The Client

XII - Calm Before The Storm

October finally arrived and with it came cooler weather. We welcomed it with open arms, but not without some grumbling. Summer had produced some of the hottest temperatures in Coles Creek's history, which was quite a feat considering it was founded in the early 1700s. The general consensus was we'd been due at least a couple cool September days on account of the harlot-in-heat June and July had been. Maybe God was trying to tell us something. Similar records were being set all over the United States, so it wasn't like anyone could argue we were being singled out and punished. But it sure felt like it.

It wasn't quite time yet, but the leaves would be changing soon. Fall was always Rachel's favorite time of year. She had an English professor in college who wistfully described the falling leaves as the trees' "last dry lamentations in anticipation of winter." She'd written it down in her notebook and for some reason still remembered it. Maybe the bare trees did signify sadness, but I'd always considered them just a part of another cycle. Birth, death, and rebirth; that's how it went and always would, on and on and on, until the last ding-dong of creation faded soundlessly into the blackness of the universe.

On the afternoon of the 2nd of October, I was sitting at my desk when I heard my fax machine spring to life, beeping and hissing for a moment before spitting out page after page of phone numbers. Amanda Dunbar's phone records.

The records covered the period between July 1st and July 30th, ending at midnight on the day Amanda was attacked at Lake Baldwin. After flipping through the entire document, I realized the carrier had sent all of the incoming and outgoing phone calls, but no text messages. Idiots!

I flipped to the first page of the document looking for a number to call, fully intending to curse at the first voice I heard on the other end. That's when I noticed the letter, which I'd overlooked in my haste to point fingers. It explained the records were incomplete due to a technical error on the company's end; in a painful stroke of bad luck, they couldn't access the text messages.

I slammed the receiver down and tossed the document onto the mountain of paper already covering the desk, creating a landslide of Post-it notes and paper-clipped documents. How was I supposed to do my job if the carrier couldn't do theirs? I wasn't exactly surprised—I'd been on both the winning and losing end of similar screw-ups—but I was still furious. Those text messages would have likely showed exactly what Amanda was up to the day she died. Even though I doubted she'd spoken openly about her drug use by text, I'd learned to never underestimate the naiveté of teenagers.

I considered filing a motion asking the Court to compel Amanda's carrier to send the information—just out of spite—but knew it would be a waste of time. You can't compel someone to do something they claim is technically impossible. Grudgingly, I picked up the records again.

The kids who found Amanda made the call to 911 at 9:37 p.m. on the night of the 30th, meaning she was likely attacked sometime earlier that evening. It was a miracle Amanda initially survived the attack, but it made the determination of the exact time it occurred much more difficult. If she'd died immediately, the medical examiner could have speculated as to the time of death based on several generally recognized indicators such as rigor mortis, body temperature, and the state of decomposition. As it stood, all we had were guesses.

I started at the beginning of that day and began to comb through the numbers, making a note of each unique number I identified. When I was finished, there were ten separate numbers Amanda called or received a call from that day. Out of those ten numbers, I was able to eliminate four immediately: her parents' numbers and two out-of-state marketing firms. Just to be sure, I cross-referenced the marketing numbers with the rest of document and found they hadn't shown up previously.