Brett Battles - No Return

Only he had never signed that report. He carefully scanned the others to see if his name appeared elsewhere, but this was the only place.

Why was his signature on the DNA report? And what about the reports that weren’t here? Was his signature on them, too?

A chill ran through him. He was already in neck deep because of the protocols, but it seemed that wasn’t enough. Commander Forman was making sure a big, fat arrow was pointing right at Lars.

He stared at a blank spot on the desk, paralyzed. He had to do something, but what?

He sat there for nearly ten minutes, his mind churning. Finally, he knew what he had to do.

With a deep breath, he closed the folder, and exited the office.

“I’ll grab some clothes for tomorrow and be over in a few minutes,” Anna said.

They’d just returned to the motel from dinner.

“Don’t be too long,” Wes said.

“Or what?”

“Or I might be the one who’s asleep.”

Smirking, she shook her head. “Should have taken that nap with me.”

While Anna went for her things, Wes let himself into his room.

The red light on the phone was lit. He made a quick stop in the bathroom, then retrieved the message.

“Wes, it’s Lars. I’ll … uh … I’ll call back.”

Wes stabbed a finger at the number three button, erasing the message. He then turned on the TV and climbed onto the bed. As he pulled out one of the pillows to put behind his back, he realized there was something stuck to the cloth case.

It was a neatly folded piece of newsprint, safety-pinned to the pillow’s cover.

Reluctantly he undid the pin and opened the paper.

Most of the page was the remnants of an article about school board elections. But whoever had left it had conveniently circled a smaller, one-column article in black ink.

BHS STUDENT DIES AT HOME

Ridgecrest emergency services were called to the home of the Johansson family on Rancho Street yesterday afternoon. Inside, they found a young woman in cardiac arrest. According to Fire Department liaison Lisbeth Klausen, EMTs immediately began lifesaving procedures, but their efforts proved unsuccessful

.

A family spokesman indentified the woman as Amanda Johansson, 17-year-old daughter of Dean and Lauraine Johansson, and a senior at Burroughs High School. It is believed Miss Johansson was home alone at the time

.

Wes could feel tears welling in his eyes. Two short paragraphs announcing her death were all that Mandy got.

It was so stark. So impersonal.

He wiped his eyes, then threw back the bedspread to make sure there was nothing else underneath. All he found were sheets.

A knock on the door startled him. He pulled the spread back onto the bed, then went to see who it was.

Anna was there, but she wasn’t alone. Behind her were Detectives Stevens and Andrews.

“What’s … up?” Wes said.

“Sorry to bother you so late on a Sunday evening, Mr. Stewart,” Stevens said.

“Did you find my stuff?”

“I wish that’s why we were here.”

When Stevens didn’t elaborate, Wes said, “Then what is it?”

“We’d like you to come down to the station with us.” Stevens smiled without warmth. “We have something we want to show you.”

“You can’t tell me what it is here?”

“Easier if you come with us.”

Andrews pointed at a sedan in the lot. “Our car’s right over there.”

Detective Stevens led wes into a small, windowless office and motioned for him to take a seat in front of the desk. Andrews grabbed the other guest chair.

“We apologize for having to bring you all the way down here,” Stevens said.

“So what did you want to show me?”

“It’s actually more to listen to than show. I’m sure you’re familiar with anonymous tip lines?”

“Uh … sure.”

“We may be a small force but we have one, too. Most of the tips turn out to be nothing. You know, angry neighbor stuff, or someone just trying to mess around with us. I’ll be honest with you, we probably write off ninety percent of them the moment we hear them.”

“Okay, but what does this have to do with me?” Wes asked.

“We received another call a little over an hour ago. Probably would have dismissed it, too, but, well … Can I play it for you?”

“That’s why we’re here, right?”

Stevens answered with a nod, then turned to his computer. “All right. Here we go.”

An initial hiss was followed by an electronic time stamp, then a moment of dead air. “There is a man staying at the Desert Rose Motel named Wesley Stewart. He has information about a crime that happened when he used to live here. You should talk to him.” A couple of clicks, then the speaker went silent.

The voice had been muffled. Monotone. No telling if it was male or female.

Stevens looked at Wes. “So what do you think?”

Wes tried to look confused but unfazed. “What do I think?”

Andrews chuckled. “Pretty crazy, huh?”

“More bizarre than anything else.”

“Any idea what it could mean?” Stevens asked.

Wes shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest. Do you?”

“What about the voice? Do you recognize it?”

“No. It could be anyone.”

“It mentioned you left town a long time ago,” Andrews said. “Is that true?”

“Yeah … I grew up here.”

“Right.” Andrews pulled out a notebook. “Grew up on base, right? Navy brat?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you leave?”

Wes narrowed his eyes. “A long time ago. When I was a teenager.”

“How long?”

Wes hesitated a second. “Seventeen years.”

“Wanted to get out of here as quick as you could, huh? Go start your career in Hollywood?”

“Something like that.”

Stevens asked, “So if you’ve been gone so long, why do you think someone would have called and said all that?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Wes replied. “Whoever left that must be pulling a prank on you.”

Andrews smiled. “I had the same thought, didn’t I, Stevens?”

“You did,” Stevens said.

“I mean, really, it’s kind of random. Maybe we should ask you about all our cold cases and see what you might have had to do with them.” Andrews looked at Wes again. “Of course, you have had a lot of things happening around you this weekend.”

Wes cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

“Come on. This isn’t the first time we’ve spoken since you came back to town. In fact it’s not even the second. So I guess we’re wondering why, if you lived here all those years ago, and are just in town to shoot an episode of …,” he flipped through his notebook, “ Close to Home , an anonymous caller would use your name?”

“And I’m supposed to know the answer?” Wes said.

“We were hoping,” Stevens said.

Wes shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they saw my name in the paper the other day, and thought it would be fun to screw around with an out-of-towner.”

“Your name was in the paper?” Stevens asked.

Wes looked at Stevens, then at Andrews. Both detectives stared blankly back.

“The F-18 crash?” he said. “I was the first one on scene?”

“That’s right,” Stevens said. “I do remember reading that now.”

“Some jerk probably just went, ‘Eenie, meenie, miney, moe,’ and picked my name out of the article.”

“Perhaps,” Stevens said.

The two detectives shared another look, then Andrews said, “Two break-ins, an apparent car chase, a missing person, and now this? I don’t have a good feeling about you.”

Wes leaned forward. “Are you implying I might be responsible for any of those things?”