Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  On another note, Emma was grateful for Max’s VapoRub. Ethan had shat in his boxers, excrement stained his thighs, and the camphor and menthol helped mask the smell.

  His tall corpse swayed almost imperceptibly at the end of the long rope, giving the scene the eerie quality of a tableau vivant. But Ethan’s eyes and mouth were squeezed permanently shut. She guessed he no longer wished to see or taste his world.

  Not surprisingly, her thoughts turned to Will. Had he found some secret place in the middle of a state forest? There were plenty around Hampshire. Was he hanging from some tree, already infested with maggots, not to be found for months, maybe even years?

  She barely managed to shake that thought away.

  She did a 360 around Ethan’s corpse. Stella was right: Ethan’s death seemed straightforward. She must be hardening to the scene. Speaking of hardening, Ethan had an erection underneath his boxers. Noticing her stare, one of the EMTs stepped forward. “It’s called a postmortem priapism, Chief. It’s pretty common in hangings. When you see one, it’s an indicator that the death was swift and violent, whatever the cause.”

  “Thanks for the tutorial. And I’m not being sarcastic.”

  “No sarcasm taken.” He smiled. “By the way, EMTs call it Angel Lust.”

  “I never heard that one.”

  Emma turned to Pepper and gave the Search command. Her nose to the floor, Pepper started with the outside of the room. She made ever smaller concentric circles, sniffing doggedly, until she was right under the corpse. She took some deep sniffs of Ethan’s bare feet. Emma didn’t think that Pepper had found anything conclusive, but she knew that the smells in that room were permanently imprinted in her memory banks.

  “Hey Buzz,” she called, “do you have all the photographs we’re going to need?”

  “Should be good to go, Chief. How about fingerprints? Want me to dust the place?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary,” Stella piped up.

  Emma thought about that and tended to agree. “Alright, I guess.”

  Emma poked around the living room. She spotted a framed, black and white photograph of Ethan sitting beside a very attractive woman and a blond boy who looked about ten. Picking it up, Emma asked Stella if she had been able to contact Ethan’s wife.

  “Sure have, Chief, she and her son are upstairs in the bedroom.”

  “What? It would have saved me some worry if you’d mentioned that.”

  “I’ve already spoken to her. Naturally, she’s very upset—”

  “I would like to talk to her.”

  “I’ll show you the way.” Stella started for the stairs.

  “Alone,” Emma said.

  Stella said, “Considering your past relationship with the deceased, you might want to consider recusing yourself and letting me handle this.”

  Emma saw this for what it was, her first test. “As I said, alone.”

  She didn’t want to pour gasoline on Stella’s flame, but Stella needed to know who was in charge.

  The bedroom door was ajar, and she could hear two people weeping. She tapped softly with a gloved knuckle. Mrs. Jackson invited her in. She was holding her son in both arms as they sat on the edge of the bed. Emma studied Ethan’s wife, who was as attractive as her photo. She wondered if Mrs. Jackson had any inkling that she was Ethan’s first sexual partner.

  “Mrs. Jackson, I’m Emma Thorne. May I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, I understand,” she said. “Call me Mary, and this is Julian. We call him JJ.” She dabbed her eyes with a well-used Kleenex. Julian didn’t look up. “I heard that you’d gotten Archie’s job.”

  Outside the window, Emma could see a copse of greening saplings behind the house on the border with the golf course. The trees looked like they had been recently planted. Does a man plant trees and then commit suicide?

  “I am very sorry for your loss—”

  “There is absolutely no way Ethan would have done this,” she began. “No effing way. Somebody killed him.” Her voice rose. “We were so happy. Jesus, we were planning to go hiking this afternoon! Weren’t we, JJ? I’m telling you, somebody did this to Ethan.”

  “Do you feel up to answering a few questions? Or, would you rather I come back later.”

  She gave her a sharp look. “What do you want to know?”

  “Who found Mr. Jackson?”

  “JJ has baseball practice on Sunday mornings—the Northwest League—we left early. I usually get Ethan to take him, but I let him sleep in this morning. JJ is the star of his team. His dad is so proud of him.”

  “Were you the one who found your husband, Mary?”

  “We stopped for breakfast in Waconia. JJ really likes eggs, bacon, and home fries after practice.” She spoke of her son as if he were 8-years-old, although he looked considerably older. Emma guessed fifteen. “I suppose we got home around 11:00, maybe 11:15. That’s when we found him.” She dabbed the corners of her eyes again. Julian still hadn’t raised his head from her bosom. Mary stared at her. She was a remarkably beautiful woman. Her blue eyes unwavering. “I want you to find out who did this … to him … to us.”

  “I can promise you we will find out everything we can.”

  “Is that it?”

  “I have a few more questions. Would you like to speak in private?”

  “No! JJ stays with me.” She hugged him tighter. Emma still hadn’t seen the kid’s face.

  “Alright then. Your decision. Has your husband been feeling himself lately? Any depression or changes of mood? Headaches? Deviations from routine? Anything that might make you think he would want to hurt himself?”

  “Look, just stop it. Ethan is the happiest man I know. He’s successful, handsome, well-liked. He drives a goddamn Porsche. No, we don’t have any financial problems or marital problems or any other kind of problems. And don’t you people always ask how our sex life is? Well, we have fantastic sex all the goddamn time!”

  She stood up. Julian rolled away from her, sobbing.

  Her eyes squinted and hardened. “You of all people should know how good a fuck Ethan is.”

  “Mary—”

  “Now please leave us alone! You’ve upset my son. We want to grieve in peace.”

  Emma felt terrible for her, but felt she had to speak plainly.

  “I’m sorry I’ve caused you anguish, both then and now. But, as to the matter at hand, we will fully investigate your husband’s death. I promise you.”

  “Please, would you just leave!”

  Downstairs, the EMTs were still hanging around. Detective Buzzucano was packing his camera away. He said, “Chief, the medical examiner’s guys will be here soon.” Max stood by the door.

  Sergeant Weeks said, “We heard some shouting. You handling everything okay?”

  “She’s as upset as anyone would be.”

  Emma reexamined Ethan, doing another, slower 360.

  She studied him more closely this go ’round. He seemed a little less smelly.

  Sergeant Weeks said to the EMTs, “Why don’t you guys take off? We’re all set here.”

  While they were leaving the room, Emma noticed something she had missed earlier. On the inside of Ethan’s left ankle, there appeared to be a tattoo. She peered closer. It was red; it looked like the numeral 7; yet it wasn’t faded like a typical tattoo. She took his ankle in her gloved hand and pulled it toward her nose. The odor was unmistakable. She was certain that the 7 had been freshly drawn with a Sharpie.

  “Hey, Buzz,” she called. “Did you get a shot of this?”

  Detective Buzzucano stepped forward. “I think so.”

  To Emma, that sounded like a no. “Do me a favor then,” she said, “can you give me a nice, new close-up of that with a ruler in the frame?”

  Sergeant Weeks stepped forward, too. “What do you make of it?”

  “I dunno,” Emma said. “Did you notice it before?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m wondering why a suicide would draw a number on h
is ankle. And why he would draw it upside down, so we could read it as a 7. If he drew it for himself, wouldn’t it be an L?”

  “Chief, with all due respect, you’re not making a helluva lot of sense.”

  “All I know is it must be important. Why, I’m not yet sure.”

  Stella harrumphed.

  Emma looked around the living room some more, poking through the drawers and cabinets, but did not turn up a Sharpie. She stripped off her gloves. She wondered if Mary Jackson’s words were the hope-against-hope sentiments of a suicide-widow-in-denial, or was Ethan a truly happy guy with no reason to kill himself? She would have to think on that ... and find out.

  “Okay, guys,” she finally said, “We’re done here. What time are the body snatchers coming?”

  Buzz said, “About an hour, the M.E.s office said.”

  “Let’s cut him down, then. Get him ready.”

  11

  A Moist Palm

  Stella Weeks took the wheel of her cruiser and steered back to Police Headquarters. The roads were slick. It was still raining, and the wipers squeaked annoyingly, leaving streaks on the windshield. Buzz Buzzucano sat in the passenger seat. Max sat in the backseat, where the prisoners are kept behind a barricade of Plexiglas with holes in it known as the “cage.”

  Stella resumed her daily diatribe, “She’s so fucking annoying. Why’s she want to go investigating the poor bastard’s death. The guy offed himself. End of story.”

  Buzz grunted.

  “And she sits around doing crossword puzzles in ink, thinking she’s so smart.”

  “No shit,” Max said, “she does ’em in ink?”

  “Not to mention bragging about this college degree and that grad school degree every other time she opens her mouth like she could win on ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ ”

  “I’ve never heard her brag about her degrees,” Max piped up.

  “Shut up, Kraut,” Buzz and Stella said, more or less simultaneously.

  “My personal feeling is that if you’re smart enough to go to college,” Stella said, “and you end up a cop, there’s something definitely off about you.”

  Max said, “She is the chief, guys, at least give her that. And she’s smart.”

  Stella turned half-way around in her seat. “Kraut, if you can’t contribute to the on-going topic of this conversation, kindly zip it. Okay? Anyway, she shouldn’t be the chief.”

  “And that’s the rub,” Max muttered, “because you’re sounding like a five-year-old.”

  “I heard that.”

  “On another subject,” Buzz said, “what do you make of that mark on Ethan’s ankle? You noticed it, didn’t you?”

  “Of course, I did. Said so, didn’t I?”

  “I didn’t spot it. But, whatever. It does seem sort of weird. I have a hunch she might be onto something there.”

  “Doubt it,” Stella said.

  There was another reason Stella had it in for Emma, but it was not something she would ever share with Buzz. And certainly not Max.

  Stella turned right onto Main Street. Without saying anything, she flicked on her light bar, tapped her horn twice, causing the siren to whoop-whoop, and pulled over a red Toyota Tacoma.

  Max asked, “Why’re you pulling him over?”

  “It’s raining.”

  “So?”

  “No headlights. Sections 14-96a to 14-96aa, inclusive.”

  Emma stopped at Broken River Park to give Pepper a run. The rain was sheeting. They braved the park alone. Thoughtfully, Pepper peed and pooped without taking her sweet time about it. “Good girl, Pepper.”

  They drove toward headquarters. On the north side of Main Street, which included Town Hall and Police Headquarters, a variety of commercial establishments, some open, many closed, stretched for several miles. She passed The Gibson, the movie theater where she and Will went for their first date. They hadn’t watched much of “American Beauty,” as they were busy kissing in the back row.

  Main Street was a strip-mall before they had a word for it.

  She noticed a new sign on one of the derelict mill buildings: “Artist Lofts for Rent.” The landlord had some work left. Most of the windows were broken.

  Emma thought about the town she had sworn to protect and keep safe. Hampshire was fifty miles square with a population of twenty-four thousand. Despite the griminess of downtown, there was a rich section. At the top of the township sat the enclave of Northwood, where well-to-do folks like Ethan Jackson lived.

  Her sister-in-law Georgia lived on the outskirts of town in an even more exclusive and secluded area called Wentworth.

  Sooner or later, Emma knew that she would have to try to repair the open rift between her and her sister-in law. Georgia had been clear enough that she blamed her for Will’s depression and, worse, for his disappearance. Emma’s last encounter with Georgia at the Fosters’ lake house still rankled.

  At the corner of Main Street and Sachem Avenue, Emma witnessed a fender-bender: a teen-aged boy in a beater struck the rear end of a sedan driven by an elderly gent. She flicked on her concealed LEDs and pulled protectively behind the accident. After ascertaining there were no injuries, she called it in. “1 to dispatch. On scene with a two-car MVA, negative injuries. Dispatch Car 4 to take the call. She should be in the area.”

  She had barely taken her thumb off the transmit button when she heard Stella broadcast: “Negative, dispatch. We’re on a 10-59. Unable to respond.” Damn, Emma thought. A 10-59 was a minor traffic stop. She would have to wait on-scene until another cruiser arrived.

  Back at headquarters, Emma poured herself a cup of coffee in the empty canteen. Pepper and she climbed the steps back to her office.

  She took a sip of muddy coffee, picked up her ballpoint, and reopened the Times magazine section to the puzzle page. Emma would have been horrified if she had known that Stella Weeks had noticed her using a ballpoint pen. The next themed-clue (sixteen letters, four words) was “King Riggs.” She quickly penned in “Battle of the Sexes.” She filled out a few more answers. By the time she had completed the upper left quadrant, she lost her focus and turned her attention back to Ethan Jackson.

  The unexplained mark on his ankle tugged at the suspicious gene which she had inherited from her father. She made a decision. First thing tomorrow morning, she would telephone the state medical examiner and discuss it with him.

  At 5:45 p.m., Emma decided to call it a day. After changing out of her uniform, she and Pepper ducked out through the underground garage where the cops brought in arrestees. In her town-issued Taurus, they drove home.

  She uncapped a beer and sipped it outside in the garden. Pepper joined her. She rolled over on her back exposing her tummy for a rub, which she received. Luxuriating, she snorted with pleasure.

  Meantime, Emma reveled in the warm, late afternoon. She loved when the days became longer. Spring was a glorious time in Hampshire. Her newly mowed grass smelled delicious and peaceful. She was able to put work and worries aside.

  She took a last sip of beer “Want to go to Group Therapy?”

  Pepper was too relaxed to move.

  “Well I’m going anyway.”

  Emma laughed as Pepper leapt to her feet.

  Phil Masters greeted Emma with a kiss, which was unusual but welcome. She kissed him back. As usual, Pepper wandered off.

  “How goes it?” Phil asked. “Awful news about Ethan Jackson. I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Had he been in recently?”

  “Yeah. Friday night. I have to say, he did not seem on the brink.” Phil raised an eyebrow. “Actually, he was having drinks with a lady I didn’t recognize.”

  “Really?” Emma raised an eyebrow.

  “I wouldn’t read too much into it. Looked pretty innocent to me.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a guy on the brink, to use your word.”

  Phil didn’t hear that last bit. He was off to serve other customers.

  Emma heard someone say to the guy sitting next to her, “Hey,
man, do you mind giving up your stool. I’d like to sit next to this beautiful lady here.”

  Dismayed, she recognized the voice of Dick Wardlaw.

  Her next-door neighbor moved without complaint. Wardlaw had that effect on people.

  “Hi, Emma, how goes it?” he said.

  Mayor Wardlaw was pushing seventy and had an elaborate comb-over. He had a gray mole on his upper lip, for which he couldn’t be blamed, but nor could it be called a beauty mark. He was famous for glad-handing everyone and taking credit for anything good that happened in town.

  “Oh, hi Dick, please do have a seat.” Wardlaw was immune to sarcasm.

  “How’re you getting on, Chief?”

  “I’m taking things day by day. I have lots to learn, and I’m learning a lot. Right now, I’m just trying to chill.”

  “Well, let me ‘chill’ with you. Call it a boss’s prerogative,” he added, baring yellow teeth in what passed as a smile.

  Pepper returned from her walk-about, sniffed the trousers of Dick’s tweed suit, refrained from wagging, and curled up next to Emma’s stool. Dick didn’t seem to notice.

  “That was a big shame about Ethan. His wife called me about an hour ago. She said she was a little put off by your questions. She also said she’s sure Ethan didn’t kill himself. What do you think?”

  “I can’t discuss an open case. You of all people should know that.”

  “You can with me.” He placed a moist palm on top of hers. “You can always talk to me.”

  She pulled at her hand, but he had it clamped to the sticky bar top.

  Wardlaw plowed ahead undaunted. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Emma. I love the way you do your hair. It’s so sophisticated for little old Hampshire. You and I could be better friends. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Dick, I am married—”