He got back in the Cruze and checked the time. Nine, plenty of time to see dad.
He parked in the tiny parking lot for visitors. He knew he didn’t have the impression he normally did with the uniform, as he noted when someone shut the door to the building in his face.
A firs started in his belly, but he dampened it down quick. He had to. Or else.
He walked up to the glass window and leaned on the counter. Beyond the window he could see men in their blue uniforms and other plain clothed ones working. The woman talked to him through the small speaker set in the window.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to see Detective Rogers.”
“In regards to?”
“I’m his son. From Afghanistan.”
“I’ll check if he’s in. Please take a seat.”
Brent sat down on the well-worn benches. This wasn’t the first time he’d come to visit his father, as evidenced by the people who walked by the glass behind the reception area and waved to him. He smiled and waved back.
He saw someone moving on the left hand side of the room. His father threaded his way between desks and came to the side door leading to the waiting area.
He was a large man, tall and broad like Brent, but with a paunch Brent didn’t have. He was balding, so to make things easier, he just went bald.
“Brent!” He pulled Brent into a bear hug. “How are you? Are you here to stay?”
“Just a month,” he said.
“At least for the holiday, that’s good. Come on back.”
People called him by name as he followed his father to a desk behind a partition and diagonally under the stairs. “I got a new partner. He gets in around 10.” His father hooked a chair over for Brent. “How is it over there?”
“Do you want the line we’re fed or the truth?”
“Que est veritas,” said his father. “What’s in your gut?”
Leave it to his father to get right to the emotional heart of the matter. “It’s a worthless fight. The people don’t trust us, don’t understand the idea of freedom and liberty. We’re helping them so that the Taliban can come sweeping back to a clean country.”
Rogers frowned. “Damn. You’re there for how much longer?”
“Two years. Then college.”
“Good thing you have plans. Better than your worthless brother.”
“What’s up with that?”
Rogers shrugged. “He’s screwed the system, that’s all. Got the right doctors to write the right things.”
“Should I—”
Rogers raised a hand. “Let the wheels of justice go where they may. He’ll get his comeuppance on Judgment Day.”
“You believe that?”
“It’s the only thing that keeps me sane, Brent.” He pointed to a small stack of files in a file holder on his desk. “At least my unsolveds are less than my solveds.” He sipped on a coffee. “Did you talk to your mother?”
“She wants lunch.”
He chuckled. “Then I won’t keep you longer.”
“Hey, Brent.” A man came over and placed a pair of hairy hands on Brent’s shoulder. “Back home?”
Brent craned his neck to look at the bear of a man standing over him. “For a little while. Hi, Tony.”
“Looking good, kid. The Army put some meat on those bones.” He slapped Brent’s shoulders, hard. Brent winced. “LeMeyer wants us.”
“Jorge isn’t in yet.”
“Us.” He motioned between Brent’s father and himself. “As in you and me. We’re the only ones here this early.”
Rogers got up. “Must be a hot one. Be right back,” he said to Brent.
Brent watched him go. He looked around. The way the desk was set up, only people behind him could see what he was doing, and those desks were empty at the moment. He lifted himself slightly off the chair and picked out the first folder in the pile on his father’s desk.
He glanced around again, then opened the folder. Taped to the inside flap were photographs, mostly of the scene of the crime. He wasn’t looking for those. He read the first page, an overview.
“Marilyn Monroe” was in the alias line, called that because she – he, actually – played that character in some clubs. He was found dead on Worthington Avenue, a hot spot for gays, drugs, and other sex workers. His real name was unknown –
–John Kemp–
– Brent grabbed a sticky note pad and ball point, scribbled the name and pasted the note next to the blank spot that said “real name”. He glanced around again, then continued to read the narrative.
“Marilyn” had been found dead from strangulation according to the coroner. He turned the page. Three suspects were named. He looked closely at each name, but none stood out. However, one of the suspects mentioned “Tool”, and that name hi-lighted in red.
All Brent had to do was think the spell, and “Tool” came up in his mind, everything from how he looked to his last known address, the make and model of his car –
Brent scribbled one note after another. He was still scribbling when his father snatched the folder out of his hands.
Brent’s eyes were white fire when he noticed the folder was gone. To quench the fire and the spell, he closed his eyes and exhaled.
“I told you not to do that anymore,” said Rogers sternly. “Psychometry isn’t grounds for a warrant.”
“Sorry, dad.” Brent opened his eyes. “I was only trying to help.”
“I know you were. And I know you’re right – you always have been. But this kind of thing is too freaky to admit in court. They don’t care if the Armed Forces believes in it.”
“Will you at least notify his next of kin?”
Rogers opened the folder and looked at the front page. “We’ll try.” He closed the folder and tossed it on his desk, not in the unsolved pile. “Besides, if the department knew what you could do, you’d be working for Larry first, and you know what kind of an idiot he is.”
Brent laughed.
“Want to go with me on a call?”
“I promised mom lunch.”
“Right.” Tony came over to them.”Is Boy Wonder coming?” he asked.
“No, he’s got a lunch date.”
“Too bad. We could use him for—”
“Tony,” cautioned Rogers. “He’s here on vacation.”
“Okay, okay. See you later, then.”