Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

  Chavez waited, his hand on the doorknob, staring back at me with an inquisitive look in his dark eyes. “Something on your mind, Detective?”

  “Yes. I want to know about Gordon Dillahunt and why he insisted, to the day he died, that the two of you were dirty cops.” The words were out of my mouth before I could think of a gentler way to say them. Chavez colored, though Sheriff Underhill merely sat back down on the couch, an unreadable expression on her face.

  “You’ve been to see him? Dillahunt?” the sheriff asked, her voice as cold and crisp as January frost.

  “Yes. Last Friday. The day before he killed himself. He said you two planted the evidence that led to his arrest.”

  Another big breath. I was in it deep now. “I’m sorry, Chief, but I have to know the whole story. Dillahunt’s dead … Caleb Montgomery’s dead … there can’t be any harm in telling me now. I have to be sure Ghost Boy is not somehow connected to Dillahunt; that Montgomery’s and Esposito’s deaths have everything to do with Josiah Black and nothing to do with Dillahunt.”

  After a moment of silence that felt heavy with meaning, Chavez took a seat at his desk. I remained standing, leaning against the far wall, my hands tucked behind my back, trying to be as unassuming as possible.

  Sheriff Rose Underhill spoke first. “I don’t have to tell either of you that it’s hard to be a minority—female, Hispanic, black, whatever—in this field. I’ve been trying to prove myself my whole life. The Dillahunt case was big. Angel, you remember those days? We were like a pair of bloodhounds on a coon’s trail. We tracked him to that shitty little cabin. Only we didn’t know he had the hostage.”

  Chavez exhaled. “It has always bothered me how we tracked him there, Rosie. We had our suspicions that it was Dillahunt all along but we couldn’t get a search warrant for his business or his home. He was too wily, he covered his tracks too well. It wasn’t until we found that blood splatter, remember, that we were finally able to get Montgomery to sign off on a warrant.”

  “Blood splatter?” I asked.

  Chavez nodded. “We went to Dillahunt’s home, his main residence. It was November, twilight. Cold as heck. We were hoping he’d be there, that we could have a chat with him, try to whittle away at the inconsistencies in the previous interviews he’d given us. But he didn’t answer when we knocked. Rose decided to go around to the rear of the house, try knocking on the back door. And that’s when she found it. An enormous puddle of frozen blood, saturating the back porch, seeping out from under the door. And that was all we needed.”

  Sheriff Underhill smiled faintly. “We called in the troops and lit that shack up like it was the Fourth of July. Goddamn. Inside were photographs and maps. Lots of maps. We figured out pretty quickly where he was holed up.”

  Chief Chavez scratched at his face, uncomfortable. “It was the oddest thing, though. We had the blood analyzed, to see if it matched any of the known victims. Turned out to be deer blood.”

  I shrugged. “You didn’t know. November is prime hunting season.”

  “Gordon Dillahunt wasn’t a hunter.” Chavez leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “We’d fucked up, but no one said a word. After all, our little screwup ultimately led to the capture of the most wanted man in the valley. No one cared, especially not Walt Johnson, the Neanderthal who was running this department at the time.”

  “But Dillahunt knew, didn’t he? He was brilliant and would have known immediately that someone planted the blood on his porch. Someone with a vested interest in getting into his house when all other legal methods had failed.” I shook my head, marveling at the thought of the planning that would have gone into it. “Of course no one said anything. But people knew.”

  Rose Underhill held up her right hand and cocked her fingers like a pistol at me. “You’re a sharp cookie, Gemma. Of course Dillahunt knew. Chief Johnson did, too. He may have been a prick, but he was a smart prick, sharp as a tack. And boy, did he punish me. My career in Cedar Valley was over. There are times I think he punished me because he was jealous I’d thought of it myself.”

  Chavez started, understanding finally dawning on him. “It was you that put the deer blood there?”

  “Of course it was. You knew I’d spent my whole life hunting. You just didn’t want to connect the damn dots. You’ve been blind to a lot of things in your life, Angel, because you don’t understand that most people will leap, if they’re pushed hard enough.” Underhill sighed and weariness settled in around her eyes. “I’m not proud, but I don’t regret it, not any of it. Gordon Dillahunt was a monster and he needed to be put down. And it was never going to happen unless we helped things along. I was desperate.” She turned to me. “You’d have done the same thing.”

  Would I? I didn’t know. I liked to think I wouldn’t, but there are some people out there who are so bad, so vicious, so inhumane, that your vision gets a little blurry just thinking about them.

  These are the shadows that cops live with; we catch glimpses of them behind us in the bathroom mirror, out of the corners of our eyes. They are dark, shifting things that mimic humans; things we don’t like to spend too much time thinking on.

  Underhill was still staring at me, a haunted look in her eyes now. “I know that when I go to meet my maker, my conscience will be clear. Everything I’ve ever done, all the things that others might judge me for, they’ve all happened in the name of putting garbage away for the long haul. News flash, folks … we’re not cops. We’re trash collectors, rat chasers.”

  It was quiet in the office after that, the slow, steady tick of the clock on Chavez’s desk the only note in the somber air.

  Finally, Chief Chavez stood. He placed his hands on his desk and stared at Rose, his onetime partner and now peer. He spoke in a low voice. “Sheriff, I don’t think you’re wrong, not exactly. Dillahunt was guilty as sin. But if we break the law to prove it, we inch that much closer to that which we detest. Where does the line go? It starts to fade, to twist. And if we’re not walking the straight and narrow, well, then I think we’re all damned.”

  Underhill stood, too, and winked at Chavez. “Angel, hell is the one place we won’t see each other. You, as your name implies, are destined for much loftier places. Now listen, don’t we have a killer to catch? Haven’t we had enough chitchat for one day?”

  I slipped out of the office then, having gotten what I needed. I felt hollow inside. A lot of cops were dirty. The fact that it was common didn’t make it any easier to swallow, but most of the ones I’d met personally, or heard of, were rank and file. Rose Underhill was an elected official, sheriff to all of Cathedral County.

  And she’d just implied there had been other transgressions, other things she’d done to make sure, as she put it, the trash got collected.

  I went to the restroom, splashed cool water on my face. Then I stared at my reflection for a good long while, taking in the wavy, dark hair that fell past my shoulders. The green eyes, set a smidge too close, the average nose and mouth. The thin scar that wrapped itself around my neck.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for; reassurance, perhaps, that I was on the right side of the line dividing honor from dishonor, order from chaos. And if I was firmly planted there, would I stay? Or might there come a day when I’d find myself toeing the line, even crossing over?

  The door behind me opened and Sheriff Underhill paused. “Am I interrupting?”

  I shook my head. “I’m done.” As I moved to go past her, she gripped my elbow. I stared at her.

  “Don’t judge me, Detective. We all have our demons.”

  “Sure. Just keep yours out of my case.”

  She released me, nodded once. “Your case, your demons. I’m just here to help.”

  I found the others already in the conference room. Another few minutes and Underhill joined us. Staring at the notes and diagrams on the whiteboards, it seemed as though the killer was close and yet remained so far out of reach.

  “Where’s he going to hit, folks?” Chief
Chavez asked. He sat at the head of the table, Sheriff Underhill to his left. “Have we made any progress since yesterday?”

  “Sir, if I may?” Jimmy asked tentatively. “Casey Black’s military records came through. It’s bad.”

  The chief nodded, the scowl on his face deepening. “By all means, Jimmy, please illuminate us with your knowledge.”

  “I’ll stick with the highlights. Or rather, the lowlights. In 2006, Black was part of an elite Navy SEAL team in Afghanistan that was tasked with hunting down Taliban members. This was often down and dirty, face-to-face, bloody combat. Some nights, the raids netted ten or fifteen kills. After a while, rumors began to spread. The troops were enjoying the hunts a little too much. In fact, they enjoyed it so much that several SEALs were subsequently investigated for war crimes. Black was said to be one of the ringleaders in the, ah, activities.” Jimmy paused, then held up a photograph. “Exhibit A.”

  “Jesus,” Moriarty muttered. The rest of us were silent, having already turned away from the image of the mutilated corpse in the sand, his or her body desecrated beyond recognition. “Casey Black did that? He’s a psychopath.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “From what I can tell, Black never went before a court. He was suddenly dishonorably discharged, which if you ask me is a hell of a lot better than being tried and sentenced for war crimes. Anyway, if you read between the lines, it’s clear there was some kind of a cover-up, high on the chain of command. We’ll likely never get to the bottom of it.”

  Chavez tapped a pen on the table. “Someone somewhere knows something. Josiah Black, he wasn’t accused of war crimes, was he?”

  “No, Chief. His military records are clear,” I answered. “And just so we’re all on the same page on this … there’s a fair chance that Josiah Black was innocent of all the charges brought against him. I’m afraid that a man who served his country at its darkest hour, with honor, was wrongfully persecuted.”

  “So noted. If you’re right, then shame on us and this town. But it’s clear to me that Casey Black is a vicious son of a bitch. How does this help us figure out where he is?” Sheriff Underhill asked. She stared around the room, looking at each of us in turn. “We need butts on the streets.”

  Moriarty sighed heavily. “I’m telling you, Black is going to target the theater. Think about it; it will be like shooting fish in a barrel. All he has to do is create some kind of scare, and bam! He’ll cause a stampede and it will be a bloodbath the likes of which this town has never seen.”

  My phone rang. I looked down at the caller ID and saw it was Nash Dumont. “Speaking of the theater …

  “Nash, this isn’t a good—”

  He interrupted me, his voice shaky. “Milo Griffith is missing. We open in nine hours. Seven o’clock sharp. What the fuck am I going to do?”

  “What do you mean, he’s missing?” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. I didn’t have time for this. “You’ve tried his cell?”

  “Of course I’ve tried his goddamn cell. Damn it. If he doesn’t show up, we’re screwed,” Nash yelled. “God. All this work, all this planning … I’ll have to cancel the show.”

  “Canceling seems rather drastic, Nash. What about Milo’s understudy, is he available?”

  “Ezra? Ezra can’t act his way out of a paper bag. But yes, of course … If I use Ezra, I can still open the doors. And if the play is a flop, he’ll be the one to blame, not me.” Nash was calmer now, talking more clearly. “Still, Milo is a director’s dream, a natural. You have to find him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up. I’ll swing by the theater. Is Maggie Armstrong there? I’ll talk to her, see if she has any ideas where Milo may have gone. I know the two of them are … close.”

  “Yes. Come as quick as you can. I must get ahold of Ezra in the meantime—he’s going to have a coronary when I tell him he’s our lead tonight,” the director said. “And Maggie is not here yet, but I expect her any minute. She’s always very punctual.”

  I hung up, excused myself, and drove over to the Shotgun Playhouse. Two posters, both as new and fresh as if they’d been printed that morning, hung on either side of the front doors, advertising the one-week-only run of William Shakespeare’s tragedy Macbeth, starring the Cedar Valley Theater Troupe. I was glad to see that they’d settled on a name. I parked and hurried in, nearly running into Danny Grimes in the lobby. He had a nervous look on his face and a sword dangling in his left hand.

  “Are you here about Milo? Nash is throwing a fit. At this rate, it’s probably safer if Milo doesn’t show. This whole thing’s about to blow up in our faces.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said.

  “Well, if Nash doesn’t kill him, I’m going to. We’ve worked so hard and this is so typical. Milo is a real prima donna. He’s probably off with Maggie somewhere, getting lucky, while the rest of us assholes twiddle our thumbs and pray he shows up. No, screw that. We’re a troupe, we’re more than any one individual.” Danny swung his sword in a practiced arc, then stepped back and held it out, ready to parry.

  “Exactly. I’ve seen you rehearse, you’re all wonderful. The show will go on, isn’t that what they say?”

  “Sure,” Danny muttered. He lifted his arm to wipe his brow with sleeve of his shirt and I saw two more tattoos in addition to the flag on his forearm: the letters USMC and a skull.

  “Marine Corps?”

  Danny straightened up and saluted. “Yes, ma’am. I did four years and then left while I was still in one piece. Some of my buddies, they weren’t so lucky. Proud to serve, glad to be out.”

  “I’ll bet.” I began to move away. “I’d better find Nash.”

  Danny was still talking, more to himself than me. “Yeah, you want to hear some real horror stories, talk to Milo when you find him.”

  I froze, then slowly turned around. “Milo was in the Corps as well?”

  “Nah. That dude is a badass. He was a Navy SEAL sniper, special ops. I think he’s actually killed people.” Danny swung his sword again, the blade slicing through the air with a sharp hiss.

  My heart pounded as pieces of the puzzle began to drop into place. I didn’t have the whole picture, not yet, but I could feel with every fiber of my being that I was inching that much closer to Ghost Boy.

  To Casey Black.

  Danny added in a low voice, “Yes, I think old Milo has killed quite a few people.”

  You have no idea. I thought of the fuzzy picture that had come in over the fax with Casey Black’s military records. Change the hair color, tweak the eyebrows, add some facial hair … It was all so obvious now that I knew who to look for.

  I found the director in the theater, pacing on the stage, his face an ugly shade of purple. He practically clawed at me as I approached, a man barely treading water. This was the nasty side of Nash Dumont, and it was on full display.

  “Have you found him?”

  “No, not yet. How about Maggie, is she here?” My voice had a new urgency in it, and Nash noticed.

  He stepped back and paled. “Oh my God, is she missing, too? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Do you have a home address for Milo?”

  Nash nodded. “Of course, I’ve got it here in my phone. I was thinking of driving over there myself, but there’s no time! We are absolutely out of fucking time!”

  He calmed down enough to pull up Milo’s information and read it to me slowly. By the time he was finished, I’d texted it to Finn and told him to meet me there as quickly as possible. Then I left a near-hysterical Nash with the promise that I’d be in touch the moment I had any news. I gently suggested that he also call in Maggie Armstrong’s understudy and he about fell over.

  Then I raced across town.

  The address Nash had given me was in a run-down neighborhood on the south side, where stone-cold dead appliances compete with children’s toys in yards that are defined by low chain-link fences and, more usually than not, a barking dog tethered to some sort of small wooden structure or discarded tra
iler tire.

  Milo’s rental was at the end of a side street that had no name, simply numbers. I parked across the road, taking in the scene. His house was a small one-story ranch-style abode, with dying grass in front and thankfully, as far as I could tell, no accompanying dog. There was no garage, only a tin-roofed carport, empty save for a red gasoline can, tipped on its side, and a couple of days’ worth of newspapers.

  The place had a feel of emptiness to it, and yet the flowers in a wooden box by the front door were fresh, and the fall leaves swept into a tidy pile. Someone had been here; how recently, though, was the question.

  As Finn pulled up, I thought of something and called the fire department. After a couple of transfers and a few minutes on hold, the fire investigator answered. “Ramirez.”

  “It’s Gemma. I’m at the property of a suspect in the Montgomery and Esposito killings. He’s a former Navy SEAL, a sniper. Obviously experienced with explosives. Can we get some support here? I’m not about to walk into his house without knowing if it’s rigged to explode. And there’s a time factor; his girlfriend, my colleague’s daughter, is missing.”

  Ramirez was silent. I knew she was still upset that we’d considered her a suspect.

  “Liv, I’m sorry for the way things went down at the police station. I don’t … I don’t have a lot of female friends. It’s a job hazard, I suppose. I get the feeling you may be in the same boat. We should try to be allies, not enemies.” I waited another beat, then said more urgently, “There’s a woman’s life at stake. She’s young, ambitious. Wants to be an attorney and fight the good fight.”

  Ramirez sighed. “There are no good fights anymore, Gemma. Just bad ones and worse ones. I’ll bring Fuego and a couple of medics. You made the right call; do not enter the building under any circumstances. Don’t even get close. What’s the location?”

  From the other end of the line, I heard Ramirez rummage for a pen and paper. I gave her the address and again reiterated the need to hurry, ending the call as Finn leaned in my open window. I quickly caught him up to speed.