Damaged Goods (Don't Call Me Hero Book 2) (28 page)

Inspector Garnett had taken my gun, but he hadn’t revoked my gym privileges at the academy yet. I hadn’t been in a pool in years—maybe not since boot camp. Growing up, I used to spend so much time in chlorinated water, my mom had worried my natural blonde hair would turn green.

I’d been on the swim team in high school, my strongest races being the 100-yard butterfly and freestyle. The college recruiters started showing up at my swim meets during my junior year of high school. They were mostly from local state schools, but the courtship had been overwhelming at the time. The letters of intent started arriving in the mail with scholarship offers, but I’d thrown them all away. At sixteen, I had no idea what I wanted to do two years down the line, let alone start to make decisions about a major or a future career. I couldn’t commit; I couldn’t decide. And by the time my final semester of high school had arrived, it was too late. Those scholarships had all been awarded to other students and my grades certainly hadn’t been strong enough to warrant me an academic scholarship to a school of my choice. The military had happened by default because I couldn’t make up my mind.

As I touched the concrete wall and prepared to turn in my lane, I felt a sensation like fingers curling around one of my wrists. I yelled out in surprise and blindly flailed my arms. Water shot up my nostrils and flooded my throat.

“Shit. Sorry,” I heard someone apologize from above me. “That probably wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had.”

When the water cleared from my ears and I stopped coughing, I realized I recognized the owner of the voice: Rich.

I tore my goggles off. The elastic band got caught in my hair, which only added to my frustration. “What the hell, dude?” I sputtered angrily.

My eyes were still a little unfocused, but I could just make out Rich’s boxy figure hovering near the pool’s edge. He was wearing long mesh shorts and a grey t-shirt with the city police department’s insignia screen-printed across the chest. “I wasn’t trying to drown you,” he said. “Promise.”

“Could have fooled me,” I growled.

Rich crouched down by the pool’s edge. “Shit, Miller,” he exclaimed. “Your face.”

I placed my hand over the bruised area. Days later, the left side of my face still felt swollen and tender where Mendez’s elbow had struck me when I’d tried to help him subdue a not-so-gentle giant. “Yeah, I know. But you should see the other guy.”

“So, it’s true? You and Mendez took on the college’s O-line?”

“And some defensive backs, too.”

Rich whistled, long and low. “Ballsy.”

“Did you also hear that I’m suspended?”

“For breaking up a bar fight?” he frowned.

I nodded soberly. “Mendez wants me gone.”

The playfulness disappeared from Rich’s features. “What do you need me to do?”

I clung onto the side of the pool and scissored my legs back and forth in the water. “I don’t know if there’s anything
to
do,” I said in earnest. “Julia’s ready to sue the union and castrate either Mendez or Garnett. Knowing her, probably both. But I’m trying to get her to pump the breaks.”

“How long is the suspension for?”

“Indefinitely? Garnett took my gun.”

“Shit.” Rich’s mouth fell agape. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?”

“You know the Inspector—he likes to keep things in-house.”

“I don’t mean because of Internal Affairs,” Rich said. “I mean, why haven’t I heard about this from
you
, Cass?”

I cast my eyes away from my friend’s face. “I’ve been trying to figure this thing out for myself.  Trying to figure out the next step before I told anyone. I’m basically done being a beat cop.” I hadn’t said the words out loud before. The gravity of my situation sat heavy on my chest.

“Have you figured out what you’re going to do?”

I shook my head. “No. Serving and protecting has been my life since I was eighteen. What are my other options? Mall cop? Campus security?”

“Fuck, no. You’re better than that.”

“I might not have any other choice,” I frowned. “The Inspector offered me a position with the Cold Case Division. I’m still undecided though.”

Rich was quiet for a moment. He dipped his hand into the pool and moved some water around. “You know, I think we talked more often when you were living up north.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I never meant to be one of those people who suddenly dump all their friends once they get in a relationship. Are you and Grace Kelly still talking?”

I thought about the pretty newspaperwoman from Embarrass who’d been my next-door-neighbor. I really needed to keep in better contact with the people in my life.

“Yup,” he confirmed. “The distance obviously sucks, but we’re trying to make it work.”

“When she’s in town next you should let me know. I’d love to see her.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Rich taunted. “You only wanna hang out if I bring my girlfriend along.”

“Girlfriend?” I snickered, not unkindly. “Are you guys passing notes to each other in the hallway? Is she gonna wear your Varsity jacket to the big Homecoming pep rally?”

“Real funny.”

“I know. I’m just giving you shit. I’m happy for you both. Really.”

“Which label do you and Julia use? Partner? Significant Other? I’m an old school guy.”

“We haven’t had that conversation yet. It took me forever to get her to go on an official date with me. We’ll probably have grandkids before she lets me call her my girlfriend.”

“Grandkids? Shit. That sounds serious.”

“She’s seriously amazing.” A dopey grin appeared on my face. “I can’t help myself.”

“And she feels the same way about you? Not that she has any reason
not
to feel that way,” he qualified. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“She’s certainly not dating me because it’s the easy or convenient thing to do,” I remarked.

“You? Not easy?” Rich smirked. “That’s not what
I
heard, Rookie.”

I had no choice but to grab his ankle and tug him into the pool with me. His yelp of surprise and the sound of his body smacking against the water’s surface was like music to my ears.

+ + +

I took a shower after leaving the pool at the police academy and then headed over to the Fourth Precinct. Regardless of what decision I made about retiring or joining the cold case unit, I had to turn in my off-duty gun along with the key to the weapons storage unit. On my way out of the building, I paused in the stairwell.

Julia would be at work the rest of the day, Pensacola was testing out robot legs, and the rest of my friends were protecting and serving the city of Minneapolis. The only thing waiting for me at home was a bottle of scotch.

Instead of going out to my parked bike, I continued down the stairwell and into the basement of the building. The basement hallway was eerily silent, like it was the land that time had forgotten. I saw no evidence of human life between the bottom step and the door to the Cold Case Unit. I tentatively knocked on the door that Inspector Garnett had led me to just a few days prior. I waited, but heard no noises coming from the other side of the door.

I tried the doorknob and, finding it unlocked, I pushed open the door and stuck my head inside.

“Hello?” My voice echoed in the seemingly empty room. “Anybody here?”

In the absence of a response, I stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind me.

The Cold Case Division’s office was a collection of mismatched office furniture. Unlike other administrative floors in the building, there were no cubical walls that partitioned off office space. Instead, the room was like a big, collaborative space with four separate desks, one occupying each corner of the room, and a long wooden table in the center of the space.  Because we were in the basement, there were no windows and no natural light. The room was like a giant cinderblock cube illuminated by the overhead halogen lights.

The processor of an ancient desktop computer whirred angrily on one of the four desks. The monitor was on, and a web browser was open to the division’s homepage. I used a yellowing mouse to scroll down the page. The number of unsolved homicides in the city and surrounding area was astounding. The webpage seemed to have no end. Each time I reached the bottom of the browser window, the page would refresh and more cases would appear. A short blurb that detailed the conditions surrounding the homicide or missing persons case was accompanied by a small photo of the victim. They were men and women, representing the wide spectrum of skin color and age. Young and old, their murders had gone unresolved.

There was something about seeing the picture of the missing person or the individual whose homicide remained unsolved that made it real for me. In war, we made it a priority not to leave behind a Marine, dead or alive. Why then, stateside, was I looking at pages and pages of unsolved missing persons’ cases? I couldn’t imagine the pain of not knowing what had happened to a loved one—if they were dead or alive or who had been responsible for their untimely death.

At anytime in this country, there are 84,000 people classified as missing. To be considered as a “cold case,” all probative investigative leads needs to have been exhausted. In essence, that meant a case that was only a few months old could be defined as being “cold.”

The Cold Case Division’s primary mission was to bring peace and closure to the family and friends of those that had been tragically killed. The Division understood that there might be a resurgence of grief upon learning that a loved one’s case had been reopened. As a result, the cold case investigator could enlist the support of a Victim Advocate upon making the decision to reactivate a case. Working in partnership with victim advocates was a goal of the Cold Case Unit so as to minimize the re-victimization of a family.

But these were all details that I’d learn later.

In addition to the old computer, there was a deck of playing cards on the desk. I picked up one of the cards for inspection. The deck didn’t look like any playing cards I’d ever seen before, and I was a savant. There’d been little else to do on my military base between directives.

I wasn’t able to investigate any further before another door opened—not the door I’d come through—and a man stepped into the room. He was short and round. He had a full beard and his auburn hair was cut short, but not short enough to suggest he’d ever been in the military. He reminded me of a garden gnome. All that was missing was the pointy hat.

“Playing solitaire?” I asked.

“Those are for a new cold case initiative. There’s 52 playing cards, each describing a violent, unsolved cold case. We’re going to distribute them to each police department around the state and to correctional facilities.”

“Isn’t that a little morbid?” I observed.

“Maybe. But even if one case gets solved because of these, won’t it have been worth it?”

“I suppose so.” I set the card back on the top of the deck and shoved my hands into the front pockets of my jeans. There was nothing threatening about the gnome man, but the tomb-like quiet in the room made me uncomfortable. “Where is everybody?”

“Lunch, I think.”

“You don’t eat lunch?”

He blinked twice as though my question didn’t register in his head.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

“I just wanted to take a look around.”

“We’re not part of the tour,” he deadpanned.

“I’m sorry. I should probably introduce myself. I’m Cassidy Miller. Inspector Garnett—”

“Suggested you for the open investigator position,” he finished for me. “I know. Cassidy Miller, honorable discharge from the United States Military Corps. Served two tours in Afghanistan, earned the Navy Cross in 2012,” he recited. “Graduated top of her class from the Minneapolis Police Academy, Class of 2013. Took a leave of absence from the department this summer for undisclosed reasons, and now you’re back.”

“Now I’m back,” I echoed. “How did you—”

“I read your file,” he supplied. “And, I have a bit of a photographic memory.”

“I have a file?” It reminded me of when Grace Kelly Donovan had blindsided me with a front-page article in the Embarrass newspaper. I’d never liked the feeling of strangers knowing my business.

“Everyone leaves behind footprints,” the man philosophized.

“I seem to be at a bit of a disadvantage,” I said as cordially as I could without revealing my discomfort. “You seem to know everything about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“I’m Stanley Harris,” he introduced himself. “What else would you like to know?”

“I don’t know—do you work for the Cold Case Unit?”

He nodded. “I mostly inventory evidence and track down information from previously assigned investigators. Sometimes I re-interview witnesses and suspects, but only when we’re shorthanded. What else do you want to know?” he asked.

“I looked at the division’s webpage.” I gestured in the direction of the outdated computer. “I was surprised by how many unsolved homicides there were. How do you guys decide which case to focus on?”