11
A pitch–black smartphone, scratched and battered, rested on the evidence table. It was an old model, clearly several years out of production. Its damaged casing spoke of neglect and years of rough use.
Rainwater and my blood had seeped into its circuits that night, leaving the motherboard barely functional. This phone wouldn’t fetch more than a few bucks even on the
secondhand market.
Yet those people with an addiction had still pawned it, desperate for any amount of cash.
Officers examined the phone meticulously, but it had been wiped clean. Only a few valuable pieces of data remained.
“The blood on it has been cleaned off, too,” one of them muttered, exasperated. “We’ll need luminol just to confirm it was there.”
A frustrated officer slammed his hands on the table.
“Damn it! The pawnshop reformatted the phone! Every piece of evidence is gone! Don’t
22:21 Thu, Mar 13 A
<
these resellers have any conscience? They couldn’t even ask who it belonged to?”
“Get IT on this!” another officer demanded.
“They’ll need time to restore the data,” came the reply.
Time. The one thing the department didn’t have.
Pressure from above had been relentless: the case needed to be resolved within five days. That much I had overheard in Boone’s office as I hovered, unseen.
One officer groaned in frustration.
“We finally find a lead, and it’s a dead end. There are no suspects or useful physical evidence, and we still don’t know the victim. How are we supposed to close this case?”
Boone exhaled sharply, handing the phone to another officer.
“Get it to IT now.”
As the phone was carried away, Boone noticed Vanessa sitting off to the side, her face pale and drained of all color.
“Dr. Sterling,” he said gently, “maybe you should take a break.”
Vanessa didn’t respond at first. She just stared at the phone as if hypnotized.
“Dr. Sterling?” Boone repeated.
She startled slightly.
“I’m here!”
Boone eyed her cautiously.
“Do you recognize that phone?”
Vanessa hesitated before shaking her head.
22:21 Thu, Mar 13 AB
“No… it just… it looks familiar, that’s all. But it can’t be…”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Everyone knew the situation. The people with an addiction who’d killed the victim harbored a deep hatred for drug enforcement officers.
My dad, Derek Hartman, had been the best in his field. His methods for tracing drug supply lines were unmatched. He’d nearly eradicated illegal substances in Bayport during
his career.
Even eleven years after his death, his techniques were still used by his proteges–many of whom now made up the DEA in the region.
But his success had made him enemies. Enemies who wouldn’t hesitate to strike out at
his family.
The weight of that possibility lingered in the room, unspoken but present.
Finally, Boone broke the silence, his voice softer now.
“Dr. Sterling… maybe we should run a DNA test. Just in case.”
“No!” Vanessa’s voice cracked, defiant yet trembling.
“Please,” Boone urged. “You know better than anyone–whatever the result, you must
face it.”
Tears welled in Vanessa’s eyes before spilling over.
“No. I won’t believe it. The database already said it wasn’t a match with Derek’s. Why
reopen this wound?”
Boone sighed,
“You know as well as I do: the records of undercover DEA agents and their families are removed from the public database. The lack of a match doesn’t mean anything.”
Those words seemed to drain the fight out of Vanessa. Her shoulders sagged, and for a
moment, she seemed impossibly small.
After a long silence, she finally spoke.
“Take my blood,”
Her voice was barely audible, but the resignation in it was apparent. She looked like someone who’d just aged a decade in an instant.
