The Eyes Have No Soul

Chapter One

Chapter One“You can do this.”

Clare Rosser studied her reflection as she leaned over the sink in the Worcester P.D. restroom. It was a room designed by men, for men: Functional and faded yellow, reeking of cheap pine cleaner. It cried out 'no women allowed'. After ten years of being stuck in forensic analysis, she would change that.

Her hands gripped the side of the sink, nails trimmed back in a fit of haste, skin taut and lifeless, the skeletal nature of her narrow frame betraying the bone and tendons beneath with far too much ease. She attempted a smile, but it came off as more of a grimace. Blue eyes stared back at her from behind horn-rimmed glasses, the lenses perfectly clear but far too thick for her preference. It was a legacy of reading in dim light or at night with flashlights.

Clare considered her face. It was not unattractive, with high cheekbones and pursed lips. Her small ears were hidden behind honey-blonde hair that hung limp in a style that might have been called a bob were it not just too long, descending lifeless over the top of her shoulders. She brushed the hair back past her right ear, a habit from childhood she had never managed to break.

She leaned forward, reassessing her previous motivation. “This is what you have been working toward. You. Will. Do. This.”

Her voice was determined; some might say harsh. Years of mothering Jeff following the death of her parents twelve years ago had lent an air of authority to what she was convinced were flowery enough tones. It was a voice others used to tell her 'put people at ease'. Perhaps that was their way of saying she sounded boring. She was not the girl she had been when this had all started. Seasoned, some might call her now. Jaded was perhaps a better term.

Clare sighed. It was her whole demeanor, she decided. With the lace-cuffed silk blouse and the light-green woollen cardigan done up with mottled-brown buttons she favored atop the calf-length heavy tweed skirt, she looked quite the schoolmistress, a good decade older than her thirty-two years.

Her only concession was her footwear. She glanced down at the pair of khaki walking shoes she wore everywhere, the word 'Berghaus' emblazoned on the side in black stitching. Dried mud crept up the sides of the soles, evidence of her walk through the gorgeous autumn woodland on her way to the bus, the golden leaves of the American Linden mixed with the reds and greens of fading oak. Clare preferred the outdoors. It was the unexplained circumstance of her parents' death that had led her from the woods and into the forensics labs, via a degree from Boston in Criminal Justice.

Only half an hour before, she had been in the lab, white-coated and studious, working her way through the backlog of r**e kits that had been pouring into the department. This particular kit had been proving most elusive. Despite the extensive set of swabs and clothing, all results appeared to just fade away before her, the analysis always proving inconclusive. Clare was a firm believer in logic and ran her finger over the small golden badge on the lapel of her blouse as if to remind herself why she was doing this.

The call had come out of the blue. Captain Latchford wanted to see her. This could mean only one thing. Her test results were in, and she had an interview for patrol. At long last, she would be one step closer to a place that would make a difference, a place she could use her skills to find the answers both she and Jeff had sought for the last dozen years. She had never wanted anything more for herself than closure.

Turning away from the mirror, Clare pulled on the handle of the restroom door. Her hand slipped, slick with sweat. She really was nervous now. Wiping her hand on the ridged fabric of her skirt, she tried again and made it into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind her, and she jumped. Clenching her jaw, she thrust her hands down by her sides, taking a deep breath and ignoring the chuckles of a couple of passing beat-cops.

The hallways of the precinct were much the same in nature to that of the restroom. Clare felt, as she often did, that she might well be walking the set of Hill Street Blues with the crowded bulletin boards dripping leaflets of rule and instruction, missing people, out-of-date social events. The cops that held sway here didn't realize they were in the twenty-first century. The musty scent of old, curled paper stuck in the back of her mouth. The hallways were cloying in the early autumn and unbearable in the summer. At least, her labs were clean and air-conditioned.

Polished floor tiles gleamed as the over-bright panelled ceiling illumination shone back up at her, causing Clare to squint. As she reached the conference room, the location of her interview, the notices were replaced with framed scenes of faded old Worcester and the officers, men with integrity, who had founded this station. It gave her pride to know that at one time, there had been people interested in the actual job of policing.

Clare took a deep breath and closed her eyes, steadying her nerves. Inside this room lay her future. Beyond this door were the answers she sought and had worked so hard for, how her parents had died. She knocked once, the sound echoing down the empty hallway behind her, and entered.

The centerpiece of the conference room was a flag that hung from the ceiling. The dark blue background hosted the shield she had strived to earn, with the words 'Worcester Police Department' emblazoned in gold beneath it. This symbol had always given Clare hope, and more than a little longing for resolution. Yet today, the flag went unnoticed as Clare stared in disbelief at the people gathered around the table beneath it. All men. The scene looked like the parole hearings in The Shawshank Redemption, and her stomach began to tighten.

Two of the group Clare did not know, but she recognized Detective Paul Barton and his cohort, Lieutenant Nick Morgan in an instant, sneers on the faces of both. There was no sign of Captain Latchford. This did not bode well. She approached and took her seat.

One of the unknown men, bordering on elderly with sagging jowls and a belly that threatened to burst his uniform asked, “And you are?”

“Clare Rosser, sir.” He had rank over her whether he displayed it or not. “Be polite,” Mom had said in one of her last lucid moments before Boston. The memory had stuck.

In response, the old man turned to his colleagues. “Looks like they'll let anyone apply for patrol now.” He proceeded to wheeze a laugh at his own joke.

Clare let it slide. This was too important. Her entire life had built to this moment. “If I may, I was called here by Captain Latchford. Is he not part of the interview panel?”

Barton, a thug with tiny, suspicious eyes, squinted at her beneath a crop of curly brown hair and shuffled papers on the table in front of him. “I'm afraid Devin had to step out. A case of… what did he call it?”

“Boiling, twisted guts is how he described the feeling,” supplied Morgan, a short, suave man but known to contain a ferocious temper behind his dark looks. “As it stands, you're double-booked. Please go to room forty-two, where your interview will take place. Thank you.”

And that was it. Struggling to breathe amidst the testosterone wafting from this collection of alpha males, Clare turned with as much dignity as she could muster and left.

Her destination was only a few doors down. The wooden door was painted white with frosted glass, the kind that looked like it had a grid of metal wiring going through. It was a typical soulless representation of the entire precinct in Clare's opinion. The polished brass nameplate read 'Captain Andrew Harley' in black letters. This meant a rejection. To Clare, it was the worst kind of no. Yet, she persisted.

Clare knocked three times on the door and waited. Patience was a virtue. There were voices within, jovial in nature. The glass darkened, and the door opened after a brief pause. Wearing his trademark oversized blue suit trousers and a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the aging detective Mike Caruso finished a joke, walking past her without acknowledgement. Clare was left in the hallway, an open door between her and the captain's desk.

A few awkward moments passed before Harley glanced up. “Ah Clare, there you are. Come in and take a seat.”

On his deathbed, Harley will be perfunctory. Doing as bidden, Clare shut the door behind her, sitting opposite the captain, arranging her skirt to her satisfaction, and brushing her hair back. The room was soundproofed. Despite its age, there was an utter lack of noise anywhere, now that she sat still. It was unnerving. Resting her hands in her lap, Clare waited for the Captain to finish reading through his documentation. It gave her a chance to study his face. With a granite jaw and receding grey hair, he was every bit the aging commander, safe in the knowledge that he would end his career exactly where he had started it. The yellowed tips of his agitated fingers and slight wheeze when he breathed told a different story. Harley was a well-known chain-smoker who no doubt wanted nothing better than to be outside puffing away. The room stank of stale smoke, more than should be from an outside smoker, testament to the fact that he didn't always obey office rules. Clare suspected that with the stress of the job he wouldn't make retirement.

“So then. Clare. Clarey-Clare. Let's see.” His voice, while deep, had traces of his addiction in it, the graveled tones he used to end sentences, the slight breathlessness.

“What do we have here? Born, Worcester, nineteen eighty-two.” He paused and glanced up at her as if he couldn't quite believe the fact. “You attended Davis Hill Elementary School, Holden. You then moved on to Wachusett Regional High School, Holden. Not one for adventure, are we? Ah, here we have it. You graduated with a Degree in Criminal Justice, Boston. Then straight back here, enrolling in the department as an analyst, exceling in forensic science ever since.” The unspoken question was left hanging.

“Why do you care why I stayed? Most people stay near where they're born and raised. My brother was here, as you well know. I felt obliged to look after him. As it was, I was home every weekend until he joined me in Boston. You know all of this. This isn't a real job interview. Why persist with the charade?”

Harley shuffled through his documents, ignoring her question, the noise of sheet scraping sheet irritating her. “Ah yes Jeff, your younger half-brother, the only other occupant of your house other than Steve the cat.”

The mention of the tortoiseshell stray she had fostered brought a small smile to Clare's mouth.

“You brought up your brother alone?”

“I had no choice. It was that or the foster care system, which was pointless since he was almost eighteen. After my parents…”

“Ched and Patricia Rosser,” Harley supplied as if their names weren't already burned into her soul.

“Found dead October twenty-second, two thousand and two. Cause of death?” He looked up, his face unreadable. “It appears this was inconclusive.”

“There was more to it than an inconclusive result, and you know it,” Clare argued. “You were there, in my house when I arrived, with no crime scene left to analyze, after an hour of examination!”

“There were suspicious circumstances with no evidence. I know this, Miss Rosser. My report is still perfectly legible.”

“There were stains on the floor…”

“No evidence. It says so in this report. This signed and authenticated report.”

Harley pushed a folder yellowed with age across his desk toward her, opening it so she could read. The words 'death by natural cause' burned into her mind. There was no such thing. Not with so many police there, and Feds to boot.

Harley stared at her. Unbowed, Clare stared straight back, only averting her gaze to brush her hair back once more.

Harley grunted at her evident admission of subservience and continued to read. “All right then. Written test scores came back as ninety-eight percent. That's quite exceptional. Your use of logic is without flaw, just about.”

Clare was stunned, blinking a couple of times; she caught her breath. “Does that mean I get the job?”

“In a word, no.”

Clare's heart sank. She had expected this result given the turn of events, yet she had fostered a glimmer of hope in her heart. Harley had done this on purpose, baiting her. He had never liked her, not since the first time they had met, her as a student challenging his sloppy methods at the scene of her parents' death. If he were to have a motto, she was sure it would read, 'never question the alpha-male'.

“Logic is not the only way to solve a crime. We were looking for a demonstration of insight, of gut instinct in your written test. You failed to think outside of the box, and in our patrolmen, especially those who have aspirations to detective, we want those that see the trees and notice more than a collection of wood and leaves.”

“Those test scores must without any doubt put me ahead of anybody else who has taken them.” Clare was growing incensed. The decision had been made, against all logical reasoning.

“That's not your problem. You are a great forensic expert. You use facts and rules and apply them to the job. That is enough for what you do in analysis. It is not the only required skill to make detective. We both know why you want the job, and it is not to solve any other crime but that which you perceive has been committed on your parents. Let me be as clear as I can to you.” Harley leaned forward, his eyes piercing. “That. Case. Is. Closed. If you keep persisting in trying to find answers that are not there, you will find yourself out of a job in this department and, without a doubt, on the wrong side of a jail cell. Give it up. Keep doing what you do best. Good morning.”

The dismissal brooked no argument. Captain Harley turned away, picking up his cell phone. Soon, he was chortling to another colleague, the topic of discussion sexist and ribald.

Clare remained seated, glaring at her nemesis. She wouldn't be dismissed this way. At least not until Harley noticed her still present and flicked his hand toward the door, dismissing her without even looking. Maintaining her dignity, Clare left without looking back, though inwardly she was seething. Her dream was shattered.