Measure Twice

by J. J. Hensley

  Once the body was on the bridge, it only took a minute for some of the more-knowledgeable city employees to confirm the body was that of Culligan. Channing had noted that the body hadn’t been suspended by rope around the neck, but rather by a loop of rope that was tied around the torso. This was a good thing—if Culligan had been thrown off the bridge with a noose around his neck, his head would have probably popped off due, in large part, to the giant gash across his throat. Blood ran completely down the front of Culligan’s suit jacket and dress shirt. Another item that drew Channing’s attention was a concentration of blood in two areas on Culligan’s chest. There appeared to be two large holes in the councilman’s chest, each of them just above his nipples.

  Channing reached up and adjusted the water temperature higher. Did someone shoot the guy, slash his throat, and then throw him off a bridge? There was a lot of blood from the throat gash, indicating Culligan was alive when the cut was made. So, someone cut his throat, then shot him, and then threw him off a bridge? That was not just someone making a statement; that was wrath. He had to stop thinking about it. He was not ready to deal with a major case. This was not his problem. He would turn over the case notes to Harris and let him assign one of the other detectives. Hell, it was probably already reassigned and his day-shift colleagues were out there starting from scratch because they would not trust Channing’s notes anyway. He needed a drink.

  Toweling off, Channing walked back into his bedroom and thought about the rope. The first witnesses called 9-1-1 at 9:03 p.m. That was still a fairly busy time in the downtown area, even on a cold weekday night. How did someone put a body on a rope tied to a support beam under the bridge, toss it off the bridge, and get away without being noticed? And where was Culligan killed? There were only a few smears of blood on the railing of the walkway. He had to have been killed somewhere else. Laying back on the bed, Channing thought about having to walk into that squad room in a few hours and having pity-filled eyes watch him enter Harris’s office to hand over the notes on a case that was currently out of his league. He needed a drink.

  When he was leaving the scene, the day-shift detectives were heading over to the City Council Chambers to see if Culligan had reported to work yesterday. Did he have a council meeting that evening? Did he drive? Where was his car? If he was, in fact, dirty, how many enemies did this guy have? Channing closed his eyes and lined up the questions in his mind, and drifted off to sleep. Things were starting to become clearer.

  He forgot that he needed a drink.

  – – –

  Channing could see a silhouette pacing through the frosted glass of Harris’s closed door. Occasionally, the muffled sound of raised voices rose above the squad room’s white noise of ringing, clicking, and conversing. Channing sat at his desk staring at the door with his notebook in his hands, eager to rid himself of the previous night’s ugliness. He had fallen asleep submerged in questions, but woke up to the usual unbearable thirst. Three vodkas later, he was able to right himself enough to make it to the station.

  Channing slowly dragged his thumb down the metal spirals of his notebook and listened to the calming sound it made change ever so slightly from the top spirals to the bottom ones. He mindlessly repeated the action a few more times, letting each spiral have its own moment. Suddenly, the image of a naked spine full of bloody vertebrae flashed before him. The image turned his stomach. He dropped the notebook on the desk, quickly rose, and rushed to the restroom.

  After vomiting the contents of his stomach, Channing refilled it with a few swigs of Smirnoff and popped a breath mint in his mouth. By the time he returned to the squad room, Harris’s door was open and the sergeant was scanning the room. Upon spotting Channing, he made a beckoning motion and turned away. Channing walked to his desk, picked up his notebook, and headed over to his supervisor’s office.

  Harris was not alone. Sitting in a chair opposite a large faux-oak desk was one of the squad’s three female detectives, Tina Lambert. She stared at the souvenir coffee mug sitting on Harris’s desk and did not look up to meet Channing’s eyes when he walked into the room. From his angle, Channing could see a stern expression on her face and a clinched jaw. He assumed she was the owner of the pacing silhouette he viewed earlier. Harris greeted Channing and gestured toward an empty chair next to Lambert.

  Harris spoke first.

  “Well, I’ll get right to the point. It’s been decided that Tina will take the lead on the Culligan case.”

  Channing nodded and waited for more.

  “I’ve explained to her that the only reason you aren’t the lead on this one is because you’ve been out so long. Otherwise—”

  “No problem. I understand,” Channing interrupted while lifting his notebook and attempting to hand it to Lambert.

  “You can hold on to that,” Harris said in a tone tinged with reservation. “You’re working with her on the case.”

  Channing slowly lowered the notebook back into his lap and looked at Harris who was now expressionless.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  The sergeant, who always reduced everything to the bare facts when he felt stress, kept his voice even.

  “I am. Lambert will be the lead, you’ll back her up, and Terio and Belton will assist as needed.”

  “Ken, I…like you said, I just came back.”

  “That’s the way it is. You’ve cleared dozens of homicides. This one isn’t any different.”

  “The hell it isn’t!” Channing was surprised to hear his own raised voice and immediately lowered his volume. He glanced at Lambert who was still scrutinizing the coffee mug, and then returned his gaze to his supervisor. “Can we speak alone for a minute?”

  That caught Lambert’s attention and she impatiently broke in, “Yeah, why don’t you two talk and I’ll get to work.” She stood up, obviously not wanting to be there in the first place.

  Harris started to say something to her and then his eyes gave permission for her to leave. When the door closed behind Lambert, Harris leaned back in his chair and seemed to relax a little.

  “It’s not my call, Jackson. You’re on this thing. No choice.”

  “Why? Anybody could work with Lambert. You wanted to pair me up with Krenshaw. Let me go work with him and pair Lambert up with someone else.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not my call. In fact, the original plan was that you would be the lead detective on the case. I suggested Terio get it instead. In the end it was decided that Lambert would lead, but you would have to be involved.”

  “Jesus, Ken. I’m in no shape for this. And Lambert’s got what…a year in the squad? Why the fu—”

  Then it came to him.

  “Because of the press? Are you kidding me? Tell me it’s not because of the press, Ken. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Now Harris was staring at the coffee mug. Channing had a fleeting thought that with the attention it was getting, the thing must have been the most interesting freaking drinking device since the Holy Grail.

  Harris looked back at Channing and sighed. “You’re still big news. The press saw you at the scene. If the department doesn’t put its hero cop on the case, there will be too many questions.”

  Hero cop. Channing’s right hand trembled a bit.

  “You know that’s bullshit.”

  “Don’t say any more.” Harris held a hand up, afraid of what the detective would say next. “Those were the chief’s words, not mine.” Then the supervisor looked at his subordinate awkwardly. “I’m not saying you aren’t a hero. I’m…I’m just saying that the press labeled you that way, so in the eyes of the brass, you are. Nobody has the right to judge you for whatever happened in that house. If I would have been in your shoes…well, who knows?”

  “And Lambert?”

  Harris shrugged.

  Channing looked at the ceiling and answered his own question.

  “Who better to pair with the fucking hero cop then a young, ambitious, African-American, female detective who was a track and
field star at Duquesne?”

  The sergeant started to speak and then stopped. He took in a deep breath and simply uttered, “Like I said. Not my call. And Tina’s a good detective. You know that. She’s just a little more focused on career advancement than I’d like.”

  Channing stood. Now it was his turn to pace the small room.

  “This isn’t a career maker! It’s a career killer! Did you tell her that? Best-case…and I mean best-case scenario, we catch whoever killed Culligan. When it goes to trial, everything Culligan did to wrong this guy is going to come out. Then everything Culligan ever did to anyone is going to come out. Culligan will be demonized and the police will be viewed as the defenders of a corrupt politician. If the suspect has money, then the trial could last years. It’s a train wreck waiting to happen.”

  “What are you talking about? Why are you assuming Culligan was deliberately targeted because of something he did to someone? And stop pacing around, you’re making me dizzy!”

  Channing kept walking.

  “Come on. The guy was killed with two shots to the chest, had his throat cut, then he was strung up on the Clemente Bridge and displayed for the entire city to see. This wasn’t some robbery gone bad. This was premeditated, calculated, and purposeful. This is vengeance personified. Add in a dash of politics, a few lawyers, and this is a powder keg sitting next to the devil’s fireplace.”

  Harris gave a half-grin.

  “That’s why Tina will need your help. You see things that a lot of people can’t see, and don’t want to see.”

  Channing sat down again, put his elbows on his knees, and looked at the floor. Several solemn seconds passed before Harris spoke again.

  “You’re right about one thing and you’re wrong about two. You’re right that Lambert’s not ready for this.”

  Not wanting to ask the obvious, Channing raised his head enough to make eye contact with his sergeant.

  “But I think you’re wrong about you not being ready.”

  Channing dropped his head again. Was his hand trembling?

  “And you’re wrong about Culligan being shot.”

  Now, every part of Channing’s body was still.

  – – –

  “Good afternoon, Lester.”

  Mayton put on his best smile as he walked through the gate.

  “How are you doing, Rick?”

  The eighty-year-old man was holding the reins of a brown horse and leading it to a stable.

  “Oh, just feelin’ the cold a bit, but I’m doin’ just fine.”

  Mayton exchanged smiles and short pleasantries with a few other people as he made his way down the dirt road. The scent of burning wood filled the air and resurrected a childhood memory. His father spent hours splitting wood. The man’s hands—and his personality—were strong and calloused. He could take on any task for hours on end and never once complain.

  Five hours without prayer. Five hours. The drive there was the toughest. In the van, there was not much else to do than think and pray. He avoided the religious programs on the radio and found some classic rock station. When a song came on that invited the listener to smoke a joint and get undressed, Mayton instinctually reached for the button that would change the station, but stopped himself. He forced himself to listen to the music until the end of the song and then shut the radio off. For the remainder of the trip, rather than fill his mind with prayer, he worked through the steps he would need to take to continue with his mission.

  His hands stung from the wind. It was a short walk from the van to his workplace. The area had hardly seen any snow this winter, but the bitter air sweeping down the rivers made every journey outside an uncomfortable experience. Once inside the cabin, he raced over and got a fire going. He warmed his hands and looked around the quiet space. He doubted he would have any visitors today. Just as well. He was always able to achieve a great deal of focus when left alone.

  The cabin—if that was the right word for it—did not belong to him, but it may as well have. In this place, Mayton let his mind roam free while forcing his hands to perform their solemn duty. Everything was as it had been when he worked in quality control. Mayton thought about the similarities to his old job. Every movement had to be precise. Every moment was calculated. Little was wasted and nothing was lost. He remembered the strategy he had so often preached to others. With the analysis of any process, a predictable failure rate can be ascertained. By eliminating variability in the process, defects are eliminated and a successful outcome becomes likely. How many times had he followed Culligan into that parking garage in past months? Four? Five? He had planned every detail. A rare grin crossed Mayton’s lips. It’s Six-Sigma in the deadliest sense, he thought.

  His hands still hovered over the fire. He made fists, then stretched out his fingers. So much power to create, he thought. So much power to destroy. He knew he would do both simultaneously, but it had to be done correctly. The process would be adhered to and he must do his best to keep his emotions in check. He flexed his fingers and let the heat loosen his stiff knuckles. The crackling of wood filled his ears. There was something special about sitting in front of a fire. It, too, could create or destroy.

  Step 3

  We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

  T ina Lambert was sitting at her desk when Channing emerged from the office. Not knowing what to say, he started to walk to his own desk, then realized he had no reason to go there. Sizing up the situation, he decided to address things head-on. That was how he was before his extended absence; maybe he could be that way again. She raised her eyes when he reached her desk.

  “Good talk?” she asked in a tone somewhere between sarcasm and resentment.

  “Not particularly.”

  The senior detective shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  “Well, where do you want to start?”

  The way she asked that question left no doubt about it. There was some real resentment present. Channing could not blame her. If he were in her place, he certainly would not want to work with him. He was tainted and no matter how many times people tried to hang the hero label on him, most of the department knew the truth, even if they did not want to admit it.

  With a senior detective looking over her shoulder, Lambert was also sure to feel as if she was being micromanaged. Channing was certain Lambert was sensing a power struggle on the horizon. Having navigated many territorial battles before, Channing felt he knew how to get past most of these. The funny thing is, he thought, I do not even want to win the battle. Hell…he did not even want any of the territory. He just had to accept the assignment because his two options were to work, or to…to what?

  “Look, you heard Harris. You’re in charge. I’ve been out of things a while, so I’m just following your lead.”

  “Uh huh,” Lambert replied while scribbling some notes, indicating she was completely unconvinced.

  “After I left the scene, I went home and crashed for a few hours, so I’m not really up to speed. Do you think we could go over my notes and you could fill me in on any new information?”

  The wiry woman shuffled some papers on her desk and sighed.

  “Sure. Why not? Let’s go into the conference room.”

  On the way to the conference room, Channing poured himself a cup of coffee from a pot sitting in the corner of the squad room. The first sip he took made his stomach do a somersault and, by the time they reached the conference room door, he had deposited his Styrofoam cup in the trash can. For the life of him, he could not figure out why police station coffee always tasted like stale battery acid. The burnt taste stuck with him as he and Lambert took seats at a large rectangular table.

  Lambert had barely moved her chair toward the table when she started speaking. Once again, she seemed to avoid looking at her new partner.

  “I got the summary you left with the day-shift guys, so I’m not sure what else you want to cover from your notes.”

  �
�I guess I probably know a lot less than you do at this point.”

  Now she looked at him, and it was not a pleasant look.

  “Don’t patronize me, okay?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t fucking patronize me. Just tell me what you want to know.”

  Channing swallowed hard and was the first to break eye contact. He stammered a bit and then struggled to organize his thoughts. My God, how things had changed. A few months ago, if anyone, especially a junior detective, had talked to him that way, he would have eaten them alive. Not long ago, he was considered by some to be a bit cocky. A certain level of arrogance was required in order to do the job well. In a profession where unconcealed egotism was everywhere, Channing had a reputation for being extremely confident, but not to the point of recklessness.

  Not everybody liked him. He was not that type of guy. But everyone respected him. His degree in psychology from Wake Forest and his hobby of running marathons gave many of his old-school, beer-guzzling colleagues pause, but he usually softened them up with a quiet competence and good sense of humor. He had stepped on a few toes over the years, but up until the previous May, nobody had questioned his work performance or his judgment. Then he let his partner and best friend, Alex Belmont, go into that house. Then he killed Alex.

  “I suppose you want to know where Culligan was killed.” Lambert was still looking at him, but some of the fire was out of her eyes. In fact, there was an appearance of concerned perplexity on her face. How long had he been silent? Seconds? Minutes?

  “Yeah. That would be…yeah.”

  The woman leaned back in her chair and maintained a business-like demeanor, but it was obvious she was no longer on the attack. She seemed to be puzzled by Channing’s lack of a defense. She had poked the bear and the bear retreated. That was not what she expected.