The Rational Faculty (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  “Taping?” Somers said as he pulled on booties. “You still have VHS?”

  “Of course I do,” Gross said. “It still works, doesn’t it? I’m not going to throw it away.”

  Somers shrugged at that logic and then stepped into the apartment. “Well?” he said.

  “You’re the detective,” Norman said.

  “Do some detecting,” Gross said.

  Somers shrugged again. It was obvious where the attack had taken place: a sofa near the window was soaked with blood, and more blood spattered the glass behind the sofa and the carpet in front of it. Somers guessed more than one wound. Or, possibly, an arterial wound, and the victim turned while the blood was still spraying.

  For the moment, Somers stayed in the doorway, studying the layout of the apartment. Directly across from the door, a wall of windows looked out on the quad. Lights glowed in the buildings, while more salted the darkness on the ground below. The blood-soaked couch stood in front of the windows, opposite the door. So, Somers reasoned, whoever attacked Fabbri could have shot him from the doorway without even entering the apartment. They would have had a clean line of sight.

  The front living space was large and stuffed with all kinds of seating: sofas, loveseats, padded chairs. More than a normal family would have needed. Mixed among the seating were end tables, which tonight were covered with plastic cups and styrofoam bowls. A banner hung across the middle of the room, orange lettering on black: Happy Halloween. To the right, the room transformed into a kitchen, with updated appliances and composite countertops. A single door led off the kitchen. To the left, a massive flatscreen TV hung on the wall, and a hallway opened off the living room.

  Puffing breaths alerted Somers to Carlson’s approach. She waved a hand at him, as though urging him to go ahead, but Somers waited.

  “He was some kind of dorm supervisor?” Somers said.

  “Resident head,” Carlson said between puffs. “That’s what they call them here.”

  “Lots of seating for the kids, lots of space in the kitchen if they have taco night or ice cream sundae bars.”

  “Lord,” Carlson said, fanning herself. “I’d kill for an ice cream sundae.”

  “Just the professor lived here?” Somers glanced at the hallway. “Looks like there are several bedrooms.”

  “Just the professor. No wife. No kids. He’s young, though. I mean, relatively. Late thirties.”

  “I’d call that young,” Somers said with a smile.

  “Oh,” Carlson said, blushing again. “Sorry.”

  Somers just grinned. “You can hang outside if you don’t want to get booties on.”

  “Thank Jesus.”

  Norman and Gross were photographing the couch and the blood spatter on the windows, so Somers went behind them and passed through the kitchen. Bottles of alcohol and soft drinks covered the composite countertops, mixed with popcorn, pretzels, candy corn—on and on. Banner, drinks, snacks. Fabbri had been having a party. Somers felt himself grinning. He really was a detective.

  Somers checked the door at the end of the kitchen: a pantry.

  He made his way back to Carlson. “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “You heard the chief: no commentary.”

  “I don’t want commentary. I just want to hear what happened.”

  Carlson grimaced.

  “Think about it,” Somers said before turning and heading down the hallway to the left. He passed two unfurnished rooms that could have served as bedrooms, then Fabbri’s study. The light was off, and when Somers flipped it on, he was staring into a maelstrom of books and papers, with the MacBook on the desk mostly swallowed up by the chaos. No address book, if anybody still kept those, no physical calendar, no incriminating notes or letters. The MacBook was password protected. Somers scanned the papers, but he didn’t see anything like a killer’s manifesto or a death threat. An article on 20th-century humanism. An article on performance art as political resistance. An article on what the author kept calling the “implosive auto-dynamic of the QUILTBAG movement.” An article on the 20th-century design of automotive oil, in particular, how to change the oil, as sexually symbolic of Henry Ford’s obsession with the uterus.

  So, Somers thought, lots of good clues.

  He left the study, closing the door behind him, and called down the hallway: “MacBook.”

  “Oh really?” Norman shouted back. “Hey, Gross, you hear that? Somers figured out the computer is a MacBook. And he did it without Hazard whispering the answer in his ear.”

  “Is that the shiny box with the pictures?” Gross shouted. “God damn. Did Hazard at least tie his shoes before letting him out of the house?”

  “I don’t know, but did you see the size of that love bite? Somebody’s still getting it at home.”

  “Fuck you,” Somers called back. “Both of you.”

  Somers checked the remaining doors: a bathroom, and Fabbri’s bedroom. For a dorm supervisor, the digs were surprisingly nice: a separate, en suite bathroom; a walk-in closet; a bank of floor-to-ceiling French doors that opened onto a balcony. Fabbri’s furniture looked expensive and very modern, like he’d found the pricey version of IKEA.

  No incriminating pairs of underwear. No weapons. No bizarre sex toys.

  “Weed,” Somers shouted down the hall. “And a bottle of pills without a label.”

  “Oh really?” Norman shouted back.

  “Are those the little round things you swallow?” Gross shouted.

  Somers shut the dresser and moved on to the en suite bathroom. Expensive soap. Expensive shampoo. Expensive conditioner. Expensive styling cream. Somers knew they were expensive because Hazard bought some of the same stuff, and on more than one occasion Somers had caught Hazard adding the rest of it to an online shopping cart and then hesitating, reconsidering, and then removing them.

  No used condoms. No feminine hygiene products—used or new. One toothbrush, one towel, and only one sink on the two-sink vanity with toothpaste crust on the porcelain.

  More good clues, Somers thought.

  When he went back to the front room, the atmosphere had changed. Norman and Gross stood stiffly, shoulder to shoulder, cameras dangling awkwardly from their hands. Carlson had shuffled back into the hall, and she was rocking forward to look into the apartment like a kid watching her parents in a fight.

  “Yeah,” an overly confident voice said from the pantry. “You’re going to have to do all this too. Check the drinks. Check the snacks. Run prints on the kitchen, the pantry, the appliances. We’ll definitely want to run toxicology and make sure none of the bottles have been tampered with.”

  Norman had spots of color in his cheeks. Gross’s potbelly was jiggling.

  “Right,” Somers said. “Poison. In case the massive trauma and blood loss didn’t finish him off.”

  The man who stepped out of the pantry was dark-haired, with creamy skin and enough freckles to make him dangerous. In spite of a solid build, he looked boyish—a kind of Tom Sawyer charm, like he could bewitch old ladies while getting into a hell of a lot of trouble. He wore a simple blazer with jeans. Red climbed his face in hectic patches.

  “Who’s the comedian?” the man demanded of the room.

  “Intern,” Somers said. “I do the coffee runs.”

  With a sneer, the man pulled out his wallet and waved a five. “How about doing your job then?”

  Somers crossed the room; his skin prickled with the weight of the looks that Norman and Gross and Carlson were giving him. Leaning up against the counter, Somers managed a smile and stretched out a hand.

  “Let me guess,” Somers said. “Black. No cream or sugar.”

  “That’s what black means,” the man said. “Now can you clear out of my crime scene so I can work?”

  “Your crime scene.”

  “Yeah, asshole. My crime scene.”

  Somers’s grin got bigger.

  “What?” the man demanded. “You’ve got
another joke? Is that it?”

  “Millions of them.”

  “Hey,” the man snapped at Norman and Gross. “Who is this clown, and why the fuck is he contaminating my crime scene?”

  Norman was making a sound in his throat like a death rattle.

  “I’m going to make an educated guess,” Somers said, “and say that I’m probably your partner.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  OCTOBER 31

  WEDNESDAY

  11:37 PM

  SOMERS DROVE BACK TO the station to conduct the interviews. His partner, after a few muttered apologies, had suggested they take separate cars.

  In the Mustang, Somers drew in deep breaths, tasting the leather and the piña colada air freshener Hazard had hung from the rearview mirror. By all accounts, Gray Dulac was a great hire. He closed cases. He had worked well with a civilian oversight board. He came with a glowing recommendation from his chief in Springfield, a college town not unlike Wahredua that lay two hours south. He was exactly what the department needed. He was even a diversity hire, Somers thought, grinning out into the sodium-vapor glow. He just wasn’t Emery Hazard.

  As Somers turned into the parking lot, he tried to make a deal with himself. A year ago, Somers had known Hazard was coming back to Wahredua, had known Hazard would be his partner, and had known that his shitty behavior had been motivated by a lot of things but most of all by wanting to hide a part of himself. Somers could count his sleepless nights on one hand, but the night before starting work with Hazard had been a real toss-and-turn event. And he’d determined he was going to do whatever he could to make things right with Emery Hazard.

  To the extent that it was possible to make the past right, Somers thought he’d done a pretty fair job. They had made a great team; they made an even better couple. But Hazard had resigned with mixed motives: in part because of his own disillusionment with the world, with the justice system, with his own role in it all; and in part because he could leverage his resignation into forcing the department to keep Somers. He hadn’t asked Somers—Christ, that had been a fight—but he had done it, and it was done, and now all Somers could do was live with the aftereffects.

  One of those aftereffects was about 5’11”, with creamy skin, painfully cute freckles, and the air of a guy who could give you the most romantic night of your life and take your wallet off the dresser in the morning.

  Dulac was standing outside the station when Somers got out of the Mustang. He had a schoolboy expression, hands in his pockets, head down so that the security lights washed over his dark hair.

  When Somers got to the door, he was ready to say: Listen, no big deal.

  But Dulac was already talking, “Hey man. Can’t believe I was such an asshole. I’m really sorry.”

  Good thing Somers had his line ready. “No big deal.”

  “I got the call late, I guess. The dispatcher didn’t even seem to know what was going on. What’s her name? Elrich?”

  “Ehlers.”

  Dulac snapped his fingers. “Yeah, man. I just, I don’t know, I got pumped, ok? I know. Totally out of line. Totally inappropriate. I can’t even imagine making a bigger asshole out of myself.”

  Line, Somers thought, fighting a smile. “No big deal.”

  “It’s just, you know, my first case—my first anything—and that’s how I came across.”

  “Let it go. We’ve got interviews to do.”

  “The intern, right? That’s pretty funny.”

  Somers let his smile slide out. “Yeah, well, you were putting on a pretty good show.”

  “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Just about any way I can get it.”

  Dulac rolled his eyes.

  “A little cream. A lot of sugar.”

  Dulac made a little trumpeting announcement noise and reached into a bag at his feet. He pulled out a styrofoam cup and passed it to Somers.

  “You stopped and got coffee at the Casey’s?”

  “It’s actually pretty decent.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m surprised you know.”

  “Dude, give me five minutes in town and I’ll find decent coffee.”

  Somers popped open the lid and took a sip. Hot. Creamy. And enough sugar to jumpstart a horse.

  “Thanks.”

  “Did I get it right?”

  “Dead on,” Somers said, but what he really wanted to ask was how Dulac had known what kind of coffee he liked.

  Dulac produced a coffee for himself, then shoved the bag into a nearby trash can. “Let’s crush this, man.”

  Somers tried really, really hard not to roll his eyes.

  Hoffmeister and Lloyd didn’t look like a matching set, unlike Norman and Gross. The two patrol officers were almost opposites: Hoffmeister was tall and thin, the color of aged styrofoam, Lloyd was dark, stocky, with an elfish smile, but the two officers had been partnered longer than Somers had been on the force, and they wore matching expressions of disgust as Somers and Dulac approached.

  “That bad?” Somers said.

  “College kids,” Hoffmeister said.

  “Think they know everything,” Lloyd said.

  “Like the rest of us don’t know jack.”

  “We’ve just been sitting around, thumbs up our coal chutes, waiting for them to come along.”

  With a laugh, Somers introduced Dulac. Then he asked, “Did you finish taking statements?”

  Lloyd gave him an OK sign, and Hoffmeister passed a stack of paperwork.

  “Interesting ones up top,” Hoffmeister said.

  “You guys are awesome,” Dulac said, stretching out a fist like he wanted to bump knuckles. “Thanks, bro.”

  Eye-rolling wasn’t going to be enough, Somers decided.

  Hoffmeister stared at Dulac’s fist, sighed, and looked at Lloyd. “I’m getting a smoke.”

  “Come on,” Somers said, heading toward the bullpen. “Let’s take a look.”

  They sat at the desks where Somers and Hazard had worked. Somers made a few comments, pointing out where office supplies had been stored, telling Dulac about the computer quirks.

  “New keyboard, though,” Dulac said, rocking back in the chair and flashing a smile like he meant to steal a cooling pie off a windowsill.

  “Yeah, the last guy went through them kind of fast.”

  Dulac’s face transformed into the perfect expression of sympathy. “Yeah, man. Heard about some of the stuff that went down.”

  Somers began sifting through the stack of witness statements.

  “He’s, like, your boyfriend, right?”

  “That’s right.” Somers set aside the first four statements; so far, Hoffmeister and Lloyd had done a good job prioritizing.

  “Man.”

  It wasn’t until the silence prickled that Somers glanced up and realized that Dulac had been waiting, fist extended, a look of unutterable sympathy.

  “Yeah,” Somers mumbled. “Thanks.”

  Dulac just held out his fist.

  Somers rapped knuckles and glanced back down at the statements.

  “I’m gay, too, bro.”

  Somers swallowed the sigh he wanted to blow out. He kept flipping through pages. “Yeah, I think somebody mentioned that.”

  “Oh yeah, man. It’s a big deal for me.”

  “Cool.”

  “Like, I was involved with the Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity task force. And I headed up some workshops. Sensitivity training.”

  Somers tried to repress a mental image of Dulac leading sensitivity training. Lots of trust falls. Lots of bros and sups and fist bumping.

  “Awesome.”

  “Yeah, man.”

  Probably twenty seconds passed before Somers felt another of those prickling silences. He looked up.

  That damn fist again.

  “Pride power, man.”

  Somers shuddered and rapped knuckles. Just to get it over with.

  “We’re going t
o be a fucking dynamic duo, man.”

  “At least,” Somers said, shoving the priority statements towards Dulac, “we’re not the Ambiguously Gay Duo.”

  “No, man. Pride. Nothing ambiguous about that.”

  Somers just shook his head, but thankfully, Dulac was quiet as he read.

  “Those four first, right?” Somers said.

  “Definitely.”

  “Then let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OCTOBER 31

  WEDNESDAY

  11:59 PM

  IN THE INTERVIEW ROOM, Somers turned on the recording equipment, a recent installation made possible by state money. Dulac took up a position against the wall, arms folded. A moment later, Lloyd appeared, leading in a woman. She was tall, and the simple bedsheet that she had pinned around her like a toga offered a stark contrast to her dark skin. Across the sheet were two words printed in neat Sharpie letters: WHITE PRIVILEGE.

  “Ms. Brigaud,” Somers said.

  She nodded.

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “I understand my social obligation, officer.”

  “Detective,” Dulac said from his spot along the wall.

  Somers wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to sink into the ground. He thought he saw the actual moment when Lena Brigaud, who was a professor of mathematics at Wroxall, a social activist, friend of the recently deceased radical professor Lynn Fukuma, and who was currently wearing a bedsheet with the words WHITE PRIVILEGE, turned to ice.

  “It’s fine,” Somers said. “Officer. Detective. They’re both fine. I’m going to start by telling you that we’re recording this conversation so that we can come back to it as necessary during the investigation. I wanted to start by asking you—”

  “No.”

  Somers looked up from her statement. “I’m sorry?”

  “No.” Brigaud delivered the word with exaggerated calm. “I do not consent to being recorded.”

  “It’s department policy,” Dulac said. “It’s a requirement.”

  “I do not consent.”

  “Ms. Brigaud.”

  “Dr. Brigaud,” she said, the same exaggerated delivery.