Jon's Downright Ridiculous Shooting Case

by A J Sherwood

  Blowing out a breath, Donovan said to no one in particular, “I now understand why Jim’s so desperate to have someone watch your back. What, the police don’t protect you from these guys?”

  “Well, sure, they try. But I’m not always working with the police, y’know? So yeah, while we’re on the job, stay on your toes. The bad guys don’t like me much.” I saw the need to change the subject. “We have two immediate cases to deal with today, and I don’t think you’ll need to worry about me safety-wise, so it’s a good first day for you. A buddy at the precinct wants me to stop in this morning and play lie detector for him, then we have another criminal to interrogate with Kurt at the prison. Both are just interviews, I won’t even be in the room for one of them, so easy-peasy.”

  Donovan, for some reason, wore a skeptical look. “And how often have those easy-peasy interviews ended up with you injured?”

  “Far too many,” I admitted with a grimace. “Hence, you. Shall we go?”

  2

  As soon as we reached the back parking lot, Donovan let out the inevitable reaction upon seeing my car. Well, I say car, but it was actually a military Humvee, trimmed down of all of the electronics, with an EMP shield surrounding its onboard system. A wide grin split his face, making him look for all the world like a kid with an early Christmas. “Get out. You do not drive a HMMWV.”

  “Okay,” I agreed sarcastically. “I don’t.”

  “Get out, you totally do,” Donovan cackled. “Can I drive? Please let me drive, I haven’t been in one of those things in two years.”

  I handed him the key, amused at how excited he was. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve had the seats and suspension replaced, so it’s quite comfortable.”

  Still cackling—seriously, the man sounded like a mad rooster—he climbed into the forest green vehicle, drawing the seat back as he did so to make enough room for his legs. Donovan had at least five inches on me, all in the leg, so I let this pass without comment as I climbed into the passenger’s side. Normally I drove so that my partner could handle the phones and paperwork and all that fun stuff, but today we didn’t need to call anyone. It was safe for him to do the driving.

  Buckling up, he asked, “Where to?”

  “Police station first. You remember where that is?” I switched to my stronger sunglasses as I asked.

  “I do, no worries,” Donovan assured me. “I didn’t grow up here, but I—I forget, you can see stuff like that.”

  “No, tell me,” I encouraged him. “You have to understand, I can see impacts, emotions, the body’s experiences to a degree, but I’m not a telepath. I can’t read everything about a person.”

  Taking this with a nod, he finished his original sentence. “I did the last three years of high school here, learned how to drive, all of that. So I know the roads pretty well, although not the outlying areas. That’s all new to me.”

  “Nashville’s been booming the last ten years,” I responded with complete understanding. “It’s tripled in size, so of course there are certain places that won’t be at all familiar. They didn’t exist when you were last here. I’m amazed you found your own place so quickly.”

  Donovan gave me an odd look before turning his attention back to the road, getting ready to turn out of the parking lot and onto the street. “You can see I’ve got a new place?”

  This. This was why I couldn’t date. I’d forget what they’d told me and how much I knew on my own. Generally, I avoided saying anything really personal for that reason, because nine times out of ten, it just got me in trouble. Wincing, I looked out the window. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, man, it’s cool,” Donovan assured me, tone indicating he wasn’t at all bothered. “I’m still coming to grips with what you can and can’t see, is all. Yeah, I got a new place. Well, kinda; my grandmother died last year and I’m actually living in her house and fixing it up. We have plans to sell the place after I get it done, ’cause it’s not really meant for a man my size, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do.” Deciding to test the waters, I added hesitantly, “Is that how you got that very spectacular bruise on your knee?”

  “There is simply not enough room between the bathtub and the vanity,” Donovan mourned.

  I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, as I could picture the morning scene all too well. “My condolences.”

  “It’s all good. At least I have a roof over my head, and the A/C works. Man, I forgot what late spring in Tennessee is like.”

  “Humid, hot, and generally raining,” I agreed promptly. “You’re not used to humid after so much time in the desert. Ah, dammit, sorry. I shouldn’t know that either.”

  Stopping at a red light, Donovan turned and caught my shoulder, looking me right in the eyes. He had the most gorgeous eyes, a light brown ringed in gold. “Bane. Relax, man. I get the feeling a lot of people have given you grief because of what you can see, but y’know, I haven’t done anything in my life I’m ashamed of. I’m an open book, okay?”

  Those words were like an acquittal and the next breath I took felt easy in comparison. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” The light turned green and he got the HMMWV going again with a low rumble of the engine. “So tell me more about this first gig.”

  “It’s kind of a standard story, sadly enough.” I focused out the front window as I related the particulars. “College girl comes out here for a summer semester, gets involved with a married politician, then decides to go home when the affair ends badly. She packs up, tells people she’s returning to California, but never makes it. She’s missing for five days before people realize she isn’t where she’s supposed to be.”

  “How do you come into the picture?”

  “Actually, Psy was called in first. The police reported her just as a missing person, but her parents were very afraid their daughter was dead. They hired us, as Carol can do a foretelling with the right tools. She narrowed it down to a park, we went and beat the bushes for a few hours, and found Marsha Brown dead near the river bank. After we found the body, the police bumped it to a homicide and started investigating. Problem is, the cheating bastard politician denies all involvement with both her disappearance and murder, and the police can’t prove otherwise.”

  “And they’ve called you in to see if he’s lying or not?” Donovan finished thoughtfully, fingers tapping along the top of the steering wheel. “To, what, determine if they’re barking up the wrong tree?”

  “Yup. Wouldn’t you, in their shoes? Why waste all of the time and manpower on a suspect if you’re not actually sure he did it? Why not use me, who’s better than a lie detector, and establish it? Then, if he really is guilty, you know to look for the evidence. It’s cost effective for them and lucrative for me. Win-win.”

  “Have you seen the cheating bastard in question?”

  “Not yet. This case came to us last week and, like everything procedural, has been somewhat slow going.” I studied his expression from the corner of my eye, but the idea of murder, dead bodies, or cheating bastards didn’t seem to faze him much. But then, he’d seen worse. “One thing I’ll need you to—crap, no, two things I’ll need you to do at the station. They put in all of these electronic locks on the doors and they get pissy when I fry them. Can you open doors for me?”

  “Sure,” Donovan responded easily, taking a right turn and heading into the downtown area. “What else?”

  “We have a system where the cop running the interrogation will keep an earbud in his ear so I can stand on the other side of the mirror and give him cues. Normally we draft someone to hold the walkie-talkie for me, or tape it somehow, but that’s your job from now on.”

  Donovan nodded his understanding, slowing for the last light before we entered the right parking lot for the police station. “What’s a safe distance for you, anyway?”

  “Five miles,” I joked, then grinned when he rolled his eyes at me. “No, seriously, the farthest distance possible is usually your best bet. But try to keep it at leas
t a foot from me, if you can.”

  “A foot?” We hit the speed bump, the HMMWV barely noticing, and Donovan smoothly turned into two spots in the back of the lot. No way this monster could fit in a single space. “Seriously, you’re that electric?”

  “Unfortunately,” I sighed and swallowed the last of my tepid coffee. “Donovan, one thing. The cops in here like us, for the most part, but there’s a couple exceptions. Don’t let them get a rise out of you. The man who called us in is Detective Borrowman, and he’s a friend, so I don’t expect any trouble with this visit. But still, if someone starts mouthing off to me, just glare at them and don’t say a word.”

  Donovan paused with the door open, one leg dangling. His eyes did that penetrating thing again where it felt like he could see right through me. “I sense a story.”

  “It involves dead phones, a laptop I may or may not have touched on purpose, and police negligence,” I answered with a wry twist of the lips. “Tell you later. For now, let’s go in. Oh, and before I forget to tell you, you’re officially a criminal consultant. If anyone asks, give them your name and identify yourself as part of the agency. They won’t give you grief that way.”

  “Got it.”

  I had that feeling I’d forgotten to tell him something important. Hopefully it would come to me before trouble hit instead. I climbed out, shouldering my leather messenger bag, and headed into the precinct through the grimy back door. I don’t know what it was about this station, but it never looked clean to me. I knew they cleaned it—I could smell the cleaning solutions—but fifty years of grime permeated the walls and tile floors. It would take more than the swipe of a mop to make it look pristine again. A bomb, maybe.

  A single officer sat at a back desk as we signed in on a clipboard and received visitor’s passes from her. She looked a little unnerved by Donovan, but didn’t question him being with me, just made a copy of his driver’s license. I switched sunglasses yet again to something that would be light enough for the inside of this dimmer building. With the badges clipped onto our shirt collars, I led the way to the right of the bullpen, where Borrowman’s desk sat in the cubby farm.

  Of course, with no walls to separate the desks, he saw me approach and waved a hand, coming around his desk to greet us. I scanned him quickly, looking for any hints of trouble, but his aura shone steady and clear, if colored a little by frustration from the case. Curiosity flared violet for a moment as he took in the man following me. “Bane. You’re early, good. Who’s this?”

  “My new partner, Donovan Havili,” I introduced with a grand sweep of the arm. “Donovan, Detective Harry Borrowman.”

  “No way,” Borrowman blurted out, his grey eyes wide as he looked up at Donovan. The detective could not be considered short, but even he had to crane his neck a little to meet Donovan’s eyes. “Wow, nice to meet you. Seriously, I mean that. I’ve honestly thought about putting out an ad to find Bane a partner.”

  Donovan seemed a little pleased at this happy greeting and stuck a hand out for a firm handshake. “I beat you to the punch, then.”

  “You sure did,” Borrowman agreed, shaking the hand, patently relieved. “Take good care of him, alright? I know he can be a pain in the ass—”

  “Hey!” I protested good-naturedly. Then I nodded, accepting the ribbing as due. “I resemble that remark.”

  Borrowman ignored me completely. “—but he’s a good friend and the reason why I can go home at a decent hour most nights. He seriously cuts down on my case work. So don’t lose him, and don’t let anyone put another hole in him.”

  “Once,” I mourned to the world in general, “I get shot once and no one lets me live it down.”

  “Because you’ve already used up one of your lives with that once,” Borrowman informed me testily, “and you don’t have any others to spare. Idiot.”

  “What am I, a cat?” I grumbled.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Donovan assured the detective with a small smile that could melt the heart of stodgy old men. “I’ve got his back.”

  “Good. Did he tell you what you’re doing today? Excellent, let’s get at it, then.” Lowering his voice, Borrowman admitted to us, “I don’t think this is actually our guy. He’s got motive, sure, because his wife already suspected him of having an affair before Marsha Brown disappeared, but he’s got an alibi for the time frame of the murder. Not a rock solid one, but still, I have a gut feeling he didn’t do it. Bane, what I need to figure out is if he was involved at all.”

  “Accessory to murder, or maybe paid someone to do it?” I rubbed at my chin, thinking. “I’d have to see him to make sure, and even then, that’s not going to show up. He’ll look guilty for something, but I won’t be able to see if it’s for accessory, fraud, or what have you.”

  “I figured you’d say something like that. So, let’s tag team him.” Borrowman grabbed a folder from the desk and a walkie-talkie, inserting the bud into his ear as he handed the walkie-talkie to Donovan. “He’s in Room 1. Channel 3, Mr. Havili.”

  “Roger.” Donovan immediately turned the walkie-talkie on with a practiced twist of the nob before putting it near his mouth. “Copy?”

  “Loud and clear,” Borrowman assured him, pleased that he would do a quick status check without being prompted. “Follow Bane. I’ll see you on the other side of the glass.”

  The precinct’s interrogation rooms were on the second floor, so we went upstairs and to the right of the landing, Borrowman going into the main interrogation room, with us going into the room right next to it. Donovan, proving that he could remember instructions, didn’t let me anywhere near the doorknob. The maintenance people were going to love him.

  The room on this side of the mirror contained little more than a control booth with recording equipment, two chairs, and blank walls painted a thoroughly depressing shade of grey. The sparse room also smelled strongly of coffee, which made me mourn the lack of another cup in my hands. Ignoring all of it, I kept my arms crossed safely over my chest and took a good look at the other side of the mirror, where the City Alderman and his lawyer sat.

  Alderman Sinclair gave off a foggy aura that I never associated with anyone worth knowing. He had so many lines greyed out by unhealthy ambition, lies, and tainted relationships that it dampened his spirit to an unhealthy, muted shine. The lawyer at his side looked akin to him, only a touch brighter. At least the lawyer didn’t cheat on his spouse. That was about the sole difference between the two men.

  “Wow,” I muttered under my breath. “What a weasel in a suit. I hate politicians, seriously.”

  Donovan ignored the detective’s opening gambit as Borrowman sat at the table. “Is he guilty?”

  “Oh yeah. But not of murder. Borrowman was right to call me in.” I gestured for the walkie-talkie, and Donovan held it up, the channel open. Projecting my voice a little, I informed him, “Borrowman, not your murderer. He’s guilty of something, though.”

  The downside to the system was that Borrowman couldn’t let on that he had someone speaking in his ear. So, naturally, he couldn’t ask me questions. Still, I’d said enough to guide him in the right direction, and I kept a very close eye on the area right below the politician’s heart. The chakra system designated that as the third chakra point, which contained self-control, purpose, desires, anger, and anything mental. Whoever had designated it, thousands of years ago, had known what they were doing. Or maybe they had been a psychic similar to me, as that was exactly the right area to look for things of that nature.

  The line in and around the solar plexus moved feebly, tinged a dark grey, indicating that he’d done something he wasn’t proud of. But he didn’t regret it, either, which likely meant he hadn’t been caught yet. Or thought he wouldn’t be caught. Men of this caliber only regretted their actions once the secret was exposed.

  Warmup done, Borrowman cut right into the heart of the matter. “Mr. Sinclair, what do you know about Marsha Brown?”

  “I know that’s she’s a young college student
who disappeared last week,” Mr. Sinclair responded smoothly, his face indicating nothing but polite interest. He had the type of looks that endeared him to people, as he wasn’t particularly plain or handsome, more a boy-next-door type.

  “You mean murdered last week,” Borrowman corrected with false civility.

  “Oh, has it been ruled a murder? I hadn’t heard. The news wasn’t specific on that point.”

  “Is that where you’re getting your information from? The news? I find your reaction to all of this very odd, Mr. Sinclair. After all, you dated Ms. Brown for nearly four months. You’re not disturbed that she’s dead?”

  The lawyer stirred unhappily at this question, placing a hand on the table in a silent plea for his client to be careful in answering.

  Sinclair’s head cocked slightly, brows furrowed a little in confusion. “I’m sorry? What makes you think we were dating?”

  “Photographs of you two together were recovered from her phone, along with many texts and a record of phone calls,” Borrowman responded, losing a bit of patience. “Come on, Sinclair, I’m fairly sure you didn’t kill her. I’m not trying to pin the blame on you for that. Just admit to the affair, help me come up with a timeline of her disappearance. I need information, facts, if I’m to get to the bottom of this.”

  Hesitating strongly, Sinclair studied the detective, not sure whether to believe him, and shared a speaking glance with his lawyer.

  I gestured for the walkie-talkie again and Donovan obligingly held it up for me. “I’ve got three lines, here. His marriage with his wife is on the rocks, and he wasn’t happy Marsha called it off—still some lingering feelings there—but he’s got another lover already. He’s more emotionally invested in the lover.”

  Borrowman’s expression didn’t even flicker as he took in this news. “Sinclair, I know you have another lover already. One your wife probably doesn’t know about yet? Not that it matters, since you want to divorce her anyway.”