by Mason Cross
3
Dwight Haycox
Haycox sang the opening lines of “Mr. Brownstone” under his breath as he typed in his username and password. He sat back and sipped from his lukewarm cup of coffee and watched the status wheel circle, as though it was thinking carefully about whether to permit him access.
No new posts since your last visit.
His eyes moved to the top right corner of the screen.
Private Messages: 12 (0 new)
Nothing new. Nothing from “Bloody Bill”, the user who had contacted him the week before, teasing some new information. It wasn’t exactly an unusual occurrence on the boards. The type of person who logged in here liked to know more than everyone else. Often, they were fantasists; the type of people who called in to talk-radio stations boasting about knowing the real story. Or the type who take it a step further and confess to the police investigating the case. They were easy to filter out.
This guy was different. If it was a guy at all, username notwithstanding. Most likely it was. The profile of users of this kind of website was overwhelmingly of one kind: white, mid-twenties to middle-age, and male. Ironically, not too different from the profile of your average serial murderer. Not for the first time, Haycox wondered if that was a coincidence.
Playing the odds, and for the sake of convenience, he was happy to think of “Bill” as a he. Bill had focused on something that no one else would have had any reason to connect to the DMK case: the death of Walter Wheeler. Somehow, he knew David Connor had hired Wheeler. Bill thought there could be more to his death than met the eye. Haycox concurred, though his sources in Atlanta hadn’t yet responded to his questions.
He closed the browser window and opened the file drawer in the desk. The desk had come with the apartment. It was too big for the room, but it suited his purposes. He pulled out the file and leafed through it.
Haycox had been interested in murderers for as long as he could remember. It was a big part of why he had gone into his chosen profession. Something about DMK had stuck out, though. The fact the case was unsolved was important, of course, but many of them were. Perhaps it was because he had visited the location at an impressionable age. Either way, when the position had been advertised, it had seemed too good to be true.
The copies in the file were arranged chronologically, with his own notes in the margins. They came straight from the source, much of the information unavailable in any of the websites or the books written on the case. The sheriff’s department would not be pleased if they knew these copies were here, but they would never find out.
He closed the drawer and switched off the computer screen, plunging the room into full darkness. The glow from the streetlamp across the road filtered through the branches of the tree in the yard. He watched the road for a while. Nothing came past, even though this was the main route through town.
He walked through to the small kitchen and microwaved the last chili dinner from the freezer, then ate it with a beer in front of the late news. Then he took a shower and laid out his uniform for the morning. Light blue shirt, blue coat, gray hat. He ran his fingertip along the embossed letters on the badge on the sleeve. Lake Bethany Sheriff’s Department.
If only they knew.
Friday
4
Isabella Green
The Mercer place was just off Cherry Hill Road, about a half-mile outside of the Bethany town limits. It was a wide one-story house with whitewashed wood siding. A big integrated garage took up almost half of the front, and there was a covered porch that wrapped around to the back of the building where it became a raised deck overlooking the woods behind.
Deputy Isabella Green pulled the venerable blue-and-white Crown Victoria into the rainbow-shaped concrete driveway, keeping her eyes on the door and the windows as she parked behind the white pickup out front. If anyone heard her approach, there was no outward sign. She knew from the record that Waylon Mercer was thirty-eight. Five years older than she was. At about six-one, three inches taller. Two hundred and thirty pounds: a hell of a lot heavier.
Isabella lifted her hat from the passenger seat and fitted it over her head before she opened the door. Out of habit, she reached down and patted her sidearm in its holster as she approached the house, not hurrying. She climbed the three wooden steps, hearing the wood creak beneath her, and heard a rustle. She paused and bent at the knee to look between the steps. There was a skinny black water spaniel staring up at her with moist brown eyes. The dog looked away after a moment and busied itself sniffing at the ground. Isabella straightened up and climbed up to the porch. She knocked hard on the door and stepped back. There was no sound from inside. No raised voices, no television. If it hadn’t been for the pickup outside, it would look like no one was at home. She knocked again, harder this time, and heard footsteps approach. The door opened.
Mercer had wide shoulders and jet-black hair that was beginning to recede a little. He wore jeans and a white vest beneath a plaid work shirt. His belt buckle was a brass star, like a sheriff’s badge in the Old West. He had been handsome in high school, and had been able to coast on that ever since.
He forced a smile.
“Deputy … Green, right?”
Bethany was just about big enough that he could get away with pretending not to be sure of her name.
Isabella didn’t return the smile. “Is your wife at home, Mr. Mercer?”
His eyes narrowed at the confirmation of why she was here. “She’s not feeling well. What’s this about?”
“Routine check,” she said. “After the trouble you had last month.”
He waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he just shrugged. “Everything’s fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Can I talk to Mrs. Mercer?”
“I said she isn’t feeling well. She’s sleeping.”
“I heard you. I’d like you to go ask her to come out here and talk to me.”
Mercer looked down at the deck, giving a little head shake, like he was amused she wasn’t getting it. “She’s asleep.”
Isabella waited until he raised his eyes again before she spoke.
“Go wake her up, then.”
The amusement drained out of Mercer’s eyes and he straightened up and stepped toward her. The nightstick was clipped to the left side of Isabella’s belt, the Glock 43 on the other side. Her hands didn’t move to either one, not yet.
“I said she’s asleep, Deputy. Now why don’t you come back tomorrow? I’m sure she’ll be happy to tell you the same thing I just did, since it seems that ain’t good enough?”
“It ain’t,” she said, pronouncing the Ts hard.
His eyes moved from Isabella’s to where she had parked the car. She could almost see the thought process going through his head. First, making sure she didn’t have a partner with her. Then wondering if the car had a dash cam or something like that. It did, but the pickup was obscuring the line of sight. That was deliberate.
He seemed to consider it and then, without taking his eyes off her, reached behind him to close the door.
“Step out of the way, sir,” she said.
Mercer took another step forward, getting in her face. He raised his voice. “Come back with a warrant. This is harassment.”
She leaned in even closer, smelling juniper berries on his breath. Early for gin. Or perhaps the night before was still going on.
She lowered her voice by the same degree he had raised his. “Get out of my way, or I’m going to make you get out of it.”
Before he could stop himself, he had raised his right hand and swung it toward the left side of Isabella’s face. Open hand. Big mistake. Even if she had let him connect it would have been weak. But instead she ducked and punched him hard in the stomach, right above his stupid cowboy belt buckle. He folded over around her fist, and she reached for the nightstick, snapping it off her belt, bringing
it up and cracking it over the back of his head while he was still bent forward. She didn’t hit him hard, not enough to knock him out or anything. Just a tap on the head to remind him not to do anything else foolish.
Mercer lost his balance and sprawled on the porch, before scrambling onto all fours.
Isabella crouched down before he could get to his feet again, holding the nightstick loosely. They locked eyes. She could see he was fighting the urge to strike out again. His face was red. She shook her head. His eyes dropped.
She stowed the nightstick again and gripped him by the lapels of his shirt, hauling him up to his feet. She dusted off his shoulders and stood back.
“Try that again?” she asked, leaving her precise meaning open to interpretation.
He rubbed the back of his head and smiled, stepping out of Isabella’s way and giving an exaggerated “come in” gesture.
She kept her eyes on him as she opened the door, then nodded her head to indicate he should take the lead.
The front door led into a hall with a tiled floor. At the far end, it widened out into a kitchen at the back. There were three closed doors leading off the hall: two on the left, one on the right. As Mercer stepped into the hallway, the farthest door opened.
Sally Mercer was thirty-four. She wore a blue-and-pink floral dress, and her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was looking down at the carpet, and her left hand was massaging the side of her head, failing to conceal a fresh shiner.
“Everything okay?” she said in a shaky voice, without looking up.
“I told you she wasn’t feeling so good,” Mercer said, his voice a little less steady now. Not so sure of himself.
Isabella stepped forward and gently took Sally’s hand at the wrist, moving it down so she could get a look at the black eye. It was recent, within the last fifteen minutes. She wasn’t just going on the look of the bruising to tell that, of course. That was when the neighbor had called them.
“He hit you again, sweetheart?”
Sally avoided her eyes, shook her head weakly. “I fell down.”
Isabella turned back to Mercer. He was leaning back against the wall, watching the two of them coolly. She wished he would take another swing at her, but knew he wouldn’t. Outside had been a mistake and he knew it.
“The sheriff told you we were going to be keeping an eye on you, Waylon,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“I’m going to take Sally to get that eye looked at. Can’t be too careful. You never know what domestic accidents can lead to.”
She put a hand on Sally’s shoulder and started walking out. Mercer didn’t even look at his wife, just stared at Isabella the whole time.
As they reached the doorway, another department vehicle rounded the corner and swung into the driveway. This one was an SUV, a GMC S-15 Jimmy, also blue-and-white.
Deputy Kurt Feldman got out. Isabella was struck again by the thought that he looked more like the guy in the catalogue modeling the uniform than a real cop. His uniform was impeccably pressed, the boots spotless, the hat perfectly positioned on his head, the aviator sunglasses hiding a pair of deep blue eyes. The only thing creased on him was the brow above those sunglasses, which was knotted in concern.
A sudden, rapid barking from the far end of the house made his head jerk to the source. Isabella looked and saw the black spaniel scampering out from under the porch, turning and then running toward her and Mrs. Mercer. She saw Feldman’s hand reach to his holster and held her free hand up.
“It’s okay.”
The dog reached the two women and went up on its hind legs pawing at Mrs. Mercer’s stomach, as though asking her not to go.
“Easy Swifty,” she said.
Isabella ruffled the top of Swifty’s head as its wet brown eyes glanced at its owner. The dog seemed to size Isabella up, then licked her hand.
“Swifty, get in the goddamn house.”
Sally flinched. The dog obeyed Mercer’s gruff voice instantly, scampering up the stairs and into the house.
Shooting a glance at Mercer, then at Isabella, Feldman spoke for the first time. “You okay?”
“She’s fine,” Isabella answered, though she knew her colleague wasn’t asking about Mrs. Mercer.
Sometimes, she felt like Feldman treated her like an unruly child who needed to be watched like a hawk, lest she hurt herself. He had always been protective, and she assumed part of that was just him looking out for a fellow cop. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she felt like his protectiveness had stepped up a notch since her mom’s health had been declining.
“Really, I just fell,” Sally was saying as Isabella guided her past Feldman. He saw Mercer in the doorway and narrowed his eyes.
“Any problems here, Isabella?”
She glanced back at Mercer. He had a wary look on his face. She could probably book him for assault. A piss-poor attempt at assault, anyway. Feldman would swear he had witnessed it. But that wouldn’t make a difference in the long run, and might actually make matters worse for Sally. Best to keep the powder dry for now and see if he learned the lesson.
She shook her head. “Not even close.”
5
Isabella Green
“I know it must seem real easy to you.”
Isabella watched Sally Mercer’s eyes over the rim of the paper coffee cup. Or rather she watched the lids, since she had avoided looking anyone in the eye since they had gotten into the car. The bruise around her right eye was swelling up and darkening. They were in the small interview room. Table and three chairs, no windows, cinderblock walls, reinforced door, a potted fern in the corner. Isabella hated speaking to victims in here, because it always felt too much like an interrogation. But it was the nicest option they had. There was no fern in interview room one, and the chairs were bolted down.
“It seems anything but,” Isabella replied. “All the same, I’d like you to consider pressing charges.”
Sally put the cup down, let out a little sigh, and met Isabella’s gaze for the first time. Her voice was surprisingly firm when she spoke.
“I told you it was an accident, this time.”
Kurt Feldman spoke before Isabella could say anything. “You really think we buy that?”
Isabella shot him a look that told him to shut the hell up.
“Let me tell you something,” he continued, oblivious to her look. “You keep having accidents, you’re going to wind up dead.”
“Deputy Feldman,” Isabella said sharply. “Sally could use a refill on her coffee.”
“Actually,” Sally began, “I’m—”
“I insist.”
Feldman narrowed his eyes and took the hint at last. He gave Isabella a look of mild apology and picked up the paper cup from in front of Sally Mercer before opening the door and stepping out into the corridor. The spring hinges snapped the door back and slammed it into the frame loudly. Sally jumped at the bang.
“He lacks tact,” Isabella said.
The corner of Sally’s mouth curled up in a half-smile.
“But he has something of a point. How long are you going to put up with this shit, Sally?”
She was silent.
“Till death do you part, that it?”
She flinched, visibly shocked that Isabella Green of all people would have chosen those words, and then dropped her gaze again.
“Trust me,” Isabella said quietly, “it’s overrated.”
“I’m sorry,” Sally said in a muted tone. There was no reason she should be, it was Isabella who had brought it up. Sally raised her gaze again and changed the subject. “How did you know to come by, at that moment?”
“Somebody called it in, heard the fight.”
“There wasn’t a fight.”
“Sure.”
“Can I go home now?”
Isabella b
ecame aware there was someone behind her. She looked up at Feldman, standing holding the door open, the refilled cup of coffee in his hand. She hated when he did that. Everyone else in the world made a sound when they opened a door. She turned back to Sally.
“I can’t change your mind about pressing charges?” she asked.
Feldman drew a breath and Isabella glanced back at him quickly. He thought better of whatever he had been about to say.
“I’d like to go home.”
Feldman put the unwanted cup down on the table and stayed behind to put the recording equipment away, while Isabella walked Sally back along the corridor to the main office. It was a wide room with a reception desk, four small workspace cubicles and a big picture window. It looked more like a realtor’s office than a sheriff’s department. The department had a total staffing complement of eight, which was actually pretty luxurious for a jurisdiction the size of Bethany and its surroundings. Isabella knew Deputies Sam Dentz and Carl Bianchi were out in one of the cars running the afternoon patrol. Dwight Haycox was on the desk. He looked up as they emerged from the corridor.
“All done?” Haycox was twenty-two and looked younger, like he had only just started to shave. He had reddish-blond hair, and was tall, though he hid it by sitting down or leaning against things whenever possible. His pale blue eyes met Isabella’s and then moved over to Sally Mercer. She was holding a hand up to hide the bruise again, making like she was scratching an itch.
“The sheriff back yet?”
Haycox turned his head to look at the closed door to McGregor’s office and chewed the lid of his ballpoint pen as though he had to think hard about Isabella’s question. He did that a lot, thought about everything before answering. He was fresh out of training, so perhaps this was a technique they had drummed into him. He was keen – Feldman thought he was an idiot, but Isabella didn’t think so.
“Nope,” he said.
That was standard. The sheriff liked to disappear for hours at a time. Perks of the top job. It wasn’t like civilization was in danger of imminent collapse while the department was undermanned, of course. The morning’s action was as exciting as it tended to get.