The Eyes Have No Soul E-Book

Matthew W. Harrill

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Forensic Analyst Clare Rosser has focused her career on becoming a detective, and solving the mystery of her parents' murder.

When a series of grisly murders leaves bodies twisted and bereft of fluid in a mummy-like state, one fact becomes apparent: the monster that killed her parents ten years ago has returned.

Fighting the bureaucracy of her own police department, as well as her own prejudices and ailing body, Clare must take matters into her own hands before more suffer the same fate.

The clues are out there. The answers lie within her. But can she find them before it's too late?

FINALIST, 2018 INTERNATIONAL BOOK AWARDS

Leseprobe

The Eyes Have No Soul

Matthew W. Harrill

Copyright (C) 2018 Matthew W. Harrill

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Inkubus Design

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Scott Nothing in the world can stop you taking it on and prevailing. Diabetes isn't an end. It's a beginning.

Prologue

No matter how hard Clare Rosser tried to escape the house of her birth in the sleepy forest town of Holden, Massachusetts, life kicked her in the guts by drawing her back. It had only been eighteen months. Freedom had been hers at last. Clare, with all her determination and drive, had sworn that she would get out of Dodge. Yet here she was, in her sophomore year, being dragged home in order to mitigate another disaster. She just could not escape.

The trouble was she had no idea exactly what she was returning to this time round. Only hours before, Clare had been watching an old John Wayne flick with her friends and boyfriend. One phone call later, she had hurtled down route 90 from her rented house in Brookline, Boston, to deal with the latest drama. Was Mom ill? Had Dad drunk himself senseless again? Nobody would say.

Clare gazed at her blue-eyed reflection in the rear-view mirror of her Mini Cooper, a car given to her by her parents as a sweet sixteen present, and four years later the only item from them she treasured. Dad had imported the shell and restored the car to perfect working order, painted it red with twin white stripes on the hood and delivered it to her with a bank of blinding headlights attached to the front and a full tank of diesel. Never mind that it was a petrol engine and had to be fully drained and cleaned before she could take it out.

One of many mistakes her dad had made with the best intentions, like the time he had chased off a would-be boyfriend who just wanted to play her a song with his guitar. He wanted his daughter homebound. It only drove her further away. Her cell began to ring from its place on the passenger seat; Clare picked the phone up, wedging it between shoulder and ear. “Hello?”

“Clare? Clare Rosser? Is that you?”

“Yes. This is Clare.”

“Hello dear, it's Dr. Julian Strange. I am your family —”

“Yes, I know perfectly well who you are, Julian. What's going on?” Julian Strange had been the Rosser family physician for as long as Clare could remember. He had dealt with the fallout of her parents' bouts of alcoholism with good grace, patient and informative. He was professional to the core when Clare had needed a father figure, sometimes impersonal, like he didn't want to get too close.

“Are you on your way?”

Clare glanced out of the window. In the growing dusk, the woodland of southernmost Holden thrust up like a series of fingers clawing out of the hillside ahead. The police roadblock, comprised of three cars parked at random angles on the nearside of the railway crossing, lay between her and her house beyond. “I'm nearby. Julian, what's going on?”

There was a pause. “Just… Just get here as soon as you can, Clare.”

“What do you mean 'get here as soon as you can'?” Clare shouted down the phone in response. “Why can't you just tell me what's going on?”

There was no reply. Clare glared at the screen. The call had been disconnected. This left her even more frustrated. Resisting the urge to scream and throw her phone, Clare set it down on the black vinyl of the passenger seat and concentrated on the roadblock. It would do no good for her to end up another footnote in the Rosser family casualty dossier. She gripped the steering wheel so hard the molded plastic creaked and turned the car around. There was another way in.

Holden's outskirts flashed by in a blur of buildings and streetlights, the traffic for once accommodating Clare as she traversed the town. By the time she turned into the far end of Pleasant Street, the sky was almost completely black, only the slightest impression of darkest blue giving hint that beyond the hills of central Massachusetts, it was not yet fully night.

The bank of headlights on her Mini Cooper made Clare feel as though she was burrowing through a tunnel of light into the forest leaning over the highway. So intent was she on getting to her parents' house that she jumped with a small yelp when her phone rang once more, the 'Star Trek' theme blaring loud. Her brothers' name was on the screen.

A deer jumped out of the forest. Clare slammed on her brakes. In an instant, it leapt away, another ghost in the dark, a memory to be retained on this bizarre night. Once the shock passed, Clare took a deep breath, willing her body to calmness. She only had one goal: Reaching her brother.

“Jeff, tell me that you're home.”

There was a pause, as if the person on the end of the line were confused by her response.

“Clare?” It was her brother.

“Jeff? Where are you?”

“I was away hunting with Bo and his dad. I just got back. What's going on? There's police all round our house.”

In one of those strange moments of lucidity, insight hit Clare. “Jeff, have the police seen you?”

“Not yet. I'm standing by the big tree in the McCade's garden.” The treehouse was now rotten, timbers uncared for and disused. Clare remembered it well, three houses away from her own. Good memories from childhood, like that old tree, were rare.

“Jeff, I want you to stay right there. Stay out of sight.”

“What's going on?”

“I… I don't know. They won't tell me. Hold on, I'm coming.”

The road plunged back into woodland as Clare navigated Sunnyside Avenue, an ironic name if any given the manner of her visit. Up ahead, she could see the flashing blues and reds of a fleet of police vehicles, packed onto the gravel driveway. This was not just the local sheriff come to visit.

An ambulance had just pulled away, speeding off in the opposite direction past the first roadblock. Clare resisted the urge to follow it and parked on the street, out of sight of the flashing lights. The earthy scent of woodland was normally a balm to her, but there was nothing calming about what was going on here.

As soon as she jumped out, intent on finding Jeff, a figure stepped out of the shadow of the garden.

“It's you,” Jeff said. With a slight height advantage, Jeff Rosser made an imposing shadow backlit as he was by blue and red strobes.

Clare grabbed her younger brother in a brief embrace. He was ice-cold. “What's been going on here?”

He turned to the scene of whatever crime had been committed. “I don't know. They carried… something out just now. Evidence zipped up in two black bags. It didn't look heavy enough to be bodies. Clare, did Dad finally snap for good?”

“You think he'd kill Mom?”

Jeff nodded, unable to utter the words they were both scared to say, lest they be true.

“He couldn't.”

“Clare, you haven't been here. Dad's been all over the place. He looked thin, like he wasn't eating right. So did Mom. All they did was drink all day. Anything they could get their hands on. I stayed out of the way. I've been away over the weekend.”

Clare held on to him for a moment. His body was cold, tired. He shivered in her grasp despite his muscular body. “Get in my car and stay there. There's a blanket in the back. Wrap yourself in it. No arguments. I'll go take a look around and come get you when I know something.”

Clare left her brother by the Mini, every step taking her closer to uncertainty. Her home should have been a refuge, the sanctuary to which she could retreat in times of crisis. Yet here it was, the nexus of chaos it had always been. She passed several vehicles, all unattended, engines still hot, reaching the yellow tape that read: 'Crime scene – do not cross'. It was her house. She cared not for such barriers.

“Miss,” warned a deep voice from beside the front door, “step back please. You can't come in here.”

“The hell I can't,” Clare shot back. “My parents live here, and you guys called me. I didn't drive all the way from Boston to be turned away.”

The cop appeared confused. He turned to another cop. “Who called her?”

Clare pounced on this moment of hesitancy to lift the tape and push the front door wide open. Intuition told Clare the face she looked upon now would become one that would corner her at every turn from this point forward in her life.

“Hello, I'm Detective Andrew Harley. Can I help you, young lady?”

Clare stared, silent. There were people in her kitchen, beyond the hallway, two men wearing FBI accreditation glanced up at her and closed the door. The detective attempted to block her view with his considerable frame.

“Miss, are you Clare Rosser?”

Her attention turned from the intruders in the kitchen. “Yes, I am Clare. What are you doing here? What happened?”

Harley frowned. The crease in his brow was made all the more severe by the iron-gray hair cut short, military style. Clearly, he was not used to being addressed in such a manner. His bulk was muscle turned to fat judging by the lack of definition around his midriff. This was a man used to giving orders from an office, not pounding the beat.

“If you would sit down—” Harley indicated with one greasy hand that she move to the couch in the living room. His breath reeked of beer. This was a man who, until very recently, had been out enjoying himself at some cheap diner.

“No, dammit, I won't sit down. I've just driven from Boston and nobody will give me any answers. Why are Federal Agents in my kitchen? Where are my parents?”

Harley attempted to guide her to the lounge. Clare dodged round him and ran up the stairs to her mother's bedroom; her parents had slept apart for years in an attempt to maintain the fiction of family. They were ultimately too cowardly to separate for good. They had always felt the need to suffer in silence, the pretence enough to fool outsiders.

“Wait,” called Harley's croaky cigarette-scarred voice from behind her. “You can't go in there.”

“Mom?” Clare called. “Dad?” She threw open her mother's bedroom door and froze.

The room had been scoured clean. A man in a boiler suit was scrubbing the floor. The room reeked of disinfectant. In a moment, Harley was upon her, yanking her out by the arm. “This is a crime scene, girl.”

“Where exactly is your crime scene? You can't have been here much more than an hour.”

He pulled her to the landing, knocking into a side table. A lamp tipped over, rolling to hang by its cable.

“Where is all the equipment? Who's leading the walk-through? Where are all your analysts?”

Clare tugged against him, standing her ground as he attempted to pull her down the stairs.

“How can you have taken trace evidence if the room is clean? Where are the photographers? Sketch artists? Where is your evidence log?”

She snatched her arm away from the detective. “Where. Are. My. Parents?”

Harley's skin had begun to mottle with suppressed rage. His voice was strained. “I'm sorry, Miss Rosser, your parents were found deceased earlier. There was no sign of a struggle. The bodies have to go off for post mortem…”

The words hit her, but did not register beyond the word 'deceased'. Her parents were gone. All sound became muted, as she looked inward, seeking a logical explanation. Her parents were dead? They were dysfunctional, but they wouldn't just lie down and die. The taste of iron spread around her mouth and Clare realized that she had bitten her bottom lip.

Harley was still speaking to her. “…social services will be contacted.”

“What? No. I don't need social services. I'm twenty; Jeff is nearly eighteen. We will manage just fine. When will the police and lab reports be available?”

Harley appeared caught off-guard by her straightforward, dispassionate approach. “I don't know what you think you will glean from that, young lady.”

His tone just made her mad. How dare he talk down to her?

“Don't be so condescending. I'm majoring in Criminal Justice at Boston. I know what's supposed to be going on here. You don't clean up a crime scene after an hour.”

“Unfortunately for you, we are not in Boston.”

So this is how it was. Clare pushed past Harley and started down the stairs. “Fine, I'll just ask those Feds.”

“What Feds?” came Harley's seemingly innocent reply.

Clare turned at the bottom of the stairs to glare at the man then ran to the kitchen, finding it now devoid of any life. She stood there for a moment, confused, before Harley closed in behind her, the front of his belly touching against her back.

“Thank you for your cooperation, miss. It has made our conclusion to this investigation much more thorough. If you need anything else…” Harley ran his hand down her arm. “You have but to call the precinct in Worcester and ask for me.”

Clare remained motionless. Evidently deprived of more sport by lack of reaction, Harley moved off, his heavy footsteps making the floorboards creak as he left the house, the door wide open. What police cars were left pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, vanishing in a cloud of grit-filled dust.

The house was empty, soulless. The pines that leaned over accentuated the gloom. The heart of Clare's home had been ripped out, leaving a gaping hole that could never again be filled.

At length, Clare felt a familiar presence. “They've gone, Jeff.”

“The cops? Yeah, I watched them. That last one looked nasty.”

“No Jeff. Mom and Dad. The cops took their bodies, and I think we won't ever find out why.”

Jeff put his arm around her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. Clare took hold of his hand. Jeff had always cared for others over himself. He had a huge heart.

“Are you gonna be all right?” she asked, still stunned by the turn of events.

Jeff squeezed her tight. “I'll be okay. I've pretty much avoided them since you left. I'll be joining you in October at Boston. I got in.”

This at least brought a smile to Clare's lips. He hadn't mentioned anything until now. “Jeff, that's fantastic. I'm so proud.”

He shrugged. “I might make something of myself yet. What about you?”

Clare turned to her younger brother. “I'm gonna find out what that cop wouldn't tell me.”

Chapter One

“You can do this.”

Clare Rosser studied her reflection as she leaned over the sink in the Worcester P.D. restroom. It was a room designed by men, for men: Functional and faded yellow, reeking of cheap pine cleaner. It cried out 'no women allowed'. After ten years of being stuck in forensic analysis, she would change that.

Her hands gripped the side of the sink, nails trimmed back in a fit of haste, skin taut and lifeless, the skeletal nature of her narrow frame betraying the bone and tendons beneath with far too much ease. She attempted a smile, but it came off as more of a grimace. Blue eyes stared back at her from behind horn-rimmed glasses, the lenses perfectly clear but far too thick for her preference. It was a legacy of reading in dim light or at night with flashlights.

Clare considered her face. It was not unattractive, with high cheekbones and pursed lips. Her small ears were hidden behind honey-blonde hair that hung limp in a style that might have been called a bob were it not just too long, descending lifeless over the top of her shoulders. She brushed the hair back past her right ear, a habit from childhood she had never managed to break.

She leaned forward, reassessing her previous motivation. “This is what you have been working toward. You. Will. Do. This.”

Her voice was determined; some might say harsh. Years of mothering Jeff following the death of her parents twelve years ago had lent an air of authority to what she was convinced were flowery enough tones. It was a voice others used to tell her 'put people at ease'. Perhaps that was their way of saying she sounded boring. She was not the girl she had been when this had all started. Seasoned, some might call her now. Jaded was perhaps a better term.

Clare sighed. It was her whole demeanor, she decided. With the lace-cuffed silk blouse and the light-green woollen cardigan done up with mottled-brown buttons she favored atop the calf-length heavy tweed skirt, she looked quite the schoolmistress, a good decade older than her thirty-two years.

Her only concession was her footwear. She glanced down at the pair of khaki walking shoes she wore everywhere, the word 'Berghaus' emblazoned on the side in black stitching. Dried mud crept up the sides of the soles, evidence of her walk through the gorgeous autumn woodland on her way to the bus, the golden leaves of the American Linden mixed with the reds and greens of fading oak. Clare preferred the outdoors. It was the unexplained circumstance of her parents' death that had led her from the woods and into the forensics labs, via a degree from Boston in Criminal Justice.

Only half an hour before, she had been in the lab, white-coated and studious, working her way through the backlog of rape kits that had been pouring into the department. This particular kit had been proving most elusive. Despite the extensive set of swabs and clothing, all results appeared to just fade away before her, the analysis always proving inconclusive. Clare was a firm believer in logic and ran her finger over the small golden badge on the lapel of her blouse as if to remind herself why she was doing this.

The call had come out of the blue. Captain Latchford wanted to see her. This could mean only one thing. Her test results were in, and she had an interview for patrol. At long last, she would be one step closer to a place that would make a difference, a place she could use her skills to find the answers both she and Jeff had sought for the last dozen years. She had never wanted anything more for herself than closure.

Turning away from the mirror, Clare pulled on the handle of the restroom door. Her hand slipped, slick with sweat. She really was nervous now. Wiping her hand on the ridged fabric of her skirt, she tried again and made it into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind her, and she jumped. Clenching her jaw, she thrust her hands down by her sides, taking a deep breath and ignoring the chuckles of a couple of passing beat-cops.

The hallways of the precinct were much the same in nature to that of the restroom. Clare felt, as she often did, that she might well be walking the set of Hill Street Blues with the crowded bulletin boards dripping leaflets of rule and instruction, missing people, out-of-date social events. The cops that held sway here didn't realize they were in the twenty-first century. The musty scent of old, curled paper stuck in the back of her mouth. The hallways were cloying in the early autumn and unbearable in the summer. At least, her labs were clean and air-conditioned.

Polished floor tiles gleamed as the over-bright panelled ceiling illumination shone back up at her, causing Clare to squint. As she reached the conference room, the location of her interview, the notices were replaced with framed scenes of faded old Worcester and the officers, men with integrity, who had founded this station. It gave her pride to know that at one time, there had been people interested in the actual job of policing.

Clare took a deep breath and closed her eyes, steadying her nerves. Inside this room lay her future. Beyond this door were the answers she sought and had worked so hard for, how her parents had died. She knocked once, the sound echoing down the empty hallway behind her, and entered.

The centerpiece of the conference room was a flag that hung from the ceiling. The dark blue background hosted the shield she had strived to earn, with the words 'Worcester Police Department' emblazoned in gold beneath it. This symbol had always given Clare hope, and more than a little longing for resolution. Yet today, the flag went unnoticed as Clare stared in disbelief at the people gathered around the table beneath it. All men. The scene looked like the parole hearings in The Shawshank Redemption, and her stomach began to tighten.

Two of the group Clare did not know, but she recognized Detective Paul Barton and his cohort, Lieutenant Nick Morgan in an instant, sneers on the faces of both. There was no sign of Captain Latchford. This did not bode well. She approached and took her seat.

One of the unknown men, bordering on elderly with sagging jowls and a belly that threatened to burst his uniform asked, “And you are?”

“Clare Rosser, sir.” He had rank over her whether he displayed it or not. “Be polite,” Mom had said in one of her last lucid moments before Boston. The memory had stuck.

In response, the old man turned to his colleagues. “Looks like they'll let anyone apply for patrol now.” He proceeded to wheeze a laugh at his own joke.

Clare let it slide. This was too important. Her entire life had built to this moment. “If I may, I was called here by Captain Latchford. Is he not part of the interview panel?”

Barton, a thug with tiny, suspicious eyes, squinted at her beneath a crop of curly brown hair and shuffled papers on the table in front of him. “I'm afraid Devin had to step out. A case of… what did he call it?”

“Boiling, twisted guts is how he described the feeling,” supplied Morgan, a short, suave man but known to contain a ferocious temper behind his dark looks. “As it stands, you're double-booked. Please go to room forty-two, where your interview will take place. Thank you.”

And that was it. Struggling to breathe amidst the testosterone wafting from this collection of alpha males, Clare turned with as much dignity as she could muster and left.

Her destination was only a few doors down. The wooden door was painted white with frosted glass, the kind that looked like it had a grid of metal wiring going through. It was a typical soulless representation of the entire precinct in Clare's opinion. The polished brass nameplate read 'Captain Andrew Harley' in black letters. This meant a rejection. To Clare, it was the worst kind of no. Yet, she persisted.

Clare knocked three times on the door and waited. Patience was a virtue. There were voices within, jovial in nature. The glass darkened, and the door opened after a brief pause. Wearing his trademark oversized blue suit trousers and a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the aging detective Mike Caruso finished a joke, walking past her without acknowledgement. Clare was left in the hallway, an open door between her and the captain's desk.

A few awkward moments passed before Harley glanced up. “Ah Clare, there you are. Come in and take a seat.”

On his deathbed, Harley will be perfunctory. Doing as bidden, Clare shut the door behind her, sitting opposite the captain, arranging her skirt to her satisfaction, and brushing her hair back. The room was soundproofed. Despite its age, there was an utter lack of noise anywhere, now that she sat still. It was unnerving. Resting her hands in her lap, Clare waited for the Captain to finish reading through his documentation. It gave her a chance to study his face. With a granite jaw and receding grey hair, he was every bit the aging commander, safe in the knowledge that he would end his career exactly where he had started it. The yellowed tips of his agitated fingers and slight wheeze when he breathed told a different story. Harley was a well-known chain-smoker who no doubt wanted nothing better than to be outside puffing away. The room stank of stale smoke, more than should be from an outside smoker, testament to the fact that he didn't always obey office rules. Clare suspected that with the stress of the job he wouldn't make retirement.

“So then. Clare. Clarey-Clare. Let's see.” His voice, while deep, had traces of his addiction in it, the graveled tones he used to end sentences, the slight breathlessness.

“What do we have here? Born, Worcester, nineteen eighty-two.” He paused and glanced up at her as if he couldn't quite believe the fact. “You attended Davis Hill Elementary School, Holden. You then moved on to Wachusett Regional High School, Holden. Not one for adventure, are we? Ah, here we have it. You graduated with a Degree in Criminal Justice, Boston. Then straight back here, enrolling in the department as an analyst, exceling in forensic science ever since.” The unspoken question was left hanging.

“Why do you care why I stayed? Most people stay near where they're born and raised. My brother was here, as you well know. I felt obliged to look after him. As it was, I was home every weekend until he joined me in Boston. You know all of this. This isn't a real job interview. Why persist with the charade?”

Harley shuffled through his documents, ignoring her question, the noise of sheet scraping sheet irritating her. “Ah yes Jeff, your younger half-brother, the only other occupant of your house other than Steve the cat.”

The mention of the tortoiseshell stray she had fostered brought a small smile to Clare's mouth.

“You brought up your brother alone?”

“I had no choice. It was that or the foster care system, which was pointless since he was almost eighteen. After my parents…”

“Ched and Patricia Rosser,” Harley supplied as if their names weren't already burned into her soul.

“Found dead October twenty-second, two thousand and two. Cause of death?” He looked up, his face unreadable. “It appears this was inconclusive.”

“There was more to it than an inconclusive result, and you know it,” Clare argued. “You were there, in my house when I arrived, with no crime scene left to analyze, after an hour of examination!”

“There were suspicious circumstances with no evidence. I know this, Miss Rosser. My report is still perfectly legible.”

“There were stains on the floor…”

“No evidence. It says so in this report. This signed and authenticated report.”

Harley pushed a folder yellowed with age across his desk toward her, opening it so she could read. The words 'death by natural cause' burned into her mind. There was no such thing. Not with so many police there, and Feds to boot.

Harley stared at her. Unbowed, Clare stared straight back, only averting her gaze to brush her hair back once more.

Harley grunted at her evident admission of subservience and continued to read. “All right then. Written test scores came back as ninety-eight percent. That's quite exceptional. Your use of logic is without flaw, just about.”

Clare was stunned, blinking a couple of times; she caught her breath. “Does that mean I get the job?”

“In a word, no.”

Clare's heart sank. She had expected this result given the turn of events, yet she had fostered a glimmer of hope in her heart. Harley had done this on purpose, baiting her. He had never liked her, not since the first time they had met, her as a student challenging his sloppy methods at the scene of her parents' death. If he were to have a motto, she was sure it would read, 'never question the alpha-male'.

“Logic is not the only way to solve a crime. We were looking for a demonstration of insight, of gut instinct in your written test. You failed to think outside of the box, and in our patrolmen, especially those who have aspirations to detective, we want those that see the trees and notice more than a collection of wood and leaves.”

“Those test scores must without any doubt put me ahead of anybody else who has taken them.” Clare was growing incensed. The decision had been made, against all logical reasoning.

“That's not your problem. You are a great forensic expert. You use facts and rules and apply them to the job. That is enough for what you do in analysis. It is not the only required skill to make detective. We both know why you want the job, and it is not to solve any other crime but that which you perceive has been committed on your parents. Let me be as clear as I can to you.” Harley leaned forward, his eyes piercing. “That. Case. Is. Closed. If you keep persisting in trying to find answers that are not there, you will find yourself out of a job in this department and, without a doubt, on the wrong side of a jail cell. Give it up. Keep doing what you do best. Good morning.”

The dismissal brooked no argument. Captain Harley turned away, picking up his cell phone. Soon, he was chortling to another colleague, the topic of discussion sexist and ribald.

Clare remained seated, glaring at her nemesis. She wouldn't be dismissed this way. At least not until Harley noticed her still present and flicked his hand toward the door, dismissing her without even looking. Maintaining her dignity, Clare left without looking back, though inwardly she was seething. Her dream was shattered.

Chapter Two

This wasn't over. Clare stood staring at Harley's door, trying to imagine how that conversation could have taken any other direction. Her dreams dashed again.

“For now,” Clare growled at the office, the scent of defeat only a whiff in her nostrils.

“What's for now?” A voice, polite and very familiar, enquired. Versace perfume confirmed the presence of a friend.

Clare turned away from hurling imaginary insults at her nemesis, to find the diminutive Tina Svinsky, all bubbles and cheer, smiling up at her. “Walk with me.”

Tina fell in beside her, the frenetic movement of a shorter person attempting to keep up with her taller companion comedic in nature. Clare produced a rueful smile. Tina Svinsky was ten years her senior and at an inch over five feet in height, five inches shorter. During Clare's tenure in forensics, Tina had become the darling of the precinct. She made detective younger than anybody in the history of Worcester P.D., served on several multi-jurisdictional federal taskforces combating organized crime, and had earned the nickname 'The Golden Sweeper' for her insight and seemingly preternatural ability to clean up an ever-growing list of murder-one cases. The world was going straight to hell, except for Tina's aptitude for solving crime. She had become everything Clare wanted to be.

“So do you want to tell me what happened back there?” Tina said this without looking at her as they traversed the hallways of the precinct. Fortunately for Clare, the station was a large enough hub that she could avoid Harley should she so desire.

“He stiffed me,” Clare muttered. “I didn't make patrol again. That's the third time in six years. The promotion panel was full of his cronies and they sent me to him for my own personal interview.” She snorted a laugh of derision. “Apparently, I am one hell of an analyst but will never be detective material so I'm not even going on the beat.” Her comment was ladled in sarcasm.

“Where was Captain Latchford? Isn't he responsible for promotions in his department?”

“They said he was taken ill. Right before I went in. I had the call from him not thirty minutes before the interview.”

A janitor bustled past, pushing a bucket on wheels with the handle of his mop. He kept his head down as he passed the two women, but Clare watched him as he moved to the far side of the hallway. The janitor stole a glance at her as he slunk around a corner on his way to what she presumed was his lair in some distant part of the building. He looked at her as though he knew her, his face somewhat familiar; it creeped Clare out.

Tina followed Clare's gaze. “Everything all right?”

“I feel like I know that guy.”

“The janitor?”

Clare brushed her hair back with a finger. “I don't know. It's one of those days, I guess.”

Tina reached round with an arm, constricting Clare with a tight squeeze. Small definitely did not mean weak. “I'm sorry, sweetie. I wish there was something I could do.”

“Can't you speak to your bosses? I can do this, Tina.”

“Sorry, hun. They are out of town. That's the thing about working for multiple jurisdictions. Nobody knows from one day to the next where they might end up. Besides, you know they keep their own counsel on who they choose to join their ranks. Until you are noticed, or I join the ranking officers of the task force, your job is here. Your best chance is doing something unprecedented.” Tina stopped at a gray door, very nondescript and unassuming. She placed her hand on Clare's arm. “Look, I'm here for a week or so. I'm babysitting some junior detectives who're looking into thefts at the unopened wing of St Vincent's hospital. I've got to head out now to that half-staffed county jail for a couple hours. That's where they're holding the suspects. When I get back, let's get together to work on highlighting your transferable skills and honing the instinct you don't appear to need. In time, maybe you will get that chance.”

“My analysis of the situation concludes you are correct.”

Tina grinned impudently in return, evidently pleased that she had gotten through, and with a quick bob of the head, disappeared into the dark room beyond the gray door.

Clare signed and resumed her trudging march to the forensics lab.

Two flights of stairs and several sterile hallways later, Clare was still wondering what her purpose in life really was as she entered her home away from home, the Worcester Police Department's forensic analysis labs. She took a deep breath, leaning forward until her forehead touched the rough surface of the doorframe where varnish had long peeled away. They were going to want to know what went on upstairs. She pulled on the cool stainless steel handle, breaching the divide between the archaic past and the scientific future of policing.

The forensics lab was one of the few parts of the precinct to have been upgraded. Along with the morgue, which would once not have looked out of place in a fifties horror flick, Clare's lab had been granted funds by a state committee who were attempting to bring policing into the twenty-first century. Naturally, the upgrade had been resisted by Harley and his troop of eighties throwbacks. In a rare move, the District Attorney had thrown out their objections and forced them to embrace the technological advances of the new world. Everybody had an agenda.

Clare pulled the door closed with a little too much force. The slam caused all three of her colleagues to stop and look up from their respective niches in amongst shelves bearing reference books, ultra-modern spectrometers and other assorted gadgetry. She took a moment to breathe in the scents. Ancient knowledge, passed down in writing since the first great scientists realized that evidence could solve cases with irrefutable proof, mixed with newly polished wood and modern fabrics. It calmed her. The lab was bright with fake lighting, but this was new; the aim was to simulate day. No wonder the team had the reputation of living in another world from the rest of the precinct.

“Here to pick up your junk?” asked Sunny Chen, a second generation Chinese American, without looking up from the mass spectrometer. His words were blunt, but he meant well.

“Not this time.” Clare attempted to put a brave face on, but her voice was full of frustration.

The youngest member of the team, Alison, who was twenty-five and had only joined the previous year, approached still clad in lab coat and blue rubber gloves. She wrapped her arms around Clare, who was grateful for the contact.

“I'm sorry,” she said, a few wisps of red hair coming loose across her face. “At least you still have us.”

Alison's innocent comment made Clare smile. The warmth she radiated was infectious. “That's true. What would I do without my little family?”

“So there was no chance at all?”

Clare shrugged, moving across the room to her desk, where a row of folders sat on a shelf above a gray desk, bare but for a laptop and a small framed photo of her tortoiseshell cat, Steve. Clare always kept her office space logical and tidy. She flicked on the laptop, seeing an email waiting in her inbox: confirmation that she had been unsuccessful. She deleted the message without reading it and slapped the laptop closed, causing Sunny to jump. “There's only one way to advance in this place: Work with Harley.”

“Good. You aren't busy,” said a voice from the other end of the lab where Helen, the boss, presided over the team. “Clare, come join me in my office please.”

The door to Helen's office was open; Helen Cook, the detective in charge of the various Crime Lab teams had witnessed all of Clare's conversation. Her face without expression, Clare crossed the intervening space and shut the door behind her.

“Take a seat,” Helen invited, pointing at the chair opposite her own at a small round table.

Clare did as bidden. She had always loved this office. Floor to ceiling shelving held a wealth of literature, medical and otherwise. The grand, white L-shaped desk that was Helen's center of power stood unused for now. Helen only sat there on official business, so this was to be informal.

“Water?” Helen offered.

“Please. I've been parched lately.” Clare drained the proffered glass in one go upon receipt.

Helen watched her for a moment before continuing. “Are you all right?”

“What do you mean? Has my work not been up to standard?”

“No, that's never been a problem. You just appear a bit… underfed is probably the most accurate word. I need to make sure you are all performing as best you can. Beyond that, I care.”

Again Clare examined her hands. “Maybe I could eat a bit more. It doesn't seem that important lately.”

Helen leaned forward. “See that you do. You can't function if you don't eat properly. Now, tell me what happened.”

Clare attempted to calm the turmoil within her thoughts. “Would it really be any surprise to you? We all knew Captain Latchford was a man of fairly progressive views. He was taken ill between the phone call and my getting to the interview. Harley staged the whole event to show me up.”

“That's a pretty strong accusation,” Helen warned.

“You know the story as well as anybody. He's blocked me from the very first time we met. There are files out there with information about what happened to my parents, I'm convinced of this.”

“Have you considered that this fact might be the very reason you are blocked from joining the squad of the very man you are trying your best to bring down? You have aptitude and intelligence but you fight him every step of the way. It's professional suicide or at the least strongly masochistic.”

Clare frowned. “I wasn't applying to his squad. I was applying to Latchford's. I'm not afraid of him.”

“That is evident. But fear is not the issue. Andrew Harley is old world, with a network of like-minded thinkers. There is no place in his division for a woman, especially one with guts.”

“Tina?”

“Detective Svinsky isn't subject to Harley's influence in her task force, Clare. That is not the case for Worcester-based cops. I just got off the phone with an old friend. One who knows more about this precinct than most of the other officers; Devin, Captain Latchford, was causing waves among his fellows. They don't like his progressive thinking. He is seriously ill, in the ICU at UMASS. They aren't confidant he will make it. I'll tell you what that means. Harley is in charge of the detective bureau. However, he has his fingers in all sorts of pies. If the legal system didn't prevent it, he would send forensics back to the dark ages. He is a dinosaur, but one with clout.”

Clare's eyes narrowed. “You agree with me.”

“I do. However, you have to remember I can't afford to have idealism expressed in such an obvious way. You haven't been exposed to the management in such a profound manner before. You do not want to make enemies out of people who are already not fond of you.”

Clare's heart began to thump hard in her chest. Support unlooked for was always welcome and the adrenaline surged through her body. A bead of sweat began to wind its way down her neck. “You agree with me; yet, you want me to stay quiet?”

“I want you to consider what impact your actions might have if you try to cause a stir. You won't just be exposing yourself to them, but this entire department, and the advancements that benefit us.”

“Harley has bigger ambitions.” Clare mulled this over for a few moments. Corruption. How deep did it run? The promotion panel, certainly. Any appeal was out of the question in the state of Massachusetts without obvious discrimination. Were her colleagues corrupt? Clare glanced out at the lab through the window beside the door, and then back at Helen.

“He wants to be Chief. That's it, right?”

Helen crossed the room, pausing to glance at the team before she drew the blinds. “He could well end up in that position. Chief Goldsmith is far past retirement age. Promotion is likely to come from within given the network Harley has.”

“Chief Harley,” Clare spat. “That sounds like a bad joke.”

“It's been years in the making. You are on his side, or you don't have a side. That's really all there is to it.”

Clare stared in a moment of silence at her boss, a woman she had always trusted to lead the team forward, full of sensible decisions. She played the game just like the rest of them.

“I never stood a chance did I?”

“Let me give you some advice, Clare. If you continue to seek the answers here in this manner, you will find life very difficult. I only offer this to you because I am fond of you. I have protected you more than you know. However, with this turn of events, it won't be enough. Keep your head down.”

Taking a deep breath, Clare stood. “You won't want me to say anything, I presume?”

“Best not.”

“Look, it's been a hell of a day so far. I'm gonna take some time to assess my situation. I just can't stay in here right now.”

Helen didn't move. “I think that would be preferable. Don't do anything precipitous.”

Clare pushed her way out of the office. In the lab, Sunny and Alison had again stopped working, watching her.

Stopping only to grab her bag, Clare said, “I'll be back.” She refused to look them in the eye, focusing on the door to the lab. She passed through, letting the door swing shut behind her. Outside, those in the hallways scrambled to get out of her way, or stopped and stared, mocking smiles on their faces. Did everybody here know about her? There was a nervous aroma in the air, as if everybody were reluctant to be seen even standing next to her.

Clare ignored them all and walked out of the precinct, heading for her car. She glanced back. In a window near the entrance stood the janitor, watching her without moving.

Chapter Three

Still ranting under her breath Clare hunted down her car, now a scarlet '69 Chevy Impala, and wrenched the door open. Turning the engine with a harsh twist of the key, she gunned the throttle, gripping the cracked cover of the steering wheel so tight the jagged edges of the painted chrome rim threatened to cut her hands. The town of Holden was the perfect antidote to the bustle of Worcester. Twenty miles out from the city center, it was an easy commute, no more than an hour on a day of heavy traffic, half that if Clare felt liberal with the gas.

Only six miles from end to end, Holden lay north-west of the city. It lay in a gentle bowl amid the rolling hills of central Massachusetts, the peaks crowned with groves of oak and beech in the early stages of the riot of fall colours. It made living in Massachusetts a blessing.

The traffic was light at this time of day, before rush hour commenced and gridlock ensued. Clare missed her nimble Mini Cooper. It had been logical to appropriate Dad's much larger car when her favorite toy had finally broken down for good. She loved it but it had become a money pit.

Half way home, Clare decided to stop at one of her favorite spots. Just south of Holden lay Chaffin Pond, a beautiful fishing lake. It had been a favorite haunt of her father when she was young. Throughout her childhood he would drag her along to fish for large-mouth bass and each time she'd always make a bigger catch.

Taking a left onto Gail Drive by a miniscule green road sign, Clare enjoyed the homey nature of the place: Single-story houses with ornate mailboxes and sculptured gardens. Pylons and overhead wiring jumped from side to side, somehow not looking out of place amidst the assorted conifers and pines scattered about the place.

She shifted into neutral and let the engine idle as the car rolled down the slight incline. At the end of the road, speckled with shade, Clare brought the car to a halt on the side of a turning point. Trees blocked the view of the lake. Since Clare had no need to be anywhere, she left the Impala where it was and crept through the trees to the edge of the lake.

The sight was worth the wait. Green-blue water reflected the sunlight as if trying to impress the heavens. A slight breeze caused the merest ripples atop the surface. Clare stopped for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing in the clean air. Despite the proximity to development, it was a world away from the pollution-filled Worcester streets. In the distance off to her right, Clare noted the squeaky chirrup of a small flock of bluebirds. Nearby, an insistent tapping betrayed the presence of a nuthatch as it tried to jimmy open an early-fallen acorn.

“Beautiful sight, isn't it?” said an elderly voice from off to her right.

Startled, Clare turned toward the source of the voice, finding instead the madcap nuthatch scampering headfirst down the trunk of a gnarled old oak to where an acorn was wedged in a crack. Beyond the tree, an old man waited, rod in his right hand, the forefinger of his left across his lips. They watched in silence as the bird attempted to crack the nut, before sensing an audience and flying up to perch in another branch, where, in safety, it could berate them in high-pitched and nasal tones.

Clare smiled. “It is indeed. Just the break from reality I needed. How goes the hunt?”

The old man shrugged, a flat cap full of decorated fishhooks slipping to one side of his head. He grabbed the hat before it fell to the ground. It looked as old as him. “So so. Not a lot biting in this sun.”

“Is it full of weed down here? Large-Mouth Bass don't grow so big when there's a lot of weed. It stunts their growth and makes them harder to catch.”

The old man blinked in surprise. “Local gal, are ya?”

“My dad used to bring me here,” Clare didn't want to answer his question directly.

He accepted her response with good grace. “You'd be surprised how they take if you use the right lure, cast in the right place.”

With that, the old man jerked his rod away from her, the bend indicating that he had struck.

“Fish on!” he chortled with glee and began to spar with his unseen aquatic foe. The fish was strong; several times the old man had to let line out just to prevent the tension from snapping his rod.

“The damn bugger's headed for the weeds,” he cursed and began to pull the rod up and down, winding in the line as he did so.

“Hand me that net, would you, girl?”

Clare did as bidden. Clearly used to fishing alone, he manipulated the net with one hand while holding the rod high with the other. Crouching at the edge of the lake, he reached into the net, freeing his catch from the hook. Lifting the fish up with expertise, he showed off his trophy.

“Little beauty,” he glowed. The fish was white underneath, becoming a very healthy olive green with dark speckles up higher. What stood out was the cavernous mouth, used for swallowing smaller fish, the feature that gave this species its name.

Clare reached over to stroke the smooth underbelly, the ridges of scales bumping under her fingers as she trailed her hand up along the side of the fish. “What are you going to do with it?”

He smiled, placing the fish in a larger net with care, a holding cell in which several other fish were swimming. “Dun know. Might cook some. Release the females. They're invasive, but a great fightin' fish. Smaller ones tend to taste better.

Clare leaned forward to get a better look at the haul, and the old man squinted at her. “I know you, gal. I recognize your face.”

“You do, yeah?”

“You're Ched Rosser's girl. Clara.”

“Clare,” she smiled.

He shrugged. “Meh, close enough. Don't expect you to remember me. My name's Jim. Jim Bridger.”

“Like the mountain man? I wrote a paper on him at school.” Clare referred to the legendary pioneer explorer who traversed the Rockies in the nineteenth century.

This set Jim off in a fit of laughter, a wheeze that betrayed some kind of respiratory condition. “Wish I had his constitution. I worked with your pa at Alden Research, just up the way there.”

“Retired now?”

Jim leaned back against the oak. “Only on account of my health. Knew your pa well, I did. Shame he took ill the way he did and your ma too. Lovely couple.”

On the outside they were. Clare decided to go for broke. “I'm still looking into why they died. Did you ever hear anything?”

Jim looked lost for a moment as he thought about this. “Nah. Ched looked like he lost a bit of weight before he left work, but then that's no crime.” He patted his rather ample belly. “We could all do with a bit o' that.”

Clare turned her hands over, examining them for the umpteenth time that day. “Perhaps we could.”