Grave Mistakes_A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  “Checking something out?” he asked, readying a clipboard and clicking the end of a pen.

  “Not sure,” I answered while I continued to survey the room. In the corner, near his chair, I saw what I was looking for. An old cardboard box, the words ‘Received’ scrawled across the front. The box was filled with slender envelopes and thick, chunky bags. It was the evidence waiting to be inventoried. Amy’s ring was in there somewhere. There was a pinched feeling in my gut—anxious and gnawing. I breathed a heavy sigh and prepared myself. I was about to break the law again, and, like before, it didn’t sit well.

  I looked Jimmy straight in the eyes. He glanced away, uncertain. After a moment, his gaze wandered back, and I could sense that he was uncomfortable. After shifting about, he finally asked, “What? You gonna say something to the Captain ’bout my reading?”

  I shook my head again, reassuring him. “Jimmy, I’ve got to ask a favor,” I told him and directed my focus to the box next to his chair. “Evidence hasn’t been checked in yet?”

  “Not till this afternoon—” he began and shifted uncomfortably again. “—after lunch. Same time, every day. Captain’s order so I don’t forget to do it. Why?”

  He sounded protective, but I wasted no time and got to the point, “Need to see one of them bags,” I told him.

  “Not supposed to do that, Steve,” he answered. “Once it’s in the box, I have to inventory the items before anyone’s allowed to check ’em out.”

  “I only need it for a couple of minutes,” I said, lifting my voice in hopes of persuading him. “Hey, Jimmy, who’s always helping you when they can?”

  Jimmy dipped his chin and picked at the frayed newspaper. “You do,” he answered, sounding dutiful. “You promise? Only a few minutes, right?”

  “A few minutes,” I answered and clapped his arm. “Damn, Jimmy, got some muscle in your arms... have you been working out?”

  He smiled, distracted by the comment, and lumbered toward the box, snatching it from the floor in a single, swift motion. “I lift the weights at the gym sometimes. After my—”

  “The Williams case,” I interrupted, knowing I was pressed for time.

  “Williams case?” he asked, shaking his head. “That one’s not checked in yet... was told it’d be in this afternoon.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, raising my voice. I took hold of the table and felt my arms go tight. “Should be here! Check again, Jimmy!”

  A momentary look of hurt came over Jimmy’s face, but it quickly turned to anger as he dropped the box and rose up, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders with the door. Jimmy always slouched. I’d forgotten about that. Standing as he was now—defensive and on guard—he filled the doorframe. I shrunk back onto my heels.

  “Hard of hearing?” he asked, a peculiar look in his eyes as he wondered about the saying or what he was supposed to say next.

  “Okay,” I told him and motioned to settle down. “Sorry. Captain wanted something checked early. It’s my ass too, you know.”

  “Then you need to talk to Detective White,” he scolded, his voice becoming soft as he returned to his usual slouch.

  My heart sank. The energy in me drained in a single wave. “Detective White has the evidence?”

  Jimmy nodded and flipped the corner of the newspaper to open his comic book, dismissing me. “Said she’d bring it by this afternoon. Needed to review something first.” My legs turned to mush, and I fell forward onto the half-door and tried to brace myself.

  “Steve? Is it a heart attack? I’m sorry I raised my voice to you. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “You’re good,” I told him, patting his arm again. “Thanks for giving the evidence a look. I’ll talk to Detective White.”

  With nothing in hand and nothing else to say, I turned around and limped away. And as I entered the dark hallway, I heard the chair groan beneath Jimmy’s weight.

  Jenna White had the evidence. She had the ring, and I knew why it was she wanted my help.

  * * *

  The stairs leading back to my desk felt wobbly and abysmally impossible to climb. I gripped the railing, my knuckles turning white, and slid each foot upward a step at a time. It was torture. As the doorway neared, I saw the faces of my children. I saw the sad years ahead without their mother; a feeling of betrayal nestled in every memory like a parasite. I imagined being a single father—driving lessons and proms and graduations. Alone.

  But what if Amy mentioned the homeless man? What if, during her arrest and interview, she decided to confess everything? An image of her ugly ring slammed into my skull like a bullet and nearly toppled me over. The doorway blurred, and the steps went out of focus. I hiccupped, and the sour taste of metal filled my mouth. My chest collapsed under the force of an invisible weight. For a moment, I thought Jimmy might be right. I thought that maybe I was having a heart attack.

  I had to protect myself, too, and make this work. Get the ring and make it all go away. I’d have to ask Jenna to forget what she’d seen. Ask her to break the law and let a murderer go.

  “Steve?” I heard Jenna say. Her voice sounded distant, but my vision had begun to clear. I’m having a panic attack, I told myself as I forced my eyes to focus. My breathing came in rasps, and my heart walloped like a drum thumping mercilessly in my ears. “Steve, I think I need to get you home.”

  “Help me to my desk,” I said, reaching my free hand toward her voice. Her slender fingers found mine, warm and sturdy. She clutched my hand and braced my arm, letting me lean onto her as we limped together toward my chair. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  “This is more than your leg, isn’t it?” she asked and helped me to my seat. The view of my desk remained hidden in a gray blur while my heart slowed and eased back to a steady rhythm. I heard the sound of water and once again felt Jenna’s warm touch as she cradled my hand and led me to a cool glass. The station’s humid air had already turned the surface wet. She patted my head with a paper towel and asked, “PTSD?”

  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I hadn’t considered the diagnosis, but having been shot and almost died, I probably should have thought of it.

  “Something like that,” I answered. “More about the pain, though. Still a struggle. I should have used the elevator. I know better, but just don’t trust that old rattling cage.”

  “Color is coming back. You look a little better,” she said, pressing her palm against my chest. “Pulse isn’t as thready either.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I told her, feeling the warmth of her skin near mine. I suddenly felt uncomfortable with her so close to me. “Appreciate the helping hand.”

  “Can we talk, now?” she asked. Immediately, my eyes focused like laser beams on a target, and all woes ailing my body were acutely dismissed as I mentally prepared for what was coming. “Found something on the Williams case that I need you to look at.”

  “Sure,” I said, playing along, and then eased my chair around as she went back to her computer. She opened her desk drawer and pulled on an evidence bag, lifting it and placing it carefully onto my desk. I moved my keyboard and mouse out of the way while scanning through the clear plastic for what had been collected from the Willams murder. “You do know this should have been checked in.”

  Her face emptied and her expression was replaced with concern as though she’d made a mistake. “I had some work to do that couldn’t wait. I had to confirm something first.”

  “Well, I doubt the mistake is fatal, but normal procedure is to inventory the evidence first and then check it out.”

  “Oh,” she said, her hand on the lip of the bag while her eyes darted from me to the stairs and to the evidence room.

  “Every station processes evidence a bit differently, and you didn’t know. I can take it to Jimmy,” I offered, and pinched the plastic between my fingers, seizing on the opportunity.

  Jenna frowned and put on a latex glove, ignoring my offer. “You already know what I’m going to show you. Don’t you?�
� she opened the bag and began to fish through the contents. A moment later, Jenna revealed Amy’s ring. “This is your wife’s ring. I recognized it out in the field when searching the victim’s pockets. It’s the one you were trying to match for a gift.”

  I dipped my chin and leaned back into my chair, shrugging as though unsure. She cocked her head and frowned, annoyed by my response. We’d seen the same reaction time and time again when interviewing suspects who tried to confuse ignorance for innocence. A twinge of embarrassment came to me, knowing she’d see through my attempt. It wouldn’t get me far anyway. It was Amy’s ring in Jenna’s hand—gaudy and big and with plenty of room for a partial fingerprint—there was no denying it. And it would be the epithelials they’d find to match a DNA study once the crime lab completed an analysis. I shrugged again and added, “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jenna.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong!” she answered, sounding alarmed and raising her voice. The station quieted, and I felt the sudden stare of upturned faces and signaled for her to lower her voice. She took to her chair, pulling it close enough to me that we were facing one another and sitting knee to knee. “Tell me how absolutely impossible it is that your wife’s ring ended up on a dead man’s body... Damn it, Steve, tell me something I can use, so I don’t have to arrest your wife!”

  “Give me the ring,” I begged. I kept my voice steady and in a whisper, but it shook as I spoke. “Forget you ever saw it. Please, Jenna. The evidence hasn’t been checked in yet. Nobody would ever have to know.”

  “Steve,” she answered, straightening her back and shaking her head as if I’d slapped her. I found her eyes and saw the disappointment in them. I turned away in shame like a sinner facing judgment. “Steve, I can’t do that! You know I could never do that.”

  My chin trembled as the stark images of my broken family returned. “I know,” I muttered. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask.”

  She stared at me for a moment, and I held her gaze.

  “Let’s get another sample,” she said, lifting her voice and breathing life into the possibility of saving my family. “As odd as it sounds, Williams having the ring could be a mere coincidence with an equally sick timing. He could’ve picked it up at your house. Right? Regardless, we’d still need another DNA sample from your wife. Some hair to compare for a match.”

  “I can do that,” I answered, adding hope to my words. And I could too. I could go home, take some hair from my daughter’s hairbrush or even my mother’s or even the dog. It didn’t matter where the hair sample came from, as long as Jenna thought it was Amy’s. “Give me an hour. I’ll bring it to you.”

  “I have to check this in first and get forensics started,” she said while I watched Amy’s ring disappear into the evidence bag. “And Steve, you do understand, I’ll have to go with you and perform the collection.”

  My heart sank again. Of course, she’d go with me. It was her case. It was her evidence to collect. “I understand,” I told her and turned back to log off of my computer.

  * * *

  I drove to our home, giving Jenna an opportunity to prepare the paperwork while I tried to think of a way out of this. But my mind emptied. I couldn’t concentrate. Everything was a sudden distraction. The cab of my pickup truck filled with Jenna’s smell, adding to the strangeness, adding to the surreal feelings of what we were about to do. I stayed below the speed limit, reaching the middle of town and Romeo’s restaurant where an old work truck in front of us came to an abrupt stop—the sloppy grunts of its diesel motor spewing black smoke, choking the air with a soiled cloud. I stomped on my brakes, sending Jenna’s cell phone to the floor with a thud.

  “Damn!” she scolded. “Can’t afford to break another one of these.”

  “Sorry about that,” I offered as she unbuckled her seatbelt and dipped below the dash to find it. When the top of her head cleared the passenger window, I looked out the cab’s window to the restaurant I’d taken Amy on most of our anniversaries and celebrations. Romeo’s parking lot was packed for lunch, and in the mix of lunch goers, I found Amy’s car. “She’s out. She’s out of the house.” At least our timing was good. We could get in and out of my house in a few minutes.

  “What’s that?” Jenna asked, returning to her seat and cleaning off her cell phone. “Couldn’t hear you.”

  “Not important,” I answered, shaking my head while I drove around the stalled truck.

  “Steve, listen—” Jenna began in that same assuring voice I’d heard at the station. “I want you to know I’m on your side with this one. I want to clear your wife. But what if she did it? Have you considered that?”

  I shook my head, intending to show disbelief. But in my heart, I knew she’d killed Garret Williams. I just didn’t know why. Jenna leaned forward, waiting for me to answer. My chest thumped hard, and the nauseous feelings from anxiety returned.

  “I want to believe she didn’t do this,” I finally said, admitting more than I should have while saying little. I quickly rephrased what I said to, “I have to believe she didn’t do this.”

  Jenna touched my arm, laying her hand on mine the way people do when comforting one another at a hospital or a funeral. Is that what this was? Waiting for my wife’s death? It sure felt that way. “Let’s get what we need and then clear your wife of the case.”

  We were minutes from my front door and passed over Neshaminy Creek. I felt the urge to turn off the road, but my ideas couldn’t see around the corners and come up with what to do next. I kept to the speed limit as my mind numbed. The town’s houses and road signs melted away, trickling into nothingness as I found myself following Jenna and her directions.

  It was hopeless.

  * * *

  What began as the longest minutes of my life soon became hours and then days. Detective Jenna White had entered my home where I’d directed her to our bathroom and to where my wife’s hairbrush lay near the sink. With the faucet sounding a steady drip, I watched helplessly as the detective collected the hair samples. The days that followed—days of waiting and wondering—were some of the longest and loneliest I’d ever had. When the forensics report came back confirming Amy’s DNA as a match to what was found at the scene of the Williams murder, I thought about taking Amy and the kids and running.

  But I couldn’t do that. It was with great pain that I finally decided that we were done. I couldn’t help Amy any more. I wouldn’t help her any more.

  The message from Jenna came to me during a weekend away with Amy—a getaway weekend we had planned some time ago to help us get past the loss of our baby. It was drinks and food and long walks on the beach. The idea was to put a spark back into our relationship, but if the Detective got her way, I’d be going home alone.

  Can you wait until we get back to town? I texted a reply to Jenna. A stiff breeze came up behind me, surrounding me with the smell of the beach and sea. Let me bring her in.

  I peered up in time to see Amy approach. It was our last day, and she wanted a walk in the surf before the sun disappeared behind the crisp line of the horizon.

  Can’t do that, Steve, Jenna texted. We’re driving in and will be there in a few minutes.

  Amy’s bare feet rubbed against the walkway, catching my attention. I dropped the phone back into my pocket. Her face was hard to see against the sky while the last of the day’s buttery sunlight showed through the thin fabric of her sundress.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, tapping my pocket. Her face came up to mine and our lips met briefly, and she took hold of my hand. “You know the rules. No business. No work. This is our time.”

  “Just my mom,” I told her, glancing over my shoulder to listen for the approach of police cars. “She wanted to tell me the kids were good.”

  We reached the break of water, the surf turning foamy as it tumbled and ran toward our feet. The seawater was cold, and my toes instantly disappeared into the wet sand as the current drew the water back into the ocean. The taste of salt found my lips as the surf rushed over my f
eet again, warmer this time. Amy grabbed my hand, wove her fingers with mine, and reached up to my lips. She was trying to be romantic, but romance was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn’t hesitate, though. I didn’t say a word. I kissed her, playing along, waiting for the arrest to go down. But I was dying inside.

  I kissed her as tenderly as though we’d just discovered we were in love. I had to remind myself that I was holding a killer, a murderer.

  In sickness and in health, I heard in my head.

  A wave crashed onto our feet. Amy leaped back playfully, pulling my arms to follow her. I followed, but by now I’d heard the first of the police vehicles approach, saw a faint reflection of blue and red on one of the sandy dunes.

  “I love you,” she told me and pressed her hand against my leg, against the wound that had almost ended my life. “And I love that you’ve done so much to change. You’re going to be the best damn district attorney this town has ever had.”

  I swallowed hard—my mouth had become as dry as the sand. I put on a smile as Amy kissed me again. I wanted to die.

  Another sound came then, car doors slamming and a radio’s static rasp and police chatter. But the noise drifted in the wind along with gulls calling and waves breaking. Amy didn’t notice. I held her, knowing what was coming and thinking suddenly that she might run. She returned my hug, fitting her body to mine the way she always did.