Free Color Of Blood by Keith Yocum

daughter, Beth.”
    Pause. “What happened to my daughter?”
    Pause. “Nothing. She called here looking for you. No one in your family has ever called here looking for you before. I don’t remember a call from Martha, much less your daughter. But she called yesterday. Kind of awkward, Dennis, because she didn’t know what your phone number was or how to get hold of you. She got bumped to a number of operators. I finally spoke to her.”
    Pause. “Beth spoke to you? Is anything wrong?”
    Pause. “Turns out she was just trying to reach you. She said she was worried about you.”
    Pause. “Worried? That’s odd.”
    Pause. “Call your daughter, Dennis. And please ask her to stop calling the operator at Langley.”
    Pause. “Sorry, Marty. I’ll talk to her.”
    Dennis ended the call and took a deep, anguished breath, letting the air filter out of his lungs slowly in a muffled hiss.

Chapter 10
    They called it Grand Rounds, a not-so-inappropriate reference to a hospital-residency training program. It happened every Tuesday at 9:00 a.m. sharp.
    Miller was the director of the West Australian office and ran a tight little ship.
    Most of the investigators had coffee or tea in front of them, along with folders of their active cases. Miller would invariably start off with new directives from headquarters, and then he would list new national notifications or investigations of note, including their connection to Western Australia, if any. Next, he would give a brief pep talk that Judy found mawkish, invariably invoking military phrases like “let’s keep a tight order out there,” and “this war is being fought one battle at a time,” etc.
    Finally Miller would turn to each investigator to give a brief update on current investigations; if two agents were involved, they’d co-present. Sometimes Miller would simply nod at an agent’s summary, but other times he would ask sharp questions, and it was important to remain vigilant, Judy found, or you’d get the full public wrath of the slightly pompous director.
    The only female agent on the West Australian team, Judy was always called upon first by Miller. Initially, Judy was impressed with Miller’s decorum, as if he were opening a car door for a woman, or giving up a seat on a bus to a woman. She soon found the gesture irritating and sexist; Judy didn’t need to have her car door opened or be picked to go first because she was a woman.
    She was working on seven active cases, two in conjunction with investigator Daniel Frankel, and four cases in progress in the justice system, one of which was going to trial soon.
    Judy quickly ran through her cases, hoping Miller would not interrupt.
    She finished the most recent case with Daniel: a drug-related murder.
    “Victim was an unidentified ethnic Chinese male, estimated twenty-eight years of age,” Daniel said, looking at his notes. “An undocumented immigrant. Cause of death was a single round to the chest by an extremely powerful weapon, eh, Jude?”
    “Quite,” she said. “Lynchy said he’d never seen anything like it. Round went through the victim and then through four walls, finally lodging in an outhouse.”
    There were a couple of giggles from other agents at the bizarre juxtaposition of a toilet and the death of a drug gang member. Even Judy and Daniel exchanged quick glances and smiled. In the cynical, depressing world of criminal investigations, it was a pleasant relief to laugh at preposterous coincidences or peculiar anomalies. If not then, Judy had come to realize, when would any of them ever laugh?
    “What kind of weapon was it?” Miller asked.
    “They’re not sure, but Lynchy thinks it’s something brand new and exotic,” Daniel said.
    “Like what?” Miller persisted in his not-pleasant tone of voice.
    Judy and Daniel exchanged glances; the last thing they wanted was their director to start picking apart a brand new investigation in front of the other agents.
    “The closest they’ve come is