Who: SSA Natalie Bruenner & Detective Lance Arturo (headmate)
Where: Asheville, NC: early evening
When: May 18th - 21st, 2008
Rating: PG-13
Words: 24,289 (including comments)
Summary: Natalie shows up at a crime scene looking for a little girl only to discover more than she bargained for.


"I assume the detective already noted the foot prints?" (prompt #34.1.A from writers_muses)

Even above the controlled chaos that was a murder investigation, her voice got Arturo's attention. It was low and husky, even for a woman, with a distinct note of no nonsense. He looked up from the footprint in question. Standing just on the other side of the yellow crime scene tape was a tall, slender brunette dressed in jeans, a white oxford shirt, and black windbreaker. Everything about her was lean and lanky from her mile-long legs to her arms to her torso. She had wavy, dark brown hair that fell past her shoulders and dark eyes that seemed to soak up every detail. Hanging from her belt, a shield glinted in the waning sunset. Stifling an irritated groan, he stood up and walked over to her and the CSI tech standing nearby. He didn't have a partner, didn't need one, and having someone poking around his investigation just got on his last nerve.

"Lance Arturo, Asheville PD," he introduced himself.

"Natalie Bruenner, FBI," she said brusquely.

This time he did groan. The Bureau was notorious for their heavy-handed tactics and hard-assed manners. What had been shaping up to be a simple assault-and-murder had been shot to hell. Now that the Feds were involved, that meant there was more to it. Just terrific.

"So, what do you know about this?" she asked, climbing under the yellow tape.

Lance walked back to the footprint. "Sneakers. Pretty well-used. Size ten. Probably looking for a male. Six to six foot two. Skinny, maybe hundred and sixty."

Bruenner crossed her arms. "How'd you know that?"

He dug a pen out of his jacket pocket, and crouched down next to the footprint stamped in the dirt next to the concrete driveway. "See the wear pattern? How the sides of the soles are worn? Indicates an avid tennis player. They're not exactly big guys."

Her only response was a sharp nod. "And his height?"

Lance put his own size fourteen next to the print. "Smaller feet means he's shorter than me, and I'm six-four."

"Regular Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

"I didn't get to be a detective by doing crossword puzzles."

"So, whose blood?"

"Steve Johnson, victim, age forty, divorced, no family in the area," Lance started as they walked up the driveway to the small ranch built around 1960. "Looks like someone came in, they struggled, shots fired, neighbors called nine-one-one..."

"I need to talk to Johnson," Bruenner said bluntly.

Lance watched as the coroner wheeled a gurney out of the front door. On top was a black bag vaguely the size and shape of the vic.

"There he is," Lance replied. "Go talk to him all you like. Doubt he'll say much."

"Shit!" Bruenner swore under her breath.

Lance raised an eyebrow as they watched the gurney being loaded into a van. "Problem?"

"Yeah, big one."

He wasn't sure what to make of Bruenner, but something about her just didn't feel right. He wasn't sure if it was her attitude, her personality or something else entirely. Trying to shrug it off, he led her up to the front door.

"So, what's the Fed's say in all this?" he asked as they walked up the driveway.

"We suspect Johnson was involved in kidnapping and child pornography."

"Bloody hell." It was the closest thing to out and out swearing Lance did when there was a lady present.

"Going British on me, Arturo?"

"My grandparents were English," he lied easily. "Spent summers with them in Kent."

Bruenner gave him a sideways glance that told him either she wasn't impressed or she didn't believe him. He wasn't sure which. That made his uneasiness about her increase tenfold. Rather than say anything, he motioned for her to enter the house ahead of him. He knew his old-fashioned manners ruffled some feminist feathers, but that didn't stop him. Bruenner paused in the doorway to slip on paper booties over her brown leather loafers before venturing past the door. Lance followed suit.

The living room was a wreck. The coffee table had been smashed, a recliner lay on its side nearby, the flea-market-find of a couch spewed foam rubber and batting from several tears. One section of the sofa was covered in a massive bloodstain from the victim. Other various spatters of varying sizes spotted the dingy beige carpet.

"Near as I can tell, Johnson was in the kitchen," Lance started, walking to the room in question.

It was tiny, not much room for a fridge, stove, limited counter space, dishwasher, and sink. Most of the appliances appeared to be at least ten, if not fifteen, years old. The linoleum had definitely seen better days. Lance pointed to a pot left on the stove. Inside was the scorched remains of what had probably been chili.

"He was in the middle of cooking dinner," Lance theorized.

"That explains the smell," Bruenner remarked, wrinkling her nose.

"The perp came in through the front door — "

"Wasn't it locked?"

"We saw no forced entry," he answered. "Chances are that he knew his visitor, or that they were able to talk their way inside. Anyway, the vic sees the perp, grabs one of the kitchen knives." Lance gestured towards a wooden block with slots for various-sized knives. The largest of the set was missing. "Then, he rushes the attacker," Lance left the kitchen and walked back into the front of the house. "They struggle. Johnson ends up on the couch. The perp gets off three rounds right to the chest, and Johnson's a goner."

Bruenner nodded, but didn't want to appear too impressed.

"I take it you've had samples taken of all this?" she asked, gesturing to the different blood spatters. "There's too much of it here to be just Johnson's."

"On it's way to the lab," Lance replied. "I'd say Johnson got in a few good slices before he was shot."

"I suppose it goes without saying that you've contacted all the local hospitals to look out for anyone with multiple stab wounds, perhaps some serious enough to need stitches."

"Done."

"And the knife?"

"CSI," Lance answered. "So, what makes you think he was involved in kidnapping and kiddie porn? I've been through the house twice and I haven't seen anything related to a kid. There aren't any toys in the backyard, no train sets in the basement, nothing."

Instead of answering, Bruenner walked back into the kitchen. Lance caught up to her just as she opened the freezer door. Inside were probably a dozen different frozen dinners, most with packaging that appealed to the under fifteen set.

"If you're going to keep a kid, you gotta feed a kid," Bruenner remarked. "And the guy wasn't exactly a gourmet chef."

Lance grumbled, but said nothing as a tech walked in through the back door.

"Detective Arturo, you should come see this."

Lance nodded, and motioned for Bruenner to go first. The pair then followed the tech down to the walk-out basement that was only accessible from the outside of the house. The small ranch was too small to have inside basement access. Walking in, it seemed like a normal unfinished basement: laundry area, workbench, lawnmower, and other yard implements. Beyond the laundry area was a half-drywall/half-cinderblock wall that spanned the width of the basement. The door to the utility and storage space was open, and the overhead light was on.

"Through here, Detective," the tech replied.

The wall opposite the utilities was made of bare two-by-four studs and what looked like black plastic garbage bags. Lance knew from renovating his own house that the material was used as a moisture barrier. The tech motioned towards a section of the wall. Lance looked at it carefully and almost immediately saw what he'd missed before: a hook and eyelet lock. It was a rather simple lock that most people used on their screen doors. Strange place for a lock like that. People used them for keeping out intruders, but it looked like maybe Johnson had been trying to keep someone in. Whoever it was, probably wasn't there now, seeing as the hook was left dangling against the stud. Motioning for the tech to move out of the way, Lance pushed against a stud, not surprised that it inched forward. He pushed harder and it swung open the rest of the way. The tech handed Lance a flashlight and Lance crept forward, gun and light in hand. Lance reached for the chain on the overhead light and yanked on it. Light flooded the dingy windowless room.

The furniture was right off the cover of Better Yard and Garage Sales. A scarred three-by-three drawer dresser stood near the makeshift door. A green indoor/outdoor carpet covered most of the concrete floor. The ceiling was bare joists with a view of the sub-flooring above. Lance guessed they were just under the dining room. A small three-legged stool sat next to the old brass bed. Its saggy, stained mattress was devoid of sheets, but a white blanket lay bunched at the foot of the bed. Lance took a latex glove out of his pocket and used it to pull open one of the drawers. Inside were much-washed kid's clothes, probably more yard sale finds. In one corner of the room was a pile of probably ten toys: ratty stuffed animals, bare-assed baby dolls, and even a sock monkey. Whoever he'd kept down here hadn't had much in the way of comfort.

"Arturo," Bruenner called from the doorway.

He glanced back at her as she pointed to the floor where a black plastic knife lay near the door. Whoever had been in here had probably used that knife to jimmy the lock and escape. There was no telling how long the occupant had been gone. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"There's more," Bruenner added simply.

Lance walked back out the makeshift door to make way for the techs to process the room. Once back in the utility closet, Bruenner pointed up to a spot near the ceiling. A small wireless camera had been attached to one of the studs, its lens probably had a good view of the room, and whatever happened inside. Lance felt his temper climb another degree. If Johnson wasn't dead already, he'd love a chance to send him a one way ticket to hell.

"I only hope that camera was on when Sarah escaped," Bruenner said, distractedly.

"Sarah?" Lance asked.

"Sarah Knightly," Bruenner supplied. "Age nine. Last time anyone saw her, she was walking home from school. When she didn't come home for dinner, her parents went looking, called all her friends, but nothing. That was five years ago. Then, about six months ago, videos started surfacing on the Internet."

"You mean to tell me that a little girl was shut up in that room for five years?" His voice was barely above a whisper, and yet there was no mistaking he was livid.

"We're not sure yet," Bruenner replied after a moment of surprised silence. "But if that camera was on and recording, maybe we can narrow down a time."

"So, Sarah was kidnapped across state lines." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Worse. She's from Montreal."

Lance ground his jaw, fighting back the urge to use some very colorful choice phrases in a half-dozen different languages. He settled for storming out of the basement and back out into the fresh evening air. Bruenner wasn't far behind.

"Is there anything else I should know?" he growled at Bruenner. "Maybe this guy was a dope dealer or a gunrunner to boot. Burning in hell for eternity is too good for this guy. I hope Satan is having a kick arse time with him."

He was pissed, and when he was pissed, he paced. It was either that or send his fist through a wall. It wasn't until Bruenner grabbed his arm that he realized she'd been trying to talk to him. Again, there was that uneasy feeling about her, almost like he was forgetting something, something important.

"Look, Arturo, this isn't helping," she was saying. "We need to start talking to some of the neighbors. Find out if they saw anything. With any luck, they did. Believe me, when it comes to seeing this guy in hell, take a number."

Lance rubbed the back of his neck, both to alleviate tension and to brush away the hair that kept tickling him. He really needed to get it cut sometime.

"Where do you want to start?"

Before she could answer, a CSI tech rounded the corner of the house. "Arturo, the Chief's here."

"Thanks," Lance replied and turned to Bruenner. "Guess we owe him an update."

They walked back to the front of the house to find Chief AJ Hauldren leaning against a white, unmarked, late-model Crown Victoria parked outside of the perimeter. Hauldren was a cop's cop: craggy-faced, hard-nosed, no-nonsense. It was well-known around town that he was incapable of bullshit and could smell it from three counties over. Though Lance had been a detective for five years, Hauldren had been chief for three, and had been the hardest sell Lance had ever talked to. He still wasn't sure if Hauldren believed him, but the Chief knew he was a damn good detective, and that was all that mattered. Lance blinked in stunned disbelief as Hauldren's face split into a grin.

"Hey, kiddo," the Chief greeted Bruenner who surprised everyone by hugging Hauldren. The Chief rarely shook hands, much less smiled, and here he'd done both in a span of five minutes. "Heard you were called in on the case. How've you been?"

"Better than some, worse than others, AJ," she replied, returning his grin. "Guess you heard about Sarah, then."

"Not much," Hauldren replied.

Lance had the distinct impression that he was intruding on something that felt akin to a bit of a family reunion. He couldn't help but feel confused. What the hell was going on?

"She's missing again," Bruenner was saying.

"Well, shit," Hauldren swore. "You've been working this case for five years. You get this close and now have to start all over again."

"Tell me about it," she sighed. "I need to get a look at whatever recordings Johnson had."

Bruenner then explained the basement room where Sarah had probably been kept, the video camera and the possibility Sarah escaped. With each point, Hauldren's frown increased until he resembled a cross between a human and a Shar-Pei.

"You got it kiddo," Hauldren said. "Anything you need. The whole department's yours on this. Arturo here's your partner for the duration."

Lance shoved his hands in his pockets. Nice of them to ask. No, he wasn't doing anything. Of course, he wasn't considering going on vacation. He only hoped she'd still be on Orkney when all this was over. He tried keeping his grumble to himself, but obviously failed.

"Problem, Arturo?" Hauldren asked pointedly.

"No, sir."

"Glad to hear it. So, what's your next move?"

"Canvassing," Lance replied tersely.

"Then what are you still doing standing around for?" he said pointedly. Then he patted Bruenner's shoulder, another rare gesture. "I'll have everything set up for you back at the station, kiddo."

"Thanks, AJ," she replied smiling. "I appreciate it."

Lance turned to leave the scene in favor of one of the neighboring houses. Bruenner nearly had to jog to catch up with him.

"So, you know Hauldren," he said stopping and without really looking at her.

"AJ's my godfather," she replied. "When my parents were killed, AJ was the one called in to investigate. I was about sixteen at the time, and didn't really have anywhere else to go. My sister was already in college. So, he took me in, taught me all about investigating and police work. I liked it so much that I took a bunch of criminal justice classes when I went to college. Passed every one of them with flying colors. With my grades, and AJ's recommendation, I got accepted into FBI training. After Quantaco, I had my choice of assignments: terrorism, identity theft, you name it. I shuffled around a bit before finding a good home with the Missing Persons Squad.

"When Sarah went missing five years ago, the RCMP called with a lead that the kidnapper was an American using a stolen car, false identification, the works," Bruenner continued. "And being one of the few agents at the time who spoke fluent French, I got tapped. Let me tell you, Johnson is one slippery son of a bitch. He knows his way around computers like some wunderkind hacker: false IDs, dummy IP addresses, everything. I had just tracked him to Asheville yesterday. And now this mess."

"So, now, we've got a vic who's really a perp, another perp who's running around with stab-wounds, and a little girl who's been kidnapped, used, abused and is probably scared out of her mind."

Bruenner nodded in thoughtful silence. "Just to play devil's advocate, one doesn't necessarily have to do with the other. It could've been a random invasion. Sarah could've escaped during the fight."

"Maybe," he admitted. "But if it was an invasion, why wasn't the rest of the house touched after Johnson was shot? The TV and DVD were still there. Johnson's wallet still had cash and credit cards. They even left his computer."

"So, you think it's all connected?"

"Could be," Lance replied. "Thing is, are we looking for someone who wants Sarah for their own reasons, or were they trying to save her?"

"And that, Arturo, is the sixty-five-million-dollar question."

"Tell you what. You can investigate Sarah's abduction to your heart's content, and let me worry about Johnson's murder."

Bruenner looked down in surprise. "Wow, Arturo, I wasn't aware I'd been stepping on your toes."

"Don't tell me how to do my job and I won't tell you how to do yours, agreed?" he growled.

"Fine by me, but if you find out one's connected with the other, I'd better be the first one you tell. Got it?"

"Or what?" Lance asked, crossing his arms stubbornly.

"Hauldren doesn't like you much."

He glared at her, an expression he was nearly certain would've given Attila pause. "So, if I don't play nice, you'll tattle on me to Uncle AJ. Is that it?"

It was clear that Bruenner refused to be intimidated as she returned his glower with an even stare of her own. Seconds ticked by as they stood under the street lamp, neither wanting to be the first one to blink. It wasn't easy for him to admit it, but he had to respect her for her guts. Still, dark hair, nearly black eyes and a sexier than hell voice were no match for leading 230,000 angry Icini into battle against a single Roman Legion, but her attitude damn near evened the score.

"Sheesh, Arturo, it was just a friendly observation," Bruenner said finally. "You can stare me down all night, but it won't help find Sarah."

He nodded, but still refused to give in that easily. Call it a matter of pride. She held his stare for two more beats before backing down. "Where do you want to start first?"

Lance watched as Bruenner flipped through a pocket-sized notepad, apparently looking through her notes.

"There," she said suddenly, pointing to another 60's ranch catty-corner from Johnson's. "Robert and Emily Marshall. Mrs. Marshall is the one who placed the call."

"Good place to start."

Two hours and four neighbors later, all they'd been able to learn about Johnson was that he was quiet, kept to himself, worked at a local lumber mill, and hadn't been involved with anyone since his divorce. Lance was just about to chalk it up as a waste of time when Bruenner lightly tugged the sleeve of his jacket. She gave the house across the street and two doors up a slight nod. He looked over just in time to see a curtain in a front room fall back into place.

"Looks like we have a Gladys Kravitz," Bruenner whispered.

"A who?"

Bruenner rolled her eyes. "Gladys Kravits. She was the nosy neighbor on Bewitched. And no good neighborhood doesn't have at least one of them. C'mon."

Lance resisted another grumble. He reluctantly followed her over to the House of the Moving Curtains. Bruenner had just rung the doorbell when he walked up the porch steps.

A few moments later, a plump grandmotherly type opened the door. The overwhelming scent of carpet deodorizer and cat wafted from the open door. Lance promptly sneezed just as Bruenner introduced him.

"You're not allergic to cats, are you dear?" the elderly woman asked. "I have three little darlings inside."

"No, ma'am," Lance replied politely.

"Well, if you're certain, come on inside," she replied, holding the door open wider.

"We're sorry for the late hour, Mrs. Beasley," Bruenner apologized as she stepped through the doorway.

"Think nothing of it dear," the woman replied. "I've always been a bit of a night owl myself."

The modest home could have probably won some interior design award circa 1964. Chintz and lace seemed to be the predominant themes with cat a close third. Lance resisted the urge to sneeze again just as a brown and black mottled feline wound around his ankles.

"Pepper seems to like you, Detective," the woman observed as she showed them into the front living room. "Would you two care for something to drink?" They declined politely. "I suppose you're here about that murder."

"Actually, we are, Mrs. Beasley," Bruenner replied.

The old lady's eyes lit up like a couple of beacons. Lance exchanged glances with Bruenner. If she was as nosy as Bruenner thought, this was the highlight of her year. Witnesses like her were a blessing and a curse. Mrs. Beasley was about to launch into her story when a rather large, push-faced white Persian sauntered into the room and promptly leapt into his mistress' lap.

"Now, now, Mr. Snuffles," she admonished the enormous hairball with eyes. "Mama will feed you in a minute. She has to talk to the nice detectives first."

Lance's snort turned into a sneeze as the mottled cat dubbed "Pepper" jumped onto the couch next to him.

"You're sure you're not allergic, dear?" Mrs. Beasley asked kindly.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm fine." Everyone in that room probably knew he was lying, but no one said different.

"About Mr. Johnson," Bruenner started.

"Well!" Mrs. Beasley sighed. It sounded to him like she was about to launch into a highly embroidered tale of mystery. He wasn't disappointed. "I was just about to sit down and watch television when I heard this very loud car."

"You mean they had the radio up too loud?" Bruenner asked.

"Oh, no, dear," Mrs. Beasley replied. "It was the engine. Anyway, I looked outside just in time to see someone get out of a truck."

"What kind of truck?" Lance asked.

"Oh, I couldn't tell really," Mrs. Beasley answered. "It was a smaller truck. Not one of those monstrosities like Sheriff Dougan drives."

Lance knew from experience that Dougan's pride and joy was a late-model candy-apple-red Dodge Ram with enough chrome trim to be seen from space.

"Did you get a look at the license plate?" Lance asked.

"Sorry, dear, it was parked facing me."

Just their luck. They lived in a state that didn't require an extra plate on the front of cars.

"Did you notice any kind of emblem on the front of the truck?" Bruenner wasn't about to be left out of the questioning.

"Yes," Mrs. Beasley replied after a moment. "It was oval. That's Ford, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," Lance answered. "Could you tell what color it was?"

"I can't say for certain," she replied. "I know it wasn't white or red. Dark green or black perhaps?"

"Can you tell us anything more about the front end?" Lance asked. "Could you tell if it dipped down in the front or if it was more squared-off."

The old woman thought for a moment. "I don't think it was new. My boy, Jimmy, used to drive an SPV —"

"SUV, ma'am," Lance corrected gently.

"That's the one," she laughed. "Anyway, it looked almost the same as that. All big and boxy."

"Do you remember what year it was?"

Again, Mrs. Beasley sat and thought, absently petting the immense white feline throw rug laying across her lap.

"I believe Jimmy bought it new just after his father passed," she said after a moment. "That was in, oh let's see, 1991? Or was it 1992?"

Lance made a few notes in his own notebook. It looked like they were looking for a second-generation Ford Ranger that was either dark gray, green or black. Other neighbors had reported seeing a similar truck parked outside at the time, but was gone before the first uniforms and EMTs showed up. Dollars to donuts, that was the get-away car.

"What happened after you saw the truck?" Bruenner asked.

"A young man got out and went to the door," Mrs. Beasley answered promptly. "He was probably about six feet tall, had on a white baseball cap, red jacket and jeans. He probably stayed in the house for four or five minutes. Then I heard three loud bangs just before he came running back out to the truck."

Lance couldn't believe their luck. Not only did they have a pretty good indication about the vehicle, but a suspect as well. He nodded to Bruenner. The sooner they got out of the house and back into fresh, cat-free air, the happier he'd be.

"Well, Mrs. Beasley, we appreciate your help," Lance said, moving to stand up from the sofa.

"Oh, I haven't told you the best part, dear," she replied. Lance froze.

"What's that, ma'am?" Bruenner asked.

"Just before the young man came out of the house, I saw someone else run out," she answered. "She was small, long red hair, probably about eleven or so."

It had to be Sarah! Lance and Bruenner exchanged a meaningful look.

"Did you see where she went?" Bruenner asked.

"Yes, I saw her climb into the back of the truck and hide under a tarp."

Lance could've kissed Mrs. Beasley. If they could just find that truck, they'd have Sarah, but they needed to work quickly before the guy left the area. This time, it was Bruenner who stood first.

"Are you sure you won't have something to eat, dears?"

"Sorry, ma'am, but we really must be going."

The two made their goodbyes before heading back to the scene. Lance barely made it to the street before indulging in a massive sneezing fit.

"Damn cats," he growled.

"You could've waited for me," Bruenner argued as they walked back to Johnson's house.

"And, what, died of boredom?"

"Either that or sneezing to death," she retorted. "Excuse me a sec."

He looked up as she half-jogged over to the CSI techs who appeared to be carrying some of Johnson's computer equipment out of the house. Lance wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. Though she had been the consummate investigator as they talked to the neighbors, something about her still didn't feel right, and it just bugged him he couldn't figure it out. Lance chalked it up to a long day. He looked up just as she finished talking to the techs and walked over to him. He had to admit, she wasn't hard on the eyes. He'd never been much of a leg man, but was quickly revising that opinion. If only she wasn't such a pain in the ass. Realizing he'd been staring at her again, he looked around to find that his Jeep, a red late-model Eclipse, and the CSI van were the only vehicles around that didn't belong to the neighborhood.

"What do you say we call it a night?" Lance asked as she walked back over. "The lab boys probably won't have anything back until tomorrow. I'll be in first thing to go through the DMV records."

"Yeah, I'll see you in the morning." Bruenner's voice was tight, and there was no mistaking the fact she wasn't thrilled with him.

"I'm not giving up on Sarah," he said defensively. "There's only so much I can do until the prelims start coming in and I have something more to go on than a nosy neighbor's statement."

"Do whatever the hell you want, Arturo," she said harshly. "You know as well as I do, the worst always happens within the first twenty-four hours of an abduction. And I've spent longer on this case than on anything else. I can't stomach telling her parents she's disappeared again, and this time I may never find her."

Lance grabbed the cell phone from his belt and put in a call for an APB on a late-Eighties, early-Nineties Ranger that was either dark gray, green or black. Within a few minutes of hanging up with Hauldren, the radio at his belt crackled as the call was put out to all the units in the area.

"Better?"

Bruenner smirked as she opened her car door. "Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll call you if I hear anything."

"Then you'll need this."

Bruenner dug out one of her business cards and wrote another number on the back of it before handing it to him. Lance, obligingly, did the same.

"The other number's for the house, just in case."

Bruenner nodded, pocketed the card, folded her long frame into the sleek sports car and started the engine. "Don't be late," she snarked before driving off.

Shaking his head ruefully, Lance climbed into his Jeep and headed for home and a nice, hot, cat-free shower.