Gotham's Detective

Chapter 12

Grisham was getting frustrated. They could not find Heather's body, and Bruce was getting ticked off. The men were standing on the dock while the divers combed the water, but so far had come up with nothing.

Grisham's phone rang a moment later, and he answered it gruffly. "What? I'm busy."

"Sorry to bother you Chief, this is Don Epson, FBI."

"Agent, I do not have time to talk right now. I am searching for a body."

"Are you talking about Heather Winston's body?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Because I have her body."

"What?" he roared. "Why was I not informed, and did you say body?"

"I said body. We were called and told to come and get her body."

"Why you?"

"Because this is our case now. We are taking her back to California for an autopsy. When we are through, we will inform her Chief, and you and he can arrange the funeral."

"How did she die?" he finally asked, feeling like all the air had just left his body while Bruce looked as if he had been shot. His face had gone deathly pale, and he staggered back against his car as if it would hold him up.

"Heather had a gunshot wound, and when she hit the water that finished the job, I am sorry, Chief," Don said. He hated to lie, but in doing so, he would save Heather's life.

"I don't understand why you came and took her out from under our noses. Who found her body?"

" The Coast Guard found her, and they were told to keep it quiet by the FBI Chief," he lied.

"I am sorry, Grisham, for going over your head like this, but it was my boss's orders."

"I want to know exactly what happens with her autopsy."

"I will, I promise, and I will make sure you are flown out here to see her, you and Bruce Wayne. I really am sorry about this. She was a really good friend to all of us here at the agency, and she will be greatly missed."

"I know, as will we here," he whispered, then hung up, his face pale.

He turned to Bruce, who looked ill.

"I am sorry, Bruce, but the FBI has Heather's body. They will do an autopsy, and then fly us out there to see her before the funeral."

"I don't know what to do, Grisham," Bruce said, feeling as if he were going into shock.

"Go home. There is nothing you can do here. I will call you when I have some information."

"Okay," he whispered, and walked away, his shoulders hunched over as if he had aged a hundred years.

In the chopper, Heather laid on a gurney, in the body bag, but she slept. She was tired, and she hurt. She didn't even feel them land or feel the stretcher lifted out.

"Time to wake up," Don said to her, looking around the FBI yard to make sure no one was watching. But Heather did not answer. He frowned. "Heather?"

Don touched Heather's neck, making sure she had a pulse. He sighed in relief and turned to Charles. "Bring the car around; I will carry her."

"Is she okay?"

"I think she is just exhausted. She's been through a lot."

"You think?" Charles chuckled and hurried to get the SUV.

He pulled up a couple of minutes later, and Don climbed in with Heather in his arms.

"Let's go to the safe house in Timberdale. She should be safe there," Don commented.