By Kimberly LaFontaine
| Chapter 2
Starbucks was unusually crowded for a Saturday morning but Angie had no trouble locating Detective Key — his flaming red hair painting a brilliant contrast to the gray walls in the far corner. He spotted her quickly and beamed, standing up to offer her a seat when she approached. “Hey there. I wasn’t sure you’d make it after the late crime and all. What time did you finally make it home for some sleep?” she asked, returning his strong handshake. “Sleep? Me? Never,” he laughed and took his seat. “We were up there for hours after you left. Cleared the scene at about 7 o’clock. I figured it was a moot point to sleep after that.” He paused, thinking. “Why don’t we get the update out of the way before discussing more interesting matters? Oh, and I took the liberty of ordering a caramel latte for you, hope you don’t mind. It seems the staff is quite familiar with you.” Angie grinned. “I come here almost every day. What did you do, tell them you were expecting me and dig for gossip?” “A good cop always does his homework,” he retorted and shoved her cup a little closer. Angie took a sip obediently and closed her eyes in utter contentment. No matter how many of those sickeningly sweet coffees she ordered, the reaction was always the same. She hardly went a day without one and wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Yes, the staff knew her. They probably made rent on her tips alone. Well, maybe not, but she did blow a good chunk of her paycheck at the coffee shop every month. She dug out her notepad and pen and looked up inquiringly into the detective’s appraising eyes. She thought she saw an intense curiosity there, but it slid away so quickly she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t just imagined it. Not that it really mattered. “Okay,” he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Here we go: The guy’s name is Ben Whittaker. He’s a Fort Worth native and worked down at the GMC plant in Arlington. We ID-ed him through his friends and a couple of pay stubs we found. We spoke with his supervisor, who told us he’d failed to show up for work the past two days. The medical examiner placed his death around late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning.” He paused to let Angie catch up before continuing. “His family lives in Richardson. He wasn’t married, doesn’t have any kids. In fact, he was gay and we think this may have something to do with that.” Angie’s head snapped up from her note-taking. “Hate crime?” “Maybe. There are some indications that it may be, though we’re still investigating. And no, I can’t tell you what those indications are.” He gave her determined look a pointed frown and shook his head. “No, Angie. It’s a guilty knowledge issue — something only we and the killer know and that’s the way it needs to stay. When I interrogate someone, I ask tricky questions and they usually let something important slip. If the details show up in the news, they know what not to talk about. And you’ve already said you don’t do off the record, so that’s it. Got it?” Grumbling, she nodded. Sure, she’d let it go. For now. Maybe he’d let up later. “Anyway, this guy is messed up. And yeah, you can write that I said he’s ‘messed up.’ There were some things in that apartment that no person should ever have to see. And I refuse to elaborate on that.” “He’s messed up? So you think a guy did this?” “Yeah.” “What did the killer do that a woman couldn’t?” she demanded indignantly. “Whittaker was a gym nut — you know, pretty muscular, bulky arms and chest — had a membership at the YMCA downtown. We found him bound, gagged and beaten all to hell, but that wasn’t the cause of death. What I didn’t tell you last night, and I’ll explain why some other time, is that his throat was slit. Straight across, quick and efficient. No hesitation marks. Our guy, unless he was already unconcious, would have fought back — bound, gagged and everything. You’ll have to forgive me for thinking that a woman would have a hell of a time holding our vic tight enough to make such a clean cut if he was struggling. I mean, his chest was, like, this big around,” and he spread his arms wide so Angie could see his point. “You know how hard it would be for someone to do that? It would be hard enough for a tough guy, let alone a woman unless she was built like a refrigerator.” “So yes, we’re pretty sure the killer is male. As to how old or what he looked like — not a clue. We haven’t found any witnesses, and as far as we can tell, the guy wasn’t dating anybody.” “Why do you think he was gay?” “The rainbow posters in his apartment and stickers on his car were a big clue. His friends also confirmed it. His family was also aware of his sexual orientation.” “So why do you think it was a hate crime?” He snorted and shook his head. “Angie, Angie, Angie. You think you can get me that easily? Like I said, there are indications and no, I won’t go into what they are.” She jotted down several more notes, flipping over the sixth page in her little notepad. He was being a lot more forthcoming with information than she’d expected, much more so than any of the detectives she’d ever dealt with. Even if he wasn’t going to give her the details she wanted so badly. She opened her mouth to say something about it, then decided she’d be pushing her luck by commenting on the fact that he was giving away more than the other Fort Worth detectives did. But she needn’t have been so careful because the next thing he said was, “That should be enough for a good, strong follow-up. Do me a favor, include my cell number in that story in a fact box or something so people who may know something about what happened can give me a call, okay? I help you, you help me, and we have a beautiful working relationship.” “I’m not done, you know,” she snorted, realizing she’d just become his public relations monkey. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds — he was right — but she felt the urge to drag more bits of information from him just to prove she was a tough reporter. “Really?” he drew the word out and leaned forward with interest, “Fine. Fire away.” How come, Angie grumbled internally, is it always so hard to come up with a decent question when somebody challenges you, especially when their eyes pin you in place? She thought of several questions but discarded them, realizing they’d already been answered. Finally, one popped into mind. “Who was the last person to see him alive?” she caught his smirk and added, “other than the killer?” “As far as we know, as of right now, and that might change, it was a close friend who works out at the gym with him. According to his friend, they hit the weights and jogged a couple of laps Wednesday evening at about six o’clock. The friend said Whittaker left at about seven and said he had some business to take care of. Unless somebody saw him after seven o’clock, that’s all we have. And I’m really hoping somebody did see him after that. If so, they really need to give me a call.” He stopped abruptly and took a sip of his coffee. The detective sat the cup back on the table and rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn. “I guess I did leave a piece out that you needed, huh?” he asked and forced a smile. “Put away your notepad, please. I think that’s enough.” Angie remembered that he said he hadn’t slept and frowned, doing as he asked. She had enough for her story and some info on people she needed to track down for interviews. She expected that he was ready to discuss what he’d called “more interesting matters” earlier, but before she could start any pleasant chit-chat, he started drumming his fingers on the table and scowled. “You know, this homicide really bugs me,” he stated flatly and sucked a breath of air between clenching teeth. His hand balled into a fist and it looked like he had to resist slamming it on the table. “I take this shit personally. It’s different when somebody gets shot in a drive-by or gets dumped in a lake,” he continued, seething. “But fucked up shit like this is a disgrace! His friends have been crying to me all night about how good of a guy he was. I mean, some crazy asshole tied this guy up and beat him for days! Days, Angie. And then he slaughtered him like an animal. Our killer is a freaking maniac. A sexual predator. And he’s good at it. I promise you, this will happen again, it will happen on my turf, and this guy won’t stop until we put him away!” And for the first time during her 3-year career, she stared at a source in open shock. Sure, she’d been blindsided before, had been surprised. But what she felt at that moment, gawking at the disheveled detective — his hair standing on end, his coffee-brown suit wrinkled from more than one day’s usage — was a desperate desire to run out of the room. Not because she couldn’t take it, but because it was so shockingly unprofessional from such an authority figure that she couldn’t think of a single damned way to respond. Other than by staring. She ordered her butt to stay planted firmly on her chair and the only sound she made was a stifled gasp that sounded more like she was clearing her throat. He was so livid that he was trembling. What made his outburst worse, he surely should have known, was that he did it in front of a reporter. In front of her. Not that she would be writing a story about it — people just freak out sometimes and so long as it doesn’t harm anybody, there’s no sense in writing up an expose. Leave that for the tabloids. But one thing was immediately apparent: Perhaps he hadn’t left Dallas because he wanted to get away from such terrible crimes, as he’d said. Maybe he’d left because he’d been booted out. Clearly, he didn’t have the whole “staying detached” bit down very well. Seconds passed. He continued to shake with anger; Angie continued to stare. She still couldn’t think of anything to say. Of course, she felt the same way he did. She wasn’t so callous that violent crimes didn’t still shock her or piss her off. But she dropped that sort of talk and attitude at the door, so to speak. It just wouldn’t do for anyone — really, anyone — to think she attached herself to the people she wrote about, whether they’re dead or alive. So she couldn’t exactly verbally agree with Detective Key. Still searching for an appropriate response, a thought crossed her mind and slammed home. Well, it was more of a question, really. Who, she suddenly wanted to know, had been killed that he’d loved and had made him become a cop? Because it was unlikely that he’d be this passionate simply because he cared about his fellow man. There are exceptions, sure, but they are pretty rare and hard to find. No, he had all the signs of a man who has been terribly wronged. Finally, he looked her directly in the eye. This time she could see the mask that slid into place as he smiled and his dark eyes lightened considerably. “Don’t mind me,” he said softly. “Yeah, it’s not normal, but it makes me a better detective because I loathe the people who killed my victims. I obsess. And because I do that, I don’t give up. Ever. Best you know that about me now, so I don’t surprise the hell out of you again later.” He paused and took a sip of coffee before meeting her eyes again. “Let’s talk about something else. You, for example. Let’s talk about your passion and how it gets you in trouble. Detective Ramirez said something the other day about you not being altogether forthcoming about your own little run-ins with lowlife scumbags…” * * * The first follow-up article was easy to complete — write up what she’d gotten from the detective, send it over, have her editor post it online — 45 minutes from start to finish. Then she’d wandered over to the YMCA, conveniently located across the downtown office on Taylor Street, and had tracked down the friend who’d last seen Whittaker alive. Her excitement at finding Roger Sanders so easily quickly faded, though, when he demanded an off-record interview. Some people are so scared to see their names in the paper ... But this guy had a point. He was worried about a backlash from the killer, and Angie could hardly blame him. And she supposed she could complete an article without his narration of Wednesday evening’s events, but it wouldn’t be nearly as strong.With much patience, she discussed the importance of writing a full account — emphasis on the full — and how only he, as the last person who’d seen his friend alive, could possibly help shed some light on what had happened. Angie generally loved being a crime reporter, what with all the action and high-profile pieces she could write. But talking to mourning friends, especially when they didn’t want to talk, was definitely on her top ten list of least favorite things about her job. It took well over an hour to get five paragraphs worth of “on the record” information from the still-hysterical friend. He’d only stopped by the gym to let the staff know what had happened to Ben. And then it took another twenty minutes and three cigarettes to convince herself that she wasn’t a horrible person for harassing Roger during such a terrible time in his life. On the last cigarette, standing on the street corner outside the Tribune’s office, she decided it was a good thing that others’ pain still affected her like this. And maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that Detective Key had similar issues. Maybe, and she hoped this wasn’t true, she’d get over it quicker some day. She was only 25 years old, after all, and had been on the crime beat for less than six months. But she’d be damned if she became one of those reporters who went to a homicide in the morning and could be found laughing about the gory details at a bar later that evening. The sun glared high overhead when she finally left the office in a mad dash to make it to class on time. She’d cut it awfully close that afternoon — talking to the landlord, the family, the neighbors, and crafting her story carefully until well past 2 o’clock — before heading out. She’d forgotten about her weekly appointment. Again. And she’d already been reprimanded for her tardiness. Angie graduated from the University of Texas at Arlington years ago. On her graduation, she’d said her good riddances to the place quite happily. But over the first week of her recuperation at home after being shot, being cooped up and restless, the reporter had had the wild idea that she should go back to school, at least to try it out, and take a class to further her career. It was just one weekend course — an undergraduate class on an introduction to forensic criminology. Sure that she’d learn lots of definitions and cop knowledge, she’d forced Lauren to drive her down to the university so she could fill out her application and sign up. Three weeks in, she wasn’t exactly regretting her decision, but was wondering exactly how much practical, instantly-usable information she was going to learn over the next twelve weeks. Not to mention that she already had an unpleasant reputation among her peers due to an embarrassing incident Professor Laney had caused on the first day. “Now that we’ve all introduced ourselves, I’d like to elaborate on Miss Mitchell’s all-too humble introduction!” Angie groaned internally, remembering. “How many people know who she is other than — what did you say? — ‘a degreed student who wants to learn more about forensic investigations?’” Of thirty students, three raised their hands and Angie had begun to stare at her desk in dreaded anticipation. Professor Laney called on one of the responding students who eagerly said, “She’s that reporter from the Tribune who was shot by that city council guy who hired a thug to kill homeless people. I saw it on the news. She’d been writing about them and got kidnapped! It must have been terrible.” And Angie distinctly remembered muttering something like, “Good for you, you stupid, know-it-all little …” “Very good!” the professor had praised. “So we have an investigative reporter in our midst! Better watch what you say.” And then she’d laughed at her own joke as if it had been the funniest damned thing in the world. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. During the two following classes, the professor had called on her at nearly every other question about crime scene etiquette or other similar matters, something Angie thought was incredibly annoying. This week, surely, was going to be worse. There was no doubt in her mind that Professor Laney had read the morning paper, knew she’d been to a crime scene the night before, and would drag as many details out of her as she could. “Yeah, well this time I’m going to tell her to read tomorrow’s paper,” she grumbled, hitting the gas a bit harder to shave off a couple of minutes. Professor Laney, even if she liked Angie, wasn’t too keen on late-comers. And she’d made that perfectly clear in front of the whole class the prior Saturday. With a flood of relief, she slid into her desk, her cast resting on a pulled-up chair. Since she’d forgotten about the class, she didn’t have her books or notebook. Sighing, she pulled her nearly scribbled-full notepad out of her purse and flipped to an empty page, and waited. Sure enough, the professor strode in with a particularly eager gleam in her eyes, immediately calling attention to Angie’s most recent article. This time, though, she read entire paragraphs out loud. “ … a dozen police cruisers blocked off parts of the parking lot, as additional officers had been forced to respond for crowd control. Apartment residents and friends of the victim pressed in on the crime scene tape until officers threatened to issue citations.” She paused importantly. “Now, officers couldn’t actually issue citations unless people step over the caution tape or tear it down, right Angie?” The reporter sighed again and simply nodded. “Right. Let’s continue. ‘ … investigators said they found signs of forced entry — scratches around the door’s lock — but have not yet determined whether the killer forced his way inside or tried to alter the crime scene. Key” (that’s the detective, class) “said furniture had been upturned inside the apartment and investigators found broken shards of glass on the floor, indicating signs of a struggle.’” Professor Laney took off her reading glasses and chewed on one end while she let the class mull over what she’d read. Angie stared into space, trying her absolute best not to appear thoroughly annoyed. “So, what do you think? Yes, you over there -- haven’t got your name memorized yet, sorry.” “Is it possible the killer staged the whole thing? I mean, maybe they had a rendezvous and the guy offed the other guy and then he, like, threw some shit around to make it look like a break-in.” The professor pretended to consider her student’s theory, though Angie saw her lips grow thin in a bit of an incredulous frown. It was incredibly satisfying in a terribly inconsiderate sort of way. But her satisfaction didn’t last long. “Angie?” She suppressed a groan, again wondering why exactly she’d decided to enroll in this class, and said, “I don’t think so.” She could hear the mumble of protest from the back row and continued, undeterred, “What you didn’t read, was that the police released only the fact that he’d appeared to have been beaten to death and that he was bound and gagged with silk scarves. But they released information this morning that the cause of death, was in fact, a slit throat.” She paused, briefly considering her next words. Deciding what she wanted to say was nothing that wouldn’t be in the paper tomorrow, she added, “I don’t think the killer would have gone to the trouble of altering the crime scene if he’s just going to leave a body laying around that shows all the signs of pre-meditation. We don’t know this yet, but I’d be willing to bet the killer brought those scarves with him, and perhaps the murder weapon. And so why leave the body and all that evidence if he’s going to make it look like a break-in? That would be pretty stupid. And I don’t think this guy is stupid. He probably knows that people don’t tie up other people and beat them half to death, then slit their throats if they just want to steal some shit.” “My thoughts exactly!” the professor shouted happily and put the article on her desk. The class debated the crime for the following half hour, until they finally ditched the subject and moved on to discussing sections of their textbooks. The lecture wasn’t even half bad. For the first time, Angie actually learned some bits and pieces of information she could actually use at some point. If only her professor wouldn’t insist on dissecting her work every weekend, it might make for a valuable course. Chewing her lip nervously, she decided she’d shoot her prof an e-mail that evening to share her thoughts on the matter and hopefully put a stop to it. When class ended two hours later, she quickly gathered up her things and hobbled out the door, not wanting to be caught for another little private discussion. She made it out just in time, too, with the help of another student who asked several questions about the lecture. She thought she caught sight of a disappointed frown and didn’t care. Half-way home, Angie cursed furiously, realizing she’d nearly forgotten about her dinner date with Lauren. The reporter was so scatter-brained lately that her lover had actually commented on it more than once. They’d joked that it was because Angie had fallen on her head while trying to escape that councilman, but the reporter knew her lover’s joking was laced with not-so-well-hidden concern. Angie whipped her car around and headed back down Cooper Street, determined not to be late and let on that she’d let herself go off the mark again. Lauren had saved them a booth at La Isla, a fast-becoming favorite Mexican eatery. She gave the reporter a lingering look that was more appraising than friendly and helped Angie into her seat. Wondering what was wrong, Angie opened her mouth to ask but was cut off with a knowing smile. “Forgot, didn’t you?” “Er …” “It’s almost six thirty and it only takes five minutes to get here. You’re late.” “Um, couldn’t I have needed to talk to my professor?” she tried lamely but knew the excuse wouldn’t fly. “You’d have said something immediately,” Lauren said, the ever-more familiar note of concern softening her voice considerably. And she didn’t look disappointed, more like she’d expected this to happen. “Seriously, Angie, you’ve got to ask your doctor about this. It’s not normal, okay? It’s just not and I’m tired of arguing about it. Last night — we can let that one slide because you’d been busy with work. But today, and the dozen times it has happened over the last week … I’m just worried.” The reporter sighed. It was a familiar argument and she was tired of it, too. The first two weeks in the hospital, she’d blamed it on the drugs. The second two weeks out, she’d blamed it on getting the drugs out of her system. But the last two weeks -- well, she didn’t exactly have an excuse anymore. Damn. Angie fiddled with her napkin, rolling and unrolling it, and then stared out the window at passing cars. She hated this, hated having to be taken care of and being forced to reveal a vulnerable side of herself she couldn’t hardly bear to show. Finally, she met her lover’s eyes and simply nodded. It was good enough for Lauren, who gave her an encouraging smile and dropped the issue. For now. Angie knew she’d be questioned on Monday about a specific appointment time, and there’d be hell to pay if she couldn’t give that information. The reporter pulled out her notepad and jotted down a note, put a star next to it, and showed it to Lauren. “Starred and everything. Good enough?” She didn’t dare admit that she’d been avoiding seeing her doctor, not wanting to hear any bad news about her head. Surely, she argued internally, it was just an after-effect or something. Well, it had better be anyway. “Yeah,” Lauren said, clearly relieved. She picked up her menu and set it back down after about five seconds. “I don’t know why I bother looking. We both know what I’ll get.” “Pollo con mole. No doubt about it.” They eased into an soft laughter and started chatting about the coming week. After placing their order, Lauren’s hand snuck across the table and grasped Angie’s fiddling fingers. The reporter had to fight the urge to withdraw her hand, gritting her teeth to avoid looking over her shoulder to check if anyone had noticed. If Lauren followed her thought process, she didn’t show it. After a minute passed and she didn’t hear any mumbled conversation — imagined or otherwise — Angie relaxed. She was still getting used to this whole dating a woman thing. Lauren was her first. And, after they’d met, she’d fought like crazy to invent all sorts of reasons why her body reacted to the woman, other than that it was attraction. The tingling sensation she felt every time she touched Lauren — that happened still — she’d argued away as simple intrigue. It had been, simply put, a losing battle. As she stared across the table into her lover’s eyes, she couldn’t believe that only months ago they’d just been friends. How many weeks she’d wasted worrying. But the build-up had carried them through Angie’s tragedy and had allowed for a solid foundation that held them afloat during her recuperation. Now, it seemed, they were finally granted some time to get to know each other better, to simply love and live. Angie suddenly wasn’t interested in their meal at all and set aside her fork, reaching across the table with effort — her cast proving difficult to maneuver — and touched her lover’s face. With a boldness she hadn’t been able to manage in a public, non-gay establishment, she pulled from a well of new-found courage and said without a whisper, “Let’s have the waiter box up our stuff and get out of here. I want you. Right now. And I don’t think I can stand another minute without being in your arms.” Her words took barely a second to register on Lauren’s face, and when they did, the dark-haired woman’s eyes grew wide and she dropped her fork and knife at the same time, scooted out of the booth and tracked down their waiter. When she returned, she slopped their food in their respective boxes and handed them to Angie, lifted the smaller woman up — crutches and all — and practically jogged them out to her car, a lopsided grin plastered across her face. Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Feedback? E-mail me at kimberlylafontaine@yahoo.com. |