Chapter 6 — Let's rake up the past.

Was it wrong that Frank found it entertaining and a relief that Ms. Drew didn't seem susceptible to his brother's typical charm? The truth was Joe's manner with people in general and women in particular had been vital in more than one of their cases. He had a way of making people feel seen and heard that Frank couldn't emulate. People opened up to Joe because he made himself approachable. And Frank was…not like that. Victims and perpetrators knew he took things seriously, but that was because he took everything seriously. He wasn't cold, just focused. But most people preferred dealing with Joe.

He glanced back at the woman beside him, her arms crossed over her chest and a frown furrowing her brow. She'd been wound pretty tight before they walked in, and was clearly worried about her assistant. "I'm sure once we have a positive ID we will be able to wrap this up quickly," he said encouragingly, and then immediately wished he hadn't said anything. It was a ridiculous thing to say. He had no way of knowing how soon anything would be wrapped up. ID-ing a victim was simply the first step in a process that could be both long and tedious.

"I hope you're right," she said in a small voice, shaking her head. "If that's all detective?" she asked, turning back towards the counter.

It was a dismissal. Frank folded up the receipt from his laundry and shoved it in his pocket. Hand on the door, he turned back towards the counter. "Nancy," he said, waiting until she'd looked up from the computer and met his eyes, "I will solve this. It may not be quickly, I can't really know that. But I won't give up until we have answers."

He meant it to be reassuring, to let her know that she could trust him. But for a split second she simply looked miserable. Then she gave a quick nod. "That's your job," she said softly. Unsettled by the interaction, Frank was more silent than usual on their drive to the station. He noticed Joe kept glancing over at him. George in the back seat was equally silent, staring out the window.

When they got back to the precinct, he saw George look uneasily towards the interrogation rooms. Her hands were clasped together, and she kept biting at her bottom lip as she looked around. "We'll just have a seat here at my desk," Joe said, trying to keep things light and informal as he pulled out a chair. "Would you like some coffee or water?"

George shook her head, keeping her eyes down.

"Ok. We'll make this quick, I promise. Why didn't you tell us last night that you recognized the victim?"

"I didn't want to be involved," George said in a quiet voice. "Marisol was mixed up with dangerous people."

"Can you tell me what you know about her?"

"We were at school together. There was a guy, drugs, she ran away a few times. I'm sure you hear stories like that all the time," George replied, her voice slightly bitter.

"Unfortunately we do," Frank nodded. "When was the last time you saw Marisol?"

George sighed. "Maybe three or four weeks ago. She saw me leaving work and stopped me. Said she was trying to leave her boyfriend but didn't have any money. She looked terrible, the drugs I guess, all skin and bones. It took me a minute to believe it was her. We…we'd been friends once. I felt bad. So I took her back to my house, gave her some food and a little money."

She fell silent once more, staring down at the floor and twisting her hands together in her lap.

"Do you know anything about this boyfriend she was trying to leave?" Frank asked. "Did she talk about him?"

George frowned, and began plucking at the edge of her shirt. "His name is Micah…Micah Fernandez. It's just…weird to talk about. They used to be different, you know? Micah and I went out a couple times…before he met Marisol. We all…didn't have great parents. My dad OD'd when I was little and my mom ran off and left me with my grandmother. But maybe that was better…Micah's dad was…mean. He drank a lot. So Micah was always looking to get away. We did drugs together a couple times, but then Marisol showed up. She really liked to party, and Micah just…got caught up in it all. It changed him. He started acting more like his dad. My grandma made me stay away from them, even moved to a different borough. Anyway… I hadn't seen them in a long time before Marisol showed up at work."

She hadn't made eye contact the whole time she'd been speaking, her voice was soft and fast, and she clearly wanted it all over with as quickly as possible. Frank studied her. She was upset by what had happened, but also seemed somehow confused, as if in telling the story she was also trying to reconcile the people she'd been discussing with the body in the dumpster. Best to wrap this up and circle back to her later if they couldn't track down this Fernandez. He waved Sergeant Miller over. "George, the officer will take you back to the store, or home if you'd rather go there. I'm sure Ms. Drew wouldn't mind if you took the day off. She was worried about you."

An uncertain frown crossed her face. "I'd rather go back to the store. It's not right to leave her on her own with all that's going on."

Frank smiled, though she didn't notice it. He liked that sort of attitude. The girl showed some resilience. That was a good sign. But as soon as she was on her way out, the smile faded and he turned towards Joe.

"Micah Fernandez, already on it," his brother said, spinning in his chair back to his computer. A quick search showed a couple misdemeanor assault charges, one for possession, some prison time for vehicular manslaughter, and an address for an apartment not too far away. Joe was on the phone a second later, getting uniforms over to the apartment to hunt Fernandez down and bring him in for questioning.

For about a half hour Frank honestly thought this was going to be as easily solved as he'd foolishly told Nancy. Fernandez had denied everything of course, but now Frank was watching through the glass as Joe handled the interrogation, taking his story apart piece by piece, and any minute now he was going to confess.

Joe went over the evidence methodically. Witnesses had heard Marisol and Micah arguing that night. In fact, they had been arguing more and more over the last month. Violently sometimes. There were police reports on file. Neighbors had called in about their fights. There were medical reports from ER visits. The slash that severed the carotid artery wasn't the only knife wound. A stab to the abdomen had finished the girl off. Fernandez shifted in his seat and began tapping his fingers against the table. But there was more. Bruises had appeared on the girl's body as she lay in the morgue waiting for autopsy. Hands had grasped her throat and squeezed before the blade had done its work. Hands that matched the size of the man sitting in the small room right now. The lawyer frowned and Fernandez visibly gulped. They were so close to a confession. And they needed that confession. Because the murder weapon hadn't been in the dumpster, and no trace of it or any blood at all had turned up in the search of the apartment Williams and Fernandez had shared.

"I didn't do it!" he burst out suddenly.

"Mr. Fernandez, you don't need to say anything," the lawyer immediately cautioned. But the young man carried on, heedless of the warning.

"We fought, yeah. We fought all the freaking time. She was such a whiny little bitch. Nothing I did was good enough. And so, yeah, I got carried away. I choked her. I just wanted her to shut up. But I didn't kill her! I stopped as soon as she passed out!"

Frank swore under this breath.

"That's not what we think happened, Mr. Fernandez," Joe said mildly. "We think you wanted to shut her up for good. And so you slashed her throat. But that wasn't enough, was it? You needed her to pay for all the trouble she was to you. So you stabbed her, and then tried to stash her body in a dumpster. It's hard to get dead weight up into those things isn't it?"

The suspect blinked at him. "I...I...was high," he stuttered. "So that means...I can't be...Well it's not really my fault, right? Diminished responsibility or something? I don't even remember doing all that!"

The lawyer sighed wearily. Joe slid a piece of paper across the table to the young man. "Why don't you write out for us exactly what happened that night. I'll see what the chief says about...how did you put it? Diminished responsibility," he added with an eye roll.

Joining Frank in the hallway, Joe crossed his arms over his chest. "Well that's not gonna cut it. No confession and not enough evidence."

An officer approached them with a file. "Detective Hardy, here's the file on Fernandez's priors."

Frank took the folder and flipped it open. Nancy's face stared at him from a series of evidence photos. And not just her. Two mangled cars, autopsy photos of a Ned Nickerson, and mug shots of Fernandez were included in the file. "Vehicular manslaughter while under the influence," he read aloud. "Private Investigator Nancy Nickerson and her husband were involved in a car crash after being hired to find fifteen year old runaway Marisol Williams." He swore and thrust the file at his brother.

Joe whistled. "Private investigator, huh? Time to bring the laundry lady in for questioning," he added softly, clapping his brother on the shoulder.