Reporter Jeff Coleman had just returned to his desk after a long night's work at The Los Angeles Times and was ready to retire to his house in the hills. After the shock of finding his photographer and long-time friend, Kirt Davis, guilty of a brutal crime, Coleman felt that it was his turn to take a break. Then, the phone rang through the night, a knife cutting through the sharp air of retribution and regret.
"Coleman."
"Yeah, Jeff, how are you? It's Robert."
Robert Morin had been Coleman's friend and source as a coroner for the past fifteen years and provided him with the necessary information every time. Trust-worthiness, accompanied by a quick sense of humour, made Robert Jeff's closest friend and source and he could always count on him to have the bodies ready and prepped for examination.
"Ah, Robert. Hey. Um…I'm doing all right, I guess. How else would I be?"
"I don't know. It was kind of a huge shock. None of us really saw it coming, especially you. And you worked with him for so many years on so many cases that you must be pretty shaken," Robert said respectfully with a melancholy tone in his steady voice.
"It was just one of those cases, I guess, where the person that you would least expect to have committed the crime, in truth, did. But, the show, I'm guessing, goes on because otherwise you would not have called me. What have you got?"
"Some John Doe came in this afternoon. Probably around age 30 or so with one gunshot wound straight to the back of the head. It was a through-and-through. Entered right in the back of the head, smashing its way through the skull, crushing the medulla oblongata, and exited through the neck just below the chin."
"A killer with the guts to murder in broad daylight. You don't find too many of those these days. Do you think it could result in a serial killing?"
"I don't know what I think. But one thing I do know is that this person had to be highly trained to make a shot that clean and precise."
"Yeah, I think you're onto something, Robert. Call me if you find anything else or get more information, okay?"
"All right. Hey, Jeff."
"Yeah," he replied sluggishly, his fifth cup of coffee wearing off, the all too painful memories flooding his brain, stimulating his pain.
"I'm really sorry. But it's not like you could have done anything, you know that don't you?"
"Yeah, sure. Night, Robert."
"Real convincing," Robert said back. "Goodnight!"
Did he ever get a break? Sometimes Jeff wasn't sure. Long, sleepless nights mixed the realization that he would just get up the next day, go through the same routine, and put away some wacko to do a couple of years in the joint. Not that that changes them much, Coleman thought as he slowly drifted off into a deep state of sleep. I can't believe it, I cannot believe it. Why can't I just go to bed? This is not right. Wait; why am I even doing this? Thoughts worked there way into dreams and as the hours slipped by, so did Jeff's concerns.
"Jeff! Jeff Coleman! What are you doing here? I told you, we don't want you working on this case anymore!" the young woman lectured as she stepped out of the FBI's sleek black sedan. With her fire red hair pulled in a tight bun and a pencil skirt hugging her hips nicely, her black, patent high heels clicked as she made her way towards the khaki trench coated figure that was Jeff Coleman, only, that was three years ago.
"I know, I know but, Linda, that girl is my sister! I can't just ignore this case! For all I know Cynthia died because of me! I'm her brother, don't you understand! You can't take me off of this case. Not until it's closed."
They argued in the fog filled streets until a decent hour in the morning when the police were done cleaning up the scene.
"I'm sorry, Coleman, but your involvement in this case could completely cease the evidence from being fully examined and the case to be looked over without any further contamination-"
"Contamination! Contamination, oh yes, that's wonderful. I'm her brother, sorry, I contaminated the case because oh, I don't know, I want to find her killer! This-" he paused, heated, "guy shot her in the head. My own sister, Linda, and you expect me to back off of this case. Well-"
"Yes, Coleman. That is exactly what I expect you to do. You will have no further involvement in this case or else I will have to suspend you from even covering this story in that newspaper of yours," the woman, Linda, declared with her head shaking and a long sigh. "I'm sorry, Coleman. But there is nothing I can do."
"Oh, I know. I know you're sorry. Everyone usually is," he said as he left her, wounded, in the middle of the street, sirens flaring all around as the blue and red lights pulsed through the night.
He awoke with a start. Thursday at six o' clock. Right on time. The dream had left him scarred but determined to help save someone else. Putting on his normal work attire, grabbing coffee and a quick bite to eat, Coleman headed out the door to brave the big bad world.
The office was just as welcoming that morning as it was any morning. Judy at the front desk in that horrid purple suit of hers, that tight, pinched expression on her face, and high squeaky voice saying, "Good morning, Mr. Coleman! You have two missed calls and a press conference to be at by ten thirty this morning."
"Thanks, Judy."
"You're welcome!"
Wow.
He sat as his desk, put his feet up near the glowing computer monitor and twiddled his thumbs, not caring about his two calls or the press conference he had to attend in two and a half hours. I guess I should check those-. His thoughts were interrupted by a young woman who had just meandered through the whole entire office before arriving at his desk.
"Good morning!"
Oh no, she's just like Judy. Help me.
"Hi, I'm Claire. Claire Burns. How are you doing on this lovely morning, Mr. Coleman?" She was probably around 25, fresh out of college with a mop of somewhat messy blond hair pulled back into a bun with her wispy bangs flowing freely. Her knee length flowing skirt of bright, vibrant patchwork with colours of red, blue, green, orange, red, yellow, and others of that sort, intertwined, was paired with brown flip-flop sandals and a plain white sleeveless tank. On her otherwise naked arms was a navy blue sweater, matching the blue in her skirt, and brown wooden beads and a peculiar silver necklace with what appeared to be a witch, sitting, poised, in a moon, arms extending to hold a red crystal ball, hung freely around her neck. With arms cluttered in bracelets and fingers in rings, she stuck her hand out to receive his in a friendly welcome.
"Hi, Claire. I'm just fine thanks," he said with a sarcastic happiness.
"I'm here to help you out. I hear you need a new photographer?"
At least she's prettier than Judy. This could work. "Yes, you're right," he took a while to answer. "I am looking for a new photographer," he repeated, hearing the shock of the phrase course through his mind.
"Now, I have to tell you a secret, all right?" she said, leaning over his desk, a foot or two away from his ear. She put her hand on the side of her mouth to muffle her words. "I have absolutely NO experience!" she smiled. "But, I mean, come on, I've been doing this since I was a little kid. I just haven't done it professionally," she finished, nonchalantly.
"Who inspired you?"
"My father. He was a photographer. He died when I was five. And I guess ever since then, it was what I promised myself that I would do," she calmed down with these words.
"Well, I'm very sorry to hear that. I lost my sister when I was twenty five, three years ago," he said, and then realized what he had let slip. Uh oh.
"Wow. That must have been hard. Just three years ago? I can't even imagine."
"Trust me," he said with a laugh, "you don't want to."
Eight thirty in the morning and already the sirens were blaring in the distance, a signal that a criminal was on the lose and had struck again. Coleman grabbed up his jacket, threw it carelessly on his narrow shoulders and semi-muscular arms, and instructed Claire to follow. Pulling her blue sweater tighter to her and crossing her arms, she took off in a slow jog after him with her flip flops clicking back and forth with every step. Quickly jolting into his car, making sure Claire had gotten in, he furiously poked at his police radio until it switched on. The low garble of slurred words of a police officer transmitted the message clear enough, "Central and 5th, young man, unidentified, age estimated: 27, shot, code blue, code blue. Young man slipping into shock. Dispatch backup needed."
"Okay, that's our cue. Do you have a camera?"
"Yeah, it's right here," Claire answered as she pointed to a small, orange messenger bag sitting in her lap.
"Good….very good. Now, do you know the rules and all that jazz when you're at a crime scene?"
"I think. Stay behind the yellow tape?" she shrugged.
"Yeah, that's an important one. They're a bit touchy about the whole yellow tape deal. Also, never get too close to the body. You want to get close but not too close or otherwise I'll have the FED's hounding me."
"All right," she nodded in acceptance. "Anything else?"
"No, I'll handle most of the questions and you can just go about taking the pictures. You can upload them to a computer, right?"
"Yes, I should be able to with the memory card or my chord."
As the car became one with the road, masking its dips and curves exquisitely, the wind flying past without notice, Coleman became uneasy.
"What's happened?" he questioned while storming into his boss, Frank Reynolds, office. "Why are the FED's here, Frank?"
"Coleman, they're concerned. And, quite frankly, so am I. You've gone mad. You haven't slept in days, your eyes are all cloudy, bloodshot, and you seem jumpy. You should go home, Jeff."
"I can't just leave! My sister is dead, Frank!"
"I know. I know," he said, bowing his head. "But you can't stay here and that is exactly the reason why."
"Frank-"
"Don't argue, just go home, Coleman. Just, please, go home."
Filled with an overwhelming frustration, Coleman reluctantly left the office, seeing Linda on his way out. As the glass doors to the Los Angeles Times closed, he looked back at her as she nodded in recognition of his sorrow.
The car pulled up with a slow, quiet motion, the dull roar of the engine, barely audible. The modern day apartments, which resembled the likes of skyscrapers more than actual homes, towered above the city, reflecting the strong sunlight with their dozens of glass windows as Coleman and Claire got out of the car. Police cars had flooded the scene, some still with their screeching sirens blaring, and dozens of FBI agents, among with few reporters, crowded around the door of the apartment complex. There she was, Linda Torrez, Coleman's lead FBI investigator in his sister's murder case. He paused in disbelief.
"Who's she?" Claire questioned with the curiosity of a five year old child.
"Linda Torrez, a FED. Let me handle this, you go inside and see what you can get."
"Okay," she said, lingering to bite her lip, squint her eyes, and make a quick note to herself to question Coleman later on about Linda. Then, she took off with her flip-flops clacking after her.
"Linda Torrez," Jeff said as he approached Linda from behind, as though making her feel guilty of a crime.
"Jeff Coleman. I thought I'd never see you again. Though I have read your stories in the Times. I have to admit, you haven't lost your touch. How are you doing and why are you here?"
"Well, I'm here investigating this case and I've been holding up. Or…trying to, at least," he truthfully stated as his cheeks flushed pink. He had always hated admitting he was not doing as well as he planned.
"Oh, yes. With what happened with Kirt, I'm sure you're pretty shaken up. It was a-"
"Shock to everyone, yeah. I get that a lot. So, how have you been?"
"Always thinking around Cynthia, Coleman. I'm always thinking about her."
"Yeah, me too. I-"
"Coleman!" Claire yelled joyfully as she came half skipping and running out of the apartment. "Coleman, I got the pictures!"
"Um…great, Claire. Claire Burns this is Linda Torrez, she's with the FBI."
"Oh, hi. Nice to meet you," Claire said as they shook hands and exchanged smiles.
"Pleasure. Is she your new photographer, Coleman?" Linda asked as Claire skipped off to Coleman's car to get her laptop and chord.
"Yes and she's doing pretty good actually, for her first day, at least."
"Well, I better get going, Coleman, but if you ever want to come by my office, I can help get Cynthia's case open again," she whispered, handing Jeff her business card, 'just in case'.
"Thanks," he said, turning away from her as she walked over to the sleek, black car.
"Who's Cynthia?" Claire pressed having overheard the conversation as she popped a bubble she had made of her gum. The sweet aroma of peppermint would not mix well or conceal the horrid stench of blood that filled the streets, the air, the memories of the past.
"My sister," Jeff answered, his throat was incredibly coarse and his voice sounded dry as their surroundings seemed to fall silent.
"Oh," Claire got quiet. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"No, it's all right. It's fine," he assured her quietly. "Let's move out. We'll get the pictures uploaded on the computer and then go to the press conference for the John Doe that came in."
"Wait. What John Doe?"
"Oh, right," he noted to himself aloud. "Well, this all started right before you came. I got a call last night from a source of mine and they said a John Doe came in, shot straight through the head. It was a through-and-through. There's a press conference about it at ten thirty this morning which is in," he said, glancing at his watch, "about an hour. Great."
"Oh, okay. Um…should we upload them right here or go back to the office and do it there?"
"Well, we should probably go back to the office." Coleman's phone rang as he started to explain his reasoning. "Hello?"
"Coleman, it's Renyolds. I think I got a new partner for you."
"What? I'm the senior crime reporter, Frank! You can't just have someone come in and steal my bead!"
"I know but, with the condition you've been in lately, I figured you would thank me for giving you a pair of extra helping hands. Coleman? Coleman!"
But it was too late, Jeff had already hung up. Frustrated, he laid his head on the steering wheel of his car and sighed. He finally convinced himself to drive to the office and find out who was now working as his miniature. Why do I need anyone else on this case? Coleman wondered.
"Who was that?"
"My, well, our boss. He says he got someone to help me on this case," he said, agitated.
"Why?"
"God only knows," Coleman replied, bringing his car quite swiftly around the bend. "I can't tell what Frank's up to anymore. The man does as he pleases, the FBI's been on his case. I guess he's become a bit of a softy now that he has all eyes on him."
"Ah, I see," Claire replied quietly. The car's interior turned once again cold with an ever lingering silence.
When Coleman and Claire arrived at the office, about three black sedan's, clearly FBI vehicles, were awaiting outside. Oh God, what do they want now? Coleman thought. Walking through the office to his desk seemed to take ages with Claire trailing closely behind him.
"Jeff Coleman," the clear, distinct voice said as he approached desk. Linda. "Jeff Coleman, how many times am I going to have to see you today?"
"Let me guess, you're my new 'assistant'?" he almost rolled his eyes.
"Yes, I am. Now, what case are we working on here?" she inquired, leaning closer to his desk, studying the pictures from the crime scene and information from his sources. Coleman's hand went for the evidence before she got the chance to thoroughly look it over. Then, his phone rang, again. How many times today do I have to answer the phone?
"Coleman."
"Yeah, Jeff. I'll have the body ready for you either this afternoon or tonight. Press conference is tonight at around seven. If you want to drop by the morgue after its done, you can," Robert Morin said.
"Oh, thanks. Um…I'll try and do that. Hey, can I call you back a little later. I have a press conference for the first victim in about an hour, forty-five minutes is more like it, actually."
"All right. No problem. You don't even have to bother to call me back. Just swing by later tonight unless I hear different from you."
"Okay, thanks again."
"Press conference?" Linda urged for more information as he hung up. "Well, where is this all happening?"
"No where that you're going. Claire, are you almost ready with those pictures?"
"Yup, I have them downloaded on here and they are printing as we speak."
"Great. Now, whenever those are done, we'll leave here for the conference, all right?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm ready whenever you are, boss," she smiled.
"So what am I going to do here? Just wait until you get back? Coleman, if I am not correct, it seems you have forgotten that I am an agent of the Bureau. What am I going to do?"
"You're right. You are 'an agent from the Bureau'," he nearly laughed at himself for talking to her this way but, he wasn't going to let her steal his bead, steal his story, whatsoever. He leaned closer to her, "Use your imagination," he whispered. "Let's go," he said, still staring her deep in the eyes.
"Do you really think this guy is a serial killer come back to haunt us?"
"I'm not sure but he is definitely a serial killer."
"So, we're not sure if he has a previous record? What if you're right, what if he's done this before?"
"Then we'll just have to wait and see," Coleman said with a quick adoring smile as he drove his car (for the twelfth time that day). What if she's right? Oh, don't worry about it now. You've got to much to worry about, Coleman. You're driving yourself nuts, no pun intended.
His cell phone rang desperately in his pocket, screeching with the desire to be noticed, unnecessarily. "Can you answer that?" he said, quickly glancing at Claire.
"Hello, Jeff Coleman's cell phone," she answered like a telemarketer, with added charm.
"Thank you!" he mouthed.
"I need to talk to Jeff Coleman, put him on now!" the voice demanded, nearly screaming as Claire held the phone away from her ear as her eyes blinked quickly for a moment and then popped out. "Um…okay," she said slowly, curious.
"Hello?"
"Coleman, do not go to this press conference! I just received a call from another agent and the police are there. The killer has basically bombarded the conference, taking everyone hostage," it was Linda. "Jeff Coleman, promise me you will not go! Turn around now and come back to the office. That's an order!" she shouted.
"Sorry, I don't follow the FBI's orders," he said, then hung up, and the car shrieked with the excitement of its extreme acceleration. He was determined to go to this conference, whether it was dangerous or not, he would face his killer.
"Coleman. Jeff!" Claire said in a hurry, apprehensive. "What's going on?"
"That was Linda. I think we found our killer."
As his car wheeled its way into a barren parking space, he ran towards the building, a glass wonder, towering high above the city lines, but still managing to maintain its height with the other architectural masterpieces of Los Angeles. Claire ran after him, making her sprint fast to catch up with him. Shouting, pleading cries arose from within and Coleman pushed open the main Plexiglas doors, frantic to get inside to where the action was going down. They made a run for the stairs and jogged their way up to the third floor. A group of men and women, employees, reporters, a few scattered overworked, underpaid security guards, were huddled where they stood with a young man standing in the middle of the room, a large rifle in his hand. On their entering, he shot off two rounds into the ceiling, causing the new boards to flake and bits to fall to the floor as the screams started again for a moment.
"You!" he said, pointing a pudgy, black smeared, finger at Coleman, "You're Coleman, aren't you? Yeah, yeah, I remember you, three years ago. Don't play stupid with me," he shouted, shaking his head violently, as Coleman looked in awe. "Have fun joining Cynthia," he then pulled the trigger of the gun only to find it empty of its deadly ammunition. The police quickly attacked the man, pulling him to the floor, kicking the gun out of his hands, and handcuffing him.
"Do you know him?" Claire whispered, shocked with excitement and confusion.
"I don't know," Coleman said, still with a half-gaping mouth.
"This man was a fanatic of yours, Coleman," a police officer told him. "You are Jeff Coleman, aren't you? Reporter from the Los Angeles Times, right?"
"Yeah, right," he answered, oblivious to his surroundings.
"He said he wanted to know what it felt like to kill because of all the 'glorious' descriptions in your articles. Are you all right, sir?" he inquired before rambling on, Claire lingering a bit behind them for privacy, as they made their way out of the building.
"Yes," he said, "yes. I'm fine."
"He studied you, everything that happened. Who is Cynthia, Mr. Coleman?"
"My sister," he said, putting on his big brown aviators and stepped out of the building, Claire at his side.
"I think this gets us the rest of the day off, Jeff," she whispered, laughing afterward. "This is kind of fun. You know, being on this whole adventure with you."
"Yeah, sure. It's just a thrill ride that gets better and better," he said sarcastically, smiling widely.