Madam President ✓

19. Evidence

Alex

  I pull the car into a narrow but real parking spot at headquarters. Blood drips from my nose onto my lap. When I try to stifle the flow with my fingers, it seeps through and pours out the edges. Great.

  I'm sure the next time I visit my doctor he'll be so happy to hear I let my blood pressure get high enough for my nose to do that. I never though I would become the stereotype "high blood pressure" cop, yet here I am. When I look in the car's rear view mirror now, a tiny vein on my forehead is more visible.

I decide to allow myself to ignore it for once. They say high blood pressure is the second most common killer among people in the criminal investigations field- I'm sure my doctor would love to hear that to.

  When I get out of the government issued car I slam the door hard, letting some of my frustration out. Had the government taken real precautions to prevent this from happening- by gee I don't know, not inaugurating congress and the president at the same venue, Amber would still be alive.

  I go to check my smart watch for any group updates and that's when I finally see it- my face's reflection with a tiny speck of blood on the cheek. I know it isn't mine. I haven't gotten so much as a paper cut today. When I bring my finger to it, it hasn't quite dried yet- but it's thick.

  And it's hers.

I quickly and roughly wipe my cheek with my sleeve, not that it makes the simple fact any better: her blood is on me. I could have threatened her a thousand different ways, told her I'd kill her guinea pigs or something if she went in there or that I'd surrender her chinchilla to an animal shelter. That last one would have done it for sure.

  Another van pulls in a few parking spots away, followed by two police car escorts. I narrow my eyes in confusion until five people come out at the same time, one carrying a tiny evidence bag while the others surround him like they're secret service protecting the president of the United States.

  Bomb residue- I read the back of the bag.

  Good. Them identifying it should help my end of the investigation at least a little bit. I follow them in- with a different destination than the lab in mind.

  I take the elevator up to the floor Amber, Jeremy, and my offices are on. I swipe my keycard across his door, not bothering to knock.

  "So I was thinking if you can't get into the security cameras quickly because of a firewall or coding or something maybe you could- OH MY GOD!!" I scream.

  My eyes widen. I throw a hand over my mouth. No. No no no no no no- he can't be dead. There's no way. Without him my lead will lead nowhere.

  I steal one more look at the blood covering his desk and dripping to the bathroom before I throw up in his trash can.

  "Jesus are you okay?" He's suddenly standing in the doorframe, looking at me like I've lost my mind. When he sees the look on my face he holds up his hand- revealing two bandaged fingers. "I tried to cut an apple. It didn't go well."

  His reassurances do not make my heart rate slow down. In fact if anything they make it speed up- because it lets me know that he doesn't know.

  "Alex? Why are you looking at me like that?" He raises an eyebrow. "Come on, what?"

  The tears threatening to spill out of my eyes now speak for me. His own expression- normally nothing but happy and energetic, falls. His lips stay slightly parted and his eyes a mix of shock and anger.

  "No."

  "Yes." I say. He's got one of his monitors playing ABC news. The breaking news banner across the bottom of the screen reads "One FBI agent confirmed dead from detonating third known bomb". "It was her."

  It's like this twenty year old sees his life flash before his eyes. He collapses and starts bawling like a five year old girl if she found out her mother just died. And I decide I have to be strong, that I have to support him and not cry with him because I need him to get his emotions out so he can get back to work quickly.

  If I am his friend, Amber was just about his mother.

  After about five minutes of this, I pull his face away from my shoulder and force him to look at me.

"Use that anger to get those camera feeds faster for me, okay? Otherwise it's just pointless. Finding out who made and placed those bombs is how we give her justice, and we get closer to that by finding out who the west wing traitor is."

  "Okay." He wipes the tears still streaming down his face away with his arm. I help him back to his desk, where he's typing strings of letters and numbers I couldn't begin to understand if I tried, trying to figure out the password to the secret service's security camera room without anything looking out of place to them.

  I place a hand on his shoulder before I leave, not knowing what more to say. Exhausted, I collapse outside of his door- which is right above the stairwell leading to "the pit"- a place for the lower ranking agents who haven't quite earned their own offices yet  and are only working at headquarters because they lived in the area.

  I rub my eyes. There is an indescribable feeling that comes with a long day- one that makes your head bob forward because you just can't keep your eyes open, and your hands shake, struggling to do normal tasks because you're just so tired.

  Normally that feeling comes on if you haven't gotten more than five hours of sleep in two days, but I got twelve last night.

  In just a few hours, it feels like I've lost ten years of my life.

  "THEY'VE IDENTIFIED THE BOMB!" Somebody shouts from inside the pit.