Improbable Cause
Rena Burgess
IMPROBABLE CAUSE
A Short Story
By
Rena Burgess
* * * * *
Improbable Cause
Copyright © 2013 by Rena Burgess
This story is a work of fiction. Although inspired during an actual event, names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author is entirely unaware of any plot by the current administration to silence political opponents.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Many thanks to my husband, Erick Burgess, for encouraging me to write, as well as offering countless hours of advice and editing. I’d never have done this without you. Thanks for being awesome.
INTRODUCTION
A couple months ago, our family was gathered together to watch the biggest football game of the year. (Copyright laws prohibit me from using its more common name, but I think most of you know what I mean.) When a power outage occurred midway through the third quarter, my mind went into overdrive.
I turned to Erick and said, “What if it’s a terrorist attack? Or what if it’s a cover for some heinous crime?”
He calmly replied, “Don’t say that out loud, you’ll scare the kids. Just write it down and use it as a story idea for later.”
So that’s what I did, and here’s the result. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Rena Burgess
April 2013
IMPROBABLE CAUSE
Thank goodness I’m not wearing open-toed shoes.
As she walked down Bourbon Street, Paula gazed down into the gutter. It flowed with a murky brown liquid—a mixture of alcohol, urine, and she didn’t even want to think about what else. Paula sidestepped to keep from putting her foot into the mysterious puddles, but with the bustle of the crowd, it was hard to avoid. Blaring music pierced her eardrums as she pushed her way through the revelers. A drunken college student stumbled toward her.
“Hey, baby, where ya going?”
Paula dismissed him with a flick of her wrist as she moved off in the opposite direction.
“What? You deaf or something? You can’t talk?”
Careful to avoid eye contact, she continued walking away, thankful she could quickly disappear into the crowd. She had arrived in New Orleans a few weeks earlier, right in the midst of carnival season. With the big game in town that night, the streets were packed with football fans wearing team colors, drinking too much, cheering and arguing. Many were placing bets on which of their favorite players would show up in the Quarter after the game.
Paula had little interest in football, but she grew bored at home alone, so she had decided to take a walk through her French Quarter neighborhood. She quickly regretted her decision. As soon as she stepped out the door the pungent smells caused her stomach to convulse, and being jostled through the crowd made her feel like she was in a life-sized pinball machine.
I think I’ve had all the excitement I can stand tonight. Time to go home.
She pushed forward down the street, determined to get to her apartment and away from the madness as soon as possible.
As she walked further, the tone of the crowd changed. Something was up. She peered into a nearby bar to see what all the commotion was about.
“What’s going on?” she asked a woman near the entrance who seemed to be almost sober.
“The lights just went out at the Dome,” the woman replied. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“I know what it is,” an older man nearby interrupted. “It’s them Katrina spirits. They’re haunting the place. This country’s gonna pay for abandoning N’awlins in our time of need.”
The scent of alcohol was thick on the man’s breath. Paula nodded at him and turned her attention back to the television. The network commentators seemed just as confused about the situation as the audience.
Paula had no interest in staying out any longer, especially with the people around her becoming restless. She stepped out of the bar and began to trudge back toward her apartment.
About a block away from home, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket.
“Paula Davenport,” she answered.
“Davenport, how close are you to the Dome?” Her partner, Gerald Gordan’s voice came through the line.
“I’m in the Quarter.”
“You need to get over there right away. I’m on my way, but it will take me awhile in this traffic. There’s been a kidnapping.”
A kidnapping.
Paula spun around. After one look at the jam-packed streets, she started in the direction of the dome on foot.
I’ll get there faster by walking.
The crowds were even thicker as she approached the stadium, but she purposefully pushed her way through. When she arrived, the lights were beginning to come back on, and they were preparing to resume play. She checked in with the stadium security and was directed to the luxury suite level. She introduced herself to the nearest police detective.
“Paula Davenport, FBI.”
The man gave her a hard look. “We’ve got this under control, Agent. Despite what you may have heard, we ain’t no amateurs down here.”
“Regardless, I was sent here about a kidnapping, and I need to be briefed on the details, Detective—”
“Turner. My name’s Nolan Turner.” He frowned, but continued. “The victim is State Senator Davis Clay. He was watching the game in this suite with his wife and another senator, Nelson Patin. When the lights went out, there was a lot of confusion and Senator Clay disappeared. Mrs. Clay called us as soon as she realized he was missing.”
Paula approached another detective who was interviewing a distraught woman who appeared to be the senator’s wife.
“Mrs. Clay?”
The woman turned to Paula. “Yes.”
“I’m Agent Davenport with the FBI. What can you tell me about your husband’s disappearance?”
“He was right here beside me the whole game,” the woman sobbed. “He got up to stretch for a few minutes, and then the lights went out, and all of a sudden he was gone.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I assure you we’ll do everything we can to locate your husband.”
Paula stepped away from the woman and turned to Detective Turner. “Did Senator Patin see or hear anything?”
“He claims he didn’t. He said there was so much confusion when the power went out, he didn’t realize what else was going on. Both of them claim to have seen Senator Clay within minutes of the outage.”
“I assume you’ve already made a search of the immediate area?” she asked.
His face flashed with irritation. “Of course. We’re not incompetent. The senator is nowhere around here.”
“I meant no offense, Detective,” Paula replied, her own impatience growing. “Have you determined what caused the power outage?”
“Right this way.”
Paula followed the detective through the corridors to a mechanical room where several breaker boxes stood open.
“The outage originated from this point,” the detective said as he pointed to a box that was being worked on by a technician.
“Did anyone collect fingerprints?” she asked.
“Yes, they did,” he replied. “Quite a few different sets. We’ve got crime scene techs running them now, but with so many prints, it’s going to be nearly impossible to narrow it down to one perp.
Besides, if he’s smart, he was wearing gloves anyway.”
Paula nodded. “True.”
Detective Turner continued. “We still have the techs combing the room to see if any evidence was left behind, but so far nobody’s found anything.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Let me know right away if anything else turns up.”
“Of course.”
She turned, ready to get back to work. “Let’s go back to the suite and see if we can rustle up any more information on the senator.”
As Paula and Detective Turner walked back toward the luxury level, she heard a voice calling behind her.
“Excuse me.”
Paula turned to see a woman with a notepad and tape recorder hurrying toward them.
“I’m Stella Flynn with the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Can you give me any information about the power outage? Do you suspect foul play?”
Paula brushed her off. “No comment.”
“Detective,” the woman pressed. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Has there been a crime committed? What caused the power outage?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss anything right now, ma’am,” the detective replied and turned to continue down the corridor.
“Why are there detectives all around Senator Clay’s suite?” Flynn continued. “Has something happened to him? When will the press be briefed on the situation?”
Paula knew the game. Before joining the Bureau, she had worked ten years as an investigative reporter in Indianapolis. She knew which questions to ask and when. She loved journalism, but eventually decided she wanted more. Rather than report on the crimes, she wanted to solve them. After a two and a half year process that included a barrage of tests and interviews, and a grueling Academy experience, she was placed in the New Orleans FBI field office. So far it was not the glamorous life she’d expected, but it was a nice change of pace from her journalism days.
She turned to face the reporter. “Ma’am, we have no information for you at this time. If and when there is a press briefing, you can ask your questions then. For now, we don’t have anything to tell you.”
Paula motioned for the nearby security guard to prevent the woman from following them, and then continued down the hallway.
The woman persisted in shouting questions after her, but Paula ignored them and returned to the suite.
