Burden of Proof

by Tina Glasneck

  "Let's go back, so, you went over to your friend-"

  "Over to Gerald's house."

  "And that is where you got the shotgun?"

  "No. The gun was in the house," Tommy said.

  "Your mother said she didn't have any guns in the house."

  "She didn't know too much about this one. Grandpa gave it to me to use for hunting."

  "What did you like to hunt?"

  "Squirrels, opossums." My ears perked up. A shotgun could be used for a lot of things, but NOT for small game. The buckshot would obliterate them.

  "Here are some of the pictures from the scene...you're going to tell me you did all of this out of jealousy?" Lazarus asked.

  "I don't have any other explanation, sir.”

  "Tell me more about the gun? How did your grandpa get it for you?"

  "We went down to Peasley's on Midlothian Turnpike, and I got fitted for the proper stock and fit. And Mr. Peasley himself even told me how to shoot the thing."

  "And when was the last time you'd been to the range?"

  "Earlier today, sir."

  If he had been to the range earlier, than he'd have gunpowder residue all over himself, especially if he hadn't showered afterwards- and a teenage boy wasn't guaranteed to be one that liked to wash.

  Flipping open my laptop, I scrolled on Tommy’s social media website, and noticed the person commenting on all of his posts wasn't Gerald Smith, as Tommy said was his best friend, but a Madeline Rheon. Clicking on her linked name, I scrolled through the pages, back to the August date. Like all teens and tweens, if they could post it online, they did. I bypassed pictures of homecoming, football players wearing white sashes; band members in their regalia, holding their instruments, and then I landed on the picture of Tommy and Madeline, posing for a selfie.

  Clicking on the picture, it linked to an album of pictures from the night, to include wider shots with surrounding scenery.

  On the night in question, Tommy was hugged up with a red-haired girl with freckles across the bridge of her nose. Wearing only a wife-beater T-shirt, on what was supposedly a balmy summer night, I noticed the large black and blue mark peeking out from his t-shirt.

  Flipping open the file, I located the ballistics’ report, which confirmed that the casings came from Tommy's gun, and the lab confirmed the presence of gunpowder residue on his hands. Yet, what struck me about the shots was that they all hit their supposed targets, except the mother, who was hit only in the arm.

  If a silencer had to be used, that would make sense on why no one awoke from the gunfire and a silencer for a shotgun —shotgun using buckshot, would have been extremely large. If a silencer was used, it would also signify that this wasn’t a heat of the moment crime, and less likely to point to an arrogant teenager. Silencers would also cost money, something a thirteen-year-old wouldn’t have. However, the police never mentioned a silencer being located

  Right now, it was speculation, and the case had enough of that. I knew I needed to speak with someone who had more than an Internet searcher’s knowledge of firearms.

  16

  The meteorologist said it would be the worst storm in months, but I don’t know what made me continue to drive through the half-flooded streets. The rain pinged against my windshield as the wipers swished and swooped. I couldn’t breathe as if I were haunted by a life I could no longer live. I mourned for the lost of what I wished to have again. My happiness.

  Pulling up in front of the apartment we’d shared in silence, I looked up at the apartment window, the curtains muting the light behind them. I wished only to open up my chest and pull out the shards, the brokenness. To either let him completely go or maybe...maybe....

  I knew Eddie was home, but even knowing, I wasn’t sure if I should get out of the car and head to the front door, but if I didn’t I’d continue to drown.

  Our last time talking had been three weeks ago. Some things change.

  My hand reached for the door handle, opening the door, allowing the cold rain to splash against me, soaking through my thin office attire, mushing my hair to me. Rushing forward, and using the key still on my keyring, I pushed the main entry door open.

  As if falling down a rabbit hole, memories flooded me of days gone by — moving in together, lost in each other, and what it meant to be us. As the downstairs’ tenant banged on her piano, accompanied by the squeakiness of my climbing to the second-floor apartment, my gusto sunk.

  Standing in front of his door, my hand raised, I waited.

  “You can do this, Em,” I whispered, trying to convince myself. Inhaling, I knocked.

  And waited.

  The sound of footsteps approaching quickened my heartbeat.

  Until the door opened, it seemed as if heaven and earth might collide. I thought of a million things to say, a million excuses of why I found myself there. A million reasons of why I had to see his face.

  The door swung open, and the woman standing there appraised me as if I were a wet dog in the pound. She didn’t smile; she didn’t greet me.

  My smile fell.

  Some things never change at all.

  “He’s in the shower,” she said and leaned against the wooden door jamb.

  Her hair was still wet on the ends and while squinting, I could have sworn the shirt she had on belonged to him.

  Now to her.

  “Um...I should come back,” I said, backing up. I didn’t want an audience. Time had escaped me.

  “Yeah, okay, and who should I say came by?” she asked.

  I sighed. I’d thought of all the things I wanted to let him know, but never what to say if he didn’t come to the door. My words wouldn’t mean a thing coming from someone else. I reached out and touched my locket, which held his picture still close to my heart.

  “Doesn’t matter.” I reached into my pocket and thrust her the receipt I had in there. “He dropped his receipt, and I just wanted to give it to him.”

  “Who’s at the door?” I heard Eddie ask in the background. Panic jumped me, and worse than a wet raccoon frightened by thunder, I scurried away.

  “Just some woman--,” I heard as she slammed the door shut.

  The sound of the door quickly opening followed by thudding bare feet quickly followed.

  “Em?” Eddie called out.

  At the bottom of the steps, I turned and looked up to see him standing there. His shirt open, his chest heaving.

  I grimaced. This was not how I wished to confront whatever it was between us.

  We had a love that books were written about. So much more than boy meets girl. He’d swept me off of my feet, but somehow we’d lost that thread of what held us together.

  I waited for him to come down, feeling the sadness coursing beneath the surface.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  I refused to look at him. He’d know why, and he’d know that my broken heart was breaking even more.

  “It’s not what you think. She is just a friend.”

  I nodded, not wanting to know the truth, and wishing to keep my truth hidden deep within.

  Just a friend, what they always were—women who seemed to share a part of him that I couldn’t. Holster-snifflers that worshipped the badge and the men who wore them.

  My hand itched to reach out and touch him, to be comforted, but I couldn’t forget the woman upstairs waiting for his return.

  Instead, my hand rose to the locket around my neck. “I just wanted to give this back to you.” Unclasping it, I placed it in his hand.

  “Don’t do this, Em.”

  “It’s what you want.” My vision cleared, and I focused on him, his chiseled jaw, and his full lips, lips I loved to nibble on. “You’ve moved on, evidently, and when I wanted to let you in, you told me to stop trying. This is my stopping.”

  “I’m not going to give up,” he called after me.

  I turned, wanting him to see me walk away.

  “I haven’t even seen you try.”

  17

 
The scent of gunpowder and oil lingered in the air while the muted barrage of fire proceeded on the other side of the bulletproof glass to my side. Today, nervousness tapped on my spine. I twitched.

  “What can I do for you today, Em?” Marc, behind the counter, asked.

  Eddie said I’d needed to know how to shoot since crazies could target law enforcement officers’ wives. That’s how I met the magnanimous Marc. He’d been my concealed weapons instructor and always apt to help me stay on top of any licensing requirement, even more than my ex did.

  “Are you here to look at that 9mm you tried out last week?” he asked.

  I tried to crack a polite smile. It felt like too much work, as if by doing so, I’d simply splinter.

  “Sorry, Marc. I’m here because Attorney Carroll needs your opinion on something.”

  “Tell him I am going to have to start charging him my forensic firearm rate.” He chuckled, causing his rotund belly to shake like a jolly Santa Claus’s did.

  Leaning on the counter, I opened up the file and presented Marc with the shotgun images: “What can you tell me about this?”

  Marc reached under the counter and produced an expended shotgun shell. “I’m guessing you’re here asking about groves and marking for a spent shell casing?”

  “I don’t know that much about shotguns to answer that question.”

  “I’m guessing a 12 Gauge was used,” Marc said.

  “Yes,” I affirmed, flipping back to the ballistics report to confirm.

  “You don’t remember what I taught you?” he asked, furrowing his brow. “Usually a spent shell casing is going to leave some sort of unique marks --”

  “Which are traceable to a particular gun, right?” I asked.

  “Exactly, it could have spirals on it, diagonal lines, ramp bulging or even some chamber markings. But with a shotgun shell, the inside of the barrel is smooth.”

  “So, it’s not going to have any types of chamber marks?”

  “Right! See, I knew you paid attention. The ballistics’ expert at the precinct should be able to tell you, though, if the gun they’ve collected is the correct gun, by comparing the ejector or extractor markings on the recovered shotgun shells.”

  I reached into the folder and came across the picture of the shot through the bathroom door and stared at it. Ballistics and forensics had already run their round of testing, and according to their statement, she was on her way out of the en-suite when the shot happened. The question is, could she truly see who shot her, and if so, why didn’t the shooter finish her off?

  18

  Back in the office, I trudged toward my desk.

  “Em, you have a Mr. Hanson waiting to meet with you about the Melancon case.”

  Mr. Hanson is Tommy’s father, and besides a cover letter or two, I’d had no dealings with the man.

  I nodded. “Do you know what he is here about?”

  “Harry isn’t able to meet with him, due to court, so he wants you to meet with him and find out what you can.”

  “Thanks,” I sighed and headed towards my office to drop off my purse and coat. I tried to steel myself against another heartbroken parent looking for answers from an attorney who barely had any answers. But in their mind, I’d have the gift of heaven in my hands, or the keys to hell in my grasp.

  I tried to shake off the icy feeling of death gripping at me. A feeling I could usually shake off with a session of counting to four, but lately, the death grip, violence and screaming silence hovered, ever present.

  Javier poked his head in.

  “Hey Em,” he said, “Before you head in there, I wanted to let you know that Dr. Chance called back regarding the Melancon children experiencing a bout of the stomach flu. She stated that everyone seemed to be under the weather and experiencing nausea, a fever and restlessness, everyone except for Kristy and Tommy.”

  “Thanks, that information is quite helpful.”

  “Well, it gives you something to update Harry with. I heard Mr. Hanson is waiting to speak with someone too. Do you want me to go in there with you? I mean, you’re still pretty new and there is still a lot for you to learn.”

  I wasn’t offended by his offer. To be honest, I was relieved.

  “Yes, please,” I said. “Since Harry isn’t here, it might help to have your expertise.”

  “I’ll sit in and ask any additional questions that might come up. Sounds good?”

  Popping a small mint into my mouth, and pasting a curt smile on my chapped lips, I moved forward. I was there to do a job — on good and bad days. And today I had help.

  “Sounds excellent, Javier!” I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Entering the room, the stench of old cigarettes and booze burned my nostrils. Seated, a man in rumpled clothes sat in one of the green high back chairs. He seemed even more out of place than I ever felt. “Mr. Hanson,” I said, “I’m Mr. Carroll’s paralegal. Unfortunately, Mr. Carroll is unable to meet with you, but asked that we meet in the interim.”

  Mr. Hanson oozed impatience.

  “That’s fine. I didn’t make this long ass trip down here to speak with the help though. My son kept complaining about me not helping, so I’m here.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes darting.

  “What do you know about what happened?” I asked.

  “My son is fighting for his life, and I don’t know how I can help. His mother was always heartless with him. She thought it okay to creep with me. She was with Vernon even then. When Thomas came, she dropped him on my door, where he’s been for the last thirteen years.”

  “I understand that he’d been in some trouble up in Maryland, where you were residing with him?”

  “Yeah, but that had nothing to do with Thomas, but more to do with his no good mother. She’d made a name for herself in the adult entertainment industry, the cheap ones, and some kids at school discovered the videos. Everything stems from that.”

  “She was a film star?” I asked.

  “Star is a loose interpretation. More like one of those girls offered a rock for a trick and filmed while doing it.”

  “She had a drug problem.”

  “Yes, and Vernon was only interested in making sure that I helped to pay the bills — her body was his greatest asset. I find it suspect that everyone is dead and my son is taking the rap when she had enough people interested in doing her harm.”

  “Can you expound on that?”

  “Yeah, Vernon was a small-time dealer, so he kept her well supplied. But he still had to pay for his supply; not everything could go up her nose just because she’d spread her legs. Word is, he had stepped on his supply so much, that it had less than six percent purity. In his world, to take people’s money by giving them something of bad quality was disrespect, and could end up with someone getting shot.”

  “Do you think that is what happened here?” I asked.

  “I think someone wanted to send a message, and my son is taking the fall for it. He hasn’t even been shooting long enough to know how to hold that damn shotgun.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His grandfather thought it good that he learn how to control the thing. I don’t know, in case some wild animals came around or what not. They occasionally had black bears wandering around, at least that is what I was told. So, his grandfather took him out to get a shotgun and a couple of lessons on how to use it.

  “He told me that he didn’t like it that much because it hurt his ears to fire and his shoulder. Afterwards, he wouldn’t even be able to use his right arm, the same arm he’d need to be able to throw a pass at school — he was on the football team, and always practicing

  “So, Thomas told me that before this happened, everyone got sick, except him, and that they’d just wanted to stay in bed when they weren’t vomiting. It was strange, he told me, as if everyone, but him, was supposed to get sick. I think Kristy killed them, and she is claiming my son did it to get back at me.”

  “Do you have any proof of this?” I asked.

&nb
sp; “Yes, since she is the survivor of this tragedy, she has been able to cash in six life insurance policies, which now makes her a millionaire — not bad to go from a completely impoverished crack-whore to a millionaire overnight.”

  “Why did your relationship with Kristy end?”

  “I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but it’s part of my record. I served time for it. She said I assaulted her, even tried to kill her. Luckily this was before parole was abolished and I was able to get out on parole.”

  “I take it that you didn’t do it.”

  “Praise God; someone finally believes a convict like me. She is something, and often it can be a little fatal. I wanted to back up a little, slow down, but she didn’t like that.”

  “So, how did you then have a son with her?” Javier asked. It was not a line of questioning I was comfortable with, but something that we all still needed to know. I nodded my head at him and gave him a smile. It was time for me to listen.

  “Things happened after I was released. I wanted to help, and those feelings were still there until she decided that they weren’t as worthy. ‘Nothing lasts forever,’ she told me. She loves only as long as it has some sort of value for her.”

  “You don’t think she loved her kids.”

  He smirked. “She definitely loves the money they brought in.” Retrieving his phone from his pocket, he showed me a picture of Kristy jumping into a swimming pool with a tiny bikini on, which was posted on a social media site.

  “To be honest, I was always surprised that she wanted to return home, especially after she told me some things about her father.”

  “Like what?” Javier asked.

  “She let it slip one night when she was high, after talking to him, before they moved here to Virginia, she told me that he was facing incest charges.”

  “I thought Kristy is an only child,” I said.

  Mr. Hanson leaned back in his chair. “She is.”

  19