“There weren’t any other possibilities. I was there!”
“What Mr. Pritchard is trying to say is that certain facts can get twisted and slanted to support any theory. There is semblance of truth to what he said…Steiger was gay.” Bluffing, Kincaid said the words as a statement, not a question. Rankin made no protest, but stared intensely at him, which in itself confirmed Sony’s theory that the two had a relationship. “So what do you think might have happened if that information got out? What if someone remembers that the two of you had an argument that night? What kind of story would you think I would have then?
“How much would it take to convince not only Charleston that there had been a lovers’ quarrel, but the rest of the country?”
“You would do that? Ruin a good man’s name?”
“I want the truth. The only reason I can surmise you don’t want to be interviewed by me is that you’re hiding something.”
“Yeah, I know about you damn reporters. Do anything for a story, whether it’s the truth or not.”
“Captain Rankin, I’m going to find out what really happened that night, with or without your help. I know there is a story beyond the simplistic belief that Taylor killed your partner. You know why?”
Kincaid took a step back and pointed down the street.
“Not long ago, I received a tip that Harrison Taylor was framed. Since then, three people have been murdered who are in one way or another connected to this case. I was shot. Maybe I am fucking crazy, but I’m not stupid. Someone is doing everything in their power to keep the truth from coming out.”
“I know the truth. I was there,” Rankin corrected flatly.
“Then help me to come to that conclusion. Help me recreate the crime.”
A long period of silence ensued. Rankin stared down the street, as if looking into the past. Slowly he shook his head and sighed. “If I help you now and you discover the truth—even if it doesn’t change that Taylor killed Greg—any relationship Greg and I had is not relevant to the case; it won’t be mentioned. Greg was a good man…a great officer. He had a family and kids…”
Kincaid nodded. It wasn’t his style to use emotional blackmail. He understood the ramifications of such an announcement. He had no desire to tarnish anyone’s good name, especially a man who gave his life in the line of duty. But a wall had to be broken if they had any chance of breaking this story.
“I just want to uncover the truth. I don’t waste my time with anything not pertinent, but I need help. Something just doesn’t sit right. You must have felt it too at some point.”
“Okay…okay.” Rankin frowned. “Where do you want to start?”
* * * *
Kincaid gestured for McNeil to begin filming and pointed at Rankin to start talking.
“We received a 10-40 at 2145, suspicious person and vehicle. In this area, it is not an unusual call. We made a drive-by. We spotted a Chevy Silverado, parked here on Reynolds Avenue.” Rankin stood where the vehicle was parked. “We passed it and saw a window busted.
“I was driving. Turning around at the next street, I pulled behind it and parked. While I was calling in the plate, Greg got out to inspect the vehicle. I waited until I received the information back from dispatch on the truck. Came back to an attorney in Charleston—Jack Ashcroft.”
“Where was Steiger at this time?”
“I was watching him as he looked through the truck,” Rankin said. “I looked down to write down the info. When I got out of the cruiser, Greg was nowhere in sight.”
Kincaid glanced around. “Only one streetlight.”
“Only one. I remember it was dark, real dark.” Rankin walked down the street. “From the truck’s registration, I got Ashcroft’s address. The only reason that anyone from that section of Charleston comes down to Chicora-Cherokee is drugs.”
Kincaid nodded. On that point, there was not an argument.
“Any sign of Officer Steiger at that point?”
Rankin shook his head. “None. I called out…no answer.”
“Is it normal procedure for Officer Steiger to have left you without telling you where he was going?”
“No, of course not,” Rankin reluctantly admitted. He walked steadily to the intersection and then crossed the street. “I had to go back into the cruiser for my flashlight I had left on the seat. If only…”
“Don’t go there,” Kincaid said, knowing guilt gnawed at the man. “If you had been with Officer Steiger, I believe you, too, would be dead because I believe he was set up. Ambushed.”
“Ambushed?”
“There is no other explanation,” Sony interjected and stopped at the beginning of the back alley where the shooting had taken place. He pointed back to where they had started. “Look how far away it is. There is no way Steiger left you without a reason. Someone caught his attention.”
As if a thought just crossed his mind, Sony wagged his finger in front of his face. “Wait…wait. What if…what if…someone needed immediate help and called to Steiger from this spot? You said you were writing down the info and stepped out of the car.
“Steiger could have called to you, thinking you could hear him before he took off,” Sony went on. “He ran and when he turned the corner, he was shot.”
Rankin grimaced. “But it was a good five…six minutes between me losing sight of Steiger before I heard the shots.”
“Go back to right before you heard the shots,” Kincaid suggested. “You got your flashlight…”
Rankin nodded. “I leaned in and got the flashlight. Even before I could straighten up, I heard pop…pop. I drew my gun and ran toward the gunfire. Heard another pop. When I turned the corner, I immediately saw Greg on the ground.
“I flashed the light around the area and saw no one. I knelt down beside Greg and called for backup and an ambulance. I knew it was already too late…there was no pulse. He was shot between his eyes. I will never forget his eyes were frozen open…shocked.”
Immediately, Kincaid flipped through the police report on his iPad to the part about the body of Officer Steiger. One bullet. Head shot. Lodged between the eyes. Death instantaneous. Ballistics confirmed—Glock 17.
Straightaway, he clicked on another folder. The police report on Charles Barlow. Autopsy: death due to a single gunshot directly between the eyes. Ballistics confirmed—Glock 17.
“Got something?” Sony edged closer, trying to look at Kincaid’s screen.
“Maybe nothing,” Kincaid said absently as he walked around Rankin. “Keep going.”
“Not much else to tell,” Rankin offered, pointing straight ahead of him. “Taylor lay about a hundred to a hundred fifty feet away. Face down in a pool of blood, like he had turned and tried to run away.”
“Unconscious?”
“Yeah,” Rankin confirmed. “No one thought he would survive.”
Kincaid squatted and studied the area. “So, just to understand what the investigation concluded: Officer Steiger surprised a drug deal gone bad. In the process, gunfire was exchanged. Steiger hit Taylor in the stomach, who then…somehow managed to shoot Officer Steiger right between the eyes…in pitch-black darkness?”
Sony wandered over to the vicinity of where Taylor fell. He frowned and stared over at Kincaid.
“Steiger was a big guy. Six three. Harrison, five ten. He would have had to…like anyone else shooting anyone taller…shoot upward. Steiger was shot directly between the eyes. From the autopsy report, it was suggested that projectile of the bullet came in at an angle downward, not upward.”
Gesturing with his hands for Kincaid to stay where he was at, Sony started toward him. “So I would say that the shooter came at Steiger like this.” Sony used his finger like a gun and aimed it at Kincaid’s head. “Steiger had to be kneeling.”
Rankin nodded in agreement. “Maybe he tripped and fell.”
“What if someone was lying there? He leaned down like you did to him when you rounded the corner,” Kincaid said, thinking out loud. “It would make sense, som
eone calling out to him for help…that he would rush over to help.”
“The moment he knelt on his knees…” Sony pretended to fire. “Steiger was dead. Then, the killer rounded the body and picked up Steiger’s gun and shot Harrison.”
Kincaid stood up and rubbed his chin in thought. “It would explain the gun residue on Steiger and his clothing. He was shot at close range. Harrison from a distance.”
Rankin had become deathly quiet. He murmured, “Doesn’t mean that Taylor is innocent. He was high on crack… Drugs were found in his pocket. He didn’t want to get caught…he had too much to lose…he—”
“Rankin,” Kincaid stopped him. “You’re right. He had drugs in his system. You think that someone that high could shoot straight? It took only one shot. Also, ask yourself—why would he run back into the alley if he was trying to get away? His truck was on the street.”
“Taylor wasn’t thinking straight…we already confirmed that.”
Kincaid shook his head. “The only thing that makes sense from this reconstruction is that Taylor was set up. Somebody put a lot of time and effort into making this look like a shootout. In all probability, the killer propped Taylor up and shot him.”
“Yeah.” Sony went along with the theory. “Harrison probably slid down a little or else the shot would have killed him, too. The killer couldn’t see in the dark.”
Kincaid walked down the alleyway. Not much. To the left, an abandoned, rundown building. Boarded up. To the right, through a thicket of overgrowth, a church parking lot.
“Then the killer would have left his escape vehicle in the parking lot. While everyone was converging on the scene, he could have easily driven off without a care in the world.”
“What you’re saying is crazy,” Rankin contended. “For your theory to work, you would have to have two people working this elaborate scheme. One to pretend to be injured and the killer. Who would do such a thing? Why?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Kincaid stated in a quiet, controlled voice. “I don’t believe your partner was the target. Just an unfortunate soul who was doing his job.”
Rankin lowered his head and shook it. “Damn!”
Sony lashed out. “Don’t tell me you can’t even consider the possibility?”
“That’s not it,” Rankin uttered in a low, dry voice. “If…I say if…what you are saying is true—the wrong man has been convicted of murder.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was late, but Brophy couldn’t get any sleep.
The floor was littered with papers. Brophy had run out of room on the pegboard. Glancing around his apartment, he took his Scotch tape and posted on the bare walls.
He had moved into the apartment in Jamaica Plain over eight months ago. A step up from the dump he lived in when he first got divorced.
Sara was helping him furnish the place. She refused for him to take anything from the old place.
“A little at a time, Dad,” Sara said. “A good couch, recliner…hmmm, we can wait on the dining room table since you don’t eat at it. A decent bedroom set. It will get there.”
The furniture had been slow in coming, but he was working on it for the girls. Jake didn’t care. He would fall asleep on the couch watching TV when he came over…which wasn’t often.
Everything was so damn expensive. He had been a fool to out-and-out give Lauren the house in the settlement. She hadn’t asked for it, but guilt made him offer.
It had been his fault, his weakness that had destroyed his marriage. He wanted to make up for his shortcomings. Wanted his kids to have the security of the home.
He hadn’t counted on Lauren remarrying some big shot down at the mayor’s office. She moved to his house and sold their old home. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she had used the money to help pay for college for the kids.
But according to the divorce agreement, he had taken responsibility for that expense. Jake had only finished his second year. How the hell did he know how expensive that would be?
Lauren had offered to help, but even so, Brophy saw the writing on the wall. He was still going to take the brunt of the expense. He was going to have to get a second job.
Now, though, his sole attention was on the Ashcroft case. He was piecing together the puzzle. He just had to figure out how they all fit.
He had made progress on the Internet. Found a few leads. Now that he knew the pattern…
Buzz…Buzz… Oh, damn, he had his phone on vibrate. Where the hell did he put it? Scattering the papers around, he found it.
“Detective John Brophy. Yeah, he’s my son. I’ll be right there.”
* * * *
Brophy stood by a plainclothes Quincy officer. He kept glancing over at his son, who sat on the curb with his head down. The idiot!
“We understand he’s had a little to drink,” Officer Monroe said. “Thought it would be the best thing to give you a call. Take him home…to your house.”
Eying his son, Brophy sighed. “Yeah, I’ll do that, but can you go over it one more time?”
Jake looked up. “I can tell you, Dad. Don’t listen to him. None of this is my fault. How was I supposed to know there was a fugitive upstairs?”
“Shut up, Jake. Just shut up.”
Turning back around to Officer Monroe, he couldn’t help but notice the smirk the officer couldn’t contain. He supposed if it wasn’t his son, he would be laughing too.
“Executing the warrant on the suspect, we had to take precautions. He was wanted for a violent rape. According to our source, he was staying with his cousin, his wife, and their child, on the second floor of this two-family house.
“We set up the perimeter and waited. We had not accounted for the party that your son and roommates were throwing on the first floor. We waited as long as we could without fear of the suspect fleeing.”
People going in and out: Brophy understood the concern. To finally have a suspect cornered, only to be held up from making the arrest by fucking college students drinking the night away.
“We had the electricity cut and made our way to the front and back entrances. Busting through the front door, we were confronted by a long, five-foot python. One of the officers tripped over it…he shot it…which in turn led to a chaotic scene.
“The suspect tried to flee, running down the back stairs, but he tripped and fell over all the beer cans and boxes that had been thrown into the back stairwell.”
“See, Dad…see—we helped apprehend a dangerous criminal.”
Brophy drew in a deep breath. “I’m going to tell you one more time—shut up, Jake!”
The officer continued. “There was the small fire that was started by an occupant on the first floor, trying to light a candle. It caught the kitchen curtains on fire. We were able to extinguish it without too much damage to the kitchen, but as you can see, the fire department was called to the scene.”
“So what’s the damage?”
Officer Monroe shrugged. “Think we can let most of it go with a stern warning. None of us wants to write up underage kids tonight. We’ve called all their parents to pick them up. The fugitive has been arrested and now is in custody…and will be transported to jail right after he gets out of the hospital—broken leg and concussion.
“But you can take your boy home. He can deal with the landlord later.”
“Thank you.” Brophy extended his hand to Monroe with his card. “If you ever need a favor, let me know.”
Gesturing for Jake to follow him, Brophy watched his son stand…or try to. Aggravated, he took Jake by the shoulder and pushed him forward. The idiot was still drunk.
* * * *
Brophy poured himself a cup of coffee, his third already. By the time the day was over, he was certain he would need a caffeine IV. In his youth, he could have stayed up all night and gone to work the next morning without a thought.
Now, he felt as if he had been hit by a train…and he hadn’t even been drinking.
He was getting old.
; A knock on the door told him his day was only beginning. He had arranged yesterday for Cruz to accompany him to Lowell to check out Russell Stanford’s home and family. She was picking him up.
She handed him a cup of coffee when he opened the door. “From the sound of you this morning, I thought you might want a turbo shot.”
“Thanks. It’ll help. Let me check on Jake and tell him I’m gone.”
It took only a moment. Jake wasn’t moving. He left him a note.
Walking back into the living room, he found Cruz looking over his board and papers.
“Working hard at it, I see. A few things I don’t have.” She placed a paper back down on the floor.
“I’ll have to see what you’ve got.”
“I would like to show you, but not yet…after we nail this sonofabitch.”
Looking at her oddly, he asked, “Are you flirting with me, Cruz?”
“Would you want me to be?”
“Do you really want me to answer that open-ended question? Look around. Don’t think I’m quite the catch you would be looking for.”
“What do you know what I’m looking for?”
“Well, I know it’s not an aging detective with three children to put through college…or two.” He cocked his head toward the bedroom. “That one in there has flunked out. Come to find out, he never even signed up for the summer courses he was supposed to take to get back into school this fall.
“He’s been finding himself…partying is more like it.”
“Then let him take the consequences. Tell him to get a job.” She moved closer to him. “We all have our issues to deal with. He just needs to grow up. Not a bad kid. I’m going to guess he’s been playing on your guilt about divorcing his mom.”
“How did you know that?”
“Because it’s the most natural thing in the world for our kids to push our buttons. I get it every day myself. You forget I’ve got two boys with a scumbag dad. He’s not even in the picture, only occasionally showing up…which only makes for more problems for the boys after he leaves.
“You are giving your kids the best of you. It’s not about money, but being there for them, like you were last night. All we can do is the best we can. Eventually, your boy will get it, because you will help him get it.”
Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) Page 18