Desert Remains

by Steven Cooper

  As soon as Gus steps in the shower he realizes that Alex Mills will not solve these murders. The second the blast of water hits his face he knows it will be Timothy Chase. Timothy Chase will find the killer. He stands there soaking it in. He stands there inundated with certainty. He lathers up and wonders, frets really, if or when he should tell Mills the truth. He doesn’t know if it will make a difference. Mills won’t want to hear it. Mills will just try harder to change destiny when destiny can’t be changed. Gus saw it in the profile of Timothy Chase as the detective drove him home; he saw a man with a homing device fixing in on the killer. Rinsing off, he’s troubled. Mills is going to lose the case. Should Gus warn him?

  He feeds Ivy, who solicitously wags her tail, and he feeds himself. Beatrice calls.

  “I just want to say I’m sorry again for leaving you up there all by yourself.”

  He tells her not to worry.

  “I saw choppers coming in as I was heading out.”

  “Yeah, the news,” he tells her.

  “What happened up there?” she asks, the scales of her voice rising.

  “It’ll be on the ten o’clock news. Watch.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he tells her.

  “What’s wrong? I can tell something’s wrong, Gus.”

  “I can’t put it into words.” And he can’t. He has a scramble of stimuli coming at him, and yet he regards it the way most people regard a pile of laundry or a sink full of dishes, a sort of default to ambivalence. “I’ll make you dinner tomorrow night. Come over.”

  At ten o’clock Gus turns on the news. Tonight it’s an anchorman named Doug Duggard with the breathless details of the Squaw Peak and Camelback murders. “Is there a serial killer in the valley?” he asks an audience who can’t answer. His eyes jolt and chin dips. “Let’s go to Mary Raney who joins us live from Camelback. Mary?”

  Mary Raney grips her microphone and gestures with her free hand to the dark mountain behind her. “This is not the side of Camelback popular to tourists. And yet this is where the body of a tourist was found today by authorities. That, after another gruesome discovery at Piestewa Peak, more commonly known to Valley residents as Squaw Peak. Just hours ago Sergeant Jacob Woods of the Phoenix Police Department held a press conference where he would not rule out a connection between the murders. Let’s listen in.”

  The press conference appears on-screen, washed in twilight and rinsed with caution. “I’m not going to speculate,” the sergeant tells the media. “But some evidence does suggest the crimes are connected.”

  “What kind of evidence?” a reporter shouts out. “Did the victims know each other? Was it a HazMat situation at Squaw Peak? Hazmat suits were spotted by the chopper.”

  “I can’t comment on evidence,” the sergeant replies. “To our knowledge the victims did not know one another, but that is not conclusive at this point. There was a possibility of contamination at the Squaw Peak investigation.”

  “Is Mills leading this investigation?” another reporter asks. “We heard scanner chatter that it’s Mills who was contaminated. What’s his condition?”

  “Detective Alex Mills is currently leading the investigation,” Woods tells them. (Gus notes the word “currently”). “He was removed from the scene due to possible contamination with the remains at the crime scene. His condition is fine. He’s standing behind me now.”

  Gus smiles. Indeed, Alex Mills is standing back there alongside a few officers, offering that official frame of law enforcement around the sergeant.

  Suddenly there are rapid-fire questions from several reporters, all of them jockeying for attention as if it’s some kind of competition, which it is, Gus realizes. But for what? Who can ask the most probing question? Or who can yell the loudest? The sergeant raises his hands and says, “Look, people, I’ll take your questions. Just one at a time.”

  And then he calls on the next reporter.

  “Do we have a serial killer on our hands, Sergeant? Any leads? Are you tying this to the murder of Elizabeth Spears at South Mountain, as well?”

  “These murders may be the work of one killer,” Woods says. “But we have not defined these yet as ‘serial crimes.’ I’m not going to discuss leads right now. We are gathering evidence. But we won’t be commenting on the evidence at this time. Next?”

  “How are the murders similar? Same murder weapon? Same MO?”

  “We believe the same type of murder weapon was used, a knife. All the victims seemed to have died from stab wounds,” the sergeant, blatantly fatigued, explains. “That is, of course, pending autopsy reports. If we knew for sure it was the same knife involved we would assume this to be the work of one killer. I’m not going to speak to motive. It’s too early in the investigation.”

  “Will you be reopening South Mountain Park and the Peak?”

  “I’ll be meeting with the leaders of Phoenix and Maricopa County tomorrow to discuss the possibility of reopening those areas,” Woods replies. His voice is getting edgier. “Though, the crime scenes will remain sealed.”

  “Will Detective Mills be taking questions tonight?” inquires still another reporter.

  “No.”

  Then the same reporter dives in before anyone else can spit out a word and asks, “Will Detective Mills be making a statement about the arrest of his son?”

  Woods, even edgier, says, “That’s unrelated to this case.”

  “Unless it distracts the detective from this case,” the reporter persists.

  “Was that a question?” Woods asks the group, the anger in his voice now unabashed. “I didn’t hear a question, so if there are no more questions . . .”

  “What did the bodies look like?”

  “Thank you all for coming. That will be all for tonight.”

  Mary Raney reappears on camera. (Gus had forgotten all about her!) Her hair is wispy in the light desert wind. Her lips are juicy and seductive. “And so, more questions than answers tonight in a series of killings that have stunned the residents of the valley. We’ll be following this case every step of the way, and we’ll update you as warranted.”

  “That is kind of your job, Mary,” Gus says to the TV.

  But he is interrupted by Doug Duggard who asks Mary, “Do residents of the valley have any reason to fear, Mary?”

  She sucks in her cheeks and gazes into the lens like a soap opera ingénue into the eyes of her lover. “There’s a killer on the loose, Doug. I’m sure people won’t be resting easy until the killer is caught.”

  “Mary Raney reporting live tonight from Camelback Mountain. Thank you, Mary.”

  Thank you? Gus wonders. For doing her job?

  “And in other news,” Duggard chants, “a ninety-two-year-old woman is in stable condition after driving her car into a Chick-Fil-A.”

  Gus Parker lifts the remote and extinguishes the evening news.

  One of Kelly’s partners, Michael Susso, a youngish attorney with long legs and a short torso, will represent Trevor Mills. Susso is wearing an impeccable suit and a smile that just won’t quit for a Monday morning. They’re sitting in a conference room on the second floor of the courthouse. “Thanks for taking the morning off,” he says to Mills.

  Mills bristles. “Well, of course I did. You’d think I wouldn’t be here?”

  “Oh, no, Alex,” Susso says. “It’s just I assume you’re up to your eyes with the cave murders.”

  “Even still . . .”

  “I mean it’s all over the news,” the attorney says.

  Mills had seen the morning paper.

  POLICE FIND TWO MORE BODIES IN MOUNTAIN CAVES

  That was the headline. There were two other related stories, one below the fold and another taunting one on page three:

  THREE DAYS, THREE MURDERS, NO LEADS

  Mills rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m here. Aren’t I? Family is more important right now.”

  Trevor releases a snarky laugh.

  Mills glares at his son.
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  They’ll enter a plea of not guilty, but Mills would like to sentence his kid right now to ten years of hard labor.

  “The DA is offering a deal,” Susso tells them. “It’s a first offense, so he has a lot of latitude.”

  “We’ll take the deal,” Mills says.

  “Well, wait, Alex,” Susso tells him. “Let me explain. He’ll wipe out some of the charges altogether if Trevor names names.”

  Mills looks to his son who is seated across from him. Trevor doesn’t move. His face is frozen; his eyes are fixed on the opposite wall.

  “Trevor has already told us that he won’t name names,” Kelly says.

  Mills leans forward. “Yeah, that’s what my son says. But that’s not what we decided.”

  “Well, he’s looking at two and a half years in juvenile corrections,” Susso tells them. “Possession with intent to sell. I mean, it was almost two pounds of pot.”

  Mills bolts out of his chair. “We know.”

  “Plus an extra year for selling in a drug-free school zone,” the attorney adds.

  “You sold pot to a cop in a school zone?” Mills asks his son. Then he puts his head against the wall and knocks his head gently. “I don’t believe this,” he whispers.

  “Honey, sit down,” his wife begs.

  Mills will not be mollified. He circles the room. Prowling.

  “The state suspects that your son was selling the drugs for someone else. Someone higher up,” Susso explains, still with that irritating smile.

  “Obviously,” Mills says aloud, then to his son, “Do you realize the complete fuckup shitpile of trouble you’re in?”

  “Honestly, Dad, I do.”

  Surprised, Mills backs off. That was the first lucid statement from Trevor in two days.

  “You’ll be in a whole lot less trouble,” Kelly says to the child, “if you tell us who gave you the pot. Who were you selling the drugs for?”

  Trevor lowers his head. “Mom, I could get killed for saying anything.”

  “Killed?” Kelly begs, panic in her voice. “You never said anything about that.”

  “Now you know,” the boy says.

  “Did someone threaten you?” Mills asks. “You absolutely have to tell us.”

  “It’s just something I heard after practice, that’s all.”

  “Wait a minute, Trevor. You went to practice yesterday?” Mills asks his son. “I told you no more practice. You’re off the team.” And then, “Kelly?”

  “I thought he was going to tell the coach,” she says. “You could have gone with him if it were so important.”

  “Look, folks,” Susso interjects.

  “No, wait a minute,” Mills insists. “Let me make it clear. Trevor is off the team, and, yeah, I’ll go to school with him, tell the coach myself if I have to. ’Cause it’s that important.”

  Trevor looks up. “Either way. On the team or off the team, I’m not saying anything. I swear they’ll kill me. And even you,” he says to his parents.

  Mills scoffs at his son. “Seriously? Your dad’s a cop; your mom’s an attorney. No one’s going to touch you, boy. You think you’re working for the mob, or something?”

  “Something,” his son mutters.

  “We can work out some kind of protection for Trevor if he gives us the full scope,” the attorney tells them.

  Trevor pounds a fist on the table. “No,” he rages. “No. I’m not going to sign anyone’s death warrant.”

  Mills sidles to his son. Leans his face close to Trevor’s. “Knock off the melodrama, Trevor. You’re not signing anyone’s death warrant. Michael’s going to enter a plea of not guilty for you this morning. Then we’ll have a discussion with the DA. That’s how it’s going to be. If anyone is going to lock you up for twenty years it’s going to be me, not that fat-ass fuck Maricopa County sheriff. You get that, son? Your mother and I are going to help you get your life back because otherwise your life is never going to be the same again. Never. You can kiss all you ever wanted good-bye.”

  Trevor’s face reddens and twists. He is a boy, an infant, a baby, and everything out there in the world frightens him. He is ashamed, and yet he is too young to modify his behavior. He is too young. And Alex Mills sees in his son’s watery eyes an innocence he had all but forgotten, an innocence that betrays Trevor’s affectations. Trevor is nodding repeatedly. His heavy foot beats on the floor.

  “I got the drugs from a few guys on the team,” he says.

  “Thank you, honey,” his mother says.

  “Can you tell us who those guys are?” Susso asks.

  “Yes. I can,” Trevor replies. “But that’s really it. I don’t really know who we were selling the stuff for.”

  Alex sits and sighs. “That’s a start,” he tells the others in the room. “But I have a feeling that we’re not hearing the complete truth.”

  “What, Dad?”

  “How do you not know who you’re selling this stuff for?”

  “Because I’m smart enough not to ask,” the kid says. “These players get it, distribute. And we sell.”

  There’s a knock at the door. It’s a clerk. Trevor’s case is up next.

  “The arraignment will take five minutes,” Kelly tells her son.

  “I’m calling the department,” Mills says. “I think the narcs will want to pay a visit to the high school.”

  “Leave it to the DA,” his wife says. “She may want her guys on this.”

  How fucking embarrassing. Not just for him, or for Kelly, but for the legacy of Lyle Mills. For the first time ever he hears himself say, “I’m glad my dad is not alive.”

  “Talk to the DA,” Kelly insists.

  He nods.

  It was a routine day of mammograms.

  The women were pleasant. Except for Candy Harperfin who insisted that a woman administer the procedure. “How could I let a man handle my breasts?” she screamed at the receptionist after bolting from the exam room clad only in a crispy blue johnny. Even after Candy Harperfin was pacified and a female tech was freed from another pair of breasts to take over for Gus, the patient continued to rant and rave about the sanctity of a woman’s breast. “A woman! I’m a woman! I have control over my own body! This is not a man’s domain!”

  Gus just shook his head and smiled cordially. Then he went to finish the mammogram that his colleague had been forced to abandon. Mrs. Campbell was very understanding. In the midst of the exam, Gus did observe strange objects floating in Mrs. Campbell’s breasts. He studied the images closer. What were those things? Footballs? It’s not like he could ask.

  Gus finished the exam, and now three unprotested mammograms later he’s home and cooking dinner for Beatrice. She arrives around seven o’clock and offers to take Ivy for a walk while Gus grills the salmon.

  “Yeah, sure,” he tells her. “She loves you.”

  Which is obvious. Ivy greets Beatrice Vossenheimer ecstatically, leaping, barking, and drooling. The dog buries her face into Beatrice’s chest. The two leave for a neighborhood walk. Gus is food prepping for about ten minutes when the phone rings. It’s Gary Potter.

  “Do you have any time available tomorrow or Wednesday?”

  “I think so,” Gus tells his client. “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Just great. But I’d like to ask some questions about something new.”

  “Sure,” Gus says. “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock.”

  “Thanks, man,” Potter says.

  The salmon sizzles, and Beatrice returns. Gus delivers the meal to the table. They sit quietly for a few seconds. Beatrice smiles at him relentlessly. She won’t turn away. She just holds him there in her loving gaze.

  “I know something’s troubling you,” she says finally. “I could tell last night.”

  Gus shrinks into his chair, acquiescing. “I owe you an apology,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “For making you witness my huge embarrassment,” he says.

  “What embarrassment?” She slips
out of her shoes. She always slips out of her shoes.

  “White or red?” he asks.

  “Red,” she replies. “Merlot if you have it.”

  “I do,” he tells her. “The embarrassment of watching a total psychic screw up.”

  He pours the wine. “I don’t follow,” Beatrice says.

  “Beatrice, really, I fucked up. We were all operating on the assumption that the murder I saw in real time was the murder at Squaw Peak. But that body’s been there for days, maybe longer than a week. The murder I saw was actually the one at Camelback. I’m sure of it.”

  Beatrice offers a sympathetic smile. “Oh, my dear, this is really bothering you.”

  “Well, yeah, I’ve been beating myself up about it all day. I’m surprised all this worry didn’t interfere with my work.”

  “Because it’s insignificant.”

  “Not to me. I actually got two murders mixed up.”

  “No,” she says, reaching out to him. “You got two murders misplaced. But then you found them.”

  She takes his hand and squeezes.

  “And what’s all this nonsense with ‘real time’?” she asks. “Your generation is so hung up on live feeds and streaming video and getting all your information in real time that you have distorted the very essence of time altogether.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Have you ever heard of such a thing as fake time?”

  Gus laughs. “Well, of course not.”

  “Because there is no such thing as real time or fake time. There is only time. And if you try to base your senses on real time, or if you try to place your visions in real time, you’re only going to throw yourself off. It’s unnatural,” she proclaims. “Now let’s say we put on some good music, eat dinner, and talk afterward. Let’s just eat to the music. Let the music be the conversation.”

  Gus smiles at her fascinating eyes, at her mystery. The kitchen is open to the entertainment room, so all he has to do is step to the couch and grab the remote. “Classical okay?”

  “Perfect,” she says. “The instruments actually talk to each other.”

  He playfully rolls his eyes. Beatrice chuckles, and Gus shakes his head.