Sullivan's Law

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Daniel pounded the floor with his fists. “Is that too much to ask, God?” he wailed. “Must I suffer? Isn’t there some way out? Why am I being punished?”

  “What do you know about God, momma’s boy? If you wait until tomorrow, you can meet him in person. You’re dead, you disgusting asshole. You’ll be back in a padded cell. That’s a little like dying, isn’t it?”

  Daniel’s fingers trembled as he frantically whipped through the pages in his Bible. He chanted the scriptures aloud, his eyes leaping from one section to another. The portion of the New Testament that was highlighted in red blurred, then melted into a river of blood. His blood. Demon blood. Damaged blood.

  He walked to the closet and removed something from the top shelf, placing it in the center of the room. The large Bowie knife slowly began spinning on the floor. If he held his breath, he could hear it speaking to him, hissing like a snake. “Pick me up, loser. You want an answer to your problems, don’t you? I’m the answer. Slit your wrists and it will all end.”

  Daniel pressed his thumbs hard against his eyelids, trying to make the hallucinations stop.

  “You know there’s only one way to stop it. All you have to do is pick up the knife. Maybe you should slit your throat. That way, you’ll die faster.”

  “H-help me, God,” he stammered, pressing his palms together in prayer. It was as if he’d been pulled into hell. His furniture turned into abstract blobs of brown. The walls closed in on him, trapping him in a tight box. He choked on his own saliva. Without thinking, he placed the knife at his throat, directly over his jugular vein.

  A sudden breeze from the open window distracted him. He watched as the pages in the Bible fluttered. Almost as soon as the breeze came, it stopped. His gaze locked on the open page.

  God was sending him a message.

  Daniel read, beginning from Ecclesiastes 4:10: “For if they fall one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up. Though one may be overpowered by another, two can withstand him. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”

  Daniel’s eyes sprang open when he heard the jailer turn the key in the lock. The scripture had been right. The three awful boys had been waiting in the alley for him.

  “Stand up,” the large man said. “We’re moving you to another cell.”

  Daniel stood, pushing the past away. Why was he in jail? He’d lost all his work. Was there really a reason to keep living? He’d fallen into the pit again.

  When he didn’t move, the deputy came inside and seized him. “Get your butt moving, Metroix,” he said. “Are you deaf?”

  After consuming three cups of instant coffee and two bowls of Lucky Charms, Carolyn threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to head out to the bank. Once she got some cash and had them issue her another instant teller card, she would go to the jail. With the two agencies disagreeing as to how to proceed, the paperwork on Daniel’s release might not be processed until the following day. She could imagine how he must feel. Only two weeks after his parole from prison, and he was once again behind bars. Not only that, the man had lost a lifetime of his work. He was probably more concerned with the loss of his inventions than the fact that he was incarcerated.

  Grabbing an old brown handbag and her car keys, Carolyn exited the front of the house. When she saw her car in the driveway, she suddenly halted. Both the front and rear windshields of the Infiniti were shattered, and the side and rear panels had been bashed in as well. For a moment, she wondered if the car had been damaged from falling debris during the explosion. She knew this couldn’t be true as John wouldn’t have been able to see to drive the car home the night before. She also doubted if her son would fail to tell her about something this disturbing.

  Moving closer to the car, she saw a gray, letter-sized piece of cardboard held in place by the windshield wipers. Careful not to cut herself from the shards of broken glass, she plucked it out by the tips of her fingers, hoping whoever had written it had left fingerprints or some other form of identifying evidence. The words were written in large block letters with a black magic marker:

  METROIX IS A MURDERER. MURDERERS

  HAVE NO FUTURE. HELP HIM AND YOU WILL

  DIE WITH HIM.

  Carolyn felt her breath catch in her throat. At eleven forty-five in the morning, the sun was high in the sky and the temperature in the mid-seventies, but she felt as if a dark cloud had formed over her head. She stared at the menacing words. Not only was her own life in jeopardy, but also the lives of her children.

  Most of the people on the block worked, and their children attended school during the day. Why hadn’t she heard anything? The crime had to have been committed some time after eight o’clock that morning, when John and Rebecca had left. Someone could have trashed the car while she was in the shower as her bedroom was located at the rear of the residence.

  Carolyn carried the note back inside the house. She set it down on the kitchen table, then placed it inside a plastic sandwich bag. Burying her head in her hands, she tried to decide what to do next. She had to report the crime to the police. If she didn’t, her insurance wouldn’t cover the damage. The problem was she didn’t know whether she could trust Hank Sawyer, or anyone else related to the Ventura police, the same department where Charles Harrison had once been chief. Jurisdiction was jurisdiction, however, and she had no other course of action.

  After she notified the police, she called her brother. “Neil,” she said when a groggy male voice answered, “I need to borrow your van.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s past noon,” she told him. “John tried to call you last night. You’d already turned off your phones. I was involved in an explosion. This morning someone came to the house and vandalized my car. They also threatened to kill me.”

  She heard him whispering to someone. She assumed it must be the model with the face and body of an angel. “I’ll borrow Melody’s car and come right over,” he told her. “You can’t use my van. We’ve got it loaded with my paintings for the show. I promised the gallery I’d drop them off this afternoon.”

  “How is that going to help me?” Carolyn blurted out, her nerves frazzled. “I need transportation. Your model friend, or whoever Melody is, isn’t going to let me use her car for the next week, is she? The police are probably going to impound the Infiniti for evidence. Then I’ll have to get it to a body shop.”

  “Can’t you use a county car?”

  “The pool cars are death traps, Neil,” she told him. “The last time I drove one, the brakes went out on the freeway. I almost went through the windshield. Don’t you remember? I spent two days in the hospital.”

  “Melody is going to hang out here this afternoon,” her brother told her. “We’ll figure things out when I get there. Calm down, sis. You’re bombarding me with all this shit and I’m not even awake yet. Make me some coffee.”

  “I broke the coffeepot.”

  “What didn’t you break?” he said, groaning. “Forget it. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Carolyn saw two police units pull up in front of her house, as well as the unmarked black Ford Crown Victoria driven by Hank Sawyer. She went outside to talk to them.

  While the crime scene tech snapped photos and another officer began writing his report, Hank and Carolyn moved to the other side of the yard so they could converse privately. She leaned back against a large weeping willow tree.

  “You’re going to violate Metroix’s parole now, I hope,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the Infiniti. “Didn’t I tell you last night that you’re walking on the wrong side of the track?”

  Carolyn’s emotions had gone from shock to anger. She narrowed her eyes at the detective. “Maybe you wrote the note and had one of your men take a crowbar to my car.”

  Hank laughed caustically. “Listen,” he said, becoming serious again, “I might not agree with you on this Metroix fellow. I don’t make threats and I certainly don’t arrange for po
lice officers to destroy private property. I realize you’ve been through the wringer, but you’re out of line.”

  “Think about it,” Carolyn said, running her hands through her hair. “Metroix certainly didn’t smash up my car and leave a death threat. The man’s in jail.”

  “Like I said last night,” he told her, “he may have a crime partner. We’re going to check and see if anyone else was released around the same time. A lot of these cons pair up when they leave the joint.”

  Police and corrections officers worked in the same arena, yet their areas of expertise differed. “How long has it been since you visited a prison?” Carolyn asked. “My guess is Chino released fifty inmates the same day they released Metroix. Everyone’s all hot and heavy to lock these guys up. No one gives much thought as to where we’re going to put them. Half the prisons in this state are so overcrowded they’re under state mandate to release people prior to the completion of their sentences. The whole thing is turning into a farce, a revolving door.”

  “Metroix didn’t do a quick turnaround,” Hank reminded her, unwrapping a toothpick and sticking it between his teeth. “He was in long enough to have an entire prison gang behind him.”

  Carolyn crossed her arms over her chest, then stomped on a snail on the sidewalk to release her frustrations. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man standing near the curb. At first she assumed it was Neil, even though she hadn’t expected her brother to get there that fast. Ten minutes to Neil generally meant an hour.

  Carolyn stared at the man. She estimated his height at around six feet, and from what she could tell, he was slender and fit. He wasn’t muscular like Brad, but his clothes hung nicely on his body. Wearing a white, loose-fitting shirt and gray slacks, his salt and pepper hair was pushed behind his ears. It must be naturally curly, she thought, seeing a few ringlets on his neck and forehead. His skin was fair, an interesting contrast against his dark hair. As he moved closer, she noticed that his eyes were a pale shade of blue. This had to be her son’s new pal, the esteemed Professor Leighton. Even though he had a broad smile on his face, he squinted in the bright sun. She doubted that he spent a great deal of time outdoors.

  Why was he home during the middle of the day, she wondered? John had told her he taught at Caltech. Not only that. Why, she asked herself, had he bought a house in Ventura? Caltech was located in Pasadena, almost a two-hour drive away.

  Carolyn moved only inches from the detective’s face. “Metroix served such a long sentence because someone made certain of it. Don’t patronize me, Hank. You know what’s going on here. Maybe when Charles Harrison heard that I refused to violate Metroix’s parole, he hired some goons to bash my car in to scare me off.”

  “Proof, Carolyn,” the detective said. “You can’t throw those kinds of accusations around without backing them up. Harrison’s a respected man in this city.”

  “I had my doubts about Metroix,” Carolyn said, deciding not to tell him about her phone call to the warden until she did more research. “With the way things are shaping up, I’m almost certain he was railroaded. Are you covering for Harrison, along with every other cop around? The way you’re acting, I’m beginning to think you are. Give Harrison a message, okay? Tell him the next time anyone steps foot on my property, their brains are going to end up on the pavement instead of my windshield.”

  Hearing a voice behind her, Carolyn spun around.

  “You must be Carolyn Sullivan,” the man she’d seen earlier said, extending his hand. “My name is Paul Leighton. Your son—”

  Carolyn cut him off, not wanting the detective to get the idea that John was involved. “Nice to meet you,” she said, forcing a smile. “Excuse us for a moment, Hank.”

  The detective shook his head in amazement. “This man may have seen the people who wrecked your car. Now you’re going to try to keep me from talking to a possible witness.”

  “I’m sorry, Officer,” Leighton said politely. “I didn’t see anything worth mentioning. I assume you’re a police officer,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the two other men. “You must be a detective, I guess, since you’re not wearing a uniform. Forgive me. I’m not well-versed in police matters.”

  “Detective Hank Sawyer,” he said, squeezing the man’s hand and pumping it. “As you can see, Mr. Leighton, we’re investigating a crime here. Any information you could provide us would be appreciated.”

  “I did hear a lot of racket around ten o’clock,” Leighton offered. “I thought it was the garbage truck. To be honest, I forgot what day of the week it was.” He massaged his hand, as if Hank’s handshake had been painful. “When I’m working, I tend to tune out interference.”

  “I see,” Hank said, sizing up Leighton. “What type of work do you do?”

  “Well,” he said, obviously not an overly talkative person, “right now I’m attempting to finish a book.”

  “I gather it’s not a detective novel,” Hank said, chuckling.

  “No, no,” Leighton said, laughing. “I’m on sabbatical. I teach physics over at the university.”

  Any mention of physics was enough to send the detective off to speak with the other officers. Carolyn gently took the professor by the elbow, leading him toward the front of her house. Physicists and inventors, normally a rarity, were suddenly in abundance. She wondered if Leighton did most of his writing by hand, the reason he’d cringed when Hank had given him one of his bone-crunching handshakes.

  “It was really nice of you to look after John and Rebecca last night,” she said, taking a seat in one of the white wicker chairs on her front porch, then gesturing for Leighton to do the same. “As soon as I get a handle on things, we’d love to have you and your daughter over for dinner.”

  “Oh,” he said, lowering himself into the chair next to her. “I was happy to help out. Who do you think did this to your car? Was it related to the incident at the motel or a random act of vandalism?”

  She shrugged. “No one knows at this point.”

  “I wasn’t aware there were any problems in this neighborhood,” he said, brushing his finger under his nose. “I have a home in Pasadena. I decided that distancing myself from the university for a while might make my work move along faster. You know,” he added, lowering his eyes, “when you’ve been affiliated with an academic community for as long as I have, people have a tendency to intrude on your privacy.”

  Her son had been right, Carolyn told herself. From what she could tell, Leighton appeared to be an interesting and decent man. And of all days for her to meet him. She looked like a bum off the street. No makeup, her hair dangling in wet strands from the shower, and she was dressed in a drab gray T-shirt and a pair of John’s baggy Levi’s with rips in the knees. She’d plucked them out of the laundry basket, hoping the rips would minimize the pressure on her injuries.

  Carolyn had to admit that there was an aura of elegance about the professor. Maybe she was attracted to him because he was the antithesis of Brad Preston.

  “My brother is on his way over. I’m going to have to make arrangements to rent a car,” she said, watching as the police loaded the Infiniti onto their flatbed to transport it to the crime lab. “This really is a good area. After last night, you must think I attract trouble.”

  “I understand you’re a probation officer,” Leighton stated, swatting a fly out of his face. “That means you deal with criminals on a regular basis.”

  “More or less,” Carolyn told him. “But I’ve never ended up with them in my driveway. Hopefully, this will be the first and last.”

  Paul Leighton sat quietly, staring into space. Obviously, he possessed another rare trait—he was comfortable with silence.

  “John really enjoyed visiting with you,” Carolyn spoke up. “I’m certain he told you about his aspirations to attend MIT.”

  “I have an extra car,” the professor said. “I’m saving it for when my daughter gets her driver’s license. You’re free to borrow it until you make other arrangements. All it’s doing i
s gathering dust in my garage. Running the engine would keep me from having to recharge the battery whenever I get around to driving it.”

  How sweet, she thought. “I couldn’t really,” she answered. “You’ve done enough. Anyway, thanks again.”

  “No, please,” Leighton said, his voice elevating. “Lucy was angry at me for making her switch schools. Rebecca introduced her to all her friends the other day. Lucy wants to have her spend the night when they’ll have more time together.” He paused, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “It’s not easy raising a child by yourself. Of course, according to your son, we’re in the same predicament.”

  Carolyn felt comfortable, as if Leighton were an old friend. “If you’re absolutely certain,” she said, “I might consider taking you up on your offer. Because my purse was destroyed in the explosion, I have to reconstitute my identity. I don’t think I’ll need the car for more than a day. I’m adequately insured in case something happens.”

  “Come with me,” he said, standing. “You can take the car now.”

  “My brother and I may be able to figure something else out,” Carolyn said, removing a piece of paper and a pen from her purse. “Write down your number. I’ll call you if I need to use your car. Are you sure I’m not imposing?”

  “Not at all,” Leighton said, flashing a broad smile. “What are neighbors for?”

  Chapter 9

  Neil arrived forty minutes late, roaring into Carolyn’s driveway in a burgundy Porsche.

  The police had already left and she was waiting on the front porch. At six-three, her brother resembled her father—large, expressive dark eyes, a narrow face with chiseled features, unkempt black hair, and a boyish way about him that made women either want to mother him or jump into bed with him. Neil was so slender he looked as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in months. Carolyn wished she shared his metabolism. He ate everything in sight and never gained a pound.