The early morning sun shines brightly through the small eastern window, casting a warm glow across the crowded room. Sergeant Bower, a seasoned detective with a reputation for being one of the best in her field, sits hunched over an old file at her desk. Her brow furrows as she meticulously reviews the notes. It's an abduction case that's haunted her for years. It was the first unsolved case of her career. It was a blemish on her otherwise impeccable record. Determined to find the missing piece, she sifts through the evidence again.
A distraught parent calls them, saying someone has taken their young child from their home. The kidnapping occurrs sometime late Halloween night 2014. The detectives investigate but can't find any evidence, witnesses, or leads; the case went cold quickly. Two months later, the child's body was found buried in a shallow grave wearing the pink frilly princess costume she wore the night she was last seen. Rachel decided to store the case in her bottom drawer, promising to return to it every chance she gets.
Now I see why we didn't solve this case. She drains the last of the bitter liquid from her cup. They couldn't find a single camera, and the leads are dead ends. The tip line brings out all the crazies but didn't give them a single substantial lead.
Guess I could re-interview everyone to see if they remember something new? She thinks of pushing away from her desk. She's scooping up her gear when the phone rings. "Sergeant Bower," she says.
Just the person I was hoping for." A synthesized voice echoes over the phone.
"How can I help you?"
"I want to confess to a crime. A murder, to be precise."
Rolling her eyes, Rachel plops back down at her desk. The homeless are always confessing to something. They figure it'd give them three hots and a cot, temporarily anyway. Extreme weather changes exacerbate the calls. Shifting in her chair, she impatiently says, "It'd be better if you did this in person."
"I'm not ready to turn myself in just yet, sergeant. No, I have unfinished business to attend to. It's something that I've been meaning to do for quite some time."
Rolling her eyes, she scoots her notebook closer and asks, "Who am I talking to, and when did it occur?"
"I won't give you my name, but I will tell you this."
Shifting in her chair, Rachel says, "I'm listening." She presses the phone to her ear, hoping to pick up on background noise. Not hearing anything, she turns up the volume and tries again. There's a faint echo when he speaks, but not much else. "Though you should know that your hubby and kids are fine. You left in such a hurry this morning that you didn't even kiss them goodbye."
Thinking he's spying on her at home, her safe haven, makes Rachel uneasy. She glances around the station to find it's deserted. "Are you going to tell me or not?"
"I'll tell you in due time. Now where was I? Oh yes, we were talking about your lovely family and how you put your work before them. I suppose we could blame your dad for that, being the workaholic that he is. How is the DA, by the way? The silence is probably hard on him, having all his girls grown and gone."
"Either tell me what you did or I'm hanging up."
"You've really come a long way, pipsqueak, and I'm proud of you for that. I'm sure your father is too."
Pipsqueak, that's what Mama used to call me when I was young, Rachel thinks, scribbling Mama's former lovers in her notebook.
"Everyone should admire you, coming up from nothing, rising above it all the way you did. Your cousin, on the other hand, is following in your mother's footsteps, which is quite a shame, such a waste of life, but you couldn't pull her out of that lifestyle no matter how hard you tried."
"Emma has a mental illness and needs professional help."
"Indeed, she does. I could tell that by watching you two play when you were young."
"So, you were around us when we were growing up?" Rachel asks, hoping he'd say something that would give him away.
"It broke my heart to see you three struggle. And then losing your place on top of all of that was such a tragedy. I and a few others tried to help you guys out, but Jeanie, being the proud woman she is, said she didn't need our charity. A few days later my friends tell me that Jeanie is dead and you girls are gone."
So, he doesn't know Jeanie's death was a scam to save us from the gang, Rachel thinks, writing that in her book.
"Well, enough about the past; let's get back to the crime at hand, shall we?"
"The murder you committed?"
"Correct?"
"When did you commit this heinous act?"
"Heinous act, I like that." He chuckles.
"When?" Rachel presses, tiring of his game.
"She took her last breath as the sun came up in the morning."
"Where is the victim located?"
"You know that rundown factory on Freeman Street?"
Rachel pictures the street in her mind and asks, "The old Tyson plant?" Tyson's was a chicken factory that employed most of the Berryville residents at one time or another. The pay is top-notch and the benefits are good, but working without a day off for months is more than a lot of people could handle.
"Yes. And she's someone you've been searching for for years."
Rachel quickly reviews cold cases in her mind. Not coming up with anything, she asks, "Can you give me a name?"
"You're a smart girl, Sergeant; you'll figure it out. Well, it's been really nice chatting with you, catching up, and all, but I really must go. Duty calls, you know."
"Wait, I…" The call disconnects.
Hanging up the phone, the sergeant glances over to find two rookies stepping through the door. Walking over, she says, "You two are working with me today. So, grab your gear and let's go."
The sergeant fills the rookies in on the phone call and alleged murder on their way across town, leaving out the part about the killer having ties to her past. She knows the connection will come out eventually. But for now, it's better if they didn't know, not until she can get a grip on it herself.
The old chicken plant is now a relic of a bygone era. Its once bustling halls now sit eerily quiet. The exterior walls are now chipped and faded. Weeds and wildflowers now make up the once well-traveled path leading to the main entrance. Disheartened, the sergeant climbs out of her car.
A couple of beat cops are at the factory when the trio arrives. "We secured the place like you said," the younger of the two reports.
" Pointing to a rotting pole, she turns and says, "Check the cameras, and question the neighbors to see if they saw anything." Turning, she motions to the rookies and says, "You two follow me."
They reach the front to find the door had been recently jimmied. Taking her gun from her holster, she glances towards the newbies. They nervously follow suit. "Ready?"
They glance at each other and nod.
"Let's go." Stepping through the door, she motions for them to spread out.
The air was thick, smelling of decay and dust. The once gleaming machines are covered in thick layers of grime. Small rays of sunshine pierce through the empty darkness, illuminating the reminiscence of a once thriving factory.
"Clear," Rachel hears as she continues to scan her side of the building. "Clear," she repeats, lowering her weapon. She heads toward the door.
"I found something, Sergeant," the third cop says.
She steps closer to find the officer kneeling over a bloody body.
Glancing up, the rookie says, "The body is still warm, and she doesn't have an ID."
"Neither of you recognize her from working the beat." They both shake their heads.
"I'll get forensics down here to process the place." Taking a picture, she adds, "And run her face through the database to see what I can find." Rachel turns to find the beat cop stepping through the door, shaking his head.
"The cameras have been offline since the factory shut down."
"And all the houses on this block are boarded up." The second one adds.