Marcus tapped against the steering wheel, fidgeting uncomfortably as he pulled into the parking lot of the gas station. Flashing red and blue lights strobed across greasy windows. The different fuel pumps were blockaded by police vehicles.
Marcus stared in the direction of the gas station, frowning. The vehicle came to a stop, crossing over the white lines. He glanced towards Dakota who was already unbuckling and reaching for the lock. She'd been quiet ever since they'd received the footage confirming Mr. Dardon's alibi. Not once had he left his vehicle while unloading at the second victim's supermarket.
The suspect was in the clear... Not to mention...
Another body while Dardon had been in custody.
Marcus could feel a slow prickle of anxiety. Often, he'd spend time in the gym, lifting heavy things in order to keep his mind focused. But when traveling for a case, it broke his routine. He glanced at the small dash-can that Dakota had purchased for him years ago.
At first, it had been a bit of a joke to bring it with him and place it in their loaned vehicles.
Now, though, it had become something of a fixture in his life.
Dakota had bought the small, dashboard trashcan so he could throw gum wrappers inside, after leaving a couple on the floor during one case. She had a predilection for cleanliness. For appearance.
He appreciated this about her.
He put the vehicle in park, noticing the way Dakota was already opening the door and pushing out into the gas station parking lot.
Dakota wasn't the sort to slow down on a case like this. He was glad to have her back. Her drive, her unrelenting focus, helped him.
He stepped out of the vehicle now, too, noticing where a man in a wide-brim hat was waving them over. The man stood behind a small barricade of glass and reinforced plastic—it resembled something of an oversized blast shield.
The man in the hat was peering at a computer monitor, pointing at something and listening as another man in a blue fleece was murmuring comments about the screen.
Dakota was already making a beeline towards the gathering behind the screen. Marcus fell into step as well. He caught up with Dakota in time to hear the man in the round hat introduce himself. “Milo Marsters, Homeland Security. You must be Agent Steele.” He didn't offer his hand. In fact, Marcus noticed the man was wearing protective gloves.
Dakota nodded, then pointed to Marcus. “And this is Agent Clement.”
Marcus received a quick head bob as well. The man from Homeland Security was wearing a clean-pressed suit and had silver sideburns. His upper lip displayed a small film of prickling white—not quite a mustache, but an attempt. His eyes kept darting about, moving back to the monitor, to the agents, then the monitor again.
Marcus, who was accustomed to taking the lead in their partnership when speaking with strangers, cleared his throat. “So we were told she was found in the bathroom.”
“Yup, yup,” said Marsters, nodding quickly. He waved a hand towards the bathroom. Clement watched where two figures in hazmat suits were feeding a camera through a vent above the door to a gas station bathroom.
Marsters directed their attention to the computer monitor behind the screen. He moved with erratic, jerking motions. His finger tapped the screen, leaving a smudge where it trailed. He muttered to himself, tried to wipe the smudge, but only made things worse.
The man sighed in frustration but then continued as if nothing had happened as the two FBI agents joined him. “We're treating the situation as hazardous. Your victim is there,” he said. “My priority, though, right now, is to make sure no one else gets harmed.”
“Is that her, there?” Dakota said curtly, pointing as well. She made as if to begin moving around the screen, towards the bathroom.
But Marsters clicked his tongue. “Wait, wait,” he said quickly. He caught Dakota by the wrist, giving her a quick tug back.
Dakota turned sharply, looking at the hand holding her. The man must have noticed something in her gaze, because he coughed delicately and immediately released his grip on her wrist. “Apologies,” he said hurriedly. “But I haven't cleared the scene yet.”
Dakota glanced at Marcus. Agent Clement nodded slowly. He said, “So what is it we know then?”
But Marsters was pointing at the screen again, more insistently now. Dakota and Marcus both leaned in, watching as the team in hazmat suits were slowly, cautiously, entering the gas station bathroom now. Marcus could hear voices as officers behind them redirected foot traffic.
On the screen, in real-time, they watched as the figures pressed into the bathroom, moving slowly. A video feed displayed the victim sprawled across the tiled floor. The camera moved slowly, showing grainy footage. Marcus's gaze darted over the screen, towards the room beyond, but was having difficulty tracking the location of the surveying team, so he returned his full attention to the video feed. He felt a slow, rising sense of trepidation, but he held back the fear... He'd never worked a case quite like this before... but that was the job. Unusual cases. Still... he'd sleep better once this guy was behind bars.
They all watched in silence as the camera lingered on the body.
“Have you identified her yet?” Dakota asked.
Marsters nodded once. He waved a hand towards a car parked outside the station. “Ran the plates. A Donna Windser.”
“Do we know anything about Ms. Windser?” Dakota said, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the screen.
The man just shook his head, though. “Not much yet. She was found dead inside three hours ago. Someone spotted a nozzle attached to a canister in the vent—ah, yes, see.”
He was tapping a portion of the left wall, visible on the video feed. Marcus frowned, unable to make out much in the dingy footage.
But Dakota seemed to notice it, judging by the sharp hiss of her breath. “He gassed her, then?” she said. “Do we know if the chemicals are still lingering?”
“They're checking now,” Marsters replied quietly. “The killer rigged the door and used his little trap...”
“He was waiting for her,” Dakota replied.
“Hmm?”
“He must have scoped out the area first—had time to set up. He was waiting for her.”
Marsters shook his head. “The cannister was lodged there—could have taken only a few moments.”
“So you think the victim was random?”
Marsters shrugged. “Not my area, agents. Now, if you don't mind, it's going to take some time to clear the scene. So if you could...” He trailed off, wincing apologetically and waving a hand for them to retreat.
Dakota frowned at this hand—the same hand that had snatched her wrist, but Marcus scooped an arm around her back and gently began to guide her away. He knew his partner could often have a single-track mind when it came to these cases. She so badly wanted to catch the killer that she didn't often appreciate bureaucratic oversight or obstacles.
He'd once seen her drive off a small overpass into a wheat field and across it, in order to avoid a traffic jam.
Marcus, on the other hand, tried to play nice with others.
“Why don't we speak with the gas station manager,” Marcus murmured as he led her away. “He might have seen something. Plus cameras.”
Dakota puffed air, but then nodded quickly. As they moved away from the bathroom, they made a beeline towards a police vehicle sitting on the other side of the gas station, behind a sawhorse barrier. The man was wearing a uniform that matched the colors of the gas station, and had a nametag. He was an older gentleman and judging by his frustrated motions, Marcus pegged him as either the owner or manager.
Most low-level gas station attendants weren't so insistent on getting back to work.
Dakota's expression had morphed now. Instead of frustrated, she looked calm. He'd always admired her ability to keep her emotions in check. At the same time, this skill of his partner's sometimes scared him.
The two of them moved swiftly across the asphalt towards the man sitting in the back of the police SUV. His legs were dangling out the open door, and a finger was flailing in circles as he berated the officer who'd been unlucky enough to earn the babysitting gig.
As the gas-station manager's voice began to rise, though, he suddenly surged to his feet, and tried to march past the sawhorse.
The second he did this, though, the cop in question shoved him hard, sending him stumbling over the wooden sawhorse.
Clearly, the cop assigned to babysitting duty had already received more than his share of berating. But as he lashed out, the gas-station manager yelled, stumbling over the wooden barrier.
As the man toppled, with a shout, Dakota bolted forward. Marcus jogged a few steps to keep up.
Dakota caught the man as he surged to his feet, furious. The cop was already reaching for handcuffs. Marcus hastened between the two. “Hang on—cut it out!” Marcus said quickly.
Dakota was frowning at the cop. “You shoved him,” she said.
“He tried to cross the boundary,” the cop retorted.
“So you pushed him over it?” Dakota returned, scowling.
Marcus sighed. This was always the worst part of a high-pressure job. He helped Dakota lift the gas-station manager back to his feet. Marcus's eyes darted down to spot the name of the man written in small, black letters on his silver nametag. Garesh.
“Garesh?” Dakota said also noting the name. She brushed him off. “Apologies.”
The man was spluttering, shaking his head side to side. He had a thick, black beard and eyes that kept narrowing whenever he glanced at one of the LEOs. He was still shaking his finger, this time pointing it towards Dakota. “Hoodlums!” he exclaimed. “Thieves! I've been closed for half the day! I've lost all my business. And this... this thug attacks me!”
“Hey, bud,” snapped the officer, “Watch it!”
Dakota turned on the cop. “You watch it!” she snapped.
“Dakota,” Marcus said with a sigh. “How about we all just calm down.”
The cop, the manager, and his partner all turned to him and glared. He shifted uncomfortably. “I guess not then,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Marcus went quiet, trying his best not to interject further as his input clearly wasn't wanted.
"How about you get back in your car," Dakota said, addressing the cop firmly, "and let us interview the witness."
The officer glared at her. The manager, still seething, tried to protest, but Dakota, turned sharply, and by sheer force of will redirected the manager's attention to her. Marcus, following the lead, stepped in, wincing apologetically at the police officer, and gesturing towards his vehicle. At the same time, Marcus flashed his identification and his badge.
The police officer turned away, muttering darkly, shaking his head, and marching off.
Dakota, unaware of this now, was addressing the manager. "I apologize for the inconvenience," she said quickly.
"You're costing me hundreds of dollars," he retorted. "It's not inconvenience. It's theft."
Dakota nodded once. She was no longer frowning. Again, Marcus marveled at the way his partner could sometimes let her emotions loose, and seconds later bottle them up, hiding them completely from view. But he knew her; he knew Dakota well. They had been partners for a decade before that calamity four months ago. The case with The Watcher. A woman had died. A woman who didn't need to die. The killer had gotten away. He hadn't been active since then, but Marcus wasn't optimistic that they had seen the last of the murderer.
And yet, with Dakota, he couldn't help but feel a strong fondness for her. He knew she struggled with alcohol. Knew she struggled with other things besides.
But Marcus saw a bit of himself in Dakota. For the first ten years of his life, Agent Clement had been raised by his parents. In a broken, downtrodden part of a forgotten city block. He could have named most illegal drugs by the age of eight. Tragedy had struck his family but for Marcus, it had almost been a gift.
He'd been taken in by his aunt and uncle. Overnight, his prospects had changed. His life had changed. They had been gracious, gentle, God-fearing people. They had taken care of Marcus as if he were their own. Marcus had been sent to private school, been educated. He had played sports, and stayed out of trouble.
He had grown up protected and sheltered.
But he had always known, if not for his aunt and uncle, he easily could have been just another statistic. Young boys from the city, with parents in and out of jail, didn't often have the chance to make it as far as he had.
Dakota, he knew, had grown up rough. Her own family had fallen apart, especially after the disappearance of her sister. Marcus did not pry about that part of Dakota's life. He didn't think it was his responsibility.
If ever she wanted to talk, he would have been more than willing to listen. But Agent Clement knew that if not for his aunt and uncle, he would have had a much tougher life. He saw Dakota as something of a hero. She had made it out of a dangerous portion of Rapid City, using her combat sport as handholds up a mountain.
An alcohol issue and a few questionable tattoos were a small price to pay to escape.
And so Marcus did not mind following his partner's lead. Marcus hadn't wanted Dakota back, after she had quit three months ago, just because she was good at her job. But also because he cared for her.
Dakota was hope. He had often feared that if not for his aunt and uncle, his life would have inevitably ended far worse. But Dakota gave him hope. That even out of rough circumstances, without some guardian angels swooping in, someone could make something of their life.
Now, he watched as Agent Steele, using her usual curt tone, said, "Can we look at those cameras?"
"Which cameras?"
"The ones above the door. That one."
"No, I see where you're pointing. But that camera isn't recording. It's a fake. It's not even hooked up to anything."
Dakota frowned. "A fake camera?"
The manager nodded. "A deterrence. That's it. There is no footage."
“Are you lying?"
He looked taken aback by the direct accusation. But Dakota was often direct. He frowned. "No. Go look at it for yourself. There isn't even a wire out the back. It's not on. I don't have batteries in it."
"Fine, I believe you," she said quickly.
He muttered to himself, shaking his head furiously.
She said, "Anything else you could add? Did you see anything a few hours ago?"
“I see a lot of things. You're going to have to be more specific.”
Before she could continue further, though, there was a sudden sound of thumping. Then rapid footsteps and muttered voices. Marcus turned, frowning and watching as the figures emerged from the gas station bathroom, removing their hazmat suits. A woman with blonde hair streaked in gray was shaking her head, addressing Marsters. “It's safe,” she called out. “Coroner and lab can access now.”
Marsters flashed a thumbs up.
Marcus let out a faint breath of air. He watched as a corpse beneath a white blanket was slowly being wheeled out on a stretcher.