Mindfield (Sideways Eight Book 1) (31 page)

Chapter 38

Please Don’t Fear Me

Please Don’t Lorton, VA – Faraday Farms

Saturday, 9 July - 8:45 PM

Two months after Charley moved into the farmhouse, she hired contractors to add a game room to the rear of the house, facing the eastern side of the swimming pool. The renovation included billiards and gaming tables, a seventy-inch television, several video game consoles and an internal stereo system built into the oak shelving surrounding the river stone fireplace. Underneath an oblong, Tiffany stained-glass light fixture, Charley and Murphy prepared the pool table for a round of rotation.

“Rack’em, Sean.”

“I’ll rack, you break.”

Charley wiggled her eyebrows, smiling. “Prepare to be annihilated.”

“One-sided, wouldn’t you say?”

“No.”

“A pool table in-house. You have the advantage.”

“I do, Mr. Murphy.” She laughed, tapping him on the shoulder with the cue stick.

Murphy shook the cue at her. “You are a mean woman.”

“Your accusations are noted.”

After racking the balls, he pointed at them with his stick. “Let’s go, hotshot.”

Charley straightened her shoulders. She bounced the broad end of the cue on the floor. “How about a wager?”

He sauntered towards her with an eager gait. “Oh, really? Okay, fifty bucks.”

“Show me you have fifty bucks.”

“I’m good for it.”

Charley rocked on her feet. “You don’t have it, do you?”

“No, I’ll take yours.”

She whacked him on the ass with the cue. “Keep dreaming, bucky.”

Murphy shook his head, smiling. “As long as I’m part of the dream, it’s cool.”

Her aim positioned at the foot rail of the table, ready to break the balls she directed her shot. “Two balls will drop, one in the left corner and the other in the right middle pocket.”

“I’ll regret saying this, but you’re full of shit sometimes.”

In slow motion her head turned, peering over her shoulder at him. Her eyes blinked once, giving him a cheeky grin. “Watch.”

Settled in, she pulled back on the butt of the cue to break at an angle. The spinning balls scattered across the playing area. The number fifteen and seven balls found a home in the right top corner and left middle pockets.

Murphy’s mouth dropped. “Damn, Char, next time knock’em onto the floor.”

“I can do that.” She laughed. “Mark twenty-two on the board.”

Murphy placed the points on the dial. He swung toward her as she placed the one ball in the upper right pocket.

“Tell me about Sinclair,” Murphy said.

The tip of Charley’s cue scraped the felt, lobbing the white orb to the other side of the room. She stood, backing away from the table, turning her back to him.

“Char, tell me.”

She combed her hair with her hand. “It’s bad, Sean.”

“I assumed.”

“If I give you fifty bucks, will you forget it?”

His head tilted with an inquiring expression, he stepped to the other side of the pool table to join her. “I want the story. Keep your money.”

Charley rubbed her cheeks and her neck hard. “Garrett Sinclair.”

“Who is Garrett Sinclair?”

“We kinda dated.”

“Kinda?”

“Well… we went out to dinner and a movie a few times. It wasn’t a love affair or anything. Not from my point of view. Nothing physical.” She glanced at him.

Murphy returned his cue stick to the rack. “When was this?”

“Two and half years ago.”

He leaned against the pool table, crossing his arms. “So you split?”

Charley’s eyebrows met. “No, not exactly.”

“He’s still around?”

She shook her head.

“He moved?”

“No, he’s dead.”

“Dead? How?”

Charley glanced at him, her eyes sad. “I shot him.”

His mouth dropped. “What? You killed him? Why?”

She placed the cue stick onto the pool table.

Murphy backed away, his voice riddled with disbelief, “What happened?”

Her hands shook as she wrung them. Anxious, she wrapped her hair behind her ear and recalled the cool, sunny October day, she lowered her eyes.

Charley dated Detective Garrett Sinclair of the Philadelphia Police Department a few times a month for two months. The relationship never bloomed into a whirlwind. It manifested into an uncomplicated, unrewarding, and platonic relationship, all her choice.

Delegated to head a task force to locate and arrest a sexual deviant, a lead sent the task force to Philadelphia, searching for a pedophile who lured young boys with empty promises via the internet.

Introduced at the Philly field office to Detective Garrett Sinclair, he took a single look at Charley, and fell hard and fast in love. For her, he was an avenue to superficial normalcy.

The task force cornered the suspect while he held an eight-year-old as a shield. Somewhere along the way, Garrett’s headset malfunctioned. Unaware of this, perched in the sniper’s lair, above the commotion, Charley had a direct shot and called the order for everyone to halt.

The young boy spotted her in the window of the empty office building, four stories high in the nest. Children, sometimes seeing life in a reverse mirror, Charley tilted her head right, to her shoulder. The lad tilted his head to the left. Zeroed in on the target’s forehead, she had a perfect shot.

Garrett, not hearing the order, seized an opportunity to take cover, flanking the offender from behind a white panel truck. As she pulled the trigger, Garrett moved into the line of fire. The angle of the trajectory sent the bullet through the bottom of his neck at his right shoulder, piercing his flesh diagonally to the left, shattering his heart. Charley swallowed her anguished scream before she fired a second round into the temple of the pedophile. From above, the Hostage Rescue Team heard a feral scream.

Murphy scratched the back of his head. Astonished by her words, he said, “Geezus, Char, gawd.”

“The guilt is overwhelming.” She wiped away a tear. “He was a talented investigator.” She turned away from him, her head bowed with her hand on her forehead. “He was a few years older than me. I didn’t love him, nowhere close. However, I killed him. I’ve never taken the life of an innocent. Garrett was a good man and father. His two children hate me. His ex-wife wanted me to go to prison. They divorced about two years before I met him, with no animosity.” She slammed her fists to her side. “He cared a lot for me, but I didn’t...”

Murphy’s hands gripped her shoulders. “It had to be devastating.”

“Horrific.” Charley peered at the floor. “When I realized what happened. I put a bullet in the head of the pedophile, not because he used a child to protect his own ass. Not because he was blasting us with an AR-15. But… because Garrett was dead. It was a revenge killing, but I don’t and I will never regret it.”

“You’ve experienced so much loss, more than most.”

“You don’t know the half of it. That’s what happens when your unsuspecting soul has been sold to the devil.” She pulled away from him, snatched the pool cue from the table, tossing it across the room. It crashed into the wall, taking with it a Tiffany lamp. “I’m a horrible person.”

Murphy stepped behind her, speaking over her shoulder. “If you’re such a bad person, why do you suffer in silence?”

As her tears flooded her cheeks, she shook. “I’m so sorry.”

Murphy cradled her shoulders and with tenderness turned her around to face him, and enveloped her into his arms. “It’s okay, Char, cry. Free yourself. The poison will destroy you.” Murphy stroked her hair. “I’m here.”

Chapter 39

Banana Splits

Faraday Farms – Lorton, VA

Tuesday, 12 July - 12:45 PM

Murphy strutted along the hall leading to the home office next to the kitchen. He stopped and popped a mint into his mouth after he adjusted his tie and tucked in his dress shirt. Around the corner, he entered the former sitting room now their office. Charley stood in front of the console with her fists cradled under her chin. He had never seen such a glowing smile on her face.

His arms out to the side, he grinned to show his amusement. “You called. Here I am.”

“We have a lead, Sean.” Enthusiasm rippled throughout her body. “We have a lead.” Her feet danced as her fists bumped.

“Slow down. What lead?”

“Banana.”

“What?” He took her hand and led her to the chairs behind the desk. “Sit before you explode.”

“I did a little research, and I discovered there’s a program sponsored by the school system called Banana Splits.”

“You’re kidding? Tell me about it.” He raised his hand. “Wait… how did you find this information?”

“I went to the Fairfax County Public Schools’ website and there it was, Banana Splits. I couldn’t wait to show you in person.”

“Nice to hear.” He grinned as she settled in her seat. “Give me more.”

“It’s a program for children whose parents are divorcing. The program director’s name is Dr. Rochelle Vega.”

“We need to talk to her.”

“We will at two o’clock.” She bounced her feet on the floor with her fists pressed against her cheeks.

“Char, you’re going to erupt.” He swiveled his chair around and sat, inching it forward until their knees touched. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

She grabbed his hand. “Sean, this is it. This will lead us in the right direction.”

“Before you go any further, there’s something I want to say.” Murphy took her other hand, lacing their fingers. “I enjoy working with you. Our beginning was rough, but we repaired the damage and concentrated on our work.”

“We did.”

“I mistreated and disrespected you. I was wrong. When this is over, I hope we work together again. I’ve learned things I didn’t understand. Thank you.”

“Sean, never look back. It will destroy you.”

“You say that as if you have first-hand knowledge.” Chained to her past, Murphy understood she was unwilling or unable to form close attachments.

“I do. Don’t ask.” She stood, stepping away from him.

“Tell me anyway.”

She shook her head. “For now, let’s talk to Dr. Vega.”

Annandale, VA – Fairfax Public Schools

Tuesday, 12 July - 2:00 PM

Charley and Murphy stood at the administrative office counter. Unable to gain someone’s attention, she turned to Murphy. “You try. Women seem to fall at your feet.”

“Apparently not the right one.” He grumbled.

A woman approached the counter. “May I help you?”

Murphy showed his ID. “We’re here to meet with Dr. Rochelle Vega.”

“She’s expecting you,” the woman said. “You’re with the FBI regarding the deaths of the girls in the area?”

“Yes.” Murphy read the name Melinda Howard on her ID attached to a lanyard draped around her neck.

Melinda pointed toward the door on the right. “Through there, third door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Charley said.

They entered the hallway, she tapped Murphy’s arm with the back of her hand. She pointed at the door with Dr. Vega’s name. “This one.”

Charley rapped on the door with her knuckle, hearing a ‘come in’, they entered the well-organized office. A woman in her mid to late twenties with auburn hair to her shoulders sat at the desk. She smiled. Crinkles formed around her cheerful icy blue eyes.

“Here we go,” Charley murmured.

The small statured woman stood as she tidied her teal double-breasted business dress. “Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Rochelle Vega. You’re Agents Faraday and Murphy. Which is which?” She offered her hand in greeting.

Charley accepted her gesture. “I’m Faraday.”

Dr. Vega switched to Murphy. They shook hands. “Nice to meet you. Please have a seat. How may I help you?”

“Thank you,” Charley said as they sat in two chairs across from the doctor.

“You’re aware of the recent abductions and murders of four little girls? Lydia Edwards was abducted two days ago.”

“Yes.” Dr. Vega sighed. “Heartbreaking. Where would you like to begin?”

“Explain the role of social workers within the school system,” Charley said.

“We focus on family and community factors that influence learning. Several services are in place for students with issues which put their educational needs at risk.”

“Give us a few examples of the programs available,” Murphy said.

“Sure. There’s quite a few, such as divorce and separation, financial need. Truancy, illness including physical and mental. Conduct problems. Child abuse and neglect.”

“Do you offer counseling?”

“Yes. We work with psychologists both in-house and private, and guidance counselors. A mental health team. We provide crisis counseling, both short and long-term, including group and family sessions.”

“You developed a program for children of divorcing parents.”

“Banana Splits is one of several programs I designed and initiated. That’s how I met Annabelle.”

“Annabelle’s parents aren’t divorcing.”

“Different program. The Grants adopted Annabelle. Prior, she was a ward of the state, in the foster care program.”

“Continue,” Charley said.

“Our area has several children such as Annabelle.” Dr. Vega’s voice resonated professionalism. “They experience unique emotional and educational problems other children don’t.”

“Such as?”

“Post-traumatic stress, behavioral and emotional problems, developmental issues. I’ve had students who were suicidal. Those who exhibit violent or aggressive behavior.”

“You counsel them?” Murphy said.

“I don’t perform personal counseling. Several of our counselors specialize in children with special needs. Each social worker or psychologist is assigned to two or more schools.”

“Counselors have access to each other’s notes?” Charley said.

“Yes.”

“Did you make an exception and counsel Annabelle?”

“No. I visited her school two months ago. Annabelle approached me, complaining about nightmares.”

“How bad were the nightmares?” Murphy said.

Dr. Vega tightened her lips. “I don’t want to break any laws regarding privacy.”

“When you spoke with her were you in session?” Charley said.

“No.”

“You aren’t breaking any laws.”

“Regression nightmares.”

“Manifested from her traumatic background?”

“Yes.”

“Did she request a counselor?” Murphy said.

“Yes, and I arranged one for her, but she died before the first session.” Dr. Vega lowered and rubbed her forehead. “Sorry.”

“No need.”

“Did Annabelle mention a desire to reduce her music training?” Charley said.

“Yes, she did.”

“What action was taken?” Murphy said.

“I spoke with her parents. They had no issue with her taking a break. What Annabelle wanted, they made sure she had.”

“Even if it meant hurting her hands?” Charley said.

“I don’t understand.”

Charley turned to Murphy. “The bicycle.”

“Bicycle?” Dr. Vega said.

“We believe the person who abducted and murdered Annabelle let her ride a bicycle while she was captive,” Murphy said.

“Why do you believe that?”

“Annabelle had injuries consistent with bike wreck.”

“Amazing such injuries can be identified.”

“Well, sometimes the injury can detail how it occurred and with what.”

“I see. Interesting, how an examiner can determine what happened from a simple scrape.”

Charley smiled.

“Did you know the other victims?”

“No. I had no personal contact with them.”

“Annabelle didn’t suffer from any of the other conditions you mentioned?” Charley said.

“Annabelle was shy, but, no. She was a happy kid. I cared a lot for her.” Dr. Vega’s eyes watered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Murphy handed a box of tissues sitting on the desk to her.

“Do you know anyone by the name of Star?” Charley said.

“Star? No, should I?”

“No. We discovered the name in her journal. We don’t know who the person is or whether they are a child or adult.”

Dr. Vega placed her index finger over her lip, her brows wrinkled. “Star… I’m sorry but, no. If I come across it I’ll contact you.”

“We would appreciate it,” Murphy said. “Were any of the girls in counseling?”

“HIPAA regulation prevents me from offering the information.”

“The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act.”

“Even if they are deceased?” Charley said.

“Yes.” Dr. Vega’s eyes watered again. “Annabelle was a well-rounded little girl. Excellent student, no discipline problems. Despite her shyness, she had many friends. Teachers loved her.”

“Good to hear. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, no child does.”

“I agree. Annabelle was special. I don’t mean in a special needs way.” Dr. Vega’s hand flickered. “She was a well-adjusted foster child, considering what she had suffered. It was horrendous.”

“We know. The Grants were dedicated to her.”

Dr. Vega placed her hand onto her chest. “Oh, my goodness, no kidding. Her daddy was such a nut over her. Gosh, it was incredible watching him with her. Mrs. Grant, such a doting mom. She wanted Annabelle to have it all. They did all they could. Their life revolved around her.”

“We sensed that,” Murphy said.

“I have no more questions.” Charley looked at Murphy. “Do you?”

“I would like a list of children who participate in the Banana Splits program.”

Dr. Vega hesitated. “I can’t, due to the privacy rights of the children and their families.”

“They fall under the health care privacy ruling?” Charley said.

“Yes. I suppose you could get a court order.”

“Hmm, I see.” Charley’s eyes grew stern and narrowed.

“Dr. Vega, school isn’t in session. Do the children continue therapy during the summer?” Murphy said.

“If they wish to continue over summer break.”

“Those enrolled in the Banana Splits program, are they continuing their counseling?” Charley said.

“Most of them.”

“Would you give us a general treatment plan?”

“We develop effective coping skills. Teach appropriate ways to express their feelings whether negative or positive. Give them the tools needed to dispel misconceptions about divorce. We explain how to avoid parental conflict, eliminate self-blame, and improve their self-image.”

“How long is the program?” Murphy said.

“However long it takes for each child. Some manage stress better than others. Some never heal.”

“We appreciate your time Dr. Vega. That’s all for now,” Charley said.

“If you need to visit again, please do.”

Charley tapped a photo frame on the doctor’s desk. “Your husband?”

“No, my brother. We’re twins.”

Charley set the frame back onto the desk while Murphy said, “I have a twin sister. We’re so much alike.”

Vega fiddled with a button on her dress. “Robert and I are worlds apart.”

Charley studied Dr. Vega then Murphy. She chewed her lower lip, observing them. “We should go.”

Charley and Murphy stood.

“Thank you, Dr. Vega,” Murphy said.

“You’re more than welcome. I hope you catch the person who is doing this. It’s terrifying. Many parents have talked with me. They’re scared.”

“They should be,” Charley said. “Thank you.”

∞ ∞ ∞

In the truck, Charley scowled.

“What’s wrong, Char?” Murphy said.

“I don’t like her.”

“Why not? She was professional, informative. She answered all our questions.”

“I don’t like her. She’s too perfect.”

“What do you mean? Because she’s pretty? She’s not Jessica Cooper.”

Charley’s brow furrowed deep as she stared out the window. “Let’s go.”