by Gregory Ashe
“Just take a look,” Somers said for what felt like the hundredth time. “We want to make sure we identify everyone in the picture. If I’ve marked the face with a number, it means someone has already identified that person.”
The kid made a snotty, hawking noise in his throat. His finger slid along the bridge of his nose. He was getting ready for a sneak attack—probably imagining he could get in and out before Somers could catch him.
“Dude,” Dulac said, shaking his head slightly. “Not cool.”
The kid’s finger retreated. An inch.
“I don’t know,” he whined again.
“Listen,” Somers said. “I’ve had a long day. Several long days, in fact. And I think I’m being remarkably patient with you, in spite of the fact that, even for a picker, you—”
The picker made another of those long, hawking noises. Like he was drawing up a snot reserve, getting ready to spit.
A vein throbbed in Somers’s forehead; he was standing on the brink of an aneurysm with this kid.
Dulac elbowed him and tilted his head toward the door, and with a sigh, Somers slapped the pen and the stack of printed images from the dorm security cameras on the desk.
“And just so you know,” Somers said when he reached the doorway, “my boyfriend explained to our three-year-old daughter that nose-picking leads to an increased rate of colds and other respiratory infections. She stopped doing it that day. Think about that.”
Dulac frowned. “Emery was researching nose picking?”
Swallowing a scream, Somers left the dorm room. He thought about going to the next room, but he was exhausted and disheartened. It wasn’t that he minded canvassing; shit, he’d spent enough of his career doing it. He didn’t even mind the hostility, not necessarily, although he hadn’t expected the universal fuck-the-police reception that he’d been given. Slammed doors. Shouting matches. Eighteen-year-olds screaming about their rights. It’d be nice, Somers thought, if they could pay their fucking taxes or move out of the dorm before they started all of that.
He needed fresh air. Maybe a coffee. Maybe a quick walk to stretch his legs, get the blood flowing, and come back at this with a better attitude. He took the stairs down and let himself out the side exit. When the sunlight hit him, he took a deep breath and enjoyed the mixture of warmth and chill that were unique to autumn. He reminded himself that they’d made good progress that day. A lot of progress. And he reminded himself that he wasn’t allowed to shoot pickers for having their fingers up their noses during a police interview.
That’s when the chanting started: a mixture of voices, loud enough to carry across campus. Loud enough, in fact, to raise the hair on Somers’s arms.
Bright Lights, White Rights
Bright Lights, White Rights
Other chants broke up the routine: what do we want, when do we want it. All the classics. But it was the mainstay that echoed inside Somers’s head. Bright Lights, White Rights.
He trotted across the quad toward the approaching voices. Hazard had warned him. And Somers had followed his boyfriend’s advice and called Cravens. But the chief—and, if Somers were being totally honest, Somers himself—hadn’t expected anything more than a token protest.
This didn’t sound like a token protest.
Somers was halfway across the quad when the mob crested like a wave, surging between buildings, flooding campus. Hundreds, Somers thought, his hand going to the Glock at the small of his back. There had to be hundreds of them.
He forced his hand to relax; he took in the situation and then let instinct take over. Better to pull back, assess. The Bright Lights protesters were loud—furious, a voice in his head corrected—but so far they hadn’t done anything destructive.
Then, behind him, Somers heard shouts. Jeers. Whoops and war cries. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the opposition: a mob swarming to meet the Bright Lights protesters. This group looked younger, and Somers would have guessed they were mostly college kids, a mixture of races and ethnicities holding signs that looked like they’d been hastily repurposed from previous protests: Women’s Rights are Human Rights; Love is Love; No Human Being is Illegal. The messages might have been mixed, but the intent was not. These kids were here to face down the Bright Lights.
Marching at the front, a megaphone in one hand, came Cynthia Outzen. Even from a distance, Somers could see the wounds on her face and neck: long, bloody marks. He guessed that the blood had been smeared on purpose, making it hard to tell how badly she had really been injured. But the effect of the blood was obvious; the protesters coming in Cynthia’s wake were lit up with rage.
Somers jogged towards Cynthia, still fighting the urge to draw his gun. Instead, he grabbed his phone and sent a quick text, SOS NORTH QUAD, to Cravens, Dulac, and Hazard. He’d barely finished sending it when he reached Cynthia.
She waved an arm, stopping the crowd behind her. It was like watching someone stop the ocean: it seemed impossible, and then it happened. The frontmost line wavered, rippling with repressed energy—the desire to hurt. Maybe the desire to kill.
“Cynthia,” Somers said, “stop this. Right now.”
“Get out of our way, Detective. This needs to happen.”
“Cynthia, Jesus Christ, this is going to be a bloodbath. People are going to get hurt. Badly. People might get killed. You can keep that from happening.”
Laying one hand over the bloody scratches on her face, Cynthia said, “They drew first blood.”
“That’s Rambo,” Somers said, trying to work up a smile.
“Those racist assholes cornered me. They beat me. They sent women because the men aren’t brave enough to face me.”
Her words were carrying; they were sparks drifting onto tinder. A roar went up behind Cynthia, and the front line rippled and almost broke.
“Stop this,” Somers said, pitching his voice for Cynthia. “This is insane. If you care about these people, if you care about justice and equity and compassion, then make this stop right now. Otherwise, you’re no better than they are.”
“We’re on the right side,” Cynthia said with a simple shrug. “That’s the difference. That’s what makes us better than them.”
Somers felt a moment of disconnect. Nothing seemed to transmit along the wire from his brain to his mouth. Then, finally, he managed to say, “That’s the kind of shit Fukuma was putting into your brain while she was still alive. Social warfare, right? That’s bullshit. That’s just one more form of tyranny, using blood and battle to make people agree with you. That’s the same thing the Volunteers believe. You’re not any different.”
Cynthia shook her head. In the November sunlight, her hair was silver and gold, drifting behind her in gauzy contrast to the blood crusting her face. “You’re wrong, Detective. I’m not like Lynn Fukuma, although some days, I wish I were. I’m not like the Volunteers, either. I won’t hurt anyone to make them believe what I believe.”
“Then tell this crowd to go home,” Somers said.
Shaking her head, Cynthia said, “What Lynn didn’t understand, what the Volunteers don’t understand, is that you can’t sacrifice other people for your beliefs. You can only sacrifice yourself.”
She stepped past Somers, evading him when he tried to grab her, and ran toward the Bright Lights crowd. The mob behind her broke. Men and women flowed around Somers, screaming with rage, waving signs, wanting violence. Somers stayed where he was, not daring to move for fear of being trampled, until suddenly he was standing alone. He turned and watched as two armies collided.
Whatever Cynthia might have believed, whatever she intended—some sort of voluntary self-sacrifice, maybe—her followers didn’t share. Neither side looked interested in self-sacrifice. They crashed into each other, and the shock of bodies sounded in the air like tree limbs cracking. Shoving turned into punches. Punches turned into knock-down brawls. Shouts changed to bellows. Or screams.
The whine of a siren pulled Somers out of his daze; bet
ween buildings, flashing lights marked the approach of a police cruiser. A moment later, the first officers ran onto the scene. Hoffmeister and Lloyd, out of uniform, probably wouldn’t have been anybody’s choice for busting up a brawl. But in uniform, and with their egos already bruised, the two were fire and lightning. They crashed into the fringe of the melee, dragging brawlers apart. Lloyd shoved a scruffy college-looking kid, who tumbled back into the sea of bodies. Hoffmeister had a guy on the ground.
Somers jogged. And then he started to sprint.
Hoffmeister had put zip cuffs on the guy, and Lloyd was wrangling a pair of skinny girls in jean cut-offs, steering them away from the conflict. But when Lloyd plunged back into the chaos, grabbing a Bright Lights woman and hauling her out of the throng, Hoffmeister stayed right where he was.
And then he started to kick the man on the ground. The man who was handcuffed. At first, the blows might have passed for an attempt to subdue the guy—he was still trying to sit up. But then he lay on the ground, and Hoffmeister kept kicking. And then the guy was curling up, trying to cover his gut and his head by turning in on himself, and Hoffmeister kicked harder: his kidneys, his neck, the back of his head.
Somers crashed into Hoffmeister. The uniformed officer was tall and thin, not built to stand up to that kind of impact and not expecting it from Somers. They stumbled a few yards clear of the fighting, and then they both went down. Somers caught a whiff of booze on Hoffmeister, mixed with the menthol from Hoffmeister’s cigarettes.
Getting to his feet, Somers braced himself for a charge, but Hoffmeister just dragged himself upright and stared.
“What’s wrong with you?” Somers said.
Rubbing his arm, where Somers had collided with him, Hoffmeister said, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
And then Hoffmeister turned back to the guy on the ground, still cuffed and now lying very still.
“Get the fuck back to your car,” Somers shouted, shoving Hoffmeister. “You fucking moron, get the fuck out of here.”
Hoffmeister stumbled; when he caught himself, he looked back at Somers. Wounded. Like Somers, of all people, was being the asshole.
Ignoring him—it was either ignore him or shoot him—Somers turned back to the fighting as more police cars rolled up over the curb and officers spilled out.
The two mobs split, peeling away from each other in a last-ditch effort to avoid the police. As they did, Somers caught sight of silver-gold hair in the November sun.
“Shit,” he shouted, “get an ambulance, somebody get an ambulance.” He sprinted across the quad’s lawn. Good, thick green turf. It had survived the brawl very well. Barely a bent blade.
One guy got in his way, and Somers threw the punch, knew it was off even while he was throwing it. His fist connected with the side of the guy’s head, and pain shot through Somers’s hand. Somers didn’t care; he barely even noticed. The guy stumbled clear of Somers’s path, and Somers kept running.
Most of the damage had been to Cynthia’s head and face; her eyes were already swelling shut, and her nose was broken, her lips split, and at least one tooth splintered. She was unconscious; Somers pressed fingers to her carotid, just to check that she wasn’t dead. He shouted for a paramedic until, miraculously, they were there.
And Dulac was there, too, grabbing one arm. And Hazard, taking the other. Helping Somers away as the paramedics lifted Cynthia onto a gurney and rolled her away.
All Somers could think was: if she dies, if she dies, if she dies.
“If she dies,” Hazard said, with that annoying habit of echoing Somers’s thoughts, “this town is in deep shit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
NOVEMBER 4
SUNDAY
3:15 PM
FRANNIE LANGKOP WAS A leathery-faced woman, thin, her graying hair cut and gelled into spikes. She’d been a paramedic longer than Somers had been alive, and right then, Somers was wondering how she hadn’t learned a gentler touch in all those years.
“Ow,” Somers said, trying to pull his hand away.
“Well?” Hazard said.
Frannie just grunted and kept probing, massaging Somers’s hand as he yelped and tried to pull away.
“Stop being such a puss,” Frannie said.
“I’m not—” Somers began.
“She’s right,” Hazard said. “Stop it.”
With another grunt, Frannie released Somers’s hand.
“Well?” Hazard said.
“He needs to learn how to throw a punch.”
“I didn’t punch anyone,” Somers said. “I don’t know what I did to it. I just fell, I think.”
“Anything broken?” Hazard asked.
“Can’t tell,” Frannie said. “He should get it X-rayed.”
“I don’t need X-rays,” Somers said.
“Damn it,” Hazard said. “All right. I’ll get him down there.”
“I just said I don’t need X-rays. For that matter, I don’t really want X-rays.”
“If they have to splint it, how long will it take to heal?” Hazard asked Frannie.
“Six weeks, maybe. But it depends on a lot of things. I’d go now, before the rest of these assholes clog the ER.”
“Good point,” Hazard said, looping an arm around Somers’s waist. “We’ll get going.”
“No,” Somers said, using his other hand to free himself. “No. I said no.”
Frannie raised an eyebrow. “Want me to have the Ox Boys drag him there?” She tilted her head at two massive EMTs who looked like brothers.
“Frannie, I really appreciate everything, but can you buzz off for a while? And Ree, can you settle down for five seconds and talk?
“Buzz off?” Frannie said, flicking a speck of something from her uniform.
“Settle down?” Hazard said, his big hands curling at his sides.
“Jesus Christ,” Somers said. “Jesus Christ, I just need some ice and I’ll be fine.”
Frannie left, still muttering, “Buzz off,” under her breath. Hazard found some ice. They sat together on a bench on the far side of the quad, Hazard holding the ice to Somers’s hand while he explained everything that had happened at the arts building.
“Jesus Christ,” Somers said again, unable to help himself. “Someone had footage of him this whole time? Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
“I did say something,” Hazard said. “If you’ll remember, I told you right before we went to meet that asshole from Bright Lights. I told you Mitchell said you and Dulac wouldn’t listen to him—”
“But that’s bullshit. He never said a word.”
Hazard didn’t say anything; he just adjusted the ice.
“Ow,” Somers said.
Hazard shifted the ice again. Then, in a low voice, “Better?”
“It’s cold.”
“It’s supposed to be cold, John. Of course, cold doesn’t do much for broken bones. What we should be doing is driving to Wahredua Regional so you can—”
“Let’s talk this out first. And show me the pictures, ok?”
“On Halloween,” Hazard said, “Mitchell sees Jim Fabbri talking to Jesse Clark.”
“Who just happens to be the same kid who, a few hours later, will stab Jim to death.”
Hazard nodded. “They obviously have some sort of disagreement—it’s visible in the footage. Then they both leave.”
“And Mitchell sees all this by chance?”
“According to him.”
“Shit,” Somers said. “I’d like to get some answers out of Mitchell. You don’t have any idea where he is?”
“No. He’s still not answering my calls.” On his phone, Hazard ran through the images he had pulled from the arts facility cameras. “According to multiple people, that’s Jesse Clark. He’s a student at Wroxall. Theater and Dramatic Production.”
Spreading out the security stills from the dorm, Somers studied the images, glancing back at Hazard’s phone. �
��Here. And here. And here.”
Making a low rumble in his throat, Hazard touched another image. “So he was at the dorm that night. He walked outside with everybody else.”
“Just like we figured,” Somers said, lifting the picture in which Jesse was most visible. “He ditched the hat and sunglasses and bandana, and he’s got on a windbreaker or something. Just a guy too lazy to dress up for Halloween.” Dropping the picture, Somers looked back up at Hazard. “Why would he want to hurt a college professor?”
“Let’s ask him,” Hazard said.
Somers called the station and got the most recent address for Jesse Clark, as well as two more that he had previously used. The chaos on the quad was still unraveling; it looked like every officer on the Wahredua force was out today, helping to separate and take into custody as many of the protesters as possible. The only exception was Andrea Ehlers, on dispatch, who couldn’t be trusted to separate the bread on a grilled cheese sandwich.
When a bald man with swastika tattoos lunged at Cravens and Dulac started wrestling a pair of mousy-haired women who might have been sisters, Somers and Hazard saw their opportunity and made a break for it. Jesse’s address was just off campus, so instead of trying to get one of their cars and navigating for another parking space, they walked.
Somehow, South Quad seemed untouched by the violence. The November sun turned a small pond iridescent. When the wind blew, the day was a degree too cold, but it didn’t stop the kids playing frisbee or some sort of improvised game where they pegged each other with racquetballs. The air held campus smells: boys with too much cologne or not enough soap; the Coding Club grilling hot dogs, $1, all proceeds benefit Girls Who Code; puffs of bad weed that made Somers think of his own college days.
He thought, suddenly, of the events a little more than a year ago, when a similar march by the Ozark Volunteers had turned violent. That had started a chain of events that had led to Hazard and Somers becoming partners. And, eventually, more than partners.
Hazard didn’t say anything, but all of a sudden, he reached over and took Somers’s hand. So maybe he was thinking about it too.