The Trouble With Murder

by Catherine Nelson

  A moment later, a second head popped up in the stairwell. This one also wore a ski mask. I hadn’t heard a third moan from the saggy step.

  “You guys here to see me?”

  My words were like a starting gun at the races. Suddenly everything happened all at once. Figure Two, still on the stairs, swung around toward me, gun following. At the sight of my gun, Figure Two dropped back down out of sight. Figure One, in the living room, wheeled around. Catching sight of me, Figure One aimed. I switched on the light and hit him or her square in the face. Figure One groaned, eyes squeezing shut reflexively in the mask. But gun up, he or she fired anyway, blindly.

  I fell back behind the desk. Bullets whizzed overhead, landing in the wall and bookshelves behind me. I heard movement and knew Figure One was headed my way. I scampered forward on my belly, toward the hallway. By the direction and angle of the bullets, I knew Figure One was close.

  We made it to the hallway at the same time. Figure One wasn’t expecting me to be at his or her feet, and this was my only advantage. I rolled onto one side, the gun raised in front of me, and fired. Three quick shots. They struck the figure directly in the chest. The gun fell from the gloved hand and hit the floor. An instant later, the darkly clad body followed.

  The gunshots had drawn Pezzani; I heard his bedroom door open. Back on my feet, gun in front of me, I hurried backward.

  “What the hell—“

  I plowed into Pezzani then shoved him back toward his open door.

  Figure Two leaned around the stairs and fired off several shots. I fired back, and the figure quickly retreated behind the wall. But I heard a gasp. I’d hit him. Or her.

  We reached Pezzani’s room, and I dropped to one knee in the doorway. Keeping most of my body inside the room, I maintained my aim on the stairs around the doorjamb. I told Pezzani to call 911. Figure Two leaned around the corner once more. I was ready.

  I fired several shots quickly. Figure Two had no time to squeeze the trigger. He or she immediately withdrew behind the wall. Then I heard footsteps. An instant later, the door banged open.

  The second shooter was gone.

  I jumped up and hurried forward, one eye on the stairs and the other on Figure One in the hallway. When I reached the downed shooter, I squatted and picked up the gun, holding it in my left hand by the muzzle. I stepped over Figure One and crossed to the top of the stairs. They were empty, and the door was standing wide open. I hustled down and peeked out into the darkness, glancing around the parking lot. I got there just in time to see a pair of taillights pull around the corner and out of sight behind another building.

  I went back inside and flipped on the lights. I set the confiscated gun on the desk and went to the figure. Squatting, I pressed two fingers to the throat. No pulse. Relaxing slightly, I reached for the mask.

  Pezzani stepped out of his room and stood staring, somewhat dumbstruck, at the scene before him. I yanked the mask off and stared down at a face I didn’t recognize. The man was young, around my age, with short brown hair and good skin, of obvious Hispanic descent. His face was clean-shaven with only a day’s growth on his chin and cheeks. I wasn’t sure who I’d been hoping for, but I was disappointed to find this guy. I stood.

  “Did you call the police?”

  In answer, I heard the faint wail of a siren.

  “You should go down and open the door,” I said.

  I picked up the dead man’s gun and moved away from the body. Pezzani hesitated for a moment then moved toward the stairs, stepping around the dead man. He went to the door and pulled it open as the sirens stopped. The blue and red strobes were flashing through the windows, dancing on the walls in a way that was becoming more familiar by the day. I heard Pezzani talking and someone else responding.

  I ejected the magazine and emptied the chamber of my gun, then laid both at my feet. I stepped away from them, my hands visible in front of me. There was the voice of a second officer followed by footsteps and the jingling of equipment as somebody climbed the stairs. Officer Frye looked from the body in the hallway to me and then the guns at my feet in one quick glance.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding. “You step to the right and I’ll do the same.”

  Slowly, as if moving together in some kind of dance, I took one slow step after another. Frye matched my pace. Keeping his eyes on me, he picked up both weapons by the muzzles.

  “This one yours?” he asked, holding up the empty one.

  I nodded. “I didn’t want to touch the other one too much. It belonged to him. Or, at least, he brought it.” I inclined my head toward the dead guy.

  “Okay. You and I need to go outside now.”

  “Sure.”

  I preceded him out of the house, stepping around the body and descending the stairs. When we reached the front door, the EMTs were pulling bags of equipment out of the rig. I followed Frye’s directions and walked to the police car parked in front of the condo. The EMTs hurried inside. They were only inside for a couple minutes.

  Frye secured both weapons and began giving instructions to everyone else while I waited. I went to the front of the car and sat on the hood. Pezzani stood with another officer a couple cars away. As the conversation progressed, Pezzani began looking over the officer’s shoulder at me, his looks varying but equally dark. I was experiencing déjà vu. I’d been here before. I knew what happened next.

  The conversation concluded and Pezzani marched over. He was dressed in cotton pajama pants and nothing else, his chest and feet bare aside from the white bandages on his right side. His hair was mussed from sleep, and he was past a simple five o’clock shadow.

  “What the hell were you doing with a gun?” he demanded. His voice was intended to be a whisper but was far from it. The anger was obvious.

  “Protection,” I said. “Thank God I had it. There were two of them. We would have been sitting ducks.”

  “We?” he said, stabbing his chest with an index finger. “We? No, I don’t think so. You.”

  “Actually, it’s hard to know. The two times someone has tried to kill me recently, I’ve been with you. They could just as easily have been aiming for you.”

  “Recently? Is this a habit of yours?”

  “No. It’s been a long time.”

  “How could you shoot that guy?”

  “Well, he was shooting at me, so it was just a reflex really.”

  “He’s dead! You killed somebody. How can you do that? Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “It was actually easier this time. So, that’s sort of upsetting.”

  “This time? How many other times were there? How many people have you killed? What kind of person are you?”

  Then it was there, on his face. Disgust and horror. The same expression I see on everyone’s face when they find out what I’d done. I was probably just tired, but seeing it on Pezzani’s face now, the revulsion and fear and judgment, something in me snapped, and I was beyond pissed. I flew off the hood of the car, planting myself in front of Pezzani, pointing an angry index finger at him.

  “Don’t judge me! Don’t you dare judge me. What if I hadn’t had the gun? Did that ever cross your mind? What if we’d both been asleep and unarmed when they got here? We’d both be dead. Did it occur to you that I saved your life?”

  I saw a navy blue Charger pull up behind the ambulance.

  “This isn’t about me!” he shot back. “This is about you.”

  “It was self-defense! What was I supposed to do? Sit quietly and let the bastard kill me?”

  Ellmann wound his way through the emergency response vehicles, his eyes on Pezzani and me as our argument continued to escalate. We had also drawn the attention of several others nearby. I saw Frye and another uniformed officer hurrying toward us.

  “The cop said you’ve done this before,” Pezzani continued. “How many times? How many other people have you killed?”

  The cops reached us a few paces before Ellmann.

  “Hey, that’s enough,” Frye started.
/>   “How many times?” Pezzani demanded. “How many people have you killed?”

  “I had no choice,” I said. “And you’re welcome.”

  The second cop reached for me. “Come on, that’s enough.”

  I jerked my arm out of his grasp. “Leave me alone.”

  The cop reached for me again, but Ellmann stepped between us.

  “It’s all right, Parker. I’ll take it from here.”

  The officers nodded to Ellmann then shuffled back to their interviews.

  My eyes were still locked on Pezzani, daring him to ask me again how many people I’d killed, daring him again to accuse me of making the wrong choice.

  His disgust was battling his fear. Ultimately fear won.

  I felt a piece of my heart break, as it did every time.

  “All right, Joe,” Ellmann said gently but firmly as he clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Under Ellmann’s grip, Pezzani had no choice but to go where directed. Ellmann steered him to a police cruiser parked on the other side of the lot. After securing a babysitter, he returned to me. His face was hard and expressionless, typical for a cop, but his voice was soft.

  “Are you okay?”

  I was a breath away from tears. I knew if I opened my mouth I’d burst out crying. Instead, I simply nodded and leaned back against the car, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Ellmann stood with his hands in his pockets, studying me.

  “I’m going to go talk to the first on scene. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Again I nodded, and he was gone.

  I lifted myself back up onto the car and sniffed, wiping at my eyes. This was getting ridiculous. I thought about the money I still had in the bank and wondered if it wouldn’t be better spent on a trip to Brazil.

  15

  I stayed until an officer had taken my statement, asked me a thousand questions, and had me walk him through the chain of events three times. Then I repeated everything with Ellmann, who’d taken me inside for a real-life, hands-on version. I’d been fingerprinted and photographed and tested for gunpowder residue. Finally, I was permitted to pack my things and leave. Pezzani was long gone, and I overheard someone say he was staying with a friend. I had no idea where I was going to stay.

  Packed onto the scooter, I made my first destination my house, the crime scene. I hopped the fence and let myself in the same way I had that afternoon. I debated taking the whole lockbox but decided this was as good a place as any to keep the extra stuff, given my current degree of mobility. I took the Sig Saur 9mm and all the trimmings. It didn’t have the same brute-force stopping power as the .45, but I’d gotten a look at the dead man’s chest. If I could shoot that accurately next time, I wouldn’t need the brute force.

  Feeling slightly more secure, I climbed back onto the scooter and buzzed over to Best Western University Inn on College across from CSU campus. I managed to check in and find my room without incident. I used a fake name and paid cash. The clerk, a college-aged kid with his eye on the small TV under the counter the whole time, didn’t ask any questions. After I offloaded all essential items, I pushed the scooter into the room, parking it against the wall between the TV and the door. The scooter was too attention-grabbing and memorable to be parked in the lot all night long.

  The room was small but sufficient. There was a single queen-sized bed, a table with two chairs, and an impressively large bathroom with bathtub. I flipped on the TV and dialed up CMT and VH1, flipping back and forth at commercials, singing along with the songs I knew. I wanted the noise and the company.

  I sat at the table and cleaned the gun, then reloaded it. It had been even longer since I’d shot that particular gun, but the weight of it in my hand was familiar. I would make a trip to the shooting range tomorrow, but I felt confident in my ability to use it should the need arise between now and then.

  I cleaned up then thought about sleep. My ears were still ringing from the second round of gunfire, and I saw the whole thing replay every time I closed my eyes. When I had them open, all I could think about was the argument with Pezzani. I heard the accusations repeat in my mind and saw the disgust and judgment in his eyes. And the fear. I wasn’t sure which was worse, but the disgust hurt the most. It hurt even more than the rejection.

  TV long forgotten, I was well into wallowing in my troubles. I was feeling sorry for myself and almost completely hopeless. On top of that, I was confused. I really didn’t know who those shooters had been after either time. It could just as easily have been Pezzani. Even if I didn’t really believe that, it was a valid possibility.

  Now on my way to full-blown depression, I thought about a drink. I’m not a big drinker, but I thought a shot or two would help me feel differently about the current state of my life. The only thing causing me to hesitate was the fact that it wouldn’t help my thinking. If I’d been followed to the motel, or if anything else happened, I wouldn’t be operating at full capacity. That scared me.

  Miranda Lambert was singing about being the fastest girl in town when there was a knock at the door. When my heart kicked back into gear, my brain followed. I picked up the gun off the bedside table and crept to the door. It took a whole minute to work up the courage to stick my eye to the peephole. I was so relieved to see Ellmann, I could have fainted.

  I unlocked the door and held it open, the gun out of sight behind my back.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He was dressed in the same jeans and button-down shirt, but his hair was standing up in tufts around his head from where he’d dragged his hands through it, and he was holding a bottle of Jack Daniels and a case of Bud Light. I looked past him and spotted the Charger parked near the office.

  He held up the alcohol. “I need a drink after the past couple days, and I’ve just been showing up afterwards. I figured you could probably use one, too.”

  “How’d you find me? I didn’t tell you where I was going.” In fact, I’d specifically taken precautions so I couldn’t be found.

  “I’m a detective,” he said. “It’s my job to find people.”

  I just stared at him.

  “I had a friend run a trace on your cell phone. I called the front desk and asked the night clerk about a yellow scooter. He remembered the ‘old motorcycle.’ When I got here, I showed him my badge, and I may or may not have threatened him a little. He gave me your room number.”

  I stepped back, allowing him to pass. I didn’t think Ellmann presented a threat, and I very much doubted anyone who did had followed him. Ellmann seemed like he was a good cop, good enough to pick up on something like that. Plus, I thought a shot of that Jack would taste pretty good.

  He walked to the table and set everything down.

  “Smells like gun oil in here,” he said. “Don’t suppose that’s a gun behind your back.”

  “And if it is?”

  “I would suggest you keep one handy.”

  I dropped the gun to my side. “Seems like I need them.”

  He nodded. “It does.”

  I retrieved the glasses off the bathroom sink and carried them to the table, where I sat with my feet tucked up under me and the gun in front of me. Ellmann twisted the cap off the bottle and poured a generous amount into both glasses, then sat opposite me. We each picked up a glass, raised it toward the other, and drank. The amber liquid burned on the way down, and my eyes watered.

  Ellmann held the bottle to me again, but I shook my head. One was more than plenty. I was still scared I’d need to defend my life before sunrise. He set the bottle aside and pulled out a beer. I passed on that, too, so he cracked one open for himself and took a long pull.

  “You don’t just need a gun to defend yourself, though, do you?”

  I set my glass on the table. “It helps when the other person is shooting at you.”

  “I saw the security footage from the apartment building and the restaurant. You were prepared to physically confront the attackers both time
s. In the restaurant, it was deliberate; you stopped running, turned to face the gunman.”

  “He was out of bullets.”

  “It wasn’t just the adrenaline, was it? You’ve had training.”

  “Some.”

  “What kind of training have you had?”

  It seemed Ellmann wasn’t going to let the issue drop. And, really, I couldn’t see the harm in telling him. It was nothing illicit or scandalous, and he already knew more about me than most people. The time to keep information from Ellmann had been before he’d learned of the fatal self-defense part of my past.

  “My best friend Amy and I grew up together. The incident with my father, him . . . trying to kill me . . . well, it scared me. Terrified me, actually. Like with everything else, I turned to Amy.

  “She’d been studying martial arts for a long time. She’d always begged me to go with her, but I’d always had my hands full at home; keeping an eye on my brother was a full time job. Martial arts had given her a sense of control, a feeling of security. And after the thing with my father, I needed that. So she began teaching me, after school, on recess, on weekends. It helped. I started to feel less afraid all the time, less worried, more confident.

  “I began to drift away, devote less time to learning from her. When I was fourteen, there was . . . an incident. With a boy, someone I thought I could trust. I tried to defend myself using what I’d been taught, but it wasn’t enough. I’d been ashamed and angry. And the fear came back. So I went back to Amy. The lessons resumed. And after that, my commitment never wavered.

  “Amy has two black belts and will test for a third in a couple months. She’s won several championships. Obviously, she’s still involved in the art, still studies, and does a lot of teaching. Since I’ve only studied with her, I’ve never tested for a belt, but Amy assures me I could earn one if I ever want to.”

  Ellmann took a long pull on his beer then set it on the table. “The good news is, maybe I don’t have to worry about you quite as much as I thought.”