Flowers on Her Grave Page 2

  Katie rose and took the card and noticed that there was a personal handwritten number on the back. “Okay, thank you.”

  “You have to figure out what you want to do, and whatever you decide, I’ll be here,” she said and smiled.

  Katie took the flight of stairs down to the parking lot with the words You have to figure out what you want to do resonating in her mind. She wanted to brush off what the psychologist said, but the words haunted her. It was something so simple. How did she want to handle her stress and anxiety? She noticed that Dr. Carver was careful not to mention PTSD, but it was definitely on the table. No matter what Katie decided to do—it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Two

  Wednesday 1350 hours

  Katie had been summoned to a meeting with Sheriff Scott. Even though he was her uncle, it was an official order and she didn’t expect any special treatment. She hurried through the administrative building, down the hallway, and straight into Deputy Sean McGaven at the door.

  “Hey,” he said. His tall build and cropped red hair accentuated his huge smile.

  “Hi,” Katie said. “Looks like it’s another one of those meetings,” she said breathlessly, excited by the chance of a new case.

  “Do you know what it’s about?” he said.

  “Not a clue.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  The sheriff’s receptionist waved them on into the office.

  Katie opened the door expecting to see her uncle alone, but was surprised to see the undersheriff, Samuel Martinez, hovering behind him looking annoyed—jaw clenched, eyes on his watch. Katie quickly glanced at the clock on the wall; two minutes early. She’d never had much contact with him before, but the word around the department was that he was a stickler for the rules and quick to judge.

  McGaven stood behind Katie and she didn’t have to look at him to sense his similar surprise at the presence of the undersheriff.

  “Ah, here they are,” said Sheriff Scott as he took a seat at his desk.

  “Are we late?” asked Katie.

  “No, no, right on time,” he said. “Please, have a seat. You both know Undersheriff Martinez.”

  “Yes, nice to see you, sir,” said Katie.

  “Sir.” McGaven nodded in agreement.

  “I promise, this will be brief,” the sheriff began, as he pulled up a chair between them. “As you know, there are still negotiations in progress for the county budget. It’s been tedious, and they don’t seem to be getting anywhere. I had wanted to keep Deputy McGaven full-time working on cold cases with Detective Scott, but unfortunately, that won’t be possible.”

  Katie was disappointed, but she knew that her uncle must have had something else in mind because Martinez looked edgy. He clearly wasn’t pleased with the situation, or with her; there were a handful of people at the department who didn’t like the seemingly special treatment Katie received—even if it was well-earned.

  “So, I’ve decided…”

  Kate braced herself for the fact that the cold case unit might be temporarily disbanded, or maybe even permanently.

  “… that we will split McGaven’s duties.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “He will work patrol two days a week and the cold case unit two days a week. There will be a day every other week where he will work an extra shift, either patrol or cold cases—whichever has the greater need, decided by his patrol supervisor.”

  “That sounds great,” said McGaven.

  Katie thought it was reasonable and was glad that McGaven was going to work with her again. “Why do I get the feeling that there’s something else?” she added, looking at her uncle.

  “You will continue to write your weekly reports, but—” he replied.

  “But,” interrupted Martinez, “you will also send copies of those reports to me, Lieutenant Jackson of Patrol, and Sergeant Cannon of the internal affairs division.”

  “Internal affairs?” asked Katie, confused. Internal affairs were only involved in cases of investigations relating to incidents and possible suspicions of law-breaking and professional misconduct attributed to officers on the force. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  “It’s only a formality, for a twelve-month probationary period.”

  Katie stared at Martinez and then at her uncle. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, nothing like that,” the sheriff said. “It’s because the cold case unit is not operated by the same rules and regulations as the homicide and other detective units. You don’t report to anyone except me. The policies and those in charge of the department’s strict laws want to make sure that your ethics are kept in check.”

  “So I’m under investigation because I investigate cold cases?” she pushed, trying not to raise her voice.

  “Think of it as another set of eyes making sure that cases are handled properly,” said Martinez. He watched her closely and she couldn’t help but notice that there was a slight happy note to his voice.

  “I see,” she managed to say.

  McGaven remained quiet, letting everything sink in.

  “Nothing has changed. You will still have to submit a weekly report of your progress. Now you will just have to submit to three additional people.”

  “On the days that McGaven is working patrol—is it still allowed that I bring Cisco with me when I leave the office?” she asked.

  “Yes, everything stays the same,” the sheriff emphasized.

  “Try not to be reckless just because you have the dog with you,” Martinez added.

  He was referring to an instance where Cisco had once helped to save her, but that was under extraordinary circumstances. “Of course, I, and we, will be professional and operate by the exact letter of the law.” She forced a smile over gritted teeth.

  “Is there anything else?” the sheriff asked Martinez.

  “No, that’s all for now,” he said.

  “Okay, Scott, McGaven, you’re dismissed.”

  Katie got up and headed to the door followed closely by McGaven. She hurried back down the hallway and then descended the stairs to the basement. When she was safely out of earshot, she turned to McGaven and said, “Well, I guess that’s that. Like we don’t already have enough obstacles on our cold cases.”

  “Don’t fixate on the red tape. Let’s just concentrate on working the evidence,” he said.

  Katie forced a smile. She loved working with McGaven. “You’re right. Nothing has really changed. When will I next see you in the office?”

  “Looks like Friday,” he said.

  “Great. I’ll see what kinds of cases I can dig up. Be safe out there.”

  “Same to you.” He smiled and walked in the opposite direction, heading back to patrol.

  Three

  Thursday 1030 hours

  Katie sat at one of the two desks in her office at the end of the hall, tacked on to the forensic division because the detective division was already at capacity before she joined. Her cold case unit consisted of several empty rooms filled with filing cabinets containing every unsolved case in the department’s history. The quiet solitude of the basement was the perfect environment for Katie to mull over evidence and talk aloud to herself without disruption. Over time, she’d brought several indoor plants and an air purifier to clear the dank smell that had lingered there since her first day.

  Grabbing a pile of eight files that had been selected by the sheriff for her attention, she flicked through them. Which case to pursue was ultimately Katie’s decision, based on the evidence, people of interest, and type of case, but he liked to have a say sometimes. Not all cold cases were homicides, but they were the most pressing, followed by rapes, burglaries and arson.

  As Katie thumbed through hundreds of pages of interviews, forensic reports, photographs and autopsy reports, the words began to run together in her head. She couldn’t get her mind in sync with the fact that internal affairs were going to oversee everything she did. She as
sumed that it must have something to do with the politics of who was going to run for sheriff next, when her uncle retired. To her, the thought of someone else being sheriff seemed impossible, but she knew of at least two other high-ranked personnel that vied for his position—and the undersheriff was one of them.

  Katie stood up from her desk, stretched and had just decided to go on the hunt for some coffee when the phone on her desk rang.

  She snatched up the receiver. “Detective Scott.”

  “Hello?” said a very shaky woman’s voice on the other end.

  “This is Detective Scott, may I help you?”

  “Is this the cold case unit?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “My name is Mrs. Lenore Stiles.”

  The name sounded familiar, but she just couldn’t place it. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Stiles?”

  “I make this call every year,” she said. “My son, Sam Stiles, disappeared on this day five years ago. It’s his birthday. He worked at Palmer Auto Repair and had left early, not feeling well. Well, I won’t bore you with details you already have, but I wanted to know if there were any new developments on his case.”

  Katie’s gut tightened as she took in the deep sadness in the woman’s voice—a mother who lost her son and never got closure. “Mrs. Stiles, I’ve been recently assigned to the cold case unit and I can assure you that if we have anything new in his case, we will contact you.”

  “Detective Scott,” she said slowly. “I’m not a well woman…”

  Katie closed her eyes in grief, remembering how horrible it was to lose her own parents and feeling lucky to at least have known what happened to them. Mrs. Stiles didn’t have that luxury.

  “I’ve been through a lot since that day,” she said. “Mr. Stiles couldn’t take the stress and he passed away two years ago from a stroke—never knowing what happened to his only son.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Stiles. Please accept the department’s deepest condolences,” said Katie, not knowing what else to say. She didn’t want to sound scripted and uncaring, but the woman’s pain was almost more than she could bear and she needed to remain professional.

  “Please, Detective, can you give a dying woman her last wish? Find out what happened to Sam.”

  The words stung Katie’s chest. She wanted more than anything to ease this woman’s pain and bring closure. “I’m not familiar with your son’s case, but I promise I will look into it personally.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I can ask,” she said, her voice suddenly winded and weak with relief.

  Katie took her phone number and address. “If I have any questions, is there a good time to contact you?”

  “Anytime—day or night. I don’t sleep much.”

  “Thank you for your call, Mrs. Stiles. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  Katie slowly returned the phone to the cradle on her desk.

  She couldn’t help but feel deeply connected to every case she worked. How could some detectives remain detached? How could you ever receive a call like that and react as if it was just another day on the job? She got up from her desk and stepped into the hallway. She looked to the left and could hear the forensic manager, John, moving around in the examination area. Other than that, it was quiet.

  Across the hall, she punched in #4546 on the keypad, flipped on the light, and was immediately greeted by the familiar musty smell of old paper. It took her less than two minutes to find the file: Stiles, Samuel John. It was large and heavy.

  Back in her office, Katie forgot about her need for a coffee fix and put her lunch break on hold as she began to deconstruct the case. She pulled everything from the packet and put the paperwork in chronological piles, beginning with the first missing person’s report taken by a Deputy Kristy Daniels after a welfare check had been requested. Stiles’s boss, Dennis Palmer Senior, had called the police after he couldn’t reach him for three days and when no one had heard from him. According to the police report, Sam Stiles, thirty-four years old, had left work early on a Tuesday afternoon complaining that he didn’t feel well. It was unusual for him to miss work but his boss wasn’t concerned. Stiles was then currently single, lived alone, and had few friends. His parents were the only family listed, no siblings or other relatives documented. When he didn’t show up for work the next day, his boss and co-workers weren’t immediately alarmed and didn’t go check on him. It was not until the third day missing that Stiles’s boss put a call into the police department.

  Katie made notes as she worked; names, places, times, anything missing or in need of further inquiry. When Deputy Daniels arrived at Stiles’s apartment, 2722 Diamond Street—Apt. 16, she found no one home, but the sliding door was unlocked. Upon searching the apartment, there were no signs of foul play and everything looked to be in order. She noted that there was food out on the counter—deli meat, mayonnaise, loaf of bread, and a tomato that had been sliced. A knife and small plate beside them. Judging by the decomposition, the food had been out for a couple of days. Neighbors were interviewed and no one had seen Stiles or heard anything suspicious or noteworthy.

  Katie pulled out a stack of eight-by-ten photographs of his apartment, which had been taken a few days after the initial report. The images depicted the apartment in order and the food found on the kitchen counter. It was noted that Stiles’s wallet and keys were there, but his car was missing.

  Katie searched the rest of the paperwork to find out if the car had been recovered—there was no indication it had been. She made a few more notes. A Detective Paul Patton was then assigned the case. She noted that he wasn’t on the roster anymore. After placing a few calls and contacting the department’s human resources, she found out that he was recently retired, but still living nearby.

  At the back of the file it was noted that Stiles liked to frequent a couple of the local bars and had been arrested twice for assault. There were several names that Katie had to run down, but she was going to start at the beginning and first track down the deputy who had answered the call for a welfare check.

  Something about the recorded account of what happened to Sam Stiles seemed out of place to Katie. Everything was too neat and tidy. Something bad had happened to Sam Stiles—Katie would bet her job on it.

  Four

  Thursday 1445 hours

  A few calls and Katie was able to track down former Deputy Kristy Daniels, who was now Sergeant Daniels, and she had agreed to meet her at Bobby’s, the local diner, to talk about Sam Stiles’s missing person’s report.

  Katie parked her unmarked police sedan in the parking lot, spotting the Pine Valley patrol vehicle already there alongside only two other cars. It was mid-afternoon, so the diner would be mostly deserted. She grabbed her file containing her notes, a photocopy of the Stiles report and a blank notepad, made sure her detective’s badge and firearm were secure underneath her beige suit jacket, and then she entered the diner.

  A woman with short blonde hair and a solemn expression, dressed in a deputy sheriff’s uniform, sat at the back of the diner facing the entrance. She looked up and nodded in acknowledgment as Katie approached.

  “Sergeant Daniels?” Katie asked.

  “Detective Scott,” she replied stiffly.

  Katie tried to lighten the mood as she sat down. “My parents and I used to come here all the time when I was a kid. Best sundaes in town.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Well, the food is okay, but the coffee is strong and freshly brewed twenty-four hours a day.”

  Katie remembered what it was like working patrol for the Sacramento Police Department for a little more than two years; it was difficult finding establishments that had fresh coffee and clean restrooms in the middle of the night.

  The waitress stood at the table. “What can I get for you?”

  “I’ll have an iced tea. Thank you.”

  The waitress left.

  Katie thought she’d get right to the point. “I’m looking into the Samuel Stiles case after I received a phone call
from his elderly mother this morning.”

  The sergeant watched Katie with some caution. “I remember catching that call,” she said, eventually.

  “I know it was a long time ago, but I wondered if you could tell me about it in your own words. Was there anything that seemed strange or stuck out to you?”

  The waitress returned with a large iced tea and refilled the sergeant’s coffee before retreating back into the kitchen to chat with another waitress.

  “That’s funny you should ask.”

  “Why is that?” Katie said as she watched the officer pour cream and two sugar packets into her coffee.

  “I had only been off training probation barely two weeks. It was my first missing person’s call, so I was pretty amped,” she said. “Truthfully, I was a bit nervous.”

  “I read your report, but I wanted to hear it from you.”

  “I remember going to the auto shop.”

  “Palmer Auto Repair,” stated Katie.

  “Yes. I talked with the owner, Palmer senior. It was a father and son operation with two other employees at the time—five in total counting Stiles. Anyway, Palmer senior said that Stiles didn’t show up for work and wasn’t answering his phone.” She took another sip of coffee, pausing a moment to recall the memory. “I thought the two employees were acting a bit suspicious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shifty, watching me, but acting like they weren’t. Know what I mean?”

  Katie nodded. She had seen her fair share of shifty individuals when she was on patrol. “I didn’t see any background run on them from the file—or notes.”

  “I think the detective…”

  “Detective Patton,” Katie added.

  “Yeah, I think he ran backgrounds, but there was nothing to show if I remember correctly, you’ll have to ask him.” She shifted in her seat and adjusted her gun belt.