Gathering Dark

by Fox, Candice

  SANCHEZ: Well, most people don’t.

  HARBOUR: I shot Adrian because it was him or her. He was on top of her when I walked in and he’d already hit her once and that big fist was coming down again and again and I thought He’s going to kill her and I tried to get in there and—

  SANCHEZ: To get in there?

  HARBOUR: To pull him away. I fought with him a little but he just threw me off like I was nothing. He was in a rage.

  SANCHEZ: Uh-huh.

  HARBOUR: And then I saw the gun and I just . . . You know. I just—

  SANCHEZ: What you’re saying doesn’t make much sense, Dr Harbour, if I’m being honest. You say you intervened in a domestic argument between these people who you barely knew, a violent domestic argument that you just happened to walk in on. That’s not what Zea is saying.

  HARBOUR: What?

  SANCHEZ: She’s saying you shot Adrian over the noise.

  HARBOUR: No, she isn’t.

  SANCHEZ: Yes, she is. She says you had it out for them. That the relationship was dire. That you walked in, confronted them about the noise, shot Adrian and went into the kitchen to wash the gun and make yourself a snack. If what you’re saying is true, Harbour, and you just popped around to number 1107 to say hello and found yourself compelled to save Zea’s life, why the hell would she cook up this elaborate tale about you shooting her boyfriend over a noise complaint?

  HARBOUR: I don’t know. I have no idea whatsoever why she would say that. I didn’t pop around about the noise. I looked out my kitchen window and saw them through their bathroom window. I saw him hit her.

  SANCHEZ: And you just charged over there like Wonder Woman to help the girl out.

  HARBOUR: You’re not listening.

  Jessica sat back in her seat, looked at the aisles of cops around her. On the screen ten years earlier, and now, she was silent, thoughtful. Harbour’s words rang in her ears, and she winced now. The doctor was right. She wasn’t listening. She’d listened to the victim, Zea, already, and that seemed like enough. She watched herself in the interview and knew exactly what she was doing – pushing. Squeezing. Trying to massage a confession out of Harbour.

  SANCHEZ: Zea says you snapped. That you were completely out of it. Talking crazy.

  HARBOUR: Not . . . Not at that moment. Afterwards, maybe, after I’d shot him. I was stunned and shocked but I wasn’t crazy. I had my wits about me. I was trying to think of what to do. I’ve never killed anyone before and I was horrified and for a few minutes I . . . I couldn’t think straight. But I’m not crazy. I’ve never been crazy. Can I talk to her?

  SANCHEZ: No.

  HARBOUR: But—

  SANCHEZ: Why did you wash your hands and the gun?

  HARBOUR: That was . . . I’ve been trying to figure that out. I think I’m just so used to doing it as a part of my job that it happened as a sort of reflex. Whenever I do anything at work I wash my hands. Before and after. I must wash my hands fifty times a day. I didn’t wash the gun, I dropped it in the sink. That’s what I do with my instruments. It must have got wet.

  SANCHEZ: Bullshit.

  HARBOUR: It’s not bullshit.

  SANCHEZ: Making yourself a snack in the kitchen is crazy, Dr Harbour. Don’t you think?

  HARBOUR: I didn’t do that.

  SANCHEZ: Why the hell would Zea tell us you made a goddamn sandwich if you didn’t?

  HARBOUR: I have no earthly idea. I don’t know why she’s saying any of this. It’s possible she has a brain injury from being hit. If I could just speak to her for—

  SANCHEZ: Why didn’t you administer first aid to Orlov after you shot him?

  HARBOUR: Well, because he was dead. He was clearly dead. He died instantly. I shot him right through the heart.

  SANCHEZ: Your statement is that you did absolutely nothing to try to bring him back. Am I understanding you correctly?

  HARBOUR: There was no bringing him back.

  SANCHEZ: Are you laughing, Dr Harbour?

  HARBOUR: I’m . . . I’m laughing at the absurdity of it. Of – what – doing chest compressions? On a heart with a giant bullet hole in it? He bled out in . . . in seconds. I’m not laughing at . . . It’s . . . Oh, god. This doesn’t feel real.

  SANCHEZ: Can you answer the question? You did nothing to assist Orlov after you shot him?

  HARBOUR: I feel like I’m on another planet right now.

  SANCHEZ: You feel out of touch with reality?

  HARBOUR: No, I mean I don’t know how to make you understand. He was going to kill her. I couldn’t let him kill her. You don’t just let a person die in front of you.

  SANCHEZ: Well, some people don’t.

  Harbour’s story had originally been that she had gone to 1107 Tualitan Road, the house next door to hers, after seeing Orlov strike Zea through the couple’s bathroom window. On arrival, she said, she had found Orlov beating his girlfriend savagely and, after making unsuccessful attempts to separate the two, had grabbed the gun from the dining room table in desperation and shot the man dead to protect Zea. The story explained the injuries to Zea, Orlov and Harbour, but it didn’t explain why Zea wouldn’t back up Harbour’s version, why a young woman would tell the kind of lie that sent a woman to prison, presumably to protect the honour of her dead boyfriend, or as revenge for all the noise complaints. For Jessica, the story didn’t explain Harbour’s bizarre movements after the shooting, why she’d washed her hands and the gun in Orlov’s kitchen sink, why she’d made a cheese sandwich and taken a single bite, then wandered out the front of the house without dialling 9-1-1. By the time Harbour employed her first lawyer, her account had changed, become simpler under the guidance of a legal professional. She had indeed charged over to the Orlov household to confront the couple about the music, and Orlov had grabbed his gun in a rage and pointed it at Harbour. In a vicious struggle for the gun, which included Zea, the weapon somehow got turned around, went off, struck Orlov in the chest. That explanation didn’t wash with Sanchez and Andermann either. Ballistics had shown Orlov was hit from a distance of five feet, and Blair’s bizarre behaviour after the crime didn’t indicate an accidental shooting.

  Harbour had been psychologically assessed by specialists from both the prosecution and defence. She was perfectly sane, and showed no signs of a hidden, lingering mental illness that might have peaked during the altercation. There were no signs of perinatal depression or mania that the defence could lean on.

  Jessica paused the video and sat back in her chair, looking at the image of Harbour. She wondered again what she was doing, why the Harbour case was drawing her back in. It was open and shut. Neighbour snaps, kills neighbour. Just because Harbour had a cute kid, Jessica reminded herself, that didn’t mean she wasn’t a stone-cold psychopath. Plenty of vicious serial killers had normal, well-adjusted kids. Jessica saw a write-up about one every now and then in the Times: My mom, the South-Side Baby Killer. She closed the Harbour video and was about to rise when a hand fell on her shoulder.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ a voice said.

  Jessica winced, but it wasn’t Wallert or Vizchen standing over her. It was a Chinese American man in his sixties who Jessica hadn’t personally encountered in her brushes with IAG, but nevertheless knew well. Detective Cheng Woo slid a buttock of his grey trousers onto Jessica’s desk, forcing her to retreat backwards in her chair, bumping into the divider between her desk and the next. Already she could feel the eyes of her colleagues on her again, people glancing around computer monitors or taking conspicuously brief trips to the coffee area to see what was happening over the cubicle wall.

  ‘Detective Woo.’ Jessica nodded in greeting. ‘I was just checking on some open cases, making sure they’ve been taken up in my absence.’

  ‘Everything’s fine, Sanchez. You’ll find all your cases have been reassigned. Running like clockwork without you, as difficult as you might find that to believe.’

  A snicker from nearby. Jessica didn’t bite.

  ‘In fact, I’ve a
lready begun seeing to the two internal investigations that feature your name,’ Woo said. He was talking loudly enough for a group of people at the end of the row of desks to hear.

  ‘Two investigations?’ Jessica said.

  ‘The officer-involved shooting and the Brentwood inheritance.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jessica said. ‘You guys over there in IAG are so quick, I thought you’d have figured out by now that the two are related.’

  ‘It’s a very curious set of circumstances, the Linscott Place shooting in particular,’ Woo said. He eased more of his bulk onto Jessica’s desk, nudging aside pencils and papers. ‘I can’t really get my head around it. To me it seems that either two diligent, capable and committed officers like Wallert and Vizchen failed to back up a fellow officer in life-threatening circumstances—’

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say “capable”?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘—or you, a decorated officer with some regrettable disciplinary marks against your name, someone who had only just learned of a life-altering change of fortune, stormed off on your own to try to play the hero cop.’

  There it was again. Hero cop. Vizchen had said it the night of the shooting. Jessica bit her tongue.

  ‘So which is it?’ Woo held out his hands.

  ‘I think it’s completely inappropriate for me to comment here,’ Jessica said.

  ‘Why?’ Woo looked around. ‘We’re just talking informally. I’m not wearing a wire.’ He laughed. ‘Our interview is scheduled for next week.’

  ‘You’re trying to get me to—’

  ‘From some initial reports I have seen, there’s a suggestion that Wallert might have been under the influence of alcohol,’ Woo said. ‘His judgement might have been impaired, and it might have caused him to fail to follow you on your pursuit of the suspect. Is that true, Sanchez? Was your partner drinking that night?’

  Jessica’s hands formed fists in her lap. The knuckles cracked. No one was doing much to disguise their interest now. A group of officers had moved in from the coffee area and were standing, cups out from their hips like guns, in the middle of the aisle, only feet away, waiting to see if she would betray her partner to IAG. If she would betray them all.

  ‘I’m not . . .’ Jessica took a deep breath. ‘I’m not talking about it here.’

  ‘And then there’s the house, of course,’ Woo said. ‘We need to talk about that when we meet. You said just now it was connected to the shooting. In what way was it connected? I’m so curious about all this. Was your judgement compromised by the news, perhaps? Were you so filled with confidence from receiving such a substantial reward for your services that you—’

  ‘I said I’m not talking about this here.’ Jessica rose from her seat so fast that Woo shot backwards, almost falling off the desk. The two stood in the tiny cubicle, chest to chest, everyone watching them. Jessica locked eyes with her adversary. ‘So hold on to your fucking curiosities for the interview room.’

  Woo smiled and raised his hands in surrender as Jessica slid past him into the aisle and walked stiffly to the bathroom.

  Jessica kicked over the trash can in the women’s room, relishing in the huge clanging sound it made, a noise that rippled off the tiled walls. The bathroom had been the wrong choice. Women went to the bathroom after an argument to cry. She did not cry, but instead grabbed handfuls of paper towel from the dispenser and wadded them into a dense ball, pressed the ball against her mouth and screamed. The scream came out as a gruff howl, but it felt good. Jessica went to the sinks and washed her face. Her whole body trembled with fury. Panting, she looked at herself in the mirror and noticed blood spots peeping through the fabric of her white T-shirt from the big bite on her left shoulder.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ she whispered, lifting her shirt.

  She was standing in her bra, peeling away the bandage tape carefully when Oliver Digbert walked in. Digbert always used the female bathrooms on the third floor, because the forensic pathologist had determined them to be the cleanest in the building.

  ‘Diggy,’ Jessica grunted. The last thing she felt like doing was talking, but the plump, freckled pathologist had come through for her on a rape case years earlier that meant she had been able to snatch an innocent suspect out of the clutches of a life-in-prison term the day before the jury went out on his trial. Digbert liked pleasantries, and she watched him smile in the mirror as he headed to the cubicles. His shirt was a shade of fluorescent pink with tiny black teapots patterned all over it like polka dots.

  ‘Someone’s having a rough day,’ he said as he closed the door behind him. The toilet seat creaked as he sat down. Jessica listened to him pee as she examined the red and blue mess that was her shoulder. She guessed sitting down to pee must be cleaner and more efficient, which was very like Diggy. When he emerged to wash his chubby hands, the pathologist hit the soap dispenser five times. ‘I heard about the inheritance. I presume your distress is due to Whitton giving you a hard time because you told him you’ll take it.’

  ‘You think I should take it?’ Jessica smirked. She could feel her pulse slowing. ‘You’d be the only one in the building.’

  ‘It would be the only sensible economic decision,’ Diggy said, frowning as he scrubbed the webbing between his fingers. ‘The property value is considerably above anything you’ll ever make in your current role, even projecting out to consider future pension and long-service compensation versus property fluctuations and—’

  ‘I get it.’ Jessica patted his shoulder. ‘It’s not that. It’s the betrayal. Turning my back on the team. On the job.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Diggy dried his hands. ‘Your job is solving crimes. With that kind of money, you could open your own private detective agency. Employ a slew of top-notch investigators. Delegate your cases based on your interests, and not on the woeful backlog-versus-urgency system. Your considerable monetary advantage would provide you with plenty of opportunity to test forensic material privately and in a timely fashion.’

  Jessica leaned in to the mirror to look at the bite wound and dabbed at the wet spot with a paper towel. Diggy nudged his glasses back onto his nose.

  ‘I heard about the house, but not the assault,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, zombie got me,’ Jessica said. ‘You don’t watch the news? It made the top stories.’

  ‘Modern current affairs journalism is a diabolical slurry of political corruption and the flimsy whims of narcissistic millennials,’ he said.

  ‘Flimsy Whims,’ Jessica said. ‘That’s your porn star name.’

  ‘Who was the guy?’ Diggy asked, looking at the wound in the mirror.

  ‘How do you know it was a guy?’ Jessica turned to him.

  ‘Well, a layman might have guessed a female aggressor,’ Diggy said. ‘Statistically, women are more likely to bite in a fight. But, luckily, this observer was raised from a young scientific larva to gifted specialist by Dr Richard Rhodes of the Virginia Commonwealth University.’

  ‘Gifted, huh?’ Jessica smiled.

  ‘Dr Rhodes’s research focused on determining gender and ethnicity through odontometric analysis of the maxillary arch and maxillary and mandibular teeth. He used mesiodistal, labiolingual, buccolingual and distobuccal measurements to determine the characteristics of biters in a range of medico-legal case studies. I tended his lab and basked in his unquestionable greatness,’ Diggy said.

  ‘So you’re saying you can look at this and tell me it’s a male bite mark?’ Jessica pointed to the wound on her shoulder.

  ‘Within a certain range of probability.’ Diggy leaned over, studied the bite mark. Jessica noted he had not glanced at her chest even once. ‘Remember,’ Diggy said, ‘I was the apprentice, not the master. But what I believe I’m looking at is a bite from a male of Caucasoid ethnic heritage. Am I correct?’

  Jessica stared at the man in the bathroom with her. She folded the bandage back down over her wound and pressed the tape tight against her shoulder.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. She grabbe
d her shirt from the edge of the sink and threw it on. ‘I want to show you a photo of a sandwich.’

  Dear John,

  Thanks for writing back. Crazy stuff. Especially about the guy selling his hair. What you’d even do with a serial killer’s hair once you got it is a pretty creepy prospect. I did what you said – I looked online and toured through the ‘murderabilia’ sites. A lot of Charles Manson stuff is going for a mint because he’s dead. The guy sure did a lot of crappy artwork. Gacy, too. You were right, there are a couple of your letters going for upwards of $500. The seller says ‘strong suspicions of clues to hidden cash’ for each. Everybody’s got to have their side hustle, I guess. I might sell the letters. I could use the money.

  At first when I read what you wrote about how having a terrible childhood and being abandoned had an effect on your decision to kill, I thought – that’s bullshit. There was a seven-year-old kid in that bank. I put the letter down and walked away. But I guess now I’m thinking more about it. I haven’t come to a decision, but I’m thinking. It’s because who I am as a person is so tied up in where I’ve come from, what Sneak did to me. I don’t want to get too heavy with you, but from the moment you learn you were abandoned there’s a kind of break inside you. Like you become disconnected from everyone else, everyone who grew up loved and wanted. Everyone who wasn’t a mistake, an accident, something that was not meant to be. Sometimes I wonder if I’m a black hole. A vacuum in space. I’m the plus-one, on the waiting list for my shot at belonging in the world. Maybe that’s why I never feel satisfied or settled.

  If I wasn’t meant to be here, then a weird twist of fate happened when I was born, you know what I mean? A rule was broken. And so why in the hell do I spend so much time and effort and heartache trying to be something or someone when I’m no one and nothing? I don’t feel like I count. Don’t get me wrong – I had great foster parents. They had a child who died so they kind of felt like they’d replace their minus-one with a plus-one; me, the figure outside the equation. The extra. Once I got past childhood I think they kind of forgot that there was supposed to be other stuff. Adult to adult parent–child relationships. Sometimes I don’t hear from them for nine months, maybe longer. It’s like I served my purpose for them and now they’re just bored.