Idyll Threats

by Stephanie Gayle

  The mug shook in his hand. His eyes darted away from mine.

  “In a couple months, your mother is going to call you from some shitty apartment in a crime-ridden neighborhood in Hartford, and when you ask how she’s doing, she’s going to tell you the truth. That she’s working three shifts to pay your lawyer’s bills. Because guess what, boyo? Chris Warren and his rich parents aren’t going to give you a dime. It would look awfully suspicious if they did.”

  “You don’t know anything.” He rocked forward on his chair.

  “I don’t know everything,” I said. “For instance, I don’t know why you agreed to suck Chris’s dick.” The mug fell to the floor. Cocoa soaked the carpet. The brown stain spread outward. “Frankly, he doesn’t seem like your type.”

  Luke knelt to pick up the mug.

  “Don’t worry. The janitors will get it.”

  He set the mug on the desk, his face paper white. “How did you—You can’t tell anyone!”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because! Because they’ll think I’m a faggot and then—” He broke off. Tears ran. Snot flowed from his nostrils like water from a tap. “How did you know? Did Chris tell you? He promised!” He ran his hand under his nose. I handed him a tissue. “Chris said he’d never, and that it wasn’t a big deal. Guys on the track team did it. Like an initiation.”

  I rather doubted that. “Why did Chris shoot her?” I asked.

  He wiped his nose. Snuffled. “I can’t believe he told. He said he’d never tell.”

  “Chris is not a boy to be trusted.”

  He balled the tissue. His wet face hardened. “That fuck.”

  “You know, he’s been setting you up for some time. He was talking smack about you at Idyll Days. Saying you got your criminal instincts from your father.”

  Luke raised his head to look at me. “That prick.”

  I looked at the ceiling and said, “Why did he shoot her?”

  He looked away from me, toward my plant. “I don’t know. She startled us. She yelled at us and jogged by. Chris started talking to himself. Something about how she shouldn’t be there. He had the gun. He pulled it up and shot. And she fell. But she was still moving, so he shot her again.” He swallowed convulsively.

  “And twice more?” I pictured Chris with the gun. Most likely shooting a corpse. But maybe not. She’d bled to death. That took time.

  He wiped at his eyes. “Yeah. Two more times. He kept saying, ‘Stupid bitch’ as he shot her. He was so angry. And then he got real quiet. He’s like that. He has a temper. And then it passes.” He looked at his hands. I remembered Chris at Idyll Days. Hitting the cat’s cage and then apologizing seconds later.

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes, but whatever he saw made them snap open again. “He grabbed something that she’d dropped. Some food thing. And he took a thing from her hair. I told him to stop touching her, but he wouldn’t listen. And then he said I had to get rid of the gun. He told me to dump it in Hought’s Pond. It’s deep, if you go out far enough.”

  “But you didn’t,” I said.

  He rubbed his arms. “The pond is miles away. I was scared. It was dark. I kept hearing noises. And I thought the cops would come any minute. The neighbors would call in the shots, and I’d be arrested. But no one came, so I just walked until I reached Baumer’s Pond, and I dropped the gun in. Chris had gone. He’d told me to keep my mouth shut and he’d take care of everything.” His knee went up and down, like a carousel horse.

  “Why’d you go back to the golf course a few days later? That wasn’t smart.”

  “Chris kept insisting. He told Tiffany and Kevin we were going to hold a séance. But I think he just wanted to go back; he was so happy he’d gotten away with it. I didn’t want to go.”

  “Why did you?”

  “He threatened to tell, about the sex stuff. He said I’d do as he said unless I wanted to be known as a cocksucker the rest of my life.”

  Because that was the world’s worst punishment. Being thought a faggot. I said, “Why didn’t you walk away that night when he suggested the sex?”

  His eyes got dark. He reached for the mug. Dropped his hand when he recalled it was empty. He radiated fear. A harsh, animal smell seeped out of his pores. “He had a gun in his hand. That whole time, on the golf course. When he was telling me it was no big deal.” He drew a shuddering breath. “He had the gun aimed at me. And I thought, if I don’t do what he says, he’ll shoot me.”

  So that’s why Luke had given in to Chris’s sexual demands. Because he’d had a gun pointed at him. And if he’d believed then that Chris would shoot him, why would he disbelieve any other threat Chris made?

  I set my hands flat on my desk. “Luke, you can’t say you killed her. You have to make a new statement.”

  “I can’t! He’s going to give my mom money so she doesn’t lose the house. And I’ll be out in a couple of years. I’m only fourteen.”

  “Luke, listen to me. I’m not going to charge you with a murder you didn’t commit. I’m going to nail Chris Warren, and you’re going to help.”

  “But he’ll tell,” he said. “About, you know.”

  “Yes, and he had a gun to your head. Now stop thinking like the two of you will be back at school together. You won’t. Ever. He’s going to prison. Adult prison. And if he ever gets out, he’ll be a very old man. Understand?”

  His eyes. He doubted me. He was still afraid of Chris Warren. Fear can enslave a person. It was time to set him free.

  “Listen, son. Chris had a gun, once. He used it to scare you. And he has a temper. But he’s locked up in a cell now. I have a gun, always. And I have a temper. I don’t shoot young women.” I stood up, at my full six foot four inches. “I shoot perps. So which of us do you think is the bigger threat?”

  His knee stopped moving. His eyes went to my holster. His eyes tracked upward to my unsmiling face. “You,” he said.

  “Bingo. Now let’s get your lawyer back in here.”

  0800 HOURS

  I stood outside Chris Warren’s cell, watching his chest rise and fall. Sunlight striped the foot of his cot. I knocked my Maglite against the cell bars and called out, “Good morning!” Next door, the drunk muttered, “Keep it down.” Chris sat up. I watched his face figure it out. Squinted eyes, open mouth, turned head to take it all in. He was still in a cell. No nightmare then.

  “Sleep well?” I asked.

  He grunted and looked at me. His face was puffy. His ginger hair stuck up in back. “Never better,” he said. His voice had gravel in it.

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve got good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?” I leaned against the opposite brick wall.

  He stared at me, face full of distrust. And a little curiosity. “The bad.”

  “Luke recanted his confession. Says you shot Cecilia North.”

  He rubbed his neck. “Right. I’m sure.”

  “I can’t quite figure you out,” I said. “Sexual sadists don’t always go on to murder. But I guess maybe you’re just a complicated guy.”

  He looked startled. One hand clutched the sheet. But he said nothing.

  “Piece of advice for the future. Don’t keep trophies and don’t trust anyone to keep your secrets. People are a constant disappointment.”

  His jaw clenched. “He wouldn’t talk to you.”

  “Sure he would. I’m the guy who can see that he doesn’t serve more than six months in the nicest of the juvie facilities.” An exaggeration, but a useful one. “You’re the guy who wants to send him away for years. And honestly, I don’t think he’s forgiven you for the blow job at gunpoint.”

  His mask fell. He no longer looked like Rick at all. His face was so hard, it was statuesque. “Luke!” he yelled. “Luke!”

  “Quiet down,” the drunk in the next cell said. “People are sleeping.”

  “He’s not here,” I said. I’d had Luke transferred to the juvenile facility a half hour ago.

/>   “Guess I’ll see him later.” A small smile appeared.

  “Nope,” I said, approaching his cell. Getting so close I could smell his cologne and sweat. Fear sweat. Good. “You won’t be seeing him ever again. At least, not until your trial.” I’d moved heaven and earth this morning to get the boys housed at separate facilities. I suspected I’d be paying this favor off for some time, but I didn’t care. “Do you want me to pass on a message to him?”

  He stood and walked toward me. Made himself as tall as he could. Good trick. He’d need that inside. He’d need a whole lot more, too. He was going to be competing against kids who’d grown up in slums, who’d been incarcerated multiple times. He’d be beaten badly within a week.

  “What’s the good news?” he asked.

  “Ah, right. The good news. Today is Tuesday. Taco Tuesday. Best day of the week, where you’re going.” I whistled a happy tune.

  Chris smacked his palms against the bars. “You think you’re so fucking smart!” He hit them again. A dull clang echoed. “I’ll get out of this. I will!” He smacked his hand again. The palm was red. He’d bruise himself if he didn’t stop.

  “Knock it off.”

  “Yeah!” called the drunk. “Shut up.”

  Chris dropped his hand and scowled at me. “This isn’t over,” he said. But his face told a different story. He knew he might not make it out. That this might be just a preview of coming attractions.

  I walked away, whistling.

  We’d regrouped in the pen and were staring at the board. Pictures of footprints hung alongside pictures of the corpse. Papers competed for space. A time line. The first page of the ballistics report. Photos of Luke and Chris. It was all there. The whole case.

  “You found her hair pin?” I asked Wright. “In Chris’s room?”

  “Tucked under his socks. Thought it was odd, so I bagged it.”

  “He took it from the body after he killed her,” I said.

  Finnegan tsk-tsked. “Don’t these kids watch TV? Never keep trophies.”

  Billy sat in the chair that had supported Revere’s flat ass. He nibbled his fingernails. “So Chris shot her and then he took a keepsake?” He squinted at Chris’s photo. “I taught that kid soccer. I don’t understand why he did it.”

  “She scared him. I’m not sure he meant to kill her with the first shot. But the other three?” I tapped the picture of Cecilia, face down on the grass. “He meant to kill her then.”

  “I’m just glad the sixteen-year-old shot her,” Wright said.

  “What about the Johnson kid?” Finnegan asked. “Only fourteen.”

  I planned to have words with the DA. “I’ll try to plea him down. He didn’t shoot her.”

  “Yeah, he only aided and abetted,” Wright said. “He admits he tossed the gun?”

  “Yeah. His good friend Chris told him to.”

  We stared at the board some more. Until I roused myself. “I’ll call the DA. Tell him about Luke’s new statement. Finnegan, you rattle the techs and see if those imprints of Chris’s sneakers are ready.”

  “Still can’t believe you tricked him into leaving fresh prints at the course,” Wright said. Was that admiration I heard?

  “Why didn’t he toss his sneakers?” Finnegan asked. “They nailed him. Without them, we’d still be staring at our navels.”

  Billy whistled low. “You know how much those things cost? New Air Jordans are almost one hundred fifty dollars. I’m guessing even Chris’s parents might get mad if he lost those shoes.”

  “Huh,” Wright said. “Well, thank you very much, Michael Jordan.”

  Only in movies do cops go home triumphant after they’ve solved a big case. Real cops sit at their desks, piled high with debris, and hunt and peck their way through reports. I had all the other business of being police chief I’d put on the back burner. Mrs. Dunsmore reminded me that I had a meeting with the selectmen next week to discuss the budget, and I needed to create that bicycle patrol I’d insisted Yankowitz would be on. But every hour or so, another man would stick his head in the door and say, “Good catch, Chief.” And that kept me going until I had to leave, and well past quitting time.

  When I woke the next day, everything felt different. More and less real, by turns. I looked around me and made a decision. After I’d had coffee, I drove to a stadium-sized Home Depot and filled a cart with supplies: a tarp, paint, rollers, putty knives, big sponges, and a million things I didn’t know the names for and wasn’t sure I needed but that the orange-aproned men who worked there insisted would “save me time and money in the long run.” Those men, with their easy confidence and scarred hands, were all about the long run.

  I started on the room with the sailing-ships wallpaper. It didn’t come off easy. I destroyed two putty knives prying the paper from the wall, cursing the idiot who’d applied the glue. But I had empty hours and the kind of loneliness that welcomes sore shoulders, tired arms, and a neck that cracks like a popcorn kernel after relentless manual labor. After a week of long evenings, I had a room with clean, white walls. When I’d removed the last of the adhesive, I thought about what it meant to hold on, too long.

  I unpacked the boxes in the sewing room and found some photos from the old days. John and me on vacation with our parents, the year they took us to the Grand Canyon. A few pics from my old precinct, clearly taken with work cameras. Rick and me mugging in front of an FBI poster, thumbs to our chest, indicating what? We’d caught the guy? We hadn’t. Or that we were the most wanted? The joke was forgotten to time. My smile was wide. I’d forgotten that face—that it belonged to me. And Rick. God. He looked like a baby, with his freckles and squinted eyes.

  I put the photo of Rick and me on the living-room mantel. Then I opened the gun safe. Metal winked at me. The key ring. I picked it up and sat in my recliner. The cool metal coil grew warm in my palm. I exhaled hard, the noise like a steam train.

  “Hey, Rick.” I looked at the metal ring as I spoke. The way some people talk to headstones. “I um…” I cleared my throat.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t get you help. I should’ve forced you into rehab. Should’ve applied the cuffs and dragged your scrawny ass there. Stood guard til you got clean. I really wish I had.” Would it have worked? Impossible to say, to know. “It’s been tough without you.” I closed my fingers over the key ring. “Really tough. You were the best partner I ever had. The best friend too.” The ring no longer felt cool, but the same temperature as my hand. I didn’t notice it unless I squeezed hard enough to feel the coils. I sat in the silence, holding the key ring, not squeezing it. Just letting it be. Just letting us be.

  I stared out the windshield at Suds. The bar was lit up and lively. Half the station celebrated inside. Earlier today, a judge had remanded Christopher Warren to Hartford Correctional Center. He’d stay there until he stood trial for second-degree murder. Cause for a party, or so the men had decided. “Come to Suds tonight, Chief! Drinks are on us.” How could I say no? I turned off the car. The engine ticked as it cooled.

  The noise inside Suds was at post–victory game levels. Mostly caused by my men, who’d gathered in a crush near the tables at the back. The locals stayed near the bar, watching the action. Finnegan came over and clapped my shoulder. “About time you got here. Billy’s competing against Wright in a free-throw contest.”

  “Using what?” I lifted my chin. Over the sea of uniforms, I saw someone had attached a laundry basket missing its bottom to the wall. Billy stood behind a row of chairs, a squishy ball in his hands.

  “This is going to get ugly,” I said.

  Finnegan laughed. “Get?” He drank from his glass.

  “Hi, Chief,” Nate called from behind the bar. I walked over to say hello. “Haven’t seen much of you,” he said. His dark eyes searched mine.

  “Been doing work on my house.”

  “Ah, a handyman. Drink?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve only just learned how to use pliers.” I held ou
t my nicked and scraped hand. “And how not to use them.”

  He slid my drink toward me. “You need help, let me know. I grew up helping my dad build houses.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded at the cops. “Never seen them so happy. Wish you’d warned me they were coming.”

  “Causing trouble?” I asked.

  “Nah. Just busier than expected. I had to call Donna in to help out. It’s her night off.” I scanned the room, fast. “She’s in the kitchen,” he said. “Want me to tell her you’re here?” He flashed me a big grin.

  I walked away. “How’s it going?” I asked Yankowitz when I reached the action.

  His eyes widened, and he made room for me. “Um, Wright’s winning, eight to six.”

  “Come on, Hoops!” Hopkins cried as Billy handled the ball.

  “You got money on this?” I asked Hopkins. Billy’s forehead was shiny. His lips wet. How many drinks had he consumed? And would they diminish or improve his aim?

  “Yeah, I bet ten bucks he’d lose,” Hopkins said. “That money is safe as houses.”

  Billy lifted the soft foam ball and tossed it at the makeshift hoop. It bounced off the wall and sank through the laundry basket. “How you like me now?” he shouted.

  “If he makes this one, it’s sudden death,” Yankowitz said.

  “Worried?” I asked Wright. He stood nearby. He’d removed his jacket and loosened his tie. His button-down shirt was untucked.

  “Nah,” he said. “He’ll choke.” He drank from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s never not choked.”

  Billy tossed the ball. It sank through the middle of the white plastic basket. A cheer went up from those who’d taken the long odds and bet on him. Finnegan took the ball from Billy and explained that a coin toss would decide who shot first. After that, the first man to miss a shot lost the competition.

  Billy called the coin. He chose heads. It came up tails. Wright told him to shoot first. Billy sank it. Wright bit his lip. “Lucky shot,” he muttered. He accepted the ball from Finnegan and got ready. There were calls of, “Don’t muff it!” and “Come on!”