by Tom Fowler
“Did you intend to kill Anthony Tyler?”
“Is he dead?” I said.
“Answer the question, sir.”
I took a deep breath and thought about my answer. “At first, yes. In the end, I realized I couldn’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because my sister would have hated it. She fought against things like violence and killing.” I paused and collected myself as I felt my eyes start to well up. “I couldn’t fight for her and dishonor her memory at the same time.”
“But you still detained Mr. Tyler and assaulted him.”
“I caught a killer,” I pointed out. “A killer no police agency in the state even knew about.”
“And you think results are more important than process?” Brooks said.
“You tell me. All prosecutors in the state talk about their conviction rate. Every politician wants to be ‘tough on crime,’ whatever the hell it means. Lieutenants and captains like to see certain numbers when it comes to closed cases. Yeah, I think results trump the process, and I think most people in your field agree with me. Even if they wouldn’t go on the record and say it.”
“What do you think should happen to Mr. Tyler?”
“He should go on trial,” I said.
“Nothing else?”
“I hope he’s found guilty. I just wish the death penalty were still an option.”
“Do you think you’ve avenged your sister’s death?” Brooks said.
I hadn’t expected the question. “Yes,” I said after a moment.
“Is revenge part of your job?”
“Revenge is part of justice. It’s part of your job, too.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I simply smiled. “OK.”
“Your cousin stopped you, didn’t he?”
“He was there,” I said “He didn’t stop me, though.”
“So you’re saying if Detective Ferguson hadn’t arrived when he did, you would not have killed Mr. Tyler.”
“Yes, it’s what I’m saying. He didn’t stop me. I stopped myself.”
“Why?” Brooks pressed. “How?”
“Like I told you, I couldn’t fight for my sister’s memory and dishonor it at the same time.”
Brooks looked at Major Tompkins. “Ma’am, I have nothing more.”
“Very well, Sergeant,” said Tompkins, “thank you. Mr. Ferguson, would you like to say or present anything.”
I stood and buttoned the top button of my suit. It felt like a courtroom move, and this wasn’t a courtroom. I kept it buttoned but walked to the front of my table and leaned against it. “I only have one question,” I said. “What would you have done?”
“To whom are you addressing that, Mr. Ferguson?” Captain Hardy said. His voice, perhaps aided by his grammar, sounded professorial. He looked old enough to have learned diagramming sentences in grade school.
“Any of you. All of you. I don’t care. I just want to know. If you found out after thirteen years your sister didn’t die of natural causes, and you tracked down her killer, what would you do?”
“You didn’t know she was murdered?” Sharpe said.
“Not until recently,” I said.
They were all silent for a moment, looking at each other with varying degrees of meaning. “I’m still waiting for an answer,” I said.
“I would call the police,” Tompkins said.
“Bullshit,” I said.
Sharpe smirked. Tompkins started to reply but stopped. After a moment of studious frowning, Hardy said, “Mr. Ferguson, I don’t see the point of your question. We are not on trial here.”
“Captain, unless the nature of this hearing has changed since I got here, neither am I.”
This sent them back into silence for more meaningful looks and shrugs. After a minute or two, they all leaned close and whispered in such low voices they must have struggled to hear each other. “I think we have all we need, Mr. Ferguson,” Tompkins said. “We will contact you—”
“Major, I still want an answer to my question,” I said. “An honest answer.”
She pursed her lips and looked at me. “What I would do doesn’t have any bearing on what you did.”
“So you’d do exactly what I did.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Not in so many words,” I said.
“This hearing is concluded.” Tompkins frowned and banged the gavel. She glared at me. “We will contact you with a decision in a few days.”
“Thank you,” I said after a moment of searching for an appropriate response.
I walked out of the meeting room with no idea how the hearing might conclude. Most of the questions fell in line with what I expected. I thought I acquitted myself well, but I always think I do. The facts in the case weighed against me: I’d done everything they said I did. What I needed to rely on was the fact most people’s actions would have mirrored mine in the same circumstances. Even if I couldn’t get Major Tompkins to admit it, I knew she would have done the same thing.
But would it be enough to save my license?
Chapter 28
I went home and changed out of my suit and back to more practical attire. Gloria sat in the kitchen eating brunch, which consisted of a bowl of cereal and two eggs whose status lay somewhere on the “fried” spectrum. It wasn’t much of a brunch, but it reflected Gloria’s ability in the kitchen. One of these months, I needed to teach her some of the basics. She smiled at me as I walked behind her chair, rubbed her shoulders, and kissed her. “How did it go?” she said.
“Hard to say,” I said. “I expected most of the questions.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“I think it’ll come down to whether they feel they would have done the same thing in my place.”
“You think they would?”
I shrugged. “I think most people would. Revenge is a motive as old as time. Leon Sharpe was on my panel. I think he would have done what I did, except he would have torn Tyler to pieces with his bare hands.”
Gloria shuddered and sipped her coffee. “Maybe he can put in a good word for you.”
I poured myself another cup. The machine was still on and kept the java warm. Serendipity on a morning lacking it so far. “I think he’ll try. The other two people were state cops. I don’t know what they’ll decide.”
“What if they. . . .?” she trailed off.
“Take my license away?” I said. “I’ll burn a hypothetical bridge when I get to it. Maybe I’ll go into business with Joey. Make him pay for the food for once.”
“I’m serious.” Gloria frowned at me.
“I know,” I said. “So am I. I don’t know what I would do, and I’m not going to lose sleep fretting about it. I have things I still need to do now.”
Gloria came to me and put her arms around my chest. “I just don’t want to see you stop making a difference for people.”
“I’m sure I’d find a way.”
“Your parents would probably make you.”
I groaned. “I need to get ready to go. Rollins and I have some work to do.”
“Is this the part where you tell me not to wait up?” said Gloria.
“I’m afraid so,” I said.
* * *
Rollins and I sat in his truck to watch Jackson McMurray's house. My tracker told me Jackson had gone into Bel Air. I didn't know how he divided his time between his own place and Vincent Davenport's. I especially didn't know why Davenport would even let him live in the same ZIP code, and I didn't expect to figure it out. Jackson stood between Melinda and a life of not looking over her shoulder expecting a beating.
After about a half-hour, with the prodigal stepson still in Bel Air, Rollins got out to scout around. It was just before noon, and there were people home nearby, but I knew Rollins wouldn't care. He'd flash his illicit MP badge and make up a story. About fifteen minutes after he set out, Rollins hopped back into the truck.
"Pretty similar to the other house," he said. "Smaller w
indows at the back. It'll be easier for me to shoot into Davenport's."
"I hope they're considerate about your shooting," I said.
"Me, too."
The community patrol pulled up a moment later. Rollins got rid of them with a quick flash of his army shield and the same story as last night. Most people don't inspect badges when they see them. I've had people think I was a cop merely because I showed a piece of aluminum. While I bristled at the association, I would capitalize on it if it helped my cause. Rollins did the same thing.
"How long were you an MP?" I said.
"A little over a year."
"You didn't like it?"
He turned to look at me. "Why do you think I didn’t?"
"Just your tone when you talk about it."
Rollins went back to looking at the house. "No, I didn't like it. Never wanted to do it."
"So why did you?" I said.
"Had a CO who didn't like me. Nobody in the military likes MPs, so he transferred me."
"Why didn't he like you?"
"Guess,” said Rollins.
"Oh."
"Once the homophobe got shuffled somewhere else, I got moved back to my old unit. Never turned in the badge, though. My CO there knew I got a raw deal. Maybe it’s why he forgot to ask me for it."
We waited a while longer. I sipped water, and Rollins drank iced tea. My tracker indicated Jackson left Bel Air and headed this way. "He's on the move," I said. "Looks like he's coming back home."
Rollins nodded and didn't say anything for a few minutes. Then he said, "What's gonna happen with the guy who killed your sister?"
"He'll go on trial."
"Maryland won't kill him."
I nodded. "I know."
"You gonna try?" he said.
"I used my chance."
"So he'll go on trial and the press will cover it, and at some point he'll ask the family to forgive him."
"Fuck him,” I said.
"You probably can't drop the F-bomb in court."
"I'm not wired for absolution. If he wants it, let him talk to a priest. Everybody else in prison does."
A few minutes later, Jackson McMurray's silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway. Rollins and I slid down in our seats. Jackson got out carrying a small duffel bag. He went into the house and stayed there for about fifteen minutes. Then he came back, sans bag, got into his car, and drove away. I checked the GPS tracker. "He's headed toward Davenport's," I said. A minute later, the car stopped at the other house. How lazy did he need to be to drive such a short distance? "He's there. I guess we should see how long he stays."
"We'll come back tonight," Rollins said. "Doesn't matter whose place he's in."
* * *
Rollins and I broke off our boring surveillance for the best of reasons: lunch. We also wanted to return at night. “If you have to lie on a hill and shoot someone, you should wait until dark,” Rollins told me. I figured either he came up with it himself or our mutual friend Colonel Stevens passed it on. Either way, it sounded like sage advice.
We didn’t go far, opting for Josef’s Country Inn. I expected Eastern European tough guys to seat us but settled for a cute hostess with a pretty smile. All in all, better than the alternative. Then I wondered if the Russian mob maintained restaurants to serve as obvious covers for their real business, like Tony Rizzo and Il Buon Cibo. They probably didn’t. People loved Italian food. The Russians tendered borscht and vodka, and those weren’t much competition.
The cute hostess gave way to a plain waitress who chewed gum and looked around at everything in the restaurant while she took our drink orders. Josef’s offered a fabulous look at trees found anywhere in Maryland. The scenery couldn’t be so interesting. She returned quickly enough with our drinks, and we asked for lunch: a burger for Rollins and something called Pleasantville Toast for me. It was seafood, dill sauce, and French bread . . . how could I go wrong?
“What do you think is going on with the old man?” Rollins said after the waitress left.
“What do you mean?”
“Why is he letting this asshole into his house?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess he doesn’t know what Jackson has done to Melinda and her . . . coworkers.”
“What if he does?”
I pondered the possibility for a moment and shook my head. “Then I have no idea,” I said. “Unless Jackson has some dirt on Davenport.”
“What could he have?”
“No idea. Davenport’s been in business a long time. A couple marriages broke up, including the one with Jackson’s mother.”
“It was because of what went on with their kids,” Rollins said.
“Was it?” He shrugged. “It might not have been the only factor. Maybe it just gave Davenport a quick and easy way to get out of the marriage.”
“Has he married since?”
“No. Maybe he learned his lesson. I guess he’d rather have a string of lovers.”
“You’re speculating,” said Rollins.
“It’s a big part of my job.”
The waitress returned with our food. She set it down, didn’t look at us as she asked if we needed anything else, and walked away when we replied in the negative. I would hate to see her deal with high-maintenance diners. Maybe I would need to bring Gloria here. She’d have this woman tied in knots by the appetizer round. I picked up my Pleasantville Toast. Dill sauce oozed out between the fresh seafood and the baked French bread. A mix of mild seafood and dill floated into my nostrils. I took a bite.
Josef, wherever he hailed from, knew how to make a sandwich.
While we ate, our waitress paid attention to us long enough to freshen our drinks. When she brought the check, Rollins picked it up. “I got you into this mess,” he said. “Least I can do is pay for lunch.”
“Damn right,” I said.
“And shoot someone later, if the situation calls for it.”
“At least they were courteous enough to be at the right house.”
“Who said rich people were all assholes?” asked Rollins.
* * *
Later, the tracker told me Jackson McMurray remained at Vincent Davenport’s. Rollins and I put our plan in motion. He left for the back of the houses, a dark duffel bag over his shoulder. He’d dressed all in black and painted his face in the truck. Someone would have to trip over him to notice him, and even then, the odds were fifty-fifty. I gave him a few minutes, then put a tiny, flesh-colored Bluetooth earpiece into my ear. An equally small mike looked like a button on my collar. I called Rollins and he answered right away. “In position,” he said.
“Breaker breaker, over,” I said.
“You a truck driver now?”
“I might need to find a new job soon.”
“Just leave the line open,” Rollins said.
“I’ve done this before, you know.” I walked up Vincent Davenport’s driveway. Todd Lakes would lose some prestige points: my parents’ driveway was longer. My mother would be thrilled to hear it.
“You’ve gone into a house with a sniper out back?” Rollins said.
“Does Call of Duty count?”
Rollins chuckled. “Just remember the layout. My best shot is at the sunroom . . . or whatever you rich folks call it.”
“Sometimes, we call it a solarium to feel extra fancy,” I whispered. I rang the doorbell. My watch showed a few minutes past eight. Dusk began yielding to the blackness of night. I looked up. Fallston gave me a much better look at the stars. All the ambient light in Baltimore made the sky too bright for stargazing. I recalled my fondness for astronomy as a child and identified constellations when the large door opened. A blonde woman of about forty looked back at me. Her furrowed brow lent her a frazzled appearance. “Yes?” she said, the solitary word betraying an Eastern European accent. Maybe she could work at Josef’s if everything went pear-shaped for her boss.
“I’m here to see Mr. Davenport and Mr. McMurray,” I said.
“They’re not here.” She
closed her eyes for a second, probably chiding herself for leaking the fact Jackson had been there.
I knew he still was. “You’re not telling me the truth.”
She glanced quickly to her right, back inside the house, then regarded me again. Her blue eyes were hard. I wondered how long she’d worked for Vincent Davenport. Between her own country and Davenport family shenanigans, she must have seen a great many things. “I do not lie.”
“You’ve probably had to lie for this family a lot. I can help you if you’ll let me.”
“And if I do not?”
“I’m coming in either way,” I said.
The housekeeper stared at me for a moment. Then her expression softened a fraction, and she moved aside. I stepped into the front room. It reminded me of Davenport’s office—tackiness and unnecessary shows of wealth, signifying nothing. The foyer had a vaulted ceiling and a marble floor transitioning to dark hardwood in the hallways. “Where are they?” I said.
“Sun room,” she said, reproach coloring her accent, “where they usually are.”
I knew its location based on Rollins’ descriptions of the back of the house and the floor plan for Davenport’s model I found online. “Nice diplomacy,” Rollins said into my ear as I walked back. I saw a few pictures scattered throughout the house, mostly on walls but also on an occasional table whose purpose seemed to be holding photos. All were of Davenport, either by himself and trying to fill the empty spaces with self-importance or shaking hands with someone powerful. I saw pictures of mayors all the way back to Kurt Schmoke and governors to William Donald Schaefer. It reminded me how long Davenport spent as a power broker in Baltimore.
A minute later, I walked into the sunroom. Like Davenport’s office, windows dominated its walls. I realized he tried to make his house resemble his office as much as possible. He would need as much therapy as Melinda when all of this wrapped up. Both men gaped at me as I strode into the room. Vincent Davenport scowled and stood. “What’s the meaning of this?” he roared. “How did you get past Cosmina?”