by C. J. Box
“And I’m assuming, Deputy, the physical evidence proves otherwise?” asked David as he swallowed a hot gulp of coffee he wished he’d cooled.
Shelby nodded, licked her lips, and tried to valiantly smile. “The girl is in ICU, a coma. Her vitals are all over the place. The blows to her head were enough to incite extreme swelling.” Shelby turned down the mic at her shoulder when it squawked.
David nodded, held back the guttural instinct to stand and yell in opposition. “He as much as admitted to it before you guys got there. He said she was going to tell everyone they were dating.” David looked as intensely as he could at the deputy. “The kid tried to kill her.”
Shelby grimaced and placed her tall steaming cup of coffee onto the desk. “Maybe you recognized him. He’s the point guard for Midland U.,” she said, looking over her shoulder as sliding glass doors parted, then several drunk college students brayed and laughed as they were ushered into the processing areas.
“Stopped watching after Sam graduated,” said David, as he too let his eyes follow the drunken college kids escorted to the mug-shot area. The smell of burned popcorn receded, making it that much worse, faint and somehow slightly damp. David knew now why he’d recognized the kid, at least from the shoulders up, his player pic plastered everywhere on the state and local news feeds, a basketball star.
“My dad was the same way, Mr. Holzer,” said Shelby. “He watched just so we’d have something to talk about on weekends.” She leaned back in the office chair and put her arms behind her head; David reminded himself not to glance at her chest. She had the lean, muscular look of a young woman who liked to participate in Saturday biathlons. Shelby said, “His folks are rooted deeply. They give in the upper six figures to MU, they own three businesses in Rochester, plus the law offices, and there’s a wing of the new hospital about to be named after them. Both are MBAs. And the father still practices law.”
“Well, I’m a firm believer in our justice system to get things right about half the time,” said David. “Of course, not in these cases.” He drank his coffee in three deep gulps, his tongue burning, back of the throat too. He placed the cup on the desktop, sat back some, and posed a question. “Tell me, what’s wrong with these kinds of kids?” He gestured with his head to some vague area in the middle of the room. “He was just as concerned about getting his goddamn expensive shoes dirty as he was about that poor little girl.” David stood up and realized he was angrier than he’d thought; mostly, sitting there in the sheriff’s station, he’d felt sad, worried, sick to his stomach, but now he was seething, because it seemed it wasn’t a new story, every year some spoiled brat was profiled during the news, affluent, sports-minded, indulgent parents, and the judge complicit, people actually talking about how the offender’s life shouldn’t be ruined because of one mistake. They specifically said these words, and did so without a trace of self-doubt, as if they too could bash a little girl’s face in, Down syndrome or not. “What am I not getting?” he asked with a smirk.
Shelby sat up straighter. “In this work,” she said, pointing in the same general vicinity David had earlier, “you have to find a balance.” She stood up now too. “I’m not the sole voice on callousness, Mr. Holzer, or how it comes about, why it seems to be growing.” Shelby softened. “You likely saved her. And that’s what I think about, I mean, when I’m doubting, after some awful crassness of youth, the middle-aged road rage, or the craven geriatrics,” which she chuckled at, and seemed disappointed and slightly embarrassed that David hadn’t responded with much more than a quick grin.
“You’ll keep me posted, then?” asked David as he stepped back from the table, his hand on the doorknob.
“Well, since you’re the only witness and the kid tried to implicate you, Mr. Holzer, I think you’ll be seeing me quite a bit.” She put out her hand and David shook it, warm and dry. He turned to leave, walked through a maze of cubicles, then past the interview rooms with glass windows to the ceiling and out a set of doors that were operated by a deputy who sat perched up in an elevated seating area.
Once David was outside, he stood and looked around from the top of the steps. Cars and news vans lined both sides of the street, two from Indianapolis and at least one he could tell was from Chicago. Crime had become an artsy endeavor now, the quirkier the better, serial stories on public radio shows, through podcasts popping up like fast-food franchises, and streaming series offering just as many takes, crime as sponsored by meal-delivery services, as biopsychosocial investigations. They liked crimes where someone was innocent, or just barely, the episodes building week by week on some new voice from the past, damning or confirming, but never enough to stop listeners and viewers from tuning in before the similarly inconclusive reveal. Crime was the new museum opening, the debut novel, the album everyone was talking about who had time to be purveyors of art in the episodic. David was cold in the cooler afternoon winds; March like a lion and all that. He took a few steps down the stairs and was nearly bowled over as reporters chased a haggard couple up the steps toward the sheriff’s offices. The woman’s face was red and swollen and the man kept his arm around her and sneered as he tried to usher his wife and himself closer to the entrance. Several deputies appeared and ordered the reporters back to the sidewalk. Shelby was taking the wife by the arm and helping her through the doors. David didn’t know why he chose to wave at Shelby, but she had enough sense to only nod. She and the couple disappeared into the building. The kid and his goddamn stupid shoes, his haircut, and the way he cried near the waterfalls, as if he were trying out for a theater production, it all ran through David’s mind as he realized he had no vehicle.
* * *
By nightfall the local affiliates all had slightly different still shots of Shanty Falls, silver water pouring over the serene white limestone, some of the poplar limbs within the frame, the soft green peat bulging up at the edge of the cold eddies. Names had been withheld, but then the girl’s parents were in a Fort Wayne studio, dark bags under their eyes and faces twisted into a stolid anguish. David sipped tea and sat on the sofa with Bella, a border collie too old anymore to take on regular walks. The phone rang on the kitchen wall. He stood and Bella pretended she’d follow, but the fourteen years in her hips brought her back down with a sigh.
“Yes,” David said into the phone.
“Dad,” said Samantha. “Are you okay?” He could tell he was on speakerphone, that Linda was listening too.
“Fine, fine,” he said, as the pale thighs and mangled face of the girl flashed into his head.
“Mom’s listening.”
“Hello, Linda,” David said as he moved into the doorway so he could see Bella asleep on the couch.
“It’s awful,” said the two women, as if singing in rounds.
“Yes,” said David, and he heard his daughter and ex-wife conferring in muted tones.
“Would you like us to come there? We could get flights and stay for a while.” David thought he’d heard Sam shush her mother.
“No, I’m quite fine,” said David. “It’s a simple case, really. I suppose as time goes on I’ll be asked to testify.” He liked how that sounded, that he was doing the right thing, even waiting to do it, and these two women had seen him do otherwise far too often.
“We love you,” said Sam, and her mother said it too. They sounded like they were tipsy on the wine they both loved so much.
“Same here,” said David, and after a few more questions he hung up and returned to Bella, who was twitching in her sleep, running in her dreams, her paws moving like she was pedaling a bike.
David sat and watched the girl’s parents crucified on television. They were putting their faces on a story that would last no longer than a twelve-hour cycle, rutted out by celebrity gossip and political polarization. He pointed the remote at the television and the room darkened. He put his arms under Bella’s chest and belly and lifted her, carried her upstairs to her bed near his. In the dark of his bedroom, after he’d placed Bella into her bed, he
thought of the kid, and how if he was given the chance, he’d punch him so hard the kid’s fancy bangs would hang under his left ear.
* * *
Shelby knocked on the door, and Bella, up early for her, barked and growled, all the while her tail wagging, her tongue smiling as if she’d never had any company. David patted her head in his robe and opened the door.
“Mr. Holzer,” said Shelby, holding two cups of coffee from the college campus store, Mean Bean. David held the door open as Shelby walked inside the mudroom and into the kitchen, where Bella was trying to show her old tricks, slow, but with real earnestness, black eyes flashing with the craven desire for attention.
Shelby smiled down at the dog. David shuffled to the table and slipped into one of the chairs, and Shelby did the same. “Wanted you to know,” said Shelby, but she paused, then pushed a coffee toward David. “The kid’s parents have gotten one of their high-profile friends to represent him. The district attorney says they’re already concocting a defense that paints the girl as promiscuous, willing to do anything to be popular.”
David took the top off the coffee and blew across the black surface. He sipped from the lip, then took another long gulp. He put the coffee in front of him as Bella whined until Shelby patted her head, then the dog sat, went fully down, and curled up next to Shelby’s feet. “If I am recalling my law correctly,” said David, “a young woman can’t be beaten nearly to death even if she did want a homecoming date.” David shook his head. “That kid will get what’s coming to him.”
Shelby raised her eyebrows, sipped from her cup. “I don’t think it’s best for the only witness to be making veiled threats, Mr. Holzer.”
“All I’m saying is, if that kid walks away from this like the one in Milwaukee did, someone will take things into their own hands.”
Shelby sat up straighter, cleared her throat. “So, what are you doing for your walk these days? Shanty will be closed for another few weeks until the scene is fully processed.” David didn’t respond; he knew his face was contorted, could feel the crease between his eyes ridged and tight. Shelby looked around the kitchen. “Just for inventory’s sake, permit verification and all, you have any firearms, Mr. Holzer?”
David laughed, a quick burst of absurdity, followed by a deep inhale. “I don’t like guns,” he said. “Sam and her mother work in emergency care, remember.” He paused and fiddled with the bottom of the coffee cup, picking at the peeling paper. “Seeing people’s heads half gone kind of turns you off to the Second Amendment, Deputy.” Shelby nodded, and started to stand up. David said, “Besides, I tend to think of retribution as something of an art form, you know, where creativity meets hatred.”
Shelby stood by the table. She gave David a soft, determined smile. “There’s an interesting legal interpretation of a person alluding to certain acts,” said Shelby. “It’s all about tone.” She picked up her coffee and walked to the door while David remained seated. “Police officers in big cities even get training in narrative, so they can recognize irony and sarcasm, a simile and metaphor.” She stood motionless as she turned the doorknob slowly. “It’s where pragmatism meets incarceration.” At the sound of the door clicking shut, Bella woke and looked at David and at the door, as if something should be done.
* * *
Days passed, and the television only spouted quick updates about the girl, the kid, whose name David refused to commit to memory. The two had met at a rally, the girl still in high school, a huge fan of both Midland U. and the star point guard. At some point the kid and the girl ended up in his Range Rover, with whiskey and wine. David had to get out of the house or risk obsessing. He clicked a leash on Bella, deciding a short walk wouldn’t hurt her fourteen-year-old bones. Out the back door and up against the sagging fence line, saplings struggling in the row, contorting their growth toward the sun and sky. David tried the syncopated breathing of his time meditating. Bella sniffed and peed, even picked up the pace. Before long they’d made it to the edge of Shanty Falls, at least as far as the yellow tape would allow. Bella lapped water from a silver rivulet, the green moss around the edges like outdoor carpet. She plopped down and panted with a gummy, grizzled smile. David surveyed the entire area, even looking up above, where the branches held fat red buds, some green shoots as bright as neon. The image of his parents evicted from the house he now lived in—toting just a few boxes and some clothes on hangers—reeled in his head. The girl had been lifelined to a hospital in Cleveland, and both Sam and her mother had said over the phone the trauma care provided there was superior, a strange word, but their vernacular had long ago taken on the spirit of recovery and accreditation. David stared at the spot he thought he’d found her, but the area was different now, the rocks somehow rearranged, the water itself falling more slowly, the trickles at the limestone rim apparently gone. He sat down next to Bella and stroked her head, and her eyes closed, opened, and went completely shut as she let out a deep sigh. David sat at the border of the waters and thought about what he might be able to do, as blackbirds cawed overhead and the forest stilled between surfs of breeze.
* * *
Shelby stopped by twice a week, and David welcomed her inside, and their conversation inevitably turned toward the kid, the legal wrangling, the certainty of David’s deposition. His jacket, the one he’d wrapped the girl in, had become part of the official evidence. The girl’s brain swelling had not changed, her condition remained critical after nearly six weeks. Sam and her mother told David on the evening phone calls that she’d likely have long-term impacts on her activities of daily living.
At the kitchen table, David scrolled news headlines on a tablet. The kid’s face flashed onto the screen. He’d been expecting the story so much that now, reading it, he could almost guess how it would go. The header was blocked and highlighted with a large question mark, asking readers to consider whether one mistake should doom the kid to losing the basketball scholarship, ruin his future. Stats—a near-perfect GPA and field goal and free-throw percentages—lined the edge of the text. The kid’s attorney described the crime as an incident, one where two young people had each made ill-advised choices, ones that shouldn’t permanently define them. David sat up in the chair and scrolled to the comments section below. There were hundreds of anonymous members fighting about who was to blame. One caught David’s eye because Sam had once told him using all caps was like screaming. Pro Arts@StarH2H: GIVE ME A BREAK! THE ASSHOLE NEARLY BEAT HER TO DEATH!!!!
Gunslinger@2ndAmend: CALM DOWN bleedy♥ AND TRY TO SEE IT FROM HIS SIDE OF THINGS! WE DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE DID! THESE KIDS SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MAINSTREAMED! MORE LIBTARD SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENS!!!
Witnessing all the thumbs-up emoticons under the comment, David squeezed the edges of the tablet hard enough that the screen ebbed blue-green, like a microexplosion of plasma under the glass. He stood up and looked down at Bella, turned and started to call Sam, paused and thought briefly of phoning Shelby, even going for a run, but instead he sat back down and found the kid’s address, synced it to his phone, searched online until he found three numbers, one for the kid’s dad’s law office, another connected to the address, and one more that seemed to be a cell-phone number. He put the tablet down gently and went upstairs.
Standing inside the closet, he chose a blue shirt, a dark brown jacket, and matching slacks, pulled on loafers he rarely wore anymore. In front of the mirror, he inspected the look. Did it represent a dependable person? Did he look like all he wanted to provide was a warning? Did the clothes communicate understanding? Some mercy? It had to be convincing.
He’d had the house renovated but kept a built-in chest of drawers his mother had loved while they’d rented the place. David pulled the top drawer open and reached under a stack of cardigans. His fingers felt the chain, then the plastic piece. In grade school he’d come home with the thing, a plastic butterfly shrunk down in Mrs. LaSalle’s toaster oven. David’s mother wore it for one whole year, then on special occasions,
and finally left it in a box of things from the hospice. He wrapped the chain around the yellowed plastic, the purple monarch almost occluded, and shoved it into his pocket. He grabbed his keys and walked down the stairs to the back door, pausing to check on Bella. He left the house at 4:10 p.m.
* * *
David stood by his car at the curb. The house was massive, ornate, and easily worth five million. For a while he thought of just getting back in the car and driving home, but something about how serene and protected the black iron gates appeared, sturdy and attached to the white stacks of limestone columns that rose fifteen feet into the cool air, made David start toward them. A brief image of himself climbing the gates, clamoring and shaking the goddamn things until the hinges unmoored, washed over his vision. He’d been thinking on the drive about his folks, the last time he’d seen them happy. They’d cobbled together enough money for a trip out West to see Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, and Four Corners. They’d taken pictures and wanted him to see the thick stack of them over shit on a shingle and black, bitter coffee. Three years later both were gone, both from cancer.
He pressed the button on the intercom, and above his head an LCD panel blinked on. A brown face flashed into existence. “Yes?” the woman said, squinting into the camera. “Sí?” She held her hands as if halfway through a magic trick.
“I’d like to talk to the Schafers. I’ve got news.” The woman shrugged. “Tell them it’s David Holzer from Shanty Falls.” She nodded slightly, then turned and disappeared down a massive hallway, a glimmering chandelier partially visible and a white bichon frise standing motionless underneath it, the dog’s dark, narrow eyes buried in round coifed fur, staring up and into the camera. David blinked, thinking it might be a stuffed toy, but then it took two circus steps and barked, head thrown back, mouth moving but muted. The kid had grown up behind these gates, a maid, a chef, numerous vehicles, ATM cards, electronics, on-demand entertainment, indulgences, and then more. David watched a squirrel, which in his current state of mind also seemed privileged, a red and healthy tail mane, gourmet grains in shiny stainless-steel feeders, and its playground several acres of lush turf, with the perimeter buffeted by towering long-leaf pine, flat staircases of dogwood branches climbing into the ether, the boxwoods clipped into exact lines, long rectangles that bordered smooth slate stretching toward a circular fountain surrounded by squat Japanese maples.