Dead Reckoning

by Dawn Lee McKenna

  The girl, Mellinda Betancourt, was the daughter of a wealthy couple on an eco-tour of the Dead Lakes. They’d only been in town for two days, so she clearly didn’t have anything to do with the murder. She proved to be uninjured, though her shoes were a total loss. She babbled incessantly about lawsuits and brutality, but when her father arrived to pick her up, Mr. Betancourt simply thanked Evan for not shooting her and apologized for whatever part of this trouble his daughter may have caused. One of the deputies got her statement, and she was allowed to leave with Daddy. It had seemed pretty exciting to run off to the Bahamas with the blond guy from the bar, but Evan guessed it hadn’t turned out as fun as she was hoping.

  The medics checked Evan over, finding only minor scrapes and one large bruise, then left him alone. He pulled Sergeant Peters out of the crowd. The two walked back to Evan’s boat, where Peters produced a notepad and Evan gave his statement, recounting the events from the time he heard Mac’s truck in the lot until the backup units arrived. He told Peters that he would be at the office in the morning to interview MacMac, but that the kid was to have no other visitors. “I don’t want him to say a word to anyone but me. And I don’t want anyone saying a word about him to anyone but me. Got it?”

  “That’s exactly how we’ve always done it around here, boss,” Peters nodded, though his smile suggested otherwise. “We’ll keep a good eye on him ‘till you come back tomorrow.”

  Evan bid him a good night and watched as the sergeant stepped onto the dock. He noticed that he hadn’t seen Plutes since the excitement began. Evan found the cat in his stateroom. He had pulled Evan’s slacks off the bed and wadded them into a cozy nest. He had then proceeded to coat the pants in short black hairs before curling up and going to sleep.

  Evan changed into clean boxers, crawled into his own bed, then stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep or daybreak to take him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  EVAN WOKE TOO EARLY to an odd and alarming scratching sound. His feet were on the floor with a quickness. The scratching now sounded like someone was cutting a Barbie doll’s throat. The plastic bag he’d wrapped his last pair of dress shoes in. Evan reached over to his nightstand. He’d been waiting for this for days. He grabbed the air horn, then silently stepped over to the locker and jerked the door open. The cat looked up at Evan, the sound of urine hitting Italian leather making Evan want to weep. He let loose with the horn before Plutes could move.

  The sound was so loud, and so brutal, that Evan wondered if he’d thought things through as well as he should have. But as Plutes bolted up the stairs, Evan laughed and followed in hot pursuit. “No, we won’t be pissing in anyone’s shoes anymore, pal!” Evan yelled as he made the salon. Plutes was nowhere in sight, which was where Evan liked him.

  The thrill of victory was short-lived. A dull but emphatic ache announced itself across the top of his left shoulder, a souvenir of last night’s exploits. Springing out of bed and bounding up the stairs hadn’t helped. The pain began to crawl up the back of his neck into his scalp.

  Evan paused to take stock. It was early. The sun was up, but just barely, its rays slicing at an acute angle through thin gaps in the curtains. A prime suspect in the only case that mattered sat in a cell. Evan was convinced Mac McMillian held the key to the sheriff’s murder, but so far, he had been less than cooperative. Evan needed to be on top of his game today. That was going to be difficult now that his spine felt as limber as old beef jerky and his last pair of dress shoes was full of cat piss.

  He washed down two Tylenol with his first cup of coffee, then chewed and swallowed some Ibuprofen for good measure.

  The soggy shoe, and its drier mate, went into a trash bag for later disposal. Plutes had pissed precisely, filling the shoe but leaving no mess at all on the shelf. Evan showered, then selected a pair of black slacks and a white button down from his collection. They would look super with his Docksiders.

  He ran through the case’s idiosyncrasies as he drove to work, noting the certainties, the suppositions, and the outstanding unknowns. His light-colored shoes lurked just at the periphery of his vision, constantly distracting him, reminding him that he was slightly out of sync with his own world. He told himself it wouldn’t matter what shoes he was wearing to interrogate MacMac, and by the time he arrived at the SO, he almost believed it.

  He had a plan for the interrogation. He had facts that put MacMac in the swamp, with the sheriff, at the time of the murder. MacMac had been trying to sneak out of town, he had assaulted a law enforcement officer, and he had been carrying a concealed weapon without a permit. MacMac would talk. Evan expected he might even be able to file murder charges and call this case closed by the end of the day.

  What he didn’t expect was the parking lot-full of news vans when he pulled into the station. As he crossed the lot after parking, James Quillen hurried over to great him, dressed in his finest suit and smiling like a politician at a press conference. Then Evan remembered. He was a politician at a press conference. The local media were on scene to introduce the new sheriff to the people of Gulf County. Or, more accurately, they were here so that Quillen could introduce his selection for interim sheriff to the people of Gulf County. Several deputies and staffers were on the front steps, Goff among them.

  Quillen’s smile blazed as he reached Evan, but then faltered a bit when he caught site of Evan’s shoes. Evan pretended not to notice and extended his hand.

  “Good morning Commissioner,” he said, evenly. “We’re going to have to postpone this press conference.”

  Quillen grasped his hand, then pulled him in for an around-the-shoulder hug. This brought his mouth close enough to Evan’s ear for him to whisper, “We don’t postpone press conferences.”

  Evan pulled away. “Look, I have a major break in this case. I have a suspect in custody who can probably tell us—”

  Quillen cut him off. “You see all those news vans over there? They are here to meet you.”

  “I’ve been sheriff all week, Quillen.” Evan said. “That isn’t news anymore.”

  Quillen recovered quickly. “Then we need to let them know we have a suspect in custody”

  “No, at the moment I’m too busy doing my job,” Evan said, brushing him away as he hit the sidewalk that led to the door. “But you’re welcome to say whatever you like.”

  “As an elected official, you have a responsibility to your constituency.”

  “I wasn’t elected, remember?”

  “But it’s a press conference,” Quillen insisted, sounding baffled and more than a little furious. “You have to be there.”

  “Photoshop me in,” Evan called back over his shoulder as he hit the top step.

  Several deputies standing around the door had been watching the exchange. Goff gathered himself off the wall and opened the door for him. As he entered, Evan could see he had moved one or two notches closer to gaining their acceptance.

  “Well,” Goff said, staring across the lot to where Quillen stood smoldering, “there’s a hen you can’t unpluck.”

  Evan studied Mac McMillian through the one-way mirror before starting the interview. Mac sat in a steel chair. The splint on his left wrist was too big to accommodate a standard handcuff, so to manacle him to the eyebolt in the center of the table, the deputies had used a set of ankle chains. In addition to the splint, Mac’s nose had an upside-down cross of white tape holding it in place. Faint reddish bruises curved beneath both of his eyes. Another set of bruises, three dime-sized circles, marred his jawline on the right side. It looked like knuckle prints, as if he had been punched.

  “Notice anything?” Evan asked when Goff sauntered up beside hm.

  “Looks grumpy,” Goff said. “Probly miffed about his hairdo. A night in the holding cell tends to flatten it out.”-

  “Not sure if grumpy is the word I’d use,” Evan said. “To me he looks scared, but not in a desperate way. He looks putout angry, not backed-into-a-corner angry.”

  “And,” Goff added, “no slide bi
te.”

  “Well, we knew that yesterday,” Evan said. “But the truck was there. I know it. I’m thinking there had to have been two people involved in this killing. At least two people, right? Whoever shot Hutchins hadn’t had much practice with a pistol.”

  “I’d hazard a guess to that effect. He probably wasn’t much of a baseball player, either.”

  Evan nodded his agreement. “So, whoever actually pulled the trigger didn’t have much experience shooting people. But whoever planned the thing seems to have known exactly what he was doing.”

  “You got your smart one and your dumb one,” Goff summarized.

  “Exactly,” Evan said. “And therein lies the problem. Mac doesn’t have a slide bite, which means he’s not the dumb one. But I’m having a real hard time seeing him as the smart one.”

  Goff pursed his lips, staring through the glass at the kid, then slowly nodded his agreement. “That’d be sadder’n hell.”

  Evan pushed through the door and Goff followed. MacMac scooted back in his chair and sat upright. Evan noticed the chair’s odd tilt, and grinned. Its front two legs had been shortened, giving the seat a slight forward tilt. This made it difficult for the chair’s occupant to find a comfortable sitting position, one of many little tricks used to keep a suspect off his toes. Another little trick, keeping the room temperature anywhere but comfortable, also seemed to be in effect. Mac’s arms prickled with goose flesh.

  “Good morning, Mr. McMillian,” Evan said, taking his seat. “Would you like a glass of water, a cup of coffee before we get started?”

  “How about turning off the air conditioner,” he said. “My fingers are turning blue.”

  Evan smiled. “Oh, I think it feels nice. It’s a hot one out there today. The sunrise this morning, man, let me tell you, it’s going to be a beautiful day today.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. It’s nice outside but I’m stuck in here,” Mac said. He tried to slouch back in his chair, but his butt slid forward on the slanted seat. The chains on his wrists wouldn’t allow him to cross his arms, as he would have liked to. In the end, he opted for slouching there looking stupid.

  “What do you want, man?” he asked, in exasperation. “Why am I here?”

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Mr. McMillian,” Evan said, his tone deliberate, considering. “You weren’t willing to talk with us yesterday. Today, I’m hoping you’ll be a bit more cooperative.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything”

  “No. No, you don’t have to,” Evan said, “but, I think you’re going to want to. I think you’re going to see that talking to us is the only thing that makes sense for you. Right now, I can charge you with assault on a law enforcement officer, possession of an unregistered firearm, reckless endangerment…probably a few other things if I think about it for a bit. I can get you trespassed from the PSJ Marina, maybe even get your charter license revoked. And that’s just for last night’s hijinks.

  “But this interview is not about last night,” Evan continued. “I’m willing to ignore everything that happened last night, if you’re willing to talk to me about what happened last week.”

  “Last week?” Mac asked. “You mean Hutch getting killed? Man, I told you. That was the Tens!”

  “Hold on,” Evan said, “I’m not asking you who killed Sheriff Hutchins. Maybe we’ll get to that later. That’s not what I’m asking about right now.” Evan sat back and watched Mac for a moment, letting the kid’s wheels turn. “All I want to know from you right now is, who else drives your truck?”

  MacMac stare was as blank as a dead television screen. He opened his mouth once, closed it, stared a moment longer, then finally said, “You mean the Ranger?”

  “Yes, Mr. McMillian, the primer-red Ranger with the oversized bald tires,” Evan said, evenly. “Other than yourself, who drives that truck?”

  “Nobody drives my truck,” Mac said, still sounding very confused. “I don’t even drive it much. It’s a…like a project, you know. Why are you asking about my truck?”

  “So, nobody else ever drove that truck? Not one of your buddies?”

  “No.”

  “Does anyone else have a key to your truck?” Evan asked. “Is it possible that someone borrowed it without your knowledge?”

  “No. I have the only key. What is this about?”

  “So, if I saw your truck parked somewhere, it would be reasonable for me to assume that it had been you who parked it there?”

  Mac’s eyes widened slightly. He again tried to sit back and was thwarted by the shackles and awkward chair. The skin on his arms still showed the effects of the cold room, but below the goose flesh, Evan also noticed more bruising than he had seen the night before.

  Mac responded warily, “Where did you see my truck?”

  “Wherever I saw it, you’d have to be close by, right? That’s what you’re telling us. Nobody else ever drove it. Nobody else has a key. That’s what you just told us. So, if I see your truck parked anywhere, the only way it got there is if you put it there. Do I have that right?”

  Mac nodded slowly, eyes shifting from Evan to Goff and back again. “Yeah,” he said hesitantly, “I guess that’d be true…unless, you know, like someone stole it, or something.”

  “Mr. McMillian, did someone steal your truck?” Evan asked. “Do you have any reason to believe your truck was stolen at any time last week?”

  Mac hesitated, fidgeted with his hands, then slowly shook his head.

  “Nobody stole your truck? That’s what you’re telling us?”

  “Nobody stole it,” Mac said. “Not that I know of.”

  “So, I ask you again, if I saw your truck parked somewhere, the only possible way it could have gotten there is if you parked it there.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess,” MacMac said.

  Evan nodded, then shuffled some notes in his folder.

  “Here’s the deal, son,” Goff said, in a long, slow drawl, “we’re fairly certain you weren’t the one who shot Hutch.”

  “Where did you get the gun?” Evan asked, before Mac had a chance to fully process what Goff had just said.

  “I didn’t do it, man! I didn’t have nothing to do with that!” He raised his hand and tried to stand, but the chains held him.

  “Sit down,” Evan said. “The gun, Mr. McMillian. Where did it come from?”

  MacMac’s blank stare returned. He looked dazed.

  Evan reached into the file box and pulled out an evidence bag containing the small pistol Mac had dropped the night before. “This gun, Mr. McMillian. Where did you get it?”

  Recognition and fear spread in equal measures across MacMac’s face. “Look, man, I just…I just got that for, like, protection, you know, self-defense. I didn’t go looking for trouble. Those guys came to me. And when I realized what was going on, man, I did the right thing! I did what I was supposed to do. I told Hutch about it. He asked me to keep tabs on them, and dude, I didn’t want to do it, but Hutch talked me into it, so I did. And now I’m screwed!” He shook his head and thumped his hands on the table.

  “That why he’s dead?” Goff asked.

  Mac started to answer in the affirmative, but caught himself. After a second he said, “I’d guess that’s why, not because he screwed me over, but because he was messing with some bad dudes. I think the Tallahassee Ten found out he knew they were scouting down here, so they had him killed.”

  “And you were the one passing this info to Hutch?” Goff asked. “About them scouting the area? You think they found out that you were snitching on them to the sheriff, so they killed the sheriff, but they didn’t do nothing to you?”

  MacMac looked back and forth between the two men.

  “That doesn’t really make much sense to me,” Evan said.

  “It don’t even make good nonsense,” Goff said.

  MacMac slid down his chair again, then straightened. He looked from side to side, eyes wide and watery. “Dude, I am telling you. That’s why I had the gun, ‘cause I
was afraid of those guys coming after me. But man, I swear, I don’t know what happened to Hutch. I didn’t have nothing to do with that!”

  “But your truck was there,” Evan said, calmly. “And you already confirmed that if your truck was there, then you were there. Because you’re the only one who ever drives your truck.”

  “What? What do you mean my truck was there?”

  “The night Sheriff Hutchins was murdered, your truck was parked alongside his out at the Dead Lakes,” Evan said. He leaned back and folded his arms, letting the words hang for a moment, then he continued, “Here’s the deal, Mr. McMillian, like Sgt. Goff said, we don’t believe you were the shooter, but we know you were involved. You know who the shooter was. You know why Hutchins was killed.”

  MacMac was shaking his head so violently his chains rattled. Evan continued, “You murder a sheriff in this state, you can pretty much guarantee you won’t breathe free air for the rest of your life. The only sunshine you’ll be seeing will be through bars. You’re a young man, Mr. McMillian. You have a lot of years ahead of you. And from where I sit, it looks like you ‘re going to spend the rest of them using the crappy shampoo the state provides.”

  Mac threw his hands up, as far as the chains would go, and let out a frustrated sound that was somewhere between a scream and a growl. His head dropped into his hands and he tugged on his hair. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know anything about Hutch getting killed! I wasn’t there, I didn’t do it! I don’t know nothing about it!”

  Evan waited until MacMac quieted. He flipped through a few more pages in his folder, then looked back up at the kid. “You want to tell us where you were last Thursday night?”

  MacMac looked up, “Thursday?”

  Evan nodded.