Chapter 7
Jamie
Jamie waits outside the hospital morgue doors until Dalton Monaghan and the deputy step into the hallway. The deputy has her
hand on Dalton’s elbow as if she’s afraid he’s going to pass out.
“Excuse me,” Jamie says. Identification at the ready, he introduces himself. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Monaghan. Can we
talk for a few minutes?” Red-eyed, the man nods, and Jamie leads him down the hallway until he finds an empty family lounge.
A TV hanging from the wall is blaring an infomercial for cookware. Jamie finds the remote under a pile of magazines and presses
the power button.
Dalton sits, and Jamie pulls a chair over so that he’s sitting directly across from him. Like Madeline Drake, Dalton smells
of smoke. His clothes are smudged with soot, and his dirty hands tremble in his lap.
“Again, Mr. Monaghan,” Jamie says, “I’m so sorry. We’re going to do everything we can to find out exactly what happened.”
“Thank you,” Dalton says, swiping at his eyes. “But I’m not sure why the ATF is here. Wasn’t the explosion caused by the gender
reveal?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Jamie explains. “When there are incidents like these, where there are deaths and injuries and major property damage, we come out, assess, and decide if further investigation is needed.”
“I can tell you whose fault it is,” Dalton says, his voice shaking with anger. “It’s Wes’s and Madeline’s. If they hadn’t
planned this stupid stunt, Johanna would still be alive.”
“When was the last time you saw Johanna last night?” Jamie asks. “How did she seem?”
“I didn’t,” Dalton says. “I didn’t see her at the party at all. I came straight from work and got there just as people were
moving to the field to watch the reveal. The last time I saw her was yesterday morning before I left for work. We were both
in a hurry.” He lowers his face into his hands.
Jamie gives him a moment before he asks his next question. “I saw you and Wes talking upstairs in the ER, and it looked like
you were having words.”
“Yeah, we had words,” Dalton says, clearing his throat. “I told him blowing up a fucking truck wasn’t safe and that my wife
was dead because of him.”
“How did he respond?” Jamie asks, though he saw the entire exchange.
Dalton shakes his head. “He wasn’t happy that I called him out,” Dalton says. “But you know what? It doesn’t matter. There
will be zero consequences for them.”
“Why do you say that?” Jamie says.
“Because the Drakes are rich,” Dalton says as if it’s obvious. “They own half the county and can buy their way out of anything.
Someone might go down for this, but I guarantee it’s not going to be Wes Drake.”
“That’s not true, Mr. Monaghan,” Jamie says. “We’ll get to the bottom of what happened and hold those responsible accountable.”
“Yeah, right,” Dalton says, getting to his feet. “Is there anything else?”
“Nothing for now,” Jamie says, also standing. “Let me drive you home. You can try and get some rest, and we can talk more later.”
“Nah,” Dalton says. “I’m good. And just you wait. You’re not from here, right?”
Startled by the question, it takes a beat for Jamie to answer. “No, I came over from Cheyenne.”
“You’ll see,” Dalton says as he begins to walk away. “The Drakes and people like them own more than land around here. Just
you wait.”
Jamie steps out of the hospital into the dark parking lot and jogs to his car. Once inside he glances at his watch. Almost
six o’clock. He needs to call Greta, who he’s banking on being in the office even though the sun isn’t up yet.
“Jamie,” she says, picking up on the first ring.
“Greta,” he responds. “First one in the office?” As the intelligence research specialist, she is their go-to person for, among
other things, digging through massive amounts of data and information in databases, public records, and open-source intelligence
to assist in investigations.
“Always,” Greta says. “I’m actually already on cup of coffee number two. What do you need?”
“Can you look up anything you can find on Dalton Monaghan of Nightjar?” Jamie asks as he presses the car’s ignition and flips
on the windshield wipers. “I’m specifically looking for any arrest records, employment records, anything that might indicate
familiarity with explosive devices.”
“That’s a tall order for six in the morning.
” Greta chuckles, but already he can hear her fingers tapping the keyboard.
“But I can tell you right now that your Dalton is forty years old and a wind turbine technician,” Greta recites.
“Grew up in Ohio, moved to Nightjar about nine years ago with his wife, Johanna. This is interesting. He’s been arrested three times as an adult and once as a minor.
All in the state of Ohio. The minor record is sealed, but it looks like he was arrested once for trespassing, once for drunk and disorderly, and once for assault. ”
“Who was the victim?” Jamie asks, snapping on his seat belt.
“Someone named Zeke Hollinger. Monaghan also pressed charges against him. Looks like it was a bar fight. Both sets of charges
were eventually dropped,” Greta explains.
“Well, it proves this guy has a temper,” Jamie says. “Anything else?” There’s more key tapping. Through the rain, Jamie sees
a figure moving through the parking lot. Dalton Monaghan. He unlocks his car door and climbs inside.
“Looks like Monaghan was trained as a combat engineer in the army back in the early 2000s,” Greta says.
“So he would have plenty of experience with explosives,” Jamie muses, his eyes still on Dalton, who now has both hands on
his steering wheel and drops his head.
“Not really. He never got much of a chance,” Greta says. “He was injured in a training exercise and blew out his knee. Had
surgery and ended up working as a recruiter in Cleveland for a few years.”
“But he has the skills,” Jamie says. “He would have learned how to use explosives to clear minefields and pathways, demolish
buildings.”
Jamie watches as Dalton lifts his head and abruptly slams the palm against the dashboard before putting his car into Drive
and speeding from the parking lot.
“Looks like you have your first suspect,” Greta says. “It really is always the husband, isn’t it?”