My hair falls back down, loose and unkempt, as I place my hands back down on my computer to navigate to my incoming folders. The newest one has a surname and a first initial.
Clarke, A.
I click on the electronic folder and inside is the medical examiner’s initial report, statements from the crime scene, a picture of her identification which was found at the scene along with all of her bank cards, and all other files that have been compiled so far, which frankly, aren’t many.
“Allison Clarke,” I read aloud as I peruse. “Public records indicate she is—was—a local high school teacher. Taught English classes. Married to Brody Clarke for six years. No kids. Age twenty-eight.”
My stomach drops at the mention of Brody Clarke. But I need to keep my composure, keep my calm. Too many cases have been ruined by a detective with tunnel vision.
“What was the cause of death?” Officer Tennyson asks as he leans over my shoulder. His tanned fingers land on my desk and I hold back a cringe. He’s nearly a decade younger than me I’d guess, but it’s not his inexperience that is getting on my nerves; no, there’s just something about him that I can’t quite put my finger on. “If it was a bleed out, then it was probably a bodydump, right? Think she was whoring out and met the wrong guy?”
I take a deep calming breath to center myself then swing my chair around so rapidly that the younger man loses his balance and stumbles backward. I stand to my full height, which isn’t that impressive, honestly, but I like to even the playing field as much as I can with men.
“She was a person, Officer Tennyson,” I scold. “A wife, a daughter, a friend. We will treat her with as much respect in death as any other human, and we will not gawk at her pain as if it is a stepping stone for our career. If you insist on lurking, fine; but don’t you dare disrespect our victim. Do I make myself clear?”
His tan skin has gone pale and a few other officers around us have turned to stare. I don’t give a shit, though. Sitting back down, I retake my seat and skim back through what public records could be pulled. Allison Clarke was born not far from here, a town a few hours away. There’s no record of when she moved out here or why. That piques my interest.
I write a note to track down her family.
The name of her husband stands out to me—Brody Clarke. The Clarke family is wealthy, well-known in their town. How’d a nobody with no apparent connections manage to marry into their ranks? His name has come across my desk before too. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as my mind spins, trying to piece it all together. Brody fucking Clarke.
“I’m sorry, Detective.” Keith’s voice is soft and sincere as he slides back in behind my chair. The heat from his body, the shadow of his lurking form is oppressive, but his tone is sincere. “I didn’t mean to be an ass, Kaitlin.”
“It’s okay, Keith.” I turn to meet his dark gaze. He does look sincerely sorry and I feel a bit bad for the public scolding. “We just spend so long as law enforcement officers ignoringand writing off women who need help. Do you know how many missing and murdered indigenous women there are around here who have had no one, and I mean no one, looking into their cases? It’s unbearable to believe that our predecessors just didn’t care, and yet that’s exactly what happened—victims were written off as unimportant. It’s our duty to do right by these victims, to help them get justice, no matter who or what they are. We took an oath and I take mine very seriously.”
“I understand, Detective.” He swallows down a lump in his throat. “My great-auntie is one of those women. I should know better.”
“Does she have a case file?” I ask and his gaze immediately flicks up to mine. “Let’s solve this case, get justice for one woman, then we can poke around in your aunt’s file.”
A small smile pulls at the corners of his full lips. “Thank you, Kaitlin.”
“Brody Clarke,” I mutter as I spin my chair back around and throw open my filing cabinet. “This motherfucker.”
Keith jumps out of my way as I spin around my desk area, gathering what I need. I always print all my reports and put them in old school Manila file folders. It helps keep them organized in my memory if they’re organized in my drawer. I scan and pull folders, trying to find the thin little one I’m looking for.
“Detective?” Keith asks hesitantly as he steps back up behind me, craning his neck to see around my shoulder.
“He’s in here. He was the last one seen with her,” I mumble under my breath as I flip until I find the file I’m looking for and remove it from the drawer. It lands on my desk with a soft flop.
“Celeste Briggs was a business teacher who disappeared months ago,” I fill in Tennyson as I open the space folder. “She disappeared, technically from Whatcom, but I caught the case because she lived a bit further south, making her a missingperson from Skagit County.”
“She teach at the same high school as our current vic?” he asks with a hint of excitement.
I feel it too, the electrical energy buzzing in the air as pieces begin to fall into place. Scanning through documents on the computer related to my new victim, I confirm it, “Yes, they both taught at the same high school.”
“Coincidence?” Keith asks but both of us already know the answer.
“She was at a bar with a friend for Halloween. She was observed dancing with a blond male who appeared to be intoxicated. That was the last anyone saw her. She was reported missing the following week when she failed to show up to work.”
“Any clues ever found?” Keith questions, excitement now clear in his tone.
“We brought Brody Clarke in,” I recount trying to remember all the elements of this case. “We had several eyewitnesses who placed him with Briggs on the night of her disappearance, and when we sacked his house, we found her phone and underwear, so we arrested him.”
“So, the husband’s in prison?” Tennyson asks as he tries to scan the files over my shoulder.
“No,” I sigh. “We had to let him go. He had an answer for everything—yes, he slept with her, then he dropped her at her house, but she left her phone and underwear at his place by accident. He had good lawyers, so we had to let him go.”
I don’t tell him the rest. He doesn’t need to know that I’m certain someone else is involved. The mischievous smirk of the Devil hiding in plain sight still haunts me. I know there’s more to this story, I just need a break in this case to prove it.
