Unwritten: The Brooklyn Pieper story (continued)

Disclaimer: all characters in this short story are fictional/creations of my own imagination. Sights and locations are based on real cities/towns/National Parks located in the Western United States.

Note: This section picks up at the start of a closing chapter in Declan O'Reilly's book. The remainder of the section will be posted in due time.

(Declan O’Reilly): Never ask for more whiskey than you can handle

“Are you sure you have to do this Brooklyn?” Brooklyn’s sigh was loud and exaggerated. It reverberated and pinged off the walls of her apartment until it reached me in the hallway. I was making dinner, the last Brooklyn and I would enjoy before her undercover assignment. 

“Yes Declan.” Her tone was exasperated and tired, making me feel like an idiotic child. This wasn’t the first time we argued about Brooklyn’s newest assignment from the FBI. For days I watched her build her new identity, the person she would become in less than twenty-four hours. The person she would be for the foreseeable future, and every time I asked, the answer was the same. Yes, she had to go undercover and no, “Nothing has changed in the last three days.”

I sighed and leaned against the doorframe to Brooklyn’s bedroom. She lived in a beautifully historic building in Charlestown, complete with old school brick walls and modernized light fixtures and windows that made anyone feel like they were living in a futuristic version of the American colonies. It always felt homier than my New Age skyscraper apartment in Bunker Hill thanks to Brooklyn’s decorating skills, but that night, there was a thick sadness clung in the air, as though the molecules themselves anticipated Brooklyn’s long departure.

“Brooklyn, you’re the head agent.” Brooklyn’s long fingers folded a shirt with military precision on the bed as I continued my argument. It was cathartic watching the fabric fold into just perfect corners. One sleeve over. Other sleeve over. Flip bottom to the middle, flip bottom toward the top. Smooth out the wrinkles. “Isn’t there someone younger who could take this assignment?”

“No.” Brooklyn’s voice was firm and cold, something I wasn’t used to hearing. This was really a new experience for both of us though. The undercover work wasn’t the issue for me. Brooklyn was one of the best undercover’s I had the privilege of working with. Her experience and professionalism allowed her to completely become another human being without losing herself. Brooklyn was the last person anyone had to worry about going undercover, but I still did. It was natural. I loved her and didn’t want anything to happen to her, but going under was part of her job and she was good at it. There was something deeper about this case, though. Some hesitancy that sent a chill down my spine and wanted to put Brooklyn under house arrest. 

“Brooklyn.” “Declan it’s settled. It’s done.” Frustrated, Brooklyn grabbed her leather jacket from the closet and threw it on her bed. When it landed, ran her fingers through her head, pulling back the skin on her forehead. It was one of the few tells she had. Brooklyn was stoic under pressure, unmoving, and, quite frankly, unnerving. She worked hard to make sure no one knew what she was thinking ever, especially when it came to the FBI, and this was a rare display of emotion in regards to her job. “I’m going undercover. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.” “I’m not trying to stop you love.” I continued to stand in the doorway, my eyes forlornly focused on Brooklyn’s pile of clothes. “I’m just worried about you.”

“Well don’t be,” Brooklyn huffed. She avoided all forms of contact as she walked back to the closet and rummaged through a dirty clothes bin. Her blonde hair, though contained in a single hair tie, fell at the perfect angle, concealing her eyes and facial features from my vision. “This isn’t my rodeo.”

“Brooklyn, this isn’t like you.” In three years, Brooklyn never once acted like this. It was as though she was consumed by this case, this specific undercover mission, and I didn’t know why. I loved Brooklyn, and I thought I’d seen every side of her, but this was new. She was stubborn, but never outright rude or defiant. She was shutting down, hiding behind her walls and armor. There was a secret she was hiding, “Just tell me what’s going on love.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Brooklyn’s voice cracked and the hardness softened, but she was clinging to anything to maintain composure. The t-shirt she was folding was suddenly balled up in her fists, as though that alone could contain her conflicting emotions. It wasn’t up to the task. Nothing really was. Brooklyn’s emotions were trapped behind a dam ready to combust and explode from pressure and stress. My questioning seemed to be the trigger, but I didn’t want Brooklyn to feel like she was being interrogated. I just  didn’t want her to think she was alone.

“Then help me Brooklyn,” I walked through the room until across from her. She was still looking down at the pile, and when I gingerly picked up her chin and tilted her head toward mine, I almost didn’t recognize the woman standing across from me. Everything about Brooklyn Pieper was strong and confident. Her attitude and determination were as sharp as her cheekbones and jawline, and her green eyes were always blazing. She was focused, but playful and passionate about nearly everyone and everything she loved. That wasn’t the Brooklyn Pieper standing across from me. This Brooklyn was lost and broken, her eyes filled with the sadness and innocence of a child, not a full grown woman, “Help me understand.”

Brooklyn looked around the room, paused, defeated. She searched for a focal point that wasn’t me. If she didn’t look at me, it wouldn’t be true. Her emotions wouldn’t be acknowledged and realized.

“He threatened to take me off the case Declan.” Brooklyn allowed three days worth of stress to exit her body. She collapsed on the bed, water wetting her determined eyes, her body folding inward. “Boss. He said he would hand the case to new agents with fresh eyes, unless I could find something new.”

“Would that really be so bad?” I sat down on the bed next to Brooklyn, slowly rubbing my hand against her back. The muscles quivered under my touch, and I knew Brooklyn felt shame and failure as much as relief. “You’ve wanted to leave the unit for months. Just last week, you were talking about a transfer.”

Brooklyn sniffed and laid her head on my shoulder, “I know. It’s just, I have to close this case before I go.”

“Why?” McGinty meant something to Brooklyn. It was her first major case after she graduated from Quantico, and it wasn’t long before Hubert Boss, the Special Agent in Charge of the Organized Crime Unit, named her head of the task force. Rumor was Boss requested Brooklyn specifically to head the unit while she was still a student at Quantico. It was natural for Brooklyn to take it personally if the man who requested her threatened to hand off her case to someone newer and younger. Any agent would take offense to that. “What is so important about this case Brooklyn? He’s just another gangster.”

Brooklyn looked up toward the ceiling, a fresh batch of tears glistening in her eyes. The vulnerability somehow made her more beautiful in my eyes. The water streaks marred her faded tan from a recent trip to the southern states for a case and somehow illuminated an emerald patch in her green eyes, “Because McGinty killed my dad, Declan.”

My body stilled in shock, “I thought your dad died in a random shooting.” Brooklyn shook her head as tears slid down her cheeks. She bit her lower lip with her front teeth, and if she wasn’t wringing her hands, one was playing with the ends of her hair.   “That’s what the detectives said. My dad was just a victim of random violence.” “So what makes you think McGinty is involved?”

“I didn’t at first,” Brooklyn admitted. “But there were things that never added up. Where we lived in Colorado doesn’t exactly have a high crime rate or murders. That was the first one in over ten years, I think. Plus, I watched the video. Right before he was shot, he looks over his shoulder and smiles, as though he recognizes a person.” I nodded, “I agree that doesn’t sound like a random shooting, but how did you get to McGinty?”

Brooklyn shifted her body, “The ballistics report. When I got to the Bureau , I realized it was the same gun and MO of McGinty’s former enforcer. The one he used before La Rose Juane.”

“You discussed that at Quantico?” “Mhm,” Brooklyn nodded and sniffled, “It was during the profiling unit. We were supposed to recognize patterns in suspect behavior, and I made the connection.”

Brooklyn opened her mouth to continue but closed it. There was something else she wanted to say, and I could visibly see her weighing the options in her mind. She herself thought the idea was crazy, but she was down the rabbit hole. And so was I. 

“And there was the tattoo.”

Brooklyn spit out the words as though they were venom, not even giving herself time to breath or really annunciate. “Tattoo?” Brooklyn nodded, “At the autopsy. I noticed my dad had a small tattoo on his wrist. A four leaf clover inside a Celtic knot.” My eyes grew wide, “That’s McGinty’s mark.”

“I know. I’d never seen it before.” And there lied Brooklyn’s problem. Two plus two did not equal four. The facts she knew to be true were at war, and so was Brooklyn.“My dad was a National Park Ranger Declan. I know he wasn’t involved in any gang activity, especially McGinty. But that tattoo.”

She drifted off, lost in thought. I never pretended to know what went on in Brooklyn’s complicated head. She told me since her dad’s death, she relied on facts more than emotions. Her rationale made sense. Emotions led to pain and hurt, and facts never lied. Brooklyn closed herself off to the world for years, and I always felt honored that she felt comfortable enough to open herself up to me.

“Hey,” I pulled Brooklyn into my chest and felt her fall against me, giving in to her tumultuous emotions. “I got you Brooklyn. I’m right here, and I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

I felt her words against my chest, “I just have to know, you know.”

I nodded and kissed her head, “I know. What can I do?” She looked up and gave me a quick kiss, “Just keep being you.”

I smiled, “I think I can do that love.”

***

Later that night.

“You know,” Brooklyn lay next to me in bed, her clothes removed and folded neatly in a suitcase. It was a rare moment, both of us together and going to bed at the same time. More often than not, one of us was out late working a case, the other patiently waiting for them to arrive. “I probably won’t be gone all that long. I’ll be back by this time next week, driving you nuts.”

“You?” I rolled my head to the side to look at her, “Brooklyn Pieper? Drive me nuts? Never.”

She laughed and propped her head up on her left wrist, “Seriously, Declan. I just wanted to thank you. For supporting me through all of this, and tell you I’m sorry.”

I turned on my side to look at her, “For what?”

“For not telling you about my dad.” She played with the fold in the sheet, her freed hair lounging in front of her shoulder. “I just always thought I’d close the case, you know, and I wouldn’t have to tell anyone. It would just come out then. All at once”

I placed my hand on top of hers, “You don’t have to apologize for anything Brooklyn.”

“But you’ve always been so supportive and understanding,” Brooklyn insisted, a worried look crossing her face. “I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you. I do. More than anyone else.”

“I know.” I winked to try and ease her tension, “I’ve seen all your tattoos remember.”

Brooklyn rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips turned every so slightly. She had three tattoos, one on each foot and one on her ribs, just below the bra line. She baited me with it on our first date when I claimed to know everything about her. Brooklyn asked how many tattoos she had, and I proudly stated two, one on each foot, and described them in detail. She responded with a coy smile and said maybe someday I’d be lucky enough to see number three. 

Three months later, I was. Luck of the Irish.

“You know I was thinking,” she eventually continued, breaking me out of my reminiscing, “when I get back, I think we should start planning the wedding.”

My eyes grew wide in shock. Nearly a year passed since I proposed to Brooklyn at Zion National Park and barely any planning ensued. Every time we tried to start, Brooklyn would catch a case or I’d be sent across the country on a fugitive goose chase. When we did have free time, though, Brooklyn never seemed eager to plan. She was fiercely independent, hence our two apartments, and I accepted we may be a couple that is eternally engaged. 

“Really?” I was treading water but could barely contain my excitement. I wanted a wedding, but it wasn’t necessary to show Brooklyn I loved her. Being with Brooklyn everyday was enough for me, and it was seemingly more than enough for her. Brooklyn wasn’t the grand, romantic gestures type of person. She showed love in smaller ways, that were equally, if not more, thoughtful than flowers or grand dates.

“Yes you eejit.” She playfully slapped my shoulder. “Maybe we could start by actually picking a date?”

“Wait here.” Like a silly teenager, I dashed into the kitchen, grabbed a rectangular white box out of my workout bag and returned to find a confused Brooklyn staring at me from the bed. I climbed back under the covers and slid the box in her direction. “I planned to give this to you in the morning, but we aren’t nearly that lucky.”

Her laugh fluttered through the room as she opened the box. Her brow wrinkled as she pulled a standard cell phone, “It’s a phone.”

“Ah, but not just any phone.” I reached over and hit the phone's power button. Immediately, the screen lit up, displaying a photo of Brooklyn sleeping at her desk. “It’s your phone from the first case we worked together.”

Brooklyn’s mouth gaped, “This is official FBI property sir. How did you get it?”

I feigned innocence, though we both knew I wasn’t. The FBI did not trust anyone or anything when I worked that first case with Brooklyn, nor did the Marshals. Someone smart hacked our system, and we knew there was a mole potentially within the task force. While An Ros bui was involved, everyone knew the BAU was called in to monitor us. All of us, myself and Brooklyn included, were given new phones to conduct all our business, and my gift to Brooklyn was hers. 

“That is not the point, love,” I explained, ignoring her inquisitive look. “The point is you can use this phone while you’re undercover. If you want, that is. Nothing about it can lead back to Brooklyn Pieper. According to every database in the world, that phone belongs to Laurel Hill and always has.”

“My cover,” Brooklyn raised her eyebrow. “Jackson?” “A good Marshal never reveals his secrets.” My response was the confirmation Brooklyn needed. Her eyes lit up like she’d just figured out the missing piece of the puzzle and her smile widened exponentially. She looked younger than she had in days, maybe even months. “But if you want, you could start by putting a wedding date in there. So you can solve this case on time.”

A laugh escaped Brooklyn’s throat as she hugged the phone to her chest. Her eyes were squinty and crinkled, showing her joy was pure and real. They also distracted me from the pillow hurtling toward my face. The soft cushion blocked my view of Brooklyn as I fell to my back. I retaliated by starting a tickle war. 

Brooklyn’s fluttery laughter mixed with my deep howls as war ensued. Brooklyn used her feminine wiles and charms to disarm me, and we created a new pile of discarded clothes on the floor. But once everything was settled, Brooklyn and I settled on a date: September 15th the following year unless a venue was available on September 21st, roughly seven months away. 

I fell asleep smiling, Brooklyn in my arms, and I knew. I was the luckiest man in the universe.

***

The next day. 

I was called to the office at five in the morning. The call itself came in at 4:30 a.m., and my supervisor guaranteed there would be hell to pay if I wasn’t at the office in half an hour. 

Brooklyn stirred when I moved from the bed, a small, sleepy grumble of protest. I pushed a few tendrils of hair from her face and lightly pecked her cheek, eliciting a small smile. It was a small goodbye, but enough. For now. 

It was the perfect time to travel through Boston traffic, especially on a Wednesday. The late night crowd was home and off to bed, and the early risers were just starting to wake. No one was really out and about. The Navy Yard was quiet, the highway equally as quiet as I made the exchange to the intersection. Without the cars, I could see the inky blue sky and translucent grey clouds as I drove toward Courthouse Way. The city was officially, finally, asleep, if only for an hour. 

My thoughts, of course, strayed, first during the drive, then the meeting. The Marshals were being called in by the Boston PD to provide extra security for at least three days, maybe longer. The state was prosecuting a local policeman for shooting an unarmed black man, and while it wasn’t technically a federal case, we were asked to provide beefed up security for both the prosecution and the defendant. The courthouse was expecting added protestors and media attention thanks to a recent statement from the American president, and it was our job to ensure nothing got out of hand.  

Normally, I was focused on strategy during these meetings, figuring out how to control the crowd and protect the defendant without infringing on anyone’s rights. This was a critical case with many dynamics at play, and I would be in charge of at least one security detail. My mind was distracted, though. The facts Brooklyn revealed about her da flitted in and out between threat assessments and social media strategies. Distraction of any kind wasn’t something I could afford, and yet, I couldn’t compartmentalize Sam Pieper’s case, stuff it in my pocket and tuck it away for later. 

Brooklyn was right. According to her telling, the facts didn’t add up. If her da recognized the man, it wasn’t a random shooting. I had to take her word on the tattoo. Not that I doubted Brooklyn. She was sharp as a dagger and wittier than a leprechaun. If she said it was McGinty’s mark, I believed her, but I wanted to see it with my own eyes. Make my own judgement without relying on hearsay.

The meeting ended, and all agents embarked on their missions. Six in my unit were assigned to prison transportation while my partner, Thomas Thompason, and I were assigned perimeter duty. We were scheduled to meet Boston PD at eight to go over the plan, which meant two hours of free time. I knew what to do with mine.

Jackson was already at the office by the time I reached the Boston FBI building. I stopped at a coffee shop across the street and asked the barista to deliver a large hot chocolate to the young woman reading the corner. Her sleepy green eyes were pensive, residing somewhere between hazy and awake as they scanned the pages of her book. Her blonde hair was swooped into a bun at the base of her neck, revealing a small, celtic knot tattoo just below her hairline. Brooklyn was already in character, though the smile she offered after her drink was delivered was hers. 

“Declan,” Jackson’s nose was mere inches from his computer when I showed up at his desk not five minutes later. “You just missed Brooklyn. She’s on her way to the van, but I’m sure I could get her back here.” “That’s ok Jackson.” The office floor was wide open, but Jackson was the only agent there just past seven. The SAC, Hubert Boss, was the only other agent there, working behind his desk in a closed off office. “I want to talk to you.”

“Me?” Jackson’s face scrunched in confusion. We were chums, friends, but we weren’t especially close. He was Brooklyn’s best friend, first and foremost, and I respected their relationship.

“Yes. What do you know about Brooklyn’s da?”

“Not much.” Clacking of fingers on keyboards provided a subtle accompaniment to Jackson’s deep voice. “Brooklyn doesn’t really talk about him. You probably know more than I do, to be honest.”

“She never talked about him at Quantico?”

“No,” Jackson admitted, swiveling in his seat to face me. “The only reason I knew he was murdered was because of an assignment.”

“An assignment?”

Jackson sighed, “At Quantico. We were each assigned to do a deep background on one of our classmates, discover their deepest, darkest secrets and find their weak spot. Brooklyn was my partner, so she was my assignment.”

“You had a week to try and figure out Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Jackson chuckled under his breath. “Eight years later, still as clueless when it comes to that woman.”

We shared a laugh, “Maybe we’ll figure her out by the time we’re seventy.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Jackson reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out a thick manilla envelope. A younger version of Brooklyn stared at me from a clipped photograph on the front cover and various colored papers stuck out from around the edges. “This is my original dossier, and it doesn’t even include the updated information.”

Gingerly, I took the folder from Jackson’s hands and paged through its contents. As far as I was concerned, Jackson handed me the Holy Grail, and I hoped it would provide some insight into Samuel Pieper.

“Anyway, there wasn’t much of a case,” Jackson continued as I paged through his file on Brooklyn. From what I could tell, he was thorough. At a glance, I noticed four different sets of transcripts along with several school photos from her youth. “No physical evidence, no bullet or bullet casing. Just a single gunshot wound to the chest and a dead body in a parking lot.”

Jackson’s voice was impassioned and steady, as though he was recounting any other case. It was why he excelled as an FBI agent. Jackson was able to separate himself from the case at hand, even those involving Brooklyn.

“I wasn’t able to access the police report at the time.” Jackson admitted. “I didn’t have time. All the information I gathered was from archived newspaper articles. They’re all in the file.”

“Do you happen to remember the lead detective?”

Jackson shook his head, “No, but I can find it for you, and the original case file. But why do you want it?”

“I think it has something to do with this case.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. Jackson and I were still the only people in the office, but it was about that time when agents could start flowing in for work.

Jackson’s eyes bugged in shock, “The McGinty case?”

I nodded, but before I could complain, Hubert Boss was standing outside his office door hollering down at Jackson. 

“Agent Offendorf!” “Sir.” Jackson wasn’t disheveled. He merely turned his chair and addressed his boss, cool and calm as a cucumber. It was almost unsettling how quickly he could change his demeanor, but it came in handy. 

“What is going on? Why is a Marshal in this office?” “Agent Boss,” I interrupted, making my presence known. “I came to see Brooklyn. I was called into the office before she left this morning, and I wanted to see her off. Jackson was just helping me get her a message.”

“Agent Pieper is already undercover, Marshal O’Reilly.” Boss’ high pitched voice gyrated against my ears, forcing an involuntary twitch. “I trust Agent Offendorf told you that.” “Yes sir he did.” “Then you should be on your way.” There was no suggestion in Boss’ voice, it was a direct order. I was to leave or be forcibly removed. “Any future updates regarding Agent Pieper’s status will come from me. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” I felt like I was being chastised by the nuns again, and I didn’t much appreciate it. “Thank you for the help Jackson.” Jackson twisted to block Boss’ vision, “Take the file. I’ll be in touch.”