Hello, my lovely Baby Becca Backers. Oh how I love you all.
It's been so long since I have uploaded and I apologize so much. Life has gotten in my way, and I think I've finally started to find a way to squeeze around it.
I hope this makes up for it.
This wonderful little ditty is in response the a request from: dzygmunt9 who sent the following prompt:
Could you write about Becca getting arrested by the police for breaking & entering? She would be working by herself without Sam & Dean, working on a case involving a ghost.
Granted, this was requested many moons ago, I was finally able to dedicate all my (or most of) time towards it. I cannot say sorry enough for the wait.
I do hope it is worth it and that you all enjoy what I've come up with! If you have any questions, comments, or requests of your own - please, sending them my way in the form of a PM (as that is easiest for me to respond and work out specifics and such with you).
And, as always, I thank each of you from the very bottom of my heart. You're the absolute sweetest for clicking on my story to not only read, but add it to your favorites and follows. I squee with delight when I see that you enjoy it that much. Special thanks go to my girls who help me out on the almost daily with more than just Becca-face. You all know who you are.
Without further ado,
READ. REVIEW. ENJOY. :)
Disclaimer.
B's and E's Ain't as Easy as 1, 2, 3.
Ages:
Dean - 26
Sam/Becca - 22
Year:
2005; Early-Mid Fall
Becca's POV
A strong, solid smell and dust flew up like a small mushroom cloud as I dropped the stack of newspapers onto the table in front of me. Grimacing, I wrinkled my nose at the dark orange pages and was already trying to come up with a way of avoiding having to sift through them. I'd been doing well in the "avoiding them" areas so far, but my eyes and head protested any further use of a computer. And, the newspaper database wasn't updated this far back, but that wasn't the main point. The problem ahead of me was sifting through a month of newspapers for Bruce Emerson.
Emerson, like that Ralph guy – but with no relation, was dead guy numero uno… well; he was the only dead guy, really. The rest were all women. Still, I can't forget to figure out his demise since apparently their deaths mimicked his.
Pulling out the chair in front of me, I dropped myself into it and looked at my phone. Thirty minutes until my dad would be back, waiting to pick me up out front. That didn't exactly leave me a lot of time. And I don't know if you know my dad – you might, he seems to know everyone – but, keeping him waiting isn't really a good idea. Especially not in the middle of a case. There wouldn't be anyone to blame this time if I was late, since it was only him and I.
Dean was plenty old enough to be going on more and more hunts by himself. Well, actually he had been for a while now. I mean, the guy is twenty-six. He's not exactly a child…most days. So, when Dean was off working cases for Dad – which left me bored and alone, I was pretty much the only help Dad had left. If he needed it. To be completely honest, my dad would much rather work by himself – and I know it. But, if I could help him, then there wasn't a reason to tell him no.
Except for when I was pissed because he said I couldn't go with Dean on this last hunt. I don't know why me going with was such a big thing for him to blow up at. Was it really necessary for him to be all, "Grumble, grumble, grumble, grr, you're not goin', it's better if you stay here, you're just gonna be in his way, grr, I am father," about it?
Dean says that maybe it's only because our dad feels better knowing that it's on his watch if anything happens. Like, that way, he can take responsibility and blame himself.
I told Dean he should look into getting a colonoscopy because he's full of crap. I'm sorry, but that was never a concern for our dad before – I'm not going to believe it is now.
Either way, it didn't matter. I was just happy to be out of the motel room this time. Dad was out getting face-to-face information, and I was getting behind-the-scenes information. And hopefully some of it was in one of these neat four piles.
I'd broken the month into weeks and was currently thumbing through the front pages and then I would double back and check the obits. Luckily small towns also have small newspapers. Just as my thumb passed into the "F" names, I doubled back. The entry had been so small I'd almost missed it.
"Loss of local, Bruce E. Emerson – survived by his wife."
That was it. That was the whole thing. My brows furrowed. First off, his initials spelt "bee", I am officially referring to him as "Buzz". Second, that didn't make sense. Who was his wife? I sifted through the other papers I'd found and collected, finding the marriage certificate. Frieda P. Emerson. That was his wife. Great. More people. Rolling my eyes, I checked my phone. Not even ten minutes. Awesome. Sighing, I shoved all my handwritten things into the file folder my dad had given me. Collecting the newspapers and other things I needed, I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed to the circulation desk.
"'Scuse me, sir?" I asked, drawing the librarian's eyes up from his newspaper crossword puzzle and to my face. "I need some things copied, please."
Standing up, he took the book from me without a second thought, which is good. Nosey Begoseys aren't good for business. "What pages?" he sighed, shifting the stack in his arms.
"Um, I'm gonna need the obituary section from this newspaper, and the death notices from this here, and then I'm gonna need this story copied, as well as…" I finally flipped over to the marriage and death certificates, "these four or five things."
Nodding, he flipped through the things I'd mentioned and then readjusted his hold before turning to the copy machine. "So, what's got you so interested in local records like these?"
Damn. So much for no questions. "Oh…you know…school project," I lied.
"A school project that has you looking up government issued certificates?" he asked, his back still facing me while he machine in front of him printed out my requested pages.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. "It's for history. I didn't get to pick the topic."
"What grade are you?" he looked me up and down with a scrutinizing stare.
"Junior at the –"
"High school?" he cut me off, more or less assuming.
Sighing, I leaned forward on the desk and rolled my eyes. I wish I could say this was new. People always assume I'm in high school. Even though I'm twenty-two. "Yeah."
"My niece is a sophomore. Callie Hendricks. You know her?" he smiled, grabbing the copies from the machine and stacking them neatly before stapling them. Shaking my head "no" he replied, "Well, too bad. She's a nice girl. All right. Ten pages at twenty cents a page comes to –"
"Two bucks," I answered my eyes bugging out. Holy crap. Twenty cents a page?! Are people in this town rich or something?! Hot damn. Last time I had to pay for copies, it was six cents a page. Sweet Jesus, talk about inflation. Not that I actually know if inflation is the right word. I'm assuming.
Paying the man, I collected all my things and double-checked the time on my phone. Three minutes late. Figures. Booking it out of the library, I ran down the stairs and stopped on the walk. The street was empty minus the three or four kids riding their bikes. Where was my dad? He must have gotten hung up. It happens. Sometimes he just ends up learning more and more throughout the day. It's understandable. Yet, he did say to wait for him here. And in my mind – my dad only gives me orders.
Sighing, I dropped my bag to my feet and sat on the stone steps before pulling out the file folder. Opening it, I grabbed the freshly copied pages I'd just paid for. All right. According to the story that the paper had printed, Emerson was murdered in his home, by a burglar. Emerson had come home from work, spooking a burglar who was mid-stealing his things. The burglar reacted and stabbed Emerson about a dozen times. His wife, Frieda, found him, and called the police. He was announced dead at the scene. Of course there were no pictures to go along with the story.
Ten minutes and a whole page of fresh handwritten notes later, I was still waiting for my dad. Huddling closer to the wall that flanked the side of the stairs, I tried to keep warm in the wind. Pulling out Buzz's death certificate, I frowned when I saw he'd died over forty years ago. And due to my well learned, handy dandy, hacking abilities – thank you…you know who – Emerson's body never sat very long in custody. It was released to… Mrs. Emerson. She "identified and claimed the body, refusing an autopsy due to religious reasons". A full autopsy was never done.
Something didn't add up. Not with his short obit and crappy news reporting of his death. Emerson comma Bruce E. never had a funeral… There's no way. Not with that one liner. Now, I'm no expert, but it's pretty rare that you don't include a funeral date and or time to the obit. People have to know where to show up to, right? Even if you were keeping it small and all about loved ones, then there had to be something that would have been somewhere for me to see that he had a funeral… right?
And why would Emerson's wife even need to identify the body. She's the one that called it in. She found him. She knew it was him. This was not making sense. I don't know what you're smellin', but I'm smellin' something super sketch. I was going to have to sit down and go through all of the notes, including the case notes that were back at the motel.
Shoving everything into the folder with a lack of organization that I am sure I would come to later regret – I threw it all in my bag. Standing and stretching, I glanced up and down the road. There was still no sign of my dad. He did say he would meet me here, right? I'm pretty sure he did. I tugged my phone out of my bag and quickly dialed him.
Only to have it to go to voicemail. Well doesn't that just figure. I clicked the phone shut and tucked it away in my jean pocket before huffing and looking up and down the street once more, hoping to get a glimpse of that shiny black truck. There was nothing. And, as Winchester Rule states, if worse comes to worst – meet back at the motel room. So I did. Therefore, when I walked in, I expected to find my dad pouring over notes, or taping up papers, or maybe pulling some chicken strips and French fries out of a bag – with a side of honey mustard dipping sauce, of course. Because that would be awesome.
Instead, I walked in to find… nothing. Well, I mean, aside from the normal stuff in an unoccupied motel room. I think it's safe to assume I'd made it back first. Kicking the door shut, I took off my bag and dropped it onto one of the beds. Locking the door, I then clicked on the clock radio before staring at the things already hanging on the walls.
"Local woman dies when hiking" on the Emerson's land that had now become public grounds. Authorities found the victim to be "seemingly strangled and attacked". She had twelve wounds. Just like Emerson.
"Out of town woman, visiting family" that now resided in the Emerson home "found dead in the kitchen". Same room as Emerson. Same amount of stab wounds as Emerson. Visiting woman's husband blamed for murder.
"Local teen found dead…" That was the most recent one.
"Campers found dead…"
"Separated hikers found dead…"
It all read the same. All these woman were found dead in or on the Emerson property. All of their wounds counted twelve. Except that last one we'd found. She had the twelve wounds, but she also had what people were saying were handprints around her throat.
But why? Why did this girl have the only thing different about her entire death? And why were all these women made to look like they were murdered like Buzz? Especially if it was "a burglar" who murdered him.
And all these women… why did they…
Wait. Maybe that's it.
Fumbling around in my bag, I pulled out my folder and flipped it open. Shoving papers aside, I began flinging things around until I found it. Emerson, Frieda P. The glossy print showed her own death slash murder scene in black and white. She was face up, eyes open in fear, blood impossible to see as it soaked her, what seemed to be black, dress.
Climbing onto the bed, I grabbed the police reports my dad had gotten yesterday. Frieda had light brown hair, and light green-gold eyes. But, she was tall. Five foot eleven. She was beautiful. I continued to look at the photo and then the report, becoming even more confused.
Stab wounds… just under a dozen. "A restraining hand print was found on her neck…."
Sifting through all the papers in front of me, I found the police report from the night Bruce Emerson had died and read through it again. Emerson's wife had called and said that she'd seen just what happened. She saw her husband die at the hand of that burglar that night, so she knew it was him. This still didn't explain why she needed to identify the already identified body. She couldn't recognize the burglar due to her "traumatic experience". And wouldn't she say something about not having an autopsy before they even took the body? Especially if she claimed it was because of religious reasons? I mean, you don't just forget your religious beliefs, do you?
And what about her story of finding him dead? Now she saw him die? None of these clues were coming together to form the same story. It was just a giant ball of confusion and I did not understand any of it.
I'm definitely gonna need some chicken strips and fries if I wanna work.
My papers had gone from unorganized scatterings to very organized sections on the mattress in front of me. The taped pieces were no longer hanging on the walls, but instead lying at the opposite ends of the bed, as some sort of start to my trail of madness. Leaning back on the wall behind me, I looked it all over.
"So, there were nine victims, outside of the Emerson's. All women. All five foot eleven. All were shades of light brunette and had green or green-gold eyes. All were beyond humanly beautiful. And all had some sort of resemblance to Frieda.
"With this one, it was the crooked smile. The left side goes farther back, creating a smooth curve; where the right side collides into the side of a dimple.
"This girl had Frieda's eyes. They were large and doe-like when her face wasn't smiling. With the smile, they looked very narrow and almost completely disappeared.
"This one was the hair. This one the clothes, and so on, you know? But, the last one? The teen? She was an absolute replica of Frieda. Down to the freckle on the bottom corner of the lower lip. It could have been Frieda for all I knew.
"So I'm thinking that was motive. It had to be. The victims all reminded whatever it was – which I'm assuming it's Frieda herself at this point – of Frieda. My guess is that Frieda killed herself. Just went into a total stabbing rage and that whoever tried to stop her is who tried to pull at her neck, leaving the marks. She was probably super depressed over the loss of Buzz, and something must have happened to make her snap, but I'm definitely thinking it was suicide. And then there was the fact that they all died the same way as Bruce did, including Frieda, which might have been some kind of Romeo and Juliet thing. They died the same way, therefore they stay together? But, besides all that, there's this Lancaster guy. He –" I stopped as my father swallowed his bite and cut me off.
"Lancaster was the guy who signed off releasing Emerson's body to his wife," he informed me.
I stopped mid-chew on my fry and looked at my dad like he was crazy. There was no way that Lancaster was the one who could have signed off on that… He wasn't able. I thought that the medical examiners had to sign off saying that bodies could be released… Lancaster was a sheriff. "But he's the sheriff…" I trailed off, slowly starting to chew my fry again.
My dad wiped a hand over his mouth and gave me the same crazy-confused look. "Lancaster's the coroner," he told me, sure of it.
Grabbing the paper, I got up to hand it to my dad. "That says he's the sheriff. It doesn't say anything about him being a coroner, medical examiner, or anything to do with any of that."
He read through the article and attached police report and sipped on his beer before he then leaned back. "You got that medical report over there? And the newspaper report on the actual death?"
"The newspaper doesn't say a whole lot about who's involved. It's pretty vague. But the medical report didn't say anything about Lancaster either," I nodded while sifting through and grabbing both items.
"When I talked to one of the officers on the case today, he told me that Lancaster was the only one who had anything to do with the body. Said it was Lancaster's case and he handled it all – top to bottom. Said he was the only coroner the town had."
"But have you heard of that ever happening before?"
Sitting back in his chair, he swallowed some more beer. "Only when they've got something to hide."
My knee was bouncing as I crouched here, waiting. Okay, it was dark, Dad. Their car had left over twenty minutes ago – and according to you, we had about two hours to go and find something in the kitchen that belonged to Mrs. Emerson. Then we had to burn it. And then she'd be done. So… what is taking my dad so long?
We really need to work on our time frames here. But, because I am impatient, and that car finally left the driveway, I am moving in. As it turns out, Frieda Emerson had a family heirloom pocket watch that was passed down from way back too long ago, and it was her most prized possession, and she like, I don't know, put a hair or some gross crap like that in it. From the research we did after trying to dive deeper into Lancaster – who, holy crap, has like, the most unresearchable life ever. I could not find a single thing on this guy other than he is the son of Lancaster and Frieda who married after Emerson's death. Yeah. Tell me you didn't see that coming. So anyway, from the research we did – we found that the watch stayed in the Lancaster family, who now lived in the old Emerson house. Basically, in order for us to fully get rid of Frieda, we have to burn that watch, too.
Slinking across the street, I crept onto the porch and to the large bay of windows that were sitting open in the warm night. Flipping open my knife, I cut along the edge of the screen and pulled it away from the frame so I could slip inside the house. Only to catch the toe of my shoe on the edge of the window and fall to the floor and knock over an umbrella thingy. Way to go, Becs. You can be a Secret Service agent, yet! Quickly creeping into the living room where the shelf of items sat, thank you father for having done an interview earlier in the week and remembering this, I scanned as fast as I could for the watch. Smiling and congratulating myself on how good I was when I spotted it.
My hand hovered over the watch as a voice behind me stuttered out a, "H-hold it ri-right th-there." Where are we? Toy Story? Bro, grow a pair. Slowly moving my hands so they were up – and more importantly , empty – I started to turn around "D-don't m-m-move," the voice commanded.
I didn't listen.
Facing the guy who looked super young, like, my age, I tried to calm him down. "Okay, guy, just calm down. Why don't we just talk this out, huh?"
He jerked the shotgun, because of course it's a shotgun, up and towards me. He actually looked taken aback by the lack of fear in my face. One, this ain't my first run-in with a gun. I mean, hello. Two, I'm actually terrified. What if this spaz shoots me? "You broke in-into my house," he told me as his voice grew stronger.
"Okay, but you don't understand –" I tried to explain before he cut me off.
"The cops are on their way," he managed to say, stutter free.
"What! Why?"
"You were stealing from me," he said it as though it were so obvious.
Rolling my eyes, my hands dropped from their guarded, protective state. "Only for a minute! Look, you don't understand. I'm trying to help you."
Lowering his gun and looking at me as though I were an idiot, he sarcastically asked, "By stealing from me?"
God that reminded me of my brother. "Yes. If you would just let me explain –" I began, only to be cut off by sirens and flashing lights. Great. The guy turned his head with a smirk and I grabbed the watch off the display shelf.
It didn't take long for the officers to burst through the door and wrap their giant paws on my wrists. Forcing my arms back, the cop padded me down and reached into my pocket, pulling out the watch.
Picking my head up from where it'd been on the table in front of me, I saw the officer drop his folder and the watch in front of me. "This is a little much for a regular breaking and entering, don't you think?" I asked the officer as he sat at the head of the table.
Smirking, he shook his head. "Was is just a regular breaking and entering incident? Come on, you can be honest with me."
I laughed at him. "You say you want honesty now, but the minute I tell you the truth, you'll turn around and run. Every guy has."
"That so."
"Scout's honor."
"You're a girl."
"You sayin' Girl Scout's don't count?"
The guy leaned back and stuck his tongue in his cheek. "Look. We know you stole Emerson's watch. Now why'd you do it?"
Running my eyes over his face, I tried to gauge his reaction and look. "Wanted to know what time it was."
Man did he look pissed. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he wanted to hit me. "You broke into the Emerson estate house… because you wanted to know what time it was."
"Yeah, well, my phone died."
"Why'd you need the watch?"
Groaning, I rolled my eyes. "Obviously you know things have been going on in the Emerson house, right? All those deaths? I'm trying to stop any more from happening."
He was eyeing me like I was crazy. "And you need a watch to do that?"
"Yes!"
"And what about that guy you rolled into town with?"
Stopping, dead in my tracks, I looked at him. "What are you talking about?"
Leaning forward, he looked at me as his hands crossed on the table. "Taller guy, rough appearance, looks like he could handle himself in a fight. Tell me about him."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I grumbled, already fed up with all of this.
"We know you came into town with him. And you're both poking your noses around things that are none of your business. Now why don't you tell me what it is you two are trying to do."
"Blow me," I snapped, earning a grin.
Standing up, the man grabbed his file and walked towards the door. "That's fine. I have men out looking for him now. We'll just leave you in here until I can get him in the same room with you. See if you're just as colorful then."
Huffing, I threw myself back against the chair. There was no possible way I could get out of this; especially if they were after my dad, too. They weren't about to let him just walk on in here, pretending to be a cop like they had been. I don't know how they were figuring crap out, but they were – and I didn't like the answers they were coming up with. Partially because they weren't fully correct answers…I mean, do I really look like I'm part of some psycho serial killer gang? Because, I'm not. But, my main concern was the fact that my father might try to waltz right in here like before. They'd called him, and it was all my stupid fault he was step foot in the station and have cuffs slapped on him in less than ten seconds. Trying to jerk myself free, nothing happened outside of the clanging of my cuffs against the metal table. I had to still have something on me that could help. I stood up, the side of my thigh tightly pressed to the table as I worked my small hands into my pockets and dug for anything that would totally be a benefit right now, oh my god just give me this one, please. Squeezing my eyes shut and rooting around with enough force that my whole body was tipping to the side, I gasped when my fingers nearly broke my hand from my wrist and I pulled out a bobby pin. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me people who know the magical uses of bobby pins. And here I was stuck to my love of paper clips. Nope. I'm totally converted….if this worked.
Fidgeting with what I am claiming is the world's smallest freaking lock system, I let out a breath when the click sounded and I was able to remove my wrist. My eyes instantly shot to the door, panicked that someone would come in and catch me. Hey, I mean, it happens once or twice and you learn to just expect it. When I was able to slide the cuffs from the table, I left my other hand cuffed and moved to the windowless door. It figures that pressing my ear to the door wouldn't help. They would have this place all silent proof or whatever it's called. You know what this means, then. I'm going in. Or out. Whatever.
I held my breath as I slowly turned the knob on the door until it wouldn't go any further – and then I did my best to silently open the giant metal slab. Peeking through one eye, I peered through the small sliver that led to the hall of the building. When I saw no one and heard even less voices, I opened the door more and swept my eyes up and down the hall. Golden. Biting my lip, I kept my hand on the fully turned knob, and grabbed the knob on the other side of the door, making sure that it stayed turned and didn't move. Slipping through the door frame, I closed the door, not making a sound, and tried to quietly release the knob back to its original place. Closing my eyes as the door gently thudded against the lip on the frame I sighed happily and turned around – half surprised no one was there to stop me.
Remembering that we'd come to the room from the lobby on the right, I decided the left would maybe be a better option. I couldn't see me being able to just stroll right out the front door….unless…. No, I couldn't…. could I? Hmm. The hall was lined with doors, and although they all sat closed – I trusted nothing. This was not my first rodeo in one of these puppies, and I'm sure it won't be my last, but I still don't like it. Hugging close to the wall, I cringed when the cuff hanging off my wrist scrapped along the paint. Crap. Jumping when voices and footsteps sounded, I ran behind the closest door, shutting and locking it behind me, letting out a very deep breath. Okay. It's okay, I can handle this. Opening my eyes, I turned to see the lights were off in the room, and it was definitely an office of some sort. Cabinets were shoved in a corner, stacks of paper and files piled on the desk, and it stank of depression and resentment. Someone was definitely overworked. Best that I took myself off their hands then, huh?
But, maybe this person could help. I don't know their title or anything, but that is a whole lot of papers and files to be someone who isn't important. My guess is that they will have something that can help our case. Creeping to the cabinets and keeping the lights off, I clicked on the desk lamp, tilting the head so that is shown on the drawers. Here goes nothing.
Minutes passed and my eyes were swimming with the information they'd found. The Emerson folder was thick. Thicker than the one my father had gotten in his request, and it wasn't labeled "Emerson". No. It was labeled "Lancaster". Like, Herbert Lancaster. Oh this just got all tangled up into a big ball of what the heck is going on. Sliding the file cabinet drawer shut, I clicked off the lamp light and stepped to the door. Seeing the hall was still empty, I stepped out of the office and tucked in my lips as I did my best to silently close the door.
Sighing out of relief, I smiled before I froze when I heard the head officer's booming voice coming from just around the corner of this rectangular disaster of a place. How are you going to be everywhere I need to be? Blanking, I ran to the opposite corner and hid behind it, waiting for some sort of sign that I'd been spotted, but praying that I hadn't been.
"Find anything you can on her, and bring it to my office. Run her prints through every system we got. She knows something, understand?" he was crankily ordering as a few cops followed behind him.
Accepting their directions, the cops wandered off back towards the interrogation rooms while the main guy went into the office and clicked on the light, slamming the door behind him. When I was satisfied the coast was clear, I made my way back around the corner and stalked past his office towards the room I had in mind. Thank you wall plaques with arrows.
Hitting a crossroads in the halls after making it past the interrogation rooms, I froze when I heard, "Where is she? Who moved her?" YOU MEAN TO TELL ME SHE BROKE OUT OF THERE WITH OVER FIFTY COPS IN THIS BUILDING?" Oh, dead. Lots of people are going to be dead. Me included.
Feet pounded around me as people began running for the area both me and the interrogation rooms were in, and I swear I yelped as I quickly turned and ran in an unknown direction down a hall that seemed the least likely to kill me. Radios were clicking and crackling as cops spoke into them, the uproar of my disappearing from the room quickly taking over the entire building. Yep. Dead.
Breathing heavier than expected as I finally skidded into the locker room, I cannot even tell you how happy I was to see there were no people standing on the other side of the permanently open door way. Moving to one aisle of lockers over, I began trying every door until one finally opened, revealing the beautiful blue suit that I would definitely be desecrating in about five minutes. Undressing and then redressing myself in the uniform, I grimaced as the top felt tight over my shirt while the pants definitely bunched weird over my shorts. But, I mean, there's no way I'm just leaving my clothes here. I don't have a whole lot as it is. Do you think I enjoy wearing this aqua-y sheery-y, "you should probably be wearing a shirt under that because it's not very thick" tee? Because I do. It's so soft… and worn in… and it really looks good with my hair color… and shut up. Knotting my hair on the base of my head, I lifted the file off the bench and held it – along with the swinging ring of the cuff still on my wrist – in my hand before straightening up and walking back out into that hall.
The door to the interrogation room was still open and there was a booming voice coming from inside it as the officer who had been talking to me yelled about the lack of intelligent people he was working with. Making that my cue, I jumped when two more cops rounded the corner, talking into the radios on their shoulders about how they were going to go check the premise – and then I followed them past the interrogation room.
"I want the entire case squad on this! She knows something about what's going on in that house, and I want to know what!" the officer bellowed as we passed. I looked in to see him facing the opposite end of the room as a cop took down some notes and looked like he'd been scolded for breaking a crystal something or other that is too fancy for your silly house anyway. "Hey, hey!" the cop in front of me looked angry as he snapped my eyes forward. "Who are you? Are you new?"
"Uh, um, I…I, yeah. Trainee. Came in under Stevens," I stuttered out as the three of us stopped moving – much too close to the interrogation room for my liking. It was like I could still breathe the anger in the one officer's breath. We needed to move farther away before he could sense my fear.
Eyeing me, the male cop looked to his female counterpart, who pulled the radio up to her lips and turned away, whispering into her shoulder. "Stevens?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow?
Craaaaaaaaaap. They knew. There was no one here named Stevens, and these guys freaking knew I was a fraud. "Well, I mean –"
"We got recruits to help from the next county over after the last murder up at the Emerson place. She's probably one of those," the woman eyed me as she turned back to face us.
All eyes turned to the interrogation room as a loud slam came from inside, followed by a very skittish man, who couldn't seem to get away fast enough as he bumped shoulders with the woman cop in front of me while he passed. It was like the stomps were echoing off the walls and inside my chest as they stormed from back inside the room. "…when I get my hands on her –" the angry cop muttered as he entered the hall way, looking for someone to scream at. "What are you three doing? Get moving! Find her!" he bellowed to my back as I refused to make eye contact, although the two cops in front of me nodded their heads and motioned for me to get a move on.
You've got to be kidding me. Now I was part of the search party for myself? And with actual, physical cops who clearly didn't know who they were looking for. "What's the file?" the woman questioned as we marched through the hall towards the doors leading to the lot filled with police cars.
"Oh, I, uh, I have to drop it off over by –"
"Go, and hurry. I'm not about to be the one who doesn't come through for Lancaster this time," the male cop barked, catching the eye of the woman as he grunted.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. "Lancaster?" I asked, my voice and brows shooting up.
Scoffing, the guy continued. "Yeah. That guy's been pissed since that federal agent showed up, sniffing around his case."
Lancaster was heading the case of the murders on the Emerson land… Oh sweet Miss America, I need to get to my dad. "I'll meet you guys at the cruiser… I'm gonna just drop this in the office and be right there."
"Car number thirty-two," the woman told me as she and the guy picked up their pace and walked to the hall leading to the lot.
Waiting for them to disappear around the corner, I backpedaled a few feet and tucked into the lobby were a few police were bustling about quickly, while others went about their daily routines. Everyone here seemed oblivious to the chaos that was going on in the back of the station. Taking a deep breath I held my head up and walked through the lobby, past the desks and their officers, and right through the front doors, pretending I knew what I was doing. Meanwhile my insides were screaming and I think even wetting their pants a little bit. As soon as I felt the sun on my face, I turned towards the direction of the motel and found the nearest payphone.
"It's all Lancaster. He's the one who did it," I explained to my dad as I paced back and forth in the motel room. "Or, his father did. Whatever. Daddy Lancaster killed Bruce Emerson, because he loved Frieda. And when Frieda retaliated, he killed her, too. The murders aren't because of a mourning wife. They're because of an angry husband. Bruce's spirit is getting revenge on these women because they look like the woman who betrayed them."
Looking up from the file I'd passed over to him, he asked, "And the Lancaster running the case is their kid?"
Nodding, I swallowed a sip of my water from the bottle I'd had clutched tightly in my hand. "Yeah. He's Frieda and Daddy Lancaster's baby – except that the birth certificate says he's Emerson's. It's all kinds of twisted. And turns out Lancaster watched his dad try and save his mom. Only to obviously fail. Once he got old enough, and learned the truth, Daddy Lancaster mysteriously disappeared."
"All right. All the reports say that Bruce's body was claimed by his wife before it disappeared all together. But, I've got three guesses as to where that thing could be," my dad said as he snapped the file closed and slapped it to his leg before standing up. "Soon as that sun sets, we move. There's no time to stick around, either. We burn it, and we leave. Understand? We gotta get you out of this town before Lancaster sends the entire state after you, so you gotta be one hundred percent sure that this is Emerson's ghost doing this."
Letting out a deep breath of full body release, I bounced my head up and down, trying to convince both of us. "I am," I told him, receiving a small nod before he began checking the weapons bag. "Lancaster and Frieda attacked Emerson that night, killing him. They set him up, and then covered it up with Lancaster's jobs. This guy has killed how many women, just because he wants to keep his secret under wraps?"
Cars were everywhere while blue and red lights flashed over and over and over and over and over and over and… Hearing the sigh from my dad as he crouched beside me, about 20 yards deep in the tree line that edged the back of the Emerson house, I looked over to see he was not exactly happy. "Emerson's body is somewhere in that garden," he informed me in a whisper, nodding to the dark blob of existence in the distance. Everything looks like nothing in the night time. "The only way to draw these cops away from here is to have something for them to chase. You're gonna be that something."
"Wait, what?" I jerked, looking at him like he was crazy. I mean…what?
Putting on his typical "here we go" face, he looked out at the cops. "They're here looking for you, Becca. They know you're coming back here, and they know you're with me. You've got to get them out of here so that we can get rid of Emerson for good."
"So, what? I'm supposed to just go give myself up?"
"You need to distract them."
Biting my lip, I looked out at the cops who were probably no more than thirty feet away in the trees, waiting for me to appear. "Let me see your phone," I nudged him, getting a crazy look in return. "I have an idea."
I didn't think he'd hand it over without further explanation; but seeing as we were in a very desperate time crunch – I think he'd accept answers later. Dialing the police, I held my breath as the call rang four times before the click of an answer sounded.
"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" the bored man asked on the other line.
"I… I'm," I licked my lips, praying this worked. "I'm that girl that you guys are looking for? The one who broke out of the interrogation room earlier today?"
There was a silence on the line and I took the phone away from my ear to check and make sure the connection was still there. "And, and what is your location?" the guy's voice came out much slower than when he'd picked up.
"I'm at the All Star Motel, on Ridgeway Drive. Room number 17. First floor, facing the parking lot. You have fifteen minutes before I change my mind," I rattled, hanging up the minute I got my last breath out. Now, we waited, and I crossed every possible body part to make sure that it worked. Handing the phone back over to my dad, I couldn't look him in the eye. I could only watch the cars and wait for them to disappear.
It seemed like an eternity before shouts were coming, calling in the cops that were in the trees while one after one the cars packed up and sped off into the night with that horrible, horrible siren. Relieved that it worked, I almost couldn't move out of shock… until my dad kicked the toe of his boot against my shoe and motioned for me to follow him to the garden. "It won't take them long to figure out you were lying," he spoke, louder than before, but still in a whisper. Lancaster didn't leave, either," he indicated to the window where Lancaster sat in the kitchen with the guy who'd called the cops on me, – turns out he's Baby Lancaster, a real Lancaster, as in like, the ONLY Lancaster – waiting and staring at the trees like he knew. "Hold back until I need you," my father instructed, leading us a few feet back as he made his way along the tree line in the dark.
The only sound in the night was the thhht of the shovel head as it entered the earth and the dumping of the soil to the side. My father didn't grunt as he moved, he didn't whistle, he didn't do anything but his job. And it was kind of almost a little bit of really freaking scary sometimes. Keeping my hand on the shotgun as I laid on the ground below the trees, my eyes never left my father's surroundings. If something came for him, I had to know. He had no one else to protect him, so I couldn't mess up. The squishing of grass drew my attention towards the house as I adjusted the gun in my grip so I could both aim and pull the trigger if necessary. It was a large body moving towards my father, and then the bright beam of a flashlight that covered his face.
"You take up gardening since we last talked?" Lancaster's voice called out from a distance that sat between the garden and the house.
Tipping his head and putting on his "I don't have time for you bullshit" grin, my father stuck the blade of the shovel into the ground and then stuck his arm on the handle. "Never minded getting my hands dirty."
"Where's the girl?" came Lancaster's immediate jump.
"Sent her on a bus to Boston," my father lied, a squint in his eye as the light from the flashlight continued to stare him back.
Lancaster moved slowly as he closed the distance between my dad and himself. "I know you didn't send her on any bus," he stated after a low, disbelieving chuckle. "Because I had men watching that station, and the only bus to Boston left at half four this afternoon…. I was questioning your girl at half four."
Dropping and shaking his head, my father dropped the shovel to the ground. "Look, Lancaster. I'm trying to help you, and I'm not above having to stop you from getting in the way of that."
"Is that a threat?" Lancaster's voice carried, angrily. "We don't much like threats around here."
"No, but this town sure loves it's secrets, huh?"
I couldn't tell you what Lancaster's face looked like, as it was lost in the dark of the night, but I can tell you that he was pissed. You could feel it. It was just rolling off him in large piles of anger. "I think you ought to come with me, agent. I think I got some shiny cuffs that will fit you just nicely," he sneered, stepping even closer to my dad, and causing my eyes to line my shot up with Lancaster.
"Well, see, you haven't read me my Miranda rights, Lancaster. Until you do that, I'm technically not obliged to go with you."
I heard the chuckle from deep within Lancaster's belly. "No, I haven't read them to you, but my men are itching to."
A crack sounded from where my father stood and I watched him drop to the ground as an officer stood behind him with something in his hands. Oh hell no. Oh hell no. OH. HELL. NO. They didn't. Did they just? No they did not.
"Read him his rights and take him to the station," Lancaster ordered the men that seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Taylor. Get a group together and send them to the bus station. Run his cards. See if any tickets were purchased for Boston. Grimes, you get a team over to the Hollow Grove Inn, and see if they made any reservations. I don't think that girl has fled town just yet, and I'm letting her get out alive."
Confirmations of instructions sounded as the anger pulsed through my veins. My gun was glued to Lancaster and I was just itching to pull the trigger on that horrible son of a bum. Resisting the urge to leap up and tackle the man with my full force of puma strength, I gritted my teeth and just tightened my grip on my weapon. I watched in anger as they dragged and then carried my father's body out of the garden. Lancaster waited until all but one of his men disappeared and then seemed to stared to the area I was in, almost as if he were daring me to come out and beat the crap out of him.
"Sir," the cop said coming up behind him, Grimes just radioed in. They got her down at the Inn. She checked in about two hours ago, and no one has seen her leave the room since. The guy at the desk says he's positive she's still in the room. She's booked until tomorrow night."
Without a word, Lancaster walked away, seeming satisfied that he'd caught me once again. When I heard the siren, I shoved myself off the ground and ran to the garden, throwing myself at the shovel and hastily digging the rest of the hole. Breaking open the sad excuse for a box, I bit back the lunch that threatened to climb out of my throat and poured gas and salt across the bones that looked back at me. Striking a match against my boot, I dropped it in the box before turning on my heel and stalking off towards my dad's truck.
Yawning, I stretched in the bed and pressed the palms of my hands tightly up against the painted wall. My body hurt from where I'd been fighting in the process of helping to break my father out of jail…. again. I can't say it was pretty, or easy – because it wasn't. But it was definitely an experience that is for sure. I can't say I've ever seen a fight stop in the middle because another officer found the file I'd stolen and then read through it. Turns out that when you're some hot shot top cop who likes to lie to a town like that and cover up a whole bunch of murders, it kind of makes it look like you're behind everything. Ends up that then you get blamed for it all and then the crowd turns on you. That is definitely what I would call justice. I love people sometimes. Not all the time…not even a lot. Just sometimes.
Pushing myself up into a sitting position, I yawned again and groggily made my way towards the bathroom, raking my hands through my horrible bed head that seemed to consume my entire face and head.
Clicking off the light as I came back into the room, I looked around to see that my father was gone. And I don't mean, "he might just be getting us donuts before we pack up and leave". I mean, there's only one bag sitting in this room, and there are no keys, no shoes, no boots, no nothing. Just one bag, and one piece of paper on a table. Racing over to the paper, I snatched it up and scanned it probably a dozen times before it finally registered what had happened.
Crumpling the paper up, I threw it at the wall and whipped out my phone. There was no way. Shoving clothes around in my bag while looking for something clean, I bit my tongue as the phone rang and the words on the paper seared themselves into my brain.
Find your brother.
–Dad.