Police Brutality (Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords Book 2)

by Gregory Ashe

  “Emery Hazard broke my nose,” Dulac said to the ceiling.

  “Is this going to be a thing?”

  “Dude.”

  “What if you try thinking about the positive?”

  “What positives?”

  “Well, you know all those gay boys you like to hit up? They’re going to go wild when they see you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Definitely. You’ll have that whole strong-but-vulnerable thing going. You’re a cop, but you’re battered. You’re going to have to beat them off with a stick.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kind of like an I’m-butch-but-I-need-somebody-to-hold-me-at-night vibe?”

  “Sure.”

  “Threesome level strong-but-vulnerable?”

  “Gross.”

  “I’m just asking. Because I had a threesome once with my little and with the bursar, who, believe it or not, had the biggest—”

  “Yes. Threesome level, definitely. Whatever you want to hear to stop this conversation.”

  “Foursome level?”

  “Never mind. I’m regretting this whole thing now.”

  Dulac’s chin started to drop. “Dude, just hypothetically, if I did a foursome and my little came down, would you and—”

  “No. Head up.”

  His head went back up, but he kept talking. “I’m just asking because you, me, my little bro and—”

  “No way.”

  “It wouldn’t be weird, dude. It would be four of us, and Emery would be there, so it wouldn’t even be awkward.”

  “Apparently you don’t know what awkward means. Or weird. And you’ve never met my boyfriend, because I think he would quite literally tear off my balls if I even suggested it.”

  Silence followed; in another exam room, a machine beeped steadily.

  “So what you’re saying,” Dulac said, “is you’re into it, but you don’t think Hazard would be.”

  Somers put his face in his hands and groaned.

  “It’s ok, dude. We’ll figure it out.”

  “You know what? I’m going to do it. I’m just going to move to one of those English villages, and if they’ve already got an old lady or a gardener or a priest who’s solving crimes, fuck it. I’ll just be the bad guy for a week, and then they can catch me and ship me off to jail. It can’t be worse than staying here.”

  Another silence. Longer.

  “Uh, Somers, bro, no offense, but you need to handle your shit. Seriously, you get weird sometimes. Do you think Emery wants to go bowling with me?”

  “What?”

  “Bowling. They’ve got league nights on Wednesday, and I thought—”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Uh. No?”

  “He broke your nose. And I think he hates you. I mean, he hates everyone, but I think he particularly hates you.”

  Dulac’s chin came down again. He frowned at Somers. “I don’t think so.”

  Somers just shook his head.

  “It’s a guy thing. I punched him. He punched me. That’s it; we’re cool again. And besides, how fucking cool is it that Emery Hazard broke my nose?”

  “I don’t—that isn’t how he—” Somers stopped, trying to find the right words. The right idea.

  “Never mind,” Dulac said. “You wouldn’t understand. Emery gets it, though.”

  Somers might have stayed like that, his brain churning through possibilities, looking for something that still made sense in the universe, except a soft cough came from outside the exam room, and then someone tugged on the curtain.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  The voice was familiar, but Somers couldn’t place it. Then the curtain rings jingled along the rod, and Darnell Kirby stepped into the room.

  “Hi,” Darnell said. He was bigger than Somers remembered, easily as tall as Hazard, although built much bigger. Beefy hands twisted and dry-washed at his waist, and the schoolboy pose made Darnell seem like an overgrown kid. He was wearing overalls and flannel again, and he smelled like Brut, a high school smell Somers hadn’t thought of in a long time. “Oh, hello, Detective.”

  “Hi,” Somers said. He geared himself in the seat, ready to launch at Darnell if the big man decided to take a swing.

  Dulac was still staring at the ceiling.

  “Hi,” Darnell repeated. “Detective Dulac. Hello.”

  What felt like a minute passed before Dulac said, “Why are you here?”

  “Well, I went to the station, and you weren’t there. They told me you’d had an accident, so I thought I’d come down and see if you needed anything.”

  Somers felt his jaw drop. First Dulac and his idiotic foursome idea. Then the idea of a bowling league with Hazard. Now this. He needed to buy a lottery ticket. Or maybe he needed to stay out of thunderstorms.

  “Mr. Kirby,” Somers began.

  Dulac was still looking at the ceiling when he broke in. “Well, here you are. And I’m fine; I don’t need anything. So you can go.”

  Darnell stayed near the door, still wringing big, weather-beaten hands.

  “What is going on?” Somers said. “Mr. Kirby, why are you here?”

  “Well, Detective Somerset, I’m afraid this isn’t police business, and what you’ve asked, that’s between Detective Dulac and me.”

  Somers blinked. “It’s private?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe it is. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind giving me and Detective Dulac a moment alone—”

  “No,” Dulac said. “He stays.”

  A spasm of terror contracted Darnell’s broad, open features. Beneath the sweat and the beard, he was pale.

  Dulac probed the puffy flesh around his nose as he studied a ceiling tile. “Say whatever you want to say and leave.”

  Darnell took a deep breath; his big hands hadn’t stopped moving. “I was wondering, Detective Dulac, if you’d like to have dinner with me one night.”

  Somers wondered if this was all a dream. Maybe he’d fallen on the cement and cracked his head. Maybe he’d had a stroke or an aneurysm and he was dead. Maybe this was his personal, bizarre hell.

  “No,” Dulac said. “Now go away.”

  “Sorry to trouble you,” Darnell said. “If I—”

  “I’ve got a broken nose, and my head hurts. Can you just go, please?”

  Darnell looked like he’d barely survived being hit with a wrecking ball; he tottered out of the room, and the curtain swung down behind him.

  “What the hell?” Somers said.

  Dulac was still touching the inflamed skin around his nose.

  “Just what in the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  “He asked you out.”

  “Uh, yeah. He thinks I’m hot.” Dulac shrugged. “I am hot. He’s not wrong.”

  “But he’s—he’s—” Somers stopped and tried again. “He lives out in a trailer running his own private To Catch A Predator show, and he wears overalls and flannel and—” He stopped; he’d run out of things that made sense.

  “Bro,” Dulac said, sliding to the edge of the examination table and easing off it. “Don’t be such a bigoted asshole.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  DECEMBER 20

  THURSDAY

  1:37 PM

  HAZARD HELD THE DOOR FOR Mitchell and followed him into the coffee shop. He didn’t know the name of the place; he didn’t remember, until thirty seconds later, to check the corners, to spot the nearest alternate exit, to register who else was inside, and to assess possible threats. He barely had enough brains to follow Mitchell to a table, where Mitchell eased down from his crutches onto a padded bench and looked up at him. He was a study in contrasts: fiery orange hair and watery blue eyes; at first glance, he looked eighteen, maybe younger, but up close Hazard saw how physical trauma had aged him.

  “Damn,” Mitchell said, grabbing the crutches again. “I forgot to order.”

&n
bsp; “I’ll get it.” Hazard thought briefly of running. Then he said, “What do you want?”

  Mitchell rattled off something, and Hazard didn’t understand a word of it. He asked again. It slid right out of his head. He pulled up the notes on his phone and typed it in, word for word, and then went to the barista, a young Asian-American woman with pink hair.

  “Good afternoon, sir. What can I get for you?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Great. We have light roast, blondie roast, dark roast, our house special roast. We have drip, pour-over, cold brew, nitro cold brew—”

  “What’s your cheapest coffee?”

  “Well, we have a small, a house small, a medium, a normal, a house normal—”

  “Cheapest. Your cheapest coffee.”

  Her smile had gotten a little acrid around the edges. “That would be a house small black drip.”

  “Fine. And—” Fumbling with the phone. “A house double-secret large no foam latte, half whole milk, one quarter 1%, one quarter soy, extra hot, quad shots, three short sprinkles of cinnamon, one sugar in the raw, and make it special.”

  The smile fizzed a little more. “Is that all, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you want a pastry—”

  “What’s your cheapest pastry?”

  “Well, we have our daily specials, our daily house specials, and we have our reward points. If you have a hundred points you can—”

  Hazard tried to control the scream building in his throat. “For the love of God. What. Is. The. Cheapest. Pastry.”

  The smile flaked off. “A house special macaron.”

  “Fine. That.”

  “Are you a rewards club member?”

  Somehow, Hazard managed to get away from the barista without smashing anything. When he carried the drinks back to the table, Mitchell had tucked the crutches under the bench, and he was leaning awkwardly to one side. A purposefully chosen position, Hazard realized, and his curiosity must have shown on his face.

  “Still acts up sometimes,” Mitchell said, touching his sweater to indicate the spot beneath where a lunatic had sliced him open. “They say it’s actually healing really well now, but it’s been up and down.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

  Mitchell shrugged and accepted the coffee. He sipped it and made a face.

  “Something wrong?”

  “What? Oh, no.” He took another sip and made the same face.

  “If it’s not right, I’ll take it back up there.”

  “No, it’s fine. They forgot the cinnamon, but it’s fine.”

  “I’ll take it back.”

  “No, please don’t worry about it. I can drink it like this.”

  “Give me the goddamn coffee so I can get you your goddamn cinnamon before I lose my fucking mind.”

  Hazard was proud that he hadn’t shouted; he was less proud that he had growled.

  Blanching, Mitchell passed the coffee back.

  Hazard got three short shakes of cinnamon. He was realizing, in a more intimate way than previous observations, that he was capable of murder.

  “That’s perfect,” Mitchell said when he tried the coffee again. “Thank you.”

  They sat together then, each drinking their coffee. Hazard broke the macaron in half and slid one portion toward Mitchell, but Mitchell shook his head. “No, thanks. The only thing I really like here is their garbage cookie.”

  “I’ll get you one.”

  “No, I really shouldn’t.”

  “I insist.”

  Hazard went back. Somehow, the barista bewitched him into joining the rewards club. He came back with the cookie—coconut and chocolate chips and butterscotch and something Hazard couldn’t identify. He set it down.

  Mitchell frowned.

  “What?”

  “Hey, have a seat. I’ve been wanting to catch up.”

  “No, you made a—you looked disappointed. What’s wrong?”

  “Just sit down. Come on; I want to hear how you’re doing.”

  “Is something wrong with the cookie?”

  “No, it’s great.”

  “Have a bite.”

  “Oh. Um. Maybe in a minute.”

  “What’s wrong with the cookie?”

  “Nothing.” Watery blues eyes met Hazard’s. “Swear to God.”

  “Did I touch it or something?”

  “God, no.” And then, as though the words were being dragged out of him: “But I thought I said the house garbage cookie.”

  “No. You said the garbage cookie.”

  “Oh.” Mitchell stared at the table.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Nothing. I mean, it’s just that this one has coconut, and the other one—”

  Hazard gritted his teeth. “I’ll get it.”

  “No, this is fine.”

  “I’m getting the fucking cookie, Mitchell. Be right back.”

  He brought back the house garbage cookie. He made sure it didn’t have coconut. And then they sat opposite each other in silence. Mitchell picked up the cookie. He put it down. He crumbled it, and then he pushed crumbs around on the brown paper sleeve that the cookie had come in. He took furtive drinks of the coffee like Hazard might take it away again.

  Hazard wondered if there were an etiquette for suicide to escape social situations. Did he have to leave a note?

  “So,” Mitchell said.

  Then nothing.

  “How’s PT?” Hazard asked.

  “Not fun.”

  “It’s a real motherfucker, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Mitchell said. Then he laughed and leaned back. “They have me on the weight machines to build up my strength. I try to tell them I wasn’t that strong to begin with.”

  “Physical therapists are sadistic,” Hazard said. “They’re a degree of evil that dentists can only dream about.”

  “I think I go to the same place you went,” Mitchell said, snatching up a piece of cookie and popping it in his mouth. Around the dessert, he said, “They still talk about you. Is it true you tried to escape out a window?”

  “I would have escaped except John had to be so fucking diligent that day.”

  Mitchell laughed again, and the sound of the laughter loosed some of the tangles inside Hazard. He took a drink of his coffee—it was fine, but it wasn’t worth two dollars—and found himself looking at Mitchell, really looking at him, for the first time since the Keeper of Bees had taken him and cut him open. Mitchell still looked like a kid, even with the physical effects of trauma drawing his skin tight on his face, making his frame appear wasted instead of skinny. He was cute because he was young and smart and laughed, even though his features themselves meant he wasn’t beautiful or even handsome. Under Hazard’s scrutiny, he grew still, a splotchy blush filling his face as he looked down at the table.

  “I, uh. I’ve been getting bored again.”

  “Watch out mailboxes,” Hazard said, thinking of what Somers had told him about Mitchell, about the first interview, when Mitchell had confessed to adolescent boredom and his destructive solution.

  “Yeah, well, mostly I spend that energy thinking about what I’m going to do to this asshole when you find him.”

  Hazard sipped the coffee again.

  “Have you, like, you know? Made any progress?”

  “Mitchell.”

  “I know, I know. It’s an ongoing investigation. The police are in charge. You’re just a consultant. But I want to know, Emery. I want to know. I mean I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. At PT, I have to bullshit them every time so they don’t get freaked and send me back to the hospital. I don’t need anybody to shove a feeding tube down my throat, thanks. I just want him found.” Another short laugh, brutal and abrupt like the end of a long fall. “Yeah, sure, I think about everything I’d like to do to the asshole. But really, I just want to know he’s not going to come back for me. Finish, you know, finish what he,
what he, what . . .” He didn’t dissolve, not quite. But he melted. And he grabbed his coffee while he ran his other arm over his eyes.

  Hazard ran possibilities. Options. On the one hand, trite reassurances that Mitchell might find meaningful. You’re safe. He can’t get you now. I won’t let that happen. Only Hazard struck them out as soon as they popped up in his head; Mitchell was too smart. And the truth was that Hazard already had let that happen. The other set of options was the truth, and the truth was a mile-long crawl under barbed wire.

  He blew out a deep breath. “Do you want the odds?”

  Mitchell jabbed at a few cookie crumbs, not looking up. Then he nodded.

  “If this guy is local, which we think he is, and he’s really a psychopath—”

  “What do you mean really? He . . . he shot out Phil’s head. And he tortured Rory. And the bees—”

  “That’s not helping. Pull it together, Mitchell, or I can’t have this conversation with you.”

  The roughness of it shocked Hazard; it seemed to shock Mitchell too, because he looked up, and for a moment, Hazard saw anger there: real anger, wide and deep, like Hazard had tapped something he hadn’t realized was even there.

  “I can take it,” Mitchell said stiffly.

  “What I meant was, if he’s local and those killings weren’t meant to lead us off another trail—for example, this is really about the sheriff, really about something else and the killer just wants us to think it’s a psycho on the loose—then the odds that he’ll come back for you are high. 80 percent. 90. The thing about psychopathic killers is that, for a lot of them, it’s about impulse. They don’t even know why they do it. It has to do with the way their brains are built. But that doesn’t mean that some of them don’t have a whole list of reasons. And some of them like it. And for most of them, again because of the brain development, it becomes a . . . fetish. A ritual, maybe. It has parts and components and processes.”

  “The bees.”

  Hazard nodded. “And if those processes are interrupted, the killer might feel compelled to complete them.”

  “Oh my God.”