Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (17 page)

Harlan felt his anger surge and didn’t try to stop it. Though he was a cripple, Norgaard had no doubt been pretty well cared for. Harlan figured the man had never felt mistreated or abused. That was a luxury Harlan intended to snatch away here and now. Replace it with fear. Harlan bent down close.

“I’ve been tucked away seventeen years because of you and a few others. Let me tell you, Lars, a couple of your boys still don’t know what hit ’em.”

Harlan spun the chair and stared at his victim as the old man seemed to scan his memory. With their eyes inches apart, Harlan enjoyed the moment as the gravity of his circumstances took hold and a look of terror came over the old man’s face. What little color there was drained away, and his head began to bob in an aimless motion. In the otherwise silent room, Harlan heard the sound of a weak running stream in the plastic bag strapped to the side of the man’s chair.

“Yeah, there you go. You remember, huh?” Harlan patted Lars on the cheek with an open hand. “You were a regular badass with a badge back then. Look at you now. Nothin’ but a droolin’ sack a shit who can’t so much as string a few words together.”

Harlan got even closer, his lips almost touching the man’s ear.

“Now, about the gal who just left. You two sure spend a lot of time together. Makes for a pretty picture. Seems to me she’s the only one willin’ to have anything to do with your cranky ass. I’m guessing she’d be your daughter. Am I right,
Officer
Norgaard?”

Harlan watched the old man’s eyes dance to life at the mention of his daughter. Lars seemed to try and shape a word in response, but it came out like nothing more than a light gust of wind on a hot, dry day. Harlan nodded his head.

“I know, you have a tough time making yourself heard these days, don’t ya? Don’t worry about that, old man. All you need to do is listen.”

Harlan whispered low into the man’s ear, making it clear the words were meant for no one else.

Harlan backed away and watched the rage set in. Lars managed to ball his fists and raise up in his chair. The string of coarse grunts caused Harlan to laugh in response.

“I sure enough struck a nerve, didn’t I?” Harlan said. “Imagine how that’d feel, Lars. Your daughter …
your child,
took from ya.”

Lars tried again to speak, and Harlan raised his voice to a loud and angry whisper to talk over him. “What’s a cripple like you gonna do about it? Not a damn thing you can do, is there? I know an old man who suffered a similar fate.”

Harlan knocked the wheelchair to one side, dumping the old man out. Norgaard’s body twisted in the air and crashed onto the hardwood. Harlan heard a deep
thunk
as the man’s head hit the floor, and for a moment he worried that he had killed the former cop. Harlan looked closer and saw shallow breaths. Blood ran from a deep gash, turning Norgaard’s wispy white hair red. The man’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Don’t you go dyin’ on me now. You still got a good bit to learn about pain, about sufferin’ and loss. You’d think a man in your position would be learned out in those areas, but that ain’t so. You got a good ways yet to go.”

Harlan stepped over the sprawled body and feigned a kick to the head. Norgaard flinched and Harlan squatted down for a few parting words.

“Someone will be along directly, Norgaard. I’m sure they’ll patch you up. I want you to be around to see what I got planned for that pretty little girl of yours.”

Harlan brought his face close and once again whispered in his ear. “Just know this, Norgaard. You brought all this shit on yourself.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Sitting on a wooden bench in the hallway of Newberg Convalescent, Alex remembered swinging in the backyard of her childhood home, her papa pushing her higher and higher. Her bare feet reached out to touch the perfect blue sky before falling back, accompanied by gales of laughter from both father and child. Alex was almost five when her mother died after a yearlong fight with breast cancer. After that it was Alex and her dad, alone against the world. They were a family.

The double doors swung open and jerked Alex back to reality. She was on her feet in an instant. Beside her, Ben jumped up as well and spoke first.

“What the hell happened, Doctor? We got a call that Lars fell out of his chair? He can’t even pull himself up. How’s he going to fall?”

“Hard to say.” Dr. Carl Schneider, resident physician of Newberg Convalescent, turned to Alex. He looked through his blond bangs and eyeglasses with fingerprint-smudged lenses as he spoke. “I’ve told you all along, Alex, much of stroke recovery is about willpower. If your dad decided to stand up, I wish he’d waited until someone was there to help him. He took a bad rap on the head. He’s pretty agitated. I’d like to keep him sedated overnight. I don’t want this to cause any major setbacks.”

Alex wasn’t convinced that the situation was that simple. “I agree with my husband, Doctor. I was with my dad most of the day. There was no indication that he could work himself out of his chair or that he even wanted to try. Are we sure he didn’t have some sort of seizure? Could something else have happened to him? Do we need to talk to some of the staff? Do we need to call the police?”

Some measure of offense and wounded dignity could be heard in Dr. Schneider’s response. The man always sounded a bit snobbish. Now Alex thought he just sounded like a pompous ass. “I can rule out both those possibilities immediately. Tests show no signs of a seizure or recurrence of stroke, and we have never had a suspicious injury of a patient at Newberg Convalescent. Your father took a fall.”

Before Alex could respond, Ben jumped in to speak. “When can we see him?”

“Like I said, he’s sedated. Alex, why don’t you just come by for your normal morning visit. Even if he’s still unconscious then, your voice will be good for him. When the lump on his head goes down a bit, we’ll bring him around.” Dr. Schneider laughed. “See if we can get your dad to show us his new trick.”

Ben shot the man a look. “Careful, Doc. He’s not a circus act. He was a cop for thirty years. Longer than you’ve been alive, I’d imagine.”

“Sorry. I meant no disrespect.” The man’s voice was curt as he excused himself. “Mrs. Sawyer, I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

Alex ignored the doctor’s offense and instead stared at her husband. Ben looked back at her and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it. The guy was acting like a horse’s ass. I don’t go for that shit.”

Alex hugged Ben tight. “Especially when it comes to somebody you love as much as old Lars Norgaard, huh?”

TWENTY-FIVE

The pounding roused Ben from a dead sleep.

Alex must have forgotten her key.
For the past two nights, his wife had been sleeping in her father’s room at Newberg Convalescent. He shifted in the bed and found Alex asleep next to him.
Dream, I guess. Man, it got cold in here.
He snuggled in closer to Alex, seeking her warmth, but the pounding resumed.

Ben maneuvered around Alex, trying not to disturb her. He stumbled into the living room and finally came fully awake at the sight of Doyle McKenzie and Plate Boyd standing on his porch. Ben opened the door just as McKenzie raised his fist to knock again. The rudeness of it got the conversation off to a bad start.

“Jesus, guys,” Ben said, stepping into the doorway, “what’s going on? What time is it?”

McKenzie closed in, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He began to speak, but Plate put an arm across his chest and cut him off.

“Sorry, Ben, but something’s come up. There’s been a homicide. We need to talk with you.”

“A homicide? No shit, you need to talk to me,” Ben said. He looked at both men and saw they were dressed in jeans and jackets as if ready for a long, cold night. Plate had a five-cell flashlight tucked under his arm and a notebook in his hand. McKenzie was holding a brown paper bag that looked unsealed but was marked with evidence tape. It was obvious to Ben both men were working and had been for a while. “How long ago did this happen? Is the body still at the scene? Doyle, how come I didn’t get notified?”

Boyd jumped back in.

“That was my call, Ben. I’ve got a few questions.”

“What do you mean, questions? Just fill me in.”

“Ben, is your wife home?” Boyd asked. “We need to talk to her.”

Dumbstruck, Ben stared at his fellow cop.

McKenzie sucked on his cigarette, then spoke. “How ’bout it, Ben? Is the little missus in?”

Ben looked back and forth between the men, who stood silent, waiting for an answer. “What are you guys talking about? Why do you want to know about Alex?”

McKenzie blew out a puff of smoke. “Don’t worry about why. Just answer the question. Is she home or not?”

Plate stepped in front of McKenzie. “Shut up, Doyle. I told you I’d handle this.” He turned to Ben and softened his tone. “We just need to have her account for her whereabouts this evening. Say over the past several hours?”

Ben was on the verge of responding until he ran the day through his mind. Alex had not been at home when he’d gone to bed. She’d been with her father.
What’s going on?

“She’s home. Home and asleep in bed. Now can I ask why that’s any of your business?”

“So you can vouch for her, then? She’s been home all night?”

Ben felt vulnerable, standing in the doorway while the two police officers looked into his dark, quiet house. He stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. He noticed a light frozen rain had begun to fall. Barefoot, in flannel shorts and a T-shirt, he worked hard to ignore the cold and to sound direct in his answer. “Yes. She’s asleep in bed.” Ben could tell that both men picked up on his evasive response.

“What can you tell us about this?” McKenzie pulled a heart-shaped glass picture frame from the brown paper bag. In the picture, Alex was smiling, looking past the camera, her hair blowing gently in the wind. “This is your wife, isn’t it?” McKenzie asked.

Ben found he had no voice. He tried, but nothing came out. Finally he mustered, “Where did you get that?”

Boyd began to speak, but McKenzie talked over him. “The guy that owns that coffee shop downtown, Java and whatever. He’s dead. Stabbed in the gut in his apartment over the store. This picture was on his desk. Couple more on the bulletin board. So like I asked you before: Is this your wife?”

Ben could only stare at the photograph in McKenzie’s hand. Somewhere in the far distance, McKenzie kept talking.

“We also found a couple of wineglasses, broken, on the floor. Looks like our victim was entertaining, then it must have got ugly.” McKenzie paused to drag cigarette smoke into his lungs, then exhaled as he spoke, releasing a puff of smoke with each word. “By the way, the dark green minivan in the driveway—anybody been driving it tonight? Say in the past two or three hours?”

Ben couldn’t tear his gaze from the photograph. “What are you guys getting at? This is insane.”

Boyd chimed in, his voice sympathetic. “All the same, Ben, we’d like to have a talk with your wife. Probably best we do that tonight. Mind if we come in while you wake her up?”

Ben came to life. “I got a better idea. Let’s go down to the scene. I want to walk through it myself.”

“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that, Ben,” Boyd said. “Chief Jorgensen’s orders.”

“Jorgensen? Who called him? For Christ’s sake, Plate, am I the detective sergeant of this department or not?”

“You ain’t calling the shots here, Ben. Now go wake up your wife. Tell her we want to talk.”

McKenzie stepped toward the door, and Ben blocked him. “Go to hell, McKenzie. Get a warrant—if you think you know how to write one.”

Boyd tried to interject. “Ben, calm down. Listen to me for a minute. We got a call of screams coming from the apartment and a blond woman in a green minivan hightailing it out of the area. The door was wide open and we find a guy stabbed to death inside. Looks like he had some kind of relationship with your wife, who happens be a blonde and drives a green van, right? Of course we need to talk to her. You can see that, can’t you?”

Ben’s head was reeling as he processed the information. “Got a call from who? When did all this happen?”

Before Boyd could answer, the front door opened and Alex stepped outside, wearing Ben’s robe. She saw the two strangers on her porch and pulled the robe tighter. Her voice was sleepy. “Ben? What’s going on? Who are these guys?”

Ben turned to her. “Alex, don’t say anything. Go back—”

McKenzie butted in. “Detective Doyle McKenzie, Mrs. Sawyer. We’re investigating the murder of Louis Carson.”

In that instant, Alex came fully awake. She grabbed Ben’s arm but looked straight at the detectives. “Louis? Killed? Oh, my God. What are you talking about? How—”

“Alex, go inside. Right now.” Ben held Alex by her shoulders and began to push her back across the threshold, but she pulled away from him and stepped farther onto the porch until she stood between Ben and the detectives.

“Hey, Doyle.” Ben looked up to see a uniformed officer he recognized as a perennial graveyard slug walk around from the back of the house. “Look what I found in the trash can.” The cop held up a kitchen knife—a large, nondescript knife that belonged on someone’s countertop, not in his garbage can. The cop went on. “Looks like it might have some blood on it.”

This time Ben grabbed Alex by the waist and pulled her back toward the door. His voice was elevated and desperate. “Alex, get inside the damn house.”

McKenzie reached toward Alex and grabbed for her arm. Ben pushed his wife aside and stepped in to deliver a full punch to McKenzie’s jaw. The blow hit solidly, and McKenzie fell backward off the porch, landing in the half-frozen mud. Alex screamed her husband’s name but Ben ignored her. He jumped from the steps and stood over the prone detective.

“You keep your goddamn hands off my wife, McKenzie.”

“Damn it, Sawyer.” McKenzie’s voice was fierce with anger as he pulled himself up off the muddy ground.

Uniformed officers began to pour onto the lawn, coming from down the street and around the house. It seemed to Ben half of Newberg PD had descended on his home.