by MF Moskwik
Jameson nods, waiting for her to continue. When she doesn’t, he asks, “When was the last time you were in the forest, Officer?”
Izzy feels herself clam up. Her heart begins to pound, and a flush comes to her face. She knows he doesn’t deserve the anger that she feels building inside of her, so she bites her tongue, willing herself to speak civilly to the man next to her. “When I was with Carter. When I found him.”
“It can be . . . difficult to revisit those places associated with traumatic loss, Officer Swift. So much so, that one may wish to never visit those places again.”
“I’m fine,” she bites out quietly. I will be fine, she thinks.
“You’re not fine, Officer Swift.” Jameson pauses and then sighs. “You are magnificent,” he observes with certainty. He looks at her silently for a moment. “You are dedicated. And you are brave. And I find myself wishing that I shared your courage.” He turns away from her and stares at the road with a sad expression.
Izzy looks at him, furrowing her brow in curiosity. Who did you lose?
Before she can ask, their car pulls up to a barbed wire fence. In the distance is a small cabin, a single light illuminating one of the two windows of the building’s façade. In front of them, there is a gate with a latch, and on the fencepost hangs a sign.
“My gun is accurate within 500 feet,” reads Izzy.
“You are now 300 feet away from my house,” reads James.
“Do the math,” they finish together.
Izzy sighs. “You have got to be kidding me,” she says.
The door to the cabin opens, and the barrel of a rifle appears.
“Is that a—”
“Get down!” yells Izzy as she pulls Jameson down. She is just able to throw herself over her partner when she hears a series of gunshots. No impact, she thinks.
“Is he . . . shooting at us?” asks Jameson in disbelief.
Izzy peeks her head over the dashboard. The barrel of the rifle is through the door, pointing upward. The shadow of a gun hovers in the doorway behind the cloud of smoke from the previous shots.
“I think it’s a warning shot—I don’t think he’s shooting at us.”
“Unbelievable!” exclaims Jameson.
Another series of shots rings out, and Izzy pushes Jameson down again. As the gunfire peals around them, her hand emerges from beneath the console and searches for the switch for the police lights that sit on her dashboard. It is out of reach, on the ceiling of her car, where her small frame prevents her from getting to it.
“Get out of here!” yells a voice from outside the car. The gunshots come again, louder. “You are on private property, you don’t belong here.”
Izzy peeks above the console, and she sees the man has emerged from the cabin and is pointing his rifle at the car now. She reaches for the switch, and she is just able to feel it with her fingers.
“I’m giving you to the count of three, or I’m gonna start shooting at you. One! Two!”
Izzy lunges for the ceiling of her car and flips the switch. The police lights on the side of her car glow blue, red, and white, and with another desperate flick, she turns on the siren.
As she dives for the shelter of the console, she grabs the CB from the radio and pushes the button. “This is the Westchester County Sheriff’s Department! Put your gun down and come out with your hands up!”
“Son of a bitch!” yells the man. Another series of shots rings out, and this time, there is a ping of bullet on bumper.
“Shit.” Izzy pulls her gun and starts crawling over her partner.
“What are you doing?” Jameson asks around a mouthful of Izzy’s stomach and ribcage.
“I’m going to get out through the back, go round about, and drop him.”
“Are you insane?” he exclaims. Another ping of bullet on bumper rings in their ears.
“You are going to stay here. Talk to him. Distract him.”
“Will he not shoot you?” he asks as her hips and legs slide past him. “Are you listening to me, Officer Swift? Isabel? Izzy?”
“Keep him talking, Jameson, and he won’t,” she yells over her shoulder as she crawls to the back of her cruiser. On the floor and over the final seat, she quietly unlatches the latch at the back of her car and stealthily emerges from the car.
“Officer Swift? Officer Swift?”
She takes a few steps and crouches, disguising her form behind the back passenger tire of her car. Another set of shots rings out, and when there is a break in the gunfire, when she knows the cloud of smoke will obscure the shooter’s vision, she quickly duck walks to the edge of forest to the right of the car and takes cover behind a tree.
“Come on, Jameson. Keep him talking,” she whispers.
She sees the profile of a hand reach for the ceiling, and the lights and siren blare again. She sees Jameson peep his head above the console and look around. Though she is in the forest, he looks in her direction. Can he see me?
“Saul Lennox. We are with the Westchester Sheriff’s Department. Please cease your gunfire and put your gun down.”
“Not a chance, pig!” yells the man from the porch. He lowers his rifle and shoots at the car again.
Thank God he’s a terrible shot. Izzy quietly walks through the forest, through the wire fence that surrounds the property, and reaches the side of the clearing where the house and the man with the gun stand. She peeks through the trees and looks at the scene again. The movement disturbs the foliage around her, and the branches and leaves shiver and rustle with movement.
Saul Lennox swivels and points his rifle right at her. “What’s that? Someone there?”
SHIT! Izzy freezes, holds her breath, and prays that the trees that gave her away give her enough cover.
“In the name of the Governor of New York, put down your weapon and surrender to the authority of the police!” Jameson’s voice booms from her car.
Izzy rolls her eyes, but Jameson’s admonition draws the man’s aim and another round of shots. Soon, she hears the unproductive cocking of an empty gun.
Now!
Izzy emerges from the forest. “Saul Lennox? Westchester County Police. Drop your weapon and get on the floor.”
The man pivots and turns his gun on her. Seeing the barrel of her .22 trained at him, he places his rifle on the ground and drops to his knees.
“Hands up, and lace your fingers behind your head.”
“Officer Swift?” calls Jameson from the car.
“Here, Jameson. Get the cuffs on him.”
The British detective sprints from the car to the cabin. With a deft glance of his hands over her hips, Jameson grabs the cuffs off her belt and places them on the wrists of the man on his knees in front of them.
As she watches, a look of surprise crosses her partner’s face, and he gestures to a bandaged wound on the older man’s arm. “An injury, Officer Swift. Perhaps one that would match the blood the crime scene techs found at the lab?”
“Saul Lennox, you’re under arrest for shooting at a police officer. You have the right to remain silent. Should you waive that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one may be appointed for you. Do you understand your rights as I have stated them to you?”
The thin, grizzled man gives her an angry stare. “You’ll pay for this. You’ll all pay. You’ll see! Lying bastards! You’ll pay!” Hate and invective make the blood vessels in his forehead bulge, and spittle flies from his mouth with each word.
Mr. Lennox rears back and spits at her, his saliva painting the ground at her feet a dark brown.
Izzy sighs. “Sometimes I hate this job.”
***
With their suspect still struggling, Jameson and Izzy bring the old man to her car, put him in the backseat, and call for backup.
While Jameson waits with the old man, Izzy dons a pair of gloves and enters the cabin.
Within the shag-carpeted, wood-panele
d chamber, knitted blankets, college textbooks, and beer bottles surround her. In one corner of his living room sits a worn brown leather recliner, a pillow, and a blanket.
She takes out her notebook and begins writing notes on the scene. Gun on the ground outside, ammunition next to the window. Casings that litter the porch and ground outside.
She wanders around the cabin. A living room, dining area, and one bedroom. Medications on the night stand. A bathroom. More medications.
She walks back into the living room. A TV. A couch and small table. Few books—a bible, college textbooks, newspapers. The only personal item he seems to have is a gallery of old pictures that adorn the wall next to the windows. A younger, happier version of the man in her car, sitting next to a pretty smiling woman and a baby. A young teen dressed in a baseball uniform. Mr. Lennox and his wife as older parents, and their son and his girlfriend at a college graduation. And then the son, his girlfriend and a baby in the hospital.
The pictures are old, and the clothes are dated from the sixties and seventies and eighties, but the smiles and gestures of family and happiness are timeless and recognizable by all.
Except Izzy.
Standing in front of the pictures, she finds herself examining their expressions—the smiles, the hugs, the gentle press of cheek on cheek—and looks at the people with a strange, unattached envy. A need for objective assessment comes over her, and with surprise, she realizes that the angry, hate-filled man in her car and the man smiling at her from the pictures in front of her are the same person.
A knock comes from the door. “Officer Swift?”
“Oh. Hey, Jenkins,” she says. She blinks twice and steps away from the pictures.
“You ready for us?” the crime scene technologist asks.
“Absolutely. There’s also some casings outside and some slugs near my car,” she says as she walks out of the cabin.
“We’ll get ’em,” Jenkins reassures her. “How about you? You okay? Need a medic?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I’ll check up on Jameson and our suspect. Thanks.”
She walks over to the car where her partner waits for her. “Officer Swift. Did you find anything of note?”
“Your tech wasn’t there. Not much else was either. Just some medicine, newspapers, a few beers, and some textbooks.” She shakes her head. “Do you think he could be our person of interest, Jameson?”
“The injury on his arm could be the source of the blood found on the glass from the lab, but he would still need to have the chemical and technological knowledge demonstrated by our criminal. What was the nature of the textbooks in the cabin?”
Izzy checks her notes. “Computer science?” She closes her notebook and puts it back into her pocket.
“Perhaps he was studying details about wireless technology? Using the books to figure out a plan?”
“Or maybe he lives with someone going to college?” offers Izzy. “At any rate, we need to take him in for questioning, see if he has an alibi. Get a cheek swab to test against the DNA found in the lab.”
“A prudent plan, Officer Swift. But our perpetrator? If it is not he?” asks Jameson.
Izzy looks at her watch. Tuesday. “Then in 24 hours, the DNA analysis will let us know. And then we’ll have just one day to find our real killer.”
Chapter Sixteen
The door to the interrogation anteroom opens.
“Crime scene techs are just about to finish sweeping Mr. Lennox’s house. We should have preliminary prints tonight and fiber tomorrow morning. We’re also waiting for the warrant to check Larry’s house since his case has been reclassified as attempted murder,” announces Izzy.
As she enters the room, Izzy catches Jameson staring at the senior Mr. Lennox through the one-way glass of the interrogation room. She turns to look at the angry father. The man on the other side of the glass sits still, but his extremities—his hands, his feet, his lips, his knee, his fidgety shoulders—all bounce and shake with barely restrained emotion.
“And Mr. Davis himself?” her partner asks after a time.
Izzy shakes her head. “Still unconscious, but the doctor thinks tomorrow he may come out of it.” Izzy pauses as she watches Mr. Lennox through the window. “Anything?”
Jameson shakes his head. “For the half hour we have been here, he has sat silently. A remarkable change from what we witnessed a while earlier in his house.” He pauses. “The straight spine, the proud bearing, the neat trim cut of his silver hair, the aggressive verbal attack upon you earlier. I find these traits are familiar to me. They remind me of something that I cannot quite put my finger upon.” Another pause. “Perhaps he was—”
“Military,” they finish in unison.
At the surprised look from Jameson, Izzy shrugs. “Maybe. Honor. Duty. Sacrifice. If he’s former military, that’ll come in handy.”
Jameson is quiet. Contemplative. “I was taken aback, Officer Swift, by the rage that he showed as he shot at us this afternoon. I know that it is difficult to lose a loved one, but to hold onto one’s anger so tightly for twenty-five years?”
Izzy shrugs again. “But if he blames the police for his son’s death, and then we show up at his house?” She turns and looks at Mr. Lennox through the glass. “If I had twenty-five years to be angry and bitter, I don’t know if my reaction would be that different. Well, maybe minus the shooting.”
Jameson is silent for a long time. When Izzy finally looks at him, she finds him staring at her with a look of unabashed curiosity.
“What?” she asks.
“You have compassion for Mr. Lennox,” Jameson observes with surprise.
Izzy nods. “You’re right. I do. It is a hard thing to go through, losing someone. And how we deal with it, what we do with the grief and loss and anger, sometimes it doesn’t happen in the way that it should.”
Jameson turns his gaze from Izzy to the man behind the glass. “If at all.”
Izzy shrugs. “Then again, everyone’s lost someone, but we don’t all turn into mass murderers. Some of us retreat or withdraw. Some of us use the sadness to do good work.” Izzy pauses. “And some of us turn into emotionally detached, data-driven Detective Inspectors. Isn’t that right, Jameson?” asks Izzy as she fixes him with an unblinking gaze.
The startled expression on his face tells her everything she wants to know about him. Who did you lose? she wonders again.
The door to the room opens again, and Captain Williams strides through it. “Officer. Detective. What do we have here?”
“Saul Lennox. Father of Aaron Lennox, a 1989 New York State Police Academy cadet who died during a training run. He blames the police for his son’s death,” recites Izzy. “Shot the hell out of my car this afternoon.”
“Interesting. How’s he linked to the tech?” asks Williams.
Izzy looks to Jameson to provide the answer. “The theft of the technological device is linked to a string of deaths of police officers that trained at the academy during ’89,” he offers.
“He also has an injury that maybe corresponds to blood we found in the lab,” offers Izzy.
“If I heard you right, you said ‘maybe’ corresponds. Does that mean that you don’t yet have any evidence putting him at the scene?” asks Williams.
Jameson and Izzy look at one another. “Not yet, but we’re working prints and DNA to tie him to the lab,” Izzy replies.
“Not enough, Iz. We can hold him for shooting at police, but without evidence, the charge for the lab theft won’t stick. You know the rules,” cautions the Captain.
“Yes, sir,” Izzy replies.
“So, what’s your angle?” Captain Williams asks the two of them.
“I would like to ask him where he was on Sunday night, if he can provide any alibis, and if he can give us the names of anyone related to the case. If this gentleman does not have direct knowledge related to the stolen devices, then perhaps he is working with someone, a partner,” suggests Jameson.
Captain Williams co
nsiders this. “You?”
Izzy looks at the man on the other side of the interrogation glass. “If he’s going to talk, it’s going to be about his son, Aaron. This is a man who lost someone close to him, and he feels like no one cares. That no one’s on his side.” She moves toward the door that joins their room with Mr. Lennox’s. “Maybe he’s right.”
“Officer Swift?” asks Jameson.
“Permission to conduct the interrogation, Captain?” she asks. Her eyes are still focused on the older man in the interrogation room.
Captain Williams nods. “Granted. Let’s see what this gets us.”
With a brief glance at Jameson, Izzy opens the door and enters the room.
***
“Mr. Lennox,” begins Izzy.
“I want a lawyer. I’m not talking without my lawyer,” answers the man with silver hair and angry, amber eyes.
“We’re getting you one, Mr. Lennox.” She walks to the table between them and sits across from him. “But if we can, I’d like to ask you a question first about your son, Aaron.”
Mr. Lennox gives Izzy a murderous glance. In his anger, the man’s mouth foams with spittle, and his cloudy eyes narrow until his pupils are tiny pools of black. “I don’t have a son. Not anymore.”
“Mr. Lennox, we’re sorry for what happened to your son. We’re sorry for what happened to Aaron twenty-five years ago. But we think that someone connected to him is hurting people, and we want to try to stop that.” Izzy leans toward the older man seated in front of her. “Is there anyone that knew your son who you think would try to hurt other people?”
Mr. Lennox crosses his arms and leans away from her. He begins to move his mouth silently, as if talking to himself, but at first, no sound escapes his lips. “Who’s getting hurt? These people, who are they?“ he rasps eventually.
“Police officers. Veteran police. Twenty-five year alumni of the New York State Police Academy, the same class as your son.”
A smug smile crosses Mr. Lennox’s face. “You telling me that someone’s hurting the classmates of my son, Aaron? The ones that let him die out there on his training run?”