by Nikki Sex
I mentally run through a checklist of my surroundings; cheap linoleum flooring—check. No windows, faint smell of unwashed bodies and stale air—check. Me sitting across from Detective Bronowski and wondering what’s going to happen—check.
Yep, all accounted for. Everything is exactly as I remember it.
The only apparent difference is the manila folder sitting in front of the detective. I wonder what’s in it? And who the hell is this guy I’m supposed to have murdered?
To my mind, the second time around is much easier. I’m cool as an autumn rain, not bothering to count my heart rate, or measure my breaths. I’m more concerned about my girlfriend.
My stomach flutters, but not from nerves. God, I love that woman. Last night was such a revelation. It’ll take me a long time to come down from that high.
Bronowski sits across from me, his lips a tight line of censure. His features are composed, but there’s a surly sort of scowl behind his brown eyes. I could ask for my lawyer, but I don’t want to wait around for him to arrive. I need answers. I want to know what this is all about.
“Are you going to tell me who Edgar Gates is?” I ask, deciding to speak first.
Detective Bronowski studies me with narrowed eyes and ignores my question. There’s fury behind his dark gaze. I curb my irritation. Whatever evidence he has must be pretty compelling because he’s seriously pissed off at me.
“Mr. Wilkinson, do you own a .300 Win Mag Sniper Rifle?”
OK, that was unexpected.
“Yes,” I reply. There’s no point lying, I can see he already knows the answer to that question. I have my body on lockdown, so I’m sure I don’t display any noticeable reaction. Still, this can’t be good.
I own an indoor / outdoor rifle range, with an extensive array of armaments. The Win Mag is one of my personal favorites, proudly on display in the reception area. I used to use it all the time. It’s a versatile weapon with an accuracy well over the thousand yard range.
I have to wonder. Was the mysterious Edgar Gates killed with my rifle? If so, how? I’ve got a state-of-the-art security system for my shooting range, but anything can be overridden by a smart, determined thief.
Unless…could one of my newer employees be in on this? I refuse to believe any of my regulars would be that disloyal.
Detective Bronowski leans back in his chair. He looks mighty agreeable, tamping down his emotions making his body language open, calm and cool. Just us two ‘good ’ole boys’ here.
“I understand you were a sniper with the US Army Rangers,” he says. “Were you any good?”
My lips tug into a small half-smile. “I was great.”
“Is that right?”
When the detective hears my reply, I observe a brief flash of excitement in his eyes—which he quickly subdues. Adrenaline floods his veins… the thrill of the hunter, hot on the trail. I curb a chuckle, as I purposely shift to mirror his posture and position.
I was about to put an end to the session and demand my lawyer, but not so much anymore. The thing is, this is gettin’ kinda interesting and I’m as innocent as a newborn foal.
I lift my gaze until our eyes meet. “What kind of distance are you talking about?”
“Oh, say 700 to 800 yards,” he replies.
“As a Ranger, I was absolutely accurate up to 1500 yards, often fortunate enough to hit my mark at over 2000. Why do you ask? ” I murmur, ostensibly studying my nails. In my peripheral vision though, I see his eyes brighten and his mouth twitch.
This really is too good.
The detective is following me right on down the garden path. I almost feel bad about bursting his bubble. Almost.
Once more, Bronowski totally ignores my question. “I’d like to show you some pictures and get your expert opinion,” he says casually.
“All right.”
He finally opens the manila folder before him. In it are large glossy prints. They’re crime scene photos, taken with an eye for detail. I scan through each of them objectively.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“Can you tell me what you see?”
“If you like,” I say amicably. “This is a young man, perhaps twenty to thirty years old. He’s been professionally assassinated by double taps, one to the heart, one to the head. The heart shot is right on the money, it’s a larger area with less chance of missing. At that velocity, a person bleeds out pretty quick. For a targeted kill, directly after a shot to the chest, the sniper aims for the head. That’s what happened here. There are entrance wounds, but no exit. That means hollow-point bullets were used. Hollow tips enlarge upon entry, maximizing tissue damage and blood loss. If it’s any consolation, this guy never felt a thing. He was dead in a heartbeat—before he even hit the ground.”
“We found the shell casings. Only two shots were taken.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask curiously. “What distance?”
“The sniper was on a water tower, 728 yards away.”
There must be something in my expression because the detective notices. “What?” he asks with hard eyes. “What are you thinking?”
As a cop, Bronowski’s dealt with the worst humanity has to offer. Clearly, he’s placed me in that category.
My brows draw down in concentration. “It’s odd.”
“What’s odd?”
I shrug. “Professional hit, silenced weapon…”
“How do you know it was silenced?” Bronowski positively jumps on my observation.
I meet his eyes. “Stands to reason. No witnesses have come forward, right? This man was probably shot at dusk or full night, using a silencer and a night vision scope. Less chance of being seen or heard.”
“So, what seems strange to you?”
“A trained sniper would never leave casings.”
When Detective Bronowski raises an eyebrow in query, I explain. “Training becomes deep-seated and automatic. Snipers are taught not to be seen or heard, and they don’t leave evidence behind—ever. It becomes ingrained after a while. Habit. No sniper would leave their spent brass. Not an expert. Not the real deal—and this shooter was the real deal.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He made two shots, both hit their intended target. This was a quick, clean kill.”
“Maybe he was interrupted,” Bronowski offers. “Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
I shake my head. “Nope. A shot like this? At 700 yards? No, he left those casings on purpose. He left you a message. This guy wanted you to know only a professional sniper could’ve taken those shots.”
“Are you suggesting he wants to be caught?”
No, he wants ME to be caught.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t say that. He left those shell casings behind for a reason. It was intentional.”
“How many people would you say could’ve made those shots?”
“Classic head and heart at that distance?” I shrug. “I expect any trained sniper or professional assassin could do it.”
“Wilkinson, your gun was the murder weapon. It had your prints—only your fingerprints on it. The man was killed by a professional sniper, shot at 700 yards.” The detective pauses, looks straight into my eyes. “I want to know why you did it.”
“You’re sure it was my gun?”
“We picked it up this morning at 6 a.m. from your shooting range. Ballistics match perfectly and your fingerprints are all over it.”
No doubt my morning manager, stressed to the max, has already left at least ten messages for me by now. Too bad I had my phone on silent. It didn’t occur to me to check it. Not that it matters at this point.
“It's not looking good for you, Wilkinson. Edgar Gates was a cop. You’re up shit creek in a barbed wire canoe. I think we’re done here.” He shifts forward in his chair, then stands up with a note of finality. “Just one thing. Why did you do it?”
More déjà vu. Bronowski is looking for a motive. Again.
“I didn’t do it.”
The d
etective slants me a snide, mocking smile. “Seriously? You’re innocent? That’s your defense? You’re gonna go with that? We’ve got you dead to rights, Wilkinson. There’s no point in going to trial. If you confess, we may be able to take the death penalty off the table.”
“Was Officer Gates working on my father’s murder?”
The detective jerks his head in a slight nod. “He was the forensic computer technician for the Chester Wilkinson case. When the warrants were served, he took charge of every piece of technical evidence seized.”
I frown in concentration, considering the ramifications of what the police know, compared to what I know. Still, I’m not worried. I’m pretty sure my perceived insensitivity pisses Bronowski off.
Irritated, the detective spins and stomps toward the door, probably intending to get one of the uniformed officers outside to take me away. To his mind, the case is closed.
“Wait,” I say. “If you sit down and listen, I’ll tell you everything.”
Appeased by what he no doubt hopes will be a full confession, Bronowski nods, pulls out his chair and sits back down.
“First, I have a question I’d appreciate an answer to,” I say.
“What?” he snaps impatiently.
“How did you know to get a warrant for my rifle? Who told you I shot Edgar Gates? Did you receive a tip or something? If so, did the informant give you his or her name?”
“That’s more than one question and I’m not at liberty to say,” he growls.
I see from Bronowski’s grim frown that he doesn’t want to tell me, either. He’s also uncomfortable with these questions. A thousand to one, the police received a phone message from an unnamed informant, no doubt from a throwaway phone. A thousand to one, or a million to one, I sure as hell wouldn’t lose any money on that bet.
“OK, how about the shell casings?” I ask. “Were my fingerprints on those?”
The detective still isn’t talking, but I think I’ve placed another layer of reasonable doubt there. Not that it would make a difference. He’s convinced I committed this murder.
“Let’s just pretend for one moment I’m not guilty.”
Bronowski rolls his eyes.
“Just for one moment—humor me, please. If I’m not guilty, someone has gone to a lot of trouble to set me up. Why would anyone do that? What’s in it for them? Who would benefit from Gate’s death and why?”
“I have work to do, Wilkinson.”
“Detective, did you obtain a copy of my medical records upon my discharge from the Army?”
“Why?” He gestures toward my badly scarred face. “I assumed you were discharged because you were critically wounded.”
“True,” I admit. “But, if you take the time to read my medical records, you’ll find the reason I’m incapable of having taken those shots.”
Bronowski frowns, his features reflecting distrust and disbelief. He’s definitely not going to like hearing what I have to say.
I press on. “Despite what it looks like in the movies, snipers never shoot with one eye closed. A skilled marksman needs both eyes open for depth perception. Forget seven hundred yards—I couldn’t have killed that man at fifty. The accident that injured me, also robbed me of the ability to be a half decent shot, much less a sniper. I didn’t murder Edgar Gates, Detective Bronowski. I couldn’t have. It may not look like it, and not many people know it,” I point to my left eye, “but I’m totally blind in this eye.”
Chapter 19.
“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”
― Gloria Steinem
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
It takes three hours, but I’m finally released from police custody. Edgar Gates was shot and killed with my sniper rifle, complete with only my fingerprints on it. Lucky for me, whoever came up with this little frame up job, didn’t do their homework.
Anger swirls around me, thick as fog.
I killed while in the military, but I’m not a murderer. For now, I deliberately tamp down the burning fury I feel toward my unknown enemy. For the emotional upset and panic they’ve caused Renata, I’d like to beat them senseless.
I’m surprised by this somewhat familiar rage, but I shouldn’t be. It's one thing to cross me—it's another to hurt my girl. There's a special place in hell reserved for the lying, murdering soon-to-be-sorry asshole. He’d better pray the police find him before I do.
For the first time since my injury, I find myself in the peculiar position of feeling relieved to have lost sight in one eye.
Detective Bronowski walks me down to collect my phone. As I sign for it, he asks diffidently, “You want a ride home?”
I meet his eyes. It seems to be an apology, of sorts. “Yes, thank you,” I reply, as I hit the speed dial. “Give me a moment, I need to make a quick call.”
“There’s no rush,” he says as we walk outside toward a white, Chevy Impala. I stop at the passenger door and raise a questioning eyebrow. Does he want me to sit behind the security grill in the back?
Bronowski nods his approval for me to ride up front, which pleases me. It’s a small bridge of trust, another olive branch. I open the door, pause and listen to her phone ring as I wait for Renata to pick up. I want to tell her all is OK, I'm on my way home.
The detective opens his door, climbs in and sits down in the driver seat.
Renata answers her phone and I tell her the good news. She’s relieved to hear the police have released me. Still, there’s something in her voice. She sounds unusually tense.
“What’s going on?” I ask warily.
“Your sister decided to visit. She’s here right now.”
“Shit. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so,” I tell her. “We’re leaving now.” In a hurry, I hop into the front seat and shut the door. “Will you be OK until then?”
She sighs heavily. “I think so. Betty Jo’s upset—long story. I’ll tell her you’re on your way home. She has no idea where you’ve been.”
“Thanks for that. Hang in there. I love you,” I say openly, no longer hung up about that word. I’m getting to be comfortable with the whole love thing.
“Love you, too,” she immediately replies.
Bronowski snorts, slanting me a disillusioned look as he starts the car, puts it in gear. “Babysitter, huh?”
“Yes, she is, actually,” I say, “but we’ve moved on from that to girlfriend.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I turn toward him and smile broadly, giddy with pride and happiness to announce that I have a girlfriend for the first time in my life. "She’s hopefully, my soon to be fiancée,” I confide, grinning like an infatuated fool. “Renata doesn't know yet, so I'd appreciate you keeping that to yourself.”
“You don’t say?” His brows raise in surprise. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
A buoyant sense of joy returns in full force. Briley’s babysitter is my live in, madly-in-love-with-her, hot sex, girlfriend. I doubt I’ll ever be good enough for her, and I don’t want to hold her back. Yet, I dream someday she’ll accept me as her husband. Then we’ll be married and live happily together for the rest of our lives.
For years my inner voice has whispered caustic self-talk such as, ‘Monster! Pervert!’ or, ‘I deserve to be alone,’ and, ‘I’m too damaged to be with others.’
While I don’t delude myself my negative thoughts are gone forever, I’m no longer constantly oppressed by this shit. Now I see myself as a good person, a person who deserves happiness. Someone who maybe, with time, may even deserve Renata.
As we drive, I intermittently glance at Detective Bronowski. I can tell he has something on his mind, but I decide to wait for him to initiate a conversation.
Our relationship has changed. Bronowski sees me differently now and it reflects in his manner toward me. It’s obvious someone else killed that young man and they thought I’d make a great scapegoat. His doubts are working for me. If I was setup for this murder, perhaps I was a
lso set up for my father’s murder.
“Someone went through a lot of trouble to frame you,” he says.
I scowl. “So it seems. Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill Edgar Gates?”
“No.”
“And you say he’s the forensic guy? He worked on the computers, phones and tablets seized, due to the search warrant on my shooting range?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” My eyes narrow as I regard him. I think we both ‘see.’
There’s undoubtedly a connection between the murder of Edgar Gates and the murder of my father. I just don’t want anyone to think that connection is me.
Bronowski shoots me a look. “Edgar found sensitive data on a dusty old computer system we picked up from the basement of your shooting range. On it were a number of pictures, thousands, really. The kind of pictures pedophiles like.”
Fuck! Thousands? How the hell do I respond to that?
My father and his damned camera. I shouldn’t be surprised. He had a video camera he loved, too. He’d taken endless tapes of himself with his kills.
I swallow hard, say nothing and stare down at my hands. Restless and uncomfortable, I struggle to remain still. An array of disturbing emotions and sensations rush through me. I can only imagine what the detective is thinking.
He knows about me and my father. But does he know I know that he knows?
I brace myself and admit my shame, “My father was a pedophile.”
“Yes,” he says in a deadpan voice.
Good. I blow out a deep breath, gathering my nerve. Dare I trust him? Do I have a choice?
I need Bronowski on my side. I don’t know how I’ll be attacked or set up in the future. If I’m not careful, maybe the next murder might be successfully laid at my door.
My lawyer would advise me what every lawyer advises, to never confide anything to an officer of the law. ‘Admit nothing’, is his solution to everything. That and, ‘Take no responsibility–even if you did it. If you acknowledge liability, it will cost you.’
This counsel goes directly against my ‘Twelve-step program’ which advises me to make a list of people I’ve harmed, and become willing to make amends.
A lawyer's sole focus is to keep clients out of jail and protect their assets—seemingly I decide sardonically, so that they can acquire them.