The aftermath of a major case. Boxes upon boxes of paperwork. Missing files, disappeared reports and the only hint to the fact that they had once existed was something that could be dismissed as a mistake by an overworked and underpaid office clerk or dead tired cop working on an aged computer after their 8th double double.
He noticed the missing files and the disappeared reports. Bitched about them. Ignored the advice to stay quiet. Got transferred here. Now he was faced with the same decision, the same choice as back in New Orleans. The whole world wanted him to leave the case alone. It was the right career move, keep your head down here, make a case or two and soon enough you'll be back in the FBI. Back where you belong.
Think about it, what has chasing these things gotten you? Exiled. Nightmares every night. You've become a miserable asshole, closed yourself to one nice girl back in New Orleans and one here in Sacramento. Just give it up. Walk into the Johnson's office and tell him that there is nothing to this whole mess. Give Sally a call. Be a real person again.
There is no hesitation at all in his movements. Tim pulls out his cell phone and dials the number of the Sacramento PD.
There was a still a dead kid. Everyone has given up on this case, ignored it or tossed it aside.
Someone needs to speak for that kid. If he turned away now he wouldn't deserve to guard an Outlet Mall.
There's a robotic voice that answers: "Thank you for calling the Sacramento Police. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. If this is a non-emergency..."
Tim waits. Tim waits. Another voice comes on eventually, a human. The conversation is mostly a blur, one-sided; it's like those Peanuts cartoons with one character talking and the grownups making that muted 'whaaa-whaaa' trumpet noise. Tim's placed on hold before he can really be sure what's happening.
A different voice. "Detective Carlson? He's gone... His number? Lemme transfer ya...." More holding. More stonewalling. Always with the diversions--won't anyone bend over for Homeland Security? A third voice, a fourth, always transferring, always holding.
The fifth voice: Jackpot. "Yes, I have Detective Carlson's last known number," say the smooth, soft tones of a practiced receptionist. She adds, a bit apologetic, "It's almost a year old though... I hope it still works."
Tim writes the number down. Stares at it. Another wall? Or, maybe, finally, a key?
Draft this Post
