Unleashed (Blake Brier Thrillers Book 2)

by L. T. Ryan

  Blake laughed.

  Perez’s neutral expression remained unchanged.

  “We’re going to need a lot more than an hour and a half,” Blake said.

  “I see.” Perez scratched at the pad notepad, then paused. Her brow tensed as if saddened or, more likely, concerned. “Did you serve?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “I won’t lie to you,” Blake said, “there’s a lot I can’t tell you. Most of it, actually. But I can say that I’ve seen many terrible things. And I’ll admit that I’ve had to do terrible things.”

  “That must have been difficult for you.”

  “That’s part of the problem, I think. Being in the thick of it, life or death situations, dangerous situations, is when I feel most at peace. The hard part is fitting into regular life, as crazy as that sounds. When I’m set into action, so to speak, I’m like a totally different person. A better person. It’s like I have a split personality.”

  “Well, you don’t,” Perez assured. “That’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder, and it’s very rare. It’s characterized by completely separate personality states, almost as if more than one person is inhabiting one body. What you’re describing is something that is much more common, even expected, for a man with your experience.”

  Blake knew what she was alluding to. He had known for many years. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he said.

  “Yes. Exactly. PTSD manifests itself in a number of ways, at different levels of intensity.”

  “I know. Too well, unfortunately. I’ve known more than a few good men who have lost their battle with it. It’s the reason I’m here in the first place. Or it’s the reason Haeli felt the need to seek professional help. Then convinced me to do it with her.”

  “Here’s where I ask a tough question, Mr. Brier.”

  “Please, you can call me Blake.”

  “Thank you, Blake. What I want to ask is if you have experienced extreme depression. Suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts, self-mutilation?”

  “No, never. Just the opposite. I want to live more. Bigger. With a purpose. I’m going stir crazy right now. That’s the real diagnosis.”

  “Many in your position, typically task-oriented individuals, struggle with feelings that they are no longer useful. You mentioned that you are retired. Have you considered some part-time work? Maybe join an organization or get involved in community service. Something to focus your energy on.”

  “Yes. In fact, it’s in the works. A few old friends and I have been considering starting a new venture.”

  “That sounds excellent, Blake.” The injection of enthusiasm was jarring. Almost patronizing, however unintentional. “What type of venture?”

  Blake weighed his words. “The details are being finalized, but it’s mission will be to help those in need.”

  “That sounds worthy, indeed.”

  A loud electronic chirping cut through the relative quiet. Blake admonished himself for forgetting to shut his ringer off as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the device. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries.”

  Blake pressed the button on the side to silence the sound and, before stowing the phone into his pocket, glanced at the screen.

  Andrew Harrison.

  It was the last name he’d expected to see. Especially after so much time had passed. The last time he had spoken to Anja’s partner was around the time of her death.

  “What I would like to do,” Perez continued, “is dig into some of these events. You may leave out whatever details you feel necessary. The important thing is the impact they may have had on you. Now, I want you to recall an event that affected you. The first thing that pops into your mind, okay?”

  Blake was aware that a question had been posed to him, but his mind was preoccupied with questions of his own. Why would Harrison be calling him? Had there been new information? Something to do with Anja? What could possibly cause him to reach out after all this time?

  He touched his phone through the coarse fabric of his jeans. The mystery of what words would have been spoken from the other end of the call tugged at him.

  Even though Blake hardly knew the man, he felt they shared a bond. A bond forged by mutual suffering. He recalled the pain on Harrison’s face when they met at the cemetery, as clear as if the man were standing in front of him.

  A surge of grief overwhelmed him. Anja’s delicate face permeated his thoughts. A mixture of deep longing and outrage hijacked his rational brain. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “Blake?”

  He swallowed hard, then cleared his throat.

  “Anja,” he said.

  “Okay, good. Who’s Anja?”

  Who’s Anja? Blake was struck by the absurdity of the question. Not on Perez’s part, but his own. The death of his beloved Anja defined him. Near crippling flashbacks snuck up on him on a regular basis, becoming more frequent, the more time that passed. Yet, he had not mentioned her to Perez.

  “Someone I loved very much,” Blake said. “She was murdered.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Blake took a breath and tried to slow his pulse. He reached into his pocket and brought his phone to his lap. He stared at the missed call notification for a moment, then thrust himself to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Doc,” he said, “something has come up. We’re going to have to cut this session short.”

  “Blake, we’ve touched on something that I think is extremely important we talk about.”

  “You’re right. And I promise we will. Next time.”

  Perez stood as Blake made his way to the exit.

  “I wish you’d stay,” Perez said.

  “If it’s any consolation, you were right. It never had anything to do with Haeli.”

  Blake tapped the notification, causing the phone to redial Harrison’s number, and held the phone to his ear.

  “Next time,” he said and disappeared through the door.

  Uncharted Chapter 3

  Saturday, May 29th. Evening.

  The tires of Tom Hopkins’s Chevy Impala crunched along the substrate of crushed seashells as it approached the end of the pier. He scanned the landing for an open parking spot.

  With boating season in full swing, parking at the West Ferry was notoriously hard to come by. And with the overflow of vehicles stretching several blocks up Narragansett Avenue, he hadn’t been optimistic.

  As Jamestown’s Chief of Police, he would have had the latitude to wedge himself in somewhere. Possibly along the small area set aside for picnic tables or up against the small out-building that housed the bathroom. But it would have been obnoxious, and the last thing Hopkins needed was another complaint.

  Instead, he lingered a minute while a stout man loaded three fishing poles into the back of a minivan. Inside, his two young boys bounced back and forth between the second-row seats.

  After the man hopped into the driver’s seat and presumably persuaded the children to buckle themselves in, the illumination of a single working reverse light signified that it was worth the wait. He slid into the vacant spot as the minivan pulled away.

  Hopkins walked to the edge of the pier and down a metal gangway that led to the dingy dock. Despite posted signs that the dock was reserved for those utilizing the services of the Dutch Harbor marina, Hopkins found the dock occupied by two local teenage girls. Wearing what he considered to be age-inappropriate bikinis, they were performing a choreographed dance to a cell phone they had propped on the shorter of two adjacent pilings.

  Upon noticing his presence, the startled girls grabbed their towels, scooped up the phone and scurried up the gangway. Having changed from his uniform into civilian clothing, Hopkins figured they probably didn’t know who he was. They had hurried off, not because they thought they would be in trouble, but because they were embarrassed. Or, more likely, creeped out.

  At least they have some common sense.

  Hopkins held his bladed hand t
o his brow to block the glare from the low hanging sun. He quickly located what he was looking for.

  About a quarter mile in the distance, the twenty-five-foot rigid inflatable boat, easily identifiable by the words Jamestown Police scrawled along the side in block letters, had already turned out of the channel and was moving through the mooring field toward his position.

  As the boat drew closer, Hopkins could make out Lieutenant Charlie Fuller’s enthusiastic wave. Although not close enough to see the details of his face, he imagined the exaggerated motion was being accompanied by an equally cheesy grin.

  A life-long Jamestown resident, Charlie Fuller was among the nicest people that Hopkins had ever met. So much so that when Hopkins retired from the Providence Police Department and took the job in Jamestown, he distrusted Fuller more than anyone else. In his experience, at a place where even the new recruits are jaded, anyone who was that friendly, that happy, or that helpful was full of crap and likely angling for something.

  Eventually, Fuller’s relentlessly positivity won him over. Before long, Hopkins had taken the young officer under his wing, even helping him prepare for the Sergeant’s exam and then the Lieutenant’s exam, a year later. Ultimately, it turned out that Fuller was only competing with himself for the Lieutenant position because the other Sergeants, mostly older guys who had retired from other places, didn’t want anything to do with the added responsibility. But he did well, nonetheless.

  Unlike Providence, the fifteen-man police department had no need for a deep cadre of supervisors. There were no Deputy Chiefs or Captains, which made thirty-one-year-old Charlie Fuller second in command. Technically.

  As Fuller approached the dock, he cut the wheel, allowing the starboard edge to kiss the dock. Hopkins stepped in with one foot while kicking off with the other in a single motion.

  “Were you waiting long?” Fuller asked.

  “Not at all. But we’d better get moving. We’re losing daylight.”

  Fuller had made good time, thanks to favorable conditions. Jamestown’s only police boat was docked at the Conanicut marina, located at the East Ferry on the opposite side of the island. Connected by the one-mile-long Narragansett Avenue, travel between the two by points by vehicle took a few minutes. By boat, the journey was considerably less convenient. It required one to first travel south through the east passage into open water, then west around the southernmost point of the island, known as Beavertail, and, finally, north through the west passage toward Dutch Harbor.

  It was for this reason that Hopkins had twice proposed funding for a second police boat and dockage at Dutch Harbor. Unfortunately, the line item was shot down by the council on both occasions.

  Fuller steered the boat north through the moorings, taking care not to kick up too much of a wake. Many of the boaters were on deck, enjoying a cocktail or a meal. As was the custom, they returned each friendly wave in a repetitious pattern.

  “I called everyone like you asked,” Fuller said. “Mostly everyone’s already here except for Bobby and Allison. Both said they were out of town.”

  “I’m aware,” Hopkins said.

  Robert “Bobby” Berret was the department’s only Detective. It was ironic that Berret was absent from the first investigation in two years that involved more than petty theft or mischief, but there was little Hopkins could say about it. After all, it was a Saturday and Barrett’s regular day off. On top of that, Berret had put in for a few vacation days to extend the weekend. He said he was visiting family in Maine, but Hopkins knew it was a lie. He and Officer Allison Konesky had been carrying on for some time and, although they went to great lengths to keep it a secret, Hopkins was well aware. In fact, after approving Berret’s leave, he penciled in Konesky’s coinciding vacation before she submitted the request.

  “Did you read the statements from the kids that were on the boat?” Fuller asked.

  “I did.”

  “The way they described it, it sounds like this is gonna be gnarly.”

  “Most boating accidents are,” Hopkins said.

  “Do you think they’re telling the truth? I mean, all of their stories match and everything, but it seems like they gotta be leaving something out, right?”

  “It’s possible,” Hopkins said. “They did have time to agree on a story before they were separated. But even the smallest details matched. That’s the stuff you’ve got to focus on, Charlie. The things that otherwise seem insignificant. I’ve never seen a group of career criminals that could put together a story that tight, let alone a bunch of scared college kids. As it is right now, I think we have to assume they’re telling the truth.”

  Through the swaying masts of the last few sailboats, the flickering strobes of two identical Coast Guard RBS-II response boats marked the outer perimeter of the scene. Positioned at the mouth of what was essentially a cove formed by a V-shaped recess in the coastline, the two crews could easily cordon off the area by intercepting any approaching vessels.

  “Hook up with them for a minute,” Hopkins directed.

  Fuller nodded. Having cleared the harbor, Fuller jammed the throttle forward. The bow of the small RIB lifted and planed over the rollers, slapping the crest of each tiny wave in a hypnotic rhythm.

  As they closed in on the nearest of the two Coast Guard vessels, Fuller cut back on the throttle. Hopkins grabbed hold of one of the canopy stanchions to steady himself as Fuller swerved hard to the left, then again to the right. The wide S-turn maneuver brought them parallel and about four feet off the port side of the orange and white craft.

  A young man with jet black hair and a broad, hairless chest was stepping into the second leg of a wetsuit. His name was Paul Russo. Both Hopkins and Fuller had crossed paths with the guardsman many times, but neither could say they liked him much.

  “Feeling better, Tom?” Russo asked. “‘Cause you look like hell.”

  Hopkins never ceased to be amazed at how fast gossip travelled. It was bad enough he had to deal with the local residents. But if Paul knew about his recent issues, that meant that half of Newport knew, or would soon enough.

  Hopkins had a few words he wanted to throw back at Paul Russo, but he decided not to give him the satisfaction. He tried to force a smile but, apparently, couldn’t quite pull it off.

  “Come on, Tom. Just foolin’ with ya. We ready or what?”

  “Give me a few minutes,” Hopkins said. “We’ve gotta take some shots. Charlie, grab the camera. I’ll take the helm.”

  Fuller stepped away and Hopkins grabbed the wheel. “Hang here Paul, I’ll flag you down when we’re ready.”

  Hopkins didn’t wait for a response before he goosed the throttle, leaving Russo in his literal wake.

  Ahead, the small abandoned bowrider bobbed and tugged at its anchor. Beyond it was Zeek’s creek. Hopkins immediately noticed that several cars had stopped on the edge of the roadway that crossed over the marsh. Several motorists gathered outside of their vehicles, no doubt drawn by the Coast Guard’s display of flashing blue and red lights. That kind of attention is exactly what he was trying to avoid.

  Hopkins keyed his handheld radio. “Alpha Two.”

  “Alpha Two,” came the reply.

  “Swing over to North Road. I’ve got a bunch of onlookers impeding traffic. Then standby there and make sure no one else congregates.”

  “Roger. En route.”

  Hopkins tossed the radio onto the seat and slowed the boat to a comfortable speed.

  “Charlie,” Hopkins said.

  Fuller, with the strap of the bulky DSLR camera slung over his neck, came closer.

  “I’m going to make the largest circle I can around the scene,” Hopkins explained. “Think of it like a clock. I want you to take a shot at every hour mark. Center the boat in the frame on each shot. Then, we’ll get in closer and I’ll do another circle. We’ll do that three or four times, okay?”

  “Got it,” Fuller said.

  As patronizing as the basic instructions would have sounded to a third pa
rty, Hopkins knew that Fuller needed clear and thorough instructions. It put Fuller at ease to know exactly what was expected of him and it was a time-saver for Hopkins, avoiding the barrage of questions that would inevitably follow a vague direction.

  Hopkins started his circuitous route. Face pressed against the camera, Fuller snapped away. Hopkins struck up a one-sided conversation.

  “One of the things I learned early on,” Hopkins said, projecting over the wind and churning motor, “is to document the crap out of the crime scene. Even in the case of an accident. You never know where it’ll go. I’ll share a cautionary tale with you. When I was new to the Detective Bureau, we had a suicide. My partner and I went out to the scene. Just like Patrol reported, the guy had offed himself with a forty-five. Gun was still in his hand with an empty magazine and there was one spent cartridge on the floor a few feet away. Cut and dry. We decided not to call in the Crime Scene Unit. We did take a couple of pictures, but not before we manhandled the body. Then we left it to Patrol to release the body to the medical examiner, in time to make it to lunch. See where this is going?”

  Fuller continued squinting into the viewfinder. “It wasn’t a suicide?”

  “Nope. The gun and the shell were sent to the State Lab for ballistics as a matter of policy. Turns out, the spent cartridge wasn’t from the gun that was on scene. And, to make matters worse, the old forty-five wasn’t even capable of firing a shot.”

  Fuller dropped the camera a few inches and turned to face Hopkins. “What happened?”

  “We botched a murder scene is what happened. No search, no fingerprints, no anything. My partner got the brunt of it because he was the veteran guy.”

  “But did you end up catching the killer?” Fuller stared like a child waiting for the dramatic conclusion to a bed-time story.

  “No. Never did. Now, pay attention to what you're doing.”

  Fuller jerked the camera to eye level.

  “The point is, you can never go back once you’ve disturbed the scene. If a case ends up going to the jury, all they have to work with is what you documented. The goal of these photographs is to let them see what you saw.”