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Agent Curran
“What do we have?” Agent John Curran approached Agent Hawkins as he slipped past the established perimeter around a quaint, two-story house located in a suburb of Atlanta.
“It’s a mess. A treasure trove of trace evidence.”
“Give me the bullet points,” he stated, the two walking past the house and into the gated back yard.
It was a typical back yard, about a half-acre and impeccably maintained. Flowerbeds lined the exterior of the house, a few lawn chairs circling a fire pit. In the far corner sat a large shed Agent Curran estimated to be roughly three hundred square feet, a handful of crime scene techs walking in and out, carrying boxes marked as evidence.
“At approximately eight this morning, we got a call from Lieutenant Kelly with Atlanta PD, informing us of a potential lead relating to both Imogene Prescott and Domenic Jaskulski. And it came from none other than Rosario Walker.”
“Walker?” He tilted his head. “As in…”
She nodded. “The wife of Detective Shawn Walker. She’s been in Los Angeles for the past month on a production,” she explained as they trudged through the grass, the dew dampening the hems of his slacks.
“Production?”
“Ms. Walker is a set designer on some TV show. They shot the first few seasons out here, then moved it back to LA, so she heads out there when they shoot. Anyway, when she got home at six this morning, Walker wasn’t in bed, even though his work vehicle was parked out front. So she came out here, since he likes to do a bit of woodworking. Walker wasn’t here. But she did find something.”
“What’s that?”
Agent Hawkins strode toward a long table set up along the fence where one of the techs was cataloguing all the evidence into a laptop. She grabbed a small bag and held it up.
“This.”
John’s eyes skated over the silver chain, focusing on the charm — a heart mended with stitches.
Just like the one Imogene Prescott wore in many of the photos her mother had provided to help with the search.
“Look familiar?”
John took the bag, closely examining it. “Not just familiar.” His fingers traced the date etched on the back of the charm. The date of Imogene Prescott’s first heart surgery when she was no more than a few months old. “Identical.”
“Mrs. Walker recognized it, too. After she couldn’t reach her husband, she called the station to inform them of her discovery.”
“So Imogene was here.” John exhaled a relieved breath, thankful they were getting closer to finding the poor girl.
Agent Hawkins nodded. “Appears so. They’re still processing everything, but so far, they’ve uncovered various journals containing handwriting that matches Jaskulski’s. They’ve also found clothing that matches the description of the suit Christine Griffin claimed he changed into after he broke into their home. They’re stained with what appears to be blood.”
“And Walker’s involvement?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out. But I don’t think it’s a stretch to theorize he’s involved in some capacity.”
She flipped open her notebook. “I spoke with some of the neighbors. Several claimed to have seen Detective Walker coming and going from the shed over the past week, as well as overheard some heated arguments. His neighbor to the right…” She nodded at the house next door, “a Mr. Jacob Mueller, claimed to have heard three distinct voices, one of which he recognized as Walker’s. The other two were unfamiliar.”
“Any idea where he is?”
She shook her head, returning her small notebook to her back pocket. “Not yet. His work vehicle is out front. We’ve frozen all his bank and credit card accounts. We’ve also put out an APB for his personal vehicle, coupled with an Amber Alert for Imogene Prescott. In the meantime, we’re combing through every inch of this property to see if we can figure out where he would have taken her.”
“This is a good start. More than we’ve had to work with so far.”
John swept his gaze over Detective Walker’s property, everything charming and decidedly middle-class. The perfect place to raise a family. There were even a few bricks with painted handprints along the patio, presumably his daughters’ handprints from when they were young.
“Why would he do this?” John mused. “Why would he get involved in something like this? He was less than a year away from retiring with a full pension. To throw all that away now? And for what?”
“In my experience, people make stupid decisions when money’s involved. Or blackmail.”
“Or both,” John stated.
