by Archer Mayor
Leggatt froze, looking around, no doubt convinced black helicopters would be next. “What?” he said nervously, recognizing Cote.
It was more than one of the lieutenant’s patrol officers could stand. Looking like a black-clad ninja, he stepped into view by the edge of the porch and screamed, “Show me your hands.”
Mercifully, rather than a shotgun, which procedure emphatically favored, the officer was holding a Taser in both hands. This turned out to be lucky, as, without further warning, he fired the device before Leggatt could respond.
The man dropped like a stone, the Taser’s glinting twin wires delivering their fifty thousand volts, while the building’s dooryard suddenly filled with cops from all angles, yelling simultaneously.
Leggatt remained oblivious, gasping like a fish during his five very long seconds of open-eyed agony. Taser shots are riveting that way, inflicting the worst pain imaginable, only to be followed by no lingering discomfort whatsoever.
Sure enough, Leggatt lay on the porch as the barbs were yanked from his body, blinking wonderingly at the memory. “Wow. Oh man. Wow.” He seemed oblivious as his hands were pulled behind his back and quickly cuffed.
Cote and Gunther reached him, followed closely by Sam, as Leggatt was pulled into a sitting position, searched for weapons, and quickly Mirandized. Aside from a pack of cheap cigarettes, a lighter, a thin canvas wallet, and two small packets of heroin stamped with a muscleman ironically lifting a dumbbell, there was nothing.
Veterans like Joe and Marc Cote had developed an eye for the likes of Brandon Leggatt, who were not instinctively mean-spirited, despite their careless ways and worse choice in friends. They were often ignorant of kind and generous treatment, however, which could be helpful to experienced cops, especially after the rough-and-tumble just displayed.
As a result, after Brandon had been rendered safe, Cote quietly reassigned his crew, including sending a couple of them into the house to conduct interviews, while Joe settled in beside Leggatt, using the wall as a backrest. Miranda rights having been recited, Joe proceeded carefully.
“You warm enough?” he asked.
Brandon was thickset, dressed in an insulated, if worse for wear, hooded sweatshirt. “I guess,” he said.
As Brandon sullenly watched the previously hidden cruisers making U-turns in the narrow street, Joe gently pushed him forward and released the handcuffs.
“That better?” Joe asked, resting his hand on the young man’s shoulder to both push him back and give him a little friendly contact. Using a much-practiced show of replacing intimidation with empathy, Joe pulled out a pack of cigarettes that he, a nonsmoker, carried for such occasions and handed it over with a matchbook.
“Yeah.” Brandon began the ritual of lighting up.
“First time for a tasing?”
“Yeah.”
“Hurts, right?”
“No shit. Why’d you do that? I didn’t do nuthin.”
Joe chuckled as Cote returned and took a seat at the edge of the porch, a nonthreatening distance away. Sam had joined the two interviewers inside, in part to diminish any future claims of police bullying. But as this was still a Bellows Falls case, Cote was well advised to stay close by. “What d’ya think? We found Lyall.”
Brandon turned his head sharply to stare at him wide-eyed. “You think I did that?”
“You were heard arguing.”
“Course we were arguing. Fer Chrissake, we always did that. Doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“But you know he’s dead,” Cote pointed out.
That stumped him, as if he’d been presented with a completely unexpected challenge.
“Yeah…” he said slowly. “So?”
Joe bumped him lightly, shoulder-to-shoulder, as if they were sharing a joke. “See it through our eyes. You’re with your best friend, you’re both fighting, he winds up dead, and now we find you hiding out here. What are we supposed to think?”
Fortunately, Brandon didn’t do the smart thing, which would have been to deny it. Instead, too well trained by a past of being caught, he simply shrugged. “I didn’t come here to hide out. I got scared. It just seemed like a good idea.”
“I understand that,” Joe said sympathetically. “But it doesn’t solve who killed him.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about. Tell us what happened. It’ll only help catch who did it.”
Brandon nodded thoughtfully. “I guess.”
“What were you fighting about?” Cote asked.
Brandon didn’t hesitate. He looked over at his meager possessions. “He wanted half that shit I bought,” he said, referring to the heroin. “I told him I paid for it. He wasn’t getting any ‘less he laid out some cash. There wasn’t enough anyhow, for two. He knew that. He was a cheap fuck.”
Despite the words, both cops could hear the fondness for his friend in his voice. Joe was surprised, in fact, that the heroin hadn’t been used for consolation by now, imagining that only the right opportunity and tools had maybe been lacking.
“He didn’t have his own stuff?” Joe asked. “He sold Pinocchio brand, didn’t he?”
“When he could, yeah. He was between deals.”
“What happened next?” Joe prompted him.
“I left. I was pissed.”
“But he was still alive?”
“Sure he was. It was after I went back that…”
“What?” Cote asked after the pause.
“I found him.”
The two cops exchanged glances, this being the threshold they’d been seeking.
Joe spoke first. “Why did you go back?”
“I forgot my wallet.”
“Where was it?”
Brandon looked confused. “What? On the couch. It falls outta my pocket all the time.”
“Meaning you had to step over your buddy to get it,” Cote suggested.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t think to call 911?” Joe asked.
Brandon’s eyes popped wide in outrage. “And have all this shit happen? Yeah—right. I knew you’d pin it on me. Same ol’, same ol’. Been there, done that. B’sides, I don’t got a phone no more. Ran outta minutes.”
“Okay, okay,” said, Joe, soothing him. “But tell us something. Really important. Roughly how much time was there between when you left and when you went back—after you noticed the wallet was missing?”
He didn’t need to give it much thought. “‘Bout half an hour.”
“You take Lyall’s phone? You just said you don’t have one.”
“Nah.” Brandon looked momentarily stumped before adding, “Didn’t think of it.”
“What’s his number?” Joe asked, figuring they might be able to track his calls and texts later through his phone provider.
Brandon recited it.
“You know who he used as a carrier?”
“It was a burner. He got it at Walmart.”
Joe moved on. “How ‘bout the knife? You notice it?”
“Hell yeah, I noticed it.”
“You recognize it?” He pressed him.
Brandon blinked. “What? It wasn’t mine.”
“Not what I asked.”
“It was Lyall’s. He used it to cut things up, like to open packages for dinner.”
Joe once more cast a look at his colleague, seeing confirmed in Cote’s expression the feeling that, as self-preserving as Brandon might have been in response to his pal’s death, he seemed to be telling the truth now. It had all been delivered directly and without evasive body language, and there were enough parts of it that would be too easy to check later by comparing them to the interviews taking place in the house right behind them.
Joe therefore shifted tack slightly, approaching Brandon more as a witness than a suspect. “You said earlier you were scared. Does that mean either of you saw something like this coming?” he asked.
“No,” Brandon burst out. “Look at us, man. We’re not like that
. Maybe we mess around a little. Do stuff we’re not supposed to. But nothin’ that deserves killing.”
“What’ve you been up to the last twenty-four hours?” Cote asked. “Either together or separately?”
“Nothin’. I scored that.” He pointed to the two packets. “Before then, we messed around, down at Milly’s, over to TJ’s … like that.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “There was nothin’, man. We didn’t do squat. We were just hangin’ out.”
“But you scored your dope apart from Lyall,” Joe said. “That’s what you implied. What was he doing in the meantime?”
“Dunno. He said he had to meet somebody. Got a text message when we were eating dinner at Danni’s. Didn’t say who from. I even asked, but he blew me off, including after we hooked back up at the apartment later.” Brandon looked from one cop to the other before asking, “You think that was it? That whoever it was came back and killed him after I left? Set me up?”
“We have no idea,” Joe told him, but that was exactly what he was thinking. The notion was certainly supported by the fact that Lyall’s cell phone had gone missing and wasn’t among Brandon’s possessions.
“One last question,” Joe said. “When you went back to get your wallet, or even earlier, for that matter, did you wipe something off the floor, near the apartment’s front door?”
Leggatt stared at him. “What? Wipe the floor? No.”
Even Cote looked confused by that, so Joe rose to his feet, using Brandon’s shoulder as a prop, and gestured the BF cop over for a private talk at the end of the porch.
“You as doubtful as I am that we got a slam dunk here?” he asked.
Cote took his meaning. “Do I smell a third person? Yep.”
“Meaning VBI’s probably going to inherit this,” Joe mused.
“Christ, I hope so,” Cote said.
“Then do me a favor, would you? While that’s being put through formal channels, boss-to-boss, could you ask the crime lab to run two extra tests? I want a fluorescein analysis of the floor—from the body, out the door, and all the way to the building’s exit—and a FARO shoot of the apartment and the hallway outside.”
Cote raised his eyebrows. “Ah, you big-budget guys. Must be nice. What’re you hoping to find? Whoever cleaned the floor?”
Joe looked noncommittal. “If someone was wiping blood up as they left, the fluorescein should catch any leftovers—meaning the techies can collect DNA. As for the 3-D FARO shoot? Let’s just say I’d like that area visually available down the line. If it comes to it, the prosecution could present a jury with a virtual hologram of the crime scene.”
Cote was agreeable. “If you got the toys, might as well use ‘em.”
Joe turned to address Brandon one last time. “You said you and Lyall met back at his apartment. Was that the usual?”
“Sure,” Brandon answered slowly, looking confused.
“You sleep on Lyall’s couch most of the time? I mean, you don’t have a place of your own?”
“Not really.”
“But you don’t officially live together?”
Brandon tucked in his chin. “That makes it sound weird. Nah.”
“After you scored your buy, were you the first one to get to the apartment, or was Lyall?”
“He was.”
“And how long after you parted ways after dinner did you get back together?”
“I don’t know. … Maybe an hour?”
Joe returned to Cote, who merely looked at him.
Joe answer the implied question. “Long time for things to go sideways.”
Also by Archer Mayor
Bury the Lead
Trace
Presumption of Guilt
The Company She Kept
Proof Positive
Three Can Keep a Secret
Paradise City
Tag Man
Red Herring
The Price of Malice
The Catch
Chat
The Second Mouse
St. Albans Fire
The Surrogate Thief
Gatekeeper
The Sniper’s Wife
Tucker Peak
The Marble Mask
Occam’s Razor
The Disposable Man
Bellows Falls
The Ragman’s Memory
The Dark Root
Fruits of the Poisonous Tree
The Skeleton’s Knee
Scent of Evil
Borderlines
Open Season
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About the Author
ARCHER MAYOR, in addition to writing the New York Times bestselling Joe Gunther series, is a death investigator for the state medical examiner, a retired police officer, and has twenty-five years of experience as a firefighter/EMT. He lives near Brattleboro, Vermont. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Teaser
Also by Archer Mayor
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CROSSCUT. Copyright © 2019 by Archer Mayor. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover photographs: snow © David Chapman/Design Pics/Offset.com; road © Seqoya/Shutterstock.com
ISBN 978-1-250-26482-4 (ebook)
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: August 2019
eISBN 9781250264824
First eBook edition: May 2019