Justice for Alina

Meanwhile, I spearheaded inter-agency operations among major task forces. However, when those beacons of light go dark, I contact a few courageous individuals willing to step beyond those legal boundaries, and into the realm of a shadow government for a resolution. People like Jackie Wilson, and others spread across the country, await a call to action. These are 'fixers' whom I depend upon for a sense of sound judgment, skills, and intelligence.

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A Call Out to a 'Fixer'

Four years ago, I met a woman in a cowboy bar in El Paso, Texas. And no, it wasn't what you might be thinking. Yeah, she was a hottie, all five-foot-two of her, and if you ever told her she weighed more than one-hundred-and-three pounds, she'd most likely have you flat on your ass, wrapped up in some jujitsu chokehold--while she turned your lights out. She goes by the name of Jackie Wilson, no relation. That's not her real name. In our line of work, pseudonyms are a must, as are backdrop jobs and layers of paper pedigrees relevant to the job tasks. Jackie is ex-Navy, a Seal washout, degreed in forensic accounting, and you might say she is also a modern-day sword-wielding samurai.

Previously, Jackie Wilson had taken on a major drug syndicate and almost single-handedly brought down a Mexican cartel drug lord. He was pronounced dead twice -- once erroneously by the Mexican newspapers. The second time, he died mysteriously in a plane crash in the Gulf of Mexico while en route to Canada for a European drug deal meeting.

I dialed her number for a 'fixer solution.'

"Ms. Wilson, I have a real estate investment in Georgia and could use your help handling the purchase."

I left her a message and overnighted a case-file package. I knew it wouldn't take long to get back to me. Jackie's backdrop business typically used a real estate broker's license in El Paso. My 'real estate' interest message wouldn't be a real estate deal this time. It never was. The focus would be on turning up clues for the Alina Rice cold case, involving the slain eighteen-year-old daughter of a wheelchair-bound black woman on the downtrodden side of Atlanta, Georgia.

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Jackie Wilson Pursues Justice in Atlanta

Immediately upon opening Jack Wilson's case file on a grisly homicide of an Atlanta teenager, I realized it wasn't our usual case type. It was an almost ten-year-old cold case. What caught my attention was an article from The Atlanta Journal-Constitution describing an upstart local carpenter raising cane and how the local government officials were brought out of their comfort zone over failure to pursue the case with the same efforts as other missing white girls' cases. It went on to describe how the FBI got involved with the issue and riled more than the local city officials as well. The description of the carpenter as 'The Fixer' told me all I needed to know: this was personal. The photo was of a grieving-graveside mother with a shadowy figure in the background. It was captioned 'The Fixer Fights for Justice in Atlanta.'

Sometimes, Jack's overnight packages bring some strange things my way. For instance, that damned 'learn to fly a plane' simulator he shipped me to start tracking down El Mas Loco in Mexico. It also brought me a lovely few weeks with Jack Wilson number two down in ol' San Antonio. That was certainly a plus in that harrowing case. Damn near got me killed, again.

Jack had sent my backstop identity as a special agent on this assignment from the cold case division of the FBI--of all agencies. Sometimes I think Jack likes to rub that bitch's face in mine, as a reminder that I need to be more careful. I nearly got killed by one of those FBI agents in another case. I kicked her ass, stripped her weapon down, and kept her badge as a trophy. After that episode, I heard she's working out in Alaska, north of the Arctic Circle. Death seems to have a way of following me--I hope to hell it stays off my six, until I'm old and gray.

The local FBI team leader was pissed when I walked in unannounced. I could tell he didn't like me walking into his territory and demanding all relevant case file info on Alina Rice. His jaw almost locked up, as his face turned red, like a vine-ripened tomato. The only thing keeping him from going apoplectic was the special-investigator designation and the classified letter I delivered into his shaking hands. I knew he would be on the phone as soon as I cleared his office, whining for someone above to rein me in. Jack would deal with that end. He would be there to ice him down, even give him a few words of advice on handling cold cases--so he didn't wind up in Alaska in charge of counting salmon boats; at least, that was my take on the scenario about to unfold.

"I need two full-time agents, Hannity and Marfan, an office, a phone, and a safe," I declared, as he groused. I wasn't letting the grass grow under my feet. If he thought I was pushy now, he would be more pissed when he found out I was heading to the local police department also to fan the flames there. My naming the agents I needed to assist me had a dampening effect on the senior agent. He knew, right then, I'd done my homework, or someone had; his top two agents just got yanked from under him by a long-haired, one-hundred-and-three pound, inscrutable Asian agent -- well outside his command--one that looked like a kid just out of the training fields--the worst, ambitious kind.

Hannity and Marfan made their way in, as I called Jack to let him know the status of my arrival.

"Our boss says you need some help, Agent--Wilson," Marfan spoke first as he took in my appearance. He was a bit perplexed at seeing a five-foot-two-inch Asian resembling a teenager.

"Special Agent Jackie Wilson,"I replied, "And yes, I do need your expertise in cold case work."

Marfan and Hannity were seasoned agents. Jack had sent their files to me. Both had experience with cold case work. No one in the office was assigned to handle those older cases. There should have been, however. It was sloppy business, according to Jack Wilson. He intended to fix that today.

I continued, "Right about now, your boss is calling to pull some strings and yank my ass out of here. It's not going to take more than five minutes for you to get a text from him about helping me out to the fullest extent possible. After that, you and I will open an unsolved case and get an answer to Alina Rice's death and bring justice to her bereaved mother."

Marfan's straight face broke out into a grin. I could tell he liked the idea of one-upmanship at play. Hannity, on the other hand, wasn't as easy to read. He had that practiced mannerism of not showing his hand. I laid out the box I brought upstairs for them to see Jack's file on the Alina Rice case.

My timing had been off a little. It was closer to three minutes before I heard Marfan's text message alert chime. He glanced at it, smiled, and flashed it to Hannity. That reserved look dissolved from his face instantly, as he smiled, too.

"Okay, Special Agent Jackie Wilson, you called that one -- and got it right," Hannity said.

I sent them to the archives for Alina's files to match anything that Jack didn't already have. We spent the morning pinning up details on the wall, establishing timelines again, just as though it was a currently-active case. I wanted this looked at with fresh eyes by the two experts in the field. I wasn't the expert, just the taskmaster and possibly the adjudicator if it came to that.

Leaving Hannity to continue mapping out the timelines and details of the case, the Atlanta Police Department was next on my radar. I took Marfan with me; he knew the tribal territory at the police department well.

"Jesus, a Maserati?" he gawked, taking in the name and symbol of 'Lady Nightingale' prominently displayed on the hood as we walked toward my candy-apple red beauty.

"Drug dealer seizure," I answered, knowing he was already thinking about how I drove one.

Before he realized it, his sexist remark had already escaped his lips, "Who'd you have to...."

"... fuck to get this?" I finished Marfan's question and grinned, as his jaw dropped. He'd made the gaffe, and now I let the other shoe drop.

"Marfan, I didn't have to screw him--just killed him when he tried to kill me," I remarked as we got in.

Marfan was red-faced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply...."

"Marfan," I cut him short, "I can be that 'bitch' if it gets the job done. Just because I have tits, doesn't mean I have a problem breaking down walls and crawling over obstacles to get results... understand?" I hammered that nail into his mindset.

Headed out, I caught his affirmation as he nodded. Marfan was falling in line with Jack's expectations. Sometimes it takes showing a solid hand to get cooperation; sometimes, it's just a bit of sugar to achieve the same thing. Jack had said time was of the essence, so Hannity and Marfan got the sword-wielding strong-hand approach. Being ambidextrous and a martial arts expert, I had an arm for each.

The local PD didn't have any feathers to smooth over. They were glad to turn over all the cold case document files for Alina Rice. One less backlog item for them. Not that they were doing anything about it.

I set ground rules for my two nestlings back at the field office. Both were single, their files said. So, the three of us burned the midnight oil, getting all the evidence laid out and reviewed. At one o'clock in the morning, I showed some mercy by saying, "Let's call it a night. See you two at nine, and we'll start again."

No grousing remarks came from either of them at that point. They seemed glad to call it a day. From what they had pieced together, they realized many unfollowed leads had pushed the case off the rails even as it started. Jack's documents of the Alpharetta white girl's case file kept staring them in the face, as it lay among the documents. He'd put that in as a subtle reminder for them. I knew that by the expressions on their faces. They had the lead on that case back in the day. I saw the look on their faces as they connected that case's successful resolution and the lack of progress in this one. At least they had a sense of decency to realize that.

I knew the two cases were not related. That was obvious from the resolution of one and the lack of effort in the other. But Jack's not-so-subtle point for the two agents was that Alina didn't get justice like the Alpharetta kid. That point hit home for the two -- right about one o'clock in the morning, as we emptied the second pot of steaming black coffee and called it a night.

By nine o'clock and looking tired, the duo rolled into the office. The smell of fresh coffee and hot Danish rolls greeted them as they came in. They got the first picks, and I set the rest in the breakroom while other staff looked on. It became like the first day of deer hunting season; the lines formed with anticipation. "You catch more flies with honey than piss and vinegar," my daddy always said. Even the boss seemed less pissed. At least the office gossip seemed to have stirred some interest in the mysterious casework behind our closed doors. You hear things in the ladies' room, you know?

Nine years is a long time to pick up where a case went wrong. I almost grew a cauliflower ear from making phone calls to track down prior contacts on the subject. For Hannity and Marfan, it was their routine old-hat procedures. By the end of the day, most names were crossed off, leaving three potential follow-ups. Hannity and Marfan crisscrossed Atlanta to re-interview those.

It was late afternoon, when I caught sight of a slender woman lurking just outside the doorway. She was just a bit taller than I, with a pixie-looking face. She was standing there hesitantly. I could tell she was trying to make up her mind whether to engage me, or not. Her behavior smacked of a newbie; she was someone holding onto a thought but too shy to push forward.

"Penny for your thoughts," I called out, as I made some more notes. Her head was on a swivel as she looked to see if I was addressing someone else. Then realized she was in the spotlight and out of the shadows at the moment. It was her moment to shine; she must have figured as she breezed into the office.

"Ma'am," she began energetically, "If you need anything, anything at all, I'd love to help out."

"Sugar," I answered, "first, it's not ma'am, and secondly...."

I'd only caught a glimpse of her outside the doorway, but now, looking up, I had a whole new perspective. She was a sister -- another Amerasian.

My heart went out to her. I knew the daunting climb uphill she would be making, working her way up the agency's career ladder. Despite the policy changes and the so-called nod to promotion equality, the bureau remained a good-old-boys network. My second pulsing heartbeat went out to her, again, because of her exotic, sensual look. I was staring at an Asian image of sex in a bottle. Though not like the one between the former drug czar's pilot and me. This one caused my thighs to clinch for a moment. It was a look that could quickly get me hot and breathy. On a bed, I'd have her as Georgia peach preserves on a hot biscuit in a moment. Unfortunately, this wasn't the time for that.

"Just came asking if I needed something, or were you offering... an idea on the case?"

She swallowed nervously, overlooking one of two possibilities in my declaration. If she understood the nuances, I didn't know at the moment. If she did, she wisely chose to ignore the erotic one and proffered a new, unthought-of line of investigation. Investigations to this point had been on family, friends, and people in the neighborhood. People with means, motive, and opportunity to commit the crime. Ms. Lei Swan proffered a search along the lines of classmates beyond close friends. She pitched the idea of using Alina's high school yearbook as a research tool in the investigation.

One level removed was a list of potential leads that had not been explored previously. It was worth a shot, even if it was remote. Time was running short, according to Jack Wilson. I knew it was a long shot. At the very least, it would give her some experience in following investigative leads and crossing off an unexplored avenue in the cold case. I asked the lead agent nicely for the newbie's assistance. He knew from the raking over the coals by some senior oversight echelon that I was to get what I needed. 'They,' that's Jack actually, let him know if he needed to work directly under my 'guidance' personally, that could also be arranged. He okayed Swan's temporary assignment. I brought him a Danish and coffee from the lounge. He was frosty and knew damn well I didn't mean it as a token of thanks. It was just a show for his staff that he still seemed to be in charge.

Until Hannity and Marfan returned, we sliced and diced the names of Alina's classmates, eliminating the girls as probable. Women rarely butcher victims.

Lei Swan began running names against known criminal records looking for anyone that had been investigated for violent crime charges. That reduced the numbers further as well. After six o'clock, the veteran cold-case guys returned to the office. We ran the backgrounds of the potentials and found a dozen. At that point, Hannity and Marfan looked beat. Swan seemed indefatigable, like a fully-charged Energizer bunny. I sent all three of them home.

Jack Wilson, I swear, never goes home, it seems. I called. He answered on the second ring. I took eight minutes to cover the names of the twelve and four that stood out. Then sent an encrypted email with all the data from that day, including the interviews with Hannity and Marfan's daily interviews. The background noises sounded like Jack wasn't alone, yet the noises didn't seem like ones that put him with a woman or at some restaurant; they were more clinical sounding. JW was still a mystery man in my book.

Marfan and Lei Swan took half the interviewees, while I paired up with Hannity and took the others.

"I thought Marfan was kidding me... about the Maserati 'Songbird' thing!" Hannity chuckled as he got in. "So is it true what he said...."

"What lie did Marfan tell you was true?" I smirked. I wasn't sure what he would have told Hannity.

"That you... killed a guy with a... sword for this Maserati?" he managed to ask, as I fixed my inscrutable Asian glare on his stare.

"I thought you were going to ask me about fucking my way up the ladder to get it," I remarked, as we pulled out into traffic, looking for our first interviewee. His eyes bugged out at that comment. It came out in one of my 'bitch' moments.

"Yes, to the first one," I answered cryptically. I played with the idea of showing him the slash mark across my breasts as evidence of that fight, but that would have been bad form for an FBI agent. Not that I was one.

We struck out on our half of the list. All six willingly consented to DNA swabbing samples. That usually means they had no connection to the case. Two offered that they were in the Army's basic training out of state then. All of those relevant details must be verified as accurate, but gut instinct pointed to the fact that they had no possible connection. Of course, that all remained to be seen through record checks, but it seemed good on the surface. No paydirt, and the case remained cold.

However, Swan and Marfen fared better. One on their list bolted when they showed up at his place of work to interview him. He didn't get far in the pandemonium as the agents gave chase. He ran for a chained exit, and the FBI pair quickly cornered him. Sometimes a fire code violation can be a blessing in disguise. That chained door at the end of the hall left him no exit, and facing two drawn guns, he surrendered. He was in interrogation by the time we arrived back at the field office. I left that part to Hannity and Swan, as Lei and I observed them, along with the senior field agent in charge.

Carl Jackson was sweating bullets even before he was questioned. I watched as Hannity and Marfan smooth-talked him, getting him comfortable, and set a can of soda on the table for him. Gradually, they eased into asking the relevant questions about his classmate's death almost ten years ago. His first reaction when he realized why they had come for him was to ask for a lawyer. At that point, Marfan kept him focused by asking if he had one or wanted a public defender while Hannity removed the empty can, saying he would bring another. That empty can would be a resource for DNA testing.

At that point, the case seemed to have found a ray of hope after almost ten years. What remained was the evidence collection based on hopefully a DNA match of Carl Jackson to the semen left at Alina Rice's murder scene. Alina's Uncle and Jack Wilson had stumbled upon the grizzly-crime scene in a boarded-up shack behind a house set for demolition. It was five blocks from her home.

I called Jack and filled him in on Carl Jackson's attempted flight, his current lawyering up, and the unwitting DNA sample. It was a one-minute update. Jack responded, "I gotta go."

Jack sounded uncharacteristically preoccupied as he abruptly hung up. I chalked that up to some bureaucratic crap and was glad I didn't have any of that to deal with.

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Jack Brings News of Justice for Alina

The view from the doorway was one I'd seen too many times in my life. Mrs. Rice lay in a hospital bed hooked up to monitors and hoses helping her to breathe. Her brother, Alina's Uncle Colby, was at her side when I got to the intensive care wing. I drew a deep breath and held it before letting it go, then knocked at the door.

Colby looked up, then motioned for me to enter. Eulalia opened her eyes as I took a seat opposite him. She'd sensed my presence; I was a disturbance in the commune between brother and sister.