Benefit of the Doubt

by Neal Griffin

  Humbled, Tia gave in. “Yes, sir. I appreciate the concern and hospitality.”

  As she reached the garage, Tia turned back one last time. She looked through the kitchen window where Alex was busy at the sink, washing dishes. Ben came into view, then stopped behind her and looped his arms around his wife’s waist. Alex settled into his embrace, then wiped her eyes with the back of a soapy hand.

  Tia wondered if what she saw on Alex’s face was grief or joy. Feeling vaguely like a Peeping Tom, Tia turned away and let the Sawyers have their moment.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “She seems like a nice gal. But you forgot to mention she’s a stone fox.”

  Ben and Alex lay side by side in bed, sharing the last beer of the day. The weather had grown cold and the wind had picked up. The forecast called for temperatures to drop thirty degrees in the next twenty-fours and the weatherman had threatened snow. Winter had returned, at least for a while, but some warmth had found its way into the Sawyer home. Alex propped herself up on one elbow, dressed only in one of Ben’s sleeveless workout jerseys, and took a long taste. Ben could see from her neck clear down to her navel and thought that she still had the body of a coed athlete.

  “You’re right.” Ben laughed. “I mean you’re right, she’s a nice gal and a good cop. Most of us turn into real assholes after a few years, even in little old Newberg. But not Tia.”

  “I know a cop who’s been around a lot longer than that and he’s still a pretty neat guy.”

  “You’re biased.”

  “Course I am. I love the guy.” Alex fell against her husband and stayed there.

  They still hadn’t talked about the episode in the coffee shop from the day before. At this point, they could probably get away with pretending the whole thing had never happened, but neither of them had ever been good at that.

  “Benny, you know that, don’t you? That I love you?” She pulled back to look at him. “All we’ve been through, I couldn’t love anyone else.”

  “I know.” Ben knew what his wife was getting at. “I’m sorry about what happened—the thing with Louis yesterday. I acted like an idiot. But I swear it was like that time in high school. Remember? Our senior year when we broke up for a few days?”

  “That was your idea, pal. Seems like I remember you had a rep as the big jock. Thought you’d sow some wild oats or something.”

  Ben dismissed the comment. “Whatever. I just remember it was all over the school by lunch, and guys were falling all over themselves to step in. Couple of ’em were friends of mine.”

  Alex laughed at his interpretation of the memory, but Ben was serious.

  “Really. I had that same feeling the other day, that I was losing you. I hated that feeling when we were in high school and I hated it even more yesterday.” Ben said, looking straight into her eyes. “We’ve been through a lot, and I guess we’re hanging in there. But I don’t think I could survive losing you, I really don’t.”

  She kissed her husband softly on the face. “The one thing you never have to worry about is losing me. Ever.”

  She kissed him on the mouth and he responded, kissing her hard and pulling her close. His hands explored freely over her body. Alex climbed on top of him and smiled. She sat up straight and straddled his chest. She balanced herself, resting the fingertips of one hand lightly on his skin, then tilted her head back and drained the last of the beer. She set the bottle aside and pulled off her shirt. Their gazes locked.

  They were a little clumsy. It had been a while. But for the better part of the next two hours, husband and wife enjoyed an affection that they had never shared with anyone else, and that they knew with an absolute certainty they never would.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The black Crown Vic entered the deserted county park just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. McKenzie got out of his own car and made his approach, surveying the parking lot one last time. It was empty. The Crown Vic slowed to a stop. The limousine tint on all four windows left McKenzie feeling unsettled and determined not to show it. He’s gotta be alone.

  Better be. This was a private matter. McKenzie gripped the gun in his coat pocket and waited.

  A moment later Jorgensen emerged, and McKenzie forgot all his apprehension as he took in the chief’s appearance. He felt like a slob, standing there in his jeans, T-shirt, and denim jacket while the big man was dressed to the nines in a tailored suit, looking like a page from a big-and-tall mail-order catalog.

  “Any sign of him yet?” Jorgensen asked, scanning McKenzie from head to toe. His gaze settled on McKenzie’s hand buried in his pocket.

  “All quiet, Chief. Maybe he checked things out and decided to give it a pass. Would kind of make sense, considering the circumstances. Or hell, who knows. Maybe it is all just some wild-ass coincidence.”

  “Seems unlikely.”

  Always the man of few words, McKenzie thought. Easier to defend or deny in the future. McKenzie knew no such caution.

  “If Harlan Lee does come to town, Chief, it ain’t going to be a problem for you. I’ll take care of it, just like Chippewa Falls. And don’t worry. You’ll be a hundred percent off the radar.”

  “I’m not worried about Harlan Lee,” Jorgensen said. “I’m worried about all the bullshit that can come out of the sort of ruckus he might raise. Somebody plays a game of connect the dots, that could lead to problems.”

  “Here’s how I see it, Chief. This Petite guy? He don’t have a clue. And Lipinski? He went six feet under with a toe tag that said child molester. Not a soul outside of family even took notice. But if Harlan Lee shows up here, that’ll be the end of it. He’ll be chum for the pikes and sturgeon in Lake Winnebago.”

  “That’s a bold statement, Doyle. Seems to me this fella is on a mission. I’m not sure he’ll be easily dissuaded.”

  “No worries, Chief. I got eyes on the street. A convict of his pedigree will stand out. Just a matter of paying attention and knowing what to look for. Leave it to me.”

  Jorgensen leaned against his car.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Doyle, I’d like to take a few precautions.”

  “What you got in mind, Chief?”

  “I pulled our local case file regarding Mr. Lee. I want you to make sure there’s no other paperwork out there. Computer entries, evidence files, all that stuff—I want it purged. If anybody notices what you’re doing, tell them it’s related to a joint task force narcotics investigation. Need to know only.

  “I called up to Florence County. Scott Jamison is the sheriff up there these days. He’s all over it. Says it’ll be like Harlan Lee never set foot in Florence County. I’d like to think I could get the same assurance from you.”

  “Seems like you’re going through a lot of trouble here, Chief. If you’re worried about old Lars Norgaard, I can look out for him. I figure—”

  “The hell with Norgaard,” Jorgensen said with more emotion in his voice than McKenzie was used to hearing. “Lars can sink or swim on his own.”

  “Okay, then I guess I gotta ask what’s the big deal? You seem to be puttin’ a lot of energy into this. For what?”

  Jorgensen looked off into the distance. “You let me worry about my motives. Just make sure that nobody can walk in and pull this boy’s name off some old, dusty shelf in the PD. You hear me?”

  “I’ll take care of it, Chief.”

  “See to it. Don’t miss anything.”

  “You got it, boss,” McKenzie said. “Chances are Harlan’s had his fill. Give him a week and I’ll bet we find him tucked away in that shack of his up in Florence. He’ll be easy enough to deal with.”

  Jorgensen opened the driver’s door of his car and tucked himself into the leather upholstery.

  “You know, Doyle, Sawyer warned me about you. Says you talk a good game.” Jorgensen paused, sizing the man up. “But I’ll be judging you and your future prospects based on results.”

  Doyle watched as the black sedan pulled away, leaving him alone in the parking lot. He coul
dn’t help but think back to his days as an independent freelancer. Not as profitable but a whole lot less stress.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Harlan approached from behind. The old man was facing the setting sun. The daughter had left, and based on his observations during the past few days, Harlan figured it would be at least ten minutes before an orderly showed up to wheel the man back to his room.

  The sunroom stood empty accept for his target, who sat with eyes closed, dozing and grunting to himself. Sure not the man he once was. Not the man he was last time they had run across each other. Harlan took one last look over his shoulder, then closed in. He pushed the wheelchair toward the most secluded part of the room. The sudden movement made the old man jerk, and his raspy breath immediately grew heavy.

  “If memory serves, you were a bit spryer back in the day, weren’t ya?”

  The old man cocked his head, and Harlan could see Lars struggling to turn, but his body wasn’t cooperating.

  “You probably can’t even wipe your own ass, huh? Somebody’s gotta spoon-feed ya and all that sorta bullshit. Hell, I guess you’d welcome a bullet in the head right about now, wouldn’t ya? I’m here to tell ya it won’t go that easy.”

  Harlan felt his anger surge and didn’t try to stop it. Though he was a cripple, Norgaard had no doubt been pretty well cared for. Harlan figured the man had never felt mistreated or abused. That was a luxury Harlan intended to snatch away here and now. Replace it with fear. Harlan bent down close.

  “I’ve been tucked away seventeen years because of you and a few others. Let me tell you, Lars, a couple of your boys still don’t know what hit ’em.”

  Harlan spun the chair and stared at his victim as the old man seemed to scan his memory. With their eyes inches apart, Harlan enjoyed the moment as the gravity of his circumstances took hold and a look of terror came over the old man’s face. What little color there was drained away, and his head began to bob in an aimless motion. In the otherwise silent room, Harlan heard the sound of a weak running stream in the plastic bag strapped to the side of the man’s chair.

  “Yeah, there you go. You remember, huh?” Harlan patted Lars on the cheek with an open hand. “You were a regular badass with a badge back then. Look at you now. Nothin’ but a droolin’ sack a shit who can’t so much as string a few words together.”

  Harlan got even closer, his lips almost touching the man’s ear.

  “Now, about the gal who just left. You two sure spend a lot of time together. Makes for a pretty picture. Seems to me she’s the only one willin’ to have anything to do with your cranky ass. I’m guessing she’d be your daughter. Am I right, Officer Norgaard?”

  Harlan watched the old man’s eyes dance to life at the mention of his daughter. Lars seemed to try and shape a word in response, but it came out like nothing more than a light gust of wind on a hot, dry day. Harlan nodded his head.

  “I know, you have a tough time making yourself heard these days, don’t ya? Don’t worry about that, old man. All you need to do is listen.”

  Harlan whispered low into the man’s ear, making it clear the words were meant for no one else.

  Harlan backed away and watched the rage set in. Lars managed to ball his fists and raise up in his chair. The string of coarse grunts caused Harlan to laugh in response.

  “I sure enough struck a nerve, didn’t I?” Harlan said. “Imagine how that’d feel, Lars. Your daughter … your child, took from ya.”

  Lars tried again to speak, and Harlan raised his voice to a loud and angry whisper to talk over him. “What’s a cripple like you gonna do about it? Not a damn thing you can do, is there? I know an old man who suffered a similar fate.”

  Harlan knocked the wheelchair to one side, dumping the old man out. Norgaard’s body twisted in the air and crashed onto the hardwood. Harlan heard a deep thunk as the man’s head hit the floor, and for a moment he worried that he had killed the former cop. Harlan looked closer and saw shallow breaths. Blood ran from a deep gash, turning Norgaard’s wispy white hair red. The man’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “Don’t you go dyin’ on me now. You still got a good bit to learn about pain, about sufferin’ and loss. You’d think a man in your position would be learned out in those areas, but that ain’t so. You got a good ways yet to go.”

  Harlan stepped over the sprawled body and feigned a kick to the head. Norgaard flinched and Harlan squatted down for a few parting words.

  “Someone will be along directly, Norgaard. I’m sure they’ll patch you up. I want you to be around to see what I got planned for that pretty little girl of yours.”

  Harlan brought his face close and once again whispered in his ear. “Just know this, Norgaard. You brought all this shit on yourself.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sitting on a wooden bench in the hallway of Newberg Convalescent, Alex remembered swinging in the backyard of her childhood home, her papa pushing her higher and higher. Her bare feet reached out to touch the perfect blue sky before falling back, accompanied by gales of laughter from both father and child. Alex was almost five when her mother died after a yearlong fight with breast cancer. After that it was Alex and her dad, alone against the world. They were a family.

  The double doors swung open and jerked Alex back to reality. She was on her feet in an instant. Beside her, Ben jumped up as well and spoke first.

  “What the hell happened, Doctor? We got a call that Lars fell out of his chair? He can’t even pull himself up. How’s he going to fall?”

  “Hard to say.” Dr. Carl Schneider, resident physician of Newberg Convalescent, turned to Alex. He looked through his blond bangs and eyeglasses with fingerprint-smudged lenses as he spoke. “I’ve told you all along, Alex, much of stroke recovery is about willpower. If your dad decided to stand up, I wish he’d waited until someone was there to help him. He took a bad rap on the head. He’s pretty agitated. I’d like to keep him sedated overnight. I don’t want this to cause any major setbacks.”

  Alex wasn’t convinced that the situation was that simple. “I agree with my husband, Doctor. I was with my dad most of the day. There was no indication that he could work himself out of his chair or that he even wanted to try. Are we sure he didn’t have some sort of seizure? Could something else have happened to him? Do we need to talk to some of the staff? Do we need to call the police?”

  Some measure of offense and wounded dignity could be heard in Dr. Schneider’s response. The man always sounded a bit snobbish. Now Alex thought he just sounded like a pompous ass. “I can rule out both those possibilities immediately. Tests show no signs of a seizure or recurrence of stroke, and we have never had a suspicious injury of a patient at Newberg Convalescent. Your father took a fall.”

  Before Alex could respond, Ben jumped in to speak. “When can we see him?”

  “Like I said, he’s sedated. Alex, why don’t you just come by for your normal morning visit. Even if he’s still unconscious then, your voice will be good for him. When the lump on his head goes down a bit, we’ll bring him around.” Dr. Schneider laughed. “See if we can get your dad to show us his new trick.”

  Ben shot the man a look. “Careful, Doc. He’s not a circus act. He was a cop for thirty years. Longer than you’ve been alive, I’d imagine.”

  “Sorry. I meant no disrespect.” The man’s voice was curt as he excused himself. “Mrs. Sawyer, I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

  Alex ignored the doctor’s offense and instead stared at her husband. Ben looked back at her and rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t make a big deal out of it. The guy was acting like a horse’s ass. I don’t go for that shit.”

  Alex hugged Ben tight. “Especially when it comes to somebody you love as much as old Lars Norgaard, huh?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The pounding roused Ben from a dead sleep.

  Alex must have forgotten her key. For the past two nights, his wife had been sleeping in her father’s room at Newberg Convalescent. He shifted in the bed and
found Alex asleep next to him. Dream, I guess. Man, it got cold in here. He snuggled in closer to Alex, seeking her warmth, but the pounding resumed.

  Ben maneuvered around Alex, trying not to disturb her. He stumbled into the living room and finally came fully awake at the sight of Doyle McKenzie and Plate Boyd standing on his porch. Ben opened the door just as McKenzie raised his fist to knock again. The rudeness of it got the conversation off to a bad start.

  “Jesus, guys,” Ben said, stepping into the doorway, “what’s going on? What time is it?”

  McKenzie closed in, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He began to speak, but Plate put an arm across his chest and cut him off.

  “Sorry, Ben, but something’s come up. There’s been a homicide. We need to talk with you.”

  “A homicide? No shit, you need to talk to me,” Ben said. He looked at both men and saw they were dressed in jeans and jackets as if ready for a long, cold night. Plate had a five-cell flashlight tucked under his arm and a notebook in his hand. McKenzie was holding a brown paper bag that looked unsealed but was marked with evidence tape. It was obvious to Ben both men were working and had been for a while. “How long ago did this happen? Is the body still at the scene? Doyle, how come I didn’t get notified?”

  Boyd jumped back in.

  “That was my call, Ben. I’ve got a few questions.”

  “What do you mean, questions? Just fill me in.”

  “Ben, is your wife home?” Boyd asked. “We need to talk to her.”

  Dumbstruck, Ben stared at his fellow cop.

  McKenzie sucked on his cigarette, then spoke. “How ’bout it, Ben? Is the little missus in?”

  Ben looked back and forth between the men, who stood silent, waiting for an answer. “What are you guys talking about? Why do you want to know about Alex?”

  McKenzie blew out a puff of smoke. “Don’t worry about why. Just answer the question. Is she home or not?”