A Glimpse of Evil

  Someone—probably an EMT—had lifted me up and helped me inside. The sheriff followed close behind me, and one was right now stationed on the other side of that curtain.

  Rodriguez hadn’t regained consciousness when the sheriff had shown up, and I wasn’t sure they believed my story, but I could hardly blame them. Until Rodriguez woke up . . . if he woke up . . . I was the only witness to what had gone down.

  Abruptly the curtain was pulled aside and a man in a yellow dress shirt and green tie said, “You Abigail Cooper?”

  I nodded dully.

  His head disappeared again around the curtain, but I heard him say, “She’s in here, Agents.”

  Footsteps approached and the curtain was summarily ripped aside and Dutch’s pale face, creased with worry, appeared. “Jesus!” he said when he took one look at me before he moved quickly to my gurney only to scoop me up into his arms and hug me tightly.

  The waterworks began again in earnest and I clung to him for dear life. I was so overwhelmed by all the emotions that had been storming through me that all I could do was cry, and cry.

  My sweetheart held on to me, rocking us gently while stroking my hair and whispering, “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here, dollface. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Eventually I calmed down and I was able to take a breath without shuddering. Dutch cupped my ears and tipped my head back to look earnestly into my eyes. He seemed to want to say something to me, but his own eyes were moist and I was amazed that he seemed so emotional. Instantly I wanted to reassure him. “I’m fine,” I whispered.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against mine. “What was Rodriguez thinking?” he growled. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch when he gets out of surgery.”

  “It wasn’t his fault, Dutch,” I said, gripping his wrists. “Really. We were there just to check a few facts from the old owner, who wasn’t even a suspect. We never dreamed we’d be in trouble until we found the oil drums and the owner’s son started shooting at us.”

  Dutch backed his head off mine and his features were hard again. He’d put on his cop face. “Start from the beginning,” he ordered.

  Behind him another voice said, “And don’t leave anything out.”

  I looked past Dutch to see Harrison, his shirt damp and pressed against his chest. “What’d you do, run here?” I asked him, and somehow, making a wisecrack helped more than anything to ease the terrible tension gripping my insides.

  “We were worried,” Harrison said, pointing to Dutch. “And I tend to sweat when I’m worried.”

  The corner of my mouth lifted. “Attractive,” I said drolly. “That Candice is one lucky lady.”

  Dutch made a sound like a half cough, half laugh, and when I looked back at him, I had some hope that I could in fact bounce back from this terrible day.

  Forty-five minutes later I’d given them the whole story about all the events leading up to my arrival at the hospital. I’d been interrupted only once, when a deputy from the crime scene had arrived to let us know that they’d found two decomposing bodies in the two oil barrels behind Clady’s.

  “The vics are Wendy Hayes and Tyler Harvin,” I told Harrison, jumping slightly ahead in my story. “They’re part of a missing-persons case Rodriguez and his partner had worked when he was with the Dallas bureau.”

  We also learned that when his father was still alive and running the shop, Darrell did most of the heavy lifting and drove the tow truck. While Russell was indeed a sweet old man who’d never hurt a fly, his son was a different character altogether.

  Darrell had a record of domestic abuse. He’d put his wife in the hospital more than a few times and she finally left him in 2006, when he’d done two years in the can for assaulting her.

  But since he’d gotten out of prison in 2008, he’d stayed low under the radar working at his father’s garage until Russell died, and Darrell took it over. Why had he killed the teens? Maybe it was because he found Wendy attractive, and wanted to rape her, but needed her boyfriend out of the way. Maybe it was for another reason altogether. The only thing I knew for certain was that sociopaths don’t always need a reason—they just need an opportunity to cause harm.

  Once the nurse freed me from the IV, I sat with Dutch and Harrison in the waiting room until we heard news from the surgeon operating on Rodriguez. I’d been given a mild sedative, which was starting to kick in, and it was making me drowsy. Still, I was really surprised when Candice burst in through the automatic doors and dashed straight for me.

  Just like Dutch had done, she pulled me up to her and hugged me fiercely. “I got the message an hour ago that you’d been in a shoot-out and were in a Waco hospital. I drove like a maniac to get here. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Can I do anything?”

  She said this all in a rush and she was squeezing me so tightly that I could barely take a breath big enough to answer her. “I’m fine,” I reassured her, but she only tightened her grip. “Okay, so my ribs hurt,” I added with a squeak.

  Candice immediately released me and placed her hands gently on my side. “Where? Which ones? Has a doctor seen you? Have they taken X-rays?”

  Harrison stood and moved over to us. “Hey,” he said softly. “She’s fine. Just a few abrasions and she’s been treated for shock.”

  Candice acted as if he didn’t exist. “Where does it hurt, honey?” she asked me again.

  I blinked at her. She didn’t get that I’d tried to make a joke. “I’m fine. Honest, Candice. I’m okay.”

  My friend stepped back to give me some space, but then seemed to rethink it and reached forward to clutch my hand in hers. She then closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “Don’t you ever do something like that again,” she whispered. “I nearly had a heart attack on I-Thirty-five.”

  I shuffled forward and hugged her this time. After hearing her take a nice deep breath, I coaxed her to the chairs and noticed that she made sure to sit on the other side of Dutch, which was three chairs away from Harrison.

  I saw the muscles in Brice’s jaw bunch, but he wisely chose not to push the issue.

  Just as we all sat down, the surgeon came out to tell us that Agent Rodriguez came through the surgery just fine. He’d lost a fair amount of blood, but after several transfusions his vitals were all good.

  “He was shot with a hollow point,” the doctor told us. “It did some damage, nicked his lung and took out some muscle tissue, but there was nothing we couldn’t repair or any permanent injury done to the shoulder or any of the surrounding tendons, so with some good physical therapy he should make a full recovery.”

  I felt another huge chunk of tension leave me and exhaustion began to take over. I leaned against Dutch and held his hand. “Can we go home soon?” I asked.

  Harrison spoke before Dutch had a chance. “Take the car,” he said. “I’ll wait here until I can take Rodriguez’s statement.”

  “I can drive you,” Candice said quickly, and I realized she didn’t want to get stuck taking Harrison home.

  If I’d had even an ounce of energy more, I would have told her she was acting like an idiot, but energy was something I was in short supply of. In fact, as the three of us headed out to her car, I couldn’t get my legs to work right and I kept tripping. Dutch must have noticed because he scooped me up and carried me the rest of the way. I think I even fell asleep before he loaded me into the car.

  The next day Dutch gave me the news over breakfast. “You’re going to have to meet with Internal Affairs this morning.”

  “Internal Affairs?” I gasped. “Why do I have to meet with Internal Affairs?”

  Dutch took a deep breath and let it out slowly, something he always did before telling me news he thought I wasn’t going to like. “Abby,” he began, “you have to understand. You shot a man yesterday.”

  I recoiled as if he’d physically slapped me. “In self-defense!”

  He held up his hand in a stop motion. “I’m well aware,” he said calmly. “This is just procedure.
You’ll go in and give your statement to them—”

  “I already gave my statement!”

  Dutch took another deep breath and let it out. “Yes,” he said. “We got that. So all you’ll have to do is repeat what you told us, and they’ll investigate to make sure the shooting was justified.”

  I sat back in my chair and looked at him critically. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  His eyes met mine. “Yesterday was a very bad day,” he said softly.

  “Duh,” I snapped. I’m not my most congenial in the morning.

  Dutch ignored that and continued. “And IA is going to take issue with several things, so be warned.”

  I glared hard at him. “Would you just tell me, already?”

  My sweetheart closed his eyes for a moment. I could tell I was trying his patience, but as a kid I’d always been terrified of being sent to the principal’s office. “First of all,” Dutch began, “the fact that Rodriguez wasn’t following protocol by investigating a case that should have been assigned by Harrison is an issue.”

  “For God’s sake, Dutch! He was the original investigating agent!”

  “Yes, and a year ago he had declared the case officially cold. When it showed up in our office, it should have been audited by you or one of the other agents, and given to Harrison, who then would have had me follow up with the lead.”

  “But it scored so low that you guys would have tossed it out!”

  “Not if you had audited it,” Dutch argued. “You’re the one who got the tow truck connection, right? You would have determined there was a lead to follow up on and it would have gone to me or Harrison to investigate.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and pouted. Stupid smart boyfriend making his usual stupid good point. “Fine. What else will they have an issue with?”

  “Well,” he said, and I could tell his patience was wearing thin, “Rodriguez was told not to take you out in the field except to find the car in the hit and run. Once you guys found that car, he should have taken you back to Austin immediately. In other words, he disobeyed a direct order from me.”

  “We were only going to ask a harmless old dude a question! We didn’t even know Clady’s had a tow truck! Don’t you think if we’d known that particular fact, Rodriguez would have dumped me off back home and taken another agent with him?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you thought, Abby!” Dutch shouted, finally fed up with me. “It only matters what happened. And yesterday, what happened is that Rodriguez disobeyed protocol, took a civilian profiler with no field experience out to interview a possible suspect, and subjected them to a shoot-out where that civilian profiler then had to shoot a man in self-defense!”

  Dutch’s voice cracked a little as he finished shouting, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen him so angry in all the time I’d known him. Wisely, I waited until he composed himself again to say, “It wasn’t Oscar’s fault, Dutch. I swear to God, it wasn’t.”

  But he didn’t seem even remotely convinced. “Rodriguez put you in danger, Abby. It’s only a miracle that you weren’t killed. And I can’t let him off the hook for that. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

  I reached out for his hand, but he pulled it away and stood up. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “We’ll be late.”

  An hour later I was thrown to the lions. And, just like you would imagine having a fun little romp with hungry man-eating beasts would be, I came out on the losing end.

  The lions in question were two stern- looking IA Feds with no sense of humor and what I could only assume was a severe case of constipation caused by the giant stick up their butts. And they made it clear: Everything I told them was probably a lie. They even had me take a polygraph . . . the bastards.

  They also kept me all day with only one break for the ladies’ room. By four o’clock it was obvious that even with the polygraph they didn’t believe me. They kept asking me the same set of questions over and over and over. It was really annoying.

  But at last I figured out how the game was played and I crossed my arms and refused to answer any more questions. I also threatened to get an attorney. I didn’t know if I was allowed one or not, but I think I might have played that just right, because they stopped asking me questions and wrapped up the interview.

  I was left alone for another hour when Dutch opened the door of the conference room and said, “Can you come to Harrison’s office?”

  I tried to read his expression for any sign of what IA had determined, but he had his cop face on, and there was no telling. “I’m thirsty,” I said. “And I have to go to the bathroom.”

  A crack in the granite appeared and his eyes softened. “I’ll get you something to drink, and you can hit the ladies’ room on your way to Harrison’s office.”

  I got up wearily and moved to the door. “If you can also locate some cookies or chips to go with that drink, I’d owe you.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

  When I made it to Harrison’s office, a Coke and a bag of Oreo bite-sized cookies waited for me. “Thanks, cowboy,” I whispered as I took my seat. I then popped the lid on the Coke, drinking thirstily for a moment before diving into the cookies. I wanted to eat and drink as much as I could before I lost my appetite, because I was pretty sure I was about to get fired.

  “You’ve been suspended,” Harrison said.

  I sighed and set down the bag of cookies. I’d gobbled down only two. “Gee, Agent Harrison, don’t beat around the bush or anything. Please, tell me where I stand.”

  “It’s not my choice, Abby,” he explained, and I was grateful for the kindness in his eyes at least. “It’s standard operating procedure whenever there’s an agent involved in a shooting.”

  “But I’m not an agent.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but for these proceedings, we’re going to act as if you are. You’ll be suspended with pay until IA clears you.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Given the amount of forensic evidence found at the scene, including the two bodies in the oil drums, the amount of ammo we pulled out of your car, and Rodriguez’s shoulder, I’d say two weeks to a month at the most.”

  “And Rodriguez?”

  “Also suspended.”

  I looked from Harrison to Dutch and back again. “So . . . what? I’m just supposed to go home and sit around waiting for those bozos to decide if I acted in self-defense?”

  Harrison looked me square in the eye. “Yes.”

  My shoulders drooped. I felt like my parents had just grounded me. “Well, that sucks.”

  Dutch looked at me sympathetically. “At least you’re being paid while you’re away from here,” he offered.

  I had an idea then and I asked, “Can I at least take a couple boxes home and audit some files for you guys?”

  Dutch and Harrison exchanged a couple of uncomfortable glances. “No,” Brice said. “I’m afraid you can’t touch any new case until you’re cleared by IA.”

  I turned in my seat and regarded the whiteboard behind me. There were now five cases in the “Solved” column. In barely a week I’d gotten us almost all the way to our goal. “Seems like we were just starting to get some momentum,” I muttered.

  “We still have those cases you gave us to work on until you return,” Brice said confidently. “And two weeks isn’t so bad. You’ll be back here before you know it, Abby.”

  “Fine,” I said, feeling like all the wind had been taken out of my sails. “I’ve got some files at home. Do you want me to go get them?”

  Dutch smiled. “That’s okay,” he said. “I can bring them back tomorrow.”

  Harrison stood then, effectively ending the meeting. “I’ll call you as soon as we hear from IA. In the meantime, try not to worry. I’m convinced you acted appropriately given the situation you found yourself in.”

  Dutch walked out with me, and we headed for home. Or so I thought.

  I was really so worn-out from the afternoon with the jerks from IA tha
t I didn’t notice where we were until gridlock hemmed us in and we slowed to a crawl. Looking around, I asked, “Is this the right way?”

  “We’re taking a detour. I’m treating you to something I think you need.”

  I smiled. “Got something special in mind, hmm?” What a great boyfriend I had. Taking me out for a nice dinner and, hopefully, a humongous glass of wine.

  Dutch pulled off onto an exit without elaborating. I continued to think nice, happy thoughts about him right up until we pulled into the parking lot of Red’s Indoor Range. “Pit stop?” I asked as Dutch parked and shut off the engine.

  “I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”

  I blinked at him stupidly. “Excuse me?” Where was my fancy dinner and that giant glass of vino?

  “Abby, there are times in every relationship when a man has to decide if his girlfriend is a magnet for trouble. And you, dollface, are like trouble’s Mecca.”

  I felt heat sear my cheeks. “I am not!”

  But Dutch just inhaled deeply, let it out slowly, and said, “Excluding what happened to you yesterday but within the relatively short time that I’ve known you, you’ve been attacked by a serial killer, kidnapped by the mob, stalked by a madman, shot by a psychopath, trapped in a prison riot, pursued by a renegade agent, and just four months ago, you barely escaped being a deranged killer’s science project.”

  Crap. Stupid smart boyfriend had another stupid good argument. “None of that was my fault!” I yelled defiantly.

  “Exactly my point, sweetheart.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and glared angrily at Dutch. “I do not want to learn how to shoot a gun, Dutch.”

  “Why not?”

  My jaw dropped. Did he not know me at all? “Because they kill people!” I said, and without warning my eyes filled with tears. “I hate them, okay? I’ve seen too many people get shot, including me. As far as I’m concerned, we should repeal the Second Amendment and learn how to get along!”

  I was treading on dangerous territory here. Dutch was a proud card-carrying member of the NRA and I was fairly certain he voted Republican. “We’re not talking politics here, Abby. We’re talking about safety. If you’re ever in a position again where you have to shoot or be shot, I want you to have that option with some sense of confidence.”