Welcome to Cooper

by Tariq Ashkanani

  Joe said, “Tell me about the eyes,” and Bob did. Called them a rush job. Angled a small lamp downward to show us why. Killer used something blunt, he said. Maybe a spoon. Damaged a lot of the surrounding tissue but he knew what he was doing.

  I asked about the print, and Bob looked at Joe in a way that I didn’t like.

  “Pulled it from her belt,” Bob said. “Seventy-six percent match.”

  “Seventy-six-point-nine,” Joe said.

  “When did you pull it?” I asked.

  “Just before midnight.”

  “You always work that late?”

  “We’re understaffed.”

  “And now they’ve got a second body to deal with,” Joe said to me.

  Foster was already on ice. Bob pulled his tray from the freezer. He was even skinnier than Kelly Scott.

  “Gunshot wound to the face, point-blank.”

  I gazed at the clean hole in his forehead. Pictured the messier one at the back. The red on the wall, his eyes rolling up white. My morning coffee slithered in my bruised stomach.

  “Suicide?” Joe asked.

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Pity.”

  Sure was.

  Joe pointed to the bullet. Bob said it was next on his list. Said it looked like a .38.

  “Or a thirty-six,” Joe said.

  “We’ll know more when the results come back from ATF.” Bob snapped off his gloves. “One more thing.”

  He grabbed a chart, flipped a couple of pages.

  “I found evidence of advanced lymphoma,” he said. “Guy’s armpits were swollen to all hell.”

  Joe stared at him. “He was dying?”

  “Maybe he fancied taking someone with him. Dying’s a lonely business.”

  Bob sealed Foster’s body away. I turned my gaze to Kelly Scott just as the lamp above her clicked off, and in that microsecond between light and dark I thought I saw her head turn on the table. I started to get the crazy idea that she’d been watching me the entire time we’d been down here. Waiting on me to put it all together. I remembered last night’s dream, long roads and rising water and a sign that read Welcome to Cooper, and I wondered if she hadn’t been waiting on me for a while now.

  Chapter Five

  I was halfway through my third Jim Beam when the door swung open and her scent said hello. Through the mottle I could see her; a shadow-figure with a pink edge. I emptied my glass and she was there when I put it down. The most colorful woman in the room.

  “You wanna get out of here?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We walked the narrow alley behind the bar. Dirty brick hemmed us in on both sides. It was cold but the Jim Beam helped. Mary carried a garbage bag, and when the slender passage ended we emerged in a little pocket of green. Rubble sat along one edge, and beyond the knee-high grass there was a crooked fence, and birdsong, and the sound of running water.

  Mary dropped the garbage in a can and then leaned against the wall as she took me in. For a moment it was like the first time I’d seen her, and once again I wondered if she was doing it on purpose.

  “You looked like you could use some air,” she said, her head tilted slightly.

  I sniffed and wiped at my nose with the back of my hand. Nodded.

  “You got a coat?” she asked.

  “Inside,” I said.

  She shook her head, smiling. A pity smile. Disquiet etched in the creases of her skin. I pretended not to notice.

  “What’s over there?” I said.

  Mary pushed herself off the wall and followed where I was pointing. “That’s the river.” She began to pick her way through the undergrowth and I followed. The grass brushed against our waists, and Mary held her palm out flat, letting it skim over the tips like the keel of a ship. When we reached the lopsided fence I went to lean on it and she put her hand on my arm.

  “Watch yourself, it isn’t in the best shape.”

  I said nothing, just nodded and peered down. The water was low right now, little more than a trickle, but dark streaks on the sides of the bank showed just how high it could go. Something about it was calming, and I felt myself relax. Mary took her hand back.

  “Rough morning?” she said.

  I looked over at her. Maybe it was written on my face. Maybe it was the fact that I was getting loaded the second night in a row. But Mary wanted to know what had happened and I guess you do too.

  “It’s not bad, you know,” I said. “Out here.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “You think?”

  “Well, compared to the rest of town.”

  “You should take a trip out to the Pine Ridge,” she said. “Hike a canyon, see a proper river. It’s not far, you can just about see it from here.”

  “Land this flat, it’s hard to miss.”

  “People think Nebraska is nothing but fields. There’s beauty too, if you know where to look.”

  “Maybe I’ll check it out.”

  “This time of year, only the pines have any color left.” She smiled. “Tell you what, if you’re still here in the fall, I’ll show you. We time it right, the cottonwoods go orange. It’s spectacular.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, and for a moment I lost her to the forest. When she returned she checked her watch. “Damn, I have to get back. Richard gets pissed if I don’t take over on time.”

  I followed her back inside. My Jim Beam buzz was fading anyway.

  Let’s rewind a little.

  Back to this morning. Back to the house. Back to Foster. Joe’s still got my revolver—a Smith and Wesson Model 36, in case you forgot. (Although I asked you not to. Take some fucking notes if this is too hard.)

  I’ve been carrying a Model 36 since I first joined the force in DC. It wasn’t that I resisted the change to something more modern—Glocks were the standard long before I started—but more of a personal choice. A childhood of Westerns and ’70s cop shows probably had more to do with becoming a detective than anything else. And there’s just something nice and physical about a revolver. About seeing the mechanics of it all; watching the hammer slide back as the chamber rolls. About making every shot count.

  The Smith and Wesson Model 36 revolver holds five bullets. It doesn’t work like a modern semiautomatic; it doesn’t use magazines and it doesn’t launch the spent clips out of the firing chamber when they’re done. Instead, the empty cartridges remain inside the chamber until they’re manually removed.

  Which is what Joe did. Snapped open the barrel and emptied it into his palm. Pocketed the four unused bullets, held up the empty fifth shell casing for me to see. Held it long enough between fat finger and thumb to make sure I knew what it meant.

  Leverage.

  From where I was sitting now I could still see Mary. I caught her eye and held up my glass. Gave it a little shake. I’m back at Stingray’s, by the way, for those that need some context for all this. It’s late in the evening and I’ve been drinking pretty heavily by this point. It’s still Tuesday.

  It took me a while to catch my breath properly. You ever been slugged in the stomach? Really drilled? I had, and it hurt just as bad this time. Worse, even, on account of those damn brass knuckles.

  I can still see him. Foster. Clear as day. Propped up against that radiator like it’d be uncomfortable. I can picture him now and I could picture him twice as good in that bar, just twelve hours later. Can still see that look on his face, too. Surprised, even after it was over. Guy like him, riddled with cancer, sometimes I wonder if he thought about what was waiting for him on the other side. How could he not? Sometimes I wonder if he got a glimpse, and I wonder if it wasn’t what he was expecting. I wonder if it was nothing.

  Mary was back now and holding up the bottle of Johnnie Walker. Said I’ve been hitting it pretty hard and this stuff’s not cheap. I told her I’m good for it and spun the glass. She went on with her work.

  “Now I’m betting you’re pretty pissed at me, and that’s alright.” That was what Joe said to me at Foster’s.
“If you’d sucker-punched me in the stomach I’d be pretty pissed too.”

  He watched me with small eyes as he pocketed the shell casing, and my revolver along with it. His face was red, his breathing loud.

  I climbed to my feet, an adrenaline buzz masking the pain in my gut. I thought about running at him. About grinding his face against the wall until his skin peeled. I squeezed my fists—a telegraphed move. Joe pulled his Glock and waved it at Foster’s corpse.

  “This asshole deserved what he got,” he said. “He’s a murderer and I won’t lose any sleep over it. He’s killed four women, Tommy. In cold blood.”

  “This is cold blood.”

  “This is justice,” Joe said, and he sucked in air noisily through his nose. His chest swelled with self-importance. “And if you were from Cooper you’d understand that. Now, you’re going to listen to what I say and you’re going to do what I ask, and if you impress me enough you might get your gun and your shell casing back.”

  He pointed the Glock at me.

  “Or we can just end this now and I can write up a report about how you busted in guns blazing, caught a bullet in the neck from Foster as he went down swinging. You might even get a medal.”

  “You prick.”

  Joe looked amused. “Easy there, partner. I hit you in the stomach so you wouldn’t have to answer any questions about a black eye. You want to tussle, that’s fine with me.”

  “Did Bob even find a fingerprint?”

  “We’ll take care of that later.”

  “Jesus, Joe, you just shot him!”

  “With your gun.”

  “You really think anyone will believe it was me?”

  “New cop, fresh in town.” Joe shrugged. “They don’t know you, son. Not like they know me. I’m Cooper born and bred. Who the hell are you?” He stepped closer, backed me up against the wall. I could smell his sweat. “Let’s get one thing clear so we don’t have any future misunderstandings. If I wanted to, I could stand up in church and shoot you dead and no one would bat an eyelid. That’s who I am.”

  From outside there was the sound of sirens. Faint but growing louder.

  Joe moved back. His face flushed. “Now, you’ve got about thirty seconds to decide how you’re going to play this. You want to stick to your morals, that’s up to you.”

  “Or?”

  “Or you work for me.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Joe grinned. “You want to pretend like you’re better than me? Son, I know what happened in Washington.”

  That hit me almost as hard as those damned knuckles.

  I guess I was stupid to think I could start again here. As if I could just shrug off my past like an old coat and step away from it. Morricone had told me not to think of this place as a punishment, and maybe he was right. And maybe Joe was right too. Maybe this was justice. For Foster. For me.

  Footsteps on the path outside, raised voices yelling our names.

  “We’re up here, boys!” Joe shouted, holstering his Glock but never taking his eyes off me. “Get Forensics on the phone, we’ve found a body!”

  And so it went.

  I finished my Johnnie Walker, and I looked around for Mary. Spotted her watching me from across the room. She was standing behind the bar like the first time we’d met and I wondered why she could never just stand up straight. Always leaning on something with one hip, with her ass tilted and her arms crossed. Even from here I could see those emerald eyes glinting in the dim light.

  I held up my glass again. Fumbled, nearly dropped it. Started to pull cash from my pockets in case she needed convincing, all crumpled bills and loose change. She wandered over and placed two cans down on the bar. Took a stool next to me.

  I looked at her, squinting through one eye because it was clearer, and when she pulled the tab on her soda it fizzed over her finger, dark and frothy. She tapped the can against mine.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  Chapter Six

  We talked for a while, although I couldn’t tell you how long.

  “Let me ask you something,” I said.

  “Alright.”

  “What’s the deal with this place?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly an upmarket cocktail bar—”

  “Not here. I mean Cooper.”

  “I know.”

  She was smiling. Playing with the tab of her can as she held it. “You feel it, don’t you?”

  “Feel what?”

  “What this place really is.”

  I tried to sit up and the room swayed. I stayed down. Took a sip of my Pepsi and nearly choked on the fizz.

  “You’re lost,” Mary said. In the dim light her eyes were near black, her pupils wide and all-encompassing. Like a solar eclipse. A moon with an emerald edge. “But that’s alright. Everyone is when they first arrive.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  She blew air out the side of her mouth. “You kidding? Jesus, I was a mess. But you just get on with it, you know? You adapt. Cooper doesn’t care about whatever shit was going on in your life before you got here. It’ll chew you up and spit you out if you let it.” She leaned in close and her perfume leaned closer. “So don’t let it.”

  “You make this place sound . . .” I couldn’t think of the right word.

  “Otherworldly?” Mary said, her eyes narrowed.

  I blinked. “Is it?”

  She laughed. “It’s just a town, Thomas. A shitty backwater that the rest of the world left behind a long, long time ago. The people that come here, they . . . they come here for a reason, you understand? They just might not realize it at first.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Took another drink. I must have looked funny because Mary laughed and tucked a strand of pink hair behind her ear. It wasn’t a nasty laugh; I don’t think I ever thought that about Mary. The opposite, in fact. There was something safe about her. The way she would sometimes half reach for me with concern, her fingers curling in before they got too far. Or the way she was always so calm, when it seemed that all around her were walking balls of rage just waiting to lash out.

  Course, even Mary got angry. I once saw her nearly throw a guy out on his ass for slapping the old jukebox with his palm to stop it skipping. I found that amusing. Of all the things to get riled up about in this town, music was the thing that did it. I meant to ask her about that jukebox, but I never did. Guess now I never will.

  “What did you do?” I asked her. “Before coming to Cooper, I mean.”

  Mary’s smile faltered for a moment, and when it came back it seemed forced. “Is it important?” she said.

  “Guess not.”

  “What we did before doesn’t matter,” she said. “Only what we do now.”

  Then she went quiet, drained her soda, and got to her feet. I felt a pang of dismay but didn’t say anything to stop her.

  “Pepsi’s on the house,” she said, smoothing out her apron with the palms of her hands. “’Fraid you’ll need to pay for the Scotch, though.”

  It was a poor attempt to recapture the mood, but I half smiled just the same.

  Then she said, “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, Thomas. That’s why we’re here.”

  She was right, of course, only I was too ashamed to tell her then. Too wrapped up in my own head to see the bigger picture. Besides, it was getting late. All this talk causing the past to resurface in me, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. I dropped a bundle of cash onto the bar and pulled on my coat. Caught Mary’s gaze and nodded goodbye before stumbling out into the cold Nebraska night.

  Time passes.

  My ass is killing me.

  It’s the chair, I’m pretty sure. Thing feels like it was bought in the ’80s; must have about a millimeter of padding on it. I can’t help but notice that Tubby seems to have cornered the only leather seat in the room for himself.

  The clock on the wall says it’s past six o’clock, which means for these boys it’s quittin’ time. Pack up the day’s learnings and forge
t about it all for a few hours of rowdy, good old-fashioned Nebraskan nighttime fun before getting up at seven and putting on your somber face.

  I wonder what the plan is for this evening. Whether Rookie has recommended somewhere nice. These guys, I reckon they’ll be getting some attention. You don’t make an arrest in a case like this without getting plenty. Waitresses flashing them the eye, lingering glances and phone numbers scribbled on napkins. Hoping to get their hotel room number because they sure as shit can’t bring a man back to their mom’s. Cumstain is already loosening his tie. Bottle of mouthwash and some Paco Rabanne in the car. You play your cards right, Tubby, and you might even get his leftovers.

  Once they’ve left, Rookie comes in and I hold out my arms obligingly so he can handcuff them together. I’m led out into the hallway and down to the end of the corridor where I get to sit on another cheap plastic seat for a few minutes while he fills out some paperwork over at the front desk. Beyond that I can see through the glazed main doors and out onto the parking lot and, behind that, Main Street. It’s not far to the Pine Ridge from here. I wonder how easy it would be to lose them in there. To let myself get swallowed up in the dense undergrowth. Course I’d need a car to reach the woods. And I’ve still got my handcuffs. But it’s a start.

  Rookie is talking to the girl at the front desk. She’s pretty cute. Blonde hair tied up in pigtails and a few too many teeth for her mouth, but she’s got a nice smile and she sure likes using it on Rookie. Christ, I bet that kid still hasn’t even started on that paperwork yet. He’s got his back to me, too.