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Quiet Desperation
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Chapter 10 Sitting down at the small table in the crowded office, Brass declined a cup of coffee as he appraised the Kenyons. Like Grissom, he hated political interference with his job. Unlike his friend, he recognized it was a reality in their field. And the pair in front of him were trouble. They had connections, and they were pissed. It didn’t take a reclusive genius to understand that was never a good combination. Actually, the reclusive genius probably couldn’t figure that out, he thought to himself. All those brains and no sense. In so many ways... “What can you tell us?” Mrs. Kenyon demanded immediately. “Not much,” Brass said, watching coolly as she turned impatiently in her chair. “Because I wasn’t the cop that started this investigation. He’s on a forced vacation. And that means I have to start cold on the case. That’s never a good thing.” “Do you know what he…” “No, I don’t. And I don’t really care. It’s not important right now. Look, do you want to get your kid back?” “Of course we do,” Mr. Kenyon said with a dangerous tone. “It’s all we ever wanted.” “Then let me do my job. You can complain and point fingers after we find Rachel. If you’re fighting us, then that’s time and energy taken away from the search. Let’s focus on what’s important now. Capiche?” Brass waited until the parents settled down. They weren’t appeased, but they seemed ready to set aside their anger. “Good. Now let’s start at the beginning. Think hard about this. Did she say anything about anyone bothering her or following her?” “No. We told that other detective that,” Mrs. Kenyon said angrily until her husband rested a hand on her arm. “Look, I have a kid. She’s not much older than Rachel. If I were in your place, I know I’d be upset, too. But like I said – I’m just starting this case. I need to get up to speed. It won’t take long to go over this stuff, and it’ll help my investigation.” “No, she didn’t say anything like that. She would have told us if someone was bothering her.” “And no one was hanging around the house or around the office,” Mr. Kenyon added. Brass went over the timeline of the night Rachel disappeared, asking detailed questions about when they last saw her. He knew exactly what they told Vartan earlier; he wanted to see if their story changed. For all their outrage, the simple truth was they were still suspects. No one could verify what they said happened that night. And his background searches didn’t give him a happy feeling. They answered his questions, but he noted their irritated manner. The specifics were the same, but it wasn’t a verbatim copy of their earlier statement. If they practiced what to say, they had the sense to not to memorize a speech. “You’re treating us like we’re suspects,” Mr. Kenyon noted. “That’s because you are,” Brass answered with a shrug. “Hey. It’s the way it works. You were the last ones to see her. That means we start with you. We have to rule you out as suspects.” “That’s crazy. We’ve been nothing but truthful with you,” the wife snapped. “Even when you faked a ransom note? I know, I know. You did it to draw attention to Rachel. I understand. Honestly, I do. But things like that don’t look good for you. Neither does the fact that you neglected to mention that your attempts to adopt Rachel were rejected.” “What does that have to do with anything?” “Well, you were rejected because of your husband’s drinking problems. Arrested three times for assault. Bar fights – doesn’t look good on the father-of-the-year awards does it?” “How dare you?” Mrs. Kenyon asked in a low voice. “Hon, let me. Let’s get this out of the way. Yeah, I was a jerk. Years ago. Before we even took Rachel in. I’ve been in AA ever since. I haven’t had a drop to drink in fourteen years, and I never hurt Rachel or my wife. And the foster care system accepted it. They let us take in Rachel, and they let her stay with us.” “And Rachel is nineteen. She’s out of the foster care system, and she chose to stay with us. She didn’t have to. She wanted to. We wanted her to. We want her back. More than anything. So you can sit there and drag up our pasts all you want. Take all the potshots you want, just go find Rachel when you’re done.” Brass tilted his head to the side silently, waiting until Mrs. Kenyon brought her tears under control. “Okay, tell me about Brian Wilcox.” “What about him? He works for us. And yes, I know he has a record. That’s why we don’t let him near the books.” “We found his fingerprints in Rachel’s car. He said he took the car in to be detailed, stuff like that.” “It’s…possible,” Mr. Kenyon began. “Technically, the car belongs to the company. Rachel uses it when she delivers things for us, and since she does that around her school schedule, we let her use it for school, too.” “Look, I’m not with the IRS. Relax. Did he ever have any run-ins with Rachel?” “Well, he doesn’t get along with anyone. He’s got a real attitude problem, but he got his job done.” “Rachel never complained about him bothering her, though. It wasn’t like he was in the office that much,” Mrs. Kenyon said. “Damn. I knew hiring him was going to be a mistake.” “I’ll take care of it later,” her husband said softly. “Hey, it could be nothing. Like you said, it was a company car. Just wanted to know if there was a reason his prints were on the car. What about John Malco?” The Kenyons turned to each other questioningly, both of them shaking their heads. “I have no idea who that is,” he said. “He was a driver with Ronnie’s Concrete.” “We don’t use them. Most of our work goes to Tri-County. I know the owner.” “Ever have any work done at Dvorak’s auto body shop?” “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Kenyon said. “I’ll have to go through the records and check. Once in a while, one of our trucks or vans get damaged, but the insurance company usually gives us a name of a shop to use.” “You do that. Here’s my card. Let me know what you find out.” Walking outside, Brass let out a sigh. The foster parents seemed genuinely upset and anxious to get the kid back. But he’d been working the job too long to be swayed by their anger or tears. His gut said they weren’t involved, but he had to check them out. He hoped he’d convinced the Kenyons that he needed to do it, but they were upset over Vartan’s unprofessional behavior. Getting into his car, he wondered how long it would take before he got called into the sheriff’s office.
Sara grinned before answering lightly. “I told you to dress down.” “This was not what I had in mind when I said I wanted out of the lab.” Shifting her cell phone to her other hand, she leaned against the side of the university library and yawned deeply. The caffeine boost from earlier was fading fast. “Hey, the job is to follow the evidence. We don’t get to pick and choose where we go.” “And it’s just a coincidence that you aren’t knee deep in garbage.” “No, I was on the other side of town. You were closer to Wilcox’s house, and I’m at the university. Buck up, Greg. Trust me. There are a lot of things out there worse than shifting through someone’s garbage.” “Right. So what exactly am I looking for?” he asked with a dramatic sigh. “Evidence.” “Again with the sense of humor thing,” he said, but with a mischievous tone. “I wasn’t kidding earlier. This guy’s trashcans are overflowing. There’re bags of stuff all over the place. This is nasty.” Sara’s eyebrow rose slowly as she bit back a sharp response. She was tired and not in the mood for his grousing. If he couldn’t handle trash, he’d never survive a liquefied body. “Greg, think about what you just said.” A short silence followed. “Trash pickup is twice a week. Why does a single guy have so much garbage? Unless he has something he wants to get rid of.” “Haul it all in to the lab, and sort through it. Make sure to test the cans for evidence of blood. If you need help, call a tech out there to help you. And be on the lookout for any pieces of paper with odd writing on them.” “Odd in what way?” “Any way. Cryptic messages. Odd letter arrangements,” Sara said around another yawn. After a last round of instructions, she hung up and made her way into the library. Finding the service desk, she showed her badge and found the student who worked the night of Mathers’s disappearance. “I don’t remember seeing her. Ever. Not just that night. She’s the girl that’s missing, isn’t she?” asked the young woman. “Yes, she is. Can you see if she checked out any books that night?” “Sure. Hold on for a minute. No, she checked out some stuff a couple nights before that, but that’s it.” “What about IDs? There’s a swipe card lock to get in. Does the library keep records of that?” Sara asked, resting her elbows on the desk while the girl went to get her supervisor. Closing her eyes, she fought back the exhaustion and tried to concentrate on the case. They had little physical evidence, and it didn’t take her long to mentally review it. So what else did they have? Victims of violent crimes usually knew their attackers. Rachel had a boyfriend. No one reported any fights between them, but Sara knew that didn’t rule out a troubled relationship. But the boyfriend was in class or at work most of the night of her disappearance. The short periods of time for which he had no alibis were too short to accomplish much, making him an unlikely suspect. Her foster parents were the last to see her. They had no alibi, and no one could verify their account of Rachel’s leaving the office to deliver some paperwork. They seemed like a loving family, but that also wasn’t a guarantee. There was Wilcox. It wasn’t scientific, but his behavior triggered suspicions in both her and Brass. Those sheets of paper bothered him; he hadn’t hid his nervousness when she showed them to him. But she had no idea what they meant, or if they were even related to the case. Hearing the footsteps approaching her, Sara stood up straight. After introducing herself, she asked if there were records of who entered the building. The supervisor gave her a sheepish look, but began a computer search. “There’s no record of Rachel being here that night,” he said, fidgeting nervously. “But we’ve been having trouble with the system. Since so many people were coming in to study for finals, we had all the lines open. It’s possible she used her ID to get in, but there’s no record of it. I didn’t see her that night, but like I said it was busy. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t here.” “Did you know her?” “Not well. She spent a lot of time here. I helped her find some books once, and she always said hello to me when she came in after that. Such a nice girl. Would you like to see her study cubicle?” “That would be great.” Sara followed him to an isolated corner of the library. A long row of reserved desks ran along a wall, and he led her to one at the end. “Pretty isolated area.” “Yes. That’s what Rachel liked about it. She liked to study without interruptions. This area doesn’t get a lot of people through it. I don’t know why she spent so much time here. She was very bright. She didn’t need to study all the time, but it’s like she wanted to prove something. Or herself.” Sara nodded knowingly. She understood what drove Rachel. Books had always been her escape when her parents fought. After entering foster care and learning that her childhood hadn’t been normal, she’d been confused. Schoolwork was something she knew she could do. It was something she understood, and she could control how well she did in school. Excelling at anything was a lifeline. Grissom didn’t realize what it was like. No one could who hadn’t been through it. They could sympathize, but that wasn’t the same as understanding. Giving her head a shake, she pulled out a flashlight. A stack of books lay on top of the desk, several of them open or with Post-it notes sticking out of them. Frowning, she began to examine the area closely. “Does the staff put books away?” “From the study cubicles? Not immediately. We have carts where the students can return the books when they are done with them, and we reshelf them.” “Thanks. I’ll be a few minutes here,” she said, pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket. Once the supervisor left, she took out her camera and photographed some fibers embedded in a crack on the desk. After fingerprinting the desk and books, she gathered her evidence and walked back to the front of the library. A book title caught her attention, and she was scanning the books in the section when the supervisor inched his way over. “Can I help you with anything else?” “Yeah. Can I borrow some of these books?” she asked with a smile.
After leaving the library, she skipped breakfast and headed straight home with her research books. She’d meant to just skim over them, until she found a promising section. Having only a beer for breakfast when she was so exhausted had been a mistake, and she’d fallen asleep sitting on the floor in front of her coffee table. “Sidle,” she muttered, using her free hand to rub the knotted muscles in her neck and upper shoulders. Checking her watch, Sara found she'd been asleep probably six hours in that position. As she sat up and blinked away the sleep, it dawned on her that Grissom had never showed up. She’d been asleep, but she was a light sleeper. If he’d knocked on her door – especially with her in the living room – she’d have heard him. Even though she actively discouraged him from showing up, the fact that he didn’t still left her somewhat bothered and confused. When he offered, she hadn’t been up to talking, but she hoped he hadn’t taken it personally. She didn’t want to hurt him. She cared too much for that. With Grissom, it was always hard to say how he’d react, though. “Hey, it’s Brass. You okay? You sound like shit.” “Was asleep.” “You? I don’t believe it.” “Don’t take this the wrong way, Jim, but bite me,” she said, pausing to take a sip of the beer and grimacing at the warm taste. It did help to clear her head even if it upset her stomach. “I think I figured out what those papers Wilcox threw away were. Sorta. I’ll need to talk to him to completely decipher them.” “Well, that’s going to be a problem. Someone put three bullets in his skull and dumped his body in the desert.” |
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