Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1)

by B. A. Spangler

  Her words sent a shiver through me. I fought the emotion, but choked up. I gathered my bag, paid for the drinks, and tried to catch up to Katie. But she’d always been leaner and taller, and her long legs carried her faster. By the time I reached the front door of Romeo’s, she’d disappeared into the back seat of a black town car.

  The car must’ve been waiting.

  I clopped over the sidewalk, raising my hand at the car window, unable to see anything except my oddly stretched reflection as the car passed me and drove away. My friend was gone.

  A thousand fluttering wings suddenly sounded in a feathered breeze, and a black rain fell from the highest trees behind Romeo’s. The sky turned dark with the flight of blackbirds diving, twisting, and circling around me in an orchestrated cadence that seemed like magic. I watched the car drive away, wondering if Jerry was driving. The sputter of white exhaust puffed harshly as the sound of winged flight grew.

  I glanced up, finding a mix of summer iridescence and speckled winter gray in the wave of tiny blackbirds. The birds dove, then rose straight up, and then funneled sharply, turning together like one amoebic body, whispering secrets as to which direction they were going to go next.

  What was Katie’s secret? Which direction would they be going?

  The large flock suddenly exploded above me, creating a daylight spectacle—a pale rusty sky filled with black stars—an impossible wonder that stole my voice. I wanted to scream out to Katie, but didn’t need to. The sedan turned at the furthest corner, disappearing onto Springdale, driving toward the interstate and into the city.

  Why was she going into the city?

  When the blackbirds reformed, they jetted across the street, disappearing into the alley. My alley, I’d begun to call it. The birds became noisy once they landed, and I wondered how much they’d witnessed the night the homeless man had called to me. Did birds even fly at night? Had they been huddled together in a feathery brood—their marble-black eyes open wide, watching me?

  My body shook then, but it wasn’t from the late autumn air or from being sick with a hangover. I was afraid of what might happen to Katie and her boys. I could go to Steve, tell him what Katie told me, hope that he could do something. I decided to skip the visit with Nerd, leaving that to the next day. I’d find Steve and tell him what was going on.

  By the time I was home, my eyes were damp. Steve listened to me, seeming to have forgotten about the buttons and my missing blouse. His arms went around me when the fact of Katie running overtook me. At his suggestion, I’d tried calling her phone. All I heard was a recorded message that the line had been disconnected. He made a few phone calls too, but didn’t share the details. He said only that he was going to put some eyes on Jerry and Katie and make sure they were safe.

  Later that night, hours after I told Steve about Katie and Jerry—leaving out the details about the White Bear—a soft knock came at our front door. I peered into the gray darkness, then fell back to sleep. Another knock came at the door, stronger and rapid, thumping louder. The abrupt sound woke me, stirring me enough to make me sit up and focus. Steve sat up too, and swung his legs over the bed.

  “It’s two in the morning,” I said, grabbing his arm as he lifted the remains of our warm covers. “You don’t know who it is.”

  “That’s why I’m going downstairs,” he answered, his face blank and half-asleep. “It could be a patrol. They might have some news. I don’t know, won’t know till I answer the door.”

  The knock came again—they didn’t ring the doorbell, as if they knew not to wake the kids. Katie came to mind. She could be outside with the boys, coming to us for help, for Steve’s help.

  “Wait then, I’m coming with you.”

  We hurried on some clothes and covered ourselves enough to go to the door. Winter had found our home, and it threw a frozen wall of air at us when we opened the door. Standing there, alone, his hair uncombed, his eyes bulging huge and bloodshot with a face stained from crying, Jerry looked to Steve and then to me, shaking his head.

  “What?” I shouted, knowing immediately that he had something terrible to tell us. “What’s happened, Jerry!?”

  “Katie is dead,” he managed to say as anguish stole his words. He tried to say more, but that was all he could manage to get out before collapsing.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I DIDN’T JUMP when the tea kettle whistled, urgently hissing and spitting hot droplets. I heard it, but ignored it. Hot steam spewed from the spout’s small hole, escaping the water’s violent rage. As much as I wanted a release of my own in that moment, I had none; my rage had to remain inside. I could feel myself boiling, blood coursing, rolling, heartbeats in my ears, sweat on my brow. I wanted to hurt Jerry for having started whatever it was that ended with Katie being dead. By now, Steve had heard back from the station, confirming that Katie had indeed been killed. There was a hole in my heart, and a part of me wished my world would be sucked into it and disappear.

  They had been packing, just as Katie had described. Jerry confessed everything to Katie about what he’d been doing at the White Bear. He told her the trouble he’d gotten into with the bikers. He told her how he’d been taking money from the owner, taking money from a lot of bikers.

  “And the twins?” I’d asked. They were apparently safe, sent to his sister’s place to get picked up later.

  “I told Katie how I’d been doing favors, but I didn’t have anything to do with what happened at the Bear last night,” Jerry went on to say. “When Sam went nuts, when he threatened me, I told Katie we had to run, hide for a while. I even had a driver from my office take her to meet with you.”

  Spittle hung from Jerry’s lip and touched his chin, glinting with the light from above. He swiped at his mouth impatiently and blubbered again, sucking in as he tried to tell us more.

  “There was a knock,” he’d said. A knock at their front door, the kind of sound that you hear but don’t hear. “I was boxing what we needed when I heard Katie’s footsteps come down the hall. I’d heard the door, but never gave it a second thought. Until she opened it.”

  He told us there had been no words, no screams, just a pop and the sound of a wet splash before he heard Katie’s body crumple in their doorway. A motorcycle, maybe two—the kind with the deep throaty sound—sped away as he held her, but he didn’t see anything else—he didn’t have to. Sam Wilts wanted retribution for his son’s death, and he was going after anyone he suspected of being involved.

  I swallowed hard, my heart stuck in my throat. He was talking about my hit on Todd Wilts.

  Oh my God, did I do this? I leaned against the counter, my legs wobbly.

  “And you think it was this Sam person?” I struggled to say, seeing the bartender’s toothy grin and straggly hair in my mind. My words sunk into a whimper as I spoke, like a dying breath.

  I killed Katie.

  “Babe!” Steve whispered harshly. He lifted the kettle from the stove’s burner, placed it on the stony, flat counter to cool. “Careful.”

  “Uh-huh,” I muttered.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, rubbing my back, seeming to ignore my question. I leaned against his warm hand a moment before continuing.

  “Hanging in there,” I answered, deciding to listen.

  That’s safest, Amy. Just listen.

  “Do you have to do this here?” Whatever Jerry had going on with the bikers had to be beyond anything that I’d done. What stuck in my gut like a hot stone was believing that I might have hastened their actions against Jerry.

  But he opened that door. That’s what I told myself; then the stone turned.

  Steve glanced at his phone, his lips moving as he read a text message. “Won’t have Charlie there for another hour,” he said. “Prefer the station, but need to get what’s fresh.”

  I poured myself a cup of tea, eager to feel the herbal burn chase down the acid rising in my throat. Steve decided on a glass of water. Jerry wanted a stiffer drink.

  Whiskey, perhaps? I wanted to
ask bitterly.

  Steve insisted that he stick to drinking water or coffee.

  “Coffee, thank you,” he answered. I dumped the bitter-smelling contents of an old instant coffee packet and watched the dank, freeze-dried pebbles dissolve at the bottom of the wet cup. I prepared the coffee without effort, keeping it steamy black. I placed it in front of him. This was Steve’s area of expertise. I wasn’t even sure I should be in the same room.

  “Listen, Jerry. We should really do any questioning at the station—”

  “I don’t care where we talk,” he interrupted. “Why . . . why the station?”

  “Because your wife was murdered, Jerry. Much of what you told us I’m going to have to ask you to repeat. I’ve had the station on the phone the last fifteen minutes. Your wife was found in the doorway of your home with a gunshot wound—that part corroborates with your story. I’ve got forensics there now, probably be there most of the day.”

  Jerry winced. “I know how she died,” he said, angrily. “I was there.” He reached for his coffee, his hands shaking, but he managed to set his fingers on the cup’s handle and take a sip. He gestured appreciatively in my direction. I glanced at his face, then quickly turned away and tried to make myself busy.

  Steve revealed his detective’s badge then, pulling it out from his back pocket—his shield, he liked to call it. He’d also changed his clothes after we let Jerry inside, putting on what he’d usually wear at the station. With its thick and heavy leather backing, his gold shield looked like a fallen star that he had managed to catch in the palm of his hand; as if he held some kind of mystical power. And maybe he did—after all, just the sight of his gold shield gave most people reason for pause. Steve placed his badge on the table, sliding it to the middle so that Jerry could see it, so that Jerry knew that he was officially talking to a cop. If Jerry had come to our house because of my friendship with Katie alone, he had come to the wrong house. But I suspected that he had come here because Steve was a cop, because he felt Steve could protect him and the twins.

  “So that there is no mistake, and for your protection and mine, I’m going to record this conversation,” Steve explained as he placed his slender phone on the table. He touched the screen, opening the voice recorder application. The digital needle began jumping with each spoken word. “Is that okay with you, Jerry?”

  “Yes,” he answered gravely. He moved closer to the table, uncertainty in his posture. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “This is Detective Steve Sholes interviewing Jerry Dawson with regards to the death of Katie Dawson. Relationship: spouse.” Steve announced to the voice recorder. “Who showed up, Jerry?” Steve asked.

  “Can’t be sure of exactly who, but they were bikers. Bikers that work out of the White Bear. It’s the—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know about the White Bear. It’s been under investigation for a while now,” Steve finished for him. “They’ve got biker gangs up and down the coast doing business out of there. But maybe you already know all of that?”

  “I did a favor for the owner, Sam Wilts. Big supporter of the mayor. Lots of donations.”

  “And the favor?”

  “About a year ago, during the reelection, Sam—the owner—donated to the campaign. Big enough amount to get noticed, big enough for a meet-and-greet with the mayor. Afterward, Sam took me aside and asked if I could help him out with a distillery license.”

  “Distillery license?” Steve asked.

  Sam’s face popped into my mind, proud and smiling as he’d placed the White Bear Whiskey card in front of me. “Tell a friend about us,” he’d said, or something like that.

  “They already had a liquor license, but he said they had an old moonshine recipe they wanted to bottle and sell legit. Only problem is that a distillery license is issued at the state level.”

  “What did you do?” I asked. Steve spun around in his seat, raising his hand. I hushed, embarrassed, realizing that I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I raised my shoulders defensively, playing ignorant. Steve stopped the recording, rewound over my interruption, and then resumed.

  “What did you do then?” he asked.

  Jerry straightened his shoulders so that he could see me past Steve. “I knew someone who worked out of the governor’s office. I made a call. One call led to two to three and, for some cash in hand, we made it happen.”

  “You extorted them,” Steve said flatly.

  Jerry squirmed and gulped his coffee. “We called it a campaign donation,” he countered. “That’s politics. Everything is bought. The extortion? That came later.”

  Steve sat up in his chair, pushing a case file over the table. He slowly slipped one photograph out from the folder, and then another. I recognized the faces from the other night. I tried to shake out the tingling in my hands. My palms were clammy, knowing what he would show Jerry next.

  “Do you know this man?” Steve asked, pointing to a picture of the man who killed John.

  “Seen him at the Bear,” Jerry answered, nodding. “Luis something?”

  “And him?” Steve continued, but this time he pointed to a picture of Todd Wilts. My stomach cramped.

  “That is Sam’s son. They found him dead last night,” Jerry answered as more spittle found his chin. “What do you think started all of this? It’s why I came to you.” Jerry slapped his hand against Steve’s badge.

  “What do you mean, dead?” Steve asked. “Todd Wilts has been under investigation. We have reason to believe that he was an accomplice of Luis’s in the murder of a police detective.”

  “You mean your friend John? I don’t know anything about that,” Jerry answered, shaking his head. “Sam’s boy died at the Bear. Looked like he stroked out—all twisted up—maybe too many drugs, too many steroids or something. But Sam freaked out, blamed me, said I was in cahoots with a rival or some crazy shit. He declared war. The guy is fucking nuts.”

  “Why, though? Help me understand this. You’re a nobody. Why would he blame you?”

  Jerry began to weep. A pitiful cry, sloppy and wet. For a brief moment, he had the face of a twelve-year-old boy who’d just skinned his knee. I wanted to hate him, but he wasn’t all to blame.

  “The extortion. There were others. I played them all like I was some kind of big deal. I kept demanding more money.” He swiped at his nose, where more snot hung. I grabbed a box of tissues and handed it to him. “I got greedy. I knew what was going on at the Bear, what was coming in and going out. I tried to muscle them, telling them they had to keep paying for the license, or they’d lose it. Worse, I threatened to have his son’s rape case reopened. Guy was an animal. Did you see what he did to that girl? But it was an empty threat—double jeopardy and all that. Just greed.”

  “Wait,” Steve said, confused. “What do you mean that you knew what was coming in and going out?”

  “Pennies, man,” Jerry said. “My monthly taste was nothing. White Bear Whiskey was just a front. And I legalized it, can you believe that?”

  “You mean the . . . the cash in hand?”

  “Uh-huh,” Jerry answered. “I got a taste once a month from Sam. I paid that up to my contact, but we went for more. The bikers have the real money, spread up and down the coast, on two-wheel hogs going sixty on the interstate. I was taking money from anyone I was in contact with.”

  Steve brought his chair around the table, scraping it over the floor tiles with a screech. He sat across from Jerry so that their faces were awkwardly close. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a normal interrogation tactic.

  “Listen,” Steve began and snapped his fingers until Jerry’s eyes went round, focusing. “Pay attention to me. I want you to clear your head and concentrate. What was it you found exactly?”

  Jerry sat back, his shoulders slumped. He hesitated as if he didn’t seem to know what to tell Steve. “I’m rethinking how much I should say,” Jerry answered, scratching the thick patch of whiskers on his chin. I hated that sound. “I gotta think of the boys now.”

 
; “Whatever you have on them is what I think John may have stumbled onto, and it got him killed. It got Katie killed too. Let’s get ahead of them, before they get to anyone else. So what is it?”

  Jerry teared up and reached down to his side. With an instinctive reaction, Steve also reached to his side—for a gun that wasn’t there. Jerry stopped and then slowly raised his hands. He held a photograph in one of them.

  “You can’t be serious? I just want to look at my family before I say anything else,” he said. His words sounded thin and sheepish. “It’s the count. What I’ve got on them, what I tried to muscle them with. The count. What’s coming in isn’t what’s going out.”

  “Count?” Steve said, repeating the words. “What does that mean?”

  “There’s too much raw stock—corn, sugar, you know, for the distillery—for the amount of whiskey they are selling. The White Bear tavern is a front to serve the college locals, a small operation that even has a boutique whiskey label. But the Bear is really a hub, a manufacturing hub, serving whiskey from Florida to Maine. Might even go as far west as the Mississippi.”

  “But I thought they had a license?” Steve interrupted. Jerry glanced up, surprised. “I mean, you helped get the license issued. They’re legal, right?”

  “That’s just for our state. Distillery licenses are like gold. Issuing them is like printing money, but only for the state they’re issued in,” Jerry countered. “The Bear has bikers picking up to distribute, to sell, and to bring the cash back from as far away as their tanks will carry them. The Bear is a moonshining machine and the bikers are the bootleggers.”

  “That’s all you have?” Steve asked. I heard the disappointment in his voice. “You’re talking about a few bottles of whiskey hidden in bikers’ saddlebags that may or may not have crossed the state line?”

  Jerry shook his head. “No, no, no!” he exclaimed, raising his voice. “Not just a couple of bottles. What would you think if I said a million dollars? And that’s tax-free too.”

  “A million a year . . .” Steve repeated, sitting up and browsing his notes.