Chapter 14

“Are these all the files related to the Thompson kidnapping case?” Brogan eyed the three file boxes stacked on top of one another on the floor of Tim’s office at FBI headquarters. It was going to cost him a pretty penny to pay for the copies, but reading the transcript had given him enough doubts that he was beginning to believe Melender’s side of the story. If she was innocent, the story would be worth the investment of his time and money.

“That’s all the documents the FBI collected on the case.”

The way Tim emphasized FBI caught Brogan’s attention. “Who else has documents on this case?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “You must be slipping in your reporter’s instincts. Maybe the time away from keyboard has dulled your senses.”

Brogan narrowed his eyes. Tim had always loved to pull his chain, but he wouldn’t take the bait. “That’s definitely possible.”

A puzzled look crossed the other man’s face, as if surprised Brogan let the dig go without comment. “Until the ransom note had been discovered, it was only a missing persons case, which was handled by local authorities at first.”

Brogan tapped the top box with his forefinger. “The Thompsons lived in McLean, Virginia, at the time of Jesse’s disappearance. Still do.”

Tim nodded.

“Which means the Fairfax County Police have files related to the initial investigation into the disappearance.” Getting access to the police files might uncover other suspects or avenues to explore.

“Exactly.”

“But wouldn’t those papers, or at least copies of those documents, be included with the agency’s notes?”

The other man shook his head. “You remember who was chief of police for Fairfax County at the time of the arrest?”

“No, I wasn’t around here then.”

“That’s right, you were off in New York making your mark in the world of journalism.” Tim paused, but again, Brogan resisted the urge to bristle at the other man’s comments. Tim would only tease him further if Brogan reacted negatively. “I’ll help you out. It was James Chatham, who had been chief since 1988.”

“James Chatham,” Brogan repeated slowly, as the name faintly rang a bell deep in his memory. He shrugged.

“What about a certain incident back in the mid-1990s involving the attack on a U.S. senator’s maid by Georgetown University’s chancellor?” Tim asked. “It was during a party held at the senator’s McLean home.”

Brogan cast his mind back but couldn’t bring up the event. “No, I don’t recall it.”

“In short, the brouhaha over the FBI’s muscling out the Fairfax County detectives who had done the majority of the legwork and evidence gathering on the maid’s attack irked Chief Chatham to no end. From then on, he only shared the bare minimum of their files with the FBI.”

Tim pointed to the top box. “So, while that has a couple of summary sheets from the county’s case paperwork, there’s probably a box or two in their archives gathering dust with the original interviews from the missing persons case.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem to get those files now, since Chief Chatham has been long gone from the department.”

“Probably not. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m looking into inconsistencies in an old case.” Brogan didn’t like the direction he suspected Tim was heading with that comment. “I’m doing everything strictly by the book, no shortcuts.”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean with Melender Harman.”

Brogan’s heart kicked up a notch. “She’s only a source for a story.”

“You keep telling yourself that, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll convince yourself it’s the truth.” Tim’s eyes never wavered from Brogan’s. “I can still tell when my buddy’s interested in a girl, and you’ve got it bad for Melender.”

“I’ve hardly mentioned her name.”

“That tells me all I need to know.”

“I admit she’s an attractive woman, but this isn’t becoming personal.” Brogan ignored the little voice that said he was lying.

Tim shrugged. “If that’s how you want to play it, fine. But remember the last time you got personally involved with a source, it didn’t turn out so well for you.”

* * *

Melender juggledher Frappuccino as she searched for her keys in her messenger bag. She had meant to put them in the outside pocket like always but somehow had dropped them inside.

Stopping in front of her door, she focused her attention fully on finding the missing keys.

“I’ve already called the police.”

Melender jerked her head up to meet the gaze of Mrs. Horner, who nodded toward Melender’s apartment.

“The police?” Melender’s gaze darted from the widow she occasionally exchanged pleasantries with to her front door that now sported a busted lock. Then she noticed the words spray painted in ugly red letters on the outside wall beside her door.

Baby Killer

She turned back to Mrs. Horner. “When?” Her voice failed her, and she gulped her iced drink to clear the clog in her throat. “When did this happen?”

“I heard a ruckus about twenty minutes ago. I peeked out my window to see three men wearing ski masks and gloves leave your apartment.” Mrs. Horner crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t have bothered to call the police had I known who you are.”

Sirens sounded louder. Melender swallowed hard as she struggled to retain her outward composure. She couldn’t fall apart now. It would only give whoever had done this the satisfaction of seeing her gut reaction. Her gaze returned to the letters, the fresh paint running down the side of the wall like blood. “I’m not a killer,” she muttered.

Mrs. Horner snorted. “I called my son after I phoned the police. He Googled you, then told me all about what you did to your poor little cousin. To think I shared my banana bread recipe with the likes of you.” She went back insider her apartment and slammed the door.

A pair of police cars roared into the parking lot. Melender peered over the railing into the courtyard, shoving the fear aside and praying that the officers would keep an open mind when looking into the break-in. But once they found out about her record, they might not be as motivated to investigate.

Squaring her shoulders, she recited Philippians 4:13 in her mind. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Strengthen me, Lord!

* * *

“Mr. Simpson,I didn’t cause the break-in.” Standing in the middle of her destroyed living room with her burly landlord four hours later, Melender put as much steel into her words as possible, yet she sounded as weak and tired as she felt. If the man continued to refuse to have her door fixed today, there was no telling when she could finally get some sleep.

“You talked with the police, Mr. Simpson. All I’m asking is that you have someone come over and repair my front door as soon as possible.” Melender had been grateful that the responding officers took the break-in seriously and gathered forensics evidence. A detective, Rich Delaney, had even shown up to interview Mrs. Horner and Melender.

Mr. Simpson crossed his beefy arms. “I got complaints about you.”

Cradling her cat close to her chest, Melender couldn’t stop the groan that escaped. “From who? And when?”

“I don’t gotta say, but we don’t need residents like you living here. Get your stuff and get out.”

“You can’t just kick me out because someone broke into my apartment.” Surely her landlord wouldn’t fabricate evidence to kick her out. She drew in a breath to regain control of her emotions. “I signed a year’s lease.”

“I found evidence that you were smoking in the apartment.” He pointed a finger at her. “Your lease clearly states no smoking and that if there is evidence of smoking, your lease will be terminated immediately.”

“I don’t smoke, so what evidence are you talking about?”

With a snort, he pointed to a saucer near a broken lamp and two spent cigarettes. “Before you try to pin that on whoever broke in here, don’t. It’s absurd to think someone would break in and plant smoked cigarettes. That’s crazy talk.”

He maneuvered around the debris to the front door. “You have until midnight to get your stuff out of here.”

Melender barely registered his departure, just stared at the mess of broken and ripped objects.

“Melender?” Brogan called from the entrance doorway.

She turned to see him surveying the destruction, her cat still in her arms. “Why are you here?” Not quite what she meant to say.

“Colleague heard about the break-in on the police scanner, so I thought I’d stop by to see how you were holding up.” He did another visual sweep of the living-dining room combination. “They did a pretty thorough job of it, didn’t they?”

She only nodded, her throat clogging once again with emotion.

Brogan scratched Goliath under his chin, eliciting a purr from the feline. “Your cat’s okay?”

“As far as I can tell. I think he probably hid under the bed while they rampaged through the apartment.”

He stepped around an overturned kitchen chair and glanced into the small kitchen. She followed his gaze, once more taking in the scene. Cupboard doors had been ripped from their hinges, their contents tossed about as if the kitchen had been in a shipwreck.

“What did the police say?”

“Not much.” She shifted Goliath to wipe at her wet cheeks with the back of one hand. “They sent out a forensics team to gather evidence, but the place had no discernible prints but mine. Once they learned my prints are in the system, well, things got awkward.”

He walked down the hallway to the bedroom and bathroom. After several minutes, he rejoined her, but Melender couldn’t read the expression on his face. Disappointment? Anger?

“They photograph the bedroom wall?” Brogan locked eyes with her.

“Yes.” As if she would ever need a picture to remember the vile, spray-painted words. Baby Killer had been kind compared to the filth decorating the wall above her headboard.

“Do you have a place to stay until your landlord fixes the door?”

Goliath squirmed in her arms. Time to return him to his cat carrier, which had been down in her storage locker and therefore spared destruction. After securing the feline, she massaged her throbbing temple. Having been up all night cleaning, she desperately needed a few hours of sleep to power her through the coming evening shift. Her renter’s insurance would provide funds to replace her furniture and possessions, but that would take weeks to resolve. She highly doubted her landlord would give back her security deposit in light of the apartment’s destruction. Even if she fought it, it wouldn’t help her immediate need of lodging.

Brogan touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

A giggle escaped her. Totally inappropriate for the dire situation, but pent-up emotions sometimes spilled out in weird ways. “No, I’m not.” She shoved a fist to her mouth to stop the laughter or sobs—she wasn’t sure which emotion would win—from escaping. “I can’t go through this again.”

“Go through what?”

“The harassment.” She sucked in a deep breath, willing the motion to calm her shattered nerves. “When you’re a convicted baby killer, you’re at the very bottom of the prison hierarchy. Everyone bullies you constantly, and there’s always the very real danger that an inmate will kill you.”

Melender closed her eyes and tried to think of something uplifting in spite of the prison memories raging in her mind. Only God had helped her survive in the abyss of incarceration.

She opened her eyes and didn’t bother to hide the tears streaking down her cheeks. “Many people think I deserved to be locked up forever as justice for what I did to Jesse. There will be plenty who think this is also what I deserve.” She swept her hand around the room.

“I’m so sorry someone destroyed your home.” Brogan gently wiped away her tears.

Melender didn’t move as the pads of his fingers brushed over the soft skin. No one had touched her face in years. Her eyelids drifted shut, and she simply allowed herself this moment to feel the kindness of another human being. Touches most people took for granted had been denied to her.

He brought up his other hand to cup her face, his fingers skimming the nape of her neck before settling at her hairline while his thumbs lightly caressed her damp cheeks. Fresh tears spilled from her closed eyes, but she couldn’t stop them. Brogan continued brushing the wetness away as she remained stock still and cried.

Grandmother Sudie’s voice echoed in her head. Child, just when you think the Almighty has forgotten about our needs, He sends someone or something to remind us of His provision and His promise to never leave us nor forsake us. You remember that when you feel abandoned by Him.