Asher
It's twenty-eight minutes past midnight. I'm not exactly thrilled about having to spend my Sunday afternoon at the station; I could find other important things to do, like sleep. I didn't sleep on Friday and Saturday night. The past week has been very busy for my department, with a two-day search for a missing girl, but for the police, every day and night is actually a working day. I'm sitting in a padded green armchair at a mahogany desk in my office—a five-by-five-meter space that also fits a large gray sofa on the right side of the office door, on which I often lie down and think about cases that sometimes wake me up at night, and a metal filing cabinet stretching along the wall behind me, hiding even fifty-year-old cases—I am engaged in an activity, that every cop hates with a passion. Paperwork. By evening, I have to go through the reports written by the police sergeants on the individual cases solved last week, which are piling up on my desk, close them, and hand them over for archiving. These are the kinds of things that come with the job of sheriff, and I am the sheriff of Warwick.
Fifteen minutes ago, I sent the last hard-working employee home. It's Sunday afternoon, we have no new cases to solve, and there's no need for any of my subordinates to sit here today with nothing to do. I'm reading through the report on the missing nine-year-old girl, Annabel, who was searched for over the weekend, written by Sergeant Stark. I don't like handling cases like this. I mean the ones with a sad ending. According to the police investigation, the case was handled according to protocol, so Sergeant Stark cannot be blamed for anything. After a month, the suspect was arrested and the investigation proved his guilt with the evidence gathered, but unfortunately it was too late. During the search, the girl succumbed to the consequences of her abduction. According to the attached autopsy report, she was in an advanced state of malnutrition and had been repeatedly raped. She died of hypothermia. Unfortunately, the evidence gathered revealed the girl's whereabouts too late. Even after two days of continuous searching, the local police did not reach the location in time. Sergeant Stark blamed himself, but the investigation proved that he had not done anything to jeopardize the search, yet I gave him a week of paid leave. I need capable sergeants here, not those on the verge of a breakdown.
My eyes dart across the paper, the yellow-highlighted words burning into them. I almost jump in fright, my reading interrupted by the loud ringing of the phone on my desk. From the last four digits, I recognize that it's our reception desk. The red light flashes repeatedly and won't stop, so I reach for the receiver and put it to my ear. „Sheriff Asher Garrett. What's going on, Maddison?" According to the duty roster I checked on my way to the office this morning, I know Maddison will be here alone until one o'clock today.
„Sheriff, a detective is here to see you. He wants to talk to you about a case he's investigating. Should I send him in?"
A detective? What could a detective want from the sheriff of Warwick? „I'll be right there, thank you, Maddison." I put down Sergeant Stark's case file and head to the reception desk to find out, who wants to talk to me and why.
He stands in the middle of the hallway, with his hands on his hips, looking at a map of Warwick posted on the wall. He is wearing a beige cowboy hat and a long black felt coat, under which his boots with spurs peek out, and drops of rain from the storm outside drip onto the floor. He's from Texas, I think to myself. When he notices me approaching, he takes off his hat and extends his other hand toward me. „Detective Ethan Bodhi. Are you the sheriff?" he asks with a Southern accent. Definitely from Texas.
I confirm his assumption with a nod. „Sheriff Asher Garrett, but you can call me Asher. What brings you here, Detective?"
„I'd rather talk about that in your office, Sheriff, and call me Ethan." I nod again. I've been on the job long enough to know, that this seemingly casual offer to use first names doesn't actually mean we can use first names. On the contrary, it says: I offered it to you, but don't you dare address me that way. I lead the detective back to my office. He follows me quietly, and the only sound in the hallway is the clatter of our shoes on the floor.
„Can I offer you some coffee? Don't worry, we don't skimp on coffee here. It's top-notch."
„I'd love some." I leave him standing in front of my office in the open space in the middle of the room, with about ten desks full of computers, where individual police officers sit under normal working conditions. Analysts, forensic scientists, and personnel are located on the upper floors. The kitchen, a small, elongated noodle, is located at the back of the room. I fill the kettle with water from the tap and place it on the stove. Meanwhile, I take two mugs with the Warwick Police Station logo and the date of its founding, fifty-eight years ago, out of the cupboard.
„Milk and sugar?" I call over my shoulder to Detective Bodhi from the kitchen. The water has boiled in the meantime.
„Just milk, thank you." I fill both mugs, add milk, and stir the contents with a spoon. I pick them up, turn around, and head for my office. Ethan is already standing there, looking around the room. I walk over to my side of the desk, watching him as I go, place his mug on the other side of the desk, and sit down in my chair. Ethan follows me and sits down in the chair opposite me.
I rest my elbows on the table and clasp my hands together. I originally wanted to wait for him to start talking, but my curiosity gets the better of me. „What is this about, Detective?"
Ethan picks up his coffee mug, sips the delicious drink, and watches me over the rim of the mug. I wait patiently for him to kindly explain the reason for his visit, my foot tapping under the table. Bodhi puts the mug back on the table. „I'd like to talk to you about one of your cases, Sheriff."
„My case? You'll have to be more specific."
„I have reason to believe that there is some connection between my case and yours. This case will certainly be familiar to you; I doubt you've forgotten it in all this time."
„I don't think I understand." Ethan takes another long sip of coffee. I hear him swallow loudly and notice his Adam's apple bob as he does so.
„Maybe this will refresh your memory," he says, pulling a file out of his briefcase and throwing it on the table. I reach for it and open the folder. „The killer was your best friend, Mr. Jayden Soren." A chill runs down my spine, and I look at Ethan with caution in my eyes. I close the file again and send it back across the table to Ethan. I don't have the stomach to look at what's inside. I straighten up and clench my jaw. I have to be very careful now.
„What do you mean, a connection?"
„Over the past fourteen days, the bodies of three men have been found, mutilated exactly as described in the file. I've already received permission from above, but I still thought it was fair to let you know in advance." How generous, I think to myself. „I'm reopening the Jayden Soren case, and I hope you'll be available to me, Sheriff." A wave of anger engulfs me, and I feel like punching the table or hitting the idiot over the head with a stapler. My fingers reach for it, but I change my mind just in time. I have to control myself. I don't want to attract more attention than I already have.
„Excuse me, but what do you think you'll find in this case? It's two and a half years old, and Jayden..., Mr. Soren is dead."
Unfortunately, I am unsuccessful, and my chance to get information out of Detective Bodhi is gone. „I can't tell you that yet. You are supposed to be at our disposal, not the other way around. But the first thing you can do to help me is give me Delilah Soren's contact information or have her brought to the station tomorrow morning." Now I'm really angry.
I stand up and adjust the button on my shirt. I take a deep breath to calm my anger and then exhale. „I'll have to check with the highest-ranking officer in the criminal division. Leave me your request, Detective."
„You'll find out the same thing I just told you, Sheriff." That may be true, but I'll have time to think it over and, more importantly, warn Dee. At least, I hope so. „Hmm. I'll find my own way out." Thank God for that. Ethan gets his ass out of my chair and walks through the door into the hallway, where he disappears around the corner. I reach for the paper, the permit he left on my desk. I don't want to bother Dee with this today; I'll let her have a peaceful Sunday afternoon, but I know where to find her tomorrow. Where she is every morning before work. I'd rather call the highest-ranking officer at headquarters and, with disappointment, have the truth of Ethan's request confirmed. From this moment on, I have to be at his disposal, and that doesn't suit me.
KILLING PAST