Chapter 3

Perhaps it was the conversation with Eric, but the New Purley Police Station felt wrong. Jennifer looked around at the desks and bulletin boards; they were cluttered with the same stationery, photos, files, and sticky notes that normally created havoc for the swamped officers. She watched the other officers at their duties filing, calling, and scanning their computers; it was the same routine. Nothing was different. It was a normal night at the station.

If a complete stranger walked in for the first time, he would not even think that a terrorist attack had recently occurred.

Was that why Jennifer felt strange? For New Purley police officers, a bombing was as normal as a speeding ticket. Okay, maybe not that normal, but the activities of New Purley's local gang no longer surprised any of the authorities that pursued them. Have we grown complacent? Jennifer asked herself.

She nodded at the dispatcher. "Hey, Elfie. How's the night going?

Brandi removed the earpiece from her pointy right ear and brushed aside some loose strands of her short red hair. "Oh, just your everyday respond and clean up. Guardado and Coble are securing everything. Also, one report of a naked man running around the harbor."

"Naked Nathan?"

"Who else? He said he was celebrating Guinea Pig Day."

"Is that a thing?"

"Well, Nathan Ferris seems to think so. When Morris was trying to get him to put on his clothes, Mr. Ferris claimed Morris was a racist groundhog lover."

Jennifer laughed aloud. "I don't think that's racism." Smiling, Jennifer looked again at the wide open station. "Guardado and Coble, huh? Weren't they assigned to the last Excel attack?"

Brandi concentrated silently. "I think so. Well, Detective Guardado would've been assigned to it either way. He's the arson guy. Not sure why Coble is always put on Excel cases."

Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Jennifer lifted herself from the corner of Brandi's desk. "Thanks for the update, Elfie."

"Piece," Brandi replied, replacing the bluetooth on her ear. Jennifer had been given her own nickname by a fellow coworker who recognized her affinity for weapons and reveled in the pun. It seemed to be spreading around the precinct.

Jennifer had about fifteen minutes before she needed to head to the patrol car, so she made her way to a file cabinet labeled the current year. Most information was sorted electronically and password protected; officers had to submit requests to access information that they were not involved in creating. However, most of the printed backup copies were guarded less strictly. This blatant loophole was not necessarily secret; even the commissioner was aware of it, but encryption was a federal mandate, not a local one. Policy was still being followed as long as the paper duplicates were never discussed. Plausible deniability was upheld by the "if I didn't see it, it didn't happen" mentality.

As Jennifer leafed through various files, she began noticing some unusual anomalies in the various Excel reports. Most of the reports showed that investigations into the crimes were discontinued prematurely. The reasons ranged from pending lawsuits to lost evidence. Follow-ups were rarely initiated. There did not seem to be a blatant disregard of justice from what Jennifer could see, but the work that had been done in solving these cases looked lazy and sloppy, at least by her own standards. For a moment, she considered bringing the information to her superior, but then she realized that would mean admitting that she had pilfered files she was not technically supposed to see, even if it was more of a guideline than a law. She may even have to explain her sudden interest in the Excel cases, and she definitely did not want to pull Eric into something that could be personally disastrous for him.

Then another, more terrifying thought entered her head. What if her superiors were complicit in the activities? Was she willing to jeopardize her job on a hunch? Was it even a hunch? Or a paranoid delusion?

"Piece!" shouted Lieutenant Follit, "You on vacation!?"

Jennifer quickly replaced a loose file and closed the cabinet. "No, sir! Heading out now!"

~

The Moralist Party Headquarters was an unassuming compartment squeezed between a liquor store and Christian Bookstore. Eric frowned at the outlet mall, thinking it strange that such an influential group operated out of a space that used to occupy, if his childhood memory served, a comic book store. Eric assumed that some of the work must be done in the houses of its members because the space in the mall could not possibly contain all the members of New Purley's newest political party.

Shutting the door to the Jeep, Eric forced himself to walk toward the entrance. The summer sun was uncontested in the wide open sky, as if it burned all the clouds away in its ire. It beat down on the asphalt parking lot, and its light was shimmering off the numerous cars parked in it. Eric had not really scripted what he was going to say, but he had thought about this moment enough that he hoped his copious imaginings would carry him through the conversation once inside.

The door was surprisingly difficult to open on account of either the pressure change or the suction of the bordering insulation. Once in, a blast of cold hit him from the air conditioning. A few seconds passed before Eric's eyes adjusted to the dimmer fluorescent lights set in the ceiling above twelve desks. The space was deeper than it was wide, affording a single aisle between rows of workspaces. The far end of the room was cut off abruptly by a makeshift wall, screening the final rooms beyond. Only three of the twelve desks were occupied, and the man sitting in the one closest to the door looked up at Eric with the barest condescension of a smile and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Hello," Eric began uncertainly, "I'm James Camano's son. I was wondering if he was here?"

The man behind the desk blinked once, then replied, "Just a moment." He stood up and walked toward the back of the room, past the screening wall. He and the other two members were dressed in slacks and ties, though the one nearest the back was covered in a suit jacket as well. This one eyed Eric intensely, and Eric could only raise his upper lip in an imbecilic smile of pacifism. As he waited, Eric scanned the area. To the right was a large green and blue map of New Purley, with red circles and purple plus-signs scattered all over it. To the left were a number of framed inspirational posters. One had a picture of the American flag with the bolded word "Fidelity" underneath. Eric felt a twang of nostalgia; he had served numerous tours of duty in honor of his country. For a moment, he felt like he was among brothers. The momentary comfort was quickly dispelled when James Camano emerged from behind the screen.

Eric's father was a blocky man, though Eric was still shorter than he. James' wide-set eyes gave him the look of an iguana or puffer fish, looking in every direction at once. However, Eric did not remember the bloated, dark half-circles under the eyes. In his younger years, James had fiery red hair, but by now what was left of his follicles were a dingy sand color. James was also sporting a jacket and tie, giving him an authoritative air that immediately made Eric feel like he was seven years old again.

"Eric," James said, his voice like tectonic plates rubbing together.

"Sir," Eric replied. He did not know if the title was the result of his military training or the cowed subordination he felt at seeing the man whose stony gaze could melt a child into confessing the most mundane of transgressions.

"What do you want, Eric?" James asked, now standing only a few feet away.

"I," Eric stammered. "Could I talk to you alone?" he managed, looking at the other men watching the scene eagerly.

A hint of exasperation washed over the giant before he agreed, motioning Eric back towards the entrance door. Eric attempted to summon his training and anger, thus adding rigidity to his posture as he opened the door to the parking lot and sweltering heat. He was no longer a child. He was about to get married. He had witnessed warfare in a desolate desert. His father was nothing compared to that.

Still, Eric positioned himself near a light pole, just in case he needed to use it as a barrier between him and his father. How should he start? Could he even get to the point if he slowly led into the subject? No. Out with it, Camano!

"Dad, I found a letter I want to ask you about," he blurted, instantly terrified and alert.

James' eyelids lowered slightly as if in boredom. "So talk."

Eric fought to maintain eye contact. "It said something about fundraising and the daycare center that was just attacked." Involuntarily, Eric's nostrils flared, the result of his internal chaos.

James' expression did not change, but Eric thought that his father's pupils widened.

"What is your point, son?"

Eric paused before considering his reply. His hand gripped the light pole as if he were suffering through a hurricane. "Do you know anything about what happened to The Little Red Schoolhouse?" It was out and as close to an accusation as Eric could muster.

James took the slightest step forward. It was all Eric could do to keep his position without backing away. "Eric," his father said, "there are some things that children cannot understand. One day I hope you will. Until then, don't ask foolish questions, and keep your distance. Stupid questions can hurt you, and despite what you think of me, I do not want that to happen. Hear me this once and leave. I have more important things to do than blowing up nurseries. Now go, and tell Daniel I hope he is doing well."

With that, James Camano turned dismissively and walked back into the Moralist Headquarters. Eric wanted to correct his father, to say that Daimon, of course, no longer went by that name, that James knew Daimon didn't like being called Daniel. Eric wanted to shout at him, to demand more information, to demand an apology for what James did to his family, to insist that his father take on a penance for all the wrongs he had committed, but Eric remained attached to the light pole, which seemed the only thing holding him up.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4