The orange numbers on the digital clock read 3 a.m. by the time Jim dropped into bed. He fell asleep instantly,
only to be wakened minutes later by the ringing of the phone. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head.
For once he didn’t want to answer the phone, and let the answering machine do its job.
Earlier that evening he and his wife Anna argued after dinner, the third time in one week which finally ended
after he promised to take her on a vacation that was long overdue.
“I told you things wouldn’t change.” At her mumbled words, Jim glanced in his wife’s direction and grabbed the
phone. The female voice on the other whispered.
“Is this Agent Gabriel?”
“Yes.”
“Karen Maxwell’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Jim bolted upright. His wife’s best friend Karen had died in a car crash. “What makes you say that?”
“I can’t talk now.”
“You need to tell me what you know.”
“I’m risking my life calling you. You have to find out what happened to her.”
Jim glanced at Anna, who gave him the look. Something inside told him not to hang up yet. If there was any
truth to the caller’s claim, he needed to know more. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me anything.”
“I need to get off the phone.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I’ll try to contact you later. But be careful. Her killers will make sure no one ever finds out.”
The line went dead.
“They? Who are they?” Jim yelled into the silence.
In his fifteen years as an FBI agent, he was used to bizarre calls. But this one was very different. It involved
the death of a close friend. He really wanted to know who called him. A trace of the call would hopefully solve
that problem.
“Thanks for waking me up. Again.” Anna’s words dripped with anger.
Jim turned to say something, but held his tongue. This wasn’t the time, or the place to defend himself. He
headed to the den, his place of refuge. As he passed the rooms of his two daughters he thought of happier
days when they’d spent more time together. His job as an FBI agent started to take its toll—the long hours,
nights and weekends away from home, and the late night phone calls. He never complained, but Anna did, and
the balance between his marriage and his job had shifted precariously close to disaster. Before they were
married, he made it clear several times what his job would entail. Each time, she assured him it didn’t matter.
He walked into the oversized room located in the back of their ranch-style home, turned on the light and shut
the door. He settled in to his leather chair, switched on his laptop. While he waited for it to boot up he leaned
back, closed his eyes and mulled over what the caller had said. Karen’s memorial service one week ago was
still fresh in his mind and heart. Her sudden death came as a complete shock to everyone who knew her.
The room served as a den and office complete with a twenty-seven inch plasma TV inset between a bookshelf
filled with his collection of baseball books and souvenirs. The rest of the room was equipped with a desk, two
large file cabinets, and a combination laser printer, copier, and fax. For the past few months, he’d spent more
time here than in any other room in his house. Anna’s fuse shortened with the passing of each day.
Jim pushed his marriage problems to the back of his mind, snatched up a notepad and jotted down the phone
conversation. His gut feeling compelled him to consider that the caller was telling the truth. If so, he would do
whatever it took to find out how Karen really died.
His laptop finished booting up. He logged on and accessed the files of the local Sheriff’s Department. He
entered Karen’s name and waited. Seconds later a message appeared on the screen, ‘No File Found’. He re-
entered her name, making sure he spelled it correctly. The same message returned.
He sat back and thought for a moment, then went to the State Police website. A search for Karen’s accident
report brought up the same message. ‘No File Found’. He frowned and looked at the calendar hung on his file
cabinet. Ten days had passed since the accident. The report must still be in process.
There was one other site he could check. His keystrokes were more forceful than necessary. He held his
breath. It took over a minute for the response to come back from the DMV server. Another message ‘No
Information Found’ flashed back at him. This can’t be right. He leaned back in his chair and debated with
himself if he should continue looking into this, or let it alone and go back to bed. The caller’s words ‘those who
killed her’ shot through his mind. He straightened up in his chair. If his instincts were wrong, he could live with
that. If not, how could he tell Dave Maxwell his wife was murdered?