by T V Scribner
Slipping into the front seat of her car, she started the engine, and drove away, making a left onto Washington Blvd, which took her to the north east edge of Brainerd. When the sign for County Road 38 appeared, she turned right, and noticed the headlights behind her, made the same turn.
That's odd, she mused. Seems like the same car has been behind me since I left Applebee's. This thought immediately brought back Boone's words from earlier, as she left the burger place. “Be careful,” he said, “you never know who might be watching!”
Feeling paranoid for a moment, she shook it off. Ridiculous! She chalked it up to allowing his words, to spook her. Determined not to let herself get carried away by thoughts of mystery and intrigue, she summarily dismissed the idea, and turned on the radio, to calm her nerves. This didn't work either, because the news was on, discussing the details of the morning's murder, so she flipped it off and instead, grabbed her favorite CD, a String Quintet, by Mozart—and inserted it.
As she listened to the violins' mellifluous strains, it drew her into the music, and all other thoughts were pushed aside for the moment. Within minutes, she neared the farm house, and glanced once more in her review mirror. Thankfully, there were no headlights to be seen. Whew! Whoever it was, must have turned off the road. How silly! Why would anyone follow me, anyway? She pulled into the farmhouse driveway and turned off the engine, experiencing an overwhelming feeling of relief, as exhaustion swept over her. The day's events had taken their toll.
"I'm not a wimp, " she said out loud, to dismiss her fears. I’ve seen a dead body before—at a morgue while taking courses at the police academy! But somehow this is different. It’s the first corpse I’ve ever seen in situ!
The cool, crisp evening had taken on a humid feel, and she'd been told this would bring the promise of mosquitos in the days and weeks to come, if temperatures remained mild. The weather might be temperate again tomorrow, or pour down rain, after all, it was Minnesota.
Rousting herself from her thoughts, she stepped out of the car, and locked it. The deafening silence of the night, caused her to pause and stand still, as she listened and gazed up, at the plethora of stars. They sparkled, as if someone had tossed handfuls of glitter into the heavens. She'd witnessed nothing like this, in California, because the city lights, dimmed all, but the very brightest stars. She also detected the pungent smell of farm animals, in the night air, as it drifted across the fields.
Paisley remained there for several moments, looking up at the big and little dipper, then hurried up the pathway to the house. Unlocking the door, she stepped into the mud room that led to the kitchen. The silence was punctuated by the ticking of the antique grandfather clock, which resided in the living room. It seemed sonorous, in the stillness of the house. She could hear it tick from the kitchen doorway. Apparently, all her senses were heightened this evening.
Once again, Paisley felt her heart race, as she experienced fear conjured up, by her furtive imagination. Where was Aunt Olga? She was probably in bed already, unless she'd stayed at the hospital overnight with Uncle Vlad. She quelled her emotions, and tippy-toed through the living room, down the hallway and into her room. After closing the door behind her, she leaned against it with her back, and breathed a sigh of relief. With the door closed, Paisley finally felt safe.
She dressed for bed, then climbed under the covers, and fell into a deep asleep, as soon as the bedside light turned off. She never heard the dark car, as it turned silently into the farm house driveway, with headlights off. Its occupant quickly noted the color, make and model of the parked Jeep, and jotted down the license plate number, then backed quietly out of the driveway. It stopped at the mailbox by the road's edge, where the address was written down, then it continued onto the country road, and drove for half a mile in the darkness, before turning on its headlights.
CHAPTER 10
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Pinecrest
Early Tuesday morning, Deedrick Boone arrived at the precinct, and went straight to his office with the intention of making a to-do list. First on his agenda, was organizing the fact cards, which he'd randomly placed on his white evidence board the day before. Next, he wanted to re-examine Ben's Burger's employee statements, which were all typed up now.
The Coroner's Office, in Ramsey County, where the corpse had been transferred, by the Pinecrest ME, Dr. Hyde, would send the autopsy report in a day or two, so he’d have to wait for those results. Sitting in his chair, he turned from the white board to face his desk, where Kamorov's employee file lay open, and he moved it aside, to re-read the employee statements. He found nothing new there, because most of the employees did’t know Kamorov very well, so he set the statements aside, for the moment.
Boone, dragged the Kamorov personnel file in front of him. From his brief overview yesterday, he felt it was surprisingly incomplete. All it offered, was a home address, in SE Brainerd, and several previous places of employment, including a mention of his brush with the law, listing Jack Minor, as his parole officer, which would be a definite lead to follow. Kamorov’s work history consisted of a job at a Citgo gas station as a cashier, and he worked as a bartender, at a bar named, Dino's. Neither job lasted for more than three or four-months, and both places were located elsewhere—not in Brainerd, or Pinecrest.
He returned to the employee statements. Several statements from Ben's Berger's, made mention of Kamorov's roommates, however, no names were known. So today, he would visit his place of residence, in hopes of finding more information about the seemingly elusive and mysterious, Kamorov. It was if he had’t existed. Puzzling over this for several minutes, he made a note to talk to several employees again. Maybe one of them remembered something— anything!
Boone had been sent to Pinecrest, Minnesota, in April, because of a special assignment by the FBI, to initiate contact with a person known to him only, as Mr. Ohm. It’s an interesting name, he remembered thinking, as its definition means—a unit of the measure, of resistance. Boone’s mission was to secretly meet with Ohm sometime during the first part of May, but after arriving, in Minnesota, almost a month had passed, and Boone had not yet succeeded in making contact. He felt like it was going to be a waiting game.
He figured Ohm's hesitation to make contact, concerned the sensitive nature of the informant’s information, or perhaps he had cold feet? At one point early on, after the initial contact with the FBI, Ohm indicated he was possibly being surveilled, and mis-trusted the authenticity of his contact—which, of course, was Boone. Boone was given the code name, Mr. Watt, also a unit of electrical power, and Boone smiled at the irony. However, without any communication so far, all he could do was sit and wait, and stay in touch with Washington. In the meantime, when the Kamorov murder occurred, Captain Bowers decided to have him head up the case, to give him something to work on.
Born in Virginia, Boone was raised as an army brat. His father, a Major General in the Army, moved his family, frequently, within the in the United States (mostly to the east coast), and then moved them again when he was stationed abroad. By the time Boone turned ten, the General and his family, were stationed in Japan. For three years, his dad worked with the CIA, until they sent the family, to Germany. It wasn’t until, Boone's senior year, that the family returned to the United States.
Following high school, Boone, admiring his father's military career, attended the United States Military Academy, located in West Point, New York, where he became a cadet, otherwise known as an officer-in-training, and graduated second in his class with top academic scores. He had impressive grades in three foreign languages, because of his unusual linguistic abilities.
Graduating as a Second Lieutenant, he served a tour of duty in Germany, and a four-year stint in Afghanistan, as an operative, where he was wounded by a road-side bomb, and flown back to the states to recover. During his recovery at Walter Reed Hospital, for several months, the CIA paid him a visit, after learning of his ability to speak multiple foreign languages. They wanted him to learn
Pashto, but he'd already picked it up, along with being conversant in German and Russian.
After a full recovery, he joined a Special Ops group, and was sent to the mid-east, but after six years, he tired of the dangers, was burnt out, and returned to the states, preferring a job stateside. Boone decided to crossover, to the FBI, and trained at Quantico, then accepted a position with an anti-terrorism unit. It was in this capacity, that several years later, he was assigned to Pinecrest, in mid-Minnesota, during the first week of April 2017.
Three days after arriving in Pinecrest, Boone decided he would talk to the Captain right away about his assignment to the department. He arranged a Monday morning meeting, at 10:00 a.m., with Captain Bower, at the Pinecrest Police Department. Arriving on Monday, promptly at ten, he spoke to the receptionist at the front desk, who gave him directions to the Captain’s office. He headed down the corridor to the elevator, rode to the second floor, and found the office.
Once in the outer office, the receptionist smiled and said, “Go right in, the Captain is expecting you.”
The Captain stood with a welcoming smile, as Boone stepped through the door into the inner office, then put out his hand to shake Boone’s. "Welcome, Mr. Boone, I'm Captain Bower…glad to meet you."
Not expecting this warm reception, he smiled back, “Likewise.”
"Have a seat, Mr. Boone," Bower said as he sat down, and continued, "I hope you had a nice trip here to Minnesota—it's very different from Washington, D.C!"
Boone sat in a cordovan leather, wing-back chair, facing the Captain, who sat behind an enormous oak desk, and replied, "I did, thank you, but I really haven’t had time to look around the city, yet.”
"Well, why don't we get down to business." He picked up some papers from his desk and glanced over them. "I received paperwork from the Bureau, requesting that you to be assigned to our precinct, however, that's all I know about this, and I was hoping you would enlighten me." He looked up at Boone, "By the way, would you like some coffee…or water?"
"Yes, coffee would be great—black, please."
Captain Bower made a quick request over his intercom and momentarily the receptionist entered with a tray holding two cups of coffee, and set them down, then left the office, closing the door behind her. The Captain picked up his cup, took a sip and waited for Boone to explain why he was sent to the precinct.
The coffee was hot. Boone blew lightly on his, before taking several sips, and setting the cup aside. "I've been sent here to work undercover, on a top secret project.” The Captain's eyebrows raised slightly, and Boone continued, "I'm to meet with a contact who 'may' have information about something, affecting our national security—but we're not exactly sure what it is. For my cover, I’m to be a detective on this police force, and I’m to be here until the informant contacts me, so we can arrange a meeting."
The Captain nodded his head, "I see." Deep in thought for a minute, he stared at Boone. "What would you like us to do, to help?"
"All I need is a cover story for the rest of the officers, so I can blend into the group. In other words, I need to keep a low profile, and only you, will be privy to my identity, and any information I may give you. In the meantime, I’m just a detectives—on loan.”
Taking another sip of coffee, the Captain chuckled and said, "That's doable. I think we can arrange it. We'll say that you transferred here from another precinct on the East Coast—a favor from your Captain, after becoming a high-profile person in a sensational murder case, which you worked—and they thought it best for you to be out of the limelight for a while…that sound all right? And, if anyone inquires about the nature of the case in which you were involved, just say you can’t discuss it!"
"Great! Perfect! I'll give you more information when I can, but otherwise consider me your new transfer detective, and treat me accordingly." He gave the Captain a big grin, stood up, thanked him for his understanding and the coffee, then shook his hand again.
"Welcome to the force, Detective Boone," and Bower also grinned, as he walked around the desk, and accompanied Boone to the door. "If you need anything, let me know, and meanwhile, I'll have Officer Smith get you situated with a temporary office, until we find a more permanent one. We'll furnish you with a badge, credentials, etc., and I’m sure you have your own weapon, but he'll see to it, that you have access to a car, and office materials.”
"I can't thank you, enough!" Boone said, and left the office, nodding to the secretary on his way out.
That was then, and this is now, he thought as he sat at his desk, on this Monday morning, working on the Kamorov case. It's been a month and a half, since I talked to Captain Bowers back in April, and here I am, he thought, it's the middle of May, and I'm still in this temporary office. But at least I have a case to work, to keep from being bored.
He sat with his back to the door, focused again, on the white board hanging on the wall behind his desk. Deep in thought, he didn't hear Millie enter the office, until she tossed the morning paper on his side desk, it made a loud, flat-sounding, "Whap!"
As it landed, Boone jumped and spun around in his chair, "What on earth!"
"Oh! I'm so sorry," Millie said, putting her hand to her throat, "I didn't mean for it to land so hard!”
In a calmer voice, he said, "Although it did startle me—because it sounded like a gunshot—I managed to survive, so all is well," he assured her, as he gave her a broad smile. "Thanks for remembering my newspaper request from yesterday."
"Sure, no prob,” and she turned to scurry out of his office, while he picked up his cooling cup of typical over-heated-dregs, from the coffee pot in the break room, and pulled the newspaper towards his desk pad. When he unfolded it, and began reading the headlines, he was annoyed. The paper made the murder sound more macabre and sensational than it really was—he knew it was to sell more papers.
Of all the ways to die, death by freezing is probably the least messy, and not nearly as repugnant as stabbing, shooting, drowning or torching. But, that was just his opinion. Unfortunately, there were others who preferred the more sensational methods, regardless of the mess.
Brainerd. At the farm house in Brainerd, Paisley was just waking up, endeavoring to open her eyes, as she crept out of her dream and into the reality of her room, finally struggling awake. Everything always seems better in the morning light, Paisley thought, and for some reason, a Thornton Wilder quote she'd loved from her high school literature class, came to mind:
For what human ill, does not dawn, seem to be an alleviation.
She rested for a few minutes, musing over the quote, then sprang out of bed. Even though she didn't have to be at work until one, she had reasons to get there earlier. The delicious aroma of coffee and bacon drifted down the hallway, and donning her robe, she padded into the kitchen, where Aunt Olga busied herself making breakfast.
"Honestly, Aunt Olga, you don't need to cook for me every morning! I'm able to get my breakfast, too. Besides, you must have come home very late last night!”
"It's okay," she said, "I go visit Vlad again this morning. I get call earlier. He is not good. He is worse, so I go there today. I see you later, or I stay all night, I prepare for both," Olga stated matter-of-factly, in her short staccato sentences, as she waddled over to the table.
Saddened to hear this news, and trying to reassure her, Paisley said, ”I’m so sorry. Hopefully he'll be okay."
Olga’s reply was, "Beris' druzhno, ne budet gruzno."
"What does that mean?"
"Old Russian saying, means, many hands, make light work." Paisley grinned, as Olga stooped and gave her a big bear hug, then yanked off her apron and flung it onto the counter, as she headed for her room.
"I'll try and come to the hospital after work this evening, to pay Vlad a visit.”
As Paisley hurriedly finished her coffee, her Aunt re-entered the kitchen. "Thanks, my little kotyonok, Uncle Vlad happy for any visits." And with that, she was out the door.
Paisley loved her Aunt's Russian
accent and her Old Russian sayings. She smiled to herself, whenever her Aunt called her kotyonok, which was Russian for kitten. She headed for her room, and dressed in a pair of black slacks, a powder-blue cotton shirt with three quarter sleeves, and added a navy-blue, cotton jacket.
She pulled her curly, bronze-colored hair, into a messy bun, and secured it with a clip, but again, her unruly, wispy tendrils escaped, falling around her face, making her appear much younger than her twenty-eight years. She quickly fed Abby on her way out, and climbed into her Jeep. It was a thirty-minute drive to the precinct, a far cry, from the hours she spent in California traffic.
This morning, tractors were sketching lazy grids into the dark earth, to prepare the ground. She peered up through the windshield, to see if the gathering clouds were going to float by, or stay awhile. Thankfully, they seemed to be on their lazy way, as if they had better places to be, much like the large “V” of geese, honking their way towards the horizon, as they began returning for the summer.
She flew down the road towards town, while rummaging in her purse for her chap stick. Her fingers felt each item in her purse, for the right shape. Without success, and tiring of this game, she pulled off the road, and dumped out her purse for the second time in two days. There was the chap stick, amongst the other items. She picked it up, removed the cap, and glided it over her lips. Back into the purse it went, along with the rest, a notebook, a sample-size bottle of hand lotion, a comb, a small box of raisins, wrinkled sales receipts, gum wrappers, her wallet, loose change, a couple of pens, and a packet of Kleenex.
A small black object remained on the seat—it was that pesky flash drive. She hoped Ben would have an answer for her soon, as certainly someone would have realized it was missing, by now! It was unceremoniously tossed into her purse, and she pulled off the shoulder, onto the road, heading towards town. After all, she didn't want to be late! No telling what new information may have surfaced!