A Perfect Match

I call down to the CSI lab again, and ask, "Did you guys check fingerprints on the window they escaped from?"

"I print every surface that could have been touched and then some," Frankie says, and I ask her what they found. "Prints were on the glass, on the internal side of it. The kid wasn't printed, but they were most likely his just from the size of them. They were put there at high pressure with an upward smear, likely to push it open. Can't really give you good time frame on when, any print of an occupant would be incidental after all."

"Any on the outside?" I ask.

"Nope, and glass holds prints pretty good. Not to say we didn't find anything on the outside though," Frankie explains, and I ask for more. "We found a bug, real little fucker, and I was having a hell of time identifying it. I'm not an entomologist, so I forwarded it to one. Didn't want to waste your time until we could confirm it was valuable."

"Let me know when you get that back," I say, and she says she will. I end the call and think about what I can do at this moment.

Jerome Alberts is out of the picture, but his fingerprint was on one of the accelerants. He had regular access to the home, so that print is explainable. I imagine the scenario is he cons her by doing her nails occasionally. Regardless, he wasn't at the apartment before the fire, so that's a dead end.

"Leo, I'm going to go interview the kid," I say and he says he'll take the blame if I go without backup.

-

I can tell Kimberly wants to slam the door in my face, but she manages to bottle it up and cross her arms. "I have made it very apparent I will not talk to you without my attorney present," she says, scowling at me.

"I understand, call him, I'll wait," I say, and she pulls out her phone to call her lawyer. "I'm not here to talk to you. I need to talk to your son."

"The fuck you do," she says, and the call connects. "The police are here to interview me..." she says, and listens for a moment. "...he wants to talk to you."

I take the phone.

"I am advising my client to not allow you into her home under any circumstance without a court ordered warrant for a search or her arrest. Do you understand?"

"I'm not here to talk to her. I'm here to talk to Jacob," I reply.

"Not without her consent you're not. The child is also on the autism spectrum and his testimony will be disputed," he says. Just confirmed one thing at least. "Hand me back to my client."

"Sure thing," I say, and then hand the phone back. Kimberly talks to him for a moment, then hangs up.

"He's on his way. You're not talking to Jacob," she says.

"Did you watch the videos you sent me?" I ask, and she's silent. No lawyer, no words. "The last two. Jacob is seen exiting his room and entering yours, fifteen minutes before the fire is believed to have been started. His window was closed."

"So?" Kimberly asks, the buttons her lip a little harder. She said that on impulse.

"You said the window was open when you fled the apartment. Your camera was also deactivated seconds after he entered your room. I believe Jacob turned off the camera, then he opened the window. Minutes later your apartment was on fire," I say, and Kimberly looks over her shoulder toward the door behind. Toward her son.

"I will be calm, I will be gentle, and I will wait for your attorney if that makes you more comfortable," I say, and she looks back to me again. "The finger print on the bottle we found, wasn't your print. It was Jerome Alberts," I say.

"Then why aren't you talking to him?" she asks.

"Because he was arrested two days before the fire and is still in custody. He forged your grandmother's signature on an insurance policy, hoping to collect in the event she died, but he didn't start the fire."

"Then he's dumber than I thought, because I had power of attorney over all of her finances. I had for several years, even before I lived with her," she says, and I already know that is the case. Her grandmother gave it to her three years ago so she could cash her social security checks. As far as I can tell, all of the money was properly deposited into her grandmother's account. All expenses taken from the account appeared to be on the level. Kimberly loved her grandmother and took care of her.

"Ms. Drew, my job is to follow the evidence, and arson usually comes from someone in the house. I sincerely apologize for any discomfort my questions have caused, but that is part of my job. I make suspects feel uncomfortable for a living. Right now, I don't think you had anything to do with this," I say.

Kimberly remains quiet, but her stance does loosen up a little.

"Jacob turned off the camera, and we need to know why," I say, and her stance stiffens again.

"Jake loved her too," she finally says.

"I don't doubt that. He likely didn't know what was happening," I say, and she looks at me.

"My son has a disability, but he's not stupid," she says, "and I know you didn't say he was, but I'm just used to having to say that. Too many people talk to him the same way someone talks to their pets."

"I understand that frustration. What is his disability if I may ask?"

Kimberly is loose again, and I can tell she's starting to trust me.

"The doctor thinks he has Asperger's. It's difficult to get his attention, and it's hard to hold a conversation with him. He's withdrawn, but when he does talk, he's really loud, or too quiet, and is awkwardly formal. He's just weird," she says, and I give a small smile. She meant weird in the most affectionate way possible.

"Would he talk to a stranger?" I ask.

"Fuck no," she bluntly states. He likely knew the person who entered the house. "He avoids nearly all interactions."

"Who will he talk to?"

"Family, and he's calm enough around Marisa. She's watched him for me a few times," she says, and I have her confirm Marisa is her neighbor.

"What's his relationship with his father?" I ask.

"About as good as mine, but he has supervised visits. When he bothers to show up for them. Jake does love him though, and I'm sure Brent loves him too, but Brent can't handle him."

"How is his parole affecting their relationship?"

"Not much, but he's sometimes cancelled on us, saying he needed to talk to his parole officer as the excuse. He works and has stayed out of trouble for longer than I've ever seen him, to his credit," she explains.

"Where does he work?" I ask.

"Typically, wherever he can get work, but it's never been permanent employment," she says, and we both hear a car pull up to her friend's driveway. The lawyer has arrived.

"Kimberly, you do not need to talk to him," he says while walking quickly toward us.

"It's fine, he can ask Jacob questions with me present," Kimberly says. The lawyer stops dead but holds his composure. "You can intervene and advise at your professional discretion." That appears to have been a relief to hear. "Come on in."

Kimberly's friend doesn't seem to be in, and there is an air mattress in the living room. The couch is similarly made up like a bed. Jacob is sitting on the floor, using the coffee table as a surface to draw on. He doesn't seem to notice anyone entering the building, and is laser focused on the paper and pencil. Jacob is five and isn't using a crayon.

"Jake, this police officer wants to talk to you," Kimberly says, but Jake keeps sketching. "Honey. Jake," Kimberly says to get his attention. "What are you drawing?"

"That plant resting on the table ten feet in front of me," he says. Is this kid really five? He's formal and pedantic. He is a little weird.

"It looks great sweety, but could you stop for a moment?" she asks, but he just keeps on drawing. "Jake, be polite." That seemed to have gotten his attention.

"I suppose it can wait," he says, placing the pencil on the table. He then looks over at me, and immediately snaps his head straight down to avert my eyes. "Why are strangers here?"

"Like I said, he's a police officer, and he needs to ask you a few questions," Kimberly says, crouching down next to him and turning his head with her finger on his chin.

"What questions?" he asks, his eyes tilting to me and immediately falling again.

"Just a few things about the other night," Kimberly says, then pulls her phone out of her pocket. "You can play the game after he's done."

"Promise?" he asks.

"Promise," she says, and gives me a nod to proceed. The lawyer is hovering, just waiting to jump in.

"Hello Jake, I'm a detective," I say, and take a seat on an available chair.

"Hello sir," he says, still looking away. His volume is so low, I can barely hear him. I'm not entirely certain how to approach the conversation. I have interviewed plenty of children for cases, but never one with special needs. Jake is not like normal children. I feel I can be more direct with the line of questions, and not have to talk around the real point. Usually I have to build a foundation of trust, which can often be easier with children because they've been conditioned to trust police. His mind is too scattershot to hold a foundation, so I go straight in.

"When the fire happened, when did you wake up?" I ask, and he keeps looking away.

"I woke up when I heard a loud noise," he says. I don't know why, but that sounded rehearsed. He's been around his mother when she's answered questions, and he's trying to match her story.

"When did you open your window?" I ask, and he pauses. "Jake?"

"When we were leaving," he says, and his mother looks down at him.

"No, sweety, the window was already..." she starts, but Jake reacts loudly.

"I said we opened it when we left!" he shouts, now trying to squirm out of his mother's arms.

"Jake..."

"...Let me go! I don't want to talk anymore!" Jake shouts, then slams the back of his head into her face and elbows her body. "Let me go!"

Jake is protecting someone. Someone who told him to say that. He just hasn't been challenged on it until now.

"I'm not letting you go," Kimberly says forcefully.

"We can do this when he's calm..." I start.

"...No, we're doing this right now. Jake, did you turn off the cameras?" Kimberly asks, and Jake gets even more out of control. I guess she's asking the questions now.

"No, I never touched your stupid phone!" he screams.

"How do you know my phone is how you turn off the cameras?" she asks.

"I said I didn't do it!"

"I know you did," she says, and he starts crying. "Jake, I know you turned off the cameras, and I know you opened the window. Who did you let inside?"

"No one!" he cries and manages to wiggle out of her arms runs to the corner of the room. "I didn't do anything!"

"Jacob Simon Drew! Come over here, right now!" Kimberly says, but he keeps crying in the corner.

"He's protecting someone," I say to her softly, and she nods. "Who would he want to protect?"

"I don't know, he doesn't like that many people," she says. It is helpful if that list is short. "His father maybe, but there's no way, he barely sees him as it is."

"Does your father talk to you?" I ask, and he's crying so hard he's trembling.

"I was told not to tell mommy, because then I couldn't see him anymore," he says. That's about as close to a confession as we're going to get.

"Does your daddy come to your window, to see you?" I ask, and he starts frantically shaking his head. "Jake, I have a feeling you're lying to me. Did you let him in that night?" I ask.

"No!"

I start to talk, but he begins screaming at the top of his lungs, and Kimberly tries to console him, but he turns around and tries to punch her with a closed fist. After a struggle, she looks absolutely exhausted trying to keep him from harming himself.

I wait in another room for nearly a half hour before he's settled down enough to be left alone. Kimberly comes back and sits across a table from me.

"Holy shit," I say, and she nods.

"That is what I mean when I say his dad can't handle him," she says, and I nod.

"Speaking of him," I say, and she nods. "What was his relationship with your grandmother?"

"Not good, but not murder bad," Kimberly says, and I ask her to explain that. The lawyer is still around, unsure if he should come to Brent's defense if she has a circumstantial relation to him. "He knows she was the reason I finally walked away from him. She gave us a place to live so we could get out from under him."

"Abusive?" I ask, and she nods. "What was the nature of the abuse?"

"Not beat the shit out of me abusive, but he did shove me a lot, and he's a jealous control freak. We broke up for a little bit and I started to almost date a different guy..."

"...My client is being advised to not discuss her prior irrelevant legal history," he says, and even Kimberly looks annoyed. He's right though, she shouldn't give me any ammunition for anything regarding her.

Kimberly takes a breath to contemplate and says, "Brent assaulted him, long story short."

"Dean Hoffman?" I ask, referring to her ex-boyfriend.

"Different one. I asked him not to press charges and he didn't."

"Who did he punch?" I ask, and she's hesitant. "Kimberly."

"Glenn, the neighbor. He thought I was banging him," she says uncomfortably. Something tells me Brent was assuming correctly.

"Were you?"

"Don't answer that," the lawyer says, and I adjust.

"Do you know where Brent lives, in case my information is outdated?" I ask. He was released ten months ago so he could still be bouncing around half-way houses. Kimberly nods, then pulls out her phone to pull up his address for me. I write it down in my notebook and let her know I'm going to talk to him.

"Do you really think he could have done this?" Kimberly asks. Even she seems skeptical he could.

"I'll know more after I talk to him," I say, and she looks into the next room and at her son who is still crying on the couch. "Thank you for being accommodating."

"Sure," she says, and walks into the living room, and I take that as her saying I can see myself out.

-

Tuesday - May 19, 2026

-Lauren Hill-

Ted's information is reliable and for the last two days Frank and I have been hunting down all the skimmers across the city. In total we have removed fifty-seven individual skimmers hidden in, on, or around card purchase devices.

Through their computers, we calculated they had grifted nearly a million dollars in the last year. We might even be able to get several dozen people the money that was scammed from them.

A lawyer from the ACLU did show up for Yosh Patel and tried to puff her chest out as the good and righteous civil rights champion to defend a poor defenseless immigrant. She then saw the information we had, left him a card for a different lawyer, and bailed. That lawyer, likewise, bailed. He was eventually forced to use a public defender, and he's stuck between a rock and hard place of deportation or prison. I think he's taking the former.

Monetarily, it was the fourth largest bust in history nationally, and the largest for a municipality our size. The video of us arresting him has gone viral, and I was waiting for backlash for the taser of that dickhead who has a court hearing in three days. The response has been largely positive. The common theme was 'play dumb games, win dumb prizes.'

After that bust, the fun part begins. All that paperwork.

I'm at my desk where I flex my hand because of how long I've been writing for. Frank to my shock, is doing his share of the work. He is working slower and more easily distracted, but he's working.

We're six hours into this paper load when his desk phone rings, and he talks to someone for a second. He then looks over his shoulder at the Lieutenant, who gestures to him to follow her down the hall. What the hell is going on?

Frank disappears with her, and Lieutenant Northam comes back a minute later alone.

"What's going on?" I ask, and she sighs, and sits on Frank's chair. Why do I feel like she's bracing for my reaction? "What?"

"Frank, is in a job interview right now," she says, and I shrug.

"So?" I ask.

"With the Secret Service ECTF," she says, and my eyes widen.

"The Electronic Crime Task Force?" I ask, and she nods. "Because of this bust?"

"Pretty likely," she says, and I'm taken aback. This was my bust. "I see this shit happen all the time, the leader gets the credit, regardless of who was running it. I know this wasn't him."

They sent someone here to interview him. I knew we made some waves with this case, but I never imagined at this level. What do I do? Be a petty bitch and look like I'm trying to get credit, even if it is my credit, or just bite my tongue and hope for my turn someday.

"He didn't do nothing," I say, trying my best to middle of the road it, but I can tell she doesn't believe a word of it.

"Regardless, be professional," she says, and I lean into my chair, not sure how I'm not going to explode when he comes back.

"Hill," I hear Frank say from the hall, and we both turn to him. "You got a job interview down the hall." I'm silent and motionless for too long. "Should I tell him you're not interested?"

"No..." I blurt out, then take a moment to compose myself. "Which room?"

"Third on the right," he says, and I exit my chair, and turn to Lieutenant Northam who gives me a visual once over then lets me know I'm presentable.

I knock on the door as I open it. Sitting at the table is a man in much plainer clothing than I imagined. Just a simple short sleeved shirt with collar, tucked into jeans and a belt. He's in tennis shoes and looks normal. I was expecting a pressed suit with slicked hair.

"Detective Hill?" the man asks me, and I nod as he extends over the table for a handshake. "Mike Warrenfeltz, Secret Service."

"I'm a little curious as to why I'm here," I say, and he chuckles a little.

"Big bust, it certainly drew a lot of eyes in all of the right ways. We just wanted to recruit before a different agency did. Now, all the paperwork and initial reports we have received, state Sergeant Detective Frank Blanchard was the senior officer," Mike says, and I nod.

"He was. He is," I say, but he smiles a little and leans back some.

"He just told me, that was all a formality. He said, it was your case, start to finish," Mike says, and I my heart is going to jump out of my chest. Frank told the truth even when he had a reason not to. "Was it?"

"It's a collaborative effort, and we..." I start.

"...sorry to interrupt," he says, and I tense up. "But drop the meek middle ground false humility bullshit for a moment and take some credit for your accomplishments."

"Excuse me?" I ask like a reflex.

"You heard me. You did good work, so own it," he says, and I resist the urge to wiggle side to side in the chair like an indecisive little girl.

"It was mine, Frank just followed as supervisor and provided guidance," I say, and he smiles, already knowing that.

"What we look for in recruits, more than anything, is potential. You're young, but not inexperienced, and you appear to have all the right instincts and work ethic to boot. You'd start by going to the NCFI in Alabama, and if you get through, you'll get assigned to one of our field offices across the country," Mike says, and I pause, because all I think about is Chase. What does this mean for us?

"Do I have to decide right now?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"I'll give you a week," he says, and hands me a card. "Try not to take the whole week though."

"I won't," I say, shaking his hand before leaving the room and returning to my desk. I look at Frank who is slowly going through his paperwork, and then turn to Lieutenant Northam who asks me how it went with her eyes. I let her know with a blink and a head tilt.

"You get a job?" Frank asks, turning his chair to me with a smile. We all watch Mr. Warrenfeltz depart, him saying he'll wait for me call. "Well?"