The Watson Evidence: Detective Laura McCallister Lesbian Mystery, #4

By Rosalyn Wraight

In recent weeks, two teenage boys have jumped to their deaths from Granger Bridge, and now, another one is missing. Detective Laura McCallister is frustrated and desperate to find a way to stop the deadly succession.

Meanwhile, a County deputy summons her to the hospital with the hope that she can ID an unconscious accident victim. After surviving a fiery wreck, the woman's only possessions: $10,000 cash, and McCallister's business card in her back pocket. Is there ever a good reason to have a detective's business card?

Not knowing who the woman is, McCallister waits for the mystery to solve itself with the woman's awakening. But, things don't prove quite that simple. In fact, they become so convoluted that McCallister must endure some of the darkest moments of her life. This time, the mystery exists inside her own self, and the skills she instinctually relies upon for resolution seem far beyond her capabilities.

Approximate word count: 99,000

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don't Waste Daylight
• Release date: Aug 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781932014372

Book preview

Chapter 1

With a loud ding, the elevator opened and completed its delivery of Detective Laura McCallister to the second floor of St. Michael’s Hospital. The disinfectant smell and hushed voices always made her nervous. She recalled keeping vigil some months back after Officer Phil Jansen had been hit in the head by the serial killer they hunted. She remembered more recently pacing the hall when her reporter friend, Kate Sutter, had emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. But, she also knew she’d never forget Officer Rick Jessop’s face as he pointed out his newborn son in the nursery. Still, to say she detested hospitals would have been a delicate but wasteful choice of words.

After an uneasy scan of the hall, she swiftly approached a county deputy standing at the nurse’s station completing a report.

What’s up, Nichols? she asked him with a slight nudge to his elbow. What do you need?

Sorry about getting you dragged in on a Sunday night, Detective, he said as he cautiously looked up at her. We’ve got a woman who just wrecked her car. No ID, but she had your business card in her back pocket. We’re hoping you recognize her. The doc says he needs next of kin, and I’d like to finish my report.

Nodding her assent, she followed him to Room 217. He held the door for her, but she hesitated. She wiped her hands on her sweatpants and took an inconspicuous deep breath. With a stretch, she leaned her head into the room. The dim light did little to provide an adequate glimpse; she figured as much, but she had hoped nonetheless.

Why don’t you go finish your report? she suggested. I’ll go take a look at her.

He stood there, awaiting her passage, and when he realized she was not budging, he retreated. Yell if you need me, he said and headed back to the nurse’s station.

She forcefully wiped her hands again, berating herself for being ruffled by something undeserving of such a swell of emotion. Again, she took a fortifying breath and then entered. Slowly, she approached the bed, her steps marking every third beep of the machine that validated a beating heart.

A young woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, lay still, except for the consistent heaving of her chest. Bandages covered her arms and half her forehead. Bloody and matted hair gave enough indication that on a good day it was dark blond, wavy, and shoulder-length. A long, lean nose jutted between high cheekbones. A craggy split ran upward from her lip.

McCallister did not recognize her, and yet, she could not stop staring. Something tugged at her. As a homicide detective, she found looking at the dead easier than witnessing utter vulnerability. She broke her gaze and hurried into the hall.

I’m sorry, Nichols, she said upon approach. I don’t think I know who she is. Can you tell me what you do know?

He stood up straight and grabbed his notebook from an inside pocket. A man saw the accident. He said she swerved to miss a deer, taking the ditch instead of hitting the deer or him head-on. She hit a tree. The doc says no alcohol or drugs in her system. He unnecessarily paused to allow her time to ask questions and then continued, Fire gutted the car, so she probably had ID somewhere. All we got is what was on her: your card in her back pants pocket and over 10,000 in cash in her jacket pocket.

Ten thousand in cash! McCallister repeated. You’re kidding.

Nichols shook his head. I checked the VIN, and the car belonged to a man in Arizona up until a week ago, he explained. He said a young woman paid cash for it. He’s got the name ‘Rachel Hillman’ on the bill of sale, but both the driver’s license number and address are bogus. A temp tag isn’t registered.

So she’s running from something or hiding something, McCallister surmised.

I’ve got a check into Missing Persons, and I’m seeing if there are any recent crimes that could account for the cash.

Sounds like you’re on track, she said. I guess you’ll have to wait until she comes to. Did the doctor give any indication?

He turned to the nurse and asked whether there was any new information on the woman’s condition. Instantly, the nurse summoned the doctor from the room behind the station. He came out and introduced himself to McCallister as Dr. Eric Lythegow.

She has a concussion, bruises, burns ... the standard injuries from an accident like this, he explained. I have her sedated because when she came to she was extremely agitated. Again, that’s common after a trauma, but we couldn’t get her to calm down. I’d rather be sure she’s stable before we stop the sedatives.

But you think she’s going to make it?

Oh, yes. I certainly believe so. I don’t think we missed anything.

Then why the rush for the next of kin? Why not wait and just ask her?

Just one of those gut things, I guess, he said. If you could have seen her ... the look in her eyes. She was absolutely terrified. I was just hoping someone could be here when she wakes up. It might make her feel better. Then again, she might wake up just fine.

Doc, I know you mean well, she assured, but it could be she’s running from something and maybe has a reason to be afraid. Maybe this family you’re looking for is precisely what she’s running from.

After a moment’s thought, Dr. Lythegow nodded empathetically and said he would wait until morning to let her awaken. She instructed him to give Nichols a call when she started coming around. Nichols, in turn, asked her to be present.

She exited the hospital as quickly as possible, and once outside, she filled her lungs with the night air and looked to the vastness of the night sky. As she meandered to her car, she scoured the sky for a constellation she could put a name to. Settling for the lone crescent moon, she made for home.

Before her feet even brought her through the doorway, Holly said, Please tell me it wasn’t another kid.

It wasn’t. Thankfully.

Okay then, they found the missing boy. He’s okay, but he’s in big trouble. They brought you in to read him the riot act.

No. Unfortunately.

A murder?

No, she answered as she removed her jacket.

Well, it must be something big to justify calling you in on a Sunday night.

She smiled at her endless line of reasoning and then told her, A woman had a car accident. She’s unconscious. No ID.

And that qualifies for a detective how? Was she run off the road?

She had my business card in her pocket.

Uh oh.

‘Uh oh’? Why ‘uh oh’?

You’re a detective—a rather yummy one—and she has your card. She either needs a detective—it’s never a good thing to need a detective—or she’s looking you up for another reason.

The comical way she emphasized another led her to ask, And what kind of reason would that be?

Because you’re yummy.

She laughed. Hol, if I’m yummy, it’s only because I usually taste like you. She extended her hand. Come here and remind me what we were doing when the phone rang.

We were kissing, she said as she neared. We were lying on the couch kissing. She cupped her face and kissed her very slowly. I’m glad you’re home.

Me, too.

Should we pick up where we left off?

Without question, she answered as her hands glided over Holly’s silk-robed back. Lingering on her firm buttocks, she added, But I was thinking bed, not couch. And I was thinking hot chocolate.

She kissed her again. That could be arranged. Go get ready for bed, and I’ll make the hot chocolate.

You’re good to me.

I won’t be if you’re not in bed before I get there. Scoot!

Yes, ma’am.

She threw her jacket to a chair and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. She changed into the white nightshirt that matched Holly’s, and despite knowing what hot chocolate would do, she brushed her teeth. Then as she washed her face, her mind drifted to the woman in the hospital. She hoped she’d be okay and that she’d satisfy her curiosity as to why she had her card. Was there ever a good reason to have a detective’s business card?

When she heard the teakettle whistle, she dashed to the bedroom, readied the bed, and climbed in to wait for Holly.

They talked, laughed, sipped, and made love before they succumbed to sleep.

In the morning, they repeated the sacred process, this time with coffee McCallister snuck into the kitchen to retrieve from the maker timed to go off mere minutes before her alarm.

With a promise to come home as soon as possible, they kissed goodbye, and McCallister headed to the station. She was in the midst of a routine briefing when Deputy Nichols called to summon her to the hospital.

By 10:30, she again found herself uncomfortably staring at the woman.

Her breathing was heavier and faster. Her head occasionally twisted from side to side. As a precaution, a low dose of sedative was administered, and her wrists were tethered to the bed rails.

A nurse, Dr. Lythegow, Nichols, and she simply waited.

The woman’s level of agitation proved a gauge for her level of consciousness. The closer she came to the world, the more distressed she became. McCallister suggested Nichols wait in the hall, in case his uniform upset her.

The woman groggily blinked numerous times, and then suddenly, her eyes shot open like angry blinds on a dirty window. She screamed deeply, an obvious fear of something inside and not a reaction to unfamiliar surroundings.

It’s okay, miss, the doctor assured as he gently pushed his hands to her shoulder. You’re safe. You were in a car accident. You’re in the hospital, but everything is okay. I’m Dr. Lythegow.

His words offered her no comfort, no calm, no sense of reality. She thrashed violently as the doctor fought to keep her prone and calm. He ordered the nurse to ready more sedative.

McCallister neared the head of the bed and sought to help him. She smiled at the woman, although she figured she probably didn’t even really see her. If I was in a hospital, I think they’d have to hold me down, too. I hate hospitals, she said, and then loudly, she asked, Do you want me to get this big guy off you?

Abruptly, the woman stopped resisting. She nodded, and her screams immediately turned into sobs.

Do you promise to be calm? McCallister asked with wide eyes and a smile. He’ll sit on you if you won’t be. I wouldn’t mess with him. You promise? When the woman nodded and made eye contact, she asked again, Promise?

I promise, she affirmed.

Dr. Lythegow eased away from her just as McCallister sat on the other side of the bed.

Is that better? Are you okay? she asked with a reassuring smile.

Again, the woman nodded, and McCallister could see her relax onto the bed.

Like the doc said, you were in an accident. You avoided hitting a deer and landed in the ditch. You got pretty banged up. Do you remember?

Nodding turned to vehement shaking.

The doc will probably tell you that’s normal. I’m sure it was pretty scary. It’ll come back to you if it needs to, she explained. What’s your name anyway?

She looked into McCallister’s eyes but didn’t answer. Thoughts seemed to overtake her.

After a couple of moments, McCallister said, Your driver’s license must have gotten lost in the accident. We don’t know who you are. We were hoping we could call someone for you so you don’t have to be alone. She tried to figure out what was on the other side of those blue eyes peering into hers. The stare wasn’t blank. It wasn’t fearful. Pleading maybe, she thought. But for what?

My name is Laura McCallister, she told her. Detective Laura McCallister. She paused to see whether the title elicited any fear or discomfort. When she realized it didn’t, she said, You had my business card in your pocket. Did you need my help with something?

Her eyes squinted in thought. Then, she shrugged and looked away.

McCallister cautiously laughed. You just collect business cards, then, I take it. Mine are pretty boring. They could have at least given me raised letters, don’t you think?

I like the blue, though, she said. Her eyes suddenly widened, and she whipped her head to peer into McCallister’s eyes again. I like the blue! she shouted. I like the blue! She started crying from somewhere deep inside.

Tell me about the blue, then, McCallister tried, completely uncertain as to the significance.

I remember the blue. ... I don’t know why I remember the blue ... but I do.

McCallister shot a pleading look to the doctor and then to the restraint on the woman’s wrist. He nodded and removed it as McCallister reached into her jacket pocket to retrieve a card. She handed it to the woman, asking, Is this what you mean? Is this the blue you remember?

She studied the card. After a moment, she nodded and asked, Do you know if I needed your help, Detective Laura McCallister?

I’m sorry. I don’t. Perhaps if you told me your name, it might—

The sobbing returned full force. Then, she blurted, I don’t seem to remember my name. I don’t seem to remember anything.

McCallister turned to the doctor and asked him to help the woman understand.

He neared her and smiled gently. You got hit in the head pretty hard, miss. Traumatic amnesia can occur from something like that, but it’s transient ... temporary. It should clear on its own. Your scan was fine, but we’ll be running more tests this morning. We’ll figure it all out.

McCallister got up while the doctor explained the tests they would be performing. She poked her head out the door and told Deputy Nichols that his return would not cause problems. When he entered, the woman looked at him, squinted her eyes in thought, and then directed her attention back to the doctor.

When the conversation lulled, McCallister introduced Nichols as the deputy in charge of dealing with her car accident. Then, she said, If you happen to remember that you did need me for something, just give me a call. She smiled at her. I hope you feel better soon.

Do you have to go? she asked. A mix of sadness and fear swept over her face that McCallister did not like.

Your case is with the Ledder County Sheriff’s Department, ma’am. I work for the City of Granton, she explained. Deputy Nichols will help you. Just trust him. I do. She smiled again. In mid-turn toward the door, she added, And behave yourself so the doc doesn’t have to sit on you. When she got the smile she wanted, she told her to take care and took leave.

Chapter 2

McCallister’s cellphone sounded with the opening of the elevator door on the ground floor. Upon answering it, she learned that someone found the body of the teenager who had allegedly jumped to his death from Granger Bridge three days prior.

This was the third suicide in Granton in the past two weeks. All of them were adolescent boys, all from the same school, and all choosing the very same spot on the very same bridge to end it all. With young people, suicides were often like dominoes, and the community had procedures in place to keep those dominoes from falling. This time, they had not been so lucky. The professionals called them suicide clusters, and she hated the term. Stars clustered—flowers, diamonds, even peanuts. In her mind, it sounded too quaint, as though proximity was the gist of it, not cause and effect, not pain compounding pain.

She was a member of the Crisis Intervention Team that went into schools after such an occurrence. Her role was not seen as the supportive ones provided by the mental health workers. They were the nouns; she was the verb. She forced a dose of reality into minds that had yet to fully develop foresight. She carefully told the tales of cutting a noose, of trying to identify a young man’s face when half his head hung in little bits on the wallpaper, of telling parents the devastating news that the life they brought into the world had left. Now, fishing teenage bodies out of the river would one day land in the index of children’s stories that should never be told.

The first boy, Erik Scott, had been the backbone of a group of seeming outcasts. They were sophomores, into comic books and video games, and not one of them had ever been in trouble. Scott had been respected by his friends, and when he plunged over a hundred feet to the river, there occurred a lethal mix of pain and hero-worship. The second boy, Bradley Dake, followed within a week, and now, another one waited on the shore for his own body bag.

She sped to Riverine Park, juggling sadness and anger. Death was bad enough, but when it manifested itself in children, it took abhorrent to another level. Her anger came from a sense of failure, that the extra patrols the department ordered on Granger Bridge had not stopped this one. The press would have a field day.

She pulled her car through the array of squads and parked next to the coroner’s van. For a long moment, she simply sat there, absorbing everything and every face she could. She knew the coroner’s determination of drowning would come about through a process of elimination. Was he alive when he hit the water? Did he hit the water intentionally? Until those questions had answers, it was a crime scene.

She disembarked and headed for the uniformed group on the river’s shore.

Is it him? she asked.

Fits the description, Detective, an officer informed her.

She had hoped the boy had simply run away, leaving some of his belongings and a note on the bridge just for the sake of drama or the instillation of worry. She looked to his battered, discolored face, and she scarcely recognized him from the photos displayed on his parents’ wall. His clothes matched the portrait his mother had tearfully painted of the last time she had seen him.

Loathsomely satisfied, she turned her gaze to the medical examiner and asked, Anything out of the ordinary, Hastings?

Dr. Peter Hastings shook his head. Nothing I wouldn’t expect. He’s banged up where he ought to be, nowhere he really shouldn’t be. Lividity is as expected. Rigors would match the window of time, he answered. I’ll need to run some tests, of course.

All right, Hastings. Do your thing, she said, and then she looked to Officers Jansen and Jessop. We still need everything backed up. Get a statement from the woman who found him, and I want the name of everyone who came for the sideshow. Treat it like a crime scene until we know otherwise. I’m going to head to his parents’ house before they find out on their own.

She made a beeline for her car, but in a shrill second, her mission took an abrupt detour.

Is it him? Is it him? the boy’s mother shrieked as she pushed her way through the throng of onlookers and members of the press. Is it Kevin?

McCallister raced to stop her from nearing the shore. As gently and yet as forcefully as she could, she seized the woman’s arm, bringing her to a jerking halt. It’s him, Mrs. Conner. I’m very sorry, but it’s your son.

If the heart made a sound when it broke, McCallister heard it.

She led her by the arm to her car. Figuring she needed some time to compose herself away from the gawking crowd, she opened the back door and motioned for her to sit down.

With a flicking wrist, she summoned an officer to stand near the car, and then with angry strides, she approached the line of reporters.

All right, who was the son-of-a— Who just had to release the information before the mother found out? she railed. Glaring, she focused on each individual. Are you happy you informed the world first? Did that little scoop make you feel good? Like God? A goddamn half an hour! You couldn’t wait a goddamn half an hour!

Detective, can you verify—

"Verify? Verify? Can I verify that I’m pissed as hell and won’t answer one of your goddamn questions? Consider it verified!"

We have a right to know, one of them dared.

So did the people who brought him into this world! Angrily, she spat on the ground, turned around in the dead silence, and returned to her car.

She knelt in front of the woman. Where’s your husband, Mrs. Conner? Someone needs to tell him before he finds out like you did. Do you want—

Brian! Oh my God! the woman shouted. Brian—his brother’s at school! I sent him to school! I thought if we acted normal—

I’ll get you to his school. Get in.

Mrs. Conner swung her legs into the vehicle, and McCallister slammed the door before hightailing it to the driver’s door. As she started the engine, she asked which school Brian went to and then mentally mapped the most efficient route.

She had just shoved the car into drive when Mrs. Conner shrieked, My husband! and frantically disembarked. She watched her race to him as he tried to push his way through the growing crowd. When he saw her, he shoved a man out of his way, scooted under the police tape, and ran to her. They embraced for a long moment, and it was obvious he already knew his son had been found.

Just as they pulled apart, McCallister exited her vehicle and shouted, Mr. Conner, are you okay to drive to Brian’s school?

When he acknowledged that he was, she instructed him to follow her, that she would get them to his school as quickly as possible. Maybe one of them—the youngest one, the most vulnerable one—might receive the horrible news in the kindest way possible.

With her dashboard lights flashing, she escorted them to Columbus Middle School in five minutes that somehow seemed endless. She watched them in the rearview mirror, and again, she recognized that it had been easier to look at the dead boy than his hurting parents.

At the driveway entrance, she killed her lights and then double-parked by the main doors. Mr. Conner pulled behind her, and the three of them wasted no time getting to the school office. There, Mr. Conner asked that his son be summoned.

While they waited, the Conners spoke with the principal, and McCallister headed into the hall where she feigned interest in a large bulletin board. She felt out of place. She even knew she should have just left when she got them there safely, but it was all she could think to do. The department had failed their son. She had failed their son. It was the least—and the most—she could do for them.

Minutes later, a young boy made his way down the corridor. She attempted to appear busy, but she could not help but try to see him peripherally. He appeared much younger than she expected, and she figured him to be a 7th grader. She suspected he knew what he was about to walk into. His face looked pained, and he seemed to make a concerted effort to keep from running. The soles of his shoes periodically squealed.

He opened the office door, but before he had a chance to enter, his parents came out.

Hello, son, Mr. Conner said as he surveyed the hallway to make sure they were alone.

They found Kevin, honey, Mrs. Conner told him. He’s gone, Brian. Kevin’s dead. Then she leaned and pulled him close, one arm across his back, one cradling his head.

Mr. Conner scanned again and crossed his arms over his chest. He stood there for a moment, as though a bodyguard protecting what he most valued.

She returned her attention to the bulletin board to give them some privacy.

A few moments later, she noticed Mr. Conner standing right beside her.

Detective, thank you for getting us here so quickly.

You’re welcome, she replied despite wanting to refute his need for gratitude. The coroner will make sure everything is as it seems. He’ll contact you when he’s able to let you have your son’s body for burial. When he nodded, she said, "I’m very sorry you lost your son, sir. If there’s anything I can do, please call me."

Again, he nodded.

She glanced across the hall, and for brief time, she simply watched a heartbroken mother trying to console her remaining son. The boy’s eyes were glazed over. His expression proved blank. She knew that for the moment, shock had befriended him in a way that would keep the pain at bay until he was ready. In her heart, she wished him strength—and a resolve never to do what his brother had done.

She placed a gentle, sympathetic hand to Mr. Conner’s shoulder, and then she took leave.

Returning to the park took much longer without the use of lights, and it gave her the time she needed to think. Her job was almost done: all but paperwork and simply waiting for Hastings to eliminate possibilities other than suicide. Yet, the idleness of it carried far more weight than an intense investigation. There had to be something she could do, something more the department could do to make sure this was the last in the series.

She came to a stop in the park, and after noting the absence of the coroner’s van and the media, she grabbed her cellphone and dialed the number of the Crisis Intervention Team’s head. Marilyn Farrow had already received word of the boy’s death and put a plan in action. Counselors were heading to Granton High School East to make themselves available as classmates heard the news. She told her there would be nothing formal done this time, and McCallister dejectedly understood that to mean her services were unneeded.

Twenty minutes later, she knocked on Captain Greeley’s door and peeked inside his office. He was on the phone but gestured for her to enter. She walked to his window and looked out. He repeated yes, sir a dozen times, and she didn’t need to be much of a detective to figure out that he was talking to Chief Morton. Experience, however, told her that Morton was probably more concerned with damage control than anything else.

When Greeley hung up, he inquired, Is everything taken care of at the park?

She filled him in, and then he asked her whether she had spoken to the press. She decided to forego telling him about her rant and said, I don’t see any need to speak with them about this. I think it should come from the Coroner’s Office when the autopsy is done.

I agree, and so does Chief Morton. We also think you should attend when Dr. Hastings makes the determination official. See if you can stop them from turning this into an issue.

Fine, she said, but that’s two, three days from now. What are we doing in the meantime? Can we get more patrols?

He shook his head. The chief says no; it’s not within the budget. But I’ll meet with the shift commanders and better coordinate what we do have. I’ll also give Sheriff Ackers a call. Maybe he’ll lend us an unofficial hand.

Frustrated, she looked back out the window and literally bit her tongue.

Greeley said, I know you’re not happy with this, Laura. I’m not either, but he does have a point. There are five bridges in this city. If we tie our patrols to one bridge, they’ll simply use another if they really want to jump. Plus, we still have a whole city that needs looking after. I’ll figure out a way to zigzag the patrols on all the bridges.

* * * * *

Wednesday found her and Hastings walking out of the Coroner’s Office for a press conference on the front step. What she saw reminded her more of a group waiting for a lottery draw rather than the official announcement of a death.

When the group quieted down, Hastings said, The autopsy of Kevin Joseph Conner, the young man found in the river on Monday, has been completed. It is this office’s determination that he died from drowning. His body has been released to his parents.

One of the reporters asked, "So, it’s a suicide? Another suicide."

Yes, he answered very matter-of-factly. There is no evidence to support any other conclusion.

Before another question could be posed, McCallister loudly cleared her throat. That’s all we have to offer, but I’d like a moment off the record.