Sincerely, B. Foxtrotter: A NYPD Crime Novel

Chapter Nine: Letters

" Fox, this is a serious allegation about Mr. Barrett. You do know what you are telling me, Detective? Detective?"

Michael turns around from his window and walks around to his desk and sits down, taking his glasses off.

"Yes, Chief. Sorry for my wavering attention. I absolutely know what I am saying and I absolutely know I am right"

Chief Garcia looks at him with big brown eyes, following Michael's form at his desk. Michael had been working for him for almost five, no, six years now and Garcia still saw him as his kind of surrogate son. He felt he had an obligation to Fox, to take care of him. Of course, Fox didn't especially like the kind of fatherly instinct Garcia had over him. Fox was more independent than he let on. Oh yeah, he's even more stubborn than you would think. Garcia had to try with all his might to even ask him to help pick up papers he dropped on the floor. But that's the way Fox had always been, and Garcia never questioned his ability to do what he does.

Until now.

Watching his crazed eyes and tired-looking body, he seemed unsettled almost. But Garcia didn't push it. Fox would spill when he was ready, or in the face of danger at the last second. Giving him one last nod, Garcia shut the detective's hardwood door, leaving him to his thoughts. Michael twirled the pen in his hand, around and around again, his hands shaking slightly. He looked around and finally gave in.

He slipped out of his chair and grabbed the box of letters out of his closet. He had the lab clean the blood off it, they still haven't identified whose it was. Michael made a mental note to go check there today to ask them. He slid the top of the box off and took out a stack of the yellowing paper. He set it in on his desk, moving his paperweights on top of them. The paper was old and almost brown looking at the edges. Michael hadn't opened the first day to read them, he felt too confused and weird to read them. He still hadn't figured out exactly what they were. He put on his reading glasses, locked his door, and sat down again to read the first letter which went something like this:

I know we said we would never write again. I know you said you never could be seen with me again. It threatened your reputation and that's all you cared about. It's all you ever cared about and you know I can't live like this. I can't live as your hostage, fear riddled and my mind racing to figure out how to flee this horrible place. This horrible place that you call my sanctuary. The place where you will be freed of all wrongs and they will be replaced with right, just, good feelings. You lied to me. You lied to me numerous times and you always knelt down at my side and wept and cried and said that you were sorry. But you weren't Ethan. You never will be. You get high off this. You get high off stuff that brings you immense pleasure. Not drugs. No, Ethan, it was never drugs with you. With you, it was spying and committing crimes that made you high. I will never speak to you again, as per your request.

Sincerely, your lost love, Layla Soregaili

Michael just stared at the letter after he had read it. He stood up and placed the letter under the paperweight. He grabbed the box and dug through it, only looking at the signatures on the end. Layla Soregaili, Ethan Irist, Emma Regalia, Hazel Grace Dertou, Jack Figril, Steven Justol. The list went on and on. But the handwriting on the last letter was familiar to Michael. He took it out and began to read again. And was only more horrified when he realized why he recognized the handwriting.

My dear friends and colleagues, I write you this letter with a burdened mind. These souls, these people will never be forgotten in the history of this institution. And as long as I shall live, I pledge my life and my honor to these people who died at the hands of the agent, whom you all know and shall remain nameless. I can do nothing else but write to you with the hint of a resignation coming at the back of my throat. I wish I could do something more. He destroyed your lives and took your loved ones. And for that, I am deeply sorry and I understand if you feel anger or sadness during this time. I offer up my sympathies.

With dearest regard,

Chief Daniel Garcia

Michael spent his entire afternoon organizing and separating the letters and when he got to the end, he found a tape and some earbuds. He turned the objects over in his hand and finally pushed play on the tape and slipped the earbud in his ear. He took out his notebook and pencil, wary of what he was going to find on these tapes. There was silence for the first minute and a half until a voice spoke. Michael was glad that he hadn't taken a sip of coffee cause he was pretty sure he would have spit it out.

" Special Agent Barrett. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? " I do"

Michael sat shocked still as he listened to the tape.

" Let us begin. Special Agent, where were you the morning of December 15th, 2007?

" I was in my office, your Honor"

A pause.

" Can you refute the evidence of why Ms. Soregaili believes you killed her husband, Special Agent?"

Michael held onto his desk, as he noticed his hands were shaking. There was silence.

"Agent Barrett. Can you refute the evidence Ms. Soregaili has presented to this jury?"

" No, your Honor. I cannot refute the evidence, because I do not recall what happened and I have no idea why Ms. Soregaili would accuse me of those allegations."

Yells and screams broke out on the tape, Michael assuming the loudest one to be Ms. Layla Soregaili.

" You lying cheat! Fire him! The brat is lying! He killed my husband! He killed my husband!" Her screams died off as a voice said " This court is adjourned. We will pick up as soon as possible"

And then the tape shut off. Michael had nothing to say to himself as he recalls what he just heard. The only thing he knew was that these letters held some dark secret that he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

And the biggest question, still, was who was Liam? Really?