“Yes.”
Jonathan looked like he was out of breath. “Okay, here’s the deal. We’re going downstairs, okay? You, me, the kid, and whoever the fuck that is in the kitchen.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Right. Whatever I want.” Jonathan seemed to notice the gun. He turned it to the side and stared down at it, thinking. “That’s your friend Claire, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“The judge’s girlfriend.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“Bullshit.” When Sid just kept looking at Jonathan without saying anything, Jonathan got angry. “You talk. I have ears. I’m not stupid.”
“I know you’re not stupid.”
It seemed like Jonathan couldn’t figure out what he wanted to do. After a little while, he said, “Looks like we may get a chance to go out big.” When Professor Cranmer didn’t say anything, Jonathan made up his mind. “Like I say, here’s the deal: We go down to the kitchen and collect your friend Claire.”
“Okay.”
“Then, we all go in the basement.”
“Okay.”
“You tie the two of them up and put some tape over their mouths.”
“Fine. Whatever you—”
“Then you and me will go for a drive in your car.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
Jonathan went quiet, and his eyes started searching sideways. “When we go downstairs, you go first.”
“Okay.” Professor Cranmer took a step toward the door.
“Not yet.” Jonathan pointed with his chin at Ethan. “You come here.” Ethan looked up at Professor Cranmer, and Professor Cranmer nodded.
“Go ahead, Ethan. We’re all going to be fine.”
Ethan walked toward Jonathan. When he got close, Jonathan said, “Turn around.”
Ethan turned around, and Jonathan put his left hand, the one without the gun, on Ethan’s shoulder. “Okay, listen up.” Jonathan was mostly talking to Ethan but loud enough for Professor Cranmer to hear. “As long as my hand is on your shoulder, you’re fine. But if you try to run away, or jump somewhere, and my hand comes off your shoulder, you’re dead, okay?” Ethan didn’t say anything, and Jonathan shook him, not too hard. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Jonathan looked at Professor Cranmer. “If you try to run, you probably won’t make it, but even if you do, the boy here is dead. And so is your friend in the kitchen. You understand?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Jonathan.” Professor Cranmer looked at him. “You’ll be fine, Ethan.”
“Just walk right in front of the boy, just a couple steps in front.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Don’t say ‘whatever you say.’ It’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid, Sid. You’d screw me the first chance …”
“Of course I would. But you’re not going to give me a chance.”
“Damn straight.”
“So I’m going to do whatever you tell me to do.”
“Damn straight.”
“I have an idea that might help. Can I say something?”
“No, you fucking can’t.” There was a long silence. Ethan couldn’t see what Jonathan was up to, but he could feel him, standing there, and as he breathed, his stomach bumped the back of Ethan’s head. Finally, Jonathan just said, “Shit. I’ll never …” Then he let out a big shaky breath.
Professor Cranmer was standing there with his arms folded, not moving, as though he could stand there forever. He nodded over his shoulder toward the bedroom door. “Listen. When we get downstairs, and we’re in the living room, I’m going to call out something to Claire before she sees us, to let her know we have a situation, so she won’t be too startled, okay? If we just walk in on her like this, she might be really surprised, and we don’t want any surprises.”
Jonathan still didn’t say anything. Professor Cranmer was looking past Ethan at Jonathan behind him, very hard. “Come on. I’m not going to say anything that will make things harder, Jonathan. I want the same thing you do. A nice, calm walk to the basement. Then you and I leave, and whatever happens after that, happens.”
There was another pretty long silence, where Ethan wasn’t sure what was going on, until finally Jonathan said, “I used your computer and screen name.”
“I figured you might have.”
“You didn’t say anything to the cops.”
“I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Most of that shit was mine, but some of it was yours. You liked it, too.”
“I know.”
“And I wasn’t the one who went in the chat rooms. That was fucking stupid, Sid. The cops watch them.”
“You’re right. I didn’t know that.”
Downstairs the teakettle began to whistle. Ethan could hear the lady moving around down there.
“This is all your fault.”
“I know.”
Another silence followed. Again, Ethan could feel Jonathan breathing. His fingers squeezed Ethan’s shoulder, not too hard. “Okay, fuck it. Let’s go.”
They walked slowly down the stairs, Professor Cranmer first, maybe two steps in front, then Ethan with Jonathan’s hand on his shoulder. The cats crowded down with them, and once, as they were jostling past, Jonathan stumbled a little. The barrel of the gun clunked the side of Ethan’s head, and Jonathan said, “Sorry, man.”
“It’s okay,” Ethan whispered.
When they got down into the living room, Professor Cranmer called out. “Claire. Just stay where you are in the kitchen, will you? Don’t move. I have a little surprise for you. We have a kind of situation here. A couple people are with me. So, as the students like to tell us, just chill, will you, please?”
Professor Cranmer said, in a lower voice, to Jonathan. “Was that all right?”
“Just keep walking.”
The lady, Claire, was standing by the island in the middle of the kitchen when they came in. She had the kettle in her hand, like she’d just been pouring the tea water, and when she saw Sid and Ethan, she started to smile, and then stopped.
Jonathan said, “Put the kettle down and walk over to that table. Away from the window.” The lady’s face dropped, but she didn’t freak out. Ethan remembered seeing her once, talking to his mom.
“It’s okay,” Professor Cranmer said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
50
Judge Norcross followed Agent Patterson from the high school to Sid Cranmer’s house. Patterson slowly ran a red light at one point, keeping an eye on Norcross in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t stick his flashing party hat on the roof. It was a serious situation but not, as far as he could tell, a crisis. Norcross stayed close behind him. How good would the judge be in a tight spot?
A banged-up, dark green Ford F-150 was sitting by the curb in front of the Cranmer address. It matched the general description of the vehicle present at the Ho Jo’s when they grabbed Underwood. A red Prius was parked in the drive.
Patterson let his car drift two doors down before pulling over. Norcross, unfortunately, stopped smack in front of Cranmer’s, creating a risk he might spook Jonathan, assuming the housecleaner was there and he was the guy they were looking for. Patterson wanted to watch the house for a bit and call for backup before approaching. He got out of his car and walked quickly over to where Norcross was just stepping onto the sidewalk.
“Hang on a second, okay?”
The judge looked at him sharply. “Claire.” He gestured at the house. “Professor Lindemann is in there. That’s her car.”
Patterson couldn’t exactly give Norcross orders, but he really didn’t want him underfoot if things got interesting. To his relief, after some hesitation, the judge slid back into his car and closed the do
or, not too loudly.
Patterson slipped into the passenger seat. Norcross was staring at the house, making an awning of his hand to shade his eyes, which would have tipped off anyone’s grandmother that they were doing surveillance. It probably didn’t matter. There was no sign of anything wrong.
Patterson pulled out his phone. “I’m calling for backup. I think that’s our guy’s car.” He nodded at the pickup. “If this is the right Jonathan, we don’t want him going out a window.” As Patterson began fingering the access code, he sneezed violently. “Dammit.” He sniffed and shook his head.
Norcross nodded at his glove compartment. “Should be some Kleenex in there.”
Groping inside, Patterson found something he really wasn’t expecting. He pulled out a baggie of marijuana and held it up to the judge, raising his eyebrows.
Norcross looked at it, not changing expression. “Ah, that. Yes.” He pulled on his nose and sniffed. “That’s, uh …”
Patterson flipped the baggie back into the glove compartment. “I’m going to assume somebody has a prescription for that.”
At that moment, a single, sharp gunshot came from inside Cranmer’s house, large caliber, probably Cranmer’s .45. Norcross flung his door open and had a foot out so fast that Patterson had to lunge across the seat, grab the shoulder of his raincoat, and yank him back in.
“Stay in the car.”
“I can’t just …” Norcross looked offended, but that was too bad.
“Stay put.” Patterson got quickly out of the car. “This isn’t a courtroom.”
“Let me do something. I can’t …”
“Call 911. Tell them to get here ASAP.” Patterson drew his automatic from his shoulder holster. “And tell them we’ll need an ambulance.”
Gun pointed up, Patterson limped quickly down the walk toward Cranmer’s front door, horribly aware of what a large, slow target he was making from inside the house. When the door suddenly swung open, he dodged to the side and pointed his gun. It was Claire Lindemann running for daylight, pulling a small boy behind her. An adult male voice was screaming in the background.
“You dumb motherfucker! I ought to fucking kill you.”
The boy was crying and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His glasses were askew and he was trying to push them up as he ran.
Claire’s face was pale with fear. “Sid grabbed the gun.” She looked over her shoulder back into the house. “Please hurry!”
“Take the boy over there.” Patterson gestured toward the judge’s car, where he saw Norcross, contrary to instructions, already out and coming toward them. Sirens were moaning in the distance. Some neighbor must have called right after the gunshot, even before Norcross got through.
The front door started to sway closed. Patterson kicked it open and hopped across the threshold as fast as he could, stepping to the side, gun in both hands, half expecting to get shot while he was lit up in the entry. What he saw in the house reminded him of Afghanistan, the interior of a hut after a raid. Blood was everywhere—splashed up against the walls, soaking into the light brown rug, spattering the hallway from the kitchen. A man, twentysomething, probably Jonathan, was kneeling over Sid Cranmer, who was curled up on the floor, hit good.
Jonathan seemed to be trying to do something to stop the bleeding, but Patterson could see it was a pumper. Jonathan had set the .45 on a table within easy reaching distance.
Sid was starting up, “Not there. Higher!”
“Fuck! You fucking fuck.” Jonathan stood and raised his hands helplessly. They were covered in blood. Then he noticed Patterson, stood up straighter, and turned toward him.
“Move over there.” Patterson gestured to the left to get Jonathan away from the gun.
“He’s bleeding like shit.”
“I said move over there.” Patterson gestured again. “Put your hands up on the wall.”
There was a smear of blood on Jonathan’s cheek. “He fucking made me do it.”
“Do what I said. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
Jonathan stared at Patterson. Something in his eyes seemed to change, some wall caving in behind them. “It’s too late.” He leaned and reached slowly for the gun on the table. Patterson knew immediately what Jonathan was up to and was almost desperate to stop him. He’d shot enough people to last him a lifetime.
He shouted, “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it, Jonathan. Just move to the side, like I said.”
Jonathan looked at his bloody hands, then up at Patterson. “I’m done.” He picked up the gun and began to swing the barrel slowly, forcing Patterson, giving him plenty of time. “It’s going to be one of us, man. Your choice.”
Just before Jonathan had the gun lined up on him, Patterson fired twice, hitting Jonathan clean in the upper chest both times. The impact sent Jonathan staggering backward, tumbling over Sid, and sprawling into the kitchen. The .45 slid over the ceramic tiles and clunked against a chair leg. Jonathan didn’t so much as squirm.
Patterson popped the safety on his gun, holstered it, then stepped quickly to where Sid lay writhing in a wad on the ground.
“Sid?”
“Fuck, it hurts.”
Patterson kneeled down. “Where are you hit?”
“Up here.” Sid was squeezing his hand over a wound high up on his inner thigh. Blood was pumping out through his fingers. “It’s the femoral. I can’t stop it.” He breathed hard. “Shit. I’m losing it.”
“Take your hand away.” Patterson unhooked and yanked off his belt. “You need …”
“Serves me right for getting hollow points. It’s all …”
Patterson worked as fast as he could, cinching the belt up high around Sid’s upper leg. It was slippery as hell. “You’re going to be okay. I’m getting something around it. We can stop the …” He pulled the belt as tight as he could. The blood flow eased, but only a little. He began groping at the wound, trying to find the artery and squeeze it off. “I’m just … I can feel it.”
“It’s too torn up. Oh God. I’m bleeding out.” Sid tried to lift his head to look at his leg, but dropped back. “Christ, it hurts. Must have got the bone.” As Patterson tried to pull the belt tighter, Cranmer shrieked out with the pain, shockingly loud, then gasped, fading. “Tell Ethan it’s not his fault.”
“Let me get my hand up here.”
“I was all set to go, then he came by. Gave me another spring.”
“I think I’ve got it. I’m close.”
“Sorry about this. Had to do something. Taking us to the basement …” His voice was getting fainter.
“I know.” Patterson was twisting his belt around Cranmer’s upper thigh with one hand and pressing as hard as he could onto the wound with the other. “Would have done the same myself. Stay with me. You’re going to be …”
“Tell Ethan. Even people who …” Cranmer was whispering now. Patterson could barely hear him. “Give him the cats.”
Cranmer’s eyes rolled up, and his head fell back. Soon after that, the pulsing spurt of the artery stopped. Patterson’s arms were soaked up to his elbows, and his pants were drenched. Some time went by, probably not much, and then he heard car doors slamming and noticed blue lights bouncing off the ceiling. A uniformed Amherst cop was first through the door, with his gun out, looking scared. Couldn’t blame him.
Patterson shouted and raised his hands. “Patterson, FBI.” The cop lowered his gun. “Christ’s sake, come help me. We got a bleeder. Maybe we can …” But Sid wasn’t moving.
Two EMTs, a man and a woman, charged in after that and took over. After a short time, it was clear there was nothing they could do. Professor Cranmer was gone.
Patterson heaved himself onto his feet, walked to the far end of the living room, and dropped into the familiar wingback. His hands made bloody smears on the flowered pattern. Everything inside him, brain and bones, see
med to be sinking down into his gut. He couldn’t move. After a while, one of the EMTs came and squatted down in front of him.
“Look at me, okay?” She was a young black woman. Her words went past him, and she repeated. “Just look at me, will you?”
“Okay.” Patterson noticed that the EMT had a very pretty, very intelligent face. She reminded him of his daughter, but older, heavier.
“What’s your name?”
He had to think for a second. “Mike.” He cleared his throat. “Mike Patterson. FBI.”
“Are you hit anywhere, Agent Patterson?”
“If he’d gotten them into the basement, they never would have come out again.”
“I understand. Are you hit anywhere, Agent Patterson?”
“No.” He glanced down. “I don’t think so.”
“Just keep looking at me, will you? You sure?” She reached up with a damp cloth and wiped his forehead. “You’ve got a nasty cut up here. Maybe caught a fragment?”
“Don’t know how that happened.”
“You have a lot of blood on you.”
“It’s mostly not mine.”
The Amherst cop called from the kitchen. “Who’s this other guy?”
“Suicide by cop,” Patterson called out. “To hell …” He paused, listening as a siren wound down outside. Somehow, he’d forgotten what he’d started to say. After a few seconds, it came back. He cleared his throat and muttered to no one in particular, “To hell with him.”
Patterson started to stand up, intending to go assist in the kitchen, but his ankle gave out. If the EMT hadn’t grabbed him, he would have gone down right on his face.
51
Judge Norcross canceled court for the entire week following the death of Sidney Cranmer. Over dinner one night, he and Claire discussed whether he should attend the professor’s funeral. It was scheduled for that Saturday at Johnson Chapel on the Amherst College campus. Claire would be one of the speakers.
“I want to be there,” David said. “The case is over. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
David had made grilled swordfish, an easy, regular entrée that he was proud of and that Lindsay and Jordan both actually liked. The girls had finished up quickly, probably sensing that the adults wanted to talk. Lindsay, who was grumpy for some reason, had retreated upstairs to her room, and Jordan was watching television. It was a fairly normal evening.
The One-Eyed Judge Page 39