Sapphic Voices Mystery

The Ross/Fletcher Case

Part Two

Agent Jefferson was the largest member of the Serial Homicide unit. I guessed he was nearly six feet tall and had two hundred fifty pounds of muscle attached to his frame. His hands were almost large enough to completely cover the small window next to his seat.

Despite his size Agent Jefferson has proven to be the easiest going member of the team. A set of headphones constantly dangled around his neck. Connected to them was a small MP3 player packed full of Barry White and George Clinton. His apparent generosity (if airplane peanuts are any indication) earned him the nickname, "Sweetheart" from the rest of the team. He insists I use it as well with a broad smile. Instead, I use his title and last name to tease him.

"So, Agent Jefferson," I asked, "Is it sheer coincidence I'm seated beside the team psychologist?"

"Psychoanalyst actually," He corrected, "I profile criminals and do on site analysis of patterns that may arise. I'm not here to spy on anyone or do therapy sessions." He stopped only long enough to smile. "You couldn't afford my mid-flight rates anyway." I shook my head and couldn't help but laugh at his terrible sense of humor.

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Flying from Boston to Chicago on a commercial flight had taken two and a half-hours. The sleek FBI jet covered the remaining distance to SeaTac in nearly half that time. I was both impressed and relieved when I stepped from the silver plane. My relief was short lived. Eric Shelby, the Seattle Division Deputy Director, stepped from a dark sedan that came to a stop a few feet inside the hangar. I knew him by photo and reputation only, neither of which was flattering.

Ian was the first to greet him. The two spoke for a moment before he turned to the rest of us and performed a brief round of introduction. Deputy Director Shelby sneered and pulled Ian to his car for further conversation. Shelby seemed to be prattling off about something but I couldn't read the emotions on either face.

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I donned a pair of latex gloves and stepped beneath the yellow tape. Ian had followed close behind with Agent Jefferson on his heels. The rest of the team was using the East entrance.

"Here are the footprints I told you about." A Seattle Police lieutenant explained as he pointed to muddy footprints on the concrete outlined in red paint, "They continue into the building and are all over the room where we found the Inspector. This is where they seem to originate which is why we think the perp came here by boat. We ran them through our computer this morning. All we know is this person wore a pair of Doc Martin's. We don't know what kind, where they were made, or who sold them. We sent a cast to your boys in Virginia. Maybe they can find it."

"Is it me, or do they seem very small?" Agent Jefferson asked of everyone and no one. I turned around to see him hunched and staring at the footprints. He poured concentration into them as if he believed they would speak.

"I thought everything was small to you Sweetheart." Ian replied.

The lieutenant ignored us and continued along the seawall toward the pier. He stopped before climbing the only ladder that lead to the pier several feet above. "This is where we found the strip of white cloth." He said and pointed to a yellow tag marking a nail, "It's the one that matches the shirt Inspector Ross was wearing."

"Was anything else found with it? Hair perhaps? Blood?" I asked. I stepped toward the wooden pillar and ran my fingers over the marked nail. How long had my father passed this way before he died?

"Yes Agent Ross," The lieutenant replied, "We found a lot of things. So far we have more than three hundred sets of fingerprints, at least eighty sets of footprints, a few different samples of blood, empty food wrappers, and several fingernails. We don't believe any of them are directly related to the disappearance of the Inspector but perhaps your people can do better." He glared at the three of us, then vanished up the ladder.

Ian raised an eyebrow and looked from me to Agent Jefferson. Sweetheart shook his head. I only shrugged.

The three of us then followed the disgruntled lieutenant up the ladder, onto the pier, and into the building itself. The warehouse was bustling with people wearing windbreaker jackets, each with an acronym written in bold letters on their backs. The entire structure had been locked down until an hour ago. Only a select few people had been allowed inside since the discovery of the body and the call to the FBI. Every wall, pillar, window, speck of dirt and shard of glass would be dragged under a microscope in the coming week. I kept my fingers crossed in the hopes that some of it would lead us to the killer.

I was shown the small office in the southeastern corner of the building where my father's body had been found. A chalk outline marked an impossibly small spot on the dirty concrete floor. My daddy had died here. The reality of the setting suddenly dawned, crushing my will. I was suddenly tired, sad, and afraid. I turned away and held onto the tattered office door. Both Ian and Sweetheart rushed to my side with concerned questions but I waved them off. A broken padlock dangling from a rusty hinge caught my jacket.

I agreed to be driven to the hotel for something to eat and a bit of rest. Sweetheart took my cell phone number and promised to keep me up to date on the forensic progress. Ruben Fletcher's body would be exhumed the following day. For the moment, all I could do was try to relax.

If you have enjoyed Tara Chen's "The Ross/Fletcher Case, Chapter Two", then please be certain to e-mail her at  tara[at]dementedkitty.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here to continue on to "The Ross/Fletcher Case, Chapter Three"

Click here for a list of all of Tara Chen's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.