Ice Shear

by M. P. Cooley

  “No, I want you to have this baby.” His eye caught mine and his voice dropped low, but I heard everything. “But I don’t want you to drop out of school, ruin your life. Like your mom. Like me.”

  “I won’t ruin my life!” Jackie yelled through angry tears. “This baby will be the best thing that ever happened to me. And I will love it so much, and be the best mother you ever saw, and this baby will love me and no one else. You don’t want me to have his baby, or go with his parents. You want me to be a loser like you, being grateful for the scraps they drop like we’re dogs!” Chuck looked stung, but Jackie didn’t notice. She crossed her arms in front of her, the fabric pulling taut against a small, but visible, baby bump. “But I’ll be eighteen in three weeks. I can leave the state. You can’t stop me.”

  Mrs. Jelickson’s screech sounded faintly through the door. Chuck reached out, and despite her angry tears, Jackie let him put his arms around her and pull her close.

  I cleared my throat. “Chuck, can I trust the two of you to stay put?” He didn’t respond, and I left. The brightness of the main room blinded me, and I almost ended up running into R. Michael Fitzgerald’s right-hand man.

  Barely out of school, he had patronizing down. “Of course, now that Mr. DeGroot has counsel, anything said since then isn’t admissible.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said.

  The more things progressed, the more I—and the whole police department—were being cut off at the knees. The people we couldn’t question, the information withheld by the congresswoman, the FBI. And I was tired and missed my daughter a lot. I decided a quick phone call was in order. Lucy was still in school, and my father knew I was working through the night and wasn’t going to be worrying, but I needed to reconnect with real life, with a life outside cops and killers and murdered kids.

  I sat down at my desk. No one noticed me. I dialed home, and as the phone rang, I bounced my Dude Lebowski bobblehead, his beard brushing against his blue bathrobe.

  Dad picked up and immediately dropped the phone. I could hear it bounce off a chair and land on the floor.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I heard from a distance.

  “Long day?” I asked, once he was on the line.

  “I think that’s what I should be asking you. You into double time yet?” He was a cop through and through, one who wanted to solve the case and catch the bad guy and who understood the value of overtime.

  “Flipped into double time somewhere around Tuesday. How’s Lucy?”

  “Okay. I received a long speech about how I’m boring and how I comb her hair too hard.”

  “Which you do,” I said, smiling even though he couldn’t see me.

  “Yeah, okay. You’re not bald, though, and I’m sure she’ll live. Anyway, I couldn’t do anything right, which means she misses you.”

  “I miss her, too.” I did, in a bone-deep way. Instead of cheering me up, this conversation was exhausting me. I needed something happy to look forward to. “Hey, let Lucy know that when I get home tonight, we can go ice-skating.”

  “That’ll keep our girl happy.”

  “She’s probably angrier at me than you.”

  “Nah. You know, Luce brought home pictures of you fighting crime. In a cape, no less. She’s good.”

  “And you’re good. You’re a live-in babysitter when you were all set to enjoy your retirement.”

  “Eh, I had to retire. No way I was going to enjoy it. Plus, now I’m a grandpa.” His tone was warm. “You seem to be enjoying yourself. Monsignor Ottario said you worked him over yesterday.”

  I laughed. “Maybe I’m enjoying it a little. Still, I miss her.” I looked down at my desk, pretending to study a report. The only thing keeping me from tearing up was the knowledge that two Jelicksons, two lawyers, and Lorraine were ten feet away.

  “I know. I remember. But Hopewell Falls has one murder a year, tops, and generally it’s solved fast. This one’s a big one. I think the last time we had one this rough was back in the eighties, where the father chopped up his family and made them disappear. If you ever figure out where he stashed those bodies, I’ll sleep better. You’ll solve this case, I know you, and you’ll come home and spend more time with your daughter than you even knew you wanted. Okay?”

  “Can I have a nap between now and then?” I asked, feeling better.

  “The way you slept as a teenager, I’m amazed you managed to ever wake up. Now go finish up and be back in time for dinner,” he said. “Or so help me, I’ll make sloppy joes again.”

  I hung up and sank back in my chair, my body wanting rest, my mind tracing the room. Under the fluorescents everyone looked like they belonged in a wanted poster, including Dave and Lorraine, who were in intense conversations with the lawyers. Fitzgerald kept cutting off anyone who made a comment, and Charles Van Schoon’s WASPy dignity couldn’t cover the disgusted look that crossed his face whenever he scrutinized the station, Dave, Lorraine, or particularly Mrs. Jelickson.

  I glanced into the chief’s office. Chuck stood at the window. To be fair, Hopewell Falls crime was more of this type—folks getting into a tussle in public and needing to calm down under the watchful eye of the police. Admittedly, the tusslers weren’t usually suspects in a high-profile murder. Still, the mundane police work had been what I needed when Kevin was sick, and even more now I was a single parent. The decision to return had been painful, but for the first time in my adult life—“First time in your whole life, you mean,” Dad later said—I needed help. Kevin had been the one to argue most against giving up my work with the FBI, but I knew I had to give up something I wanted for what I needed.

  “LYONS,” DAVE SAID, STANDING right in front of me. I was so out of it I completely missed his approach. “Got a minute?”

  “For you? Sure.” I followed him into the interrogation room, where Hale was waiting. I hadn’t even realized he was back.

  “After consultation with the fine people of the State of New York—okay, Amanda Brouillette—Jerry has decided not to press charges,” Dave said. “He says he doesn’t have enough evidence, claims that it’s a misunderstanding. I disagree, so I get to spend a few hours on a conference call, explaining why one of the state’s most prominent citizens was arrested on such a nuisance charge.”

  “Tell those folks y’all were responding to a public disturbance this morning. You were just being neighborly. And you can’t give them any details because I’m a controlling pain in the ass.” Hale’s southernness always shone through when he was tired, drunk, or talking to his mama. The accent was out in force.

  “I’ll bet my firstborn,” Dave said, “that Amanda Brouillette instigated this phone call and will be listening in. Clearly, if she’s wasting our time that way, she doesn’t want her husband sprung from jail that quickly.” Dave sat down in a chair, tipping it back against the wall. “Since we’re in no rush, I think Lyons, here, should go have that talk with Jason Byrne, track down those boots and what happened to the key. You, too.” He nodded at Hale. “Go see if you can get Byrne to confess to the whole thing so I can go home.” His eyes drooped closed.

  “Are we dismissed?” I asked loudly.

  Dave didn’t open his eyes, just waved us out. “Be gone.”

  CHAPTER 21

  GREG BYRNE WAS NOT willing to go quietly. While amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s disease, had taken away many things, when we asked to question Jason, Greg Byrne had no problem speaking his mind, albeit slowly, with a voice scratchy from disuse.

  “Need to stop Jason,” he said, “from selling self down river.”

  Jason grinned as he set up folding chairs next to his father’s bed, which sat in the corner. The room was cramped, less of a living room than a well-decorated hospital room. While the Byrnes were near neighbors of the Brouillettes, the Byrnes’ house had been built twenty years earlier, smaller in size and intention, with narrow windows that received no afternoon light. The room was adorned with pink and gray pastel couches and a glass-top coffee table,
the 51-inch flat-screen TV crammed in opposite Greg Byrne’s bed a modern luxury out of place in the 1980s decor. Needless to say, I’d guess decorating was low down on their list of priorities, below keeping Greg Byrne breathing and keeping the drugstore afloat.

  I had deep misgivings about doing the interview with Greg Byrne present. Jason was an adult in every sense of the word, so no parent was needed, and his missing key was probably the only way anyone else might have accessed the medical-waste Dumpster. Why someone chose to dump the boots and hat at the pharmacy rather than in one of the empty lots around here didn’t make sense, unless like Marty they hadn’t been here long enough to know what areas were abandoned and what areas just looked that way. Jason didn’t think much of Danielle and clearly admired Marty, and I wondered how far he would go to protect his friend. Despite his earnest demeanor and eagerness to please, I didn’t trust Jason.

  We settled in, knees bumping and “Excuse me’s” all around. Hale, energized by a sixteen-ounce coffee and his discomfort at being around someone so sick, jittered his leg on one side of me. Jason’s leg bounced up and down on the other side of me, his arm poked through the bars on his father’s hospital bed, unashamedly holding his father’s hand. I was surprised that a young man—any man—would be that openly affectionate.

  I started the questioning. “So, Jason, we’d like to again go over your movements two nights ago.”

  “That’s easy. I was home all night, watching movies with Dad.”

  “And before that?”

  He looked puzzled. “Before that I was at work.”

  “And you weren’t anywhere else?”

  He darted a look at his father before answering. “No. Nowhere.”

  “Marty says otherwise,” I said. I flipped back through my notebook. “Marty said you stopped at his place with food. Your mom says the same thing. How come you didn’t mention that when we talked to you before?”

  “But I didn’t go in.” A flush ran up his neck to his cheeks, making him look very young. “I would have told you that. I dropped stuff off and I came home.”

  “I don’t know.” I read my pad as if I didn’t have these facts memorized. “What time was that?”

  “Around six or so,” he said, and stopped. “What?”

  A small movement gave away what was going on—Greg Byrne was squeezing Jason’s hand, signaling.

  “We can continue this questioning back at the station if you’d like,” I said.

  “I don’t have anything to hide.” Jason pulled his hand from his father’s. “I arrived home around six thirty. I hung out with Dad.”

  “Your dad awake the whole time?” Hale asked.

  Jason opened his mouth but said nothing as Greg Byrne cleared his throat.

  “Yes, awake,” Greg said, each word deliberate, an effort. “Questions for me, ask me.”

  It was quiet for a moment, all of us waiting for more. He slumped back on the pillow, and I asked my next question. “So you got home at six thirty, with the key to the Dumpster in hand, I assume?”

  Jason looked relieved. “Mom told me you’d ask that, because of the boots and the hat you found. Yes. I came home with the key.” He absently grabbed his father’s hand. It was their best mode of communication. “Actually, that’s why I didn’t remember Marty’s, didn’t remember it as important, because I had the key the whole time. I’m sure I remember coming home and putting it on the hook that night. I’m pretty sure. I do it every single night, so I don’t know why I wouldn’t have. My mom came in to talk when she got back from the pharmacy right at the end of the first movie, when Luke was destroying the Death Star, and told me if Celia managed to show up I’d need to come in to the pharmacy to work, including throwing some of the trash out, ’cause the guys were supposed to come, the waste disposal guys, either the next day or the day after, since they had missed the week before. Because of snow. Anyway, I got up when the movie was over, and grabbed it so I wouldn’t forget it. I do stupid things sometimes.”

  Another hand squeeze. Next to me Jason’s knee stilled.

  Hale’s leg pressed against mine. I was so used to working with Dave, I thought he was signaling me, but realized his touch was inadvertent. I shifted away into the TV that was wedged against the couch. I tried to stay still, not wanting to destroy their one nice thing.

  Hale leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, filling up the space in the middle. “Tell us, Jason, did you give the key to Marty? Or did he steal it?”

  “No, I told you already. I didn’t even go in. I didn’t give it to him. And he didn’t get it away from me.” Another hand squeeze. “Even I’m not that incompetent.”

  “So I’d be grateful,” Hale said, “if you could explain why we found your DNA all over the bloody boots and hat in the Dumpster this morning.”

  “I don’t . . . I throw a lot of stuff in that Dumpster.” Jason’s cheeks stained red. “So the boots are definitely . . .?” He stopped as his father squeezed his hand.

  His father was again moved to speak. “No way DNA from this morning. Lying.”

  He was right. As police officers we could lie in the call of duty, although we couldn’t withhold evidence. Hale was caught. The room went silent. “What Hale meant was the clothes. We found your DNA all over the clothes. Along with all the compounds that go into meth.” Greg Byrne squeezed Jason’s hand through the whole statement.

  “I’m going to remain silent, I think,” Jason said, and then more forcefully, “I choose to remain silent.”

  “And you are not going to explain what happened to the key?” Hale said. “Or how those boots and hat got in there?”

  Jason shook his head firmly, an emphatic no.

  I flipped my notebook shut. “Call your mother, Jason, you’re under arrest.”

  “What?” He was up and out of his seat. “I’ve been nothing but nice during this whole thing.”

  “Nice isn’t what we want, Jason,” I said. “We want honest.”

  Too many paths were leading back to Jason. He was in the middle of this in some way. The box and the key were too big to ignore, and he was in Marty’s pocket.

  Jason pulled his hand away from his father’s and spoke directly to us. “Okay. Let me call my mother. Again.” The next words might have come directly out of Denise Byrne’s mouth. “We hoped you’d be decent.”

  He paced as he talked on the phone, the steady stream of words making it clear he was leaving a message rather than talking to a real person. I caught Greg Byrne watching me.

  “Do you mind if I ask you again?” I said. “Are you sure you didn’t fall asleep?”

  “No sleep. I’m awake.” He paused. “It hurts.”

  Hale approached the bed. “Are you in much pain, sir? Can we fetch you anything?”

  “I am . . .”—Greg Byrne caught his breath—“used to work. Pharmacy. Used to live. Used to be dad.”

  Jason finished his phone call and walked to the fireplace mantle, which was topped with twenty or thirty pill bottles, quickly scanned them, and grabbed one. He had been listening the whole time. He filled a cup from a plastic pitcher on the coffee table, leaving behind a water ring on the Pharmacy Today magazine.

  Jason smiled as he shoved the pill into his father’s mouth and moved a straw to his lips. “No more bendy ones.”

  We heard the back door open. Denise Byrne didn’t call in from the kitchen, but appeared in the doorway, bundled up in a coat, a hat, a pale blue scarf, and matching gloves. She moved to Jason and clutched him fiercely.

  “Hi, Mom,” Jason said, quickly disentangling himself. Holding hands with his father was communication, but hugs from Mom were embarrassing.

  “They need to take me in to the station,” he whispered.

  Denise pushed her son behind her, and pointed a finger at me. “June, do you realize what a big mistake this is? My son has done nothing.”

  I walked toward mother and son. Jason moved his mother aside, despite her protest, and I took his arm.

  �
��We’re going to have to handcuff you,” I said.

  “What?!” Denise protested. “You are not arresting him.”

  “Yes, we are. I think he intentionally omitted information about his whereabouts the night Ray Jelickson died—”

  Denise put her hand to her chest.

  “—and we have a strong suspicion that he was involved in a conspiracy to commit murder, either as an accomplice or something more. We’re taking him in.” I spoke quickly to Jason. “You want to put your jacket on first?”

  “Let me get it,” Hale said. Denise pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “Shouldn’t you go, too?” she said to me. I refused, and she turned her back to me, her height and bulky coat creating a wall between me and Jason, with whom she had a whispered conversation.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom,” Jason said gently. His voice dropped more as Hale returned. “Dad gave me good advice, and remember, I didn’t do anything. Neither did Marty, for that matter.”

  “Jason, listen to me—”

  “No, Mom. Listen to me. Get me a lawyer. In the meantime I’m going to follow Dad’s advice to not rock the boat and to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Jason, do you really think that’s a good idea? I—”

  “I do think it’s a good idea. And I would suggest you do the same.”

  Denise looked stunned, but closed her mouth. The room was silent. This far out of town there were few cars, and the snow and cold deadened the scrape of trees and the sounds of animals. I approached Jason, preparing to read him his rights, when Denise rushed me. She was taller and bigger, propelling herself past me to her husband. She heaved the table out of the way, pulled Greg forward, took his face in her hands, forced open his mouth, and reached in with one finger. She tugged out a pill, wet with saliva. Greg gasped, taking sharp wheezing breaths. His throat muscles were so weak and constricted that he hadn’t been able to swallow, and the capsule had blocked off air to his lungs.