How It Happened

by Michael Koryta

  You got my blood up.

  He stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts in Thomaston, washed the blood off his hands in the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror as if assessing damage, although Mark had never landed a blow on him.

  What in the hell had he been thinking? Mark was an addict and a ne’er-do-well, deserving of sympathy, not rage, and Barrett had just delivered painful news about his nephew’s death. Then somehow at the first taunt, the first provocation, Barrett had swung on him. What in the hell had happened?

  Mark had reminded him of Mathias, that was the problem. He’d called Barrett out on failure and he’d laughed.

  Don’t get your feet wet.

  Barrett shut off the water and dabbed his face with his damp hands as if trying to cool a fever. It had been two days since he’d had any real sleep. He thought that he should get a hotel room, pick some national chain where everything looked the same. He’d close the blinds and sleep the day away until he was rested, until his mind and fists belonged to him again.

  He bought a large coffee instead. Then he got back in the car and called Don Johansson.

  He’s just like you, Mark Millinock had said. Coming apart, because you got it wrong.

  Johansson answered his call with good humor and a touch of wariness.

  “Hey, Barrett. How’s Montana?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m in Maine.”

  There was a long silence. Then Johansson said, “Why?”

  “I’d like to meet in person to talk about that. Grab a beer, maybe?”

  “If this is about Kimmy, I do not want that beer. If it’s about anything else, I’ll buy.”

  “What if it’s about both?”

  Johansson’s sigh was soft and sorrowful, like a mourner’s at a wake.

  “Barrett, I can’t step back to that. And you should know better. You should—”

  “I saw Mark Millinock today,” Barrett said. “He mentioned you.”

  The silence stretched on and out like an unfamiliar highway.

  “Come by the house,” Johansson said finally, and then he hung up.

  Johansson lived in a charming ranch with cedar flower boxes under the windows. The flower boxes, usually overflowing with beautiful color, were empty today, the remnants of last summer’s soil beaten down.

  Johansson opened the door before Barrett knocked. His fleshy face was now hollow-cheeked, his double chin converted into a sharp angle of bone as if at the hand of an aggressive plastic surgeon. His rounded gut had closed inward, and his belt, once straining to keep his pants closed, was now overworked trying to keep them up.

  “How’s it going, Barrett?”

  Barrett gave him a long look and said, “I was going to ask if Mark Millinock had fed me a lie about you. I don’t think I need to, though.”

  “He’s a failed fisherman and a bad bartender with a pill habit,” Johansson snapped. “You believe anything he has to say, you’re even more gullible than I thought.”

  Barrett didn’t answer.

  “Last few times I’ve seen that junkie, he was higher than a giraffe’s asshole, and now you’re telling me he’s reliable? Come on.”

  Still, Barrett didn’t answer. Just watched and waited.

  “What’d he tell you?” Johansson asked finally.

  “That you’ve got a bad back.”

  “I hurt my back. That’s true enough.”

  For a moment they faced off, Johansson defiant, Barrett patient, and then Johansson stepped back from the door and said, “Ah, screw it. Come on inside.”

  Barrett stepped in and was stunned by what he saw. The interior of the house looked more like a dorm room than a family home. The only furniture was an old couch and a coffee table facing a television that sat on the floor. Two empty beer cans also sat on the floor, and there were stains on the carpet where previous members of their battalion had fallen wounded. The walls were bare, but nails and hooks that had once held family photographs and childhood artwork still protruded from them.

  “Let’s have that drink,” Johansson said, and he walked into a kitchen that smelled of old sourness. Barrett stared around, thinking of the last time he’d been here. It was for a barbecue, and Don’s wife, Megan, had put out a spread of fine food while Don and his son manned the grill and shot unsuspecting attendees with squirt guns.

  Johansson came back into the living room and handed Barrett a can of Budweiser. He’d already cracked his own. He lifted it in Barrett’s direction.

  “Cheers.”

  He sat on the couch then, and Barrett felt ridiculous joining him there, the two of them sitting side by side in the empty house, staring at the blank TV on the floor, so he remained standing and leaned against the wall.

  “Where are Megan and David?”

  “Florida. Living the good life. Fun in the sun. But don’t get to feeling sorry for me—it isn’t as bad as it sounds.” He gazed around his home. “Or looks.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’m headed down there myself. They just went ahead of me, that’s all.”

  And went in a hurry, Barrett thought, but he said, “You’re quitting the police?”

  “Retiring, yeah.”

  “You’re five years from retiring with a pension, Don.”

  “I’ll get work easily enough down there. Florida police departments, are you kidding me? Security guards in the gated communities make as much as me. It’s just time for a move.”

  Barrett said, “How many people know about the pills?”

  Johansson looked like he was considering denial, but instead he sipped the beer and said, “A few people know about the pills. I don’t think many know that I’ve…gone to outside sources. If anyone in the department knew that, I’d be fired.”

  “Have you tried cleaning up? Getting to a clinic or a counselor or—”

  Johansson waved him off. “Yes, yes, yes. I’m working on it, Barrett. Shit, I don’t need you showing up at my doorstep like a missionary. Leave your tracts and go, if that’s what this is about.”

  “That’s not what I came for, but I’d like to help you. Seriously.”

  “Right. What else is on your mind, old boy? Let me guess—you finally figured out how Mathias moved the bodies.”

  “Not yet.”

  Johansson’s eyes tightened. “But you’re trying? You came back here to try that?” Johansson gave a little laugh and shook his head. “Tenacious,” he said. “You are tenacious.” He tipped the beer back, realized it was empty, and set it down on the carpet beside one of the stains.

  “We fucked up the wrong case,” he said. “Too many people cared too much. And then with Girard…” He shook his head. “I really did a number on that one, didn’t I? The man’s gun wasn’t even loaded. Lead suspect in the most famous murders this state has seen in years, I killed him before the courtroom, and the son of a bitch was unarmed.”

  “You didn’t know that.”

  “No. But I can tell you exactly how much that meant to people. Ask Howard Pelletier about it sometime, see what it meant to him. Ask Amy and George Kelly.”

  Barrett finished his beer but held it in his hand, unwilling to set it on the floor the way Johansson had.

  “Did you know that Girard sold the drugs that killed Mark Millinock’s nephew?”

  Johansson’s face registered more interest than he probably wanted to show, because all he said was “You don’t say?” without looking up.

  “Yeah. And Mark said something interesting. He called the drug that killed his nephew DC. It’s the same term Kimberly used, but she attached it to a place. She thought it was from Washington. Mark told me that it was a nickname. Devil’s cut or devil’s calling. Have you heard of it?”

  Johansson closed his eyes and shook his head again, slowly and emphatically.

  “Bear with me,” Barrett said.

  “‘Bear with me,’ he says,” Johansson said sarcastically, as if talking to someone else in the room. “‘Bear with me while we search this pond. Hell, let’s dr
ain this pond!’ If Girard hadn’t had a good guilt complex, I’d have been breaching dams with you and wandering around in my hip waders, sorting through old beer cans and babbling about items of evidentiary value. I shouldn’t have shot the son of a bitch—he saved me a lot of embarrassment.”

  “You’re sure he was the one who e-mailed the body location?”

  “Yes.”

  “He seemed startled to see us, in my opinion. If he gave up the location, he should have known how fast it would move from there. No gloves, the truck still parked with their blood in it, but all he could bring himself to do was direct police to the bodies? Why? Because he felt guilty seeing Mathias take the fall? If he really did, why not go all the way and come forward? He knew it wouldn’t take long.”

  “The guy was hardly a Rhodes scholar. Maybe he thought the scene was old enough that there’d be no evidence to attach him to it, and he’d bust Mathias loose without paying the price.”

  Barrett didn’t like that idea and never had.

  “I’d like to see the forensic reports from the body-dump scene,” he said, ignoring him. “I was never given that access. If I can prove—”

  “What you can prove is that none of what that trailer-trash tramp told you was the truth!” Johansson shouted. “We already proved that, Barrett!”

  Barrett let silence hang for a moment, and then he said, “I didn’t come out here to draw you back into this.”

  “Sure as hell sounds like you did.”

  “I came out here to tell you that people will be talking now that I’m back. Mark Millinock may be one of the people doing the talking. You follow me?”

  Johansson didn’t respond.

  “I don’t want to drag you down,” Barrett said. “So I’m giving you fair warning. Be ready for some attention, okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Johansson said.

  “You’re not fine, and more people than Mark know it.”

  “Let ’em talk. I’m done here, anyhow. Florida, brother. And once I’m gone, unlike you, I won’t be stupid enough to come back.”

  Barrett crossed the room and set the empty beer can down on the stained carpet where the other cans were accumulating.

  “If you need me, call me.”

  Johansson didn’t answer.

  Barrett let himself out.

  31

  He left Johansson’s house and headed for Port Hope, feeling sick about how far and fast Don had fallen and trying not to blame himself. That was easier said than done, though—Johansson’s vision of how things could have gone if they’d proceeded with draining the pond was vivid. And probably not inaccurate.

  He couldn’t allow Johansson’s addiction to distract him from what he’d come here to do, though. He’d heard a lot today, and he needed a fresh round with Kimberly based on this fresh information. But before he spoke to her again, he wanted to hear the old story, the original confession. Specifically, he wanted to hear her talk about the drugs from DC.

  He reached in the glove box, moved his gun aside, and found the slim digital recorder that held all his audio files of his interviews with Kimberly Crepeaux. He paired the recorder with the car’s Bluetooth so that the tinny, scratchy sound flowed through the speakers. There she was again; Kimberly’s wry, heavily accented voice filled his car.

  Am I supposed to say his full name in this one, like we don’t all know it? Mathias Burke. You know what’s funny? Your eyes get tight at the corners when you hear his full name. That’s really weird. Every time I say it, I can see you tighten up. Like you’re bracing for a punch. Or want to throw one. Which is it? Hey, you said to tell it in my own words, right? Careful what you wish for, Barrett.

  He had come to a stop sign at an intersection, and when the car behind him honked he realized he’d been waiting even though there was no cross traffic. He pulled across the road, and only once he was on the other side did he remember that he’d needed to turn right to catch Route 17 on its winding way toward the coast.

  He thought he remembered this new road, though, and the map on the rental car’s navigation system showed it running parallel to 17. Lower speeds, but the same destination. That was fine by Barrett. All he wanted was a quiet road and an open mind.

  And Kimberly Crepeaux’s voice.

  Now, I hadn’t done much all summer but drink. Maybe a little weed, but that was about it. I mean, I guess a few pills. But nothing serious, because, you know, people kept dying last summer, even before Cass. It was all over the news. There was bad heroin somebody brought up from Washington, DC. A black guy, I think. Or maybe he was Mexican. But I know it was from DC, because people kept calling it that. It was moving around like a fever that summer. People were dying without even OD’ing because of what it was cut with, some chemical thing I never really understood.

  That chemical thing she’d never really understood was filling emergency rooms—and coffins—from Maine to New Mexico: synthetic heroin mixed with fentanyl. In the right mix, fentanyl played nicely with heroin, each increasing the potency of the other, like a perfect dance partner. In drug parlance, that little beauty had originally been known as China white.

  Get the mixture even a little skewed, though, and the dance became very deadly very swiftly. The recent versions floating around and adding to the national death toll had other nicknames—theraflu, bud ice, income tax. And, maybe, devil’s cut or devil’s calling.

  If the ratio was wrong, users died before they had any sense that something had gone wrong. An overdose death from pure heroin usually required somewhere around thirty milligrams; an overdose death from fentanyl could be caused by as little as three milligrams. If you didn’t know the heroin was laced, good night and good luck.

  And good riddance, many people said, because they saw only a dead druggie, and what loss was that? Then it landed in your neighborhood or on your street or in your house, and perspectives changed fast.

  Barrett was listening to Kimberly and thinking about Mark Millinock as he followed a curve around a wooded hillside and water appeared to the left, a bog lined with high cattails and dark moss. His grandfather would have called the spot a mosquito farm. He was fond of fishing those areas to test his grandson’s ability to endure the hateful, droning swarms. If Barrett missed a fish because he was swatting at the bugs, that was a grand excuse to tell the boy how soft he was and how little he knew about real trouble, about bullets rather than bugs.

  We were all over the road, Kimberly’s voice declared. The worse the curves, the faster he took them…

  Mostly what I remember from that ride is staring at the cat. It started to look a little crazier to me on that ride.

  It was such a vivid story for a fabrication. That didn’t mean it was true, of course; some people liked elaborate lies. Barrett didn’t think that Kimberly Crepeaux was one of them, though. She typically pretended to be confused or she diffused blame, saying she’d heard a story from someone else—and usually she couldn’t recall that person’s name. She always wanted to have a fallback position if she was caught lying.

  She took full ownership of this story, though, and offered a depth of detail that she’d never brought to a lie with Barrett before.

  Barrett rewound, fidgeting with the recorder and glancing up here and there to make sure that the road ahead was empty. Dangerous, like texting and driving, the kind of thing that got people killed. He knew he should pull over, but the road here had no shoulder, it was flanked by the marsh on either side, so he just slowed down as he looked at the recorder.

  The sound of the roaring, accelerating engine caught him totally by surprise.

  He’d been driving with his attention divided between the recorder and the road in front of him, where any threat would be coming from, but he hadn’t checked his mirror. It showed a black truck with a reinforced grille guard like the kind ranchers in Montana had. The truck was burning up the road, death-wish speed, so instead of trying to pull away, Barrett cut the wheel to the right so he could clear out of the idiot’s path.


  The truck turned with him.

  Then into him.

  It wasn’t a glancing impact; it was a devastating one, glass shattering, the head restraint slamming into the back of his skull, the front wheels driven off the pavement and into the mud. The rental car slid down the embankment as Barrett mashed on the brake pedal and got it stopped a few feet from the water, dazed and angry.

  “Son of a bitch!” he shouted, fumbling for the seat-belt release. The rearview mirror offered nothing but the spider-webbed glass of the broken back window. He glanced at the side mirror and saw the truck, its grille protector giving it the look of an animal with bared teeth. The driver backed the truck up and cut the wheel, and Barrett’s first thought was The prick is going to flee the scene, but then the tires realigned and that protected grille was facing him again and Barrett understood two things with sudden, sharp clarity: the first crash had been intentional, not accidental—and there was about to be a second.

  He couldn’t go backward fast enough to avoid it, and to go forward meant driving into the water, so he released the seat belt, slammed the emergency brake on, and reached for the glove compartment, going for his gun. The black truck’s engine howled behind him. He had the glove compartment open and his fingers were closing around the stock of the Glock when the second impact came.

  The emergency brake was his worst decision. Without it, the momentum of the crash would have driven the rental car forward, down the hill and into the water. With the brake engaged, instead of sliding forward and giving him the chance to turn and fire, the vehicle fought physics, and lost. It didn’t just slide forward; it flipped.

  The gun came out of his hand as the world spun. He was slammed into the dashboard, his body angled sideways, and he watched a tall, dark pine tree go from upright to upside down. That was his only clear sense of the rotation. Physically it was just chaos, pain and noise, but visually he saw that lone tree going from logical to deeply wrong.

  Then his head smacked against something hard and unyielding—roof or dashboard or windshield—and he was aware only of the taste of warm blood and the shock of cold water as the light faded.