Jonathon King - Eye of Vengeance

Hargrave had gone quiet and Nick had the sense that this meeting was through.

"So what's next?" he asked.

"To the morgue," Hargrave said, standing up. "You want me to get your CD back from Dr. Petish while I'm there?"

Jesus, Nick thought, what doesn't this guy know?

"No, that's alright. I'll just get it later after you get done," he said, grinning.

They were at the door when Hargrave suggested that Nick go over the list that he'd given him and let him know if any of the names came up familiar on second reading.

"And speaking of lists," the detective said, mocking Nick again. "Ms. Cotton claims she doesn't have any kind of sympathy letters that she kept from the time after her children were killed."

Nick didn't know how to react. He was wondering why the woman would recant such a thing.

"But she's not a very good liar," Hargrave said. "She stonewalled me early this morning. Why don't you take a visit and see if she'll give them up to you?"

"Yeah, OK," Nick said. "But I'm also going to need some information and quotes from you on this thing for tomorrow's paper."

Hargrave held Nick's eyes for a moment and then seemed to give in to something he'd probably prided himself on for a career.

"Yeah, alright. Here's my cell number. Call me when you need it."

Nick took down the number and watched the detective pick his way through the office and leave. Then he stopped at the room where the employees of the parole office had gathered.

"Excuse me," he said and they all looked at him in anticipation. "I'm Nick Mullins from the Daily News. Can anyone tell me about what happened here?"

Nick was inside with the parole office employees for a good forty minutes, taking down quotes and names and spending extra time with the woman whose dress was still spattered with blood, when Hargrave's sergeant at arms came in with a disgruntled look and gave him the thumb.

Nick nodded, thanked the group and left the offices. Outside, there were a few television trucks around the circumference of the crime scene and the body of Trace Michaels had been removed. One of the Channel 7 guys was about to do a standup with the scene as his backdrop when his cameraman spotted Nick coming out the door and maybe mistook him for a detective. He gave his TV reporter the high sign. When the guy turned and recognized Nick, he passed the microphone and came over to meet him, lifting the crime scene tape as if he were doing Nick a courtesy.

"Nicky, hey, what the hell, man? You're obtaining special access these days?" the reporter said, nodding back toward the crime scene.

"I don't know about that, Colin. I got here early and they were still scrambling a little. I guess I kinda slipped through," Nick said, giving the guy a little wink as though only they knew what that meant.

Nick was not into the "breaking exclusive" anymore. He'd been on the beat for enough years to have lost the instant competition shit that goes on in the news business. He wasn't one to give away the farm, but he didn't mind helping someone out with information he knew they were going to get from the press officer anyway. And it always helped to be one of the guys, us against them. He also often got a kick out of this chap's British accent and breathless delivery of a particularly heinous crime. He pulled out his notepad and went through some of the basics for him: Trace Michaels's name and date of birth, the fact that he was showing up to report to his PO when he was shot just outside the door and a little taste of what the employees were feeling on the inside, including a description of the woman who'd been just in front of the ex-con when he went down.

"Jesus. Did she see anything when it happened, you know, a drive-by or something?" the Brit said.

"No. She didn't say," Nick said, thinking of a way to move on without acting like he was keeping something important to himself. "She did get some of the guy's blood spattered on her dress. You know, she was pretty upset."

Nick could see the light go on in the guy's head. "When it bleeds, it leads" was the unofficial motto of his station. He'd spend half the day out here for the chance to get a shot of the stained dress on a weeping witness.

"Christ, thanks, Nicky," he said. "She's still inside, then?"

"Yeah, probably be coming out soon. I can't see them keeping the office open after all that."

Nick shook the chap's hand and walked away, only feeling a tiny bit guilty. When he got to his car, Nick called the city desk and filled them in on the shooting of Trace Michaels, another criminal gunned down by an unknown assailant. He told the assistant editor on duty that he would continue working the story from the streets and that he would be in to write in a couple of hours. He also let them know that somewhere in the archives they would have a photo of Michaels to run with the story, as he had done a major piece on the guy before.

"OK, Nick. Great. But let me ask you something, though," the assistant said. "This is like the one last week you did? The jail shooting?"

"Yeah, kind of," Nick answered, knowing what was coming.

"So, you know, Deirdre was asking if we have some kind of a trend thing going here? I mean, maybe you could put together a trend piece or something for midweek?"

Yeah, thought Nick, a trend piece: Subjects of reporter's stories being killed one by one at the hands of a serial sniper.

"Sure. Maybe. Let me get this one rolling first and tell her I'll get with her later, OK?" he said instead.

"Great, Nick. See you when you get in."

Nick could see the wheels working: Deirdre standing up at the noon editors' meeting offering up the story, sketching out a real "reader" for the folks before she knew a goddamn thing. Nick shook it off. "Way of the world, man," he whispered to himself and then started the car and headed west toward Margaria Cotton's.

On the way he dialed Ms. Cotton's number twice on his cell but only got an unanswered ring. He was trying to piece together why the woman would lie to Hargrave about the box of letters she'd kept from the time of her children's death. She'd been far too open with him to have made something like that up and Nick couldn't see a reason to keep it a secret from the detective. He was debating whether he should leave a note in her door explaining what he wanted when he finally turned the corner onto her small street and saw her old Toyota in the driveway. He pulled up on the patchy grass in front of the house and called her number one more time, getting the same unending ring as he walked up the cracked sidewalk.

Again the small figure of Ms. Cotton opened the front door before Nick had the chance to knock. And again the interior of her small home was dark and cool behind her.

"Hello, Mr. Mullins," she said in her deceptively soft but strong voice. "I figured you would be coming."

Nick stepped in, his thoughts tossed off-balance once again by this tiny woman.

"I tried to call ahead, Ms. Cotton. To see if you were in."

"Yes, I'm sorry," she said, motioning him to the sofa. "I didn't mean to make you think I was some sort of psychic. I do have caller I.D. on the phone. I just don't like to answer it all the time. Better to talk to folks face to face, don't you think?"

"Yes, I agree," Nick said, thinking that the line could have come from his own mouth. Maybe she was psychic.

He sat down and on the glass-topped table before him was an old shoe box with a piece of string tied at its center. Ms. Cotton sat opposite him, the same as she had during his previous visit. When he looked up into her face, he saw that she too was looking down at the box.

"These are the letters?" he asked, stating the obvious. The woman only nodded.

"So would it be alright if I took them with me, Ms. Cotton?" Nick continued. "I'll certainly return them, but I'd like to go through them carefully, you know."