Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  He hadn't moved. But now a horizontal line crossed the vertical one on his forehead, as if he wasn't certain what to make of that little scene. "Start with the last time you saw Edith Hunter alive."

  "We had dinner at the Long Wharf Marriott the night she was killed." I hauled in a deep breath; I wanted to get through this with as much dignity as possible. Not that I had all that much remaining. "We met at the restaurant at seven and left about, oh, nine or nine fifteen. We spent a lot of time talking over coffee."

  Wingate showed no sign of interruption. But his raised eyebrows invited more details and without planning to, I found myself elaborating.

  "Aunt Edith wanted me to make peace with my family. She spent a lot of time trying to convince me to come to the gallery, get involved in her — in Trés' art show, and see everyone while they're in town. I'm afraid I didn't give her much encouragement. I could tell, when we parted at her car, that she wasn't satisfied and that she intended to ask me again later, probably the next day before the gallery party."

  Her narrow lips had thinned even further as I paid the bill over her objections and hadn't relaxed even when I'd kissed her cheek and tucked her into her Beamer. I'd watched her drive away with a heaviness in my soul, knowing the discussion would be resumed all too soon.

  The memory covered me like a second skin. I'd give anything to be able to resume that argument with her — and to ask a few pointed questions regarding the contents of her garret. Here at the final end of our relationship, I'd disappointed her. After all, she was used to managing me with a look or a few words; even at my most recalcitrant, I'd never before given her a flat refusal. She hadn't thought she'd need to mention her request before that night.

  But she had no one to blame for my refusal except herself. If she'd sounded me on the topic before that night, if she'd given me time to get used to the idea, if she'd been willing to share me with the family sooner, before I locked myself so far away from them all — perhaps I would have returned to the gallery with her that night. Then, when she'd walked out to her Beamer and found Mister Impala sitting in her passenger seat waiting for her, I would have been there beside her. Even without a weapon, I could have put up some sort of fight while she ran for help, and then perhaps she would still be alive.

  "She offered to drop me by my condo. But I wanted to walk and turned her down. The last time I saw her alive, she was driving away from the waterfront."

  I'd mentioned the bare facts to Sherlock, but this was the first time I'd told anyone the story of that miserable night. I hadn't wanted to think about it. I still didn't and this enforced self-revelation deepened the pool of anger within me. I ran a finger across the wood — JERALD LOVES MARIA, some hopefully juvenile questionee had carved into the tabletop — letting the hard edge of that groove anchor me to the present. Anything, even splinters, was preferable to demonstrating my strangenesses before this crowd.

  "I walked back to my condo and stayed in the rest of the evening." I didn't have to look up to see Wingate's inquiring eyebrows and elaborated without the invitation. "I spent the early part of the day at the gun club. The telescopic sight on that Mauser rifle is a new replacement; the previous one was damaged during the war. I spent a few boxes of ammunition sighting it in, then a few more getting some practice with my Walther P-38 and Colt .45. When I returned from dinner, I spent the remainder of the evening cleaning weapons and watching a movie. The first I heard of anything wrong was when Patricia rang the doorbell before dawn the next morning."

  She'd tried to call me, she said when I opened the door in my bathrobe and little else. But I'd left the cell phone on the charger in the kitchen and had let the land-line go several months earlier when I realized the only people who used it were advertising solicitors and political poll takers. She awakened me the only way she could.

  When I glanced up from the graffiti, Wingate's forehead was uncreased once more. "What movie?"

  "What?" It took me a moment. "Oh. Men in Black Two. I needed a laugh."

  "That's a good one for it," Wingate said. "When were you diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder?"

  I froze. Beside me, so did William. My glance his way caught him staring again. His eyes were wider than I'd ever seen them and even a bit wary. It seemed the cross-pond family contact, Patricia, hadn't shared that little tidbit with him.

  "Have I committed an oops?" Wingate's elegant tenor wasn't contrite at all. "There are dangers to using a family member as an attorney, Captain. All that dirty laundry, you know."

  Bastard; that was deliberate. But I refused to back down and met his level stare, amused beneath his intense assessment.

  "Right after the war," I said, for William's benefit as well as Wingate's.

  Although Wingate's eyebrows went up again, I didn't elaborate. Let him ask; unless my counselor advised otherwise I was finished with volunteering information.

  Wingate asked. "How does it manifest?"

  I glanced right. William waited, too, his surprise under control and his expression neutral. My counselor, it seemed, wasn't going to intervene. It occurred to me he probably wanted an answer to that question as much as Wingate.

  "Is that germane to this discussion?" I asked them both.

  William broke eye contact instantly. He seemed embarrassed, as if he hadn't realized his behavior was reinforcing the interrogation.

  Wingate didn't. "It could be." The amusement vanished from his undertones as quickly as it had come.

  This was it, then: this was what he really wanted to know. The thought didn't calm me. Discussing my oddities was no better than displaying them. "Is that how you plan to pin this on me?"

  "Are you going to answer the question?"

  I glanced again at William. He was there waiting for me.

  "He can subpoena your medical records, you know."

  I looked away. Margot hadn't moved, her arms still crossed, but the street cop had straightened to his full six feet two and rested one hand on his holstered Glock. If the rising anger I felt showed on my face, I couldn't blame him. "It's a classic case. I have flashbacks to an event that happened during the war." I didn't mention I was also having flashbacks to the front of the Carr Gallery at dawn; that was too personal for this particular discussion. "Usually I just freeze for a moment or so, but once I acted out."

  Wingate's eyes were hooded and they measured me as if with calipers. "Were you violent?"

  I shook my head. Sherlock, who'd witnessed the event, told me I raised that Mauser rifle — the one in my memory — and took aim, as if playing air sniper instead of air guitar. "It wasn't that sort of event." Although, now that I considered it, if I'd had a real rifle in my hands there might have been a problem.

  "Did you require restraint?"

  He should have been an Ellandun; he wasn't about to let this go. Again I shook my head. "It only lasted a few moments. By the time anyone realized what was happening, it was over."

  Something flickered behind his expression. "You said a classic case. Is that your only manifestation?"

  So he wasn't going to let me get away with the lie of omission. I traced the outline of a carved heart with my finger. "Sometimes when I'm under severe stress I get tunnel vision and don't see what's happening on my periphery. And I've had a few hallucinations."

  "Violent ones?"

  I thought about describing the one I'd had yesterday in the car — William's fist flying at me out of nowhere — and decided against it. Perhaps I needed to have that conversation with my brother; I had no intention of doing so before Wingate and his squad.

  "I've taught myself to recognize them while they're happening," I said. "Whatever I see, I've learned not to respond to it. I should also mention that because of this, sometimes my behavior is inappropriate."

  Wingate's expression didn't flicker again. "For example?"

  "For example, that morning outside the gallery." It was as close to an apology as I intended to give him. To underline that I looked away, just as Margot uncros
sed her arms and let them hang at her side, near her own holstered Glock.

  But Wingate nodded, almost as if he understood. "Any amnesia?"

  I gave him the standard rebuttal. "I don't remember."

  His lip curled.

  I didn't need to glance to know William thought the same. I gave in. "All right, not that I know of. Sorry, but that's about the only joke I can get out of this ruddy situation."

  "And what do you do in the Army, Captain?"

  That was not a subject I wished to discuss before this crowd, either. I wasn't ashamed of my position but airing it here could only aggravate the police further, not to mention William.

  He continued into my silence. "You're in Special Forces; I recognize the insignia although not your shoulder patch. And you own a sniper's rifle as well as a machine gun and a small arsenal."

  Again I caught William's startled glance. I stifled a sigh. Patricia hadn't been there, either, and this wasn't the way I would have chosen to broach the subject.

  "I'm a member of a NATO intelligence and rapid response team."

  "Can you be more specific?" Wingate's perfect tenor was almost gentle.

  It seemed this, too, was important to him. I didn't look aside again; if William hadn't helped me earlier, he wouldn't now. So much for having a counselor, or a bastard, at my side. "We're the sort of team that goes in when an embassy is in trouble, or after an earthquake or other natural disaster. We worked behind the lines several times during the war — calling artillery fire, conducting sabotage operations, search and rescue for downed aircrews. And yes, I functioned sometimes as a sniper. And that's about as specific as I can get without permission from my commanding officer."

  "Would that be Colonel Holmes, the officer I met yesterday?"

  I nodded. "He would be the starting point."

  Wingate leaned back slightly, as if relaxing. But his focus still didn't waver. Everything that had gone before was merely the prelude: now he was swinging for the bleachers. I felt cold all over and my fists clenched as I braced myself for his question of questions.

  "Did you kill anyone during the war, Captain?"

  I wasn't braced nearly enough. My breath caught. For an ugly moment I couldn't look away from his stare, as piercing as Sherlock's cobra stare and peering as deeply into my soul. I knew William was beside me and Margot and the silent street uniform held up the wall near the hash marks with their hands on their Glocks. But for that moment, the only people in the room were Wingate and me and the room wasn't nearly large enough.

  I forced myself to look. Again William was there ahead of me, his expression this time calculating.

  "He can also subpoena your military records."

  No escape that direction, either. My breathing quickened as if I had been running. "Yes," I said. "I did."

  But not the one I wanted. The memory of the spotter, staring arrogantly back at me through the scope of the Mauser rifle, was suddenly more clear than Wingate's living self. My heartbeat accelerated, too.

  Wingate leaned forward and clasped his hands atop the table, inches from mine. His expression was concerned, the face of a friend, and I remembered his non-threatening office, designed and decorated to put offenders off guard.

  "Did you enjoy it?"

  The cold spread from my skin into my soul. "Don't be an ass. If I did, would I have PTSD?"

  His understanding expression didn't change. "I don't know. Tell me about it."

  I was moments from a meltdown, pressure building inside me like the soundtrack of a disaster movie. If I had a flashback, if I lost control and reacted inappropriately, it would give Wingate all the excuse he needed, if not to arrest me, then to have me locked away while the Kraut and Sherlock fought for my release. That would put paid to my license to carry and perhaps that was the real point of this exercise: not to obtain a confession and arrest a killer, but to prevent some fatal Rambo incident from happening in the future.

  The more I considered it, the more likely it seemed. I drew a breath, then another, deeper one. For once, the stupid exercises worked. Deliberately I withdrew from his vicinity and leaned back in the chair. My new perspective pushed the stress into the recesses of my damaged brain. Wingate's moment was over and he had lost.

  "No." My voice was calm. "I can't discuss specific missions."

  His expression tightened. "I can always ask Colonel Holmes or subpoena your records."

  I didn't need to look at William. "Then do it."

  For a moment more he watched me with that focused stare, so like Sherlock's. Then he broke eye contact and drank his coffee. It was almost an admission and acceptance of defeat, and my next breath came even more easily.

  "The Boston police department," he said, his voice again its elegant and conversational self, "received a tip concerning an alleged and uncharacteristic argument between Edith Hunter and one of the artists participating in the Friends and Fantasies show. I questioned Sharon Righetti, professionally known as Sidnë, and she admitted to the argument but claimed it was irrelevant to the investigation."

  His complete change of subject and demeanor confirmed my suspicion. Elation swept through me, the same sort of elation I felt when a lock surrendered to my ministrations and some poor sod's final defenses crumbled before me. I fought for control and I had won. Perhaps Sherlock was right: perhaps I could function so long as I had someone or something to defend.

  "We are, of course, following that up. In the meantime, Ms. Righetti claimed to have seen a man sitting inside Edith Hunter's car, parked outside the gallery that night, less than an hour prior to her murder. I want to see if she can pick you out of a lineup."

  William stirred. "Charles is wearing a military uniform. That's hardly inconspicuous."

  "That's a good point, Counselor. We'll find him a change of clothes." Wingate looked me over. The last vestiges of his intensity drifted away and his glance over my uniform was almost polite. "I don't think mine will fit you." He was both shorter and stouter than I.

  "True." My own voice was gentle now although not yet relaxed, and the sound of it sent confidence surging through me. "And I would like to look good for the record, you know."

  "You and I are a size," William said. "We can swap clothing temporarily."

  Wingate rose; Margot and the street uniform filed out. "There will be an officer at the door," he said with his hand on the knob. "You can change in here."

  William waited until the door was closed behind them then started unlacing his shoes. "Why are you so tense?"

  I followed suit, kicking off my boots and deliberately starting with my fatigue pants. "Because I don't like being accused of murder." I stripped them off, revealing the hidden holster and the Colt.

  "What the hell!"

  It was worth it. "I'm a military officer, William. Carrying weapons is the sort of thing we do, you know." I set the holster on the table, then started on my shirt. I felt much better.

  Give William credit, he recovered quickly. "Did you do it?"

  "Do what?" Perhaps I'd missed part of the conversation.

  He handed me his pants and took mine. He said nothing aloud, and suddenly he didn't need to. Suddenly, I didn't feel good at all.

  "Are you asking if I shot Aunt Edith?"

  "Yes, Charles. I'm asking if you shot Aunt Edith."

  I stared at him. I could do nothing else; that pitch out of left field, from the man I'd considered at least temporarily on my side, stunned me more than Wingate's veiled accusations. It was as if the last twenty years had been stripped from me, like my clothing, and I was once again a small boy exiled far from home to live with a relative I'd never met. I didn't even have the self-possession to pull on the pants I held in both hands and to my horror, tears blurred the ugly room about me.

  "No," I finally managed to say without my voice cracking. "No, I did not shoot Aunt Edith. She was my best friend."

  He straightened the fatigue shirt, tucked it in, and fastened the trousers, all without his stare leaving my fac
e. Finally he nodded. He believed me. I had passed muster.

  "All right. I'm an attorney, Charles. Like a policeman, I have to ask the tough questions."

  I couldn't let it go quite that easily. "Even to your family?"

  He didn't hesitate. "Sometimes especially. Get dressed; what are you waiting for?"

  I was waiting for my hands to stop shaking, but that would take a while and I wasn't about to tell him that. Instead I turned my back and just did my best. It helped my state of mind to consider how ridiculous he looked in olive drab fatigues.

  The leather holster shifted on the table; he was examining the Colt. But all he said was, "Comfortable, these are."

  "Your pants are loose. Why don't you try running or something?"

  He handed me the holster. "You get to explain this to them."

  "He didn't search me and he didn't ask me. You weren't here yet and I wasn't going to volunteer anything."

  "You still get to explain it."

  Chapter Twenty

  current time

  William told me afterward that Sidnë didn't have a clue: "She almost thought she recognized the police sergeant at the far end of the lineup, but that was the best she could do."

  Wingate, furious over his mistake and perfectly red in the face, returned my Colt and holster without an apology, although he did inform me that, with the permission of my sort-of counselor, he'd taken ballistics samples from it to compare with the report he'd just received, even though the huge slug from a .45 couldn't possibly have made those neat wounds in Aunt Edith's torso. Then William and I swapped clothes again in the conference room. It was over, the worst I had was the shakes, and perhaps no one had noticed those. I would even have time for lunch before the reading of Aunt Edith's will.

  On the front step of the station house, I waved for a cab, which ignored me. "Just how much help were you intending to be in there?"

  "Considering the trouble he could have made for both of us if I attempted to practice law in his domain without a license," William said, his voice dry, "not a lot."

  I shot a look his way then tried for another cab. That one didn't seem to like the look of me, either, and drove on.