Page 7

When Rachel and Novak entered the Bowery Police Department, Rachel was a bit disarmed by how small and quaint it was. The station was a squat brick building that looked like it had been constructed sometime in the late 1960s and hadn't seen significant updates since. The fluorescent lights overhead casting a harsh, slightly yellow glow over the worn linoleum floors. The institutional beige walls were adorned with faded notices and outdated wanted posters. A water-stained ceiling tile in the corner spoke to years of deferred maintenance, while a slightly crooked American flag hung limply beside a cork bulletin board covered in community announcements and safety notices.

The front desk consisted of a simple wooden counter with a scratched protective window, behind which a dispatcher was speaking quietly into a headset. Two wooden benches, their varnish worn smooth by decades of use, lined the wall of the small waiting area. The whole space carried that distinct small-town police station smell – a mixture of coffee, paper, and industrial cleaning products.

Deputy Leery fell in behind them, his boots squeaking against the floor. "Agents," he said with a nod, "follow me." He led them down a narrow hallway where the sounds of ringing phones and muted conversations drifted from the handful of offices. A small break room off to the side revealed two officers sharing coffee and day-old donuts, both glancing up with undisguised curiosity as the FBI agents passed.

Leery's office was tucked away in the back corner of the building, a space that couldn't have been more than ten by twelve feet. Despite its modest size, the office reflected its occupant's attention to detail and organization. The desk, though old, had been well-maintained. There was a small mess of papers and files on top of it, but Rachel could tell it was the sort of mess that had an underlying organization to it. Right away, Rachel noticed a small, framed photograph of what appeared to be Leery's family – a woman with kind eyes and two teenage children, all smiling beneath the summer sun.

"Have a seat," Leery said, gesturing to two chairs that faced his desk. They were standard-issue government furniture, comfortable enough for short conversations but not meant for extended stays. Rachel settled into one while Novak took the other, both watching as Leery moved to a tall filing cabinet in the corner. The cabinet's metal surface bore a few dings and scratches, battle scars from years of use, but fit well into the space.

Leery pulled open the second drawer, the metal tracks sliding smoothly. His fingers moved efficiently through the hanging files, indicating a man who knew his system well. The fluorescent light overhead caught the silver in his hair, and Rachel noticed the way his badge caught the light as he shifted his weight.

"Here we are," he said, pulling out a thick manila folder. "Carla Rhodes." He returned to his desk, settling into his chair with a soft creak of leather. Before handing over the file, he paused, his weathered hands resting on the folder. "I should warn you – this one stuck with us. Small town like this, missing persons cases hit different. Especially when there's a suicide note involved."

Rachel nodded, understanding. In her experience, smaller jurisdictions often took cases more personally. When you knew most of the people in your town, every victim became more than just a case number.

The file was surprisingly thick for a missing person’s case. Rachel opened it carefully, aware of both Novak and Leery watching her as she began to read. The initial report was typed with meticulous detail, documenting the events that led to Carla Rhodes being reported missing.

The narrative painted a picture that grew stranger with each detail. Carla had been employed at a local hair salon for eight months, described by her colleagues as reliable but a bit spacy. When she failed to show up for work three days in a row, her co-worker, Angela Martinez, became concerned. Multiple calls to Carla's cell phone went straight to voicemail. Text messages were delivered but never read or responded to.

Rachel paused in her reading, looking up at Leery. "The co-worker who checked on her – Angela Martinez – did you interview her personally?"

Leery nodded, leaning forward slightly. "I did. She was pretty shaken up. Said she and Carla weren't close friends outside of work, but they'd had lunch together a few times and went out for a beer here and there after work. She knew something was wrong when Carla missed styling the hair of an older lady here in town…her favorite client, from what I was told.”

Rachel returned to the file, noting how the report detailed Angela's arrival at Carla's home. The door had been unlocked – unusual for Carla, according to Angela. The apartment showed no signs of forced entry or struggle. Everything was in its place, almost eerily so. The only thing out of place was a single sheet of paper on the kitchen table…the suicide note.

The suicide note was preserved in the file, protected by a clear evidence sleeve. Rachel studied it carefully. The handwriting was neat and controlled, showing no signs of hesitation or distress – something that struck her as odd, given the circumstances. The words themselves were heartbreaking in their simplicity:

"I've tried so many times but never found love. My mother died when I was three years old and dad died last year. He was the only person I ever knew who loved me and I want nothing more than to feel that again. Please forgive me, Julia."

Rachel read the note twice more, her trained eye picking up subtle details. The paper was standard printer paper, the kind you could buy anywhere. The ink appeared to be from a basic blue ballpoint pen. There were no water marks from tears, no smudges, no signs of emotional distress in the writing.

She passed the file to Novak, watching as his eyes scanned the pages she'd just read. "Deputy Leery," she said, "who is the Julia she mentions in the note?"

Leery shifted in his chair, reaching for a separate, thinner file from his desk. "Julia Rhodes – well, Julia Kasum now. She's Carla's younger sister. Lives in Richmond, works as a freelance graphic designer. She was incredibly helpful during the investigation, provided all of Carla's medical history, financial records, everything we asked for." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "She was convinced from the start that Carla had taken her own life. Said their father's death hit Carla particularly hard, and she'd never recovered."

"Has anyone notified her about the body?" Rachel asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

"No," Leery replied, shaking his head. "With everything happening so fast this morning, we haven't had the chance." He sighed heavily, clearly not looking forward to the task.

Rachel felt her stomach tighten. In her years with the FBI, death notifications never got easier. They were even worse in cases like this, where the family had likely already gone through the grieving process once, only to have old wounds reopened.

"We need to speak with her," Rachel said, standing. She looked at the suicide note one more time before Novak returned the file to Leery. Something about it didn't sit right with her – the neatness, the careful wording, the lack of any real emotional indicators in the handwriting. Combined with the marks they'd found on Carla's wrists and ankles, it painted a disturbing picture.

Leery rose as well, his chair squeaking against the floor. "I can give you directions to her place in Richmond. It's about an hour from here." He paused, then added, "I know this is your investigation now, but I'd appreciate being kept in the loop. Carla's case... it bothered a lot of us here. Never felt quite right."

Rachel nodded, understanding the unspoken message. In small departments like this, unsolved cases could haunt officers for years. "Of course, Deputy. We'll keep you updated."

As they left Leery's office, Rachel couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial. The neat suicide note, the untouched home, the careful arrangement of Carla's body in the woods – none of it matched the profile of a typical suicide. Someone had gone to great lengths to make Carla's disappearance look like a suicide, only to murder her months later.

The question was: why?