by Ray Daniel
It was my turn.
Rosetta: Hey, Runway.
Nothing.
Rosetta: Was that your best shot?
The chat stream had frozen, all attention on Runway and me.
Rosetta: Here’s my shot … Peter.
Tron: Oh shit.
Epomis: Yup. Saw that coming.
Runway: Wait
Rosetta: You liking the view of Jim’s Auto Sales? What was that address again?
My private message bell rang.
Runway
Rosetta
Runway
Rosetta
Runway
Rosetta
Runway
Rosetta
Runway
Rosetta
Runway
Rosetta
I didn’t tell Peter aka Runway that, at that moment, I wanted to punch him right in the face. But I wouldn’t. By tomorrow I’d have cooled down and he’d go back to being a kid—an unusually nasty kid, but a kid.
I went back to the chat room.
Rosetta: Show’s over, folks.
Epomis: Peace.
I logged out, went to bed, hoping that the whiskey would help me sleep.
It didn’t.
Eighteen
The winds had shifted, and with them the approach paths at Logan. I got off the train at Wood Island and watched a plane descend toward Logan, bombing over the heads of people closer to the ocean.
You murdered your hot wife?
The chat session with Runway had reverberated in my head all night, driving insomnia interspersed with disorienting dreams. I had spent the early-morning hours reliving the attacks and disparaging how I had handled them.
I did NOT MURDER MY WIFE!
Great comeback, Tucker. Way to lose control.
I caught myself standing on the subway platform listening to another plane. It was almost nine, and time for the video apology that I had earned.
I headed off toward Peter Olinsky’s house. I had decided to show Adriana the video after I’d gotten it rather than bring her along. The situation was delicate, and a guy like Peter would probably clam up rather than be humiliated in front of a girl. Also, I wanted to be in the role of the great hunter bringing home fresh meat.
Your wife got slashed, dude.
What was I supposed to have said to that? I knew I was being trolled, that Peter was saying whatever he could to get a rise out of me. It wasn’t personal in any real sense. Peter didn’t even know me. At that point I was just a target, a prop, a way for him to get that Tron idiot to type LOL.
Still, it didn’t matter that it wasn’t personal. A guy punches you in the gut, what do you care whether he did it because he didn’t like you or just to make his buddy laugh?
A muscle near my eye twitched as I walked toward Swift Street. I’d hoped that a night’s sleep would make me feel better, would let my maturity attenuate the rage. I’d hoped that when I saw Peter face-to-face that I’d simply tell him to make a short video: “I’m sorry for what I did, Maria.” That was all it would take, all I would need.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
My cell phone rang. I glanced at it, decided to answer.
Bobby Miller said, “Why didn’t you pick up last night?”
“My phone was on mute,” I said.
“I tried you about a hundred times.”
“It was really only five.”
“So you did see the calls.”
“This morning. I was busy last night.”
“Yeah, busy getting trolled by Runway.”
“You were spying on me again?”
“I was not spying on you.”
I stopped walking at Jim’s Auto Sales. The Olinsky house stood across the street, its little window eyes no happier than they were yesterday.
I said, “Doesn’t matter. It’ll be over in a few minutes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m standing across the street from Peter Olinsky’s house. I’m going to get a video of him apologizing to Maria, and then we’ll be done.”
“Jesus, Tucker. Just leave the guy alone.”
“Yeah, sure. Right after I get this video.”
“Goddammit! Motherfu—”
I ended the call. I’d need my phone anyway, for the video. Crossed the street and climbed the steps to Peter’s front door. An aluminum storm door protected the paint-chipped wooden front door. I rang the bell, listened to it bing-bong its way through the house. Opened the screen door. Knocked. No answer. Tried the knob. Locked.
I turned, trotted down the steps. Maybe Peter was doing something in the backyard. Unlike the rest of the Capes in the neighborhood, Peter’s stood alone on its block, as if ostracized. I walked down a strip of brown April grass, stepped into the brown back yard. Three daffodils squatted against the foundation forming a pathetic little garden.
No Peter.
Completing my circuit of the house, I walked back up the steps. Peered through the aluminum storm door, rang the bell. Nothing. Opened the storm door again. The wooden interior door was ajar. I was sure I had tried it, that it had been locked. I knocked on the door. No answer. Pushed the door open. No sounds.
“Hellooo!”
Silence.
“Peter, it’s me, Tucker!”
Nothing.
The smell of bacon wafted through the house alongside the chemical-fraud stink of artificial maple syrup. I stepped into the kitchen, surveyed the dishes in the sink. Three dishes. One mother, two sons. Gustav off to school, Mrs. Olinsky off to Hertz to ask people how their rental had performed. Peter sitting upstairs?
I moved to the bottom of the stairs. Called up, “Peter!”
Climbed a couple of stairs, clomping to attract attention. Stopped walking. Listened hard. Heard nothing but the blood rushing in my ears and the creaks of the step where my weight pressed them.
“Peter?”
An old-time Star Trek communicator chirped, startling me and sending me scrabbling my smartphone out of my pocket.
A text from Bobby Miller: Where are you?
I climbed a couple of more steps. “Peter?”
Nothing.
Texted back: Peter’s house.
I climbed the rest of the steps, found myself in a little hallway, started to turn the corner, and stopped.
Blood pooled across a thin carpet from around the corner. The carpet had absorbed what it could, been overwhelmed, and let the river continue until fresh carpet could stop it. The crimson pool nestled between green polyester fibers.
I stepped forward, careful to keep my foot out of the blood. Peeked around the corner into Peter’s room.
The Star Trek communicator chirped again. Another text from Bobby. I ignored it, transfixed by what I saw in the bedroom.
Peter Olinsky’s severed head lay sideways on the green polyester, red splashed across its cheeks where powerful jets of arterial blood must have spurted from his freshly slashed neck. His open eyes stared ahead, slightly parted blue lips appeared about to say something.
I looked at Bobby’s text: Run!
Nineteen
I took one last glance at Peter’s head, spun, ran down the steps, dashed through the living room, and burst out of the aluminum screen door. Ran right into Lt. Lee of the Boston Police Department, knoc
king him down the three steps leading to the entry.
“Shit—I’m sorry, Lee!”
I ran down the steps reached to help him up and heard a cop yell, “Freeze! Get on the ground! Get on the fucking ground!”
I looked up to see three police cruisers arrayed around Swift Street. The cruisers had delivered five cops, three of whom had guns drawn and pointed at me.
“Get on the ground!”
I lay down next to Lieutenant Lee. Whispered, “Sorry.”
Lieutenant Lee, an Asian man with black hair splayed across his forehead, sat up and looked at me as if he’d just scraped me off his shoe. Lee and I had a lot of mutually annoying history, the most recent of which saw me solving one of his cases for him.
“Hello, Mr. Tucker.”
I lay on my stomach, waved a little wave. “Can I get up?”
“That depends on what we’ll find when we go inside.”
“You’ll find Peter Olinsky’s head on his bedroom floor, next to his body.”
“Then I think you should stay on the ground.”
Rolled my eyes. “C’mon, Lee.”
Lee stood, looked around. Waved at the cops. “Please put away your weapons.”
One of the cops had run past me into the house. We heard a muffled “Holy shit!” from inside.
Lee said, “And naturally, you had nothing to do with this?”
Shook my head. “Left my broadsword at home.”
“What were you doing here?”
I thought about explaining the whole thing to Lee, decided against it. “Long story.”
Lee said, “Better told in an interview room?”
“Or a bar.”
“Let’s say that—”
Bobby Miller’s Chevy Impala pulled up next to us. Bobby and Hunter climbed out.
Bobby said, “Goddammit, Tucker!”
I waved from the sidewalk. “Top of the morning to you.”
“Why are you here?” Lee asked Bobby.
Hunter walked past us into the house.
Lee called after her, “That is a crime scene!”
Bobby said, “We know, Lee. To answer your question, that’s why we’re here.”
“It is not your crime scene. It’s a Boston Police Department crime scene.”
“I guess we’ll just have to share the crime scene.”
“What does the FBI care about a Boston murder?”
“We care about all of God’s children.”
Lee narrowed his eyes at Bobby. “Are you mocking me?”
Bobby looked down at me. Nudged me with his shoe. “I told you to leave Peter alone.”
Lee asked, “Peter?”
Bobby said, “The decapitated guy in the house is named Peter Olinsky.”
“How do you know this?”
I said, “Peter Olinsky was an FBI person of interest.”
Lee asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Can I get off the ground?”
“Fine.” Lee pulled me to my feet. “What are you talking about?”
“A hacker named Runway stole something confidential and left a trail. Bobby and Hunter had linked the nickname to Peter.”
Hunter joined us. “Jesus, Tucker, did you have to threaten to cut off his head?”
Bobby rolled his eyes. Put his finger to his lips. “Hey, rookie. Don’t talk. Just listen.”
Lee said to me, “You threatened the victim?”
“A little argument on the Internet.”
“Did you threaten the victim?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean sort of? You threatened him or you didn’t.”
“I only Internet threatened him.”
“What’s that mean?”
“People who make Internet threats never expect to meet the person they threaten. Nobody thinks they’ll actually carry out the threat.”
“Did you threaten to cut the victim’s head off?”
“That was a metaphor.”
“You metaphorically threatened to cut off his head?”
“I guess.”
“And now his head is cut off.”
“I can’t explain that.”
Lee asked Bobby, “Is there any reason I shouldn’t arrest Tucker? You seem to like interfering with my doing my job, so I wanted to check.”
Bobby said, “Beyond the fact that I need Tucker to help me now that Peter is dead, you don’t have enough evidence.”
“I have motive, apparently, and opportunity.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have means.”
“Tucker owns a broadsword.”
Bobby turned to me. “You own a broadsword?”
“I don’t own a broadsword.”
Lee said, “You just told me you did.”
“It was a joke. I was breaking the I-just-saw-a-head-on-the-floor tension.”
“I want you to come to the station for more questions.”
“How did you know Peter’s head was cut off?” I asked Bobby.
“Huh?”
“You knew Peter’s head was cut off when you got here.”
“Well … ”
“And you texted me at least thirty seconds before Lee got here.”
Lee asked, “Is this true?”
I showed him the text: Run!
Lee asked Bobby, “Why did you tell Tucker to run?”
“We didn’t know if the killer was still in the house,” said Bobby.
“Someone had been in the house,” I said.
“How do you know?” asked Lee.
“The front door was locked when I got here. I walked around the house, and when I reached the front again, it was open.”
Lee asked Bobby, “How did you know about the murder?”
“We saw a picture.”
“Where would you see a picture like that?”
I said, “On 4chan.org.”
Bobby said, “Yup.”
“What is 4chan.org?”
I said, “If there’s a hell, Lee—”
“There is.”
“Okay. In hell, 4chan.org is the only thing on the Internet. Somebody must have posted Peter’s picture there.”
“Bingo,” Bobby said. “It was posted with a Latin phrase.”
“What phrase?” asked Lee.
“Sic semper contumeliosis,” said Hunter.
“‘Thus ever to the insolent,’” said Lee, looking at me.
“What did I do?” I asked.
“Wow, Lieutenant Lee,” said Hunter. “You’re up on your Latin.”
“I am an alum of Boston Latin School. I took advanced-placement Latin to help with my Bible studies.”
“That would do it,” said Bobby.
Until now, I had been caught up in running away from a body, having guns drawn at me, and getting questioned by Lee. But the music had stopped, and images of what I had seen upstairs broke back into my consciousness.
Blood in a carpet.
Peter’s parted lips.
Hunter said, “The picture popped up just before we called you.”
The picture of Peter’s head.
Stale adrenaline, combined with images of blood and carpet, settled in my stomach and—I ran to the curb. Threw up in the gutter. Stood there, hands on knees. Panted a bit. More images of Peter floated into my head. I fought them, pushing them down, down out of my field of view. Wrestling them into a little box, I felt a hand on my back.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” said Hunter.
I retched a dry heave. Blew stale air out of my lungs. Stared at the splash in the gutter right next to a storm drain. So close. Spit some wet debris into the street. Hunter’s hand appeared in my field of vision bearing two Altoids.
“Mints?” she
asked.
I took the Altoids from Hunter’s small hand.
“Thanks.” I popped an Altoid in my mouth. Chewed. Swished it around. Popped the next one, let it dissolve.
A cop whose nameplate said Hendricks walked up to us. “Thanks, Agent Hunter.”
“Special Agent Hunter,” she said. “Thanks for what?”
“Thanks for giving him a breath mint. He would have stunk up my cruiser between here and the station.”
Twenty
If anything’s worse than sitting in a police conference room, it’s sitting in a police conference room while a hot red-headed lawyer in a black business suit gives you the stink eye.
“I told you to be quiet,” said Caroline Quinn.
“I just said hello to Lieutenant Lee,” I said, nodding in Lee’s direction.
“That’s enough out of you,” said Caroline.
“Hello, Tucker,” said Lee.
“And you,” said Caroline, “can direct all your comments to me.”
“I don’t see why this has to be confrontational.”
“You don’t? Really. Okay then.” Caroline rose. She had chosen a black-matte design on her left leg today, the prosthetic a memento of the day she stood in the wrong spot at the Boston Marathon. “Let’s go, Tucker.”
I stood, ever obedient.
Lee said, “You can’t go yet.”
Caroline asked, “Is Tucker under arrest?”
“No.”
“Am I under arrest?” asked Caroline.
“No.”
“Then we can go.”
“I’d prefer you to stay.”
“To what purpose? My client—”
“Your boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend,” said Caroline.
“I’m sorry, I must be confused. Tucker, what is your relationship to Attorney Quinn?”
“I’m her—”
“You be quiet,” said Caroline. “We’re leaving.”
“Do you realize that I’ve received over two hundred calls to our tip line identifying Tucker as Peter Olinsky’s murderer?” asked Lee.
“Do you realize that random people calling a phone number is not an integral part of American jurisprudence?”
“It may not be evidence, but it is a reason for me to ask Tucker to answer some questions.”
“Tucker is not answering questions. He’s not here to do your work for you, Lee. He’s here because you asked him to physically be here, and he won’t be here for long.”