A.W. Kaylen - Silent Witness

Inside the grand expanse of her cubicle, a change bled through the air. It came immediate but silent, like a cloud covering the sun. It was Thursday afternoon and ASAC Hogan was due to storm in there at any minute, crash into Chases cubicle, and ruin her day. Hed come down on her with some arbitrary rule, some box she forgot to check, some idiotic report she didnt fileand give her hell for it. And then shed be filling all weekend.

It wasnt like she didnt do her job. She did it damn well in fact. How many collars had she brought into the New York Field Office so far? Murderers, bank robbers, cultists, motorcycle gangs, and radical political nuts bent on homegrown justice. Yet that was somehow never enough.

It wasnt enough to just catch the bad guy. If you wanted to get ahead at the Bureau, you had to cut through red tape and kiss ass like a champ. FBI Special Agent Heather Chase didnt have it in her for that. Shed learned from a young age to keep other people at a distance. And thats why she sat there in the corner of the office like a bad egg in spite of her impressive arrest record.

The Assistant Special Agent in Charge came at last, crashing in on a wave of cologne, his scent overwhelming like rubbing alcohol. Hogans broad chest stretching out his government-white shirt, his thick neck clenching as a heavy chin perched atop it, smirked wide open.

Okay, Chase said. Give me the bad news.

ASAC Hogan adjusted his stiff, white shirt. He then adjusted his stiff white smile. What makes you think the news is bad, Agent Chase? That famous intuition of yours?

Lets say yes.

Well, its on the money this time. He casually threw a manila folder onto the desk, hefty and thick like a bag full of newborn puppies. Chase slipped open the top, already knowing it would be a case everyone else had rejected: a non-career-maker. Most of the offices here at the Federal Plaza were trying to make it to the brass at Virginia. They didnt want to wade around in the grungy dirt of NYC all their lives.

Chase perused the document, pretending not to smell Hogans cologne all over it. A dead woman, she said without much excitement.

Not just any dead woman. Youre looking at Deborah Doyle right there. As in, the wife of Connor Doyle. The property baron

I know who he is. Hes got his monopoly houses dotted all over Long Island.

The very same.

So thats why no one else wants the case, Chase said. He was connected to high society. Which means ruffle the wrong feathers and say goodbye to your career.

I figured that wouldnt be a problem for you.

But then theres also his rumored mob connections. Did someone whack Mrs. Doyle?

Organized Crime says this one wasnt a mob hit. Doyles mob connection was the Vigotti Family over in New Jersey, and according to informants, no one would dare take out a hit on someone connected to Vigotti.

Oh, that makes me feel a lot better.

The funny thing was, it did make her feel better. Once she knew Hogans angle, she could relax. For one thing, at least it wasnt paperwork. She breathed a little easier now as she scrutinized the photos of the bodythe woman wore a $1,000 hairdo of long, auburn hair and a fake tan that almost shone green over the lividity. She looked to be around five-foot-ten with long legs and a toned, sensual body that was now sprawled lifeless on a lawn. Her high-end cosmetics came off as perverse on her strained, bluish face. She once had everything, but now she had nothing.

Chase flipped through the photos of Deborah Doyle one by one until the outline of the dead woman burned into her retinas and then deep into her mind. She could feel her own face turning pale and green, chest tightening, and her breath dissolving out from her like a soul set free. The faint sound of traffic went silent, the lights of the office dimmed. Her heart ached as it struggled to keep up with the demands of her rushing blood.

The room faded out, little by little, until all that remained was the faintest memory of Hogans cologne. And then that vanished, too. Four walls grew up around herit was a courtyard of some sort. She could feel the wet grass under her exposed legs and between her clenched hands. Her headthe dead womans headChases headtilted upward at an odd angle, straining to look up at the sky; she was becoming a dark stain on the grass. What was she looking at? Who was she looking at?

Chase dwelled in the place of grass and blood for the space of a dream until the sweet decay clung to her skin and told her the regrets of the deadmaddeningly familiar words that would drag her along until the end. I dont deserve this.

She was walking again, without shoes, without socks, the slush underneath slimy against her bare feet. The shadows of the surrounding buildings boxed her in: outside yet inside. One of the shadows was familiar. The police would not have to search for her body. It would be dumped right here, soaking in its own cold regret, implicating just who it was meant to.

A sob tore up through her body and Deborah was ready to wail when she blinked into the realization she wasnt the dead woman at all. No, she was still Special Agent Heather Chase, her reflection staring back at her from the office window, a pale ghost face under darkish red hair with eyes so brown they were black. Agent Chase, persona non grata at the New York Field Office, dead person in her spare time.

What do you see, Chase? ASAC Hogan said from somewhere back in the real world.

A bitter end to a sweet life, Chase said.

They found her body right in the middle of a garden. You know, one of those courtyards inside of a flashy condo up in North Hills.

For those kinds of closed-in gardens, theres only one way in or out but its not suicide.

What makes you say that? ASAC Hogans eyebrows stretched an inch. He was obviously testing her. Testing her with rookie-tier forensicsprobably made him feel like a big man.

Contusions to her neck are a pretty big giveaway. She didnt get those from a fall. Although, the fall is what killed her.

Right. The perp just left her there like an undressed turkey. Didnt even bother to clean the table afterward.