It should’ve been
easy. It was all there.
Yet something pulled me
back. It wasn’t necessarily the conviction in his voice, in his pleading that
he hadn’t done it—maybe he was an excellent actor, maybe he’d studied the tells
of body language and could project the proper image; what kept me from fully
believing he was guilty was this inexplicable impression that he might’ve been
telling the truth, that he’d be able to prove his innocence with his credit
card records and visibility on two sets of security cameras, and that we
would’ve wasted our time arresting the wrong man while Kerry’s murderer roamed
free.
Does that make sense?
Is that acceptable?
What’s that phrase? ‘Beyond
a reasonable doubt?’
Could he have been
telling the truth?
I have to go back to perception
versus reality here. It may be a bit of a reach, but bear with me. In my
mind, I’d created this perception of Harry DeShazo as a murderer—I saw it,
every bit of detail as he knocked on Kerry’s door, shoved his way into her
house, dragged her upstairs, put a bullet into her chest and threw her out the
window. It made sense, damn it. But does that make it real if I can visualize
it?
I guess that’s the job
of a prosecutor, to paint this vivid picture of exactly how the accused
committed his crime, and convince a jury in the process.
I think, at times, that
I would’ve made an excellent lawyer. I suggested that you could build a
skyscraper with words, but why stop there? Construct a whole city. Add life
to it. Add cars and hot dog stands, trees and the girl next door. Add
motive. Add a vengeful wretch with his finger on the trigger. Be Leonardo da
Vinci with your stories. Paint a masterpiece.
Would a prosecutor have
been able to convince a jury of DeShazo’s guilt?
I couldn’t say yes.
I was the
victim
of reasonable doubt, of breaking and entering. DeShazo had broken into my
subconscious, he’d entered, but instead of stealing something, he’d left
uncertainty behind.
Did he actually kill
Kerry?
I couldn’t say yes.
However, it didn’t change
the fact that she’d been stolen from me, he’d wanted her dead, and he needed to
be punished for something. Let the courts decide.
Again, Thomas said,
“Steve? Hello?”
“What?”
“I said, do you believe
him?”
I swallowed. I crossed
my arms. I shook my head.
I lied. “No, I’m sure
he killed her.”
Thomas said, “Up to
you,” and then ordered DeShazo to turn around, to put his hands behind his
back.
“What happens next?”
“I’ll cuff him, give
Schott and Berger a call. Turn around, DeShazo, now.”
DeShazo said, “I
couldn’t do something like—shit, I just remembered something—let me show you this...this’ll
prove it. Proof, I’ve got proof right here.”
He moved his right
hand, quickly, around to his back pocket.
And that’s how Harry
DeShazo met his end.
It spooked Thomas. He
fired twice and the bullets tore DeShazo’s chest open, two perfectly placed
holes parallel to each other.
He flew against the
wall and slid down to the floor, gurgled once, blood escaping over puffy lips,
and then he died.
Somehow I didn’t
recoil, I didn’t flinch, and I didn’t scream or cover my ears or duck. Other
than seeing guns blazing on television and movies, I’d never been in the
vicinity of one going off. It was simply
pop-pop
, and then it was done.
What does that say
about my reaction to potential danger, my inherent instinct? Does it mean that
I’d be the first of my tribe to get eaten by a saber-toothed tiger because I
was too simple-minded to react? Or does it mean that I’d remain calm under
fire, that I’d be a brave war hero because I stepped beyond the fear, that
danger didn’t faze me? Obviously the latter—the Pendragons didn’t evolve into
our current state by being a herd of morons. I have to say it: Mama didn’t
raise no dummy. She just didn’t bother to point out the fact that I can be
impervious to fear when I least expect it.
I can thoroughly say
that “Be the victor” was never more fitting.
Thomas tucked his gun
into his waistband, looked at me with his jaw hanging open. “I thought he was
going for a gun. You thought that, too, right? Tell me you thought that.”
I
hadn’t
known
what DeShazo was doing, but to keep Thomas calm, I said, “Yeah, a gun. I
thought he wanted to shoot us.”
“Self-defense, all the
way. Self-defense. When they ask, that’s what it was. You saw it. You’re my
witness.” He stepped over DeShazo’s limp, splayed legs, whose pants had ridden
up as he scooted down, showing off tanned and hairy skin.
Thomas pointed at the
small pistol tucked into an ankle holster. “You see that? There’s my defense.
He was armed.” He kneeled down, feeling for a pulse.
Precautionary measure,
I suppose, because it was clear to me that the world was minus one wretch.
He reached over, pried
open the dead man’s fingers and removed two slips of paper. Reading them, he said,
“Oh, shit,” and then held them out to me. “Look. Don’t touch—it’s evidence.”
One quick glance and
everything changed.
Two credit card
receipts from the night before, time-stamped at eight fifteen and ten thirty,
hours before, just like DeShazo had claimed.
The wrong man was dead.
I sat down beside
Thomas. “What did you do?”
“What did
I
do?
Don’t lay this on me, man. What’d
we
do—that’s what.”
“Will you get in
trouble?”
“Probably. And quit
pointing the finger at me. You’re here, too.”
“I mean,
you
shot him, but yeah, that’s what I meant.
We
. So what now? If DeShazo
didn’t do it, then who did?”
He looked DeShazo’s
body up and down, thinking, ignoring my question. “Damn it—no, it’s better if
you weren’t involved. You gotta get out of here.” Thomas folded the receipts
and tucked them into a jacket pocket.
“If it wasn’t DeShazo,
then maybe Strout was right about that other guy—the cop. We’ll have to start
working that angle.”
“I’m serious, Steve.
You need to go.”
“Which one of your guys
drives a black sedan? Any idea? That’d be the best place to start, wouldn’t
it?”
Thomas shoved my
shoulder.
“What was that for?”
“Last time, bro. Get
up and walk out that door. This is done, we’re done, it’s over. He’s dead and
I killed him. Off-duty. I fired my weapon off-duty and killed somebody—I
shouldn’t have; I should’ve waited, but I thought he had a gun. You can’t be
here. You can’t. Leave, right now, and don’t ever speak to me, or call me, or
come looking for me again. We’re done, got me? It’s gone far enough. I’ll
take the heat. I’ll come up with something, because it’s my fault. I made the
decision to pull the trigger. Leave. Leave now. Don’t take a cab, don’t do
anything that’ll pin you near this location. There’s a bus stop about a mile
down. Take a left on Broadwell—it’s there next to the pawn shop. You go home
and you forget this ever happened.”
“I can’t just leave
you—”
“You have to. If
anybody finds out I had a civilian with me—you above all, since Berger’s
already got eyes on you—it’ll be worse for me. Get out of here. Go home. I
understand that it’ll be hard for you because you’re too damn pigheaded to see
how things really are, but you gotta drop it. Trust the process. Somebody
will figure out what happened to her but it won’t be you. We’re done. I’m
done. You’re done. That’s the way it is.
Go
.”
I obeyed.
I went, but I didn’t
like it.
And for two days, I
moped and sulked. I went to work on Saturday like I was supposed to, and after
Thrifty gave me an unpleasant reaming for missing the previous day without
checking in, I almost lost my job again when I called a customer a “pretentious
dick.” I got sent home early, until I could “get my shit together,” and spent
the rest of the evening getting drunk and watching the Giants. (They lost in
the bottom of the ninth. Russell struck out on a hanging curveball that a
blind man could’ve belted into the bay.)
I read and watched the
news, too, looking for any mention of Thomas and DeShazo—partly to see if I’d
be implicated, partly to see what kind of story had been fed to the media.
Finally, on Sunday
evening, a brief clip on a local station revealed that an off-duty policeman,
Officer Thomas Planck, had witnessed the erratic driving of Harry DeShazo, a
former stock trader from New York City. Assuming the individual in question
had been operating a motor vehicle under the influence, Officer Planck had
followed him to the hotel, attempted an arrest, and then shot the man in
self-defense during an altercation. Toxicology reports indicated that the
deceased was sober at the time, but phone records showed evidence of texting
while driving. Officer Planck had been placed on temporary suspension until a
standard investigation was concluded, but police officials were confident that
it was an open and shut case, and that he’d be back on the road, dutifully
serving the public in no time.
The only unknown variable
was the location of Roscoe Rivers (the thieving Edward Strout, using a fake
name, no doubt), the man who’d been staying in the room where DeShazo had been shot.
And thank God for
that. I had no desire to be an “unknown variable.” Besides, if I had been, if
Thomas had decided that if he were to go down then I was coming with him, there
would’ve been a knock on my door already.
I turned off the
television and scratched Sparkle under the chin. “That’s it, buddy. No jail
for me, and they’ll never find Strout, will they?” He responded by flopping
onto his side, begging for a tummy rub. “We’ll have to thank Uncle Thomas,
huh? What’re you thinking? Would a bottle of scotch do it? Or should we just
leave him alone? That’d be the best gift, wouldn’t it?” Sparkle laid a paw on
my thigh, kneading, like he realized I could use the affirmation.
I was relieved, but
bummed. I missed Kerry. I missed hanging out with Thomas.
I realized I hadn’t
thought about Shayna in days, and felt like a shithead for allowing Smoke and
Shade to take a backseat in my mind, as well. What kind of father was I? I
convinced myself it was because I’d been so busy.
Even I can admit it was
an
excuse
, not a
reason
.
I thought about the news
report again—DeShazo was dead, and deservedly so—yet I was no closer to knowing
who killed Kerry.
When Thomas shot
DeShazo and the wretch had died right there in front of me, I’d been full of
adrenaline, full of rage and contempt, and I hadn’t been in the proper mental
state to analyze what’d happened. As I sat there on the couch and replayed it
in my head, the weight of it sat on my chest and made it hard to breathe.
I watched a man
die
.
Like in
real life
. We’re all so used to watching movies where Stallone
or Schwarzenegger can rack up a body count equal to the national debt, but it
can’t compare to the real thing.
Hang on, let me
rephrase something: I watched
the wrong man
die.
Well, the wrong man in one
sense: he’d intended to have Kerry murdered so he got his comeuppance, but he
hadn’t been the one to kill her.
Should it have weighed
differently on my conscience that the wrong man died for the
semi
-right
reason, even though he’d had evil intentions?
I can’t say, but it had
an effect on me that I couldn’t contain. I launched myself from the couch, ran
down the hallway and into the bathroom, then vomited into the sink.
Are you surprised it
took that long for me to react that way? I’m not. For two days, I’d been in a
daze. I’d been numb. I’d go as far as saying that it was some sort of delayed
reaction—maybe even post-traumatic stress—but I don’t think I’ll readily admit
that out loud. I could go on and on about how Pendragons aren’t known for such
follies, but you’re familiar enough with our history to realize that by now.
I vomited until I had
nothing left in my stomach. After that, I dry-heaved until my head hurt. I
washed my face and rinsed out my mouth, then looked in the mirror and saw a
stranger staring back at me. Gone was the handsome devil I was so accustomed
to seeing on a daily basis. I had wild, crazy Einstein hair. I’d strained so
hard emptying my guts that tiny flecks of broken blood vessels dotted the skin
around my eyes, like someone had sprinkled me with glitter from the inside.
I looked empty. I
swallowed the taste of bile.
I don’t know why it was
different than seeing Kerry dead. I really don’t.
Maybe it was because
she was already dead once I looked closely at her body. I didn’t have to watch
the end happening in real time. Maybe it was because the emotion came from a
different place, from one of loss and sadness, rather than anger and hatred and
feeling a measure of satisfaction that I’d been a contributing factor in DeShazo’s
demise.
Can I say it enough?
The wrong man. Dead.
I was positive. Which left the possibility of Kerry’s
other
would-be
stalker.
I tried to replay
everything Strout had said in the hotel room. Black, unmarked sedan. Maybe a
detective. Average height. It wouldn’t be that hard to whittle down the list
of possibilities. I thought about what he had said when he left: “That guy
right there—he’s my apology. The money’s for my troubles, minus the little bit
I donated.”
That’s the condensed
version—it’s the last part that stood out to me.
“Minus the little bit I
donated.”
I hadn’t had time to
process the statement back in the hotel room.
What had he meant by “donated?”
It’s not like he’d stopped off at the local Red Cross and given them a
handout. I could’ve passed it off as gibberish, but he’d made deliberate eye
contact with me as he’d said it. Had he been trying to tell me something?
Possibly.
I took a long drink of
water, washing away the remaining nastiness in my mouth, and then walked down
to the basement.
It’s dark and cool down
there and I have little reason to visit, except for the occasional trip to
bring up a new supply of paper towels or toilet tissue. It’s perfectly
understandable that I hadn’t made the trip since I’d hidden the money. If
you’re not looking for buried treasure, you’re not going to find any.
The three bags of
clothes sat where they had been originally. He’d taken the time to arrange
them exactly as he’d found them.
I know it’s odd, but I
felt a small measure of gratitude that he hadn’t torn my house apart and left a
mess behind for me to clean up. So, there’s that. At least he was a tidy
criminal.
Curious, with my hands
in my pockets, I nudged two of the bags with my bare foot, felt a solid lump
underneath, and then kicked them out of my way. On the floor, neatly stacked
in a square pile, were bundles of hundred-dollar bills, and on top of that, a
handwritten note on an index card.
“What the—”
I sat down, using one
of the bags as a cushion, and read:
“Half for you. Half for her father. –E.S.”
I counted the money.
Do I dare say that Strout had been
generous
enough, or
kind
enough to leave behind a hundred thousand dollars? I mean, honestly, was it a
bighearted, charitable donation because he felt remorseful, or was it blatant
manipulation?
Here’s your
blood-money payoff, Pendragon. I’m buying your silence, and I’m buying his.
There’s no use in
putting words in the man’s mouth, because only he’s aware of his true intent,
but I’m going to venture that it wasn’t manipulation. Clarence wasn’t privy to
all the info—as far as he knew, Strout was a friend, not someone hired to
murder his daughter. He wasn’t trying to buy Clarence’s silence because
Clarence didn’t know he had anything to be silent about, which had to mean
there was some regret behind his motivation.
You’ll never hear me
say that Strout was a good man. I won’t do it. However, there may have been a
smidgen of decency tucked away somewhere in the depths of his soul, a flicker
of decorum, that he might shit out once in a while. It doesn’t change the fact
that he was a dirtbag, and for all I knew, he could’ve been the one with a
mansion in Belize, blowing the money Kerry had stolen on Belikin beer and mango
margaritas.
Donation or bribe,
whatever it was, the thought of taking the money should’ve made me sick,
should’ve sent me back to the sink for another round of intestinal upheaval.
It didn’t.
As I held a tightly
bundled stack of hundreds, I made a decision: half would go to Clarence; I’d
find some way to give it to him without arousing suspicion, maybe tell him I’d
started a fundraiser in Kerry’s name and the fifty grand was the result of the
donations. Easy enough.
I’d keep the other half
for myself. I’d try to ignore the loathsome idea of taking the money that
she’d died for, and I’d put it to good use. I’d make it my goal, at least for
a couple of years until the money ran out, to quit my job and devote myself
full time to finding Kerry’s murderer, allowing me to mark the ultimate item
off my To Do List. If I could do it, if I could figure it out and have him
arrested—or maybe even kill him myself, and I still hadn’t completely given up
on the prospect—then I would definitely “Be the victor.”
***
Monday morning arrived
and I climbed out of bed with refreshed hope. If you could give an intangible
feeling an actual smell, then my optimism would’ve come with the scent of
laundry, fresh from an outdoor clothesline.
If you’ve never been
privileged enough to experience this aroma, hang your sheets up to dry outside
then bury your face in them a couple hours later. A little tip from your Uncle
Steve. You won’t regret it, and you can thank me later.
Before I had coffee,
before I made breakfast, before I fed and watered Sparkle, I called Thrifty’s
office line and left my resignation in his voicemail. Just a simple, “Thrifty,
this is Steve. I quit. You can send my last paycheck through the post office—I’m
sure they’ll do a perfect job getting it here.” Nothing fancy, no obligatory
“screw you and the horse you rode in on,” no sarcastic salute to bid him
goodbye. I simply quit, and left it at that.
To be perfectly honest,
we’d never had the best relationship and I’d be willing to bet my half of the
hundred thousand that he would be as relieved to be rid of me as I was to be
done with him and his ragtag, sleazy, two-desks-in-a-rusted-trailer of a car
dealership.
It felt good, to say
the least—that undeniable, unfamiliar, autonomous
freedom
from a daily routine,
allowing me to spend my time doing what I needed and wanted to do, which was to
give a big ol’ honkin’ high-five to the Hand of Justice.
Once the essentials
were out of the way, I sat down at my desk upstairs with a steaming mug of
coffee on one side of my laptop and Sparkle asleep on the other. I opened a
Word doc, typed “To Do List,” and broke my cardinal rule of only allowing one
item. Instead, it looked something like this:
To Do List
1.
Find Kerry’s murderer
a.
Get surveillance equipment
b.
Practice surveillance
c.
Visit police station
d.
Scope out black sedans
e.
Narrow list of suspects
2.
Contact authorities?
a.
Call Thomas?
b.
Call Schott and Berger?
No
c.
Take care of it myself?
d.
Alert the media?
3.
If 2c, then
avenge
Seemed simple enough,
right?
Could’ve been,
should’ve been, would’ve been, if I’d had
any
idea how I would determine
which of the average height, brown-haired, black-sedan driving detectives had
been stalking Kerry. Now that she was gone, he’d have no reason to come back,
and I had only three mundane clues to guide me.