Page 4 of The Marigold Trail
A gent Maser and I pass through the double-doored office entrance like a pair of giddy schoolgirls who just got matching tattoos, sociable and slightly clingy. We’ve solidified our plans for this weekend, and I’ve got a new energy about me. Enough energy even to clean my desk.
I grab the bottle of Clean Wave spray from the utility cabinet on my way over to my desk and give it a good heavy wipe down with the market's “toughest cleaner.” I’d need the good stuff to get rid of the crossword glued to my desk with dried chocolate milk—a mess I’d been meaning to clean for a few weeks now but keep forgetting since my miniature filing cabinet blocks the chocolate crusted powder crime scene from my view.
If it weren’t for Ben’s reminder last night that my desk looks unsightly even from his desk, I would have likely forgotten about it. I do a little happy dance as I clean, enjoying the new energy and good mood our plans have given me.
When I finish cleaning, I pop into Ben’s desk area to see where he’s at with the cybercrime case. He’s asked for my assistance a few times recently but hasn’t involved me much on this one, and I’m curious if he’ll need me to analyze anything for it in the future. There’s a larger envelope added to the typically 8.5x11-sized stack on his desk, which can only mean a new map or photographs have been added to the evidence. I open the envelope flap, lift the thin paper map out from its casing and take a quick look before deciding I’ll need some time to look this over at my own office desk.
“You little thief! Atta Mae Suarez, what are you doing with evidence that belongs on my desk?” Ben says with an ounce of harshness. He has me cornered at the door, and he’s used my middle name, so I know he’s slightly, possibly more than slightly, aggravated. I drop both arms to my side so that the envelope sways in my fingers around my wide-legged dress pants.
“Put it back on my desk and meet Agent Maser and me in the lab. We’re going over the USB now.”
The lab room is dark today; only light from the LED-framed row of desktop computers highlights Ben deep in conversation with the lab assistant—the most attractive female in our department. They’ve prepared a few extra chairs around the desk space where one luminescent screen glows brighter than the rest.
Ben finishes off the conversation, eyes lingering on Miss Lab Assistant until she sweeps past the double doors. “You can turn the light on if you’d like,” he says, fishing for the middle roller seat.
“Sure thing.” Agent Maser acts before I do, slipping past the lab assistant and into the room. He flips on the light switch and the luminescent computer glow disappears from our view. Agent Maser lingers by the lights and when I catch up to him he suggests a time to meet outside of the office so we can quickly plan our fake background for this class reunion hoax.
Ben squints, then widens his gemstone eyes—crystallized brown sugar beads of surprise—at the sight of Agent Maser and I discussing meeting tomorrow to pick out tacky, possibly-matching outfits for my class reunion. With a bewildered stare, Ben gets back up to shut the door, aware that this assignment is for agent personnel only.
Ben and I’d previously had an Agent Kenny Maser conversation. I led him on an in-depth discussion about whether Kenny has ever taken his whey straight or not, if he has any pets at home that get tired of his constant smile, and even hypothesized whether he’d remain unflappable at a pass from another female agent who resembled Ms. Trunchbull, the Roald Dahl character, or not. Ben humored me with short responses like “Straight. His pet will never tire of it. Unflappable but throws up slightly in his mouth.”
Ben’s been thrown a curveball. He’s shocked at my behavior toward Agent Maser and it’s written all over his face. I don’t blame him. He hasn’t heard Agent Maser’s “Van Down By The River” Chris Farley reference. If he had, he’d smack his gum like all’s right in the world.
“Shall we check this USB out then?” Ben says, washing his face clean of curiosity.
Agent Maser unveils the standard 32 GB USB flash drive and sets it in front of Ben on the desk. Since Ben has claimed the middle seat, I fill in the spot next to him on the right as Agent Maser scoots his chair beneath the desk on Ben’s left. While Agent Maser gets comfortable, sliding on a pair of reading glasses and adjusting the monitor, Ben waves the USB in my face to get my attention. When I meet his gaze, he pulls me toward him so that we’re both leaning back in our chairs, our faces out of Agent Maser’s view.
What uhh…happened to you two? Ben mouths with raised brows. He’s referring to my bubbly nature toward Agent Maser of course.
He’s a Chris Farley fan! I mouth back.
Ben nods like he’s enjoying a slow beat, gradually smiling with understanding. He retreats, popping back up into a seated position.
“So you managed to break Atta’s wall today, huh?” Ben says, his hand now resting on Agent Maser’s shoulder. The air starts to smell of humiliation. “She usually puts up a defense,” he continues, leaving no gap for Agent Maser to respond. He must thrive in my discomfort. If he dares wink at me, I might consider ripping up his Catan cards next time I’m at his apartment.
“Maybe a little short with me at first but not defensive. No need to be defensive when you’re having fun, am I right?” Agent Maser says pleasantly. “I never knew she had such a great sense of humor.”
Ben purses his lips together into a smile. They twitch to the right, parting slightly. He’s amused that I’ve won over Agent Maser. I’ve known that expression since my childhood.
Since Ben was just a year older than Diana, I grew to recognize nearly all of his expressions spending weekend after weekend with the Brown family. The same expression showed up whenever he knew I was going to win at something—when I was the first to slice through his mother Robyn’s homemade apple pie, skunking Diana at ping-pong, or stuffing my shoes with insoles to reveal I was centimeters taller than his sister. He ended up catching my charade after the results were penciled into the wall. Didn’t believe it for one second. Maybe he didn’t choose this expression because I had won. Maybe it was because he knew my mischievous nature was behind it all.
Growing up, mischievousness was always his signature move so maybe he sensed a commonality. Ben would walk the halls with us to our lockers after driving Diana and I to school every morning. He also made a perfect fool of me in those same school hallways, reaching around me to make it look like I slapped the nearest male's butt and pushing me into live classrooms so that I’d have to apologize to the teacher for my abrupt interruption. Thank goodness we’ve matured since then. Our friendship had evolved into what it was today, a professional relationship. One where I formulate a model and quiz Ben on cooperative payoff, against his will, during breaks.
I sometimes considered him Diana’s replacement. Four kids and a rancher husband kept my best friend busy and unable to attend game nights. But Ben found mutual benefit in them. A weekly opportunity to network with the ladies, as we’d always had an open door game night policy; invite whoever you want. However, I think he kept up the game night tradition because he secretly enjoys losing to me whenever we play Risk—the game that always takes a few weeks to finish, so we leave it fenced in caution tape on his or my coffee table to pick up where we left off for the next week. I had yet to lose Risk and the regulars were determined to see me fail, this week included.
“So, we ready for this?” Agent Maser asks.
Ben and Agent Maser switch gears, back to work mode. I focus my gaze on the computer screen. A tap dance of clicks sound from Ben’s index finger and four folders pop up on the page. Ben chooses the first folder titled “Pics.” A few personal photos not meant for our eyes hit the little boxed window. We do a quick scan of the folder, and I take note of what I’m seeing. It’s laughable.
The folders get deeper, melting into each other, folder within folder within folder. The lawyer said he found the video within a few minutes and we’ve run past a few minutes, so we click out of the folders to the main drive and click on the second folder. A film icon file labeled “Marigold” is the first video file in the lineup.
Click.
The room around us fades into a Gaussian blur as I take in the first forty seconds of the video. The contents on the screen are the only clear figures in sight and within seconds I realize I don’t have the heart to endure this.
A man lying on the floor of a sunshine-filled conference room, where bright beams of light spill through yellow stained glass windows, yells out in immense pain. As I watch, it becomes all-encompassing. I feel as if I’ve entered the room and this man’s pain is my pain. The bright light ironically highlights the Currant red embroidered jackets circling the man, exposing all the misery in the room. His body spurts blood through his gaping incisions, making what should have been a white shirt, now the most vibrant red color in the room—so vibrant it becomes the only thing I see on the screen. His chest is still visibly pulsating blood, staining the industrial luxury hotel carpet as it lands in a pool around his body.
He’s surrounded by jacket-wearing men and women, unable to defend himself and unable to move. Yet, the rise and fall of his chest tells me he’s still very much alive and writhing in impossible pain. Wearing embroidered crests with a single marigold flower outline and a few sharp crystal shaped petals—likely meant to be the group’s insignia—each group member continues taking turns stabbing the man on various parts of his body. Through it all, I struggle to unlock my gaze from the man’s stricken expression.
The knife is handed to the next cult member who drops to a crouch before the dying man to carve out whatever kind of incision he’d like. In the five years at this job, I’ve seen some disturbing things but never have I witnessed the face of a man in the process of being murdered like this, torn to pieces with this level of slow and calculated cruelty. The torturing techniques that this group possesses are too much for me to handle.
My eyes flit away from the screen as I sink forward into the chair. My stomach now hosts a congregation of scissors doing jumping jacks and all my senses begin trying to comprehend a whole new, unhappy reality of this world I hope is known to very few. I tell myself it could be the probably expired sleeve of Pop-Tarts or the spicy burger Agent Maser and I had for lunch making me feel this ill, but I knew that wasn’t the reason. Pop-Tarts had a long shelf life, a couple years past expiration, and I’d proven I could handle the scorpion pepper One Chip Challenge in recent weeks.
The gut scissors motion for a salto backwards tuck dismount prompting everything inside of me to release. I can feel the Pop-Tart and acidic jalapeno juices making their way up my diaphragm as my abs contract from all the pressure.
“Um. Excuse me,” I manage to say, leaping from my chair with the goal of reaching the door before something embarrassing happens. I successfully swing the nearest restroom door open before completing my bodily duties until there is nothing left for me to release. I try to steady my breathing as I hover over the loo. I’d really like to black out right now.
My mind feels like a heartbeat in cardiac arrest. Had I known I would see this today, I would’ve avoided food and this lab altogether.
My body prepares for another launch. Its physical suffering already echoed along the stainless steel bathroom stalls.
“Atta.” Ben’s soft and low drum of a voice, approaches cautiously. “You okay in there?” He knocks on the stall door.
I can’t answer. My throat’s somewhere sucked into another dimension. I shrink into the toilet, sprawling my arms against the shiny porcelain seat.
The stall door parts and Ben finds my pathetic self looking like a crumbled cookie on the floor with breakfast and lunch remains decorating my shirt. I might as well have the toilet paper wrapped around me, solidifying my mummification.
He approaches, slowly assessing my state, then grabs a wad of paper towels by the sink. He pops back into my stall and bends down prepping to clean the mess around me. “Agent Maser is going to review the rest of the files. We’ll only have you help us with the documentation and strategic planning moving forward,” he says, compassion seeping through his words. He’s seen my composure collapse in real time.
I raise my head and force my brows to take a more pleasant shape. I need to pull some light from this dark place and show some dignity in front of Ben. I manage a “Thank you,” and reach for the paper towels in his hand, adjusting my position so that I'm no longer folded against the toilet.
“You know what this means, right?” I say. Ben seems to carry a new heaviness, as if he's added a few new bricks on his person. His eyes are usually chocolate brown but a fresh silver ring of uncertainty around them now has my gaze.
“I could guess what you’re going to say, but I don’t know what the full extent of this means,” he says.
“This is more than just an issue with the Senator, those people, and what they did. How is it possible that a Senator’s even part of this? He stood with them and let it all happen.” I rip a section from the paper towel and start patting myself down. “This is going to be a difficult case for everyone in the department. One of those that should be dealt with with as few people as possible and kept away from the public. The details at least.”
I accidentally elbow him. He’s mid-gulp of air—not going to respond. He begins wiping my shoulder with a crunchy paper towel, keeping the silence while we’re both lost in thought. The reality is that we’d seen our share of corruption. Five years of service and I’d encountered plenty of wealthy groups of people with connections to government officials dealing with their money laundering schemes, illegal transactions, and abuse crimes. They were messes and we cleaned them up.
But this wasn’t just a mess. This was a psychological trip for the investigators.
“What do you think the department will do with this?” I ask. I’ve cleaned my white shirt as best as I can and he’s cleaned most of the area around me.
“We’ll find out soon. Something like this needs to be squashed at the source. Agent Maser and I went over it. We’ll talk about reassignments later. We’d best get you out of here and back to the office so you can resume whatever you and him are having at the moment,” he says, knowing just how to change the mood and make my cheeks fiery red with embarrassment.
I’m able to feign irritation, hiding my face with my palm until Ben scoops me off the ground, cradling my back and knees while I latch onto his neck in desperation for support as he carries me the length of the hallway.
He grabs the door to the lab, reaches his hand out from under my weight to maintain his balance, and opens it successfully, then spins me like a flag and plops me in front of Agent Maser with a thudded landing. Agent Maser seems to have adopted Ben’s positive-in-the-face-of-adversity attitude upon our arrival and I’m now surrounded by two clowns working to make me, the sad child, happy.
Under Agent Maser’s optimism is a noticeable energy shift of eagerness. Eagerness brought on by our mutual desire for the man in the USB’s justice or eagerness to understand the current and very obvious closeness I share with Ben? I wasn’t sure. If he’s wondering what kind of relationship we have, he’s wasting his energy. If only he knew how uninterested Ben was. This is Ben taking care of his sister. It was his duty after all, being my longtime best friend’s brother.
“Since you and Atta hit it off so well today, you should come to game night. Don’t you think, Atta?” Ben says to Agent Maser, trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction, then looks at me for confirmation. Was he trying to play matchmaker now? I can handle my own dating business. I didn’t need him meddling, especially when he seems so eager to hand me off to someone.
“Maybe next week. We’ve already made plans this weekend,” I say. Agent Maser’s odd, eager expression is gone. He’s satisfied and taken Ben’s tone as the green light to date me—a nonverbal “Go for it!”
Ben gives me a surprised smile and I hope he reads the laser message my eyes just sent him. I am capable of moving things along by myself, thank you very much. Agent Maser and I got as far as planning a very personal and unconventional date after just one lunch session. How’s that for progress?
Ben’s goofy smile turns questioning. He still needs an explanation.
“Agent Maser’s going to be my plus one this weekend. Class of 2011 Reunion.”