Too Close To Home - By Maureen Tan Page 0,79

a very limited area where federal, Hardin County, and—”

Here he hesitated.

“Maryville,” I murmured.

“—Maryville jurisdictions intersect. The state of Illinois is also providing invaluable technical assistance in this endeavor. So this will be a cooperative, multi-agency investigation.”

That sounded good. But cooperative, I’d quickly realized, didn’t leave me with much. Small-town cops were rarely viewed as equal partners. And a rookie female cop from a one-person department was doubly cursed. Even my expertise in search and rescue was trumped by the arrival of a large, well-equipped and tightly organized state-police team. Bottom line, I had no leverage. Because I’d insisted, I was still at the scene, still formally “in the loop.” But I didn’t delude myself. I wasn’t needed for what Agent Franklin referred to as a “full-fledged investigation.” And if I spoke, the odds were against anyone listening.

Under different circumstances, I would have complained bitterly to Chad. But his situation was worse than mine. He had already been informed by his boss, the county sheriff, that right after the press conference he was to take the rest of the afternoon off and return to his regular patrol duties the next day. The sheriff’s explanation for Chad’s banishment was amazingly straightforward. He was an elected official, and no matter how competent Chad was—no matter how much the sheriff liked him personally—this case was too important to the outcome of his upcoming reelection bid to be left in the hands of a young deputy.

As the FBI spokesman spent a bit of time talking about the Bureau’s success rate on cases just like these and made another mention of the value of interdepartmental cooperation, the sheriff ran his fingers over his balding dome to re-plaster long strands of very black hair back into place and then ran those same fingers beneath his nose to neaten his salt-and-pepper mustache.

“And now Jake Hargrove, sheriff of Hardin County, will make some comments.”

At that introduction, Sheriff Hargrove straightened his shoulders and puffed out his burly chest. Then, very deliberately, he stepped forward just enough to put Agent Franklin behind his left shoulder. And smiled for the cameras.

“First, I want to congratulate Hardin County deputy Chad Robinson and Maryville police officer Brooke Tyler for the fine work they’ve done. Their initiative brought these murders to light. Deputy Robinson characterizes the kind of dedicated officer who protects and serves the citizens of Hardin County. And I know that all the fine folks who live in Maryville are particularly proud of this feisty little hometown gal of theirs.”

That’s when he reached over and put his arm around my shoulders to pull me in closer to him. He held that pose long enough to give the still photographers from the local newspapers a good shot of the two of us. I smiled into the cameras, knowing darned well that the sheriff was using me to cultivate my town’s voters. But I was all too aware that continued goodwill between my department and the county was essential. Which, I supposed, made me just as political as the sheriff.

Released from the sheriff’s avuncular embrace, I stepped back out of the limelight as he kept speaking.

“I also want to take this opportunity to assure local residents that they’re in absolutely no danger. I can’t compromise an ongoing investigation, but I can say that early indications suggest some kind of a connection with organized crime.”

That statement earned him a repressive glare from Agent Franklin. But the sheriff had his back to Agent Franklin, so he continued heedlessly on.

“The murders sure have the look of mob executions.”

At that point, Agent Franklin pushed forward.

“The sheriff and I have a lot of work to do,” he said smoothly. “So we’ll take a few questions before wrapping this up.”

That’s when, much to my surprise and—I was certain—the sheriff and Agent Franklin’s dismay, a female reporter turned the press’s attention to me.

“Hey, Brooke,” she said, “aren’t you the one with the search dogs?”

I nodded. “I am.”

“You and your dog discovered a skeleton out here a few days ago, didn’t you? While you were looking for a lost toddler?”

I nodded again, adding that the child had been found safely and returned to her parents.

Another reporter chimed in, a thin guy with an aggressive chin.

“Hey, I remember you!”

In that moment, I remembered him, too. Remembered how he’d shoved his microphone into my face, demanding to know how I felt about finding a little boy’s body. As if my tears hadn’t said it all.

“Didn’t you find a murdered kid right around here, too? About