The Murder of Janessa Hennley (4 page)

8

Sheriff Suzan Clay kicked the mud off her boots before stepping inside the police station, her phone glued to her ear. When the receptionist put her on hold, she hung up instead of waiting. She walked into the Sheriff’s Office. Two of her deputies, their feet up on their desks, sipped coffee and discussed the latest Icedogs hockey game.

“Sheriff,” they both said in near unison.

“Don’t you boys have speeding tickets to write?”

“It’s like a hundred degrees outside, Sheriff. We’re just waiting for it to cool down.”

“It’s seventy-eight. But can you at least wait with your feet off the desks? Lord Almighty, it’s like I’m at home with teenagers.”

She walked past her secretary, who mumbled something ab
out messages from the jail before returning to a phone conversation. Suzan removed her boots and placed slippers on her feet, then turned on her computer. She picked up the phone and tried calling the crime lab to check on some results from the Hennley case. Placed on hold again, she hung up.

She flipped on
her fan, aimed it at herself, and closed her eyes a moment, enjoying the cool wind. When you had winters that dipped to twenty below, seventy-eight degrees could get muggy.

“Sheriff?”

“What?” she said without opening her eyes.

“Um, FBI called. They said they’re gonna send someone out.”

She looked to her secretary. “When?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“Do they need us to pick them up from the airport?”

The secretary stepped inside the office and put her hands behind her back like she didn’t know what else to do with them.
“Um, no. I think they’re just renting a car.”

“Did they actually say that, Janice, or are you guessing?”

“Guessing.”

“Okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them and see if they need me to pick them up.”

Her computer was making a grinding noise. She hit it with her palm, and it stopped. After Googling the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, she checked for Mickey Parsons. There was nothing on the FBI site about him, but there was a number. She called it and the one she had called before but no one answered, so she left messages asking for a call back.

Curious, she
Googled his name.

The first article that came up
bore the headline: FBI’S ANGEL OF MERCY FORCED INTO DESK DUTY.

She pulled
out a small bag of pretzels from her desk and popped one in her mouth, then read the article. Apparently Mickey had been the top profiler for the unit before a controversial shooting nearly ended his career. He was cleared of any wrongdoing, but they’d still put him on desk duty afterward.

The allegation was that he had shot a dying man as a mercy killing. A forensics team found evidence that the vi
ctim was trying to kill Mickey with some sort of explosive device. Mickey’s comments about the incident were sealed.

She flipped through a few more articles, all discussing Mickey’s career and the cases he had closed. He’d arrested a paranoid schizophrenic in Los Angeles who’d been kidnapping infants out of windows
and strangling them. The man attempted to kill Mickey with a modified AR-16, and Mickey had just barely escaped with his life after shooting the man through the groin.

Another article
detailed a case he assisted on in South Africa. A politician there had been kidnapping and murdering prostitutes. Mickey came up with the profile of a black man, mid-thirties, and deformed in the upper torso, probably the arms or shoulders. When they finally arrested the man based on a tip from his brother, they saw that his left arm had been blown apart from a mine.

Her phone rang
, and she answered without looking at the ID.

“Hello?”

“Is this Sheriff Clay?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mickey Parsons again. I just saw I missed your call.”

“Oh
.” She put down her bag of pretzels and hurriedly chewed what was left in her mouth. “Oh, yeah. Hi. Um, well, I was calling to see if… Well, I was calling about something else, but now I wanted to see if you were the one coming out to help us.”

“No, I’m not a field agent anymore. The Bureau will have one of the special agents in the unit
assigned to your case.”

“Oh,” she said
. “I was kinda hoping it’d be you.”

Silence
for a moment. “I appreciate your confidence, but I haven’t been in the field for six years. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help.”

“I mean, if that’s what you think is best. Oh, and I wanted to see if I needed to pick up whoever
came out here from the airport.”

“No, we’ll rent our own car.”

“Okay.” A long pause. “Well, I guess that’s the only reason I called. You sure you aren’t gonna come out here?”

“Sheriff, why would you care if it were me?”

“I was trying to find your number and came across some stuff online, and I thought—”

“Most of what’s written about me online is bullshit. I’m no different
from any other agent here, and now I’m actually worse since I’ve been hitched to a desk for so long. Believe me, you’re better off with a younger man.”

“Okay, if you say so. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“If there’s nothing else, I have a few things to do here, Sheriff.”

She ran her hand along the desk, wiping away a few crumbs.
“No, that’s it. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. He’ll be out tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Thanks again.”

As she hung up
, she exhaled, then skimmed an article that said Mickey Parsons had the most closed cases in the Behavioral Science Unit of any special agent who had worked there.

“Oh well,” she mumbled under her breath
. She left in search of a temporary office for whoever was coming out here.

9

Mickey cued up a yoga video on Netflix. He followed the movements, trying to calm his breathing and not suck
in too much air. He relaxed into cobra and really pushed down with his arms, getting a good stretch in his lower back, which had bothered him ever since an injury crushed two of his discs. Several surgeries later, he was nearly at ninety percent, with the exception of the occasional pain that still followed him.

He finished his yoga
, then showered and dressed. He didn’t feel like wearing a tie today. Instead, he wore jeans and a sports coat with loafers.

He grabbed
a coffee at Starbucks then sat in one of the cushioned chairs and watched people coming and going. It was generally a college crowd. Most of their conversations were about parties, either not being invited to the right ones or going to them and being bored. He remembered discussions from people this age in the sixties, and they were much, much different. Wars and philosophy and altering what was wrong with the world. Something had definitely changed.

Mickey thought it had
something to do with promises. In his generation, a promise was sacred. A man was judged by how many promises he could keep. But there wasn’t anything like that with this generation. Promises were just words, and character was something you faked.

He walked
to the elevator in the Bureau, then swiped his card and punched the button for the basement, opting not to sign in today. He walked along the linoleum and took out his keys. As he put the key into the lock, he froze. His chest felt tight, and there was acid in his stomach. Finally, he unlocked the door and stood there.

N
othing but dead paper. Stacks of it. Reams of it. The soft buzz of his computer was the only sound. The sole window in the office looked out on nothing but gray dirt.

He exhaled loudly, shut the door
, and locked it. He stared at the office a long while, so long that he wasn’t sure if it was ten minutes or an hour. No one else was down here to disturb him, and he lost himself.

Mickey walked back to the elevator
. He debated leaving, but then went up to Kyle’s office. His secretary put her phone on mute when she saw him.

“How are ya, hon?”

“Good. How’s Tommy and the kids?”

“Great. Havin
g a barbeque in two weeks from tomorrow. You need to come by.”

“Sure.” He glanced around. “Where’s Kyle?”

“In a meeting. Have a seat and I’ll buzz him.”

He sat down in the waiting area and pulled out his cell phone.
He ignored the quiet beep from his watch, letting him know it was time to take his meds, as he texted his daughter.

“
you sure i should go?”

“
yes, daddy. get your butt down there and go hiking. go horseback riding or something. just get out of that basement!!!”

A woman in a suit
departed Kyle’s office without looking at anybody. Kyle stuck his head out and nodded to Mickey.

Mickey
sat across from him and looked at the decorations on the walls. Mostly photos of Kyle with various politicians, Bureau administrators, and celebrities.

Kyle groaned as he
leaned back. “Heavy is the crown, huh?”

“I suppose.”

“That woman is threatening a sexual harassment suit because she says one of our agents groped her, and I didn’t do anything about it. Do you know how much time and money go into training an agent? I’m supposed to fire the guy for grabbing somebody’s ass?”

“I came here to ask you a favor,” Mickey said.

“Shoot.”

“There’s a request for help that came in from
Alaska. A small town in the south. I’ve cleared them, and I’d like to be the one to go out.”

Kyle
tapped the pen he held against his knuckles. “Mickey, I don’t know if that’s going to be possible.”

“I’m just
going to see if there’s anything they missed. That’s it.”

“I’m not worried about your skills, even though you haven’t been in the field since forever. What I’m worried about is how small town yokels are going to react to a special agent with HIV.”

Mickey shifted in his seat. “They’re not going to know, Kyle. That’s not the first thing I share with people. It’s a private matter that I didn’t even need to share with the Bureau. I did that out of courtesy. And you stuck me in the basement for it.”

“That was for the scandal and all the bull—”

“I’m not stupid, Kyle. The Ricks shooting was the justification you needed, so I couldn’t sue if I wanted to. Even though I told you I wouldn’t if you guys decided to let me go.”

Kyle tapped
the pen against the desk. “Why do you want to go? Most agents can’t wait to get taken out of the field.”

“Personal reasons.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know if I’m
going to make retirement, Kyle. I was thinking of leaving the Bureau early next winter. I just want to be out one more time.”

He shrugged. “Fine.
I’ll clear it with the SAC.”

“Thanks.”

He rose and turned to leave. Before he was out the door, Kyle said, “And, Mickey?”

“Yeah?”

“This is it. This is the last time I’m letting you in the field.”

10

The flight was more nerve
-racking than Mickey thought it would have been. He was sweating, and his heart pounded like a hammer. He had never enjoyed flying, and now, after his diagnosis and the daily loss of strength, it was even worse.

An insurance salesman sat next to him
. He tried to strike up a conversation about the dangers of flying, and then brought up life insurance. Mickey sipped a cup of beer and kept his eyes forward. His watch buzzed, and the man asked what that was.

“It’s time to pray. I’m Muslim.”

The man didn’t say anything else to him the entire flight.

When Mickey stepped off the plane
, he walked into the terminal at Ted Stevens International Airport and had to sit down. He watched several planes land and take off before pulling out a Valium and breaking it in half. He washed down half the pill with water and counted to thirty in his head before checking on his bag. He had a connecting flight on a puddle-jumper scheduled to Fairbanks County Airport in two and a half hours.

At
a café near the gates, Mickey ate a salad with grilled steak and drank two cups of coffee. He waited until the effects of the Valium had dimmed somewhat, then he went to his gate and boarded the little private plane.

The flight was short, less than
fifteen minutes, and he stepped onto the tarmac of the airport at about eight p.m. He had wondered why the Bureau wasted money on a flight until the plane flew over several lakes and mountain ranges where the roads just disappeared. Driving there would have taken several hours, if it were possible at all.

He
stopped at the only car rental booth and rented a Ford truck, one of only nine vehicles in stock. The air was warm as he pulled out of airport parking and drove up the road onto the Interstate, heading east toward Kodiak Basin. He looped around and entered the freeway that led him to the city.

The
breezy, light smell up there was something between a park after a rain and a cave untouched by people. He rolled down both windows and let the air wash over him.

The moon barely illuminated t
he mountains, giant, ominous shadows off in the distance. Plains stretched out for miles. They disappeared on hills with houses built over them like pebbles on a sand dune, their lights twinkling.

H
e glanced at the exits as they passed by. After taking the exit he was looking for, the terrain turned to thick forest separated by lakes and reservoirs. The moon reflected in a dull glow that reminded him of a nightlight.

He drove another half hour before dipping down past a mountain and coming up into a valley.
The city was just beyond that.

The lights clustered together like candles on a birthday cake
, surrounded by a blackness that stretched to the horizon. Mountains and forests fenced the city. Whoever founded it, Mickey thought, must’ve really wanted somewhere they would be left alone.

It was already ten
p.m. by the time he arrived at the Sheriff’s station, so he decided to head to the motel instead. The Bureau had booked one for him that looked like a box of matches. He drove around a bit and found a bed and breakfast in what looked like an old Victorian home instead. He parked and walked to the front door. It was unlocked and he stepped inside.

“Hello?”

“Just a minute,” a female voice said. A few moments later an older woman in a robe came down the stairs.

“Sorry, the door was unlocked.”

“That’s all right. What can I do for you, sir?” She pulled her robe tight.

“I was wondering if you had a room available for
a few days?”

She
stared at him. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

“No, ma’am. You haven’t.”

“Just passing through?”

“Something like that. I’m here to meet the sheriff. She requested my help with something.”

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? Come in, we’ll find something for you.”

Mickey shut the door behind him and followed the woman up the s
tairs. Several rooms with closed doors lined either side of the hall, and she used a key to unlock one. The room had one bed and a window that overlooked a garden in the backyard.

“It’s fifty a night
, and I take cash or credit card.”

Mickey
pulled out his wallet and gave her his credit card.

“I’ll be right back with a receipt,” she said.

He placed his bag down on the floor. The town and forest just beyond the window were quiet and empty. He opened the window as the woman came back and placed his card and a receipt on the nightstand.

“Fresh towels and soap
are in the bathroom. Breakfast is at seven a.m. sharp, so don’t be late.”

“Thanks.”

“So what’re you doing for the sheriff, exactly?”

“There’s a case she wanted me to look at.
I’m a federal agent.”

“Oh. Is it the Hennleys
?”

“It is.”

The woman shook her head. “Such a sweet family. Especially that girl of theirs, Janessa. Her mother and I volunteered with the PTA together some years ago. She was so warm. Just a sweet girl. I wish the sheriff would just hurry up and find whoever did that.”

“Thanks for the room,” Mickey said.

The woman stood still. Mickey held her gaze. Most people were unable to maintain silent eye contact for more than a few moments without growing uncomfortable. She fidgeted a little and then said, “Well, I should let you get some sleep.”

“Thanks again,” Mickey said, and shut the door.

He lay down on the bed. Though he wanted to take a shower, fatigue penetrated every muscle in his body. He was asleep before he could even kick off his shoes.