CHAPTER 28
Allegations

December 2075

Grey swung her legs over the side of the bed, hardwood cold beneath her bare feet. Sleet beat against the blackened windows, the wind outside howling like something possessed. A part of her wanted to believe it was the wind that had woken her. There was comfort in such simple thoughts. But that wasn't it; it never was. For Grey, it was always the incessant itching at the back of her brain. She pressed her lips, waiting for the itch to subside. But it wouldn't. It hadn't in days.

She grabbed a robe and traipsed through her condo. Sweat clung to her skin like a film. Her hair was damp, the feel of it chilling her from scalp to tailbone. She pulled her robe around her and collapsed onto the couch, eyeing the half empty wine bottle from hours before. She could always take a sip, chase it with some zolpidem, try and go back to sleep. But her mind didn't want that. She'd had her fun, it decided; now it was time to get back to work.

Grey pulled the James case files out from beneath the coffee table. She wasn't sure why she grabbed them. She knew every word verbatim. Every photo, every timeline, every quote. But still she held the files, fingers skimming over dog-eared pages.

It had been another week and she was still no closer to learning anything incriminating about Corporal James. Despite Kolinsky's assurances that James was a prime cut of Grade A asshole, Grey had found little evidence to support that. His service record was immaculate, but that was to be expected as his former squad's records all appeared to have been doctored for reasons still unknown. So Grey had again risked putting herself in Major Cantrell's crosshairs and conducted a series of "follow up interviews" with members of James's current unit. Except the interviews elicited absolutely nothing. James was well liked by his peers and respected by his men. Even his CO was hard pressed to say he was anything less than exemplary. No matter how deep Grey dug or sweetly she charmed, nothing of consequence was mentioned. The most damning testimony was that he "got a bit handsy with the local skirts" when on leave with his squad. And while Grey would have loved for that to have been the magical clue to James's hidden depravity, she also knew "too handsy" could be said about many young servicemen after too many months on tour and one too many beers. Not that Grey didn't find that behaviour deplorable—she did—but unless it happened on an army base or to a fellow solider, it was the local LEOs' job to police, not hers.

Arms draped around her shoulders from behind, a stubbled chin nuzzling her neck. His breath was hot, smelling of wine and sex.

"Bed's cold without you," he said, pressing a kiss to her throat.

Grey tossed the case files onto the couch and leaned back, his rough hands slipping beneath her robe.

"I have a question for you."

He smiled. "Oh?"

"Say a case comes across your desk, a serious allegation like aggravated assault, and your witness then tells you the suspect has done it before. Except when you check his criminal record, it's clean. Not even a speeding ticket. Now, sure, perhaps the correct approach here is to scrutinizing the witness's testimony, but let's say you believe them and know them to be credible. How would you proceed?"

He chuckled. "What, you want to play witness and interrogator? If you want to be the witness, I'm sure I can think of a few ways to make you squeal." His hands ventured lower, twisting between her thighs.

"Go on, Detective," she purred. "Wow me with your investigative prowess."

"Well, sweetheart," he said, words growled against the curve of her jaw, "I'd have Perry run a search on the CIR database. If your guy's done this before, chances are someone's made a report and fingered him at some stage. Speaking of fingering…"

Grey grabbed his hand and pulled back. "CIR database?"

He sighed, standing upright and walking around to sit beside her on the couch. "BPD database for Crime Incident Reports. It's separate from Criminal Records. See, something only appears on your record if there's an arrest or charges laid, but for every arrest there's probably a hundred unsolved reports. So sure, your record can be as clean as the Pope's Sunday robes, but that doesn't mean your name isn't recorded elsewhere. Hence asking Perry." He gave her a schoolboy smile, the crinkles around his eyes hinting at his desired reward. "Now if we're done with twenty questions…" His rough hands pushed the robe from her shoulders, teeth nipping along her collarbone.

Except Grey barely noticed his touch, her brain again churning. Recorded elsewhere. What else might have been recorded elsewhere? Where would the Army have…

Grey shoved the cop aside and hastily stood, collecting her discarded clothes and beginning to dress.

"Was it something I said, sweetheart?" he asked with a weary smile, pushing himself to his feet and making another grab for her.

"Get out."

He froze. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I have somewhere I need to be," she said while zipping up her skirt. "So I need you to leave."

"All right," he said cautiously.

She tossed his jeans at him before wandering into the hallway to find her purse.

"You should, uh, call me and we'll do this again," he later hollered from the doorway. "Give me a ring next time you're… Well, just give me a ring."

"Sure thing, Detective."

He nodded with little confidence and disappeared out the door.

Grey wouldn't be calling him. She'd have to remember his name for that. He'd had his uses though, she thought as she grabbed her military coat and ID. Cops often did. If not for the freely given intel, then for the sex. They were always so eager to please.

Two hours later, Grey found herself perched on a desk in the CID records room, folders haphazardly strewn around her and boxes stacked beneath her feet. She held one file like a prize, cradling a handset between her ear and shoulder as the phone rang.

A groggy voice murmured an incoherent greeting.

"I need you to meet me by the Boston Common gazebo in an hour."

Kolinsky paused. "Lieutenant?" He kissed his teeth. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"4:37 AM. Your point?"

"Wow, what could I possibly be insinuating with that comment?" He growled, sheets rustling. "Fine. I'll be there."

"And bring Anders."

"Christ, woman. Anything else you need me to do for you? Dry cleaning collected perhaps?"

Grey smirked. "A coffee wouldn't hurt."

"Fuck you, Lieutenant." The line disconnected.

—

The Common was quiet before dawn; the occasional car driving past, a homeless gentleman slumped against the side of the Park Street Station Nuka-Cola machine. A fresh sprinkling of snow coated the paths leading into the park, concealing the black ice beneath. Grey gingerly ventured through the rod iron gates, the path illuminated by dead aspens adorned in hundreds of string lights for the holiday season. The city was near bankrupt, the entire country in an economic recession, yet Christmas decorations were deemed an appropriate use of municipal funds. Grey shook her head.

Anders and Kolinsky were huddled under the gazebo, Anders' chin buried in his scarf and hands deep in his pockets. Kolinsky held a to-go cup, steam billowing up and practically obscuring his face. He shoved the cup into Grey's hands as she approached, his brow furrowed with annoyance.

She sipped the coffee, the taste of cheap beans and cheaper styrofoam coating her throat like battery acid. But at least it was hot. She leaned against one of the pillars, string lights digging into her spine.

"So?" Kolinsky finally barked. "Why have you dragged us here at this unholy hour?"

"Hmm, someone isn't a morning person."

"Don't think this qualifies as morning," he shot back, crutch gesturing to the blackened sky.

Grey placed the cup on the gazebo's railing before retrieving the file from her coat's inside pocket. She handed it out to the two men, both exchanging a look before Anders took the folder. They began reading, expressions moving from query to disbelief as the pages turned.

"The sweet fuck," Kolinsky finally breathed.

Anders' jaw was clenched so tight Grey thought his teeth would crack.

She took another sip of coffee. "From your expressions, I'm guessing you didn't know."

Anders threw the file to the ground, retreating to the other side of the gazebo. Grey retrieved the folder, wiping the dirt and snow away with her glove. Kolinsky appeared to watch her, but his gaze was distant, lost to the many thoughts racing through his mind.

"So she never mentioned anything? Nothing at all?"

Both men remained silent, which was answer enough. Their disquiet radiated outward.

"What about Walsh?" Grey asked.

"What about him?" Kolinsky queried.

"Would she have told him?"

More silence.

Grey sighed. "All I'm positing is—"

Anders turned and cut across her. "That Walsh put a bullet in James's brain as retribution?"

Grey frowned. "No. What I'm positing is that Blake told Walsh, hence the disagreement you witnessed between Walsh and James on the trails several days before the shooting."

Anders' body language retreated, but only slightly. "So what about the shooting then? Blake didn't do it. She's been deployed overseas since—" He paled. "Since the day after she made that report."

"Fuck," Kolinsky spat.

Grey reopened the file, noting the interview date as May 4th, 2075. Seven months ago.

Thus far, Specialist Blake had been little more than window dressing in Grey's investigation. Her name occasionally popped up in reports and Anders' many deployment stories. Nothing noteworthy or of interest. Grey's only poignant memory of her was from the black and white photograph taken in front of the Anchorage welcome sign in February 2074. The photo Anders showed her that night at Umberto's, drawing her into the case. Most of Blake's face had been obscured in that photo, laughter and teeth buried in Walsh's shoulder. It was strange, to look so happy as the land laid barren around her.

The Blake from that photo and the Blake from the testimony were at odds in Grey's mind. One looked young and careless and naive; that other was cold and experienced and logical beyond reproach. The testimony on file was all fact. No nonsense and not a glimmer of emotion. Blake had spelled out in no uncertain terms how James had drugged and raped her while on shore leave in Tijuana, Mexico in December 2074. The CID officer asked why she'd taken so long to make a statement. Blake had told him she'd only just returned from deployment and that she didn't want to jeopardize her safety or her squad's by creating division while actively deployed. The interview transcript concluded with the CID officer indicating he'd open an investigation, but less than six hours later, a senior officer marked the case as closed, citing "insufficient evidence" and "possible malicious intent". Language that was synonymous with a standard Army cover-up. Grey knew it well. After all, she'd coordinated over a dozen cover-ups in her first year at JAG Corps, all at her superiors' behests. Poor Blake never had a chance, and the Army ensured they'd shipped her back overseas where she couldn't make any further fuss literally hours after she'd made her statement.

"Tell me about James's family," Grey asked.

Kolinsky frowned. "And what good is that? This is about Blake, isn't it?"

"She wants to know if they had the reach for that level of interference, Dave. Which yes," Anders said, looking to Grey, "they did. James is fifth generation Army. Great grandfather was a four-star general, as was his father. Father's retired now but still has significant pull. Plays golf on the weekends with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, if I remember correctly."

Grey leaned back against the pillar, closing her eyes and letting her thoughts settle. She could hear Kolinsky pacing the gazebo, the difference in weight from limb to crutch. Anders was quiet, but she could sense his rage, the heaviness of it crashing against her in the cold, dark morning.

James, Walsh, and Blake. Tampered records, attempted murder, and now rape. But how did it all fit together? Unless…

"The records were altered to separate James and Blake."

Kolinsky halted. "To erase any evidence they were ever deployed together. So next time Blake's stateside, if she tries to resurrect the allegation, pursue it—and she will; she'd never let that go—her claims are easily dismissed. Because there was no Tijuana. There wasn't even Anchorage. She and James, on paper, have never served together."

"And the rest of you were collateral damage, your service records hastily modified to maintain the facade." Grey shook her head. "Walsh and James stopped socializing several months back, didn't they?"

Anders pursed his lips. "I hadn't noticed, but… yeah. Past few times we've met up, Walsh didn't show. Gave some bullshit excuses now that I think about it." He growled. "Goddammit."

"It's not your fault, Nate," Kolinsky stressed. "Who would have thought that—"

"There's nothing you can do," Grey whispered.

Kolinsky frowned. "What?"

"The night we ambushed Walsh at the speakeasy, he said we needed to stay away because there was nothing we could do. His words have been playing on a loop in my head since I read this file. But now it makes sense."

Anders straightened. "Because he knows James's family's reach. Combined with the fact that he was feuding on base with James just days before the attack…"

"He knew they'd be coming for him, one way or another." Grey exhaled and ran a gloved hand back through her hair. "Hell, that's why I'm here, isn't it? Pulled from all my other cases by my superiors to ensure we convict Walsh for this, one way or another."

"Except he's only in JAG's crosshairs because of me and my meddling," Anders stressed.

Grey shook her head. "I don't think that's true. What you offered them was eyewitness testimony, but even without that they would have come after one of you. Anyone sympathetic to Blake. Anyone who may have known about the rape."

"Except we still have a problem," Kolinsky interjected. "This information is fine and good, but all I'm hearing are reasons why Walsh may have actually pulled the trigger. Blake is like a sister to him. And his actual sister? She's now dead, body fresh in the ground. So how does he deal with his grief? It's not like the Army gives an actual shit about soldiers' mental health, so Walsh—he's all on his own. Family's dead, Blake's overseas, and the one person he trusts the most? Yeah, he's still around, once Walsh stomachs the fact that he violated one of our own." Kolinsky scowled, his words hard and bitter. "Hell, if James wasn't already brain-dead in a hospital bed, I'd go finish the job myself."

Grey closed her eyes as Kolinsky and Anders began arguing about the morality of that. It was an argument she didn't care for. The men were upset, and if quarrelling helped them move past it, fine by her, but she wouldn't be joining in.

Kolinsky was right though—not about killing James; Grey had no opinion on that—but about them only seeming to prove Walsh's guilt. Which was always an outcome Grey had to consider, even if Anders refuted it. Perhaps Walsh did shoot James out of anger or grief or betrayal. He had the motive, the training, access to firearms, and access to the base. But he wasn't the only one with those things. And perhaps he wasn't the only person affected by James's predatory behaviour.

Grey sprinted from the gazebo, down the path back towards Park Street Station. She jammed her hand into her purse, searching for something she'd sworn only hours earlier she'd never need. The men caught up with her as she reached the public telephone box and began inputting the number scribbled across a torn cocktail napkin.

"What the hell, Lieutenant?" Kolinsky snapped.

"It's the key principle of risk assessment," she said, gloved finger fitting a quarter into the slot.

Both men stared at her blankly.

"The best predictor of future action is…?"

"Past behaviour," Anders replied.

"Exactly," she said. "And Blake? An infantry specialist? She's not easy prey. Lots of risk involved there. And you don't take those kinds of risks unless you're fucking stupid or—"

"You've done it before," Anders' whispered, clenching his jaw.

Kolinsky frowned. "Which, fine, great, but who are you—"

Grey threw up her hand to quiet him as the line connected, a gruff voice muttering something resembling a name.

"Detective? It's Grey. From… earlier."

The man on the other end of the line paused, exhaling deeply. "Hmm, name sounds familiar. I think a woman by that name threw me out of her apartment a few hours ago. But I wouldn't be expecting a call from her. No, that would just be… crazy or something." There was enough venom in his voice to topple an elephant.

Grey grimaced, realizing she'd need to be quick on her feet to pull this off. "Crazy would actually be her then having the gall to ask for a favour. The kind involving Officer Perry and a certain crime report database."

Grey waited for the click of the receiver, the screech of a dial tone. But it was silence that answered, followed by another heavy sigh. "You're lucky you're fucking hot, sweetheart. Fine. What do you need me to look up?"

"Any reported sexual assaults from 2070 onward that were perpetrated by a Caucasian male, age twenty-five to thirty-five, brown hair, roughly five foot ten, with hazel eyes. May have included the use of chems to subdue the victim. Victim may also have military ties."

"That's awfully specific, counsellor."

"Can you run it?" she asked.

"Give me an hour," he replied, "and ring me back on this number."

The line cut before she could respond. And Grey—she could only hope his word, unlike hers, actually meant something.