That’s what cops are supposed to do, I wanted to say, touching my swollen eye with my fingertips. That’s my job.
I knew he was trying to be nice. I knew he was old-school and set in his ways. Not only was he old enough to be my father; he was actually friends with my father. He wasn’t a monster or a bully or trying to shame me. He was just a guy I worked with.
It still stung worse than my eye.
Parking the patrol car, we trudged through the drifts in the unplowed police lot to the side door of the station house. Coppers coming and going had worn a slushy path through the dirty snow.
As soon as we walked in, Tony Miciwitz, the desk officer, looked up. “What happened to you?”
“I got hit by some drunk over at Delaney’s.” I walked over to his desk, which had all our blank reports and forms on it. “You should see the other guy.”
He laughed. “Good for you, kid.” I sat down and started writing out our arrest report in the hopes of ending any further discussion of my eye. By the time I entered it into the computer, it would be time to go home.
“By the way, some guy from the FBI called you. I left a note on your locker,” Tony told me as our captain came out of his office with a coffee in hand.
“What’s the FBI want with you?” The captain leaned in his doorway and blew the steam off the top of his coffee mug. “Why didn’t he call your cell?”
I shrugged. “Maybe they want to talk about one of my reports. Have a question about something. And why would he have my cell number? I’m not a snitch.” I hunched over my report, trying to cut the conversation off.
The details of the Terry Roberts serial murder case weren’t public knowledge. My participation in the detail was being kept quiet until after a judge decided whether Roberts was sane enough to stand trial. The court had imposed a gag order on all parties. In the court papers and affidavits, I was officially known as “The Undercover Officer to Be Referred to as Officer Jane Doe.” As far as everyone in the police department knew, I had been out with a bad case of appendicitis. That was the official story. When I came back after six weeks undercover, they transferred me to the South District. Nobody I worked with knew what had happened. Or what I had done.
Or what had happened to me.
My ancient wooden chair creaked uneasily underneath me. Our station house was only a year old, but all the new chairs and tables that had come with it had mysteriously disappeared. Cops are notorious station house thieves.
“Maybe he heard what happened at the bar and wants to investigate reverse police brutality?” the captain suggested, still hugging the doorway.
“I thought she was going to need a trip to the hospital after the shot she took,” Pat laughed. I just sat there, smiling and nodding like a good sport. Because that’s what the guys expected you to be: a good sport.
My captain let me out a little early because of my eye, which was nice of him, because we were a little shorthanded that day. I guess he didn’t want me going to calls with a big juicy shiner. I changed my clothes and drove over to the FBI building.
Bill Walters hadn’t always been at the Buffalo branch. He’d moved all over the state and then all over the country before landing here as the special agent in charge. Bill had been born and raised in Buffalo, just making it back when the Roberts case broke. His background was in psychology, but he wasn’t one of the famed FBI profilers who were all the rage. He liked to be involved in cases, get his hands dirty, be in charge of them. That was how our paths had crossed. I had been working at Delta District when he saw me dropping off a witness downtown. He ran down the hall of the homicide wing and said, “I need to see your boss.”
I should have shot him then.
After jumping through the many hoops that comprised entering the federal building downtown, including having an escort, I found Bill sitting quietly at his desk when the lesser agent dropped me at his office. I had been picturing him as I walked down the hall, sitting there, waiting with a far-off look in his eye, staring at his computer. And sure enough, that was how I found him. His pinstriped gray power suit was perfectly pressed and accented with just the right red tie. He was in his late fifties, fit for his age, and tan. He always looked rested and serene, like he’d just gotten back from some exotic location. He was most calm when he was in control of a situation.
I hung back in the doorway. “Hey, Bill. I got your message. You wanted to see me?”
“You changed your cell phone number.”
“All things considered, I thought it was a good idea.”
He smiled. “Come in. Have a seat.” He motioned to the comfortable leather chair in front of his highly polished wood desk. His desk was almost empty except for a computer monitor and keyboard, an in-box neatly stacked with color-coded files, and the multiline Bureau phone stationed next to him. He had his cell phone facedown next to his right hand—in case he had to snatch it up quickly for some FBI emergency, I guess.
The rest of the space was completed by two chairs, a printer/copier in the corner, and a white dry-erase board that covered most of the wall to the left of him. Even his garbage can was empty. He wasn’t one to clutter himself up. It was part of his whole serenity thing. I hadn’t seen him for almost four months, since I’d testified in the grand jury, and nothing had changed.
“What’s up?”
“How have you been?” Zeroing in on my eye, he added, “Looks like you’ve had some trouble.”
I smirked and said, “I totally pummeled the guy’s fist with my face. It was brutal.”
“Smartass.” He had taken a kind of fatherly affection toward me, which shouldn’t have been a stretch, because his own kids were older than I was.
He leaned back in his chair, same wistful smile on his face. “You know me, Shea. I’m not one to beat around the bush, so I’m going to get right to the point here. I’ve got an interesting case on my hands, and I thought maybe you could help with it.”
“I didn’t know you had an active case in the city again.” A chill ran up my spine. They had lots of cases in the city, but Bill was interested only in the worst ones.
“I don’t. This is something special. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Not in twenty-five years on the job. I must admit, I’m stumped, and you know how I hate to be stumped.”
“I don’t understand. If it’s not in the city, how can I help you? It’s not my jurisdiction. The Bureau can’t just step in and take over a local investigation.”
“You know the Buffalo branch covers counties all the way to the Pennsylvania border.”
I could feel my forehead creasing in concern the more he talked. “What does this have to do with me?”
“It’s a town called Kelly’s Falls.” He went on as if I hadn’t even spoken. “It’s right on the state border with Pennsylvania. Three young girls, all college freshmen, just disappeared. No clues. No traces. They went to one girl’s house after a party and vanished. Their purses were left, their jackets, their cell phones. The TV was on. There was no sign of a struggle; they were just gone.”
“I think I read about this in the paper. It happened during Christmas break, before New Year’s.”
“That’s the case.”