by Craig Larsen
Nick didn’t see the body until it was too late. It emerged in front of him like a black bundle of rags. His foot sank into something soft, something fleshy. He tripped head over heels, landing a few feet beyond the corpse, the palms of his hands scraping against the gravelly soil.
Holding his breath, squinting at the vague outline of the lifeless body behind him, Nick sat still, listening for the man he had been chasing. Nothing. Except for the wind rushing through the trees, the night was silent.
Picking himself off the ground, he approached the dark, shapeless corpse. He took his cell phone out of his pocket. It hadn’t entered his mind yet to call for help. What he needed was light. He flipped the phone open, illuminating its LCD screen, and directed its dim bluish glow toward the body like a flashlight. The body was lying facedown, hidden in shadow, but it passed through Nick’s mind that there was something familiar about it.
He reached his hand toward the corpse. His fingers were on its shoulder when he realized that this wasn’t the body of a man, but rather only of a boy. He’s still warm. Nick lifted the dead boy’s shoulder and turned him over.
For a split second, before the phone’s LCD panel abruptly went dark, Nick stared into the face of Daniel Scott. His eyes were wide open but entirely blank, like a blind man’s eyes. His mouth mimed a hideous, silent scream.
Nick dropped the boy’s limp shoulder, jerking away from the contact. He was up on his feet, running, before he knew what he was doing. He didn’t see the park bench in front of him. It hit him like a missile. His shin cracked as it struck its unforgiving wood slats, and, crying out in pain, Nick spun to the ground. He was up seconds later, running again, trying to escape the rasp of his own breathing, fighting to make sense of the shadows in front of him, chasing the distant sounds of the city. The rush of his scrambling, frenzied flight through the park crescendoed into a roar. And then, with the intensity of an explosion, there was only silence.
When Nick opened his eyes, the spiny treetops above him were lit white against the black sky. He stared at the rustling branches, dazzled by the crisp halogen halos clinging to the trees’ remaining leaves.
An aura of bright light was emanating from the center of the park. Gradually, Nick became aware of the distant babble of voices, then the squawk of a police radio and the hum of a few idling engines. His shin was throbbing where he had collided with the bench. Sharp needles of pain shot through his body when he raised himself onto his elbows, then picked himself up onto his feet.
“You fan out over there. If there were any witnesses, we’re gonna want to talk to them.”
The policeman’s voice was close, no more than twenty feet away. Nick looked down at his clothes, trying in the dim, shadowed light to assess his appearance. Wondering how long he had been out, he ran his fingers through his hair and wiped off his face in the crook of his elbow. He searched his pockets for his phone. Unable to find it, he scanned the area around him, trying to recall if he let go of it after he had used it to light Daniel’s body.
The footsteps and voices came closer. “Hey. You there!”
Nick bent down to pick up his camera, then raised his eyes to the policeman. He squinted in the beam of his high-intensity flashlight.
“Step out where I can see you.”
Nick realized that he was standing half tangled in the branches of a large bush, and he took a careful step away from it, into the beam of light. “It’s okay,” he said at last, finding his voice. “I’m a photographer. With the Seattle Telegraph. I heard there’s a body out here somewhere. Another killing.”
“Stay where you are,” the uniformed officer said.
“You mind lowering that flashlight?”
“Put your hands in the air, sir.”
“My name is Nick Wilder. I told you, I’m a photographer with the Telegraph.”
The officer placed his hand on Nick’s chest, frisking him. “You got any ID?”
Nick reached carefully for his wallet. “That’s my press card,” he said, holding his wallet into the light. “And my driver’s license.”
The officer peered at Nick’s face, then at last lowered the flashlight. “The crime scene’s over there,” he said, pointing its beam into the darkness. “Why don’t you come with me? I’m not sure what the CO wants us to do about the media.”
“Am I the first one on the scene?”
“We’ve only been here ten minutes ourselves,” the officer said.
Detective Stolie was kneeling beside the corpse when the cop led Nick into the clearing where Daniel Scott had been killed. A small generator was running nearby, and several portable halogen lamps had been plugged into it. Directed in a circle around the crime scene, they gave the park floor the atmosphere of a lit field at night, as though a bubble of daylight had been trapped beneath the canopy of branches overhead.
Stolie had flipped the body over, and Nick could see Daniel’s face clearly. The soil beneath him was soaked with blood, and his thin clothes had been shredded and punctured with stab wounds. Nick winced at the violence inflicted on the boy. He was raising his hands to shield himself from the horrifying vision when Stolie glanced at him over his shoulder.
“Do me a favor,” he said to Nick, “and keep back, would you? The scene’s still fresh.” He turned toward the cop who had led Nick into the clearing. “Stand him over there by that bench, would you? Then get back out there. Search the park. We need witnesses.” He watched Nick step toward the bench where he had banged his shin. “No pictures yet,” he said.
Nick didn’t notice his cell phone, lying on the ground just beside the bench, until Stolie stood up. Peeling the latex gloves from his hands, the policeman waved a crime-scene photographer over. Nick took a step toward his phone. The detective turned to face him, though, before he could lean down to pick it up.
“It looks like we got ourselves another one,” Stolie said. “Would you believe it—no one other than the prostitute’s kid.”
“Claire Scott’s boy?” Nick barely recognized his own voice. “Daniel?”
Stolie was looking down at his watch. His mind was elsewhere, and he didn’t seem to notice how quickly Nick had remembered the boy’s name. “Body’s still warm. I doubt he’s been dead more than half an hour. How’d you get here so fast?”
“I was in the neighborhood.” Watching the taller man approach, Nick tried to sound unconcerned. He resisted the impulse to drop his eyes to the steel gray cell phone in the dirt at his feet. “What about you?”
“Hmmm? We got a 911 call. Anonymous.”
“You mind if I take a couple of pictures now?”
The detective glanced behind him. The police photographer was positioning himself above the body, adjusting his camera to the light. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes first, huh?” Approaching, he looked Nick in the eye. “Maybe you and I should have a little talk.” Remembering something, the detective stopped and signaled to a group of cops standing at the edge of the light. “Yo, Harris,” he called, raising his voice to get another policeman’s attention.
Nick used the interruption to take a small step closer to his cell phone.
Stolie dangled the stained latex gloves he had been wearing in the air. “Bring me a baggie, would you? I’ve got to catalog these.”
A cop gathered a few things from the evidence staging area and headed toward them, making a large detour around the corpse to avoid disturbing the crime scene.
“I have to admit, Nick,” Stolie said, turning to face him again. “I’m surprised to see you here. You really sure this is what you want to be doing? So soon after your brother’s murder, I mean.”
The cop approached Stolie, and Stolie slid the latex gloves into a large Ziploc bag.
Again, Nick used the pause to inch toward his phone.
“Mark it with the others,” Stolie said to the cop, still working the gloves into the bag. “You know what you’re doing with this, right?”
“Sure,” the cop reassured him. “I’ve been doing it
all night.”
Stolie watched the uniformed officer walk back around the body, then turned once again to confront Nick. “The truth is,” he said, “you showing up here saved me a trip.”
Straightening, Nick returned his gaze, confused.
“I was on my way over to your place when I got this call.” The detective was scrutinizing him. “Listen,” he said, “it wasn’t going to be a friendly visit. I don’t have good news. I’ve got orders to place you under arrest.”
The words sank in. “I don’t understand.”
“For the murder of your brother.”
“You really believe I murdered Sam?”
“It’s not what I believe. It’s what the lieutenant wants. You’re our only suspect. I told you before. You’re the only one with a motive, and you were there. You don’t have an alibi.”
Nick was shocked. “What motive could I possibly have to kill my brother?”
“That’s the thing—”
“You told me just this morning,” Nick continued to protest, “that I had two days. You told me you were going to try to find the killer.”
The detective checked behind him, glancing at the few police officers gathered around the corpse. He lowered his voice. “That’s the thing,” he said again. “There’s been a new development since this morning.”
“What new development?”
“We know about the life insurance policy, Nick.”
“What insurance?” Nick asked.
“Your brother had a one hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy. You were the sole beneficiary.”
Nick was stunned. “You think I killed Sam for one hundred thousand dollars?”
“Are you saying you didn’t know about the policy?” Stolie countered.
Nick shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know it existed.”
“The thing is,” the detective said, “the policy was taken out just this summer. June tenth, to be exact. And it was taken out online. It’s one of those no-doctor-visit policies. No one had to see anyone else. No one even had to pick up the phone. A couple of clicks, and the policy was issued.”
Nick’s mind was whirling. “What are you saying?”
“Did you know,” the detective asked him, “that we can trace the computer now when you go online onto a Web site and order something? Whatever—a pair of jeans, a bottle of shampoo, books. An insurance policy.”
Nick took a deep breath, waiting for the detective to complete his accusation.
“The policy on Sam’s life, Nick. It was ordered from your computer.”
Nick felt the air escape from his lungs. It felt as if he had been hit in the solar plexus. He was aware of the warmth of the detective’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him from falling.
“You have to understand,” the detective said, “it looks pretty bad. Lieutenant Dombrowski thinks we’ve got enough now. To make the charges stick, I mean.”
“Wait,” Nick pleaded, sensing that the detective himself did not want to make the arrest. “Wait a second. When did you say the policy was taken out?”
“In June.”
“Sam borrowed my computer this summer.” An image of his brother standing at his door, holding a small black case, thanking him, flashed through Nick’s mind. “This was months ago—I practically forgot.”
“He had his own computer at home,” Stolie said, skeptical, “and he had another computer at his office.”
“His computer froze up, and he borrowed my laptop for a week.” Nick understood how convenient his explanation sounded. “Sam worked from home a lot. I’m telling you, I let him borrow my laptop.”
The detective was shaking his head. “I don’t know how you could prove it.”
“You could look at any e-mails he sent. Maybe you could trace those to my computer, too. Or anything else he bought online in June. I don’t know—you could find out where he took his computer to be repaired.”
The detective nodded uncertainly. “I suppose we could do that.”
Nick seized the opportunity to try to exonerate himself. “There’s something more. I told you, I was down here already—that’s why I was able to get here so quickly.”
The detective’s eyes didn’t leave Nick’s face.
“You didn’t ask me what I was doing down here.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I found the man who took my shoes.”
“What?” Stolie couldn’t mask his incredulity. “Where?”
“At the homeless shelter. Right there, on the other side of the square.” Nick remembered the large cardboard sign in the window of the tall brick building. “The Seattle Emergency Shelter.”
“The Hudson Hotel?” the detective said.
An image of the building’s name, scored into the sandstone block above the front doors, came to Nick. “Yes,” he said. “At the Hudson Hotel.”
“The man who took your shoes—How did that work? You remember losing them now?”
“No.” Nick quelled his frustration. “And I didn’t get a good look at him. I only saw the shoes under the partition of a men’s room stall.” Nick brought the killer’s watery, light blue eyes into his mind. “I didn’t get a look at his face. I saw the back of his head—his hair. I saw his hands. The rags on his hands. But I couldn’t tell you for sure if it was the same man who attacked us.”
“This doesn’t give me much,” the detective said.
Nick had to stifle his impulse to tell Stolie that he had chased the man into the park—right before he had tripped over Daniel Scott’s dead body. He had blacked out, and he couldn’t account for the time. He tried to think instead of some way to prove what he was saying. “There was a doctor there,” he said. “I think his name was Barnes.”
The detective made a quick note on a pad, then slipped it back into his pocket.
“He was in the men’s room at the same time I was. Maybe he saw the man, too. Maybe he can identify him. He seemed to know the people there.”
The detective’s breath steamed from his mouth as he exhaled.
“So, are you going to arrest me?” Nick asked, breaking the silence.
The detective pondered the facts. Then he cracked a small smile. “I can’t arrest you if I can’t find you.”
Nick couldn’t mask his relief. “You believe me, then.”
Stolie touched him on the shoulder. The light caught the detective on the side of his face, and Nick saw the sincerity in his eyes. Once again, despite his gratitude, Nick found himself puzzled by the man’s sympathy. “Listen,” the detective said. “Lieutenant Dombrowski will have my head if he finds out, you got that?”
“I understand.”
“Don’t queer this up for me.”
“I won’t,” Nick said. “Thank you.”
Stolie looked away. Nick’s appreciation seemed to hang in the air between them. “Don’t thank me,” the detective said. “I’ll head over to the Hudson Hotel after I close up shop here.” His voice hardened. “Just pray I find your man. If this goes on much longer, there won’t be anything more I’ll be able to do for you.”
Nick held his camera up. “So what—you think I can get a couple of pictures now?”
Stolie assessed the scene for a few seconds. “Sure,” he said. Nick was aware of the moment when the detective’s eyes caught sight of the phone at his feet. He tried to keep his own eyes leveled at the detective’s face. “That yours?”
“What’s that?”
Stolie pointed at the phone, and at last Nick allowed himself to lower his eyes. He bent down and picked it up, flipping it open to light its screen.
“Yeah, thanks.” Nick glanced nonchalantly back up at the detective. “I must have dropped it.”
“Come on,” Stolie said. He led Nick toward Daniel Scott’s body. “Let’s get this wrapped up. I’m sure you’ve got places you’d rather be.”
chapter 17
Sara Garland’s huge, sleek Mercedes was parked in the small gravel lot behind Nick’
s apartment building when he pulled up in his rusting white Corolla. When she stepped from her car, concern was etched onto her face. Nick was more than an hour late for the gala.
Nick glanced above Sara’s shoulder as she closed the distance between them. His neighbor, Reggie—a perennially stoned student in his last year at the university—was looking down at him from the third floor, his curly brown hair a tangle on his head. Reggie’s girlfriend joined him at the window. She wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Nick could see her breasts squeezed beneath one of her arms. Their eyes met, but neither Reggie nor his girlfriend looked away. Nick had become used to their morbid curiosity in the days since Sam’s murder.
When Nick embraced Sara, the relief he felt upon seeing his lover was eclipsed by a sense of panic. The last thing he wanted was to lose her. Her beautiful face was half hidden in shadow. Her golden and platinum blond hair was radiant, almost glowing. Leaving her hands on his shoulders, she drew away from their kiss, peering into his eyes. “Where have you been?” she asked him. “I’ve been so worried.”
Aware of her anxiety, Nick was nevertheless unable to respond. He found himself hypnotized by the refracted light emanating from the large diamond earrings she was wearing. The police think that I killed my own brother. They think I stabbed him to death. They think I slashed my brother’s face and kicked his teeth into his throat. “I’ve been thinking about Sam,” he said at last, unwilling to admit to Sara that he had blacked out. As much as he needed a friend, he was scared of what she would conclude if he told her about Daniel Scott. He was going to have to shoulder these secrets alone. “I haven’t been myself. I’m sorry.”
“Haven’t you been able to remember anything more?” she asked him.
Nick shook his head. A sense of helplessness welled up inside him. He wished that he could give Sara the reassurance she must need. “I don’t know why you stay with me,” he heard himself say. He hadn’t meant to voice his doubts. The headlong rush of events had shaken him.