention wanting to talk to you about something this morning?” Agent McCabe asked.

  “No,” I told him, shaking my head. “But that was not unusual. He always waited until he had a captive audience before presenting his case.” It was strange really, it was almost as if an idea would start a fire inside of him and he had to act on it before it burned him up. I had secretly begun to wonder if this wasn’t really one half of a bi-polar personality disorder. If whatever he attempted didn’t pan out the way he hoped, he would sulk for weeks afterwards.

  “That begs the question, what were some of these schemes?” McCabe asked while writing in a little notebook.

  “They varied,” I told him. “Last year he decided to invest his money in a group of mutual funds recommended to him by a fellow he met on the plane coming back from a trade show in Las Vegas. The guy managed one of the funds, and had Jason convinced that he would double his money in six months. Seriously, who takes anything at face value from someone they just met on an airplane?” I said, shaking my head. “The name of the company was Jabler and Macon Investments.”

  “They were on the news about six months ago for a Ponzi scheme, right?” Agent Smathon asked.

  “Yes. Fortunately, I had a member of our finance department do some research on the firm before Jason had a chance to invest too heavily. But he still lost enough that he felt the pinch. I’m sure he is listed in the criminal file since he was one of the people they swindled.”

  “Anything more recent that might impact the case?”

  “No,” I said thoughtfully. “His financial losses with Jabler and Macon hit him a little harder than the others. I think he lost enough money to slow down his need to jump into the next ‘too good to be true’ idea.”

  “So,” Agent McCabe said, looking at me intently “this morning Jason called saying he wanted to come get you. I assume you agreed to be picked up?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “I didn’t have an early meeting so I said yes.”

  “Did he mention anything else? Something out of the ordinary that made this time different? Did he sound nervous or upset?”

  “No, he sounded happy, which made me wonder what he was going to tell me today.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that something he was excited about could have resulted in his death?”

  I was not surprised at the question and I gave it serious consideration. “Well, I suppose it’s possible. Although as a rule, Jason was the only one negatively impacted by his schemes so I can’t imagine why someone would want to kill him over any of them.” I couldn’t help thinking that even though he always lost money, his biggest loss was credibility with our father. Not that he had a lot to lose in that area. Our father had written Jason off years ago.

  “Okay, so after the call, what happened?” Agent McCabe asked while still scribbling notes on his pad.

  “I finished getting dressed and was gathering my things together when I heard a horn honk, which I assumed was Jason. Before I got to the door I heard tires squealing as a car pulled away,” I swallowed hard, my face getting that hot feeling I got when tears threatened. “It was the sound of a vehicle peeling away that had me hurrying for the door. I could see Jason lying in the driveway through the sidelights before I even got outside.”

  “Did you see the vehicle?”

  “No, not really,” I said in frustration. “I was so fixated on Jason that I didn’t really look at the vehicle. It was heading down the street by the time I got outside. The most I can tell you is that it was a large SUV and it was dark.”

  “Large like an Escalade or more like an Explorer?”

  “Larger like an Escalade but I didn’t get the impression of a lot of shiny metal, so I don’t think it was one. Suburban or something maybe. Hell, I’m not even sure if it was black or dark blue.” The room was quiet except for the sound of Agent McCabe’s pen furiously scratch
ing across the page as he took notes. I waited for the next question.

  “Was your brother conscious when you got to him?”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t able to say anything.” He just lay there looking at me with tears running out of the corners of his eyes. I closed my eyes and shuddered at the memory. It was a moment I would remember forever, and it was a horrible one. I could see the fear in his eyes, the silent plea to save him. All I could do was call 911, and try to hold him together while his life leaked out onto my driveway in an ever expanding crimson pool.

  I opened my eyes again to look into the clear blue lakes that were Agent McCabe’s irises. His expression conveyed compassion, but the sympathy I saw there didn’t deter him from plowing ahead with his questions.

  “Did you go back into the house to call 911?” I knew where that question was headed. My house would become a secondary crime scene if there was even a chance there could be any blood in there.

  “No,” I told him, shaking my head. “Since I was getting my things together when I heard the commotion outside, I had my phone in my hand when I ran to the driveway. I’m not even sure how I managed to hold on to it.” I remember being outside screaming for help only to be astonished to realize I had my phone in my hand.

  “So you called 911. What happened next?”

  “I just kept telling him to hold on, that help was coming,” I replied. “It seemed like forever before the ambulance arrived. They started working on him in the driveway before transporting him, and then I rode along to the hospital.”

  “Can you think of anything else that might be helpful?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone you can think of who might want to hurt Jason? A vindictive girlfriend or anything like that?”

  “No”

  It seemed like the questions went on and on. Half way through the third recounting of what happened in the driveway, Joshua finally decided that he had had enough.