Free Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

asked. “Pay for what?”
    “Flash memory cards,” I explained. “The FBI
wants us to hand over the crime scene photos. We were just…”
    “Bullshit!” my friend interjected without
letting me finish. Even though his voice climbed a pair of notches
in volume, he was still maintaining far more composure than I was
used to seeing from him when dealing with most federal law
enforcement. He shook his head and looked over at my wife.
“Felicity, you got the film or whatever it is with ya’?”
    “Aye,” she replied, not taking her heated
stare off the agent.
    “Givit here,” my friend said, holding out his
hand and gesturing with a wag of his fingers.
    She reached into her pocket and extracted the
two compact flash cards then dropped them into Ben’s palm.
    “That all of it?”
    “Detective Storm,” the agent spoke up.
    “Just a minute,” he snapped in return.
“Felicity?”
    “Yes, that’s all of it,” she replied. “Rowan,
give him the log.”
    I handed over the small notebook but kept my
mouth shut.
    Ben stepped back and scanned the activity on
the parking lot then yelled, “Yo! Harrison. Over here.”
    Across the way, a tousle of blonde hair poked
up from beneath a trunk lid. The young woman was turned away from
us and was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the words “CRIME SCENE
UNIT” across the back. She turned around, and with a confused
expression creasing her face, she pointed at herself and mouthed
the word “me.”
    “Yeah, you,” Ben yelled. “C’mere.”
    “Detective Storm,” the FBI agent started in
again. “You need to consider…”
    “Fuck that,” he spat. “What I need ta’
consider is that I called ya’ in as a courtesy since the stiff is a
federal judge. Other than that, it’s still a homicide that falls
under local jurisdiction, and right now Major Case is gonna handle
it. You wanna help, great. You wanna take over, fuck off.”
    “Yes, sir?” the young woman spoke up at Ben’s
side, interrupting before the agent could respond.
    He turned to her immediately. “Yeah, look,
Harrison…”
    “Detective Storm!” the agent demanded.
    Ben glared back and held up a finger as he
declared, “I’m talkin’ ta’ Harrison right now.”
    “Huddleston, sir,” the woman offered.
    My friend looked back to the woman, creased
his brow, shook his head, and then said, “What?”
    “My name is Huddleston, sir. Not
Harrison.”
    “Yeah, okay, whatever,” he replied with a
dismissive wave. “I need ya’ ta’ take these to Murv. Tell ‘im to
bag ‘em and process ‘em.”
    “Yes, sir,” she replied as he handed the
cards and log to her.
    “… And stop callin’ me sir. You’re
makin’ me feel old.”
    As she hurried off we heard her reply, “Yes,
sir.”
    “Now,” Ben continued, turning back to the FBI
agent. “You were sayin’?”
    “Detective Storm, we assumed that since you
called us, we could count on your cooperation.”
    My friend planted his hands on his hips and
gave a quick nod. “Cooperation, yeah. Rollin’ over and playin’
dead, fuck no. Once we get the pictures processed out, you want
copies, no problem.
    “Now if you wanna go in there right now and
make your own scrapbook, have at it, but ya’ better get a move on
before the coroner pulls the body.”
    “Detective,” the agent attempted to reason
with him, “As you said, you are dealing with a federal judge here.
Hammond Wentworth is a very influential individual, and there are
circumstances here that should remain confidential.”
    “Listen, Agent…?”
    “Drew.”
    “Agent Drew, what ya’ got here ain’t
circumstances, it’s a DEAD federal judge. He’s not gonna influence
anybody anymore.”
    “There is still the matter of how and where
he was found,” Drew objected.
    Ben was starting to get angry now. “This
ain’t like sweepin’ another vice bust under the rug. This is a
homicide.”
    “I’m aware of that, but I’ve been in there. I
know what the situation is. Those