The Hooker, the Handyman and What the Parrot Saw

by Patricia Harman

  Charlie hated that her first thought when meeting an attractive man was his marital status, what he looked like naked, and if he might be interested in her, usually in that order. It made her feel like such a guy. “Cat got your tongue Sergeant Cavanaugh?” he prodded as his eyes lit up like a child who had a secret he was just bursting to tell.

  “Have we met?” she asked as she brushed past him and set her things down on her desk. Damn. He smelled good, too. Really good.

  “No, but we’re about to. Special Agent Jake Adams, FBI.” He stretched out his hand while flashing a dangerously seductive smile that threatened to take her breath away. Charlie became immediately flustered and felt herself blush. She quickly looked down and adjusted some papers on her desk that didn’t need adjusting before shaking his hand. His hand was massive and manicured. A metro-sexual. Charlie couldn’t decide if she was impressed or repulsed.

  She tried desperately not to look, but she couldn’t help herself—he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. No Charlie! She admonished herself. No more cops. Ever. She glanced at her own hands as she accepted his handshake. Damn. She needed a manicure herself. She guessed he was in his late thirties or early forties. He took her hand into his giant mitt. It was soft and warm and it swallowed her tiny fingers. He held on longer than he should have and stared down into her eyes, which immediately clenched her stomach into a knot.

  “Have a seat Agent . . . Ahrens?” Charlie said, pretending to forget his name as she motioned toward one of the two chairs opposite her desk.

  “Adams. Please call me Jake.” He smiled again and reached into his pocket for his credentials.

  “Not necessary Agent, everything about you says FBI.”

  “I think I’ve just been insulted,” he said with feigned indignation, the corners of his mouth suppressing a smile.

  “Not as far as you know. Now what can I do for you?” Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward.

  “Well . . . I’m detached to a regional task force . . .” he began.

  Oh no, Charlie thought. Damn it Chief, don’t do this to me. She fought hard to make sure that her face revealed nothing.

  “. . . so I’ve been sent to assist you on what our behavior folks at Quantico think may be a serial killer.”

  “Two homicides do not make it a serial, Agent . . . ummmm . . .”

  “Adams.” He grinned, completely aware that she was trying to make him insignificant. Okay Beautiful. Got it. You’re in charge. This is going to be fun, he thought.

  Jake sat back and took her in for a moment. She looked determined and headstrong. Beautiful chestnut colored hair with the slightest and most perfect hint of red. God, he loved redheads. He guessed her to be maybe thirty, thirty-one-years-old. Her bangs fell into her face, partially obstructing the biggest pair of brown eyes he had ever seen. Her brown shiny mane fell past her shoulders with the sides held back by two ornate clips. Not a typical look for a police supervisor but attractive nonetheless. Quite a combination he thought—fire wrapped in cloud. It suggested a vulnerability Jake Adams rarely glimpsed in female law enforcement officers. Jake knew this was going to be tricky, being an outsider always is, but this was unexpected. He was completely enchanted. Oh well, Jake thought. He was sure there was a better than average chance she couldn’t shoot or drive worth a damn—few female officers he knew could and that was always a turn off. At that moment he caught a glimpse of the sharp shooter award on her wall. Holy fucking hot. Jesus, if she could drive, he was a goner. Aware that she was staring at him and waiting for a response he said, “Actually Sergeant Cavanaugh, if it is the same killer, a serial it does make,” he said mimicking her speech pattern.

  Charlie sighed and said, “Okay Adams, let’s put our cards on the table.” She flopped her hands on her desk in resignation. “You have to know that bringing a federal agent in on a local crime is not going to go over well with my crew. It suggests we need your help to solve this case, which we most certainly do not.”

  Even as she protested, she knew that probably wasn’t entirely true. Homicides of any kind were not commonplace in Landon, Virginia. Landon usually had two to five homicides a year. In addition, the Landon PD would peripherally assist with Virginia Beach’s eight to ten homicides each year, but that was about it. Landon’s homicides were usually domestic killings, gang related, or an occasional robbery gone sideway. It was only March and as of this Federal-sabotage meeting, Landon now had two recent and open murders on the books. The investigations for both cases had gone ice cold.

  “Umm, I hate to point out the obvious Charlotte, but they are unsolved.” The way he said her name sent a shockwave through her gut and unfortunately through her pelvis as well. He said it like a whisper, Charlotte . . . There was such familiarity to it. It was as if he had said her name a hundred times before. What the hell was this? Sexual attraction? Clearly it had been too long since she had been laid, she thought. Stop acting like a girl Charlie.

  She shook her head and regrouped.

  “Sergeant,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would address me as Sergeant,” she said firmly.

  “I see.” He leaned forward in the chair and pierced her with his glassy brown eyes as punishment for her assertion, “and I would appreciate it if you would address me as Jake, Sergeant.”

  Shit! Calling her Sergeant was having the same effect. Oh, this is bad.

  Their eyes locked across the desk and she didn’t hear or see Captain Grisolm standing in the doorway. “Everything okay here?” he asked, sensing the tension.

  Charlie blinked and turned her attention toward the captain and involuntarily jutted out her bottom lip. “Good morning, Sir,” she said, brusquely.

  “Hey, come on Charlie, don’t give me that face. I just found out this morning.” He waved the letter from the Task Force at her. “The chief said we are to give our guest here every consideration. He is here to help us out. I was just coming to tell you about it but it looks like someone beat me to the punch. Agent Adams I presume? Welcome to Landon. I can’t tell you how pleased we are to be getting some Federal mutual aid on this.”

  The captain’s tendency to worship Feds and the alphabet soup of agencies they worked for was well known at the Landon PD. As the story goes, the captain had wanted to be an FBI agent since he was kid watching Dragnet. Though he had no interest in accounting, he did have an affinity for it and majored in it at William and Mary because he knew that most FBI agents were either lawyers or accountants. He met his wife, a freshman, during his senior year of college and fell madly in love. His wife was from Landon and had no intention of traveling the globe with a federal agent but said she could handle being a police wife if he wanted to adjust his lifelong dream and become a local officer instead of an FBI agent. He acquiesced but it left him overly enamored of the fabulous Feds. He thought they hung the moon.

  “Please, call me Jake,” Adams said as he stood up to shake the captain’s hand. Jake hesitated briefly, having difficulty pulling his eyes away from the most adorable pout he had ever seen on a police sergeant. “I’m very pleased to have been given this opportunity to assist, Sir. Things at the Task Force have been slow. I don’t do slow,” he scowled.

  “Well, then working for the FBI must be a daily dose of hell,” Charlie quipped. Both men ignored her and she suddenly felt like a bratty kid sister out with her brother’s friends.

  “Well, that could work in your favor Jake. Charlie here has the stamina of three officers. I’ll be surprised if you can keep up with her,” the captain said, proudly.

  “Is that so? No worries Captain, I’ll keep up,” Jake said, shooting a mischievous look Charlie’s way.

  Charlie felt herself blushing and was humiliated by her reaction. She stood up and said assertively, “If you boys are finished with your misogynistic banter, I’ve got two unsolved homicides to work on.” S
he pushed her way between them suddenly needing to escape from her own office, which had gotten far too small. Her backside brushed against the hot fed as she squeezed by, sending hackles up across the back of her neck.

  “I’ll assign him to McCallister,” she said dismissively as she bolted for the door.

  “Hmmm,” the captain said, stopping her in her tracks. “You think that’s such a good idea, Charlie?” She turned around to face the captain, her eyes pleading. She knew his comment was more of a decision than a question. “I was thinking it would be better if he partnered up with you instead of Clint. I would be more comfortable with that.” The ground underneath her suddenly felt very tentative. Charlie opened her mouth to object but the captain was shaking the Fed’s hand and exiting her office before she could protest further.

  Jake looked at Charlie and shrugged. “Guess it’s you and me kid,” he smiled. “I mean hey, come on it’s not like I’ll be here fulltime. I’ll be splitting my time between here and Virginia Beach, so you’ll have to share me with Mike Kerns at the VBPD,” he grinned, with the self-importance that is so typical of Feds, she thought.

  “You know him?” he asked.

  The only thing she could remember about Mike Kerns is that she attended a defensive tactics class with him and that his butt looked really good in black BDUs.

  “We’ve crossed paths a few times in training.”

  Jake was downright giddy that he was going to be paired with this feisty ball of fire. He had no intention of sleeping with her. He didn’t think so anyway. He hadn’t really thought his plan through that far. But, if he had to be in Landon, having some eye candy and a worthy sparring partner would certainly make the assignment more interesting. The truth was he didn’t have to be there, but this was turning out to be a much better decision than he had imagined.

  Charlie could see the wheels turning in his head. She set her jaw, rolled her eyes, and walked out of the office. “Well, I better get over to see Captain Kerns at the Beach so I’ll see you same time tomorrow?” he called to her. She ignored him, and continued to walk away; fuming, worried, and excited. This was a complication she did not need. Not now.

  Chapter 7

  Terminal Bliss

  Death Star’s “Terminal Bliss” was almost too dark, even for him. Too close to the nerve. “The cry that she made was the cry of a dying child . . .” He could handle it, he decided. He grinned, closed his eyes, and sipped his Lagavulin.

  Three down. He would savor each and every one. He reached for the Saran Wrap and tore off a small piece. It was a show of defiance. He twisted it in his fingers and then quickly threw it on the floor as if it had caught fire in his hand. He growled at his weakness and dropped his head to his hands. He regained control of himself by remembering the joy of his most recent execution. Even the dumpster where he left the body was too good for that monster. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

  Chapter 8

  Grecko

  Charlie hated being called back in to work as soon as she got home. Call-outs were part of the job but she actually preferred being summoned in the middle of the night rather than as soon as she got home. It unnerved her and set her on edge. She needed her decompression time. At least she hoped that’s what was setting her on edge.

  She desperately tried to block the fact that Jake Adams had taken up residence in her head all day. She hated that she had to cut off AJ when they were having such a nice chat. She needed to vent more about the meddling Fed, but AJ was sweet about her rambling. It’s one of the things she missed most when her ex turned her world upside down—having someone to talk to when she got home at night. It’s something couples take so much for granted. Another beating heart.

  “Watch your six,” AJ had typed to her. Charlie loved that AJ knew police talk. It meant watch your back. Your front being twelve o’clock, your back being six o’clock. It was a military expression that cops had made their own. Their job was far more dangerous than that of a cop, but like firefighters, their enemy was known; definitive. At least that was true until 9/11. Most of the time cops don’t know who the enemy is until they are being shot at or sucker punched because until that fateful moment, cops are there to “help.”

  Charlie arrived on the scene behind the Landon Mall and gathered her necessities.

  She parked her cruiser and nodded to the patrol officer on the perimeter. The officer lifted up the crime scene tape so she could walk underneath it. For reasons unknown but universal, anytime crime scene tape is strung up the words always seem to be upside down.

  “Cold enough for you, Officer Predzin?” she asked as she smiled at the rookie.

  “Yes ma’am,” the chiseled officer grinned and blew cold air smoke from his mouth. Charlie immediately sensed the tension on the crime scene. Senior Detective Clint McCallister was marching toward her with purpose and she didn’t need to wonder what it was about. She couldn’t see the fed anywhere in view but she knew from Clint’s gait that Jake Adams must be on the scene throwing his federal weight around.

  “I know Clint. I know,” she said raising a hand.

  “What the fuck, Charlie?”

  “Brief me first, then I’ll deal with him. What do we have?”

  Clint McCallister was a seasoned detective and gave Charlie’s rank its due respect but she knew not to run roughshod over him. He was too good at what he did and she was a street cop at heart, not a white shirt. Right or wrong, Clint was as much her friend as her subordinate.

  “Okay, Sarge,” he said with a sigh and took out his notebook from his back pocket. “The DOA is a John Doe at the moment, but I got a feeling he’s going to be just like the last two. Maybe Alex Jordan. The dumpster reeks of bleach.” Like the last two . . . The words rang in her ears. Clint’s mouth was moving but all Charlie could hear was a loud buzzing. Like the last two, she thought as her stomach gave an unappreciated tumble.

  Charlie shivered but it wasn’t from the cold night air. It all started a few weeks earlier when a known sex offender, Jerome Jenkins, had been murdered. Jerome Jenkin’s family had come home from a school play that the father/sex offender was not permitted to attend because he wasn’t allowed within two hundred yards of a school. The family found him smothered in the bathtub, apparently mid-bath. His head was encased in what was left of the plastic wrap. He was doused in hydrochloric acid and DRT—dead right there. The acid had melted the plastic and most of his face. Charlie could not imagine what it was like for one of the family members to discover him. What Charlie saw that day left an impression. Even though the body was presumed to be Jerome Jenkins there was no way in hell he could positively be identified by facial recognition. Grecko, the primary CSI, definitely had his hands full.

  Charlie knew the drill. The Crime Scene Investigator (CSI) after responding to a crime scene would conduct an initial assessment, followed by making a game plan for the starting point. The crime scene would then be diagrammed and photographed. Each item of evidence would then be located, measured, and noted on the diagram before being collected and packaged. Depending on the nature of the evidence the CSI may process it for fingerprints at the scene; however, if the item has what appears to be blood, it is packaged and sent to the laboratory for processing. The CSI golden rule: If it’s not documented it did not happen. It was imperative that prior to photographing the crime scene that nothing be added, i.e. police processing gear, measuring tape, etc. If something causes the scene to be altered and the defense locates it in a photograph the evidence can be disqualified. A single piece of fiber has been enough to convict someone of a crime. It would be disastrous to have that piece of fiber excluded as evidence due to a rookie mistake. That’s why a slick sleeve like Grecko, though not a supervisor, was in charge at major crime scenes.

  Charlie recalled that awful day on the Jerome Jenkins crime scene. She volunteered to follow Grecko during his initial walk through. Cops are notorious for a bad sense of humor,
but CSIs were the worst. Charlie remembered when Grecko crossed the threshold of the front door “the smell” hit him. He had turned around to face Charlie with half a smile and said, “Barbeque anyone?” Charlie knew exactly what he was referring to. Burnt flesh has a tendency to put off a very specific aroma. Several nights she had nightmares of a man with three-quarters of his face missing and screaming for help. Jerome Jenkins died a slow and extremely painful death as the acid burned his face.

  When Charlie was on the scene of the Jerome Jenkins homicide she couldn’t help but wonder how a man like Jenkins got to keep his family. His house was a perfectly appointed piece of American Pie, circa Donna Reed. There were carefully selected decorative accents and family pictures showing the happy couple and their two adorable boys. This man was a pervert and a criminal of the highest and most perverse order but was still living the dream. She didn’t get it. Her ex had left her for being “distant” and for “not needing” him. This perv was a scout leader who had raped three of his eleven preteen scouts and still had his family intact. It blew her mind.

  She was certain it was closer to seven of the boys but she could only get three to turn on him. Brave little boys. Brave parents. Jerome Jenkins only got a few months in jail because the parents of the boys agreed to a plea deal to keep their boys from having to testify. Charlotte understood their position but she was sure she could have put him away for years and it wrenched her gut to know that he was still out there. Though the sex offender status, she hoped, would keep him from being in positions of trust with other kids. The hydrochloric acid certainly would.

  The killer had started by covering Jenkins’ mouth with the plastic wrap and then continued down to his neck where the wrap had been pulled especially tight. Then it went around and around until the murder victim just had one big cellophane head which the killer then melted with the acid. No forced entry into the home, no sign of a struggle, no defense wounds. It was as if the victim just sat there quietly while his killer smothered him. She wondered if he was dead before the acid started to melt his face.