The Bear

by Dustin Stevens

  Which was fine by The Bear. It wasn’t like he was here often, and when he was, it was with a very specific purpose.

  A purpose that the majority of the room was set up in service of.

  A pair of folding tables were spread wide before him, matching monitors sitting on either one. Each screen was segmented into quadrants, with various views from the fiber optic cameras that were imbedded in the crown molding along the ceiling on display, the combined angles covering every square inch of the room.

  Streaming in real time, they caught all activity that occurred within the space, as clear as if he were staring through glass.

  Abutting the monitors on either side was a surround sound system, more than a dozen hidden microphones installed around the room, catching the slightest noises. At the moment, all volume was muted, the girl still laying in the center of the bed, her body quivering as she sobbed.

  Better to keep it off than to bother listening at this point. The Bear didn’t have the time or energy for it, always the same thing, the sequence completely predictable.

  The first step was that they would come to, working in some state of grogginess as the sedation wore off. From there, they would slowly take in their surroundings, confusion giving way to fear. After that, adrenaline would seep into their system, pushing aside the lingering drugs, awakening their senses.

  At which point the full weight of their predicament hit them.

  The process varied slightly from there, the responses generally one of three things. Sometimes, the woman would get angry, lashing and screaming, making threats of whatever kind they could think of.

  The Bear actually kind of enjoyed that part. If it looked like a girl was headed down that path, he would make a point of turning on the volume to listen in. The stuff they came up with and the venom they used in flinging it about often told a great deal about what he could expect moving forward.

  Option two was for them to begin bargaining. Apologizing for things they couldn’t begin to imagine the enormity of, making promises of things they had no possible way of performing.

  Looking around the room, their eyes wide, they would beseech anybody who might be nearby for help, swearing there must be some mistake.

  Those times, The Bear would usually give them a few minutes, depending on his mood and how feisty they appeared, before hitting the mute button.

  Nobody was coming to help, and there damn sure wasn’t any mistake.

  The third choice - and the one The Bear hated the most - was what this particular girl had gone with. Any bit of resolve, any strength of will she might have shown while walking around Connors State Campus, while waiting tables at that shitty dive, had wilted in moments.

  Crumbling straight to tears, the girl had fallen into a heap, not so much as a single toe hitting the floor before she was reduced to tears.

  Even though The Bear knew it would be for the best in the long run and that it would only make his job easier, he still loathed the actual practice of it. He hated knowing it was on the opposite side of the wall from him, nothing more than a few rows of concrete block separating him from the agony spilling from the girl.

  Which was why he refused to listen to it. Hearing it would only weaken his resolve. It would humanize her, which he could not allow to happen.

  He’d made that mistake too many times before.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After the meeting with Carver Ecklund, Reed opted against starting on the mower. Instead, he chose the hedge clippers, wanting something a little more interactive to help him release some of the wrath roiling through him. Running the blades at full throttle, he swung the machine back and forth in wide swaths, stripping away the jagged tops of the shrubs lining the home.

  As he did so, the smell of juniper and cedar rose around him, the clippings piling high in the mulch beds at his feet.

  Since moving to the 8th Precinct two years prior, Reed had made a point of staying away from bureaucracy. Always more of the purview of his late partner Riley, he had sequestered himself to the graveyard shift, wanting nothing more than to go to work each evening and come home the following morning without getting pulled into the growing sphere of politics that seemed to envelop the job.

  He and Captain Grimes had a great working relationship, helped in no small part by bonds forged well before, when the latter was still a sergeant and the two had come up through the ranks together.

  The rest, Reed had a healthy distaste for.

  Yet, somehow, they kept drawing him in, making him an unwilling pawn in their schemes.

  First, Chief of Police Eleanor Brandt, back in Ohio, feared that Reed’s arrest rate was too good, his cases too high-profile. Claiming that his success might somehow embolden criminals, make them want to match up against the best, she had placed him on administrative leave.

  How that sort of convoluted logic made sense in the slightest, Reed had spent weeks wondering, still light-years from bridging the gap and coming to understand.

  Now, he was somehow in the crosshairs of a second chief of police, a man he had never met before that morning and had no desire to ever encounter again. Someone who was clearly sensing some sort of threat and who wanted to squelch it and maintain his place atop the tiny kingdom he seemed to think he had built.

  With each new thought, each recollection from his earlier conversation, Reed felt his animosity rise. As it did, his grip on the clippers grew tighter, the amount he stripped away cutting deeper.

  Back and forth he went, leveling the shrubs off, until the sound of his father yelling caused him to pull up short. Much closer than he had realized, the sound jerked him from his thoughts, Reed releasing the trigger and stepping away.

  Sliding the earmuffs from the crown of his head, he let them hang around his neck, the clippers held loose across his waist.

  “What’s up?” he asked, panting slightly. Sweat streamed down his face and dampened the front of his shirt, bits of debris dotting the legs of his jeans.

  “I said a trim, not a buzz cut,” his father said. Still dressed in the same clothes as that morning, his forehead was starting to grow red with the sun, grass clippings clinging to his calves.

  Glancing back to the row beside him, Reed could see that he had already knocked off more than six inches from the top, the clippings strewn in a wide path around them.

  “Just squaring them up is all,” Reed countered.

  “Uh-huh,” his father replied, his eyebrows rising slightly. Hooking a thumb back over his shoulder, he pointed toward the driveway and said, “You’ve got a visitor.”

  The list of people he even knew in Oklahoma at this point was rather short. Of those, any who might know where he was or would be stopping by could be counted on less than one hand.

  Reed again felt his core draw in tight. The same feeling of vitriol he’d been carrying all morning returned, this one edged with a bit of apprehension.

  Being called into Ecklund’s office and dressed down was one thing. Having them follow him home to continue berating him was quite another.

  “Who?” Reed mouthed, his brows coming together, his facial expression making no effort to hide the distaste he was already feeling.

  “Officer from last night,” his father returned, careful not to make a sound as well.

  Once more, Reed cast a glance to the hedge. Pushing out a long sigh, he lowered the trimmer to the ground and pulled the ear protection from his neck, placing them both down in the mulch.

  “I’ll finish this up in a few minutes.”

  “Damn right,” his father replied. “No way I’m taking the blame for this hack job.”

  Knowing it was an attempt at levity, Reed allowed one corner of his mouth to rise in a smile. Leaving his father out front, he followed the sidewalk around the side of the house to find a black Ford Ranger sitting in the driveway. Standing alongside it was Todd Wyatt in a pair of jeans and a pearl snap flannel, a glass of Reed’s mother’s lemonade in hand.

  Resting on her haunches
nearby was Billie, her gaze shifting to Reed as he appeared.

  “Officer,” Reed said. Wiping his hand on his jeans, he crossed the concrete expanse between them before offering a shake.

  Returning the gesture, Wyatt replied, “Detective.”

  Glancing to the lemonade the man clutched, wishing he had one of his own, Reed stepped to the side. Falling in beside his partner, he ran his fingers through the thick tuft of hair atop her head, feeling the warmth of the sun on it.

  Considering that Reed had now interacted with a total of four people outside of his parents since arriving in Warner, the fact that Wyatt was standing before him wasn’t terribly surprising.

  Seeing him out of uniform, without an official vehicle, was.

  “What can I do for you?” Reed asked, leaving things deliberately vague.

  Retreating back a step, Wyatt pressed his backside against the side of his truck. Extending a hand, he placed the lemonade down on the hood, folding his arms over his torso.

  “I heard you stopped by the station this morning.”

  Figuring that the younger Ecklund must have said something, Reed only nodded. “Yup.”

  “And that you got called back for a one-on-one with the chief.”

  A massive understatement, Reed let as much show on his face for just a moment before pulling his features back to neutral. Based on his tone, it already seemed that Wyatt wasn’t a huge Ecklund fan.

  Still didn’t mean Reed was anywhere near ready to show his cards to the man.

  “You could say that.”

  For a moment, Wyatt said nothing. He fixed his gaze on Reed, seeming to measure him, before bobbing his head just slightly. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

  Pushing out a long exhale, he continued, “Let me guess. He’s the Grand Poobah of this town, has been overseeing his loyal subjects for centuries, and doesn’t want or need anybody telling him what to do?”

  Under different circumstances, Reed might have thought the man was joking. He may have even laughed.

  As it were, he recognized the biting sarcasm present, the underlying message pretty close to what he’d gotten from Ecklund that morning.

  “Yeah, that about covers it.”

  Muttering something too faint to be heard, Wyatt bobbed his head once more. He glanced away, his own bitterness obvious, before shifting his attention back to Reed and Billie.

  “Hope you don’t mind me pulling this address, but that’s part of why I wanted to stop by this morning. I should have known better than to have you come down to the station, and I owe you an apology.”

  How Wyatt could have foreseen what Ecklund would do or felt responsible for it, Reed couldn’t quite be sure, the growing feeling being that whatever he’d stumbled into was a lot deeper than someone looking to maintain control over the town crime narrative.

  “Not necessary,” Reed said.

  “No, it is,” Wyatt answered. “None of that stuff has anything to do with you.”

  That much, Reed had known already, about the only thing that was a certainty thus far.

  It was the remainder he was still trying to wrest into position. Glancing away again, as if contemplating sharing the local gossip, Wyatt said, “See, the old man’s term as chief is up at the end of this year, and ever since he announced his retirement last fall, he’s been trying like hell to personally oversee and control every case that’s come through.”

  To that, Reed nodded. Unlike a sheriff, which was an elected position, a chief of police was appointed by the local government. That meant Ecklund couldn’t actively campaign for his successor, but by announcing his retirement so early and working to keep a thumb on everything, he could go a long way to influence the situation.

  “And he’s trying to get his nephew appointed,” Reed said, filling in the blanks.

  Seeing Wyatt’s eyebrow rise a bit, Reed added, “That bumbling oaf manning the reception desk this morning?”

  The corner of Wyatt’s mouth twitched as he glanced away, clearly finding it amusing, before looking back to Reed. “That’s actually his son, if you can believe it. Took him three tries to even pass proficiency to carry a weapon, and somehow Ecklund thinks he should be the next in line.”

  Reed could sense the disdain Wyatt felt for the situation, though he couldn’t say he was the least bit surprised. In his career, he’d investigated enough crimes to know that things like nepotism and favoritism existed in every industry.

  None more so than law enforcement.

  While the explanation did answer some questions, it still left others behind, none bigger than why the chief had felt the need to come after him.

  Nodding once, Reed looked down to Billie. Twisting her head up at the neck, she blinked twice, holding his gaze.

  “You said at the beginning that apologizing was part of why you wanted to stop by,” Reed said.

  “Yeah,” Wyatt replied, pulling Reed’s attention back up. “The rest being, I don’t give a damn about any of that stuff. I’d just like to find Serena Gipson, and I could sure use your help.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The number of questions that immediately burst to the front of Reed’s mind was too great to be counted. The moment one would arrive, another would jump in right behind it, shoving to the fore, demanding to be voiced as well.

  None more so than the fact that there was a confirmed ID. The night before, he’d heard the name mentioned outside the Sinclair, but at the time it had just been speculation.

  Now, the victim was confirmed as Serena Gipson, a known member of the Warner community.

  A fact that brought even more questions to mind.

  Standing in silence, Reed worked his way through them. His body tensed slightly as he did so, Billie rising to her feet and inching closer. An unspoken message of support, she pressed her front shoulder into his calf before lowering her backside to the driveway.

  “Look, officer, I can appreciate what you’re going through, but I told you everything I saw last night,” Reed began. “Believe me, I know how frustrating it can be to run an investigation when a witness is withholding.”

  Not to mention, Reed wouldn’t want to even tempt Ecklund with the prospect of lobbing an obstruction charge his way.

  Nodding slightly, Wyatt glanced over to the glass of lemonade beside him, condensation speckling the outside of it, beginning to run along the smooth surface of his truck hood.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Wyatt said. “Not because of what you saw, but because you know how to run this kind of investigation.”

  More questions arose within Reed. So many it would take the better part of an hour to voice them all. Knowing better than to even try, he remained silent, allowing Wyatt to state his case.

  Even if every internal indicator he had was telling him to walk back around to the front, pick up the trimmers, and finish the hedge.

  “I know you folks just moved to Warner,” Wyatt said, his voice shifting a bit, not quite pleading, but getting close. “So, let me give you the brief overview. It’s a nice place. Standard prairie town, couple thousand folks, one high school, two stop lights.”

  Reed had seen most of that on his jaunt into town for gas the night before, merely nodding in understanding.

  “Which is all well and good,” Wyatt continued, “but that means our entire police force is four people. The two Ecklunds man the shop during business hours. Me and another guy split the evening shifts, the highway patrol handles emergency calls overnight. That’s it.”

  Looking away again, this time Wyatt took up the glass. Drawing in a long pull, he drained nearly a third of it before placing it in the exact same ring it had made a moment before.

  Peeling his lips back, he let out a small sigh before continuing, “Last year, the worst case we handled was a stolen tractor. Turned out to be some high school kids had taken it to use as part of a senior prank.”

  Processing the information, Reed remained completely motionless. He felt his features harden slightly, not wan
ting to give the slightest indicator of what he was thinking.

  Most of what Wyatt was saying sounded a bit extreme, though he could imagine it wasn’t too far from the truth. Wanting to downsize, to move to a quieter location, was part of what had drawn his parents across the state to begin with.

  “I looked into you,” Wyatt continued. Raising a finger, he gestured to Billie, adding, “Both of you. Last night after you stuck around to secure the scene, said you were a detective, I did a little digging. Didn’t take long.”

  Tiny pinpricks of sensation settled into Reed’s chest. Unlike Ecklund, he wouldn’t have been able to merely pick up the phone and make a call. He would have likely gone for a basic internet search, finding plenty of information – both good and bad.

  “You two have one of the best arrest records in the state of Ohio,” Wyatt said.

  Pulling in a deep breath, Reed allowed his head to rock back. He held the air a moment, letting it expand his rib cage, before slowing exhaling.

  “If you saw that, you also saw-”

  “I did,” Wyatt said, cutting Reed off before he could finish, “and I don’t care.”

  “No,” Reed said, “but I do. No offense, officer. I empathize with your position, but based on what happened this morning, even considering this would be trading in one pile of bureaucratic bullshit for another.”

  Bobbing his chin a few times in quick order, Wyatt glanced away. He seemed to focus on something in the back field for a moment before saying, “I know it must look that way.”

  “It is that way,” Reed corrected.

  Cutting his gaze back to Reed, Wyatt said, “Okay, it is that way. But like I said, that’s not why I’m here. Hell, the old man would probably fire me if he even knew we were having this conversation.”

  Opening his mouth, seemingly wanting to continue, he paused slightly. Turning at the waist, he raised a finger, pointing back over his shoulder. “I’m guessing you guys drove straight down 40 to get here, right?”

  Flicking his gaze for just an instant to follow the man’s gesture, Reed nodded. “Only way across.”