“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to pull over here, okay?”
Bobbi glanced at a large tent that seemed to be the center of attention – or really two tents pushed together and covering a section of parking spaces.
She followed where the policeman pointed, driving slowly toward a second cop waving her forward. She tried to focus on him but couldn’t stop staring at the people in white jumpsuits now getting out of the van. Or the conjoined black tents they slipped into.
“Hey!”
She jolted and realized she’d almost run into the other cop. He aimed a finger at a parking spot and she pulled in.
Bobbi got out and started toward the scene. The cop stopped her: “Hold on, ma’am. Please stay right here beside your vehicle.”
“What happened?” She gaped at the commotion, spotting EMTs, state troopers and local cops among the group, plus two cops in plain clothes.
“Ma’am, just sit tight. Someone will be with you in a few minutes.” He added, “There’s been a crime.”
It didn’t look like a “crime” – it looked like a bomb scare. One of the jumpsuits exited the tent, and Bobbi glimpsed the vehicle inside. It looked like it could be Harriet Fogarty’s car, which was a similar model to hers, same color.
Another vehicle arrived. The policeman at the lot entrance guided the driver in as he had Bobbi, and the second cop directed parking. Rachel Watts got out, hurried to Bobbi’s side. “What the hell is happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s in there? Is that someone in there?” Rachel moved for a closer look but the local cop stopped her, said the same things he’d said to Bobbi.
“I think a car,” Bobbi said. “I think someone’s car is in there – it might be Rita’s.”
“Oh, Jesus – we’re just supposed to stand here?” Rachel had been working for DSS for just a couple of months longer than Bobbi. Bobbi liked her. It took a person with chutzpah to hold her own in a department like Adult Protective Services, which some dismissed as superfluous. She stared at Bobbi, wide-eyed. “Have they said anything to you? I’m going over there.”
“Ma’am,” the cop warned again. “You need to stay put.”
“Well, what are we supposed to… Is that Harriet Fogarty’s car in there? Where is she?”
“I can’t say anything else right now, ma’am. I’m sorry. I’m going to need your phones, though, please.”
“Our phones?” Rachel asked.
“Just for a short time, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“Ma’am, please.”
Bobbi had met most of the local police through her job, but the cop standing with them was an unfamiliar face. His name tag read Mullins. Rachel didn’t seem to know him either, and it fueled her frustration. But both of them turned over their phones, and Mullins stuck them in the bag he was holding.
Rachel asked, “Just tell me if that’s her car. Has someone called her? Or Terry?”
The cop frowned. “Who’s Terry?”
“Her husband. Can we talk to someone who knows what’s happening, please?”
She was getting loud, drawing attention from one of the plainclothes investigators. He started over, then stopped short to let another vehicle drive in from the road. Bobbi recognized Lennox Palmer behind the wheel. She’d been the first to arrive for the day, then Rachel, now the others were drifting in, filling up the back lot.
The investigator resumed his approach. He wore a gray suit and had a headful of wavy dark hair. “I’m Investigator Nelson with the state police.”
“What is happening?” Rachel was about to jump out of her skin.
“You all work here?”
“Yes,” Rachel said impatiently.
“I’d like to wait until everyone arrives, then I can speak to you all as a group.”
“Can you just – can you tell us what’s going on at least? And why you need our phones?”
Nelson held his gaze on Rachel. “Were you working here last night?”
“When? What? What do you mean ‘last night’?”
“Were you working late? Were either of you?”
Bobbi spoke up. “I was sick yesterday. Rita was covering for me.” She felt her cheeks warm as Nelson studied her with intense blue eyes. “There was an emergency placement.”
“I went home at five,” Rachel said.
He pulled a small notepad and pen from his suit pocket and jotted something down, looked at Bobbi again. “Can you tell me about the emergency placement?”
“Lake Haven Police called us when a child’s parents were both arrested. The child had no other family in the area and needed to be taken into temporary foster care. I wasn’t feeling well, so Rita was handling it.” Bobbi started to feel sick again. It sounded like that was definitely Harriet’s car. If so, where was she?
More cars were arriving, the employees all rubbernecking the scene as they lined up to park where Mullins directed. Lennox Palmer approached from his car, his face full of the questions they all shared.
“Would anyone else have stayed to work on this?” Nelson asked.
“I don’t think so,” Bobbi said. “But maybe Jessica Rankin, the other supervisor. It was my case, Rita was helping me out.”
“How was it your case if the call just came in yesterday from Lake Haven? You’re not the only caseworker here?”
“No. Um, it was my case already. I’d been working with the family.”
Rachel stepped toward Nelson. “What happened to her? Why aren’t you saying what happened to her?”
Nelson ignored Rachel, looked at Bobbi. “Your name?”
“Roberta Noelle. With two Ls and an E.”
The sickness worsened, like she was going to throw up after all. The people in white suits were still swarming the tent, going in and out. Bobbi leaned a little to the side, trying to see around them, trying to see inside again.
Then she did. A crime scene technician entered, the flap open just as a camera flashed. It was definitely Rita’s car, and something horrible had happened. Like something had exploded against the windscreen…
The flap closed.
“Okay, Ms. Noelle,” Nelson said. “If you could just wait right here…”
Blood was what it was. There was blood all over the inside of Harriet’s car. A lot of it.
Bobbi turned away and ran toward the woods. She dropped to her knees as the coffee came rushing back, splattering against the green.
Two
Bobbi stood in the waiting room, looking out the windows: Terry Fogarty had arrived and was talking to one of the investigators, waving his arms around. He lurched forward, tried to get inside the tent, and the investigator grabbed him.
Lennox Palmer, standing beside Bobbi, drew a sharp breath. “Jesus, who called him?”
“I don’t think anyone did,” Bobbi said. “They took our phones. Probably to prevent this from happening. Maybe he just showed up. He could’ve been the one to call the police in the first place if she didn’t come home…”
Outside, Terry cried, and flailed, and reached for the tent.
“When are they going to get her out of there?” Lennox whispered.
“It’s a crime scene,” Bobbi said. She became aware she was hugging herself and chewing her fingernails, took her hand away from her mouth. She hadn’t bitten her nails in years. “They’ve got to check everything,” she said. “Her body is part of the evidence.”
It was beyond surreal. Harriet was their supervisor. She’d taken Bobbi under her wing. She had a quiet, determined way about her. Bobbi knew she’d been getting a bit burned out – their field could do that – but Harriet was strong, filled with compassion. She was sporty and did yoga. Bobbi had never been to her house but knew that she and Terry shared a nice place with a bit of land and they liked to take long walks together.
If she was in that car, someone had not only killed her, they’d done it violently, messily.
Terry was still trying to reach her – three cops were holding him back now. Bobbi wondered why he’d only just shown up, then recalled Rita saying Terry was sick, similar to what Bobbi had. He might’ve had an early night, maybe even been doped up on medicine, unaware she hadn’t returned home until the morning.