Absolute Liability

by Jennifer Becton

  To Tripp, I said, “Well, you just might get your wish.”

  “You see him?”

  “Yeah, and his skin has that post-spa glow.”

  Beside me, Vincent snorted.

  Tripp only said, “Huh?”

  “He’s headed right to you.”

  “Shit,” Tripp said. “He’s going to run when he sees all these cars.”

  Again, Tripp proved to be a soothsayer because McKade suddenly noticed the crowd at his house, turned on his heel, and took off, the brown bag waving madly in the air as he pumped his arms.

  “He’s running!” I shouted into the phone.

  “Can you take him?”

  I threw the phone beside me on the seat, but before I could even lay a finger on the door handle, Vincent was out of the car and hauling ass down the road. He caught up to McKade easily, partially because he was a good runner, but also because his prey refused to drop his bottle, which made his gait awkward and slow. McKade also refused to stop even though Vincent was clearly on the verge of tackling him.

  I ran down the street after them, my hand ready to grab my M&P if necessary.

  “McKade! Stop! Police!” I shouted.

  Still, he didn’t stop.

  I could hear Vincent’s sharp command to halt, and McKade suddenly seemed to give up. He stopped, shoulders hunched, and turned to Vincent. He raised his hands in the air, bottle and all, and looked like he was ready to give up his own mother if it would save him.

  “Drop the bottle,” Vincent said, attempting to secure McKade’s arms.

  As if suddenly realizing he was still holding the liquor, McKade’s whole demeanor changed. His arm reared back and he launched the liquor bottle toward Vincent’s head.

  I kept running toward them and shouted a warning to Vincent in a tone that, I’m ashamed to say, resembled that of a dramatic Southern belle. Fortunately, the bottle missed its target and subsequently shattered on the curb.

  I was close enough to see Vincent’s free hand form a fist and then clench and unclench. He was just about to unload on McKade.

  Only I got there first.

  I dropped my shoulder and plowed into McKade nanoseconds later. He followed the bottle to the ground and his face landed in the middle of a puddle of liquor and broken glass. I pinned him and worked to gain control of his arms.

  Vincent produced a pair of handcuffs from the back of his belt and handed them to me.

  McKade had submitted by this time, and I got the cuffs on quickly.

  Once he was secure, I took my knee out of his back and Vincent hauled him off the ground with unnecessary roughness. “You got anything on you? Knives, drugs, guns?” Vincent quickly checked McKade’s pockets. “Any more bottles you want to throw?”

  “No, man, I got nothin’ else. And throwing that bottle was a waste. You owe me for that. You scared me into throwing it.”

  “Not a chance in hell.” Vincent backed up a pace, his eyes still on McKade.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him. He looked okay, but his shirt was covered in dark wet patches of liquor.

  “Fine, but I smell like a damn juke joint. You okay?” He looked me over while I nodded. “That was an impressive takedown. An honor to watch.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” McKade said as Vincent pushed him back toward the truck. “What’s with the damn cuffs? I didn’t think the insurance company could use cuffs. This is some kinda harassment.”

  We ignored his protestations, and Vincent shoved him against the opened tailgate. McKade took the hint and sat.

  “We’re law enforcement,” I corrected, showing him my badge.

  “And I don’t like running,” Vincent said. Then he gestured to the wet splotch on his coat. “And I hate smelling like cheap booze.”

  “It wasn’t cheap.” McKade appeared to deflate a bit. “I suppose this is about the warehouse.”

  “Not entirely.” That was Tripp. He’d just arrived behind me and quickly worked his way to McKade to take possession of him. “Runner, huh?”

  “What do you expect when you got cops all over my house?”

  “Guilty men run, McKade,” Tripp said.

  “Guilty of what? I ain’t broke no laws.”

  “You own a revolver? A Taurus Tracker .357?”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with owning a revolver last I checked.”

  “No, but it is illegal to murder pretty young girls with it.”

  McKade’s mouth dropped open and then twisted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “The body found at your warehouse yesterday. She was shot by a .357. We were thinking it was an awfully big coincidence, or else you shot her. So we got a search warrant to help us find out.”

  I observed McKade’s face. I wasn’t an expert at reading body language, but he appeared genuinely flummoxed.

  “Shot? You mean you think I shot a person? An actual human?” He glanced between the three of us, maybe seeking clarification. He got none. “The only thing I’ve shot with that gun is a squirrel that kept getting into my birdfeeder. So unless you’re here about a squirrel shooting, then you’re outta luck.”

  “A .357 to shoot squirrels?” Vincent asked. “Overkill, don’t you think?”

  McKade shrugged. “I used a .38 bullet.” To him, using a weaker—but still oversized—cartridge for hunting small game seemed to justify the matter, and he fell silent.

  Tripp put on his sunglasses and propped a foot on the curb, probably going for a heightened intimidation factor. “Where were you this weekend, Mr. McKade?”

  “Where was I?” he repeated. “I was visiting my mama in South Georgia.”

  “She can verify that?”

  “Yeah, course she can.”

  “And when did you return?”

  “Late Monday.” We must have appeared skeptical by the time line because he added, “My business burned, remember. I ain’t got no place to be all day.”

  “We’ll verify that,” Tripp said, “but we need to talk about the gun. Where is the piece now?”

  I could read McKade’s confusion.

  “In the case,” he said.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m sure.” He looked like he was beginning to panic. His posture changed from an indolent slump to ramrod straight. He looked like he wanted to gesture with his hands, but the cuffs prevented him. “I’m a conscientious gun owner. Or didn’t you see the locked display cases when you searched my place?”

  “That doesn’t explain why the plastic Tracker case we found under your bed was empty.”

  “Empty?” His voice was several octaves higher than it had been a moment ago, and his eyes darted between the three of us again. “Are you sure you looked in the right case?”

  “Yes, we’re sure.”

  McKade was starting to drip great gelatinous beads of sweat. I wondered what Mimsy at the La Belle Day Spa would say if she saw him now. The way his pores were clogging, he was definitely in need of another facial. Maybe a mud mask or a good stiff chemical peel. And probably a deep tissue massage after the way Vincent and I had hauled him around.

  “Well, maybe it’s on the floor or under the bed. It could have fallen out of the case,” McKade offered. He tried to get off the truck bed, but Vincent pushed him back down. Unable to move his body, McKade began to move his mouth. He started talking quietly, almost to himself. “I’m not going down for no murder. I torched my warehouse and that’s all. I didn’t kill no one.”

  “Well,” Tripp drawled, “until just a second ago, you were only wanted for questioning in the shooting of Amber Willis, but then you ran from the special agents here. And now that you’ve gone and confessed to arson, we’ll just have to arrest you for that too.”

  “Arson?” McKade wiped at his forehead. “It ain’t illegal to burn down your own building. You got no grounds.”

  Vincent shook his head and gazed off into the distance. “Technically, you can burn your own property, but
have you heard about the statewide summer burn ban? Did you get a permit?”

  “Oh, come on! That ain’t an arrestable offence.”

  “And don’t forget about attempting to defraud your insurance company afterward,” I said, enjoying the way McKade had blanched. “That makes what you did second-degree arson. Arson with the intent to defraud.”

  “What penalty does that carry again, Special Agent Jackson? I forget.”

  “Why, Detective Carver, that’s up to ten years in prison and a $25,000 fine.”

  “Oh hell.”

  “Listen, if you talk to us now,” Tripp said, “maybe Special Agent Jackson here will ask the judge not to hand down the maximum sentence.”

  McKade considered and then relented. “Fine. I’ll answer your questions.”

  “Good decision.” Tripp glanced around at the crowd that was beginning to gather on the periphery. “Let’s take this inside.”

  I walked to the passenger seat of the truck and picked up my phone to call Ted. He answered in two rings.

  “Roger McKade is in police custody,” I told him.

  “On the murder charge?”

  “Not yet. We’re questioning him now, but the MPD will be arresting him for second-degree arson and fining him, believe it or not, for violating the state burn ban.”

  He relayed this news to someone in his office. Then he said into the phone, “Sorry, everyone’s curious. Any news on Amber?”

  “It’s possible that his gun was used in her shooting. It’s missing.”

  “Yeah, well, if the bastard did shoot that poor girl and threaten you, then he’s going down big time, insurance fraud included.”

  I laughed. Leave it to an insurance man to see an insurance fraud conviction as more powerful than one for murder.

  “So I guess you’ll be back home tonight?”

  I paused. McKade didn’t strike me as the murdering type, and I didn’t detect any hatred in his eyes when he looked at me. I just saw vacuous stupidity and clogging pores. To Ted, I said, “I hadn’t really thought about it yet.”

  “Keep me updated.”

  “I will. Thanks, Ted.

  I felt a bead of sweat trickle between my shoulder blades as I walked down to McKade’s place to join the questioning.

  Something about this whole scenario seemed wrong to me.

  Criminals aren’t usually masterminds. Most of the time, they’re average—or below average—in IQ. But why would McKade kill Amber and leave her body at his own warehouse? Maybe he was just not a very bright murderer. Who knew?

  The questioning began with an innocuous conversation about NBA playoffs as we sat around the kitchen table. McKade was relaxing visibly and sweating less. Tripp and Vincent appeared amiable and nonchalant, but I knew they were observing every move McKade made so they could compare it to his body language later.

  Tripp began, “You sure have some nice guns.”

  McKade smiled. “Yeah, I’m a collector. Did you see my S&W M29?”

  “The Dirty Harry gun?”

  “Yeah, hell of a nice piece.”

  “We saw it. Nice display case, by the way.” Tripp turned the conversation. “What we didn’t see was that Tracker.”

  McKade tipped forward in his chair and shook his head. His eyebrows drew down, and a furrow appeared between them. He looked genuinely confused to me. “Yeah, the Tracker. I don’t know what to tell you boys about that. Kinda pisses me off that it’s gone.”

  Vincent shook his head as if he too were surprised at its absence. “When was the last time you saw it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, couple of days ago. That room is kind of a mess. Things disappear, but they usually show back up.”

  “You got any ideas where the gun might be now?”

  “Damnedest thing. I was so sure I put it in the case. It should be there. If I hadn’t just looked myself, I wouldn’t have believed you.”

  “The case, is it always locked?” Tripp asked.

  “Of course.”

  “It was unlocked when we got here.”

  “Well, the gun wasn’t in it, so it don’t matter if it was locked or not, does it?” McKade shrugged. “Besides, I was on a run to the corner store. Hardly gone a minute. But I make sure everything’s locked at night and most of the time when I’m out of the house.”

  Vincent nodded. “Anything missing from your house lately?”

  “Besides the gun?” He paused. “You think someone stole it?”

  Tripp and Vincent nodded.

  “Hell, you’ve seen my place.” He looked around, and I followed his movements to take in the whole kitchen. It looked like it should be condemned. “It’s a dump. I don’t know if anything’s missing. I’d have to go look.”

  Tripp and Vincent studied him. I’m sure they were thinking the exact same thing I was: we didn’t have a year and a half for McKade to inventory all the crap in his house.

  “No break-ins?” Vincent asked. “No broken windows, messed up locks, anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, nothing broken.” McKade shook his head and tipped back in his chair a bit. “Only thing weird I remember in the last week was that I didn’t turn the deadbolt on my back door.”

  “You always lock it?”

  “Sure, but I figured I’d forgotten that one day.”

  “You forget a lot?”

  “Never.”

  Vincent frowned. “Do you have a key hidden outside?”

  McKade nodded. “Sure I do. In a dandy spot. Right underneath the…”

  “Doormat?” Tripp asked.

  “Flowerpot?” Vincent wondered.

  “Decorative rock?” I finished.

  “…last stepping stone of the walkway,” McKade said.

  Tripp laughed. “That would have been my next guess.”

  “When was the last time you used the spare?” Vincent asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

  “So you don’t know if it’s still there?”

  “Naw, I guess I don’t.”

  Tripp sent one of the uniformed officers to check, and while we waited for him to return, McKade began demanding to file a police report on his missing revolver. I left the table and started pacing the kitchen while Tripp promised repeatedly to write up a report. Finally the officer returned with a key in his gloved hand.

  I knew that key had been used. I knew it the same way I knew that one day I would find Tricia’s rapist. I just knew.

  Someone was trying to focus our attentions on McKade. But why? The crime clearly revolved around my fraud complaints. If we pinned Amber’s murder on McKade, that wouldn’t stop us from investigating other claims.

  So why would they bother trying to involve McKade?

  It made no sense.

  Deep in thought, I caught myself just before I made the mistake of leaning against a putrid countertop.

  The only thing that was beginning to become clear in my mind was this: I needed to go through the Southeastern files much more carefully. Maybe I was missing a connection somewhere.

  I looked around for a seat, but finding none, I picked my way to the living room and sat down heavily in one of the chairs against the back wall. I didn’t need to hear any more from McKade.

  Vincent joined me. “He didn’t kill Amber.”

  “I know,” I said. “And that means I’m still in danger.”

  “Yup,” he nodded. “And that means you’re at my place tonight.”

  “After this is all over,” I said in what I hoped was an offhand tone, “remind me to explain the best way to talk to a woman. Seriously, do you ever date?”

  It was understandable that he should be nervous. After all, his plan had blown up in his face today.

  He had been forced to kill a man, practically deafening himself in the process.

  Now things were much more volatile than they’d ever been.

  But at least his ears were starting to recover. He was almost sure he’d be able to hear reasonably well
by the next day.

  It only made sense, though, that he’d use the intervening time to recheck everything, make sure he wouldn’t be implicated in some way.

  He began by deciding how to deal with the hunting revolver. He pondered several options for disposing of it. First, he considered taking it back to where he’d gotten it—Roger McKade’s house—but that would entail too much risk for no real purpose.

  Then he contemplated tossing it in a dumpster or in the river, but that was also risky. Someone might observe him, and now that he was involved in this up to his neck, he couldn’t afford to be seen doing anything seedy.

  Finally, he realized that the best course of action was to keep the gun. One never could tell when a gun would come in handy.

  And if that investigator caught wind of his involvement, then he might need to use it.

  He ended up securing the stolen gun, along with the items taken from the investigator’s office, in the large lockable tool chest in his garage. It was safe, and his wife would never go in there. Of course, having such evidence, especially McKade’s weapon, in his possession was a problem, but he’d deal with it later, after he’d made absolutely certain that every other part of the plan was still in order.

  In his original plan, he had steered the DOI away from his fraud case, but since his partner was going to be implicated, all the evidence would be under much closer scrutiny.

  Now it all hinged on the paperwork he’d given the investigator. He’d been fortunate that she had accepted copies and not demanded the originals. It had made his job easier. He took out the printout and looked it over. It was flawless. No one would know that it had been doctored.

  Well, it should look good. He’d been very careful. He’d scanned the original and used a PDF editor to work his magic. It had been surprisingly easy to cover his own signature as inspector with that of Sam Dwight and make it look like Sam’s name had been there from the beginning.

  The original, of course, was long gone, and a high-quality copy of the doctored version was in its place.

  He had to admire his own genius at choosing Dwight as the inspector of record. Dead men tell no tales, and Dwight had been resting in peace for some time now. Once they saw his signature, they’d stop pursuing the idea that anyone still at Southeastern Insurance had been culpable.