by Gregory Ashe
“Detective Somerset, what happened last night was a tragedy. More than a tragedy. And I know that for you—and for many people in Wahredua—it was personal.”
“Excuse me? What are you trying to say?”
Cravens’s shoulders sagged. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“She’s saying,” Hazard broke in, “that this wasn’t anything but an accident.”
Somers looked from Hazard to Cravens. “That’s crazy. That guy shot my father. He shot that girl. He tried to shoot other people. If Detective Hazard hadn’t stopped him, he would have killed other people.”
“I know, Detective. I know perfectly well what happened.”
“It sure as hell doesn’t sound like it.” The words sounded strange in Somers’s mouth. Normally, moments like this—tense, high-pressure moments—were when he was able to shine. Normally he knew what to say and how to say it. Right then, though, the words just poured out of him. A quiet part at the back of his brain observed, disappointedly, that he was sounding an awful lot like Hazard. Somers couldn’t keep the words from flowing out, though. “It sounds like you have no fucking idea what happened last night. That’s what it sounds like. I had him cuffed, and he got loose. How do you explain that? I’ll tell you how: somebody with keys unlocked him. Now that means you’ve either got a crooked sheriff or a crooked cop or both.”
“I understand that you’re upset, Detective. I understand that this has been a terrible twenty-four hours for you. I understand that you’re speaking out of distress and grief. But don’t think for a moment that my patience is unlimited. Here’s what happened last night: a man with a history of mental illness approached your parents’ home. He entered their home.”
“Armed with a fucking gun.”
“Yes, with a firearm. He entered their home. He was detained by your father and some of the other guests. Your father called you for help. Then, for God only knows what reason, you decided to handle the matter on your own, without following proper protocol. Those are grounds for serious charges, Detective.”
Somers stared at Cravens. She was threatening him. Using a calm tone, using soft words, but she was still threatening him. And the worst part was that she was right.
Before Somers could regain his voice, Hazard spoke, the words so rough and jagged that Somers could barely understand them. “If you think you can—”
Cravens’s calm shattered. In a seething whisper, she said, “Will you listen to me for Christ’s sake? You’re in hot water. Both of you. Right now, nobody is looking at you. Everyone’s too upset about the shooting. But if you keep sticking your noses into this, they will start asking questions. Don’t look at me like that, Hazard. This isn’t a threat. It’s a warning.”
“That man shot my father,” Somers said.
“And he’s dead, Detective. He was killed while escaping. That’s a tragedy too; that man should have stood trial and been held accountable for what he did. Not just for shooting your father but for killing that sweet, young girl. She—”
Hazard’s voice sliced through the next words. “She’s dead?”
“Yes.” Cravens balled her fists. She took several long, deep breaths, and then she said, “As I was saying to Detective Hazard, at this point, there’s no need for further investigation into what happened at the Somerset home. The shooter has been identified by multiple people. He is now dead. There is no case; there will be no trial. That is the beginning and end of the story, gentlemen.”
“And the killer? The one who got himself shot so conveniently?” The words tumbled out of Somers; God damn, he really did sound like Hazard. “What about him? What about an investigation into his death? What about the cuffs?”
“You should be very careful about how you phrase that question, Detective. No handcuffs were recovered at the scene. No one saw you put him in handcuffs.”
“You’re saying I’m lying.”
“I’m saying that you’ve been through incredible trauma over the last twelve hours. You’re not thinking clearly. As with all officer-involved shootings, the department will investigate. I told Detective Hazard, and I’ll tell you the same thing: you and Detective Hazard have a conflict of interest in this case, and so Officers Foley and Moraes will be looking into Detective Lender’s shooting.” She sighed. “I know this isn’t ideal, but all of my detectives have their feet in this mess, and it’s the best I can do.”
Somers turned, feeling strangely helpless, like a child facing someone much larger and much stronger, and he was half-surprised—only half—to find himself looking to Hazard. Fury darkened Hazard’s expression.
“It’s not good enough,” Hazard said. “If Somers say he put him in cuffs, he did. Somehow he got loose. That shooting wasn’t just an accident. And that man’s death wasn’t an accident. There’s no chance in hell he was trying to escape, not the way Swinney and Lender are telling it, and even if I’m the only one who—”
“That’s enough, Detective.” Cravens was breathing rapidly now, her face pink and almost gnomish in its tightly controlled anger. “You aren’t thinking clearly. You’re not in your right mind—you’re not in your goddamn head, that’s what. You need to take a few days of leave. Both of you.”
“Chief,” Somers began.
She cut off his words with a slicing gesture. “Enough, Detectives. Enough from both of you. Consider this mandatory leave. Get some rest. Get out of town if you need to. But get your heads back on straight because if I ever hear you suggest what I think you were just suggesting, I’ll have you out the door so fast you’ll be spinning in the snow. Do I make myself clear?”
Somers managed to say, “Yes.” Hazard didn’t speak; he gave a single jerk of his head.
Shoulders sagging again, Cravens reached out a hand as though to pat Somers’s shoulder. Then she dropped her hand. “I am sorry about your father, Detective. We’re all thinking about you. Please let me know if there’s anything we can do to help.”
Somers wanted to tell her what she could do to help. She could let him investigate the shooting and the too-convenient death of the shooter. But instead, he worked up a smile and nodded. It felt about as real as paste and paper, but Cravens smiled back and trudged up the hallway.
“Jesus,” Somers said when she was gone.
“About time you said something worth saying,” Hazard said.
“Are you kidding? I sounded like you. I sounded worse than you, and that’s almost impossible. I sounded like a lunatic.”
“You sounded like you were finally making sense.”
“Jesus,” Somers muttered. “Just Jesus Christ. Great, that’s what I need, for you to think I’m making sense.”
“Come on,” Hazard said, starting towards the service stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“To find out who tried to kill your father.”
“You—” Somers called after him, but by then, Hazard had already disappeared down the stairs. Swearing, Somers trotted after him.
“Just Jesus Christ, this is what I need.”
HAZARD DROVE A CHERRY-RED VW JETTA that was, if Somers were being fair, more of a faded pink than cherry-red and that had a significant amount of rust eating at the wheel wells. It was about a cubic meter too small for Emery Hazard; when he sat behind the wheel, he looked like he’d been vacuum-packed inside a Matchbox car.
“This is a joke,” Somers said.
“The Interceptor has official plates,” Hazard said. “Everybody will spot it from a mile away.”
“Everybody will spot this from a mile away. A clown car? What are we supposed to do when we get out? Blow balloon animals.”
Hazard responded with a vicious—and lengthy—description of what Somers could blow. The only way to shut him up was for Somers to get into the car. They drove across town in the VW, and sardines in a can was too spacious a metaphor. Somers’s shoulder rubbed Hazard’s as the car bounced along. Hazard’s hand
brushed Somers’s leg when he shifted gears. The VW made a soft, whining noise, like metal that had almost, but not quite, been worn smooth. It was so small that Somers could smell Hazard’s deodorant. He could feel the heat pouring off the bigger man. And his hand. His goddamn hand. How many times did he have to shift gears? It was going to make Somers’s head explode.
“What’s wrong with you?” Hazard said. “Your face is red.”
“Can’t this thing go any faster?”
“Are you too hot?” Hazard stretched across Somers, his big, ropy muscles pressed against Somers’s chest as he fumbled with the window. “You need some air.”
“Just get off me.” Somers shoved Hazard back into his seat and took a deep breath. That damn pomade, too.
“What the hell is your deal?”
“If you shift one more time, I’m going to—I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Hazard frowned, but he drove them the rest of the way in second, and they coasted through two stop signs. He parked in front of the Newton Mortuary, a red brick building with a steeply pitched roof. Inside, Hazard led Somers to the medical examiner’s office at the back of the building. He punched in the code to the door—a masterpiece of cryptography, 1-2-3-4-5—and they stepped into the dingy, black-and-white room.
Little had changed in the months since Hazard had arrived in Wahredua. The octagonal tiles that ran across the floor and up the walls still looked like they needed a wheelbarrow of Ajax—even a wheelbarrow might not be enough. The autopsy table with its chipped enamel was still slowly rusting away, the reddish-brown stain flaking away from the metal to fall and bloody the tile. Inside one of the cadaver drawers, a row of vodka bottles stood at attention, each with varying amounts of hooch still inside. Last of all, completing the picture, was the homemade desk—nothing more than a piece of plywood laid across two sawhorses—covered with papers, files, empty bottles, black and blue pens, a pair of crystal apples, and what looked like a zipper detached from someone’s jeans.
Also on top of the desk lay a completely naked man. Although to be fair, Dr. Kamp, Wahredua’s medical examiner, was neither completely naked nor completely lying down. He looked like he had fallen asleep while kneeling; at one end, his mass of frizzy white hair rested on the desktop, while at the other end, his bare ass stuck up into the air, escaping the white lab coat he had pulled around his shoulders. Even from a distance, the doctor reeked of stale vomit and cigarette smoke. He was either unconscious or dead, and Hazard didn’t think he was lucky enough for Dr. Kamp to be dead.
“See if he’s got a file started,” Hazard said, starting towards the drawers.
“No, no, no.” Somers snagged Hazard’s sleeve and jerked his head at the desk. “You see if he’s got a file started.”
Hazard’s eyes narrowed. “It’s your turn.”
“My father’s the one who got shot.”
“We’re supposed to take turns.”
“I’m the victim of a personal tragedy.”
“You’re a manipulative little asshole.” But Hazard altered his course towards the desk and the reeking doctor.
“Thanks, Ree.”
“Shut up.”
While Somers crossed towards the cadaver drawers, Hazard paused and studied the tableau in front of him. Even with only a soiled lab coat tugged around his shoulders, Dr. Kamp seemed untroubled by the mortuary’s chill or by the obvious discomfort of his position. From what Somers had told Hazard, Kamp was a retired brain surgeon—a once-brilliant, once-successful man. It was hard to reconcile that account with the expanse of sagging flesh and bristly white hairs that confronted Hazard.
Breathing through his mouth, Hazard rifled through the papers on the desk. It didn’t take him long to find the file that Kamp had started last night—at some point between the transfer of Santa Claus’s body to the ME’s office and Kamp’s eventual, alcohol-induced blackout. Paperclipped to the inside of the folder was a picture of Santa Claus, stripped now of his hat.
In death, Santa Claus looked like a different man. Gone were the manic energy, the jittery movements, the dilated, empty eyes. Flesh sagged, exposing purple veins and gray stubble, as though Santa were a balloon that had lost all its air.
“Found him,” Somers announced, sliding out a tray.
“So did I.” Hazard joined his partner and displayed the folder. “Wayne Stillwell.”
“What do we know about Mr. Stillwell?”
Hazard glanced at the folder. The ME’s file contained a printout of Stillwell’s information. “Fifty-seven years old, revoked driver’s license, approximately six feet tall, two-hundred-and-seventy pounds.”
“Big boy.”
Hazard glanced down; graying, rubbery paunch spilled over Stillwell’s hips. “He moved fast. And he fought.”
“Kamp hasn’t started the autopsy yet,” Somers said, his finger hovering over Stillwell’s chest. Instead of the Y incision that would have marked the ME’s work, the flesh was torn and broken by multiple bullet wounds. “The nurse said five shots.”
“Hard to tell; he might as well be ground beef up here.”
“Meth?”
Hazard shifted his weight and thumbed the single page. “No tox screen. They won’t bother.”
“I’m not asking about the file. I’m asking you.”
“He was on something.”
“High enough to try to fight his way free of the cops?”
“Maybe.”
“High enough that, even in handcuffs, it would take five shots to stop him?”
Hazard snorted. “I was with you last night, Somers. I saw Lender. Who are you trying to convince?”
“I’m not trying to convince anyone. I’m just trying to figure this out. He was cranked up. He showed up at my parents’ house. My father stopped him and took away his gun. My father called us. We arrived. We talked. We decided to stay a few minutes.”
“If you start that again, you’ll be chewing your own teeth.”
“I’m not blaming myself. I’m just laying out the facts.”
“Bullshit.”
“Anyway, at some point, Stillwell gets free, recovers his gun, and runs into the family room. He shoots high, destroys that ornament, and then starts shooting at my father.”
“The lights go out.”
“The lights go out.” Somers let his hand hover over Stillwell’s body again, as though he might sense some truth that lay inside the corpse—nestled alongside the bullets that had killed him, perhaps. “Someone planned this.”
Hazard said nothing.
“Someone inside the house helped Stillwell. Someone made sure the lights went out. And someone paid Lender to kill Stillwell before the truth could come out. It’s got to be the mayor.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Somers looked at Hazard, and the expression was so dead, so hostile, that Hazard rolled one shoulder. “I’m not saying it wasn’t him. I’m just saying it’s not necessarily him.” Again, in Hazard’s mind came the memory of Grace Elaine Somerset’s face when she heard her husband was still alive. Fury. Fury like a woman who might start breathing fire.
“Who else would want my father dead?”
“That’s a good question. Why would Mayor Newton want him dead?”
“Because Newton’s crooked. He’s corrupt. He’s greedy. Because he’s already tried to kill us.” Somers swore and turned in a circle. “Will you stop looking at me like that? Fine, I don’t know why he would do that. He and my father were friends. Are friends. God, I don’t know.”
“The only reason to suspect Newton is because Lender conveniently shot Stillwell. Let’s suppose, for a moment, that Lender is open to bribes. Any number of people might have paid him to take care of Stillwell.”
“Great. So anybody with a few thousand dollars could be our suspect.”
“Not necessarily. It has to be someone who was at that party. Or who had a connection at that party.”
Somers scrubbed the
back of his hand across his chin; blond stubble rasped. “All right. So we start with Stillwell and move backward. We see who contacted him, when, why. We see if he has priors.”
Nodding, Hazard said, “There are two other things that bother me.”
“The lights.”
Another nod. “Why turn out the lights right when Stillwell started shooting? Wouldn’t that throw off his aim?”
“It did. That’s probably the only reason my father is still alive. Whoever planned this was trying to cover his tracks, but it backfired.”
Hazard wasn’t sure about that, but he didn’t have a better theory, and he let it drop. “The other problem is Stillwell himself.”
“What about him? He was cranked up and crazy. It probably didn’t take much to convince him to try to kill my father.”
“Possibly. But why did Stillwell wait? Why didn’t he shoot your father when he got to the party?”
Somers grimaced. “He was crazy. Maybe he didn’t know who my father was. Maybe he was just too high. Maybe he was supposed to wait for the lights to go off. Christ, Hazard, I don’t know.”
Again, Hazard let the matter drop—not out of any sensibility to Somers’s feelings but because Hazard didn’t have an answer himself. The question prickled at him, though, and he didn’t like that.
“The girl,” Somers said abruptly. “Bing’s daughter. What was her name?”
Hazard shook his head.
“Is she here?”
She was. Her body lay in the drawer next to Stillwell’s, and Hazard recovered her file from under Dr. Kamp’s head. He scanned the single page and looked at the girl.
Hadley Jessica Bingham, eighteen years old, looked much smaller than her age. On the metal tray, emptied of life, stripped of a future, she might have been twelve or ten—a child. It was hard to reconcile this frail shell with the provocatively dressed young woman clinging to Glennworth Somerset. It was harder still to imagine her as Bing’s daughter.
“My father’s such a fucking prick,” Somers said, and he kicked the wall of drawers.
“He didn’t do this.”