Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (8 page)

I was certain that the medical examiner would
be taking far more detailed photos and even made mention of it
aloud. However, my wife informed me that this was standard
operating procedure, and she was going to follow it to the letter.
I couldn’t disagree.

I stepped back out of the way and watched on
as she steadied herself in the doorway while snapping off a series
of pictures to show the location of a bed pillow, which had been
haphazardly tossed into the bathtub. It bore its own
velocity-patterned bloodstains, as did the translucent plastic
shower curtain. Both spatters had their own stories to tell. One
said that the pillow had probably been used to muffle the gun’s
report; the other hinted that perhaps the shower curtain had been
used to shield the killer from the spray. Still, even as Felicity
called out the particulars of the shots for me to record, my gaze
kept being drawn back to the victim.

Wentworth’s chest and protruding belly were
flaccid and pale, making the red spatters and trickles of blood
stand out in stark contrast beneath each harsh white burst from the
camera’s flash unit. I lowered my eyes to make sure I was writing
in a straight line as I filled the logbook with the details I’d
been given but almost unconsciously returned my gaze to his
lifeless torso.

The niggling “something not right” feeling
grew into a full-fledged itch at the base of my skull as I stared.
The brilliant glow of the strobe painted his form once again, and I
heard my wife call out another set of notes. This time, however, I
didn’t look away.

Instead, I asked, “Are you going to do
close-ups of his chest?”

“No,” she replied. “That will be in the
mid-range shots. You only do close-ups of wounds or anomalies.”

“Okay, but look at his chest,” I told her,
pointing.

The streaks of blood, which at first had
appeared to be merely a by-product of the head wound were beginning
to reveal much more. Upon close scrutiny, a few of the trickles
followed an opposing pattern to that which had dripped from above.
It wasn’t readily obvious, primarily due to the amount of
collateral spattering, but if you looked hard enough, you could see
it. On top of that, they looked as though they formed some kind of
pattern.

Felicity cocked her head to the side and
concentrated on the area I indicated. Finally, she leaned in at the
threshold and peered through the viewfinder of the camera. That
didn’t surprise me, as the lens always seemed to act as an
amplifier for her. It was a focal point of sorts and one that often
caused her to transcend the physical, allowing second-sight to take
hold. And, through it she could see things even I could not.

After a moment she snapped a series of
pictures then turned back to me. “I think they’re shallow cuts.
Like from a razor.”

“Like maybe he was tortured?”

“Maybe.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.
They aren’t very deep. In fact, there are several of them that are
almost completely superficial. They don’t even look as though they
actually bled. But, there might be a pattern there. I’m not
sure.”

“Bizarre,” I mumbled.

“Aye, that’s for sure. Either way, the
medical examiner will be able to get better pics once he’s cleaned
up.”

Whether it was an effect of the flash,
prolonged staring, or just luck, I couldn’t say. At any rate the
equation suddenly changed. It wasn’t solved, but there was
definitely a new value to assign to one of the variables. Of
course, new values sometimes do nothing more than beget new
unknowns, and that didn’t always make solving the equation any
easier.

I kept telling myself that we were just here
to take the crime scene photos, but in the back of my head I knew
better. There was a reason for the flu epidemic and rash of
no-answers from the other photographers on the list. I might not be
having one of my customary headaches or visions just yet, but they
were probably just around the corner. There was something ethereal
at work here, and it had brought us to this particular scene for a
purpose; of that I had no doubt.

I could feel the muscles in the back of my
neck tighten as my hair prickled upward. A tired bromide that I’d
spouted to my wife only a few days before popped into my head, and
I suddenly realized just how foretelling it had been.

The calm was over and a violent storm front
was fast approaching. What’s more, Felicity and I were standing
directly in its path.

“I already told you I don’t work for you,”
Felicity spat angrily while remaining fully engaged in a “stare
down” confrontation with a young, overly groomed, FBI agent.

The sun had been up for almost an hour now,
and we had only just finished shooting the exterior of the motel,
the parking lot, and Wentworth’s car when he had stopped us and
quickly displayed his badge.

“That is not an issue,” he replied, his own
gaze not wavering from the face of the petite redhead in front of
him.

“It is for me.”

“Get over it.”

“All right then, who’s going to pay for the
flash cards?”

“You’ll get them back when we’re finished,”
he told her.

“Yeah, right,” she snipped.

Ben walked over to where we were standing,
coming within earshot just in time to catch my wife’s adamant
commentary. “What’s goin’ on here?” he asked. “Pay for what?”

“Flash memory cards,” I explained. “The FBI
wants us to hand over the crime scene photos. We were just…”

“Bullshit!” my friend interjected without
letting me finish. Even though his voice climbed a pair of notches
in volume, he was still maintaining far more composure than I was
used to seeing from him when dealing with most federal law
enforcement. He shook his head and looked over at my wife.
“Felicity, you got the film or whatever it is with ya’?”

“Aye,” she replied, not taking her heated
stare off the agent.

“Givit here,” my friend said, holding out his
hand and gesturing with a wag of his fingers.

She reached into her pocket and extracted the
two compact flash cards then dropped them into Ben’s palm.

“That all of it?”

“Detective Storm,” the agent spoke up.

“Just a minute,” he snapped in return.
“Felicity?”

“Yes, that’s all of it,” she replied. “Rowan,
give him the log.”

I handed over the small notebook but kept my
mouth shut.

Ben stepped back and scanned the activity on
the parking lot then yelled, “Yo! Harrison. Over here.”

Across the way, a tousle of blonde hair poked
up from beneath a trunk lid. The young woman was turned away from
us and was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the words “CRIME SCENE
UNIT” across the back. She turned around, and with a confused
expression creasing her face, she pointed at herself and mouthed
the word “me.”

“Yeah, you,” Ben yelled. “C’mere.”

“Detective Storm,” the FBI agent started in
again. “You need to consider…”

“Fuck that,” he spat. “What I need ta’
consider is that I called ya’ in as a courtesy since the stiff is a
federal judge. Other than that, it’s still a homicide that falls
under local jurisdiction, and right now Major Case is gonna handle
it. You wanna help, great. You wanna take over, fuck off.”

“Yes, sir?” the young woman spoke up at Ben’s
side, interrupting before the agent could respond.

He turned to her immediately. “Yeah, look,
Harrison…”

“Detective Storm!” the agent demanded.

Ben glared back and held up a finger as he
declared, “I’m talkin’ ta’ Harrison right now.”

“Huddleston, sir,” the woman offered.

My friend looked back to the woman, creased
his brow, shook his head, and then said, “What?”

“My name is Huddleston, sir. Not
Harrison.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” he replied with a
dismissive wave. “I need ya’ ta’ take these to Murv. Tell ‘im to
bag ‘em and process ‘em.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied as he handed the
cards and log to her.

“…
And stop callin’ me sir. You’re
makin’ me feel old.”

As she hurried off we heard her reply, “Yes,
sir.”

“Now,” Ben continued, turning back to the FBI
agent. “You were sayin’?”

“Detective Storm, we assumed that since you
called us, we could count on your cooperation.”

My friend planted his hands on his hips and
gave a quick nod. “Cooperation, yeah. Rollin’ over and playin’
dead, fuck no. Once we get the pictures processed out, you want
copies, no problem.

“Now if you wanna go in there right now and
make your own scrapbook, have at it, but ya’ better get a move on
before the coroner pulls the body.”

“Detective,” the agent attempted to reason
with him, “As you said, you are dealing with a federal judge here.
Hammond Wentworth is a very influential individual, and there are
circumstances here that should remain confidential.”

“Listen, Agent…?”

“Drew.”

“Agent Drew, what ya’ got here ain’t
circumstances, it’s a DEAD federal judge. He’s not gonna influence
anybody anymore.”

“There is still the matter of how and where
he was found,” Drew objected.

Ben was starting to get angry now. “This
ain’t like sweepin’ another vice bust under the rug. This is a
homicide.”

“I’m aware of that, but I’ve been in there. I
know what the situation is. Those photographs could be very
embarrassing…”

“Is that all you’re worried about?” Ben
snapped.

“No, not entirely, but they are definitely an
issue.”

“Well, don’t get all worked up about it,” my
friend replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. “I’ll make sure we
wait a few days before we put ‘em out on the fuckin’ internet, now
why don’tcha go chase a terrorist or somethin’.”

* * * * *

“Thanks for not handin’ over the pictures to
the Feebs,” Ben said to Felicity.

“Aye, no problem,” she replied. “I wasn’t
about to.”

“Where’s Constance anyway?” I asked. “She
wouldn’t have dreamed of getting pushy like that.”

I was referring to Constance Mandalay, an FBI
special agent we had worked with several times in the past. Upon
our first encounter, she had been much like Agent Drew. In fact,
she was even worse. Within the course of that first investigation,
however, she had done a complete about-face. She went from being a
hard-nosed femme fatale out to prove herself to being a good and
trusted friend. And in Ben’s case, ever since his divorce, she had
become something even more.

“Talked to her last night. She’s still
in D.C. Will be till the end of the week prob’ly.” He let out a
harrumph before saying, “Yeah, I’d sure as hell rather be workin’
with
her
on this. But even if
she was here right now, they’d most likely assign someone
else.”

“So that means you two are still seeing each
other then?” Felicity asked.

“Off and on, yeah,” he shrugged. “Right now.
Kinda on. She’s been in D.C. for damn near a month though, so it
makes it kinda hard.”

“Sorry.”

He shrugged again. “Nothin’ ta’ be sorry
‘bout.”

We were standing next to my friend’s
Chevrolet van, keeping out of the way while waiting for the medical
examiner to clear the scene. The vehicle was in far better shape
than it looked from the outside, and he went to great pains to keep
it that way. The side door was presently locked in the open
position, and Felicity was perched just inside on the floorboard,
putting away her camera equipment.

After a brief quiet I switched the subject.
“So, you were right, Ben. Something’s definitely off kilter in
there.”

“You go
Twilight Zone
?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, but that didn’t keep me
from feeling some things. Felicity too.”

“Yeah, I keep forgettin’ that you get all
freakazoid on me now, too,” he said, looking over at my wife.

“Once, Ben. Just one time,” she stressed
without looking away from the task at hand.

“That’s enough for me,” he replied. “So
whatcha get?”

“There was definitely sex involved,” I
offered.

“Well yeah,” he grunted. “That was kinda
obvious. Wentworth, or somebody, shot his wad all over the floor
looked like.”

“There’s more than that,” Felicity
interjected, looking up. “It’s something palpable… Still.”

I knew what she was implying with that last
word, even if Ben didn’t.

“I hate to tell you two this, but if ya’ walk
in any one of these rooms, it just plain smells like sex. That’s
nothin’ new. They don’t rent rooms by the hour here for corporate
conferences if ya’ know what I mean.”

“Aye, but this is different,” my wife
added.

“Different how?” he asked.

“Intensity. Urgency.” Felicity shook her
head.

He shrugged. “Okay. But like I said, that’s
all kinda obvious just from lookin’ at the scene. Got anything
else?”

“Fear,” I offered. “Or lack thereof, I should
say.”

“Come again?”

“From the looks of things, he was executed,
right?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s how it looks.”

“Well, if someone had me bound, blindfolded,
and a gun in my mouth, I’d be terrified,” I offered.

“Join the club,” he said.

“That’s just it, Ben,” Felicity told him.
“There was no fear in that room. Only arousal.”

“How do ya’…” He shook his head as he caught
himself and allowed the rest of the sentence to fade away. “Forget
it. So there was no fear, eh?”

“None,” I confirmed.

“And that tells us what?”

“I don’t know for sure,” I answered with a
shrug.

“Yeah, well no offense, but I think ya’ know
what I’m gonna say ta’ that.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh. It doesn’t help.”

“Ding-ding,” he returned. “Give the man a
cigar.”