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CHAPTER THREE
Rachel stepped out of the taxi and looked up, craning her neck to take in the full height of the high-rise known as Benson Tower. It was fifteen stories tall and, though clearly not the tallest building in the city—or even just on this particular block, even—it did hold a certain elegance that all of the surrounding buildings lacked. The glass along the sides looked futuristic, like something out of a cyberpunk movie. The top came to a slanted point as if to proclaim its exciting nature to the city.
She entered through the front doors and entered a large, minimally decorated lobby. Everything was clean and polished, sleek and white. The lobby led to a lounge area on the right, what appeared to be a small meeting place to the left, and the elevators all the way to the back. She made her way to the elevators, already taking note of a man standing by the doors. He was an older African American gentleman, but he had the build of a much younger man. His shoulders were massive, and his neck looked like the trunk of a tree.
She approached him, taking her badge and ID out of the front pocket of her jeans. Even for an out-of-town trip where there was supposed to be no work involved, the badge and ID always came with her. It was something she’s learned to do earlier in her career, as agents could never be sure when their services may be needed. She had, on the other hand, not packed any of her bureau outfits, the usual jacket, button-down, and slacks she typically wore. So she approached the guard, showing her badge while dressed casually in a thin cotton sweater and a pair of dark jeans.
"Special Agent Rachel Gift," she said. "I think you should have gotten a call that I was coming?" She hoped so, anyway. She'd spoken with the Seattle field office and had even gotten the okay from Anderson in Richmond. He'd not been a fan of the idea at first, but she knew he'd not be able to pass up the opportunity to have one of his agents potentially close a case elsewhere in the country that had so far remained a mystery.
“Sure did,” the man d said. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and she already knew what she'd see. She smiled softly as he showed her his credentials. He was a local detective.
“Detective Paul Sullivan. Good to meet you.”
Rachel shook Sullivan’s hand, and they stepped onto the elevator together. Even the interior of the elevator had a futuristic and minimal feel to it. There were no buttons, but a touch-pad on the panel and even that was minimal in nature—no larger than a paperback book. Sullivan punched in the information, lighting the panel up with a single touch and then selecting the eleventh floor.
“Has anyone else been up there today?” Rachel asked as they were rocketed up. The elevator glided in such a way that she couldn’t even feel the progress.
“Two detectives came this morning,” Sullivan answered. “Had a few folks from the press come by too, but security sent them packing.” He paused a beat and then asked: "So, from what I understand, you aren't even in town for the case. You just wanted to lend a hand. Is that right?"
“I suppose you could say that. I’m in Seattle on personal business, and there’s going to be a lot of free time. I read about the murder, then saw it all over the news and ended up doing a bit of basic research.”
“Well, I won’t lie,” Sullivan said. “I may have done a bit of research myself when I heard you were on the way. Granted, it wasn’t much…but enough for me to find out that you’re the agent that arrested Alex Lynch and then killed him after he managed to escape prison.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I also know you’ve been battling a brain tumor. Are you okay now?”
It stung to hear it mentioned so bluntly, but she swallowed down her primary reaction of growing defensive. “I am, yes. Better than I was even before I was diagnosed.”
“That’s amazing. Glad to hear it.”
The elevator dinged a faint, musical note, and the doors opened up onto the eleventh floor. Rachel stepped off, and Sullivan followed.
“I assume you’ve already been on the scene?” Rachel asked.
“Yeah, twice. A lot of good it did. I’m really only here this time because my director asked me to come assist you if you needed it. Maybe catch you up.”
Sullivan led her to the right, and when Rachel looked ahead, she was instantly able to locate Emma Willis’s apartment. The next-to-last door on the left side of the hallway was blocked off at the top of the frame by bright yellow crime scene tape. As she approached the door, Rachel also saw that a laminated sign had been attached to the door. It read: Active Crime Scene. No Trespassing Under Any Circumstances. Violators Will Be Arrested.
The door had two locks—a traditional key slot, but also a thin, square device just above the key slot. Sullivan pulled e keycard out of his pocket and inserted it into the device; he was rewarded with a soft chiming noise. The square device glowed blue for a moment, and then the lock disengaged. He opened the door, allowing Rachel to enter first. She had to duck slightly to avoid the crime scene tape at the top of the doorframe.
The front door entered into a small foyer of sorts, a perfect square that offered three different paths into the apartment. Straight ahead was a short hallway that ended at the bedroom. To the left, there was a living area, with a plush couch, expensive rug, and a TV mounted to the wall. On the backside of this area, there was another sitting area—an area that looked as if Dr. Willis had used it as both a dining room and makeshift office. To the right, there was the kitchen. Each and every room was tidy and well-maintained. The only clutter in sight were a few dishes in the sink, and a laptop and a few files and papers on the large table in the dining area.
As Rachel walked toward the bedroom, Sullivan followed behind her, making sure to keep a respectable distance. Rachel appreciated it, as he was showing that he wanted her to feel like she had her own space and wasn’t being crowded over by a local.
“Were you one of the first on the scene?” Rachel asked as she came to the bedroom.
“No,” Sullivan answered. “I didn’t show up until the following morning—yesterday morning, in fact. That was after the initial police investigation couldn’t turn up anything.”
Rachel stepped into the bedroom. It was chilly, as the shattered window on the right side of the room had not been replaced or boarded up yet. The window appeared to be the only thing in the room that had been disturbed. The bed was still perfectly made, and there were no clear or obvious signs of a struggle.
“All we know about what happened here,” Sullivan said, “other than the fact that she fell out of that window, is that the light was on in the walk-in closet. Forensics is also quite certain she was shoved through the window rather than her just sort of stumbling in an attempt to escape.”
Rachel looked at the glass and agreed right away. The way much of the glass had shattered rather than simply broken was an indicator that a great amount of force had struck it. Even in the glass that remained, there were spiderweb-like cracks running all the way to the frame. She also noted that a few of the more jagged shards along the bottom of the frame were tinged with blood. With a queasy feeling in her stomach, Rachel looked out of the broken window and to the ground below.
“She landed on her back,” Sullivan said from the other side of the room. “The lacerations from the window were also on her back and shoulders. It’s widely believed that cuts on her back indicate she went out back-first.”
“Which would give even more credence to the idea that she was pushed,” Rachel added.
