The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.25 It's Not Our Job to Care

Carla had arrived at Valley Fair the night before to find that the local police had already evacuated the mall and cordoned off the theater and the nearby parking lot. Bodies were already being bagged and tagged. The wounded were being loaded into ambulances, or for the lucky ones, treated there in the parking lot. And the on-site officers were looking more shell-shocked than she had ever seen them.

It was no wonder. In the theater she saw a scene of incredible fury. Carla was no stranger to violence, with her twenty years on the force. But this was beyond anything she'd ever seen.

How could one man do this much damage with a single hunting knife? she wondered.

Fortunately, she hadn't stayed long on site. She was among a dozen other detectives that SLC had sent to the scene, but Valley Fair Mall was officially in West Valley City, a suburb of Salt Lake. That made it out of their jurisdiction, and relegated them all to a support role which meant crowd control, and helping to lock down the crime scene. She'd spent a tedious two hours putting up crime scene tape and keeping reporters at bay. To her disgust, she learned about the suspect from the reporters, not the West Valley officials.

Bradley Seward. An Air Force Pilot, working out of Dugway Proving Grounds. That one hadn't been hard to track down, since he was still wearing his uniform with his name tag when they found him. And also because he had come to the theater with his wife and two little girls. By the time Carla arrived, the West Valley Detectives were already interviewing the Sewards, who she could see sitting on the back bumper of a fire truck, surrounded by both uniformed officers and detectives. The mother looked like she might be in shock and was wrapped in a blanket. The two girls just held each other and cried. Carla didn't linger, but she did stay long enough to get a sense of the chaos.

The press kept shouting questions at her. "What can you tell us about Bradley Seward?" was the most frequent one. So far, little more than his name was out in the public sphere. But she knew the digging into his past had just begun.

Around midnight, WVPD held a briefing for all the detectives who had remained on site: Four from West Valley City, and two from SLPD. After the briefing, she was told to head back to headquarters, and that her Sargeant would have an assignment for her by the time she got there.

She was right to dread it. Mears had told her that her task for the rest of the night would be pretty simple: Wake up the base commander in Dugway, tell him what happened and who the suspect was. And then call anybody she could find who could give them insight into Bradley Seward.

"Is this the list you got from the base commander?" the Sergeant asked, looking at the cover sheet to the stack of papers.

"Yeah. Well, not the base commander. He didn't know Bradley personally, so he put me in touch with a Command Sergeant Major named Sutton Deary, who runs base security. He seemed to know absolutely everybody on the base. Deary knew Seward well, and he was really helpful. He and his assistant spent the evening compiling the best list they could come up with of the man's friends and colleagues on the base. They got me that list around 3:00 am."

"Have you been home at all, Carla? Did you get any sleep? You look exhausted."

"I'm not exhausted, Sarge. I'm frustrated. And yes, I grabbed a couple hours at my desk, waiting for this list." She sighed and plopped herself heavily into the chair across from his desk. "Sarge, this is grunt work. I know we're just acting as support for West Valley in this. But look at that list! I called over two dozen of these people. Every call was the same. 'Yes, I knew Bradley Seward. No, it makes no sense, what you say he's done. No, I don't believe it. He was a good family man. He loved his wife and children. He was dedicated to the Air Force. He attended church regularly at the ward house outside of Dugway.' Every single interview was the same. He was forty years-old and had married a divorcee with two kids five years ago. And he seems to have loved his wife and kids like crazy, as far as anybody can tell. There was no sign or mental illness or stress or anything in this guy. He was a total boy-scout.

"And dammit, when he was in Salt Lake City, he even attended church with his mother-in-law, at her ward. I verified that too."

The Sergeant dropped the papers on the desk and spread out his hands in what looked like a gesture of surrender. "So what do we have? What do I tell West Valley City?"

"Well, tell them that so far, after over twenty calls and interviews, I haven't been able to find a single flaw in the character of this guy, or a single person who has provided a clue worthy of checking out."

The Sergeant thumbed through the papers again, looking at the "follow-up interview recommend" check boxes. "Not a single one of these is worth sending someone to interview?"

"Not a one."

"Well, that sucks. But you should know that what you found jives with what West Valley City is finding, too. They seem just as flummoxed as you. They're even checking toxicology to see if maybe he was under the influence of something. My buddy over there says that he's never seen anything like this. It just came out of the blue."

Carla rubbed her eyes. "Well, we all know sometimes that happens. Sometimes, there just isn't an answer." She paused for a second, while Mears continued to flip through her pages. "Speaking of cases that don't have an answer, you know I have one of my own."

He rolled his eyes. "Richard Pratt."

"Yes, Richard Pratt. Sarge, I'd like to go home and get some rest, and come back this afternoon. When I do, I'd appreciate if you'd pull me off this case. This is West Valley's mess, and they can have it. I'm not doing any good on this. And I haven't wrapped up the Pratt case."

"Carla, that case is done. It's open and shut. Howard Gunderson shot him. You need to hand it over to the prosecutors. Our job isn't to figure out why somebody did something. Hell, for all we know, Gunderson was stoned or high on something."

"Toxicology say no..."

"Or it was some freaking gang initiation."

Carla smirked, remembering the guard at the prison. "I don't believe that. I've talked to this kid, and he's just not the type."

"I know you've talked to the kid," Mears said, his eyes narrowing. "For the past three days, you've done little but talk to the kid. The point is this." He leaned forward in his chair and enunciated each word carefully "I. don't. care. Carla, we don't care. I shouldn't have to remind you of this, but it's not our job to care. Our job is to investigate and catch the bad guys, and when we catch them, we turn them over to the prosecutors, and then we move on. I've told you before, you get way too attached to your cases, and West Valley is going to need us on this Valley Fair thing. This is going to be a nightmare, and not just for West Valley. You know how this thing works. We scratch their back on this, provide them with some resources, and we call in that favor later."

Carla was silent. She thought that if she opened her mouth now, she'd probably say something she'd regret.

Slowly, Mears softened and leaned across his desk. "Look," he said, "Go home. Get some rest. I'll have Phillips pick up with this list."

"Oh, he'll love me for that," she said, rolling her eyes.

"He'll do what he's told. Unlike you." Mears threw a paper clip at her, which she was too tired to even try to bat away. But the tension between them had been broken, and they could both feel it.

"Go home, Carla. Call me when you wake up. We'll talk."

The little smile on the Sergeant's face was all she needed. He'd put up a good fight, but it had mostly been for show. A way to show her he had the last word on this, and he'd only be pushed so far. She'd get at least a couple more days to work on the Pratt case. A couple more opportunities to talk to Howard Gunderson. Hopefully, that would be all she would need.