What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  “There’s no such thing as privacy anymore,” Deese said. “No such thing as keeping secrets. Everything is available to everyone who knows how to look. In twenty years, fifteen, hell, in ten years privacy won’t even be a word that we use anymore. It’ll become archaic, like dirigible and man-at-arms and political courage.”

  “I wonder why Mom did what she did? Was she swept off her feet by some handsome gallant—how’s that for an archaic word? Was she angry at Dad? Was she drunk? Did someone take advantage of her? That’s a possibility, I guess. David, have you given much thought to your—I was going to say father. Birth father, I guess. Who he was, what he did; if he’s still alive?”

  “I have. I’d like to know. I’m not sure if I’d do anything with the information once I have it, though. I haven’t decided if I want to reach out to him or his family. I asked a friend to look into it for me, a kind of freelance detective I play hockey with. I don’t know if he’s learned anything yet. Turns out someone shot him last night.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I don’t know if it had anything to do with me or not. There’s a cop at the St. Paul police station, someone else I play hockey with. I might’ve mentioned him. Bobby Dunston?”

  T shook her head.

  “He said he’d let me know once they have it all figured out. The thing with McKenzie, though; he’s always involved in something.”

  * * *

  They found Elliot Sohm at East Hall, which as the name suggested was located on the eastern side of the campus on the ground floor of the Language and Dining Center; its upper floors hosting the majority of the language courses offered at Carleton. They had arrived just in time. Burton Hall, with its more formal dining-room vibe, continued serving meals until eight P.M. However, East Hall, which looked and sounded like a cafeteria, stopped serving at seven P.M. and most of the students had already departed when Volkert and Shipman arrived.

  Shipman recognized Elliot immediately, only not from the video. She recognized her from the image on Volkert’s computer screen. The young woman was seated at a square table facing a floor-to-ceiling window near the beverage station with a fellow student. The student was shoving books into a backpack. Elliot was playing with her cell phone. Volkert found a perch near the entrance where he could see but not hear the conversation. Shipman approached the table.

  “Elliot,” she said.

  The woman looked up from her phone, a startled expression on her young face.

  No, absolutely not the woman captured on the security cameras at McKenzie’s condo, Shipman told herself.

  “May I sit down?” she asked.

  Shipman pulled out a chair and sat before either of the students could respond.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions if it’s not inconvenient,” she said.

  The two women glanced at each other and back at Shipman.

  “Who are you?” the fellow student asked.

  Shipman studied her only for a moment. The long auburn hair worn in a ponytail gave her away.

  “My name is Jean Shipman.” She reached into her pocket and produced the thin wallet that carried her badge and ID. “I’m a homicide detective with the St. Paul Police Department.”

  Elliot gasped at the word “homicide” which was exactly why Shipman had used it. She slid the wallet across the table toward the young woman.

  “I’m also a friend of McKenzie’s,” she said. “You both know McKenzie, don’t you?”

  Elliot opened the wallet cautiously. Unlike Officer Cordova and the security guard, she seemed intensely interested in what she found inside. She stared at it for a moment and pushed the wallet over to her friend. Her friend studied the contents and closed the wallet.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I’d like to speak to Elliot privately,” Shipman answered.

  “No.” Elliot seized her friend’s hand and squeezed tight. “I don’t want her to leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” The friend glared at Shipman defiantly. “I’m staying.”

  “That’s fine.” Shipman deliberately gave her voice a conspiratorial tone. “Elliot, where were you last night at…”

  “Wait.” The friend had lowered her voice, too, and leaned in. After all, they were three women sharing secrets. “Wait a minute. Elliot doesn’t need to answer any questions without a lawyer present. She doesn’t have to answer any questions at all.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Emma,” Shipman said. “You are Emma King, aren’t you?”

  The two friends glanced at each other some more.

  “Emma and Ellie forever, am I right? Listen…” Shipman sought Elliot’s eyes and held on to them. “I could have had the Northfield Police Department drag you out of class, shove you into the back of a patrol car, and drive you to the St. Paul Police Department where I would have interviewed you beneath a single lightbulb inside a bare room about the size of a closet. Or after I arrived here, I could have had one of the campus security guards escort you across the campus to Hoppin House. I didn’t do that because I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your classmates. I just want to ask a few questions and then I’ll be on my way.”

  Shipman shifted her gaze to Emma.

  “The fact that you’re talking about hiring lawyers before you even know what those questions are makes me wonder,” she said.

  “We’re sorry.” Elliot averted her eyes like a nun listening to a smutty story. “It’s just that we’ve never been questioned by the police before. It’s kinda scary.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  Shipman didn’t admit that it was one of her favorite things, frightening the unsuspecting.

  “You said you were a friend of McKenzie’s?” Emma asked.

  “Yes. The man you met two days ago at CakeWalk.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Was it supposed to be a secret?”

  “No. Not a secret. Just…”

  “Private?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this about?” Elliot asked.

  “You don’t know?” Shipman said.

  Elliot glanced at her friend again and slowly shook her head.

  “Where were you at eight thirty last night?”

  “Here.” Emma was too quick to respond, Shipman thought. “We were right here.”

  “In this exact spot?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “Burton Hall,” Elliot said. “We were in our dorm room.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Studying,” Emma said.

  “Eating,” Elliot said.

  “That’s right. I had a teriyaki turkey burger with grilled pineapple and onions.”

  “I had eggplant parmesan with mushroom risotto. We bought it at Sayles Hill Café.”

  Shipman told herself that the food had changed since she went to college.

  “When did you buy your meals?” she asked aloud.

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “It was late. Eight?”

  “Did you pay cash?”

  “No,” Elliot said. “We have what they call a OneCard. It’s like a debit card except that it also allows you to enter buildings and stuff. You put the money for your meal plan on the card and then when you go to eat you order what you want and swipe the card.”

  “There should be a record of what you bought and when you bought it then,” Shipman said.

  “So you can check.” Emma seemed relieved that there was a way to verify her alibi. “That would prove that we were here, right?”

  “It would prove that someone used your card. Never mind that. Where were you at six P.M.?”

  “Last night? Here,” Elliot said. “In Burton. Studying. We have midterms this week.”

  “I’m going to ask you that question again, later,” Shipman said. “But first—you’re wondering what this was about. Someone shot McKenzie in the back at approximately eight thirty P.M. last night outside of a club in St. Paul called RT’s Basement.”


  Elliot was looking at Emma when she said, “Oh my God.”

  “What happened?” Emma asked. “Is McKenzie all right?”

  “He’s in a coma at Regions Hospital,” Shipman said.

  “He didn’t die?”

  “I’m told that he’ll recover.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Why thank God?”

  Emma hesitated before saying, “He seemed like a nice man.”

  “Emma,” Elliot said.

  Emma rested a hand on her hand.

  “It’ll be all right,” she said.

  “Will it?” Shipman asked.

  “You said McKenzie will recover.”

  “What if he doesn’t? Besides, there’s still the small matter of who shot him in the first place. There’s the matter of who lured him to RT’s Basement so he could be shot. Have you been to RT’s?”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Emma said.

  Shipman turned her eyes on Elliot who merely shook her head.

  “What does that have to do with us?” Emma asked.

  “With you, I don’t know. With her…” Shipman gestured at Elliot.

  The young woman began to tremble and Shipman was surprised that she actually felt sorry for her. She didn’t know why. She never felt sorry for suspects, especially rich college kids. It had taken Shipman years to pay off her student loans.

  “Where were you at six P.M. last night?” Shipman repeated.

  Elliot shook her head some more only this time the movement was so slight that you might not have noticed unless you were watching closely.

  “What does that mean?” Shipman asked. “You don’t know or you refuse to answer?”

  Elliot shook her head again.

  “See, McKenzie received a message at six P.M. It was delivered to the security desk in the building where McKenzie lived. A few minutes later, McKenzie left the building. A couple of hours after that, McKenzie was shot.”

  Elliot kept shaking her head, only now Shipman was sure that it was just part of her overall trembling.

  “The reason I’m here is that I have witnesses who claim that the message was delivered by a pretty blonde who said her name was Elliot.”

  Elliot covered her mouth with both hands and turned toward her friend. Emma gave her nothing, though.

  Again, Shipman felt a pang of guilt. She had lied to the young women, or at least hadn’t told them the entire truth; that the video would seem to prove Elliot’s innocence. She had wanted to see how they responded, though. To be honest, I might have done the same thing.

  “Tell me about this, Elliot,” Shipman said.

  “I can’t,” Elliot said.

  “Convince me that you had nothing to do with my friend getting shot.”

  My friend, Shipman thought. Where did that come from?

  “I can’t,” Elliot repeated.

  “Leave her alone,” Emma said.

  “Ladies, think about this,” Shipman said. “Think about how much trouble you’re in, Elliot.” Shipman gestured at Emma. “You, too, if you’re covering for her.”

  Neither of them had anything to say.

  “You have the opportunity to do yourself some good. I’d wish you’d take it.”

  They didn’t have anything to say to that, either.

  “Elliot,” Shipman said. “Elliot, look at me. Sometime tomorrow I’m going to take my witness statements to a judge. The next time you see me, I’ll have an arrest warrant in my pocket. I won’t be asking you questions; I won’t be asking to hear your side of the story. Instead, I’ll be telling you that you have the right to remain silent and that anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. I’ll wind a pair of stainless steel handcuffs around your wrists and lock you in the back of a patrol car and transport you to St. Paul where I will turn you over to the county attorney for prosecution.”

  Elliot began to weep. Emma pulled her close enough so that she could rest her head on Emma’s chest.

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “I can’t even imagine what might happen to a pretty little thing like you in prison.”

  “You bitch,” Emma said.

  “You have no idea,” Shipman said. “Elliot.” Shipman softened her voice. “I’m pretty sure that you didn’t shoot McKenzie. I’m pretty sure you were in your dorm room eating your eggplant whatever when the shooting took place just like your cousin says. I’ll check to make sure, yet for now I believe it. I also believe that you’re not the one who delivered the message that lured him into an ambush. I believe someone used your name.”

  Elliot’s and Emma’s heads snapped toward her as if they were both surprised by Shipman’s admission.

  “But, Elliot, Emma, I think you both know who did shoot McKenzie. At least you know who delivered the message that set him up. You know who is now setting you up.”

  Elliot and Emma continued to hold each other, yet said nothing.

  “I’ve seen this so many times,” Shipman said. “Women, especially young women, who are so desperate to protect someone they love, usually some guy, that they end up taking the fall for a crime they didn’t even commit. Most aren’t even aware that they’re being used until it’s too late. Don’t be like that. Don’t sacrifice yourselves out of loyalty to someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’m begging you. Don’t throw your lives away. Elliot?”

  The young women gave her nothing.

  “Have it your way,” Shipman said.

  She stood up. The young women watched her do it as if they were afraid of what she might do next. Shipman swept her wallet off the table and put it back into her pocket. From her pocket she withdrew two business cards and set one on the table in front of Elliot and then Emma.

  “In case you come to your senses before it’s too late,” she said.

  Shipman spun around and moved toward the exit. Volkert rose to intercept her and they both walked out of the Language Center and made their way back toward the Hoppin House. They didn’t speak until they reached the house. Volkert held the door open for her.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Could have been better,” Shipman said.

  TWELVE

  Jenness Crawford stepped up to the high table in the back of the club where Nina was sitting on an equally high stool, careful not to block her view of the stage. Nina glanced at her briefly before returning her gaze to the Southside Aces, a traditional New Orleans jazz band that was just about to make the jump on “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” from its slow and lovely start to its fast and hot finish.

  “You have that look on your face,” she said.

  “What look?” Jenness asked.

  “The one that says, ‘Nina, you’re not going to like this.’”

  “Remember that guy you punched?”

  “Vividly.”

  The palm and knuckles of her hand and lower wrist were wrapped in an Ace bandage. Nina caressed them almost unconsciously. The physician at the urgent care clinic who examined her X-rays said her hand and wrist would be fine in a day or two but because of the way they ached she didn’t believe him.

  “I think he’s back,” Jenness said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but there’s a guy sitting at the bar who was watching carefully as you climbed the stairs to the performance hall and who keeps glancing at the staircase as if he’s waiting for you to climb back down. Should I call the police? Your friend Commander Dunston?”

  “Yes. No. Wait.”

  Nina took a deep breath and tilted her head to look up at the ceiling with the exhale. She tried to remember a time when her life wasn’t rocked by chaos. There must have been a year, a month, a week, only she couldn’t think of one even before she had met me.

  “I’d say that this has been the worst day of my life except it’s not,” Nina said. “There are stories I could tell you about my childhood that would bring bitter tears to your eyes. My ups and downs with McKenzie”—she chuckled at the words—“since mostly they’ve
been way up, I shouldn’t whine so much. All right, let’s take a look.”

  She and Jenness moved to the staircase, careful not to disturb their customers. They descended the stairs side by side until they reached the crowded lounge that made up Rickie’s ground floor.

  “He’s sitting over there,” Jenness said.

  “I see him.”

  He was not the man who had threatened Nina earlier, although he looked a lot like him, tall, and wearing slacks, shirt, and blazer that reminded her of a uniform, except—no tie. He was sitting at the corner of the bar and nursing a tap beer.

  Nina waved her manager away and walked close enough past the man to brush his shoulder. He didn’t so much as glance at her. She moved to the business side of the bar, this time passing directly in front of him. Again, he acted as if he hadn’t noticed. To Nina, this was a dead giveaway. She had explained it to me once at a black-tie gala about a year after we started seeing each other.

  “At the risk of sounding even more conceited than I am, I expect to be watched,” she told me. “Are you telling me you don’t ogle pretty girls when they walk by? Don’t lie, McKenzie. I’ve seen you do it. I’ve even seen you do it when you were out with me.”

  “I didn’t think women noticed,” I said.

  “Of course we notice. You guys are so obvious. Besides, a woman—we can feel it. It’s almost instinctual. We don’t have to look around for it. We just know.”

  The fact that the man sitting at the bar hadn’t even glanced at her told Nina that Jenness had been correct about him. He was there for her. The question that nagged her—was he a friend or foe? Her instincts said foe, except when she told Bobby about the man who had threatened her earlier that day, he said, “I’ll take care of it,” and now she wondered. Did he take care of it?

  Nina found Jenness and told her what she wanted. Afterward, she poured a tap beer into a tall glass, moved to the corner of the bar, and set the glass in front of the man who sat there.

  “I didn’t order this,” he said.