by Milk;Honey
Empty.
She went on to the laundry room right off of the kitchen. The washer and dryer were empty. She stood to the side and opened the broom closet.
Nothing.
But only for a moment.
In the abstract, she saw it all, the iron arcing down on her head. But it happened so fast, all she could do was ward off some of the impact and swear. She felt its weight crash into her forehead several times, felt herself go dizzy. A gush of blood streamed into her eyes.
“Shithead!” she screamed. She saw him race through the back door, heard the popping sound of gunshot. She staggered over to the back door, felt cool air fill her nostrils, but knew she was losing it. A moment later, Benko was helping her down.
“Chrissakes!” he was yelling. “Stay put, Detective.”
“Did they get him?” Marge cried out.
“Got away,” an officer told her. “He fired shots, Detective. They’re after him—”
“Get him, Charlie!” Marge was sobbing, holding her palms against her head. Blood was oozing from her fingers, seeping out of her hands. “Get the fucker!”
“Just as soon as help—”
“Go get the fucker!” Marge demanded through tears. The pain was searing through her head. “Now!”
Benko ran outside.
Officers on foot scouring the block. Above came the crackle of helicopter blades—a giant flashlight from above. Dawn was adding color to the pepper-tinted sky. People were milling outside their houses, covering pajama-clad bodies with worn terry-cloth bathrobes, feet stuffed into slippers. Unshaven men with messy hair looked confused, the women gossiped. The approaching wheeeee of an ambulance cut through the early morning air as shrilly as an alarm clock.
Benko scratched his head and wondered in what direction Miller had taken off.
“Sunnabitch,” he heard himself mutter.
A shriek came from his right. The front yard of the house next door. “Over here!” yelled one of the officers.
Benko charged in that direction. “Where?” he asked.
“In the bushes,” the officer said. He had his weapon drawn, but stood at a safe distance. “I thought I saw something move in the Eugenias.”
“Careful, he’s got a gun,” Benko said.
“I know that,” the uniformed officer said. His name tag said Van Horn.
Benko took a step forward, a big enough step to feel the wind of a bullet whiz by his temple. He hit the ground and swore. “It’s over, Miller!” he shouted.
“The fuck you think!” a gravelly voice shouted back.
“Charlie!” screamed a feminine voice. “Charlie, are you okay?”
Benko picked his head up, saw the outline run toward him.
“Dotty, get the fuck down!” he hollered. “He’s hidden in the bushes, and he’s got a gun.”
“You asshole!” Dotty stood, shrieking at the bushes.
Another pop of the revolver.
Benko cursed as he crawled toward her, tried to yank her down, but she pulled away.
“You fucking son of a bitch, bastard asshole!” Dotty jackrabbited forward, diving into the shrubbery.
“Nooooo!” Benko screamed, running after her.
Leaves burst into the overcast air, a cloud of foliage, as if someone had punched a hole into a feather pillow. Another pop, followed by high-pitched shrieks.
“Dotty!” Benko shouted.
“Son of a bitch!” Dotty screamed. “I’ll kill you!”
A cluster of men volleyed into the shrubbery, bodies piling on top of one another. Benko felt some arms flail on his chest. Grabbing the limbs, he pulled them upward, saw what he’d fished out and grinned.
Grand-slam homer.
Miller struggling in his arms. Unshaven, his top dental plate out, his front teeth missing. His lip and forehead were cut, and his hands were empty. Bastard was a wiry thing, all sinews and tendons, wearing a pair of jockeys and nothing else. He seemed strong enough, but his eyes were terrified at the sight of Dotty.
“Keep her offa me,” he pleaded to Benko.
Dotty sprang up, knee-dropped her ex, then battered him several times across the head with her purse. “Bastard! Fucking bastard!” She punctuated every syllable with a swing of her handbag. “What you put me through!” She kicked Miller in the shins, then kicked him in the scrotum.
Miller doubled over and sobbed. “Get her offa me! Pl-ease!” His nose had opened up and was spouting blood.
She kicked him in the testicles a third time. Miller threw up. Van Horn pulled Dotty away from her ex, another cop took Miller off Benko’s hands.
“Bastard!” she panted.
“You got him good, ma’am,” Van Horn said, trying to restrain her. “Just settle down now.”
“Bastard, bastard, bastard!” Dotty cried.
Benko took her from Van Horn, held her tightly in his arms. “We got him, Dotty,” he cooed. “We got him, and we got Heather. Let’s all go home now.”
“Bastard!” she sobbed.
“It’s over,” Benko said.
She buried herself in Benko’s arms and cried.
Benko said, “Dotty, you shouldn’t have gone after him like that. He had a gun.”
“I know,” she said. “But Doug was always a lousy shot. Never could do anything right.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Benko saw a stretcher being loaded into the ambulance. “Wait here a minute, Dotty. I gotta do something.”
But she followed him to the ambulance anyway. Benko found Marge lying on the gurney, an attendant wrapping a bandage around her forehead.
“You okay?” Benko asked Marge.
“I’ve been better,” Marge whispered.
“Did that bastard do that to you?” Dotty said. “I shoulda killed him, Charlie. I shoulda picked up his gun and killed him.”
Benko took Dotty’s hand and squeezed it. To Marge, he said, “You’re one tough lady, know that?”
Marge thought, I don’t feel so tough right now. She was enveloped in pain, dizzy, sick, shaky, and more than a little scared. “Do me a favor, will you, Charlie?”
“Anything.”
“Call up the station. Talk to Sergeant Decker,” Marge said. “Tell him…I can’t interview Pappy D. He’ll know…what I mean.”
“Sure, honey,” Benko said. “Whatever you say.”
“Don’t tell him why.” Marge felt the contents of her stomach about to come up. “Don’t want to worry…anyone.”
“Okay,” Benko answered.
But Marge knew he’d tell Decker why. Knowing Pete, he’d probably reach the hospital when she did. The thought made her feel a tiny bit better.
Marge opened her eyes, felt tubes running through her nose, things plastered onto her head. She was hooked up to machines, one of them beeping. Everything was out of focus.
But a wonderful familiar voice said, “What some people won’t do to get a day off.”
Marge didn’t answer. Her head throbbed, her eyes held flashes of blinding light. Pete sounded like an echo. She lay back on her pillow and mumbled, “What do…I look like?”
“Beautiful,” Decker said.
“Liar.”
“You look alive. That’s the only way you need to look right now.”
“Feel like shit.”
“I don’t doubt that you do,” Decker said. “You need anything? Something for the pain?”
Marge muttered no. She realized Decker was holding her hand, clasping it with both of his hands. God, for him to do that, she must look like death warmed over. She tried to zero in on his face. Two Deckers. Both of them looking worried as hell. Gotta reassure him, she thought. She croaked out, “Benko give you…my message…about Pappy D?”
Decker sighed. “Yes, he did. It’s all taken care of. Forget about work.”
A hammer was banging in her head. “Pete…Sue Beth sounded…hinky.”
“Shhhh.”
“Know…what I mean?”
Decker looked at her with newfound admiration
, The woman doesn’t give up. Like him. “You want me to ask Sue Beth if she remembers seeing her mother and brother at the convention when she arrived?”
Marge nodded. “Press her…Pappy D…when you do the interview.”
Decker said yes, then discreetly pressed the nurse call button. But Marge caught it.
“Look that bad?”
“A little pale, that’s all,” Decker said.
A young Filipino nurse came in a moment later, studied her EEG readouts. “She okay,” she announced to Decker.
“Sure, I’m…fine,” Marge said. If a thousand hot pokers impaling your eyes meant fine, she was fine.
“You need something for the pain, Margie?”
The nurse said, “She not due for another dose until—”
“I don’t give a fuck when she’s due!” Decker exploded. “She’s in pain! Get her out of pain, for chrissakes!”
Marge gave him a lopsided smile. She whispered, “Go…talk…Pappy D. Get out…my face.”
The nurse smiled. “You heard her! Out!”
“Go.” Marge gave Decker a light slap. “Now.”
Decker didn’t move.
“Go…please,” Marge said.
Decker stood up. He said, “I’ll be back in an hour, Marjorie. Like it or not.”
Marge whispered, “Sure.”
He left. She was glad. She didn’t want him to see her cry.
Hollander grabbed Decker as soon as he stepped into the squad room.
“First, how is she?” Hollander asked.
“Messed up, but she’ll be okay,” Decker said. “Fucker cracked her skull. Doctor was amazed it didn’t do her in, but thank God it didn’t. They’re monitoring her for pressure on the brain. But the doctor doesn’t think she’ll have any permanent damage except maybe the left corner of her head will be slightly caved in. So she’ll change her hairdo.”
“Bastard,” Hollander said. “We put Miller with some real hard cases. Three Bee’ers—big, black, and been there before. Miller’s got a nice tush. Ten-to-one his asshole’s gonna be yawning before the day is through.”
“It’s not enough,” Decker said.
“True, but it’ll have to do for the time being,” Hollander said. “Second, we got somebody waiting in one of the interview rooms. They wanted Marge, but told me you’ll do if she’s not around.”
“Who?”
“Sue Beth Litton is there with her brother, Earl.”
“What?”
“Seems Earl has a confession to make,” Hollander said. “He’s been Mirandized and everything. Don’t want a lawyer, no, no, no. He and Sis are just waiting for you to put it all down in writing.”
Decker stared at him. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Marge asked Sue Beth if she remembers her mother and brother being up there when she arrived,” Decker said. “Now, suddenly, Earl, the retarded brother, mind you, has something to tell us.”
Neither one spoke for a moment.
“Something stinks,” Decker said.
“To high heaven,” Hollander added.
24
The interview room was an 8' × 8' box toplit by two rows of fluorescent tubing. The acoustical wall tiles had recently been painted pale yellow and gave off an unhealthy glow under the harsh light. Through the door window, Decker could see Sue Beth sitting at the far end of the room, her eyes fixed upon her hands clasped and resting on the metal tabletop. Even though she’d donned a simple cotton dress, she’d made some attempt to doll up—eyeshadow, lipstick, hair curled. The makeup job seemed overdone. A silver charm bracelet dangled from her right wrist. Earl was positioned on her left side.
Though Decker knew Earl was twenty-five, it was hard to believe this male a man. His head was small for his soft body, his face round, with rosy cheeks. His eyes were coffee beans, close-set and filled with childlike fear—a boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. His nose was flat, his chin held an extra layer of flab—not exactly a double chin, more like baby fat that never went away. His mouth was open—he seemed to be breathing through it—his teeth were yellow and small. A moment later, small, stubby fingers wiped his low-set brow. The only hint of his age was meager stubble over and under thick red lips.
Smoothing his mustache, Decker observed them for a moment, waited to see if they interacted at all. They didn’t. Decker entered the room, closed the door, and took a chair opposite Sue Beth and Earl. The cell was hot and humid and gave off a faint turpentine smell.
Decker pulled out a notebook and said, “Hello, Sue Beth.”
She managed a nervous smile.
Decker’s eyes shifted from her face to Earl’s. He looked at him for a moment, then said, “Hello, Earl.”
Earl looked down.
Sue Beth said, “Earl, answer the policeman.”
“Hullo, Mister Policeman,” he said. “How are you?”
“Don’t get fresh,” Sue Beth said.
“It’s okay,” Decker told her. “I’m fine, thank you, Earl.” To Sue Beth, he said, “Detective Dunn is unavailable today. But Detective Hollander said you’d be willing to talk to me.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“Detective Hollander also informed me that you’ve been advised of your rights, you understand them, and wish to have them waived. You signed a card to that effect, are you aware of that?”
“Yes.”
“You also have declined the presence of an attorney.”
“Yes.”
“Sue Beth,” Decker said, “I’ve requested an attorney be present for your questioning—”
“We don’t need no lawyer,” Sue Beth said. “My pappy was sure on that. No lawyers. Just let Earl tell the police what happened and get it over with.”
“It’s not that simple,” Decker said.
“Well, why isn’t it?” Sue Beth said. She seemed flustered.
Decker chose his words. “Earl can’t waive his rights like you or I can because legally he’s not considered a responsible adult.”
“I’m responsible for him,” Sue Beth said. “Have been for the last six years, when my mama got tired of seeing to his needs.”
“You may see to his needs, but you may not be legally responsible for him.”
“Doggone it!” Sue Beth blurted out. “I wanna do the Christian thing, and so does Earl. My baby brother wants to cleanse his soul and confess his sins, and you don’t want to hear him.”
“It’s not that at all—”
“What in tarnation is wrong with this world?” Sue Beth ranted. Her made-up cheeks had gone from blush to bright red. “I thought that’s what the police does. Listen to confessions.”
Police and priests, Decker thought. “A lawyer should be with us momentarily. He’ll advise us—”
“How long is momentarily?” Sue Beth said. “I’m not gonna wait here forever.”
Decker saw a mulish streak in her eye. What she couldn’t change with action, she’d impede with stubbornness. “Not too long, Sue Beth. Just hang on a second. Would you like something to drink in the meantime, a cup of coffee or tea or juice—”
“I like juice,” Earl said.
“Don’t be bratty, Earl,” Sue Beth said. “Ask nicely.”
Earl lowered his head and asked, “May I have juice, please?”
“Look at him when you talk,” Sue Beth said.
Earl made eye contact with Decker and repeated the request. Decker said sure, and held himself back from tousling the grown-up boy’s hair. As soon as Decker was out of the interview room, Hollander came up to him.
“I’ve contacted the PD’s office,” he said. “Someone should be over within a half hour.”
“Couldn’t get anyone sooner?”
“Half hour’s the norm, Pete.”
“Yeah,” Decker said. “I know. I just don’t want them to walk.”
“Then take the confession,” Hollander said.
“And have the whole thing tossed because the kid didn’t k
now what he was signing?”
“But she supposedly knew what she was signing.”
“But we don’t know if she’s legally responsible for the kid.”
Hollander said. “The confession’s probably BS anyway. Take what you can get.”
“I will, if it comes to that,” Decker said. “But if I can make it kosher, all the better. If there’s any trace of truth in the kid’s spiel, I don’t want some asshole judge throwing all of it out on a technicality.”
“You should be able to guard against that, Esquire.”
“Nuh-uh,” Decker said. “I start thinking I can do it all, I fuck up.”
Hollander peered at Sue Beth through the window. “Our lady’s gettin’ antsy. You’d better think of something to keep her interest from flagging.”
Decker said, “There’s always your tap-dance routine.”
Hollander laughed.
“Give Sue Beth more papers to fill out,” Decker said. “That should buy us some time.”
“What kind of papers? She filled out everything they had to.”
“I don’t know,” Decker said. “Give her our health histories forms…and the car registrations triplicates. Anything that’ll keep her occupied. I’ll go get them refreshments.”
“Righto.”
Fifteen minutes later, Sue Beth had a hand cramp and was ready to walk out. Decker was just about to take Earl’s “confession” when Hollander opened the door.
“Counselor’s here, Sergeant.”
Decker inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He assured Sue Beth that they’d be ready any second now.
He left the room, waved hello to Louis Nixon, an old-timer. Twenty years in the Public Defender’s Office, yet the guy was as mellow as fine wine. Nixon was a bespectacled, coffee-colored man of fifty, with a glint in his dark eyes, and a wide smile for any dirty joke. Over the years, coiled threads of silver had weaved into his close-cropped Afro.
Hollander said, “If I’m not needed, folks, I think I’ll go down to the hospital.”
“Let me know what’s going on,” Decker said.
“You bet.”