Black Friday

by Judy M. Kerr

  MC knew he was right. She tried to reel in her anger, unzipped her jacket, showed him her gold shield and ID.

  He squinted. “US Postal Inspector. You armed?” One grayish eyebrow inched up toward where his hairline used to be. His face sagged in folds as if weighed down by years of dealing with others’ suffering.

  “Yes.” Huffing out a breath, she yanked the jacket away from her left side and revealed the sidearm in the shoulder holster. “Now, how about telling me what the hell is going on in my house?” So much for self-control, she thought. Was he purposely ignoring her question?

  “I’ll need your firearm, please. Sorry. Protocol. You understand?”

  “Protocol, I understand.” She couldn’t contain the disdainful sound of her words. “Not much more, so maybe you could find a way to start explaining the situation to me.” She yanked her gun from the shoulder holster, ejected the magazine and the round in the chamber, and handed everything to him.

  A voice in the far reaches of her mind told her to take a breath and calm down, but her emotions overrode reason.

  He seemed unperturbed by her caustic tone. Sharpe waved at the young officer. “Hey, Red. Get me an evidence bag from forensics.”

  Sharpe said to MC, “The forensic investigators are doing their work. Until the scene is cleared, I’m afraid I can’t allow you inside. I do have a few questions to ask you. Let’s step over to my car, and I’ll drive you to headquarters where we can talk in a place out of the elements.”

  He held out his hand and directed her toward a black Mark IV sedan speckled with gray and white salt stains, parked at the curb beyond the behemoth van.

  The officer caught up with them and handed Sharpe the evidence bag.

  Sharpe dropped her SIG Sauer and ammo into the brown bag, sealed, and signed and dated it. “We’ll take this downtown with us.” He opened the trunk and dropped the bag in.

  “Can’t we talk here?” MC asked. “My car—” She pointed at her Camry, still running, door open.

  The harshness of high wattage flashing lights dimmed the brilliant white of the falling snow. MC’s mind spun dark thoughts and her stomach somersaulted.

  The blueberry scone threatened to make a reappearance, along with the coffee. She held her breath and swallowed bitter bile, breathing slowly through her nose. “Wait. What scene? What the fuck is going on here?” Her insides turned to Jell-O. Her mouth went dry as a lizard baking in the Arizona sun.

  “Do you live here alone, Inspector McCall?” Sharpe’s gaze was unwavering.

  “Do I? Alone? No. My—I live here with my partner, Barb. Barb Wheatley.”

  “When was the last time you saw your, er—partner?”

  “Why? What’s going on? Where is she? Please. Has something happened to Barb?” MC’s legs quivered; her body was slick with cold sweat. She spun around to take a step toward the house.

  “Listen.” He blocked her passage, leaning into her space with the brim of his fedora nearly touching her forehead. “I’m sorry. We found her by the back door. The ID in her wallet matches the name you gave. I’m afraid she’s . . .”

  “She’s what? For Christ’s sake tell me.”

  He opened the door, guided MC into the passenger seat, and hustled around the other side. After he cranked the heat, he pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the dashboard. He retrieved a spiral notebook with a worn red cardboard cover from an inner pocket, clicked his pen.

  “Inspector McCall, there’s no easy way to tell you this. Your partner has been killed. She was shot. And now I have the unpleasant task of requiring you to answer questions.”

  Mouth agape, she stared at him. “Dead?”

  He pulled out a pack of chewing gum and pushed a white square from the foil. “Quitting smoking. It’s tough.” He offered MC the gum.

  “No,” she said, unable to process the combination of gum and gunshots. “Are you saying Barb is dead? Someone killed her? Shot her?”

  Maybe repetition would make her brain, and her heart, process and accept the news.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry for your loss, Inspector.”

  “How? What? What the hell happened?”

  “We’re in the early stages of this.” He stopped writing and focused on her. “In the meantime, I need to ask you some questions. So, we’ll be taking a ride to the station.”

  MC grabbed her head with both hands and leaned into the dashboard, holding her tears in check. She felt as though her life was pouring out of her. Barb was dead?

  She sat back and took a deep breath, realizing she was the number one suspect. If they’d ruled her out, he wouldn’t be taking her downtown and asking her questions.

  With anguish, she said, “If only I’d gotten home sooner.”

  “You also could’ve been a victim.”

  “No!” Her scream echoed inside the car and she pounded her fist on the dash. She wanted to beat on something—or someone. She yearned to hunt down the maggot who murdered Barb. But the fight drained out of her, much as she imagined Barb’s blood draining out of her.

  After a moment, she swiped a hand across her eyes and sucked in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry, Detective. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Sharpe. I’m a detective with the Saint Paul Police Department, Homicide.”

  “Detective Sharpe. Let me articulate clearly, I would’ve been armed, so she might’ve had a fighting chance had I been here.”

  “Not unless you make a habit of wearing your gun around the house in your pajamas. You don’t want to go down that road, but now you mention it, why weren’t you home? Where were you?”

  She’d given him the opening he needed to begin mining for information. “I was called in to work last night.”

  “Last night was Thanksgiving.”

  Thank you, Detective Obvious, was on the tip of her tongue, but she withered beneath his steely gaze.

  MC gave him a brief rundown of her case and Cam’s name and number so he could corroborate her whereabouts. She also gave him Jamie’s contact information.

  He said, “You won’t be able to stay here until we’ve cleared the scene. And I need to get a statement from you.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Let’s go right now. Get it over with. The sooner the better. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.” The word fell from numb lips.

  “And don’t worry about your car. I’ll have one of the investigators park it down the street. I can drive you back when we’ve finished. Sit tight, and I’ll be right back.” He pushed himself out of the car and waved Red over.

  MC watched as he pointed to the Camry, then a spot further up the street. The young officer nodded and hoofed it toward her car.

  Sharpe returned. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He continued to speak, but tremors shook her, and the drone of his voice was like a cloud of bees swarming her head.

  Barb was gone.

  Her life—their life together—gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, November 28

  The trek through morning traffic from her Highland Park neighborhood to Lowertown Saint Paul via Interstate 35-E was interminable. MC suffered chills and sweats, in turn zipping and unzipping her jacket and wrapping her arms around herself.

  Sharpe kept his eyes on the highway. “Sorry for the defunct heater. These older model cars get finicky after so many years of abuse.”

  MC unzipped her jacket again. “We have similar issues with our fleet.” She watched the parade of vehicles navigating the season’s first substantial snowfall. Her breath fogged the inside of the window. Part of her was tempted to draw a heart and put her and Barb’s initials inside.

  Sharpe veered off the freeway at Seventh Street. “Almost there.” He pulled into a parking lot behind a reddish-brown brick building.

  MC followed Sharpe across the Saint Paul Police Department lot. Her legs felt weak, as though she were recovering from anesthesia. She waited while he swiped a card to unlock a heavy metal door. She was familiar wit
h this cop shop, but hadn’t spent much time there over the years, so when Sharpe led her down a series of hallways and up two flights of stairs to the second floor, it was all new to her.

  Before she even unzipped her jacket, Sharpe was shucking off his trench coat to reveal a neat but worn brown suit, white dress shirt, and mustard yellow tie. Detective Sergeant Sharpe was definitely not a fashionista.

  Sharpe hung his coat and hat on a metal coat rack inside a room containing six sets of desks in groups of two facing each other. Vertical blinds covered the windows, blocking out the falling curtain of white outside. The Commander’s glass enclosed office was located at the opposite end of the room.

  Inside the white walls took on an aged hue under the sterilizing florescent lights. Thankfully, no one else was in the area. “Nice digs.” MC leaned against the door frame, hoping to appear casual, but feeling like she might collapse.

  Sharpe sorted through piles of paper on one of the desks. “This is much better than the old place. Not top of the line, but we can’t complain. Although, some do.” He pushed aside a stack of files and pulled a pen from the detritus, opened a drawer, and withdrew a yellow legal pad. “How about we find a quiet room and get your statement?”

  MC tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. She simply nodded her assent.

  “Follow me.” Sharpe plodded down a hallway. He took a right and stopped at the second door down.

  “This should work.” He flipped a switch on the wall outside the door. MC knew it activated the recording system. Sharpe entered and flicked on the lights to reveal a ten-by-ten-foot room.

  The walls were two-tone, white on the top and a dusky blue on the bottom. Dark blue industrial carpeting covered the floor of a space that was barren save for a table and two metal-framed tan chairs.

  Two dome cameras hung from the ceiling: one beside the door, and one in the far corner of the room.

  She removed her jacket and hung it on the back of one of the chairs and sat. With a weary sigh, she covered her face with her hands, then dragged them back through her hair.

  “Can I bring you something to drink before we begin?” Sharpe asked. “Water? Coffee? Soda?”

  MC cleared her throat. “Water would be nice. Thanks.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Sharpe left, closing the door behind him.

  MC stared at the door, wondering if it was locked, but not caring.

  Waves of grief washed over her and suddenly she was freezing again. She scrubbed her hands up and down her arms, seeking an elusive warmth.

  After what seemed like an hour but was probably only a minute or two, Sharpe returned. He slid a plastic bottle of water across the table to her and set a steaming mug of coffee on his side. Oddly enough, the smell from the burnt wisps wafting from his cup caused bile to rise in MC’s throat. Her forehead felt clammy. She quickly uncapped the bottle and chugged several gulps of cold water.

  Sharpe sipped his coffee and eyed her. “Thirsty, huh?”

  MC brushed a stray droplet from her upper lip. “Feeling a bit nauseated.” She capped the bottle and set it aside. “Can we please get on with this?”

  “Sure. Why don’t you begin with yesterday? Guide me through your day and night, then we’ll go through this morning when you arrived at your residence.”

  He clicked the ballpoint pen and scribbled the date and time on the yellow legal pad, then waited, pen poised.

  MC stared at the notepad, transfixed. Flashes of coppery red flamed before her eyes.

  She flinched.

  A metallic scent tickled her nostrils.

  She coughed.

  Where was she?

  Something was wrong.

  Barb was in trouble, needed MC’s help.

  MC reached out a hand, searching in a snowy haze. Seeking the warmth of her partner’s hand in her own.

  She felt nothing but cold.

  “Inspector McCall?”

  She’d knocked over the bottle of water. “Sorry. Guess I lost it for a second.” She dug her fingers into her thigh. The pressure helped her focus.

  Sharpe set the bottle of water upright. “The sooner we get through this, the sooner you’ll be able to leave. Okay?” He inclined his head toward her. “From the beginning. Take your time.”

  MC described their Thanksgiving day and later the call from Jamie about the incident at the Saint Paul processing center. She sketched out the details of the incident, those involved, including her partner, Cam.

  She drank down the remaining water, then told him about the time-consuming paperwork she’d filled out, her departure from work, and stopping at Flannel before heading to her house. “And you know more than I do from this point on.”

  During her statement, Sharpe filled multiple pages on the pad in front of him.

  MC said, “Lots of notes.”

  “I’m old school. Writing things down helps me cogitate the details.”

  MC gave him a lopsided half-smile. “Nice use of linguistics. I feel the same way.” Her ability to smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Now what?”

  “We go through it all again. Start to finish. Sometimes people forget details which may be important. Someone you may have seen lurking when you were out running or when you left the house. You know the drill.”

  MC shifted in her chair uncomfortable as interviewee. She leaned her elbows on the table, dropping her head into her hands. “Could I please use the restroom?” She eyed the empty water bottle on the table. “And maybe get another bottle of water?”

  “Certainly.” Sharpe directed MC to the women’s restroom at the end of the hall. “I need to make a couple calls, then we’ll resume.”

  MC felt like a dead woman walking.

  She quickly took care of business and splashed cold water on her face. She’d never felt so tired in her life. The face in the mirror—dark circles around lifeless blue eyes, red splotches on pale, white skin—was not one she recognized.

  Just past the bathroom, a window at the end of the hall overlooked the public parking lot. She leaned her forehead against the icy glass, watching the snow accumulate outside.

  Who would kill Barb? And why? She was the sweetest, kindest person on the face of the earth. She was the type to hand a five-dollar bill—or her own coffee or snack—to a homeless person on a street corner and tell them to have a wonderful day. Why on earth would anyone shoot her?

  MC blamed herself. This was her fault. She should’ve been home to protect Barb.

  “Inspector McCall?” Sharpe called from down the hall behind her. “Ready?”

  Turning around to face him made her feel slightly dizzy. She put a hand on the window sill to ground herself.

  He stood in front of the interview room, hands in his pants pockets.

  MC returned to the room and took her seat. A new bottle of water waited for her on the table. “Thanks for the water.”

  Sharpe closed the door. “You’re welcome.” He sat, another cup of coffee at his elbow.

  The new brew smelled almost palatable. MC watched him flip through his notes. “I made a few calls while you were indisposed. I’ve got four detectives on site at your house. The forensic team is making good progress in processing the scene. We want to be thorough so I’ve requested a Crash and Crime Scene Reconstruction team do a 3-D computer animation of the scene. Everything should be done by late this afternoon.” He paused and met MC’s gaze. “I need one more thing from you, Inspector.”

  What more could he take from her, she wondered. An arm? A leg? “And what would that be?”

  “Your cell phone. One of our analysts will check it. Standard procedure.”

  “Phones,” MC said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Phones, plural. I have a personal cell and a work-issued cell.” MC reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved two iPhones. She slid both devices across the table to Sharpe.

  “The purple one is my personal phone and the blue is my work one. You’ll notice a call to Barb from m
y personal phone not long after I . . . after I …” She swallowed hard. “Um, after I arrived on scene this morning.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll run these to cyber.” Sharpe left the room, closing the door behind him.

  MC slumped in her chair and picked up the water bottle. This day was surreal. She felt bereft—hollow.

  Her mind whirred with snippets of her life with Barb. People claimed their life flashed before their eyes when they thought they were dying. She might as well be dying because her life as she knew it was definitely over.

  A string of vignettes played from the night they first met all the way through their good-bye the previous night. Was it just last night? She whipped a hand through her hair. Tears she’d been working so hard to hold back rolled down her face unfettered. Without warning, gut wrenching, heart-rending sobs exploded out of her. She grabbed a couple tissues from the box at the far end of the table, wiping ineffectually at the streaks running down her face.

  Control, McCall. Gotta get control. Get through this and get out of here. She sucked in a lungful of air. Unscrewed the cap on the water and drank half the bottle down. She inhaled as she swallowed and choked, coughing hard. Blew her nose, wadded up the tissues in her hand. She swiped some more at her face, which she imagined would be puffy and blotchy, but at this point she didn’t care. She’d barely managed to regain control when Sharpe reappeared.

  “Back to business.” He took one look at her and quickly sat down. “You doing okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Let’s do this. One more time from the beginning. You both had the day off yesterday. You got up. Watched the parade . . . ”

  MC ran through the details, point by point, her voice a disembodied drone in her ears. Inside her head a monotone voice chanted, “Barb is dead. Barb is dead” over and over.

  She stuttered when the inner voice got mixed in with the outer voice. She stopped and took a sip of water and continued.

  “Pretty much the same as the first go-round.” He laid the pen down and folded his hands over the notepad. He stole a glance at the watch on his wrist. “It’s almost noon. I know we’ve been at this for a long time. Would you like something to eat?”