I know I'm only dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. But leisure is in these days. And it's not like I really care what people think about me. They can think whatever I want. I just need to get to a coffee shop. I slip on a hoodie and my jacket for good measure.
Walking down the hallway of the apartment complex, I'm greeted with the smell of an old carpet. There's a hint of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. It's hard to get that smell out of anything, even if people hadn't smoke there in decades.
When I get on the elevator, there's a woman and her daughter already inside. The daughter is chatting wildly about the new toy she wants for Christmas next year. I don't want to be the one to break it to her that Christmas is an entire year away. Like, she literally just had Christmas.
The elevator dings as it reaches the bottom floor of the apartment complex. It's empty, which is to be expected in a city where the bulk of the walkers aren't heading anywhere specific.
I'm slip out of the building and on to the streets of Washington once again. The air is cold and encapsulating. It's like there's a giant, freezing creature wrapping itself around me, hugging me tightly. I take a deep breath so I can see my breath. I always enjoy seeing my own breath in the cold.
I waste little time walking over to the Starbucks not he nearby corner. When I open the door, I'm smacked in the face with the smell of arabica coffee beans, all of them burnt and roasted heavily. I order myself a black coffee and then sit down at a table at the center of the store. There's a pair of college students working tirelessly in the back corner with headphones plugging their ears. A woman reads a text back in a chair sitting against the near wall. The soft tunes of a Spotify playlist weave through the air.
I pull out my phone and open the messages tab, specifically the conversation between me and Jon from earlier. He sent me Marty's number so I copy it from my messages and then paste it into the keypad. The dial tone offers five rings before the voicemail greets me. A gruff, tough voice asks me to leave a message for Marty. He adds, if this is a message about the Scribe and its reporting, contact their offices. And then he gives me his work number.
"Hi Marty, my name is Annette Gardner, and I am a reporter for the Scribe. This call isn't about work, though. We have a mutual friend, Jon. He's my editor and he recommended I call you about a story I'm working on. It has to do with these Senate hearings, the shutdown, New Surge. I hope that's okay. Anyway, please just give me a call back when you can." I leave him my number and then hang up the call, setting my phone down on the table.
I slide my laptop out of my messenger back and set it up on the table. I connect to the store's WiFi -- knowing full well that it probably won't stay connect for long since the WiFi rarely ever does -- and start surfing the web.
The first thing that comes to mind are the security cameras at the national mall. Those have to be reviewed, I'm sure. There's no way they missed whoever committed the crime there last night. So when I do a quick search, I discover that the national park officers installed security cameras there a few years back. The main feed connects to an office. There's a slew of closed-circuit television cameras spread through offices within the city. I write down the addresses for each of those spots. I'll need to visit them eventually.
Now it's time for the big call. I pull my phone out and phone Detective Bailey again, wondering if he'll be happy or not to hear my voice on the other end of the phone. It's going to be especially annoying for him since I'll be asking for a favor, rather than helping him solve a case.
"Bailey."
"Hey, detective. This is Annette Gardner. We were speaking last night."
"Annette. Nice to hear from you. I can assure you there haven't been any updates on the case. Well, there aren't any updates I can share with you right now."
"That's fine," I say. "I'm actually interested to see if you could help me with something."
"What's that?"
"I would like to see the body, if that's okay."
"You want to see the body?"
"Look, Bailey. Here's the deal. I'm going to be honest with you like you were honest with me. I heard the girl's name on the news this morning. She's an employee of New Surge, and I was doing a report on the hearings. She was supposed to speak at the hearing last before the government shutdown. I'd like to see if there's anything I can gain from seeing the body."
"Wow. I can't believe you're connecting dots so quickly."
"It's my job to be skeptical," I say. I'm not sure if Jon would be happy to know that I was using my status as a media member to see what happened to the body. Clearly I had an agenda to prove to people the whoever killed Kaleigh had done so on purpose.
"Do you have an idea of who it could be?" Bailey asked. "You sound like someone who is doing her own research. Given your history, I'd love to hear your theories."
"I told you what I know last night. A tall figure choked the woman under the water."
"And you have no idea if it was a male or female?"
"Not at all,'" I say and I'm still really not sure why I lied. I should tell him that I think the suspect is female. Maybe that'll trigger something in his brain in much of the same way seeing Simmons on the news got my brain jogging.
But I can't do that yet. I need to make absolutely sure about who the killer might be before I go sprouting off theories.
"And what will seeing the body help you with?"
"Okay, so you know how about my podcasts, right?"
"You were a hit sensation. Of course I do."
"Good. Here's the deal. I just need to get close to the body, that's all. I just need to get close enough so I can understand motivations and see what's going on. I know that's going to sound crazy and a little unorthodox, but I promise you, it really helps the process."
"You are quite a reporter," he says. "Look, I'm not going to walk you down to the station and show you where the morgue is. That's not my job. But I can tell you that if you come into the station, maybe I'll turn my back for twenty minutes and you can run into the morgue on your own."
I smile on my side of the phone call. That's all I need. Just an opportunity for me to sneak into the morgue and poke around a little bit. I didn't commit the murder, and the police don't suspect me killing anyone finally, but I want to know who killed the girl. I want to know who was trying to mess up the investigation.
When Bailey and I are done talking, I dive back into the screen on my laptop, clicking away as I do research about the national poll. It's only somewhere between eighteen and thirty inches deep. That's barely three feet. So if it's so shallow, why bring someone there to kill them? You can't drown them unless you hold them under water. And then, even worse, why would you drown them at one of the most secure locations in the country. That doesn't make sense.
I know that killers want to make their names known. They usually go all out to create scenes of horror, which are just an elaborate way for them to gain attention. The police and media pay these killers enough attention as they seek out the answers, and more times than not these type of people are caught.
But here's this murderer. Just killed a woman in the middle of the national mall pool, burying her underneath the ice and letting her drown to death. The cameras watched from all around, keeping an eye on you.
None of this added up. It didn't make sense. It was almost like the killer was going above and beyond to be caught. It was like the killer wanted to be seen. Like the killer wanted someone to chase her. Like the killer wanted Annette to chase her.
No, no. That's not the case. I have to stop thinking like that. I can't keep thinking these killers are aiming for me. They're not always trying to kill me. I'm not the victim here. Kayleigh is. She was murdered in cold blood beneath the ice. It has nothing to do with me.
And yet here I am, researching all of this. Here I am researching everything I can to make sense of it all.
I pack up about twenty minutes later and step out into the cold again. The chilly weather breezes through and shivers my skin into m
ounds of gooseflesh. I pull out my phone and send Ben a text, asking if he's awake yet. He doesn't answer right away, so it's clear he's still sleeping.
As I stand on the middle of 1st street, looking around at the blameless blue sky and the bright coin of bright yellow that is the sun, I think briefly about what I'm going to do next. I haven't heard from Marty. My appointment at the police station isn't until tomorrow morning when Bailey is back in the office. Ben is asleep.
I'm alone here, and yet my mind is racing with ideas. My brain is surging with the desire to get moving and find an idea. That's the whole point of my job. I'm always on the go, always reporting and always seeking out the truth.
And yet now the world is asking me to be patient. It's asking me to be calm and allow everything to develop around me.
I don't like it. I don't like it at all.
I walk across the street over to my apartment complex and hurry up inside. The elevator is empty this time as I head upstairs. The hallway outside my apartment still reeks of smoke, and I really wish that stench would disappear. That would be nice. I know it won't.
Unlocking the door of my apartment, I hear feet shuffling against the ground. Ben is awake. So I slip inside and see him standing in his black plaid pajamas pants and a plain white t-shirt. He has his phone out, cupping it one hand and a finger dangling above the screen.
"Hey," I say. "You're awake?"
"Just got up. And I was just about to text you. Where have you been?"
"Working."
"Working? The day after you saw a murder and were brought into the police station. That seems a little strange to me, babe."
"I promise. I'm not doing anything crazy."
"Good," he says, shuffling his feet over to me. He wraps his arm around my head and lays a perfect kiss right on my head. When I pull away, our eyes meet again and I am instantly reminded how much I love him.
"I wouldn't want anything to happen to you," he says.
"Same for me. You feel better?"
"Yeah, I feel more awake at least."
"That's good."
"Yeah."
I set my bag down and rip my hoodie off, tossing it into the couch. Ben's phone dings from an alert. I'll never understand why he lets the sound play.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Senator needs us to meet."
"What, again?"
"Yeah. She wants to talk over some new ideas she had overnight."
"She's insane."
"Something like that. But hey, I read from The New York News this morning that they're thinking of ending the shutdown. They just have to agree on funding for the regulation."
"Regulation?"
"You know, tech regulation."
"But that's the whole point. They couldn't work a deal on whether or not to regulate. Now they're negotiating funding?"
Ben shrugs. "That's what I read." He drags his feet around the apartment with his phone still in his hand.
Being inside the coffee shop for so long clearly took me away from the news for a little bit. How surprising. I didn't even see an app alert about it.
I pull out my phone and open up Twitter -- the bane of my existence. Seriously. There's nothing good about Twitter and yet I basically live on there in times of boredom. I scroll through the first batch of junk -- and yes, a lot of this is junk -- until I see the New York News story that Ben had mentioned.
HEADLINE: Government shutdown nearing the end? Sources say deal surrounds tech regulation.
I click it open, and as it loads, an unsettling amount of worry runs through me. Shouldn't I be writing the same story for the Scribe? They knew I was taking the day off, but wouldn't they call me?
The article doesn't say much. It's really just a breaking news alert about how sources told the News that, yes, the government shutdown might be ending once they form a deal on regulation. The story is still developing, and they'll have more details later.
It's so weird how this story sprang out of nowhere. Shouldn't I know something about this?
I pull out my phone and text away at my current editor Sandra Kim.
"Hey, I'm just now seeing this story from the NYN. Anything you need from me?"
Her text comes a minute later. "Breaking news team is on it now. We have some sourcing. You have anything to add to the daily?"
"Not yet," I write back. "I'm still working this bigger story. The girl who died last night at the pool was giving a hearing at the end of the senate."
"Can you file something for me on that?"
"Oh, yeah. Sorry I didn't think of that earlier."
"You're new," she writes. "You'll figure it out. Send that in. Then, let's talk about your deeper project. Will you be back tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Good. Send me something small and we'll go from there."
When I start filing away on my story, pulling together the data and details I know about Kaleigh, the image of the attack won't leave my mind. She was due to be the last one at the senate hearing and now she's gone. How is that fair? How is that possible? How is that right?
She didn't deserve to die like that, and she didn't deserve to have this story written about her.
As I type away, a tear falls down my cheek. And I barely hearing Ben as he leaves the apartment, walking out the door, telling me he loves me. I say nothing back, lost in the darkness that this story has created.
Chapter 8: Next Day
It's the next day. I worked straight through the afternoon and then took a nap. I didn't even think about checking my phone after I filed the story and it went live online. When I briefly flipped on CNN, the talking heads were chatting away busily about it. Clearly it had an impact. I am still a little surprised no one else caught on to Kaleigh's story. I don't know how I was the first one to do it.
When I wake up the next morning, Ben is in bed next to me. I relax my head against his near-bare chest. He never grew too much hair there. I kiss his shoulder and then slide out bed, wearing nothing but an extra large t-shirt. I stroll into the shower and clean myself of all the stress from the day before.
Soon enough I'm dressed in a pair of jeans, a sick pair of duck boots, a black sweater on top of a blue collard shirt, and ready to face the world. I have a busy day ahead of me. I have to stop at the police station and I have to talk to my editor about what I'm working on.
Okay. I can do this. I can make it.
Police station.
Talk to my editor.
See if I can contact this Marty guy.
Woof. Good luck to me, right?
When I'm finally ready to leave for the day, I head out the door without saying goodbye to Ben. He had a late night. And he'll probably have another late night tonight. I don't have time to say goodbye to him either. Today is going to be a busy day.
I hail an Uber and wait outside my apartment complex. The car rolls up in front of me. A young hipster-looking dude with a fedora is sitting in the front seat. I slide into the back seat and close the door a little more forcefully than I wanted to. It slipped out of hands.
Hipster Dude turns back toward me.
"Please don't slam my car door. Otherwise you can get another ride."
Caught off guard, I answer, "Sorry! I didn't meant to."
"Well, it doesn't take much strength to close a door. You didn't have to slam it."
"I said I'm sorry."
"It's cool. Just be careful next time."Next time? What does this guy think? Does he think I'm just going to drive in his Uber next time I catch one? You rarely will ever get the same driver. Not sure why he suddenly thinks I will ride with him again.
We course through the streets in silence. He eventually asks me how my day is going, which is a pure move by him because he feels bad for his outburst earlier. Whatever. I accept his apology half-heartedly. He doesn't deserve my sympathy or my empathy.
He drops me off at the police station where I was two nights ago. Police officers and officials are floating in and out of the building. Officers jo
g down the steps and head out onto the roads. Criminals being released hop down the steps, disappearing into the city streets. I bet some of these men and women will be back eventually. Most people who are kicked out of jail are doomed to return. I hope that's not the case, but it probably is.
I slip into the office and see it busy and alive with work. A woman sits at the desk right by the door and asks me who I am here to see. I tell her I am looking for Detective Bailey. She stands up, annoyed and full of protest, and directs me down the hallway toward Bailey's office. She holds off on the side of it, pointing to it rather than entering it herself.
I knock twice on the door when I reach his room. He's sitting as his desk writing away on a yellow pad. He picks his head up and nods at me.
"Well, well, well, I never thought you'd actually stop by."
"Don't ask a journalist to stop by unless you mean it. How's your morning?" I sit down in the chair across from him, letting him know that I mean business and I am not just going to sit back and let him dictate this arrangement.
"I'm good, I'm good. Busy day. Tuna sandwich in the fridge for lunch so there's not much to look forward to."
"Oh, poor you."
"Poor me. Still interested in checking our the morgue?"
"Soon the better," I say. "I have an appointment I have to make later with my editor about a story I'm working on, so anything you can do to help that push right along would be great."
He smirks, showing off his pearly-white teeth amid his dark skin. He stands up and rips his coat off of the back of his chair, swinging it over his body so that he's dressed in his full suit. He leaves his room ahead of me, leading me out back into the hallway.
We walk together down the main stretch of the corridor until we're at a door. He reaches down and unlocks it, letting it open slowly with a protest from the hinges.
"Head inside," he says with a nod toward the door. "I'll close it behind you so no one sneaks in."
"You sure this is okay?"
Into the Night Page 5