by Aric Davis
The TV was on, but Ken ignored it; the thing was still just showing stupid golf crap. It’s going to be pretty obvious when they get to the good stuff. I just wish I’d had a TV when this thing started. It was a shame: Ken had a stack of newspapers that he planned to cut articles from, but that wasn’t the same as watching it all happen live in his living room.
Ken rounded the threadbare couch and wandered back to the kitchen, his thumbs beating a rhythm against his jeans. The new gun was lying on the table where he’d left it, and Ken had full plans to leave it there until he knew for sure that the police had taken the bait and gone for it. After all, if he was taken into custody, there weren’t going to be any more chances to cause mayhem. He would be better off either forcing the cops to kill him or just putting a bullet in his own head. If I even can. He smirked at the memory and said, “We did try that one before, and where did that get us?”
Ken walked to the bedroom, spun back around, and took the magic bullet from his pocket. That was all the answer he needed. He’d ended up in this place, with this opportunity, this last chance to be free.
Still, an internal voice was screaming at him to leave, to get out of the apartment and hit the road. He understood that voice, but he didn’t agree with it. Running seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn’t. If he ran, Paula would get out and there would be a manhunt for him. In the unlikely circumstance that they did show up to arrest him and he was just sitting around watching TV, that was going to throw a monkey wrench in the investigation. Guilty men run, and that was what made Paula and Robert look so guilty: not only were they going to be perceived as running, they’d left the country!
Ken walked back into the kitchen, his thoughts swirling in circles like water down a drain. He opened the refrigerator and took a beer from it. He shouldn’t drink, he knew that, but one beer wouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, it’ll take some of the edge off. Ken opened the beer and drank it dry, then tossed the empty in the recycle bin. He could see the TV from where he was standing in the kitchen — still golf. Ken turned back to the fridge and opened it. He stared at the beer, broke his gaze, and closed the door. You cannot be drunk when they show up here. You need to be sober and bored. The alcoholic buried inside him was disagreeing loudly, screaming for beer. Ken shut the voice off, reciting in his head the Serenity Prayer he’d learned from A.A. meetings. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Ken sighed when he was done and sat heavily at the kitchen table. The prayer fit him to a tee. He’d done everything he could with the courage to make a positive change in his life, and now he just needed to be brave enough to see his way through the storm that was yet to come. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had suffered for a reason, taken risks no regular man would ever take. Now he just needed to be patient. Good things come to those who wait.
Nelson parked in front of the state police post that Tracy had given him directions to.Traffic for the bridge had made the last twenty minutes of the drive intolerable. The argument over when to stop for a piss break had finally ended at a gas station, and they were all beyond sick of the car. When Van Endel opened the door, got out, and stood, he thought he understood why. The drive wasn’t irregularly long, not by any means, but when the trip started they’d already felt as if they were running late. Arriving was a relief, and Van Endel felt relaxed now that they were there. Nelson came around the car, and Tracy slid out with his tackle box in tow.
“Should we go see what’s happening?” Nelson asked, and Van Endel was shocked to see that even Nelson seemed normal again now that he was out of the car.
“Yeah, let’s head on up,” said Van Endel. “May as well get to it.” Tracy led the trip up the steps, and Van Endel opened the door. The three of them went inside, Nelson straight to the uniformed cop working the desk at the front of the house.
The cop was on the phone for a second, then pointed down the hall and said, “Detective Cain is expecting you, third door on the left.”
Van Endel followed Tracy and Nelson down the hall, and the three of them entered the room. Two uniformed cops sat at a table with an older, balding man who was wearing a suit. All three of them stood, and the bald man introduced himself as Geoff Cain. The two uniformed cops were named Ralph Dewitt and Tom Albert. Everyone shook, and Van Endel and Nelson sat.
“Is there any way I can have access to where the bodies are being held?” Tracy asked.
“Of course,” said Cain. “Officer Dewitt will take you there.” The cop nodded at Tracy, and Tracy followed him out of the room, shutting the door behind him. “Now then,” said Cain, “can I get you anything? I’m sure the unexpected drive was taxing, to say the least.”
“We’re fine,” said Van Endel, “but thank you. I think the only thing we want is to be made up to date on what’s happening. Any luck finding the parents?”
“None,” said Cain, “but Canadian officials are cooperating, as is to be expected. They’ve got ads running on TV and are running their version of an all-points bulletin. If these folks really did cross the border, and there’s no reason to think that they didn’t, they’re going to get caught soon.” Cain drank from a can of Coke, then said, “Not sure if you know this, but we recovered a weapon as well, .38 Special, no serial number. Your dispatcher said that you two have been after someone doing some work with something like that.”
“We have,” said Nelson, “but I don’t think our guy would be so quick to ditch his heater; it’s been the same gun in every single one of our shootings.”
“It’s a little different in our neck of the woods,” said Cain. “Folks ditch stuff like you wouldn’t believe before they hit that bridge, on both sides too. Over there, it’s dope and kids drinking booze underage; Canada’s law on booze is a little more lax.”
“Oh yeah,” said Nelson, “nineteen. God, that was the best. I used to love going to Windsor.”
“Pretty common thing,” said Cain. “The problem for road workers and cops, on either side of the border, is people tend to forget that they’ve got a ton of contraband and are about to hit customs until they’re practically on top of the bridge. Anyways, it’s ditches full of booze and pot over there; here it’s mostly just drugs and illegal weapons. Like I said about lax laws, we have much less stringent firearms restrictions than our neighbors to the north, and there’s a brisk market for guns in Windsor and Toronto. In any case, one of our public-works trucks was doing regular maintenance when he saw what he assumed was a bunch of trash, only instead of trash he got two dead teenagers and a gun.”
“Did your coroner get you a time of death?” Van Endel asked, wondering to himself just how far north Mr. and Mrs. Farmer had made it.
“Nope,” said Cain. “Fact of it is, we don’t have a coroner, at least not a regular one. Your guy will be the first person, aside from the EMTs who hauled the bodies, to get a look at those folks. Our coroner will be up from the city sometime tomorrow.”
“No wonder Tracy was so excited,” said Nelson.
“What else do we need to know?” Van Endel asked. “I get the basics: kids are dead, parents are missing. The thing is, as neat a package as this wraps up into, I don’t see our spree killer being married with children. Another thing: I didn’t ever consider a wife being involved in the crimes. One of them was a sexual assault case, borderline rape, depending on how you define it.”
“How long have you been a detective, Dick?” Cain asked the question nonchalantly, as if it were the most normal thing to say in the world.
“Less than a week.”
“All right,” said Cain, “I’m not trying to be condescending, but there are no hard-and-fast rules of behavior. You know that yourself from your days wearing a uniform, and your partner can tell you the same thing. It would be great if we could always frame career criminals into neat little boxes, but we can’t. For all we know, the wife was the one pushing for this. Violent crime doesn’t make s
ense, that’s why it takes a person built with a number of different factors to embark on a career in it. You can build up whatever mystique you want about this man, but all you need to know is this: he’s on the loose still. Once he’s caught, the lawyers can figure all that shit out.”
“Amen,” said Nelson. “Catch these fuckers and get them a pair of rooms in Jackson. All that matters now is getting them stateside. Are the feds involved yet?”
“The feds are a part of life around here,” said Cain. “I actually manage to shake hands with the ones who come by these parts, and even manage to look them in the eye when they talk. Don’t get me wrong, I trust them about as much as I do a stranger in bed with my wife, but at least I know them by their Christian names. In answer to your question, though, yes. When these people come across that bridge riding bareback on a moose, they will be headed right into federal custody, and there’s not a thing that anyone in this room can do about that.”
“How long until we get them back?” Van Endel asked.
“That’s a mouthful, son,” answered Cain, and the mute Officer Albert nodded heartily. “The truth is, you’re assuming these folks come along peacefully. If they’re doing what I would expect, they have gone to ground and are likely supplying themselves with firearms as we speak. Worst-case scenario for our horseback friends is that these people get guns and see the net coming in. If that happens, it’s going to be years before your docket gets clean. Just the truth — not trying to be the bearer of bad news.”
“I just don’t see it,” said Van Endel. “Nothing going on right now matches with what we’ve seen in Grand Rapids. This is something different. Don’t get me wrong, I respect where—”
“Don’t talk to me about respect,” said Cain. “I learned about that in 1968. You just watch and learn, puppy. We’ll spend some time together, and you’ll see that sometimes a lump of coal never hits that diamond stage.”
“Detective, my friend and I are going to go run outside for a second,” said Nelson. “I need a smoke, but I keep it strictly outdoors these days; the wife wants me to eighty-six the things entirely. We’ll be back here in just a few moments.” Nelson all but dragged Van Endel from his chair, heaved him out of the room, and kept his shoulder in his back as they walked to the exit. Nelson used Van Endel to open the door, and then did his cigarette ritual.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” Nelson asked, his mouth spewing smoke and vitriol. “We’re in another man’s house and you tell him he’s wrong?” Nelson pointed at the door. “That man was cutting his teeth at the academy when you were still hoping you wouldn’t get picked last for baseball. He knows what he’s talking about, and I’ve been telling you the same thing this whole time. Things can be simple. This is a simple crime, and these two dirtbags are still on the loose. You need to wrap your head around the fact that we finally have a suspect and that it’s a good thing. I know that you expected a different type of suspect, but you were wrong, OK? It’s that simple. You were wrong.”
“It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Get it through your head, Dick,” said Nelson. “It doesn’t need to make sense. None of this has made sense. Shooting up a fucking McDonald’s, killing your own kids? That makes sense to you? This is the work of some seriously deranged individuals — you can’t expect to be able to see how they think.” Nelson ditched the butt in an ashtray. “Are you going to be able to play nice now? If your head’s in the right place, let’s go back inside. If you can’t wrap your mind around being wrong, then you should probably just stay in the car. Remember, Cain in there didn’t need to call us that fast. He knew what we were looking for and that this fit some of the same parameters. He called us as a favor; this could have taken days. Again, are you good?”
“I’m good,” said Van Endel, for the first time in his adult life questioning if police work really was the right path for him. If there was no logic involved, just destruction and guilt, then what was the point? Van Endel opened the door and walked inside with Nelson on his heels. He walked past the desk cop, then strode down the hall to the room. When they walked in, they saw that Tracy was back.
“Two things,” said Tracy. “First, time of death was about five in the morning, give or take. Questions?” He paused; no one said anything. “OK. Here’s the doozy. Same gun as the spree killings. I’m not one hundred percent, but I’m ninety-nine-point-nine sure it’s the exact same gun that was used in all of our other shootings. Once we get back to our lab, I can get full confirmation, but guys, trust me. This is the same gun. This is our guy. I need to get back to the bodies. There are a few other things I need to check.” Van Endel gave Tracy a nod as he left the room; the rest of them just kept rolling.
“Now we just need to wrangle them in and let the suits figure out where these sickos get tried,” said Cain. “I know the DA here is going to have a convincing argument for a trial; no doubt yours will be back in Grand Rapids. Safe to assume the feds are going to want a shot, and if they’ve done so much as get a parking ticket in Canada, those folks are going to want their pound of flesh as well. Should be a nice little mess, all things considered.”
“Let’s just hope we get them back here soon,” said Nelson, “and that they never managed to rearm themselves in Canada.”
Every head in the room turned as the door opened. The cop who had been working the desk said, “Sorry for interrupting, but you’ve got a phone call, Geoff.”
“Are you serious?” Cain asked in an irritated voice. “It’s not my wife, is it?”
“No,” said the front-desk cop. “It’s customs.” Cain stood and left the room without another word.
“Think they picked them up?” Nelson asked the room, and Albert answered. “Naw, probably not. We get lots of calls from customs, since we’re the closest police post. We always have at least two officers up there in case of trouble, and one of them probably just had a question about somebody.” Albert shrugged. “I can see how it would sound like a big deal — I used to think the same thing when I first started working here — but it’s never anything.”
“This time it is,” said Cain as he reentered the room, his eyes all business. “Everybody outside — the Farmers are trying to reenter the US.”
“Are you serious?” Nelson asked. “Isn’t that like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire?”
“You’d think so,” said Cain, as he pulled on a jacket, “but the customs official didn’t agree. I’m sure he got part of it wrong, but he said the woman was demanding to see her children. Let’s get to the bridge and figure this out.”
Ken was reluctantly washing dishes when the show started.He ran to the TV with his arms covered in suds up to his elbows. There was no mention of Paula, Robert, or their Canadian vacation, but the “breaking news” did mention that two bodies had been found in Macomb County, and that “a source within the police department has said that there could be a connection between these murders and the recent number of spree killings in the Grand Rapids area.” Ken smiled — everything was going perfectly. He jacked up the volume on the TV, then walked back to the kitchen to finish the dishes. The reporters on the tube were repeating the same information they’d just shared. This is going to be big.
When the dishes were done and drying on a towel, Ken turned his attention back to the living room and the television. He walked to the couch and plopped down. Golf was back on, but he figured they’d be splicing in with updates. Ken didn’t know much about media but didn’t figure it would take much of a genius to connect good ratings with the story of a mother who killed her children in cold blood. After all, that would be the best part, right up until they revealed that not only had Paula and Robert killed their own kids, but they’d also been shooting people in Grand Rapids. It’s almost too good to be true.
Most interesting to Ken was wondering if Robert and Paula even knew that they were wanted on both sides of the border, by what had to be a massive amount of police officers. There was no way to know, of course, b
ut he had a feeling that they probably wouldn’t know what was going on, not until they were actually arrested. Also of interest was whether they were going to be stuck across the border. He knew nothing of how the laws that controlled the borders worked for someone who was a fugitive. I should know — I could have been the one running for real. That thought was sobering, and all of a sudden, watching PGA members drive balls in front of what had to be the most bored live audience in the world was even less appealing.
Ken stood and walked to the kitchen, grabbing the gun from the table as he moved back to the bedroom. Looking out the window by his bed, he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just cars driving by, the people inside them oblivious to how easily he could control their lives if he chose to. An urge to go kill came over him, something that had become an all-too-familiar desire. There had been desires before, but this was stronger; the bullet felt as if it were humming in his pocket.
He ran his fingers over the gun. The polished surface was irresistible to him, beauty in such an odd form. He looked back out the window and imagined the damage he could do from his bedroom with a rifle. For at least a few minutes, it would be his world. Ken let the blinds fall closed and left the bedroom.
“You need to get a hold of yourself,” said Ken. “You are going to stay here and wait. You’re not going to get drunk, you’re not going to go off on some rampage, and you’re not going to freak out. Just calm down.” Ken’s voice rang hollow, even to his own ears. He was a sitting duck waiting here. If they didn’t buy it, he was fucked. But if I leave, they’re going to look at me, and all of Paula’s lies will be scrutinized further. The plan was simple: Ken needed to stay the course. There were no other options.