Intensity

"Let's get one thing straight, Mr. Manager. I do as I damn well please. This is a murder investigation, not a frat party. The Sheriff's department agreed to keep things as private as possible only because of a few recent developments."

As he spoke, an ambulance alongside another Sheriff's sedan and a camper van the size of a bread truck drove into the scene in a race. Their sirens had been out under his previous command.

Jack tore his gaze away from the arriving convoy, his voice carrying an intensity that didn't exist seconds ago.

"Didn't you understand a thing I said, Sheriff Walsh? Pulse isn't concerned with your investigation. You can move it to another location if that is what it takes to get you grinches off my property!"

Tavares was in his face at once.

"Mr. Remington, I'll advise you to watch your tone." He felt for the baton on his belt. "It was your carelessness that caused this mess to start with and when word gets out eventually, you would pay the price for your slack up. I'd even bet all my money that your job is also on the line."

Jack had pressed his lips into a hard-line on hearing the officer's profiling of his situation. He looked like he wanted to spit fire.

Walsh had to suppress the incoming laugh in his throat. He smiled with his eyes alone.

"Tavares, get this man settled inside the camper. He is a delicate witness, so don't let him out of your sight."

"What!" Jack said in confusion. "Hey, take your hands off me!"

Tavares grabbed the manager's shoulder and jostled him down the stairs. For a soft guy lacking muscle, he had an impressive grip. Walsh knew he didn't need to be rough. Jack wasn't a threat, but he had stepped on both their nerves.

"I want my lawyer!"

Jack kept struggling like a dying roach and the medics and forensic workers sent him weird looks as they passed him on their way up.

"Relax, Mr. Remington. This is not an arrest. We just want in on what you know. I hope to have your full cooperation..." The Sheriff said and added when he was out of earshot. "Asshole."

A woman wearing a lab coat, face mask and gloves led the incoming file. Walsh had found her forest green eyes and familiarity set in without delay. A forbidden memory flitted through his mind. In a second, it vanished as it had come, but like all the other times, old feelings burned alive.

"Doctor Jenkins."

"Sheriff Walsh," the woman said with a polite smile, and they shook hands. An action that had lingered with their eyes.

"The scene is yours. We have five victims in the main area and two out in the bathroom."

They marched into the building and on target; the Sheriff watched her watch the hole in the fixed window with curiosity.

"What do you think we are dealing with?" Dr. Jenkins asked.

"That's the main reason you're here. I can't seem to figure it out, Grace."

There was something delicate with the way he called her name, like there used to be a time when her opinion ranked high in his life. The look she had returned revealed a part of her that wanted so badly to comfort the man at her side, but the times were different. There was a Mrs. Walsh occupying that position now.

"We start with the bathroom."

Her command broke the moment, and Walsh had stood there, watching Grace and her team disappear through an adjoining door. He was stuck in his past at that point. A past he regretted with all of him. Grace Jenkins was that past.

He had regained himself a couple of seconds after and followed their trail. Being inside the Restaurant's bathroom was like witnessing a live massacre. He couldn't have imagined what had taken place in there, even if he tried.

He saw the young woman first and then his shirtless deputy looking out the window. The Sheriff couldn't understand the situation, but he had let it go. Nolan Foster could wrap a suspect inside his shirt because she was cold for all he cared; he needed to focus.

Grace bent over the dead body while her team scoured the bathroom area for the tiniest of details. One of her men took pictures using a flash effect. It wasn't effective, but it was all they had at that moment to work with.

"There's something here," she said, holding her flashlight between her chin and shoulders.

Walsh closed in, careful enough not to obstruct the work going on around him. Behind, Nolan had handed the woman over to Driscoll for the next stage of the process. Interrogation hours could last for days, weeks, and even months. He feared this one would be far longer. He feared that there would be no end to it.

He was staring wide eyed at the piece Grace held up between her thumb and pointer finger. Walsh asked. "Isn't that supposed to be an animal claw?"

"Correct. There are claw marks around the chest wound that caused his death. This piece lodged somewhere inside the hole. It seems it had broken off during the attack."

"Grace, this makes no sense."

The forensic doctor stood and grabbed her tools.

"That's your job, not mine."

Walsh didn't like the way memories from the past washed over him like the ocean on its banks. This time, it was from thirty years ago. The last time Boston city heard of an animal attack, there was a bloodbath that claimed many lives, including Ray Foster. Right then, he knew that left to him, the press conference wouldn't hold. He didn't plan on making things public yet. He didn't know if he ever would.

"Foster, we need to decide, and fast," he said as Grace and her team exited the space.

"I think the decision has already been made, Chief. We will start the interrogations and hope to get lucky with a head start."

Walsh considered the advice of his second for a while and went along. In the end, he was without options.

Outside, the camper van held a table with two sofas placed on its sides. Further within it, there was a setup of computers manned by a guy wearing a microphone headset, then a mini bar for refreshments. The first subject on their list was the young woman found holding a bread knife (a.k.a, the deputy Sheriff's new interest)

Walsh and Foster faced the woman from their end. Tavares was the eye witness while Driscoll stood with the cameraman. He pushed the button for record and the action began.

"What is your name?" The Sheriff picked from the easy and less intense cards up his sleeves.

"Naomi Meruda."

"Where do you stay?"

"Silicon Valley. I'm here on a visit."

Walsh had paused and played harder, but not hardest.

"Why were you at the Restaurant tonight? Can you share with us what happened?"

Naomi went mute, but it was involuntary. She stared off at a dent on the table's edge, not attempting to say a word.

"If you don't give us something to work with, your situation would be worse than it already is," Nolan Foster said, placing his clasped hands on the table while leaning closer on impulse.

He had gotten fresh clothes from the sedan's trunk, and an officer had replaced his shirt with a throw blanket over the young woman.

"I know nothing," she said, averting her eyes to the floor of the van.

The deputy Sheriff gazed down hard on her face as if he had the rare ability to drill holes through her skin in that single look.

"Did you murder Bryson Barnes and the council members?" He asked in a low voice.

She had thrown her face up after that. Rocking her head, she said, "I didn't kill anyone."

There was no way to explain it. Nolan could tell that she spoke the truth, but as for Walsh, who was desperate to find a fall-guy to pin all his problems on, he didn't buy it.

"Then why did we find you at the scene with a bloody weapon?" Walsh asked, getting worked up. "Naomi, you don't seem to understand the gravity of your situation."

"I don't know. I don't know how I ended up here."

The Sheriff slammed his palm on the table in frustration. He fumed like war. The contents of the cup she had been drinking from shivered from the force. Still, there was one thing that Nolan Foster was doing that Walsh wasn't. He was listening attentively to the things not said.

"I want to see Declan! I won't say another word until he gets here."

"Who is Declan? Your lawyer?"

"My husband."

The Deputy Sheriff had dropped back into his chair slowly. The expression that lined his features at present appeared dangerous. He shot his gaze to the diamond ring on her left finger. All this time, he had failed to notice that break point.

The stone was reflecting under the van's dome light, seeming magical.

A darkness the colour of night flashed in his eyes again and the suspect, Naomi, had watched every inch of his reaction, sinking it all in. Not a single part of it was human.