Two Guns

by Jette Harris

  “Found him?” D righted the screw over the bit with a flick. “No, I killed him.”

  He slammed his hand on Frank’s wrist and drove the screw through his palm, affixing him to the workbench. Frank screamed and jumped up, knocking back the stool. D covered his mouth. Frank attempted to pull his hand away, but collapsed with paralyzing pain. When his muffled screams faded into breathless huffs, D uncovered his mouth.

  “You… you… My son…”

  “Oh, now he’s your son.” D clucked and shook his head. “He was very eager to please, your son… too eager. You did that to him.” He sifted through the tools mounted on the wall. Running a hand over the bits attached to a magnetic strip, he pulled one away.

  Frank shook his head. He was pale, sweaty, slipping into shock. “Faggot…”

  “Do you really want that to be your last word?” D detached the Phillips head bit and inserted a spade bit.

  Frank’s eyes shot wide. “No, no!” He held up his free hand as D pointed the drill at him. “Wait!”

  D paused and raised his brow expectantly.

  “The… the man… was… was it your father?”

  “No.” D frowned and shook his head. “No, my father was a good man.”

  He drove the bit into Frank’s heart. Reversing the drive, he pulled it back out. Blood splattered over every surface. The color drained from Frank’s skin. His red hair shone shockingly bright. A gust escaped his throat as he slumped forward, coming to rest against D’s legs.

  D raised his hand to his face, smearing the blood more than wiping it off. Snorting, he kicked the body away.

  ****

  Cathy Witt shot up in bed when she heard the screams. She threw off the blanket and ran into the hallway. Scurrying to one door, she nudged it open. Dean snored loudly, lying on his stomach, one arm flopped off the side of the bed. An air horn in his ear would not be able to wake him; The muffled screams certainly did not.

  The screaming came to a sudden halt as she closed the door. The door opposite opened.

  “Mom?” Carly’s voice quivered. Her freckles stood out against her pale face.

  Cathy held a finger to her lips. Putting an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, she guided her back to bed.

  “I’m here, sweetie,” she whispered, climbing into the bed with her. “Go back to sleep…”

  80

  Steyer and Remington had to wait for pest control to smoke out the yellow jackets before they could approach the shed. An EMT removed a few stingers from Detective Young’s hand. A nervous medic stood by, keeping a side-eye on her, his knuckles white around an EpiPen. Dean Witt stood motionless behind them, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head bowed, but eyes fixed on the shed.

  Visible through a back window, Cathy and Carly Witt sat in the living room. Cathy stroked her daughter’s hair as Carly stared out at them, expressionless. Remington returned her gaze for several minutes. He turned to Steyer a few times, opening his mouth to speak, but closed it upon remembering Dean’s presence.

  Their story didn’t feel right. Cathy had called him mid-morning, reporting in a calm voice Frank had not come to bed the previous night. When the agents arrived, accompanied by Young, Carly offered them pancakes. They didn’t seem like a concerned family.

  While Steyer and Remington questioned the family in the kitchen, Young investigated the yard. She discovered the shed door ajar and the feast within. Steyer immediately dispatched officers to check on the other families. They all called in safe.

  “You should wait inside until they get him on a stretcher,” Steyer murmured to Dean after the third time Remington opened and closed his mouth.

  “I’m good,” Dean replied.

  “I insist.”

  Dean’s hard expression softened. He looked from Steyer to Remington and nodded. Without removing his hands from his pockets, he trudged to the back porch and went inside. As soon as the door closed, Remington loosed the question:

  “Do you believe them?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Y’all should be good now,” the pest technician said. “We bought you a few minutes, at least.”

  Remington took a deep breath and Steyer folded his hands into his pockets.

  “Do you think they have anything to do with it?” Remington asked as they approached the door.

  Steyer stepped on the threshold and looked around. “Nope.”

  Remington stood beside him, snorting the foul odor out. “We need suits for this.”

  The grey figure of Frank Witt hung by the hand, not quite lying on the floor. Blood pooled under him and speckled every surface. Remington studied the walls until he found the void where the killer’s body had blocked the splatter.

  “He stood there.” He held out his hand to indicate the general area.

  Steyer nodded. “And he left us the murder weapon.”

  The electric drill stood upright on the workbench. Congealed blood covered the spade bit from tip to base. Remington’s lip curled.

  Steyer noted the blood saturating Frank’s shirt, but only speckling his face. “Got him in the chest.”

  “As efficient as the Phoenix is with his unselected victims, I’m surprised he didn’t go for the head.”

  “What makes you think it was the Phoenix?”

  “I had my doubts at first,” Remington said, looking at the house. All the Witts were watching now, wearing the same stony expression. “But the choice of weapon steers me back. Anyone could have taken him out with a hammer or a hatchet, but our killer—” He pointed to the Phillips head bit lying near the drill. “—wanted something more impressive.”

  Steyer swept his eyes over the scene and nodded. “I agree.” He turned to see the forensics team arriving, properly-attired with shoe covers and bunny suits. “Let’s hope he tells us something.”

  81

  Tech had a towel spread out on the top step of the porch and a small audience sitting on the bottom. Xavier held Devin in his lap as David continuously shifted from the bottom step to the top, trying to get a closer look at the delicate operation Tech was performing. Black metal parts lay across the towel. The old man peered down the barrel of an upper receiver, then slid a cleaning snake through it. As he worked, he rambled out a yarn about a rabbit.

  Steyer experienced a buoyant sensation that he was back in the jungle, surrounded by his men. Tech had always told stories when he cleaned his gun. He kept the men in stitches, struggling not to laugh too loudly. When he ran out of exploits involving women, he turned to the rabbit stories. Steyer couldn’t remember if he had heard the one Tech was currently telling.

  “Somethings will never change,” Steyer said, slipping his hands into his pockets. Startled, the children turned to him with wide eyes, bringing him back to the Georgia suburbs. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  “No, sir,” Devin said around the finger in his mouth.

  Steyer raised his eyebrows, more that he had never heard Devin speak before, but the children took it as a signal to scram. They stood haltingly, then raced across the lawn, jumping the little white picket fence, then waiting for Devin to clamor over.

  Steyer waited for them to disappear inside the house before turning back. He and Tech studied one another. He knew he looked tired. Tech, at least, looked improved: His face wasn’t sagging as much, his eyes were bright. His hands did not shake.

  “Tech,” Steyer greeted. “You look much better.”

  “Intel. I didn’t expect to see you here. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Steyer sighed and took the boys’ place on the bottom step. “It’s a long story.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything but long stories between us. How did you end up in the FBI anyway?

  Steyer furrowed his brow and shook his head. “It was political: When I was announced KIA, Johnny threatened to out me unless they investigated further. I showed up alive. My father agreed to get me a good, non-military job if I kept my head down, to avoid scandal.”

 
; Nodding, Tech looked down at the pieces spread across the towel. He dabbed some oil on a rag and began to lubricate the buffer assembly. “I heard that… Justice Steyer developed a—uh—soft policy on gay rights toward the end.”

  “I heard that too.” Steyer leaned down to pull a splinter from the stairs. He looked up to find Tech staring into the distance with an odd expression on his face.

  “Did you ever forgive him?”

  Steyer shook his head. “There was nothing to forgive; I’m happy. I don’t think having them in my life would have improved that. In hindsight, I think it was better that way. Less complicated.”

  Running a hand over his mouth, Tech nodded. “So, your fella… your beau…”

  “My husband.”

  Tech chuckled and shook his head. “Is he that Japanese fella from the photo in your pack?”

  Steyer blinked rapidly. “I had almost forgotten about that. Yes, that’s my Johnny.”

  Looking back down at the parts spread across the towel, Tech shook his head again. “I couldn’t even commit to being a father for thirty years, much less commit to someone I couldn’t marry.” He picked up the spring.

  “I hear you did pretty well on the paternal front. At least, I’ve heard wonderful things about your daughter and granddaughter.”

  Tech’s hand quaked. He placed the pieces back down. “Yeah, I guess… eventually. But now I feel like I hadn’t done enough.”

  “How so?”

  “Did you… Did you read the incident report for Thi’s accident?”

  “I did.”

  “She coulda… She coulda gotten out. She chose to go back. Chose to stay. And Heather… Even with this Phoenix fella’s track record… I expected to see her by now.”

  “We did too. Time’s not up yet.”

  “Two more days,” Tech scoffed. He turned to study the house next door. “Aneta and Lauri, they talk about… feelings of despair. Clinging to hope.” He shrugged. “I don’t feel that way. I still have to convince myself I might never see her again. But hope… I don’t have to cling to it; I have to keep it in check.”

  Steyer raised his eyebrows and patted Tech’s knee. “That, my old friend, is what they call a blessing. Cling to that.”

  82

  Byron attempted to call Thrace three times, but they went straight to voicemail. He texted him instead: Could u check CCSD case history 4 mentions of Michael/Michelle Menter?

  After half an hour of jerking his knee, Byron decided to go about things in the proper fashion: He got up from his desk, walked to the far side of the room, and sat on one of the deputy’s desk.

  “You busy?”

  Sergeant Kline of the Cobb County Sheriff’s Department made short work of Byron’s request. He crossed the room and dumped a handful of files on Byron’s desk. He held up the top three. “These identify Michael Menter by name—all trespassing cases. The rest identify a man going by the name Michelle.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Kline clapped a hand on the rookie’s shoulder and left him to his wild goose chase. Kicking his feet up on his desk, Byron opened the top file.

  ****

  Thwack!

  Byron fell out of his chair and raucous laughter filled the office.

  “Got it!”

  He looked up to find Kondorf grinning broadly. The rolled-up manila folder in his hand had black specks on the side. Byron narrowed his eyes and wiped his forehead. His lip curled as dead fly came away on his hand. Kondorf had the decency to offer him a napkin and some hand sanitizer.

  The smell of coffee filled the office, crowded with officers about to change shifts. The night shift, tired and rumpled, packed up to leave, and the day shift, looking just as tired yet fresh, settled in. Agents Steyer and Remington were already in their office. Byron’s face flushed as he realized they had passed him as he was asleep at his desk.

  “Wanna put in a few more hours?” Kondorf asked. “We’re about to start knocking on doors.”

  “Sure, sure.” Byron picked up a notepad with some notes scribbled on it. “I have a few addresses, places Michelle was caught squatting. A couple of places already on the map, and the Hospitality House.”

  “Huh.” Kondorf peered inside a few of the files.

  Kline, drinking one last cup of coffee, scratched his chin. He turned to the three deputies preparing for the morning shift. “Yo, Duley!”

  “Yo, Sarge!” Duley replied.

  “Didn’t you have a case involving the Hospitality House last month?”

  “Naw!” Duley crossed the room. “Kid said he was there, but I didn’t believe him.”

  “Why not?” Steyer’s low, steady voice intruded on their loudness.

  Duley pulled his shoulders back and stood square to the agent. “Story didn’t line up. Kid said he was at the Hospitality House when he showed up with a knife wound to his shoulder.”

  “The Hospitality House is also somewhere Michelle Menter was known to frequent,” Byron said. Duley fixed him with a cold gaze.

  “County or City?” Steyer asked.

  “County,” the deputies answered as the officers said, “City.”

  Steyer’s eyes flicked between them, unamused by this dissonance.

  “It’s a historical landmark, right on the city line,” Kondorf explained. “So it’s ownership is constantly in debate.”

  “The Hospitality House,” Kline began, “is the oldest house in Cobb—”

  “It’s where they used to take folks for lynching,” Byron muttered.

  “—dates back to the days of Big Shanty—”

  “That name is a sick joke.”

  “—built by General—”

  “Is it vacant?” Remington interrupted, coming up behind Steyer.

  “Most of the time, yeah,” Kondorf replied.

  “Then why are we still standing around?”

  Steyer turned to Byron, hand extended. “Report.”

  Byron’s face burned under Duley’s accusing glare as he handed the fed a manila folder. Steyer flipped it open and skimmed the report.

  “We need to find this young man and speak with him. Stay away from the Hospitality House until we have a team together.”

  Remington pointed to Byron. “No stupid heroics to save your friends, understand?”

  Byron flushed again and nodded. He leaned on his desk next to Kondorf. They watched silently until the feds were out the door. Duley shook his head and followed.

  “There’s a—uh—a Krispy Kreme out that way, right?” Kondorf asked.

  “Yep,” Byron replied.

  “I could use a doughnut,” Kline muttered.

  They gathered their things. Within minutes, the previously-bustling office was empty.

  83

  Agent Steyer called in their location, double-checked the notes from Duley’s case, and stepped out of the car. He wished they had dressed down for this, as the young men on the basketball court glanced at him suspiciously. They relaxed only slightly when the younger, darker-featured agent climbed out. They returned to their game. The agents stood at the gate, watching them.

  “Was there a photo with the file?” Steyer asked, voice raised slightly.

  “Only of the injury,” Remington replied, drawing his finger across his shoulder.

  One of the young men noticed the gesture and twisted to stare at them, but stumbled. He had a prominent scar across the cap of his shoulder. Remington waved him over with a wide sweep of his arm.

  “Am I in trouble?” the young man asked as he jogged over.

  “You Darnell?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, you’re not in trouble,” Remington replied. “We need your help. We need to know what happened at the Hospitality House last month.”

  Darnell looked back at his peers, then nodded to a corner of the court. Steyer and Remington gave him plenty of room, not wanting to intimidate him.

  “Nobody believed me,” Darnell said. “My gramma thought it was one of these guys fuckin’ around wit
h a gun or somethin’.”

  “What was it?” Steyer studied the wound. It was a broad, whitish-pink scar, still lined with little pocks from the stitches.

  “A knife, about that long.” He held his hands about eight inches apart. “And really thin.”

  “He stabbed you?” Remington asked.

  “Motherfucker threw it at me. It stuck in the door like somethin’ from a movie.”

  Steyer and Remington exchanged a concerned glance. “When was this?” Steyer asked.

  “Mid-April. I cut through the woods. There’re all kinda paths back there. I climbed over the fence and came across the side yard to the kitchen door.”

  “Did you see any cars or vehicles?”

  “Nah, but I wasn’t lookin’ either. No one’s ever there unless they got nowhere else to go.”

  “How often had you gone there before?”

  Darnell glanced at the other young men. They had returned half-heartedly to the game. “You sure I’m not in trouble?” He buried his hands deep in his pockets.

  Steyer looked him in the eye. “We’re trying to catch a serial killer, sport, not slap you on the wrist for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Darnell’s eyes widened. He straightened up. “I used to go there a lot, when I was runnin’ with a bad crowd, but they got cleared out about a year ago. After that, I only went every once in a while, when things got too loud at home.”

  “I can understand that,” Steyer said.

  “I go in through the kitchen door, because it’s easy to jimmy the lock. It’s always a mess in there, but this time it was different. It was clean, like it had been flipped or something. Then I smelled coffee. I look, and there was this guy leanin’ there against the counter…” He went to the corner of the court and leaned against the fence with a hand in front of his chest, pantomiming. “…drinking a coffee. He stared at me like it was nothin’, no big deal. It’s not like someone just broke into his house.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Uh… He was cut. Not big, but cut. Brown hair, brown eyes. Darker’n yours.” He nodded at Remington. “Around the same height, though. He wasn’t wearing nothin’ but jeans. They were good jeans, though, the expensive kind.”