Collinsport. It is early morning and the last vestiges of the baffling night are preparing to give way to the hopeful clarity of the first light of dawn. The line of heavy storms that moved across the city have dissipated. And Lieutenant Mills continues to deal with the aftermath of a very long night. The murder of two more tourists, both of which were found decapitated at an lonely rest stop just out side of town; the escape of the elusive Vampire Killer from Windcliffe Sanatorium; the suddenly and completely unexpected assault by Samantha Brook upon one of her officers; and, then, her subsequent escape and the high speed chase through the narrow, rain slick streets of Collinsport. In an attempt to get some lead on the whereabouts of the missing Samantha Brook, whom Lieutenant Mills has oddly found to have very little by way of an official background, she has requested that Nicole Collins and Esther Friedman be “invited” to the new justice center for an informal interview.
Can we go now?
The question had jolted Lieutenant Mills back into focus. The woman, tall, slender, blonde, with her dark roots intentionally exposed in some-kind-of-avant-garde chic, she supposed, sat languidly across the table. From the first moment they had entered, the woman had seemed far too serene in the interrogation room not at all showing the nervousness of those far more harden than she. Her erect posture, her every movement done with a dancers grace; her hand posed atop the table in an almost regal gesture. And yet, for all her aristocratic posture she was cold. It was in her eyes, those azure blue eyes yes, there was something very, very cold and menacing, hidden there, carefully concealed, and yet she had caught glimpses of it almost as if the color of her eyes had changed which a few times the lieutenant had to check herself, as she thought she had actually seen them do . . .
She was a Collins, yes, but this was something more than privilege and money.
Nicole Collins could kill.
And from the file in front of her the Paris Police had thought she could also. They had questioned her, twice, about the death of a young girl but then they had moved on after she had been nearly killed herself. Although at first, it seemed they thought she had what with her throat cut and left in some rather dark Parisian gutter she had, in fact, even been in a locker in a Paris morgue until her guardian showed up with some doctor. Something about that all seemed far too suspicious . . . everyone thought she was dead, and yet, she wasnt? Her guardian, she was a doctor, so why two doctors? And of course his name being too conveniently forgotten or missing. Swiss, the morgue attendant had said of his accent.
And she had not forgotten about the Snow woman: Narcissa. Her body too was rather conveniently missing so the Arkham Police department had dismissed the reported death by Samantha Brook as possible delusions of a woman who had clear mental health problems. And who, at the moment, happened to be the reason she had had Nicole Collins and Esther Friedman brought in for questioning.
Only, as the blonde looked at her calmly across the table, she was well aware she didnt have anything to hold them on. Officer Elliot had returned from Collinwood after checking their alibi, which was more Collins fabulousness: a doctor of linguistics from the University of Norway no less. The alibi from 3 to 4 confirmed: as apparently the two, for lack of a better word, detectives, had been hard at work with the translation of an old journal. The two officers arriving to invite them to join her at the station a little after four, and they, arriving in Collins Ferrari (which she was going to have to talk to Elliot about, why he let her drive, rather than bring her in) at about 4:10. And both women had been in the interrogation since close to 4:25.
That of course did not account for the hour before, but it seemed unlikely that the two were knowingly harboring the fugitive whereas the Collins womans reaction could have been a performance, she was more than certain Friedman was shocked and genuinely concerned about the well-being of their crazy friend.
And so in response to the question she had slowly gathered up the few scattered pages and placed them in the folder before her, neatly arranging them before looking up at the blonde.
Everything about the Collins was scandal, as far back as she could research and she had been researching. A trained eye could detect the omissions and the out right cover-ups dating back, God to the 1690s it seemed. Only, her attention was more directed to those Collins who were living especially the current head of the family. David Collins. Odd how the family fortune was so on the wane until he took over from his father who had nearly ruined the business when he had taken control of Collins Enterprises after the death of his sister, the matriarch Elizabeth Collins Stoddard. The lieutenants interest had been piqued by some financial dealings with some shadowy companies in Prague when he had renamed the company Collins International. Odd alliances with Russian interests and European Governments. The Interfaith. But, she had found that for all their money it was the woman sitting across from her who was the far richer.
As rich as God it would seem where had her father amassed such a fortune. He had lived at the old run down Old House, for years and never indicated he had been that wealthy.
There were so many questions and none of them had to do with Samantha Brook. At least not yet.
It had been close to 5:15 am and dawn would soon arrive and she had been fast approaching exhaustion as she looked across the table at the woman, who seemed much too alert and not at all effected by the time. As if time was inconsequential to her as if . . .
Eh, yes, thank you, Miss Collins, you and Miss Friedman are free to go. She had said and took a deep breath watching as Miss Collins arose from the table. She wanted to ask about Paris but that was a card she was holding for later. And as they walked out of the integration room, she knew there would be a later.
She had been looking into Nicole Collins her passport, dual citizenship, financial holdings, criminal background every since the Narcissa Snow incident, which she still believed that someone, somewhere had tired to cover-up, especially seeing as how Arkham Police rather than suspending the investigation just disposed of the case. Then there was of course the fact that Nicholas Collins, David Collins son, was a homicide detective with Arkham PD but her background made her loathed to think ill of a fellow officer.
Still, he had been the Chiefs partner. And the Chief, well, the Lieutenant was becoming aware that the Chief had secrets too.
It was almost as if you could not live in Collinsport without secrets.
In the corridor, the door of interrogation room 2 had opened and Miss Friedman exited looking very tried and sleep deprived. The three of them had shook hands as she explained the situation: Miss Brook was a fugitive. If they came into contact with her, it was best for everyone one that they contact her. The longer she was on the run the greater the danger there could be for her all this said while they moved through the station, toward the front desk.
The lieutenant, longing for a fresh, hot cup of coffee watched as they strode toward the front doors. She could not help but feel that the entire interrogation had been a complete waste of time. Only, the more she thought about it, watched the tall, blond gliding toward the door, she was acutely aware that she now knew something she had not known before.
She had looked into Nicole Collins eyes across the table and she knew that the woman could kill . . . without a moments hesitation, or a show of emotion . . . which of course, she didnt have anything she could point to and prove to be factually based it was just something she felt deeply the longer she looked into those blue eyes. Her father had told there would be times like this a good policeman must always be aware of their instincts and they should always listen to what they are trying to tell you.
Tall, blonde, and dangerous Nicole Collins was on her list.
As they made for the door to exit, the lieutenant happened to take note of Miss Friedman, who for some reason kept nervously looking at her watch.
Somewhere they had to be?
She had called over Officer Stevenson and directed him to step quickly outside and keep watch on them as they exited the building, but he had returned to only report they had gotten in the Collins womans car and driven off as fast as they could and still remain just under the speed limit.
She nodded knowing full well that it was highly unlikely that they would remain under the speed limit for the entirety of their trip, to wherever they had to be, based on Miss Friedmans concern for the time, and yet, she decided not to press the issue. If they got caught in one of the many speed traps, so be it.
With a toss of her head and a roll of her shoulders, which were tight and strained, she stepped over to her cubical and motioned for Detective Anderson. She wanted to be certain to remind him that the strange tea house still needed to be searched not only for the whereabouts of the owner, who was still on her radar, owing to the cock and bull story he tried to give her about that Blackwater nutjob (whom she had ruled out in the Vampire Murders, but knew there was something still just not right in whole strange pack of lies Mr. Spock had concocted), but, also as a possible hiding place for their fugitive Samantha Brook.
Based on Andersons report of the place being empty, and Mr. Spocks hastily beaming to some other outlandish planet of the occult, she hadnt felt the pressing need to go to Judge Vale and request a search warrant not just yet. They could wait till business hours and go over and see if they were able to get one of the employees to let them look around. They were all mostly high school students anyway what with the occult consultant hiring on the cheap. Anderson nodded and told her he already had it on his list of things to do . . .
She liked Anderson the only one here that she felt any kind of a professional relationship with . . . Anderson was smart, but like all people, he had faults. He needed to spend a little more time at the training range, but it wasnt as if there were going to be all that many shootouts in Collinsport, Maine.
Wellthat was, until tonight.
On her way over to the coffee maker, she suddenly just stopped short.
Something wrong Lieutenant? Anderson, who had been walking with her, asked.
Nonothing, really. She told him with a shake of her head.
The truth being she needed something a little more than the coffee at the station, she needed something a bit more special.
So, she had turned to Anderson and told him she was going out for a few moments and for him to call her if he needed anything even though she could not shake a pang of guilt for leaving the station what with Brook still loose and the Vampire Murder a fugitive. Although now he would have the U. S. Marshals after him so yes, it should be all right for her to take a moment and indulge herself.
She hurried out of the station. Good God it was morning.
On her way over to the car she was borrowing from the chief, she couldnt help wondering just how St. Clair would handle this situation, which was hard to say. She hadnt really gotten to know her superior in the short time that they worked together the womans history was amazing really, what with her being with the F.B.I. Behavioral Science Unit as a cadet, a real Clarice Starling, until the tragic death of those agents; and, then her stint with the NYPD, until she pushed too hard and eventually ended up in Arkham . . . but, she landed there as a Homicide Detective, the only woman detective on Arkhams force; and now, she was Chief of Police of Collinsport.
Only, looking into her past, the lieutenant could not help noticing gaps in her record with NYPD, and with Arkham yet more conveniently missing items. More secrets. And then there was that strange group of consultants she had called in. The creepy Frank Black even though he was ex-FBI.
What she needed was a really good cup of coffee. As she opened the car door a horrible thought suddenly crossed her mind God she hoped the Chief was not on the David Collins payroll.
She got into the car and closed the door turned the ignition. But there was just that odd feeling she had about the whole way she had handled the Snow incident and, she seemed to be rather close to Nicole Collins. An odd paring.
She backed the car out of the parking slot hoping that St. Clair would be well enough to return soon.
Her townhouse was only a few blocks away and so she drove over to her apartment. She got out of the car and looked around.
No F-150. No man in a flannel shirt. No Samantha Brook.
She walks across the parking lot, keys in hand. As she opens the door to her townhouse, the sun was just over the horizon.
God what a night.
She smiles now as she hears the padding feet of her orange tabby.
Hello there Peel. And how was your night? The cat comes up and sits down to look up at her with feline indifference. Mine has been a very strange one.
Peel meows.
She sighs and places her keys in the crystal bowl on the side table beside the door and she walks further into the mostly tidy house. God she needed time to properly clean.
She wants to head over and clean the dishes that need to be washed, straighten up the sofa, pick up the copy of The Star on the floor but she was just too tired and there was no time. There was nothing that could not wait until later.
And how many times has she said that?
She steps over and turns on the TV, the house too quite, and music starts to play as the Classic Arts Showcase slowly came into view on the old TV screen.
Coffee! Yes!
She turns and heads over to the kitchen with Peel following behind her, perhaps looking for a leg to rub, or a refill of his bowl.
Lieutenant Mills kicks off her shoes and steps over the old tabby so as not to step on him as he walks underfoot.
On the kitchen counter, the coffee machine still held some old brew from yesterday, which she pours out and begins to rummage through the cabinets to find her special blend. Despite it being caffeinated coffee for some reason worked very well at steading her nerves, something she needed greatly this morning.
She fills the filter; adds water to the carafe; pours it into the reservoir and turns the machine on.
It gives a reassuring gurgle.
As she watches the coffee slowly drip, she stands at the counter thinking about the decapitated bodies; the escape of Silva; and Brook; the phone call from Tillinghast; the two x four hitting her; running after the man who had smacked her with the board; the car chase; the near collision with Arliss Mills tow-truck; the interview with Nicole Collins. She opens and closes her hand now making a fist as her hand aches she can see the bruising now just beginning.
She pours a cup of coffee and takes a long drink and indulging herself, savors the taste.
Sorry Peel, none for you. She says as the tabby rubs against her leg.
As inviting as the sofa appears in its siren call for her to come and snuggle with ole Peel by the gas fireplace, on this cold morning, with a book in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, duty takes priority.
And right now that duty involves paperwork.
She sits down at the kitchen table and opens up her laptop. She thinks for a moment about writing her weekly letter to St. Clair first, but decides against it.
Better to report officially first, and unofficial second.
She sits her cup of special blend aside and begins typing; compiling now all the events of the one long, hellish night into neat and orderly paragraphs and sentences. Making order now out of the chaos, at least superficially. By the time she had gotten to the arresting of Miss Brook, she heard the paperboy outside, throwing the daily rags against the neighbors door.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head no telling what is on the front page of that relic of yellow journalism.
Her paper hits her door.
Goddamn Tillinghast and all like him.
He and his muckraking reporters would do their damned best to make the CPD look like fools. No doubt, give them a real Keystone Cops treatment. Tobias T would probably even include a reference to the show, even though most likely no one younger than 65 would get the reference. So stuck in the past was that man.
She took another long drink of coffee to relax. Her special blend of a brand called Intelligentsia, which she only brought out at special times.
Back to typing Lieutenant Mills had gotten up to the car chase in her report when the telephone rings.
Anderson?
She checked the caller ID.
No.
It was her Mother.
Probably worried about her and calling to ask why her only daughter hadnt settled down and provided any grandchildren for her. She sighed; she really didnt need that this morning. So, she begins typing anew. She would call her mother back later after all she was technically on duty, even if she was working from home.
Although actually, she knew that a police officer, particularly in such a small department, was never truly off duty, something that she had first learned from her father, and was most recently reminded of last night.
The phone continued to ring is it not going to pick up?
She looks at the old answering machine.
It rings again.
Oh, come on!
I am not at home at the moment, please leave a brief message. It suddenly says.
BEEP
Hello Rebecca, its your mother. I know youre really busy with the force and all, but if you have some time, please me call back. Love you.
BEEP
She sighed and took another drink of coffee.
She would have rather it had been her fathershe would have liked to talk to him about her night, what with his distinguished career with Augusta Homicide.
The first draft of the report complete, she fishes out a USB drive and puts the unfinished report on the device. She closes her laptop and picks up her cup of cooling coffee. She would polish up the report at the station without the tempting distractions of phone and the sofa and her bare feet there would of course be the normal aneurism-inducing distractions there, at the station, but she could handle those far more easily.
With Peel at her heels she walks over and turns off the TV and the lights, she makes her way to the front door.
See you later Peel!
She would be back for lunch, but now there was work to do. The lieutenant fishes her keys out of the crystal bowl and closes the door, in order to return to what she had now come to think of, a bit guiltily considering St. Clair, as her boys.
She stops to look down at her copy of The Star, hesitates, and then steps over it and heads back to her car.
Cue Music End of Episode