Authors: Jean Lorrah
Most people were flattered by Callahan's attention. He managed to time his arrival at Brandy and Church's table just as Brandy's juicy hamburger dripped grease down her hands, threatening to soak the cuffs of her blouse. While she struggled with inadequate paper napkins, Callahan turned to Church. “Officer Jones. I saw Tiffany's name on the honor roll. Congratulations."
“Thank you, Judge,” Church said in non-committal tones. “We're very proud of her.” He knew better than to allow his suspicion to show.
“And Ms. Mather.” There it was, as the man turned his attention to her. He could have called her “officer,” as he did Church, or “detective,” but no, he had to emphasize that “Ms.” to show how politically correct he was. Didn't he realize that men who called attention to their use of the term only displayed their discomfort?
“Good afternoon, Judge Callahan,” Brandy said politely.
“Church,” said Callahan, “why don't you get us all some more coffee?"
Her colleague raised an eyebrow to Brandy, who shrugged. She couldn't imagine what the judge had to say to her that he didn't want Church to hear.
“Rory Sanford's up for parole,” Callahan began as he sat across from her. They were alone in a crowd, the buzz of voices too loud for normal conversation to be overheard.
“I got a notice of the hearing,” Brandy said in a noncommittal tone.
“Well, I don't sit on the parole board, but if I did I certainly wouldn't want that man out early."
“Because he's a Sanford?” Brandy asked. The feud between the Callahans and the Sanfords was legendary. Doc Sanford was coroner because his regular practice was limited to those not afraid of the Callahan contingent. When he had turned seventy, the hospital board had revoked his surgical privileges, limiting his practice even further.
Brandy liked Doc Sanford a lot, and he was a damn fine forensic pathologist. She wasn't sure how he stayed in that office, except that Judge Callahan probably considered him harmless there. Rory Sanford was Troy Sanford's grandson.
“No, Ma'am,” Judge Callahan responded to Brandy's remark with perfect civility. “I want Rory Sanford to serve out his term ‘cause he owes a debt to innocent people. That money was to help our schools. I wish the law allowed me to sentence him to hard labor until he told where he stashed it, so it could go back to the people he stole it from!"
In the abstract, Brandy agreed. However, she suspected that Rory Sanford had no more idea where the money he supposedly embezzled had gone than she did. And Callahan appeared to have forgotten the question of Sanford's plea. Rory Sanford had been treasurer of the school system's booster fund when more than a thousand dollars had turned up missing. So had receipts and other records. Sanford had agreed to plead guilty to one count of misfeasance, claiming he felt responsible for not keeping better records.
Neither the money nor the missing records had ever been recovered, and as Brandy remembered it there had been no absolute proof that the fund had received as much money as was supposed to be missing. Sanford should never have gone for the plea, but it had been one of those spells when the court docket was immensely overcrowded, and everyone was pressured to plead. When Sanford appeared in court, however, Judge Callahan had insisted on taking his plea on one count as a plea on all counts, and Sanford's court-appointed lawyer had had no luck arguing otherwise.
“Well,” said Brandy, “I don't have anything new to add. I haven't seen Rory Sanford since his hearing."
Callahan gave her his politician's smile, wide enough to reveal gold crowns on his molars. “Good. Good. The board won't listen to them bleedin’ heart social workers and psycho therapists.” He separated the words, turning “psycho” into a modifier. Brandy gave a reflexive smile at the lame joke, then wished she had not dignified it with a response.
“Saw your mamma at church yesterday,” Callahan went on. Suddenly he had Brandy's attention. Her mother had not gone to church until she took up with Harry Davis, owner of a local radio station. Was it really getting that serious?
“Whatever makes her happy,” said Brandy. And keeps her out of my hair.
“She seems happy with Mr. Davis. But you, Brandy—how come your mother has more of a social life than you do?"
That's none of your business, Brandy wanted to retort, but held it to, “Because I'm working and she's retired."
“You should get out more. You're a very lovely woman.” He turned on his best political smile.
What the hell? Brandy could not think of a polite response before Callahan filled the awkward silence himself. “There's a ball at the university on Saturday night for scholarship contributors. Would you like to go with me?"
“You're asking me out on a date?” Brandy blurted in astonishment. Church, get back here and rescue me!
The smile almost showed warmth, although it didn't reach Callahan's eyes. “You can put it that way, yes."
You bastard—you sexually harassing bastard! Church is right about you! But what Brandy said was, “Much as I might enjoy going to a ball, I don't think it would be—appropriate—for us to go out together, Judge Callahan."
“L. J.,” he corrected. “Why not?"
Don't play ignorant! You didn't get to be a judge by acting stupid. “Because as a police officer, I must frequently give testimony in your courtroom. I don't think it would be wise to undermine my credibility as a witness—or yours as an unbiased judge."
“Oh, I don't think—"
“You think only too clearly, Your Honor. Whatever you're up to, stop before you get us both into trouble,” Brandy said, keeping her tone of voice and facial expression neutral. “You haven't crossed the boundary into sexual harassment yet. Please don't cross it, and I will not need to report your indiscretion."
The iron-gray eyes showed feeling now: incredulity. Granted, the man was attractive, but he was also old enough to be her father. Did he actually believe wealth and power made him irresistible?
Before Callahan could respond, Church returned with fresh coffee. As he set the Styrofoam cups down, the judge said, as if continuing a pleasant conversation, “Your mother says you'll be taking the sergeant's exam in the spring."
“I'm afraid she's mistaken,” Brandy took it up with equal smoothness, ignoring the sick feeling in her gut. “She's trying to persuade me, but I don't feel ready. You know how mothers are."
“Proud of their daughters, as they should be,” replied Callahan. “Well, Brandy, when you are ready, let me know. I can help you understand the legal part. You think real hard about taking the exam. I'll bet you could slide right through it.” He drained the cup of coffee, stood, and took his leave, picking up his hat and pausing only for a couple of quick handshakes at other tables.
Brandy waited until Callahan was out the door before she said softly, “Damn him!"
“What's the matter?” asked Church.
“First, he's ganging up with my mother against me. Second, what was that—a bribe?"
“What're you talking about?"
“Church, you should take the sergeant's exam, not me. You've got more experience, and you like to study. But Callahan tells me I'll ‘slide right through’ the exam—right after he makes sure I'm not going to testify in favor of Rory Sanford getting out of prison."
She took a mouthful of coffee—and scorched the roof of her mouth. Swallowing painfully, she realized that the way the judge had gulped his down meant she had upset him more than he had shown. Oh, terrific. All her careful avoidance of the man's bad side, blown in five minutes.
“God, Brandy,” Church was saying. “Any mention of your mother sets you off. Are you gonna think I'm in on the conspiracy if I say she's right? You're qualified. Go for it. Let's both go for it. I will if you will, okay?"
“Oh, Jeez. Now I do feel paranoid,” said Brandy. “You know what just flashed through my mind? A conspiracy to set us against each other for promotion!"
Church laughed. “Everything's a conspiracy. Come on, Brandy—let's get back downtown."
There was a message for Brandy: Carrie Wyman had called. She dialed her number. “Sorry I missed you for lunch,” said Carrie.
“You actually took a lunch hour?” Carrie was usually lucky to wolf down a sandwich between clients.
“Cancellation. I wanted to grump over the fact that my abuse case went home."
“She'll be back,” said Brandy.
“Yeah, but who will get hurt the next time, and how badly? Oops! Gotta go. Here comes my next appointment!"
At 3:20 there was a call: domestic violence.
“So what else is new?” Church asked through a yawn, stretching his way into his jacket. “Come on—this may take a woman's touch."
Two uniformed officers were already on the scene, pounding on the door of a dilapidated yellow frame house. From inside a male voice shouted obscenities against a background of female weeping.
“Open up! Police!"
The male voice shouted, “See what you done! God dammit, woman, yer nothin’ but trouble!"
“Ricky, please! No!” the female voice pleaded—and suddenly erupted into wordless screams. A child's voice shrieked in pain.
One of the officers, Jimmy Paschall, shouted, “This is the police! We're coming in!"
The screams became moans of “No! No-oh! No-oh-oh!"
Paschall smashed the glass with his gun butt.
Shots. Three fast ones, a pause accompanied by an inarticulate yell, and two more.
The male voice shouted, “Look what you made me do!” just as the uniformed officers ran into the house, the detectives on their heels, all with guns drawn.
A woman lay in front of the couch, half covering a little girl no more than three. The child wore a cast on her left wrist, and the red welt on her left cheek showed that she had been hit before being shot in the head. The woman also bore wounds in the back of her head and neck.
A boy, perhaps ten, lay in the kitchen doorway, a butcher knife clutched in his hand. He had apparently been cut down coming to rescue his mother and sister. Blood welled from a wound in his chest, and another in his neck. He had the remnants of a black eye, several days old.
In the sudden silence, the boy's labored breathing grated loudly.
The man who had created the carnage faced the police.
“Drop the gun!” Church ordered.
Faster than thought, the man put the barrel of his .35 into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Jimmy Paschall gave a yelp as if of pain.
The other cop, Charlie Rand, said, “Call an ambulance—hurry!” and knelt beside the boy who still clung to life.
Brandy looked at Church. His dark skin had turned a greenish hue. He moved to the woman and little girl, seeking signs of life.
That left Brandy to check the murderer. He was dead, empty eyes staring at the ceiling. She could not close them; the coroner would have to examine untouched bodies.
Just another murder/suicide. Open and shut case—with four cops as witnesses.
Behind Brandy, Rand muttered to the fallen boy, “Just hold on, Son. The medics'll be here in a minute.” But before the wail of the ambulance sounded in the distance, the labored breathing shuddered to a stop. Brandy heard the beefy cop whisper, “Take him home, Jesus. Welcome him, Lord, with his mamma and his sister. And please—help me to understand why You take young kids like this."
Brandy's father had moved their family from Ohio to Kentucky when she was twelve. The fundamentalists here had driven her nearly crazy trying to drag her into their churches. Over the years she had perceived them as deluded or hypocritical, or perhaps just plain stupid—but she had also gotten to know many of them as friends.
Charlie Rand had his beliefs to comfort him in the midst of senseless slaughter. Brandy had nothing.
Neither had Churchill Jones. His eyes met hers, and she knew that he, too, had overheard Rand's spontaneous prayer. Church was a lapsed Baptist, while Brandy was a never-was-anything. Police work did little to inspire belief in a benevolent force guiding the universe.
Neighbors gathered outside the house. It didn't take long to piece together the story. The husband, Matt Perkins, was laid off when the Western Electric plant closed three years ago. He found a few jobs, but never kept them long. Like almost everyone in this dry county he drank, but under the stress of unemployment he got drunk on a regular basis. Then he beat his wife and kids—and the next day he would be all apologies and promises to lay off the booze.
And so it happened again, a family stressed beyond their capacity to cope, a woman beaten trying to protect her children, and a man brimming over with violence he had no other outlet for. Brandy remembered Carrie's case, the woman who had returned to her husband after he beat their three-year-old girl, broke her wrist—
“Oh, my God,” Brandy whispered, realizing that this was the same family. A rope tightened about her skull.
There was no need to send anything from the Perkins house to the crime lab. Doc Sanford made out the death certificates, and the case was closed. All they had to do was notify the closest relatives: the parents of the husband and wife, grandparents of the two dead children.
But Brandy would have to break it to Carrie.
At the station they faced the wrath of Chief Harvey Benton. “Four citizens dead—after my officers arrive! What kind of police protection do you call that?"
No one had an answer. Benton demanded, “Well? How'd it happen? You never broke up a family fight before?"
“The house was locked,” Church recited flatly. “When Mrs. Perkins screamed, Paschall broke the door. By the time we got in, Perkins had shot his wife, his son, and his daughter. Then he turned the gun on himself."
“Jesus!” exclaimed the chief. “No wonder people call us Murphy's Law!"
“I tried,” Jimmy Paschall choked out.
“It happened too quickly,” Brandy came to his aid. “Paschall did try, sir. Perkins clearly wanted to die—he had no hesitation."
“That's right,” Rand backed up his colleague. “No one coulda stopped him, Sir."
Benton studied the four of them. “All right. Reports on my desk by noon tomorrow. People can't think civilians in this town can shoot one another while the police look on! Dismissed!” he added, the order left over from his military experience.