Day 23: Morgue (Garrett's POV)
"Okay, let's go over what we are dealing with; then, I'll start dividing up the work load," I said as I stood at the head of the long oak table in the conference room, "We have seven deceased victims and one living victim. Five of the decedents were raped – no semen was found, but there was substantial bruising on the thighs. Two of the decedents were strangled without sexual assault. All DNA evidence points to Jacobson – the campaign manager of J. Abrams Richards."
I watched as my staff scurried to take notes on the case – we never held case conferences, but it was time to bring everyone up to speed. I wanted everyone to be on the same team . . . this team was largely against the recent decisions of Renee Walcot.
"We also have four bombs. The fingerprint evidence is pointing to Arthur Davidson – he's currently an assistant to Senator Ellington. Jacobson and Davidson are currently walking the streets . . . we need to build a rock solid case," I lectured as I began to pace in the front of the room.
My voice was not the same as it normally was . . . I could hear the slight hesitation . . . the inconsistent cadence. I hadn't heard from Jordan for days . . . no one had heard from Jordan. Eddie had only heard from Woody once . . . no one had any idea as to what was going on in Wisconsin. The airlines would not surrender records to me . . . I wasn't sure exactly where Jacobson and Davidson were . . . they could be in Wisconsin.
"All your work is extremely important, since we are taking every shred of information to the media. This has been kept quiet too long . . . we need to get the public to force Walcot to pursue this case," I said, "Nigel, you can update the group on your working theory."
I returned to my seat. Nigel looked haggard . . . he hadn't been sleeping. I caught him sleeping on the couch in Jordan's office the other afternoon. I wasn't sure if he had even gone home in the last few days . . . I know that I hadn't . . . I would go home during the lunch hour to shave and shower.
"Current theory . . . Ellington ordered all the murders. The press would be used to boost his campaign . . . he would be able to work on a whole new series of legislation. Jacobson and Davidson would split the money that Candice Ellington had 'extorted' from her father. Jacobson would be the murderer . . . Davidson would monitor the happenings in the police station. Neither expected to be caught. Our Jordan and Woodrow, we getting too close for comfort, so they were targeted with mail bombs," Nigel said . . . the glimmer that was in his eyes the other night was gone . . . the conspiracy theory was no longer his friend . . . it was probably the truth.
"Okay . . . your assignments. Nigel, go over the contents of the bombs. Find out how they were made, if they would be fatal, and where those materials might be purchased – when you are ready, I have some financial records that might help. Bug, I want you to make sure that this DNA evidence is front and center in this case. I want you to finish working up all the DNA from the crime scenes. I need print outs that could be used on a poster board and in a press packet. Lily, I want you to help Bug. Peter, you and I are going to be going over every single body. I want to be sure that we aren't missing anything. We will also be assembling pictures of the crime scenes for a press packet. I will also be going over the evidence collected from Jacobson's office. Everyone clear? Let's go," I said as I stood up and headed directly to the morgue . . . everything else would wait today.
The day was long . . . Peter and I combed through each of the seven bodies until I was personally satisfied that the bodies were clean. Nothing significant was obtained . . . I let Peter begin to assemble pictures of the strangle patterns on all of the victims – he assured me that he could get pictures at the exact same angle – the media never got these pictures . . . it would implicate that there was one person doing the strangling. I went to trace evidence to work on the blood spatter pattern saw in Jacobson's office . . . and the three hole punch he used to crack open Candice Ellington's skull.
"Dr. Macy, your press packet is all set . . . Lily is just finishing copying it . . . she already called the news stations and scheduled at 9 pm press conference in the conference room," Nigel said as he stood in the doorway.
"Any good news?" I asked . . . yawning.
"The bombs are rudimentary . . . the recipe is all over the internet. I managed to get a list of all the IP addresses to access at site called 'how to make bombs.' I figure that politicians aren't that creative . . . well, the website designer is more than willing to work with us . . . rather than the cops. I'm still waiting on that. The financial records are promising . . . Davidson used his credit card to make a purchase at the local hardware store . . . purchased most of the ingredients for the bomb," Nigel said . . . he leaned heavily against the door frame.
"Go home and sleep," I said . . . I tried to refocus on the spatter pattern . . . two hours until my press conference . . . only the third in my entire career.
"I want to be there . . . just in case . . . some how Jordan sees the press conference. I miss her . . . it just isn't the same here . . . and for once it isn't because she is running," Nigel said.
"As soon as we have some serious charges . . . and arrests . . . she'll be back. I could use some help if you don't mind," I said.
"You want to play the game . . . you know mock it out?" Nigel asked.
"Anymore of that game and I'll never sleep again," I stated . . . it was going to be a long night.
Day 23: Ladysmith, Wisconsin
He was mad because I hadn't said anything to him during the four hour car ride. I wasn't sure what to even say. He left his father and I to watch the baseball game last night while he went out with his mother . . . he had barely talked to me all afternoon. His father and I had a good time . . . he complained about the Brewers and I helped him polish off a six pack . . . much to the dismay of Woody.
This morning, I watched him say good-bye to his parents. His mother cried . . . his father told him that this year he should come home for the holidays. I was under the impression that he went home every year . . . that's at least what he told me. His mother made me promise that I would let her know as soon as we set a date . . . I needed to send pictures of the ring . . . more importantly, she wanted an engagement picture to put in the local paper. I told her that I would try . . . I could feel myself tear up when she hugged me.
The care ride was excruciating . . . Woody didn't want to talk. We sat silently in a tiny Ford Escort . . . it was the only undercover car that the Kewaunee police department had . . . there were only two thousand miles on it . . . and it was five years old. We would need to drop it off as soon as we were set to leave Wisconsin. I thanked Russell for all his time . . . I appreciated the ambience of Kewaunee. Russell looked genuinely pleased that I like his city.
The cabin was tiny . . . one bedroom . . . a tiny bathroom . . . the kitchen and living room merged together. I immediately dug out the book that I was reading . . . sat in a chair in the corner of the living room . . . next to the fire place. This was the Hoyt family hunting cabin . . . used only during deer season. Susan had adorned the walls with pictures of her children . . . Woody was such a sweet looking child.
Woody immediately retreated to the bedroom . . . said he was going to unpack. We had stopped at a grocery store on the way here . . . gotten the staples to last for up to a week. I paid for the groceries . . . Woody asked me not to. It was the least I could do.
I was exhausted . . . it was only two in the afternoon. I went into the bedroom . . . stripped down to my underwear . . . pulled on my pajama pants and a tank top. I crawled under the sheets . . . I could hear Woody moving around in the bathroom. I tried to tune it out.
"Jordan, are you hungry?" Woody said as he came into the bedroom.
"No, not really," I replied . . . I curled up in the bed. It would be impossible to sleep in this bed . . . I couldn't imagine finding a mattress that was more lumpy.
"You haven't eaten anything today," Woody replied growing sick of my defiance . . . he misinterpreted my exhaustion for sheer defiance . . . the car ride made me tired . . . the sound of a car engine was soothing . . . I had to struggle to stay awake.
"Woody, can we not do this right now? I'm really tired . . . I just want to get some sleep," I replied . . . my voice was soft . . . it sounded defeated . . . I hated fighting with him . . . I was too tired to fight . . . all I could think about last night was Walcot. I dreamed about Jacobson . . . his hands around my neck . . . blacking out . . . . I relived the whole event. I woke up startled . . . Woody didn't wake up . . . he managed to sleep through my nightmare.
"Jordan, what's this about?" he asked as he sat at the corner of the small full bed.
"I didn't sleep well last night," I replied.
"I know . . . I felt you moving around all night. You want to talk about it?" Woody asked . . . I could feel his hand on my ankle . . . it was warm.
"No."
"Jordan, talk to me? I'm sick of fighting . . . let's just go back to what we were in Boston . . . no expectations . . . no commitments," Woody rambled . . . I knew how much it hurt for him to say that for me . . . he probably spent the whole drive thinking about what to say.
"Woody, I don't want to go back to that . . . I want a commitment," I blurted out . . . I turned to face him . . . he was speechless. I sat up in bed . . . I couldn't think of what else to say, "The only times that I have felt safe in the last week is with you . . . that was the only time that I had slept all week. Not even Nigel or Dad could make me feel as safe as you have."
"Safety and commitment are two very different things," Woody said turning away from me.
"You don't understand what I'm saying . . . I feel comfortable enough around you to let you in . . . that rarely happens. Woody, I didn't spend the last three days pretending . . . I spent my time trying to imagine that it was real," I said . . . it was quite talking, but I wasn't yelling . . . it was somewhere in between.
I ran my fingers along his shoulders . . . nearly had to gasp for air . . . he wasn't saying anything and it was such a hard blow that it knocked all the air out of my lungs. I finally knew what I had put him through for nearly two years . . . I let him chase me without reciprocating . . . damn did it ever hurt.
"I spent the longest time trying to imagine what it would be like to be with you . . . marry you . . . buy a home . . . get a dog . . . start a family. I thought it would be perfect, but you did everything possible to fight it. What makes you so ready now?" Woody asked as he turned to me . . . he tried to hide the tears in his eyes . . . I was undoing all the walls that he put up . . . all the reasons he had to say no.
I wasn't sure who kissed whom . . . I held my breath the entire time. I was terrified that he would pull away the same way he had pulled away two days ago. His hands were warm against my skin . . . I was shaking . . . he ran his hands along my profile . . . resting his hands on my waist. This kiss was much less fearful than the previous ones . . . this one was almost hungry.
I tried to relax, but this was different than anyone else . . . I didn't care about anyone else . . . except for Tom Sullivan . . . everything about what she did with him was wrong. For once, this wasn't wrong . . . it wasn't a misguided affair with an FBI agent or ADA. I just needed to override my urge to run.
I let him lower me to the bed. We spent the afternoon getting to know each other's body. We feel asleep in a heap of tangled sheets . . . both naked . . . our bodies and feelings exposed.