Grant County Sheriff's Office
Thursday, 8:20 a.m.
The drive to the sheriff's office had been quiet, a bit too quiet for Monica. Usually she and John chatted on about all kinds of things when they met up first thing in the morning, and she looked forward to these conversations with him. But this morning it had been different. Monica suspected that it had something to do with the way they had left things the night before.
She just didn't know what to do anymore. She had been in love with John for as long as she could remember, and she had an inkling that he felt the same way about her. But for some strange reason, neither one of them seemed able to talk about it. He had a hard time looking her in the eye lately, and that hurt Monica deeply. Perhaps he had decided that this–whatever this was– wasn't worth pursuing. She only wished that he would have the courtesy to tell her if that really was, in fact, his decision.
John walked over to the information counter and cleared his throat loudly. "Sheriff Brunell?"
A reasonably attractive man of about 45 came walking out of the back office, trying to balance a glazed donut on top of his coffee cup. "You the FBI agents?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm Agent Doggett and this is Agent Reyes. We were hoping that you could . . . "
"Yeah, sure . . . " Brunell smiled at Monica, ignoring John completely. "I'm Sheriff Brunell," he said as she held out his hand to her. "But you can call me Tom."
Monica shook his hand and smiled back at him, aware that John had an annoyed scowl on his face. "Thanks, Tom. We were hoping you could fill us in on the kids who were involved in the cemetery incident the other night."
"I'll be happy to tell you what I know, but I'm afraid you two wasted your time coming all the way out here on this case." Brunell sat down at his desk and bit into his donut. "Can I get you anything, Agent Reyes? There's a fresh pot of coffee back there."
"We had breakfast already. But thanks for offering, Tom." Monica put extra emphasis on his name as she watched John out of the corner of her eye. Maybe he was jealous. Serves him right, she thought.
John walked over to Brunell's desk and sat down across from him. "Indulge us, Sheriff. Why don't you just tell us what you know and then we'll be out of your hair?"
"Suit yourself, Agent Doggett. Here you go."
He handed a file to John, and Monica walked over to him to read over his shoulder. Ever the gentleman, he offered to give up his chair so she could sit, but Monica shook her head. In all honesty, she liked being able to look at John without feeling the tangible gaze of his penetrating blue eyes. When he looked at her, sometimes she felt as if he could see right into her heart. It left her feeling vulnerable and weak in the knees. Such a cliché, she thought, but clichés are true for a reason.
And when she wasn't nervous around him, she was driven to distraction by her desire for him. Monica could not deny the intense sexual attraction that seemed to have taken over her life of late. She hungered for him - in every conceivable way. She recalled many long nights when she had rocked herself to sleep with fantasies of John in her head and her fingers between her legs. It was a quick fix, but it was never enough. She wanted his fingers between her legs, his hands on her body, his arms wrapped around her, him inside of her.
Monica thought back to the first time she ever saw John Doggett. From a distance he cut such an austere, imposing figure that he seemed almost larger than life to her. But when she drew closer to him, she saw something else in his face: pain. Then, as now, she dreamed of holding him close to her, wanting nothing more than to extinguish his hurt. He was such a good man: he deserved happiness. The haunted look in his eyes was still there today. And although it was usually hidden beneath the mask of stoicism and strength that John usually wore, Monica knew it was there, and it broke her heart.
Brunell's voice brought her back to reality. "The deceased are Ethan Riley and Sam Nelson," he said regretfully. "Both age seventeen."
"Any word on the cause of death?" John asked.
"We're still waiting for the coroner's report," Brunell sighed. "They were good kids, and I'm sure their parents would tell you the same. It's a damn shame they had to die like this, for no good reason. Not that I approve of trespassing and underage drinking, mind you, but they sure didn't deserve this. "
"Of course not. What about the other two kids: Aaron Talbot and Mike Reynolds?" Monica asked. "Have you talked to them again since their friends were killed?"
Brunell shook his head. "Nah. They were pretty shaken up that night. Once I heard the feds were getting involved, I figured I'd wait. I mean, why make them repeat their stories, right?"
John looked up. "Did you have the car checked out? Was there any mechanical problem that might've caused the crash?"
"Nope. I talked to Sam's father–it was his car. He said he just had the car tuned up a week before this happened. I verified that with the mechanic. It's all there, in the file." Brunell took a big slurp of his coffee. John rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the file in his lap.
Monica smiled to herself, knowing how John hated it when someone slurped like that. It was one of his pet peeves. If anyone dared to commit the unpardonable sin of slurping in John Doggett's presence, be prepared for his wrath. She was well aware of his likes and dislikes. She knew him so well, she thought, and yet there were times she felt like she didn't know him at all.
After a few moments, Monica spoke. "We're going to have to take a look at the car. Is it here?"
"No, after we processed it, I had it towed to a lot about a half mile from here. I'll be happy to take you there if you want, Agent Reyes," he offered helpfully.
"Agent Reyes and I will find it, thanks Sheriff. You don't mind if borrow the file, do you?" John frowned and stood up, accidentally brushing up against Monica. She felt that familiar tingle go through her body before she took a step back.
Damn him for having that effect on me. Why can't I make it stop?
Monica walked to the door with John following close behind. "Thanks, Tom. You've been very helpful," she smiled. "Can we give you a call if we have any questions or anything?" She wasn't really in the mood to play the flirt, but she wanted to see how John would react. He was so cute when he was jealous. Cute and infuriating.
Sheriff Brunell grinned broadly at Monica's words. "Anytime, Agent Reyes. Anytime."
John's eyes narrowed as he ushered Monica out the door. "Come on Agent Reyes, we have work to do."
John was silent as they drove to the impound lot to inspect the remains of the car. Monica tried in vain to get him to talk, but the most she could get out of him was a grunt or a one-syllable answer. She decided if he wanted to play it like that, then she could too. It wasn't a very mature approach, but she didn't care. She was past the point of being rational when it came to John Doggett.
When they got to the lot, they flashed their badges to the attendant, who then showed them to the car. There was not much more than a shell left of the 1991 Honda Civic. While John snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and began checking the interior of the vehicle, Monica sought out the attendant. When she returned several minutes later, she found John bent over the front seat. She paused for a moment to enjoy the view before she spoke up.
"Find anything?" she asked.
John turned around to face her, pulling off his gloves as he did so. "Nah, nothing unusual. The car was not equipped with air bags, though. That had to have played a part in the cause of death. What about you? Where'd you go?"
"I went to talk to the attendant so I could have a look at the impound sheet. I wanted to see if anything noteworthy was found in the car. Take a look at this." Monica held out her hand to reveal a small plastic bag which contained what looked like a broken piece of a mirror.
He studied it. "Rearview mirror, maybe?" He turned back to look at the wreckage behind him. "Didn't come from this car, though. That one's still intact."
"I don't know where it came from," Monica said. "It wasn't mentioned in the police report, was it?"
"Nope." John turned the object over in his hands. "Why don't you ask your friend Tom about it?" he said sarcastically.
Monica chose to ignore it. "I think it would be much more productive if we ask Aaron Talbot and Mike Reynolds about it." She spun around and walked back to the rental car.
It's going to be a long day, she sighed.
After Doggett and Reyes left the car lot, they drove to the accident scene. They made the usual observations: there were no skid marks, which would have indicated that Sam Nelson tried to stop suddenly. There was no sign of an animal carcass, or anything else in the road that he might have tried to avoid by swerving suddenly. It was as if the car was purposely driven straight into the tree. Monica insisted that the area gave her an uneasy feeling, but Doggett had merely frowned and reminded her that the area was, in fact, right next to a cemetery. It was no wonder she was getting creepy vibes.
They spent a good part of the afternoon speaking with the two survivors of the incident. Both young men appeared visibly shaken by what had occurred. They repeated their version of the events, starting with their decision to sneak into the cemetery, and continued by describing what happened next.
"We were just horsing around, man," Aaron said. "We didn't mean no harm."
Monica leaned forward and looked the two young men in their eyes. "You said you heard a noise and then a scream. What kind of a noise did you hear?"
Aaron and Mike looked at each other nervously. "You're gonna think we're nuts," Mike stammered.
"Give us a try." John said.
"It sounded like a car crash, okay?" Mike said defensively. "And don't say we imagined it because all four of us heard it at the same time."
Aaron continued. "Yeah, we were already spooked enough, but then we heard this really loud scream. So we took off running. We ran all the way back to the car . . . " He stopped and looked down, his lower lip trembling.
"It's okay, guys," Monica said soothingly. "Tell us what happened next."
"Ethan and Sam jumped into the front seat. Mike and I were just about to get in the back seat when we saw something. I don't know if it was a ghost or what, man."
John leaned back in his chair. "Can you describe exactly your saw, Aaron?"
"Not sure exactly. It all happened so fast. All I remember was a blurry figure of a man. But it didn't look real, you know?" Mike nodded in agreement.
"You told Sheriff Brunell you saw a flash of red. What did you mean by that?"
Mike swallowed hard. "It looked like it--whatever we saw--was wearing a red coat or a jacket or something."
"The ghost was wearing a red jacket?" Monica asked.
"Hey, you said it was a ghost, lady. Not me."
Aaron continued. "Then we heard this voice. It seemed like it was coming from that ghost or whatever it was. It said, 'don't get in the car'. So we decided to get the hell out of there. We tried to convince Ethan and Sam to come with us, but . . . " He pounded his fist onto the coffee table, unable to finish the sentence.
John pulled the plastic bag containing the mirror piece out of his coat pocket. "You fellas recognize this?" He looked at both young men, who nodded hesitantly. "Whose is it?"
"It's mine," Mike replied sheepishly. "Well, it's not actually mine, but I had it that night. My grandpa is the curator of the James Dean Museum . . . I sort of borrowed it from him."
The agents waited for him to continue. "It's supposed to be a piece of rearview mirror from his Porsche. You know, the one he got killed in. I heard stories–you know–about the car being cursed."
Monica leaned over and whispered in John's ear. "Maybe there is something to all those stories after all."
James Dean Museum
Thursday, 5:56 p.m.
Doggett and Reyes surveyed the impressive looking building filled with James Dean artifacts and memorabilia. One section was devoted to his boyhood, which was spent in Fairmount, and another dealt exclusively with his movie career. An entire area was stocked with T-shirts, coffee mugs and other James Dean related merchandise for sale.
"Looks like James Dean is quite a little cottage industry here in Fairmount," John mused.
"You know, I had always heard about the mystique and the legend and all that," Monica said. "Kind of like Marilyn Monroe. It's hard to believe he only made four or five movies."
"Three, actually. 'East of Eden,' 'Rebel Without a Cause' and 'Giant.'" An elderly man approached her and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Ed Willis. I'm the curator here."
"I'm Agent Reyes and this is Agent Doggett. We're with the FBI." Monica returned his handshake. "So he only made three movies, huh?"
"Yes, indeed. Three movies and look at the legendary status he has achieved." Mr. Willis made a grand sweeping gesture with his hand, as if he were showcasing a fabulous prize package on a t.v. game show. "He represented the rebellious youth movement in the Fifties. Though I suppose his untimely death is what really propelled him into superstar status. But enough of my chattering. I'm sure you didn't come out here to hear my tour guide speech. How can I help you folks?"
John showed him the mirror piece. "Do you recognize this, Mr. Willis?"
His eyes lit up immediately. "I certainly do. Where did you get this?"
"Two teenagers were killed in a car crash earlier this week. This was found in the wreckage. Your grandson Mike apparently took it from you without your knowledge."
"Dammit, I told him never to touch this!" Willis said angrily.
"Mr. Willis," Monica said, "where did you get this from, if I may ask?"
Willis turned his back and walked a few steps away from the agents. "A cousin of mine acquired it a long time ago."
John raised his eyebrows. "Acquired it?"
"Yes," Willis continued, "my cousin Jack took it from the remains of James Dean's car when it was part of a safety display in California back in the late 50s. It was a very big deal back then to have a piece of the car, no matter how small. Jack was one of those souvenir hunters that you've no doubt read about. I'm not proud of it, but I can't exactly turn back the hands of time, either."
"Nobody's blaming you for that, sir," John said. "But why did your cousin decide to give it to you?"
Willis looked him squarely in the eyes. "One time he was showing it off to some of his friends. He had it in his hand when his legs suddenly gave out from under him. Poor bastard landed right on the mirror and damn near punctured a lung," he chuckled. "After that, Jack was convinced that all of the stories about the curse were true. He couldn't get rid of it fast enough."
"Have you had any strange occurrences since you've been in possession of it?" Monica asked.
"Nope, not a one," Willis answered thoughtfully. "But maybe it's because I don't treat it like it's part of a circus sideshow. I can't say if there is anything to all of those tales about a curse, but I sure am not one to tempt fate, either."
John handed the item to Monica. "We're going to have to hang onto this for a while, sir. We'll take it to the Sheriff's office for safekeeping."
I understand," he said cooperatively. "If you want to know the truth, maybe it's all for the best. I just hate to think that something like that might have been partly responsible for those kids' dying. So tragic . . . "
They both nodded in agreement but were unsure how to respond. John finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Mr. Willis, Aaron and Mike told us that they saw a figure standing in front of the car wearing either a red coat or jacket. That mean anything to you?"
Willis' eyes widened. He did not answer with words but pointed up to the movie poster that hung on the opposite wall. It was an oversized theater poster for "Rebel Without a Cause," the 1955 film that made James Dean a star. The poster was dominated by a photo of a squinting Dean, leaning against a wall, the ever present cigarette in his hand. He was wearing a red jacket with the collar turned up.
Monica's hand flew to her mouth in surprise. "You don't think . . . "
John was just about to respond when the familiar ring of a cell phone interrupted him. Instinctively, he patted his breast pocket and began to reach for it when he realized it was Monica's. He watched as she pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and held it to her ear.
"Monica Reyes. Oh, yes. Hello, Tom." She glanced purposefully at John, making sure he was paying attention. He was. She put her hand over the receiver and addressed the museum's curator. "Excuse me, Mr. Willis, it's Sheriff Brunell. I have to take this."
Willis nodded and walked away, absently brushing some invisible dust from a few of the exhibits as he did so. John, on the other hand, stayed right where he was, leaning his ear into Monica's phone, trying to hear what her new admirer was calling her about. Monica glared at him and walked away.
"You have? Oh, really? So, you think this could be of help to our investigation? Well, I think we're about finished up here. I'll see you back at the station and we can talk about it then. What's that, Tom? Dinner? Oh, I don't know about that . . . "
John's brow furrowed angrily. He spun around and headed toward the door, calling out a terse goodbye to Ed Willis on his way out. Monica immediately went after him, but not before abruptly ending the call to Sheriff Brunell.
"John, wait up! Wait up!" Monica called out in an attempt to get him to slow down. But the speed of John's steps seemed to increase the closer he got to the car. By the time Monica was able to catch up to him, she was nearly out of breath.
"What the hell was that about?" she demanded as she waited for him to unlock the car door. "I wasn't aware that we were finished talking to Mr. Willis."
John got in the car and started it up. "Oh, we're done all right," he muttered through clenched teeth. "So what did lover boy want, anyway? Besides the obvious, of course."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked. Her voice, as well as her anger level, was rising by the second.
John pulled the car back out onto the main road and headed north. "You know what I'm talking about," he said. "Brunell wants you."
"He wants me?" Monica would have laughed if she wasn't so incensed at his boorish behavior. "Dare I ask how you came to that conclusion?" John opened his mouth to answer but she help up her hand to silence him. "On second thought," she huffed, "I don't think I want to know."
The humming of the car's engine was the only sound that could be heard for a few moments. Finally, Monica turned to look at John, studying his chiseled profile with great interest.
"Besides, John, since when do you care if Tom has more than a professional interest in me? What's it to you? You and I are partners. And partners aren't supposed to have feelings for each other, are they? You've certainly made that clear enough."
Monica was surprised at the almost detached quality of her voice. Her outburst hung in the air, unanswered, for what seemed like an eternity. She kept her eyes on John's face, all but daring him to come back at her with a sarcastic reply. When he didn't, she sighed, defeated. She turned to look out the window and said nothing more until the reached the Sheriff's Department.
She couldn't get out of the car fast enough. "Are you coming or what?" she mumbled.
John stared dumbly at the steering wheel, willing himself not to look in Monica's direction. "Uh . . . no. I, uh, think I am going to head over to the M.E.'s office and see if I can get a heads up on the autopsy report. I'll just see you back at the motel."
"And how am I supposed to get back to the motel, Agent Doggett?" she asked accusingly, hands on hips. "You have the car."
John bit his lip but said it anyway. "I'm sure Tom will be more than happy to give you a ride, Agent Reyes." Monica was so shocked that she let him drive off before she could think of anything to say. It was only after the car disappeared from her sight that she found her voice again.
"You bastard," she seethed, wiping away angry tears. She took a few moments to collect herself before she walked in the door to the Sheriff's Department.