In the Fog

by Andrew J Brandt

  “Besides,” Craig said, “the best thing we can do is stay inside. We won’t make trouble, just pass the time until someone tells us what’s going on.”

  “Look guys, I just put Benjamin down for a nap and—” he started, but Craig cut him off.

  “Grant, my man. Ollie. C’mon. Look, we’re all kind of freaked out about what’s going on. Let’s just make the best of it, know what I mean?” Craig prodded.

  Grant sighed. “Alright, but keep it down. I don’t want to wake up the kid.”

  “Don’t worry,” Craig said as the three men walked inside past Grant and the open door.

  They all went toward the garage and Grant flipped on the lights. He’d converted the garage into a kind of mancave over the last few years, adding a television, foosball table and kegerator. University of Texas decor and memorabilia hung on the walls. An old jukebox, an anniversary gift from Christine that she’d restored, sat in the corner, the neon lights around the thing lighting up. During football season, he and his buddies would hang out on a Saturday afternoon and cheer on the Longhorns. “I’m probably going to take it easy guys,” he said. “My head is still pounding from last night.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Benny said. “I’ve had the hangover from hell all day!” He took a big swig from his beer and belched. “But you know, if you keep drinking, you won’t get a hangover.”

  Grant and Benny watched as Craig and the third man, one of the service technicians that Grant barely knew, started playing foosball, spinning the rods and knocking the ball back and forth. As they were preoccupied with the game, Grant leaned in and asked quietly, “Hey, listen, I don’t remember much from last night,” he said. “Did we go straight to Craig’s from the bar?”

  Benny took another long swig from his beer and crushed the can in his fist when he finished it off. He threw the crumpled aluminum toward the trash can in the corner next to the jukebox. It bounced off the rim and hit the ground.

  “I never was good at basketball,” Benny said. “Last night? Yeah. We shut down Mulligan’s and went to Craig’s. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just trying to put the pieces together from last night,” Grant said. “I don’t feel like I drank that much, but I guess I blacked out.”

  “Well, you were too busy dancing with Christine’s sister. She’s a fine piece, man, no lie,” Benny said. He held out his fist and Grant instinctively gave it a bump with his own.

  Grant gulped.

  Hearing the conversation from across the room, Craig said, “Y’all talking about Catherine? Yeah man, she was all over you last night. She must be wanting to see what her sister is getting.” He made a motion, rocking his pelvis back and forth against the foosball table.

  Grant hid his disgust. Of course Catherine was attractive, and she caught the eye of all the men around. But now all he could see in his mind was her lifeless body, face down on the mattress, the red rash around her neck where she’d been strangled.

  “She isn’t like that,” Grant said. “We were just goofing around.”

  Craig spun one of the rods, knocking the ball through the goal. He clapped to his own victory and took a pull from the whiskey bottle. “I was sure you were going home with her last night,” Craig said. “For a little bit, I thought you did. Until you finally came to the house.”

  “I thought I went back with you guys,” Grant said.

  “You showed up maybe fifteen minutes after we left Mulligans. Said you stopped for gas or some shit. Or maybe you were getting a little somethin’-somethin’ from that sister-in-law,” Craig said with a wink.

  Grant’s head shot up. “The hell did you say?”

  Craig dropped his hands from the handles of the foosball table. “What, Oliver?”

  Grant was ready to fight. “She’s not like that and I would never do that to to Christine.”

  Craig shrugged his shoulders. “Look man, I don’t know about your personal life. All I know is what I saw at the bar, and what I saw was you two getting hot and heavy.”

  “Goddamnit, no we weren’t!” Grant was on his feet now.

  “Whoa, whoa, buddy, alright!” Craig said. “Okay, man. Look, I’m just messing with you.”

  The two others in the garage went silent. Finally, Benny broke the silence. “Look, we’re all a little freaked out by what’s going on. But let’s just drop it.”

  Craig and the service tech guy went back to their foosball game and Grant collapsed back into the chair against the wall.

  Benny grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and handed one to Grant. Grant popped the tab on top and took a large gulp. He felt the cold liquid flow down his gullet and it stung as it went down.

  Benny said, “Don’t let these guys get to you, man.”

  Grant took another drink. “I tried to get out of town earlier today,” he said quietly. “I was going to take Ben and go to Houston, to my brother’s place.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Benny took a drink from his beer.

  “That’s the thing. We got out to the city limits, and there was this giant fog-thing. This cloud. I can’t explain it. But there’s no getting through it.”

  Benny had a look of skepticism on his face, but Grant continued, “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m serious. This whole thing with the women, it has something to do with that cloud.”

  Across the room, the men at the foosball table yelled, one in victory and the other in defeat. “Best two out of three!” the service tech guy said.

  Benny finished off his beer, crushed the can and threw it to the open trash can in the corner. The wad of aluminum bounced off the rim and tumbled to the floor. “Told you. Never good at basketball,” he said. He got up to pick up the can from the floor, but Grant stopped him.

  “I’m serious,” Grant said. “I’ll take you out there so you can see it for yourself.”

  “I don’t know man. You want to get pulled over out there? McMillan is going to have his guys out there patrolling every street,” Benny said. “Anything out of line and they’re putting guys in cuffs and taking them downtown.”

  Grant leaned back in his chair again. He wanted to go back out there. He wanted to see the cloud again. Something about it called out to him, and it ate at his brain, consuming his thoughts.

  It had showed Benjamin something, too.

  A sound pulled Grant out of his thoughts. At first he thought it was the knocking of the foosball against the figures on the poles, but he realized it was coming from the living room.

  “Hey, guys,” he said. “Stop for just a second.”

  Craig and the service tech stopped their game. Grant heard the noise again. It was a knocking.

  “Someone’s at the door,” Benny said.

  Grant got up from his chair and looked out the tiny window in the garage door. Outside, parked at the curb was a police cruiser. The lights on top were off, but the words Decker Police Department reflected in the late afternoon sun.

  “Shit!” Grant said. “It’s the cops!”

  Craig walked over and peered out the window as well. “Yeah, they’re probably just doing a neighborhood check. It’ll be fine.”

  Grant gulped and left the garage to answer the knocking at his front door. He cracked it open and a young officer stood on the welcome mat. He had his cap pulled down tight over his eyes.

  “How can I help you, officer?” Grant asked. Now face to face, Grant recognized him from earlier. “Officer Barnes?”

  “Mr. Oliver, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Can you come out on the porch with me?” Barnes said.

  As he opened the door completely, Grant knew he was vulnerable. But he also knew his choices were limited. He stepped out onto the porch, the lit sconce above the mailbox hung beside the door attracted a few moths and they flew in between the men.

  “If you’re inquiring about the guys here, we’re all in for the evening. No one will be leaving,” Grant said.

  “This isn’t about that, Mr. Oliver. I need you to come with me.
We have a few questions for you, and we can either do it the hard way or the easy way,” Officer Barnes said.

  “I don’t understand,” Grant said. But, he understood quite well. He’d been seen leaving Catherine’s house that morning. They’d found her, and now he’d been pinned.

  “Like I said, we can do this the hard way or easy way. The choice is yours, Mr. Oliver,” Barnes said.

  “But my son is in there,” Grant said. “I can’t leave him.”

  “From the looks of it, there are plenty of adults here to take care of him.”

  Grant bowed his chest. His ears went red with anger, they way they usually did when he got heated. Christine would call them his ogre ears. He wished she was here to calm him down. “I’m not leaving my son,” he said. “So, yeah. You want to do this the hard way or the easy way? Because if you make me leave my son here, it’s going to be the hard way.”

  Barnes stepped back and put his hand on the butt of his service weapon, but Grant scoffed at him. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?” Grant said.

  “Look, Mr. Oliver, I’m just trying to—” Barnes stammered on the words, and Grant took the officer’s sheepishness as an opportunity to flex his anger.

  “What’s going on out here?” Craig’s voice said from inside the door, and the three men who had been hanging out in the garage all came out onto the front step. “Is there a problem, officer?”

  Outnumbered four to one, Barnes took another step back, hoping to defuse the situation before it got too out of hand. Craig put his hand on Grant’s shoulder and pulled him back as well.

  “You okay, buddy?” Craig asked.

  “Yeah. This cop wants me to leave Ben and go down to the station, and I’m not doing it,” Grant said.

  “Officer, we don’t want any trouble,” Craig said. “But what’s this about? We’re not breaking any laws by staying inside here.”

  “This isn’t about laws,” Officer Barnes said. His eyes narrowed and he nodded at Grant. “Grant Oliver is wanted for questioning regarding the murder of Catherine Harlow.”

  CHAPTER 18

  GRANT | 4:39PM

  OTHER THAN APPEARING before a judge for a speeding ticket when he was in college, Grant Oliver had never been in any kind of trouble. The only experience he had with police interrogations was watching reruns of Criminal Minds in bed before the ten o’clock news and Colbert.

  This was just as he’d seen in the television shows, though. It was like he’d been plucked from his house and driven to the set. He wouldn’t be surprised if Joe Mantegna walked through the door. There were no cameras, no set director, no commercial breaks here however.

  It was cold in here too. He shivered. All he could think about was Benjamin. The officer had let him wake up his son and bring him.

  “We’re going to go for a ride,” he’d told the boy. “In a police car!”

  Little Benjamin woke up, excited for that.

  Grant’s coworkers, all in shock and frankly flabbergasted about the charges, were mostly left speechless as Grant and his son were led to the police car. Grant stared out the window at Craig and the guys as they watched them drive away. He wondered what was going through their heads.

  The ride to the courthouse had been mostly silent. The town, under a full lockdown by Chief McMillan, was still and unliving. On any other normal evening, the parking lot at Mulligans and the shopping centers downtown would be full, Central Market stayed open til after eleven (how many times had he made a late-night run for pull-ups diapers for Ben?) and a few cars would be on Main Street. Today, though? Today, Decker looked like a ghost town. Central Market had police tape surrounding the front entrance from the altercation that had occurred there that afternoon.

  Little Benjamin began to nod off and tucked himself under his father’s arm. The arresting officer was kind to cuff him in the front, so Grant was able to hold his son’s hand in the backseat. The boy had fallen back asleep as they pulled into the ramp on the backside of the building that led down to the jail cells and police station. Grant had left him on a bench in the hallway, a blanket draped over his son as he was led to the interview room.

  The door to the interview room opened, and Grant sat up in his chair. The wooden thing felt hard on his rear and he shifted against the uncushioned surface to get comfortable. As the man walked in, Grant tried to hide his nervousness. He recognized the officer from church, though they rarely spoke more than a few words to each other. Charles Duncan, with his head of hair that had long ago started migrating backward, leaving him with a cul-de-sac of gray, sat down at the table across from him and pulled a small electronic recorder from his pocket. He set it on the table between them, the indicator light blinking red, as well as a manila folder. Duncan relaxed into the chair and pulled at his necktie, a burnt-orange accessory with University of Texas longhorn logos plastered all over it.

  “I’ve had this thing a long time,” Duncan said, pointing to the device. “It’s going to record our conversation. Before we get started, can I get you a cup of coffee? Maybe a water?”

  “You know,” Grant said, “a bottle of water would be great. Mouth is all dry.”

  The officer held up two fingers to a mirror on the far wall that Grant suddenly realized was an observation window. He couldn’t see them, but Grant knew that there were more officers on the other side of that pane of glass. This made him even more nervous. He didn’t like being here. As he waited for the water, which was delivered to the room by a much younger officer—wearing an actual uniform, not the business casual attire Duncan wore—Grant sat silent.

  Duncan popped open both bottles, and Grant took his in both hands, still bound in the handcuffs that clinked against the surface of the table, and took a long swig from the bottle. The cold water soothed his dry throat.

  As the officer took a sip from his bottle, he opened the folder. “State your name for the record,” he said. Grant spoke his name, the sounds startling him at first.

  “And your place of residence here in Decker.”

  Grant gave the interrogator his address.

  “Mr. Oliver, I have a few questions about your whereabouts last night. Answer my questions, and we’ll see if we can get you out of here tonight.”

  Grant blinked. “You’re saying I will get to go home?”

  Duncan gave a smile, this high-lipped grin that could have said a thousand different things. “If you cooperate, I’ll do my best to get you back home.”

  “Shouldn’t I have an attorney here?” Grant asked.

  Duncan leaned in, his fingers laced together on the table. “This isn’t a very civil libertarian thing for me to say, and, like I said, I’ve been doing this kind of thing for a long time. I’ve seen all kinds of men sitting where you’re sitting right now. Some of them committed the crime, some of them didn’t. But when a man wants an attorney right off the bat, my tingles start going off.” He took a sip from his water bottle, placed it back on the table and continued, “I’m just going to ask you a couple of questions. If you think you need an attorney, that is definitely your right. But it may take longer to get you off the hook, understand?”

  Grant let this process in his mind. He didn’t need an attorney. He didn’t do anything wrong. As far as last night was concerned, he’d gone to Mulligan’s and then went back to Craig’s. Slept on the couch. Woke up with a headache and a dry mouth. It was all explainable.

  “Yes, I understand,” Grant said.

  “Great. So, let’s get started. Last night, you were seen at Mulligan’s, a sports bar over on Freeman Drive, would you say that’s correct?” As he spoke, the investigator loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair.

  “Yes sir,” Grant said. “Some guys from work invited me out.”

  “Okay, so you go out, have a few drinks. Now, I know you’re not a dumb guy. You know why we’re questioning you. You saw Catherine Harlow at Mulligan’s, yes?”

  Grant nodded. “Yes I did.”

  “And for the record,” Duncan said,
“How do you know Ms. Harlow?”

  “She was my sister-in-law. My wife’s younger sister,” Grant said.

  “You two are close?”

  “I’ve known her since she was a teenager, when my wife and I started dating,” Grant said.

  “Young love, it’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it? The butterflies, the excitement. How is your marriage these days?”

  Grant paused for a moment, knowing the question was loaded. “I’d say it was good.”

  “Was?” Duncan’s eyebrows lifted, the wrinkles in his brow deepening.

  “Well, I mean, she’s not home now. You know this.”

  “So you’ve already resigned to the idea that she’s gone forever?”

  Grant pursed his lips. “You know what I mean, investigator. The women in this town. They’re all gone. Besides, I don’t know what my marriage has to do with Catherine’s murder.”

  “Well, Mr. Oliver,” Duncan started, “it has a lot to do with it. According to witnesses that were at Mulligan’s last night, you and the victim were,” Duncan rifled through his folder, and thumbed a sheet of paper, “all over each other.”

  Grant gulped.

  “I would like to think that a man happy in his marriage wouldn’t be accepting of the advances of another woman.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Grant said. “She’s my wife’s sister.”

  “So perhaps you wanted to test out what it’s like with her. Maybe it’s different. I’m sure the thought has crossed your mind at least once. We’re men.” Duncan shrugged his shoulders in a hey, it’s just guy stuff way that rubbed Grant the wrong way.

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that. We were just goofing around.”

  “You may have been, but when you add alcohol to just goofing around, maybe you start doing things you wouldn’t normally do. Sure, you’d never sleep with your wife’s sister cold sober. You’re better than that. I know it. You know it. But, get a few drinks in you. She’s rubbing her body on you. She’s looking good and you start thinking about that forbidden fruit.” The last words dripped out of the man’s mouth slowly and quietly and Grant began visualizing the night before.