Idyll Threats (28 page)

“Luke confessed,” I said.

Finnegan's droopy face tightened with a smile. “All right!”

“He's lying.” I scratched my scalp. Sniffed my shirt. I smelled like the weights room.

“You sure?” He wanted to believe we'd done it. Hell, I wanted to have done it. But we hadn't. I hadn't.

“I'm going to nip home. Change clothes. I'll see you in an hour.” I said.

“You don't want pizza?” He held up the pies.

“No. Finnegan, have another go at Chris. If you get nowhere, put him in a cell. You have my home number in case anything breaks?” They nodded. “See you soon.”

“Why does he think Luke's lying?” Finnegan asked. I slowed my steps to hear the answer.

Wright said, “He claims his story was inconsistent.”

Finnegan said, “Chris is a shit, but I think the chief wants it to be him. He spent time with Luke this summer. Maybe he got too close.”

Wright said, “He worked homicide twelve years. He can probably spot a liar faster than Billy can miss a layup.”

So maybe I'd earned a little respect. Too bad it didn't mean shit unless I could get one of those boys to tell the truth about what happened the night Cecilia North was killed.

I removed my uniform and hung the pants and shirt on a bathroom hook. Maybe the steam from the shower would render them wearable. I had to return to the station soon. My mind went around like a revolving door. Why would Luke confess? It was possible he shot and killed her. But not alone. Chris was there. Or was he? His behavior. His footprints. His belt buckle. The Pop Rocks. No, he was guilty.

I showered. Got dressed. Drank some orange juice. Listened to the hum of the fridge.

A rap on my kitchen door made me jump. Who the hell was outside this time of night? Expecting Billy or Finnegan, it took me a second to recognize the handsome man standing in the dim glow of my porch light. Damien Saunders.

I opened the door. Two moths danced near his head.

“Hi,” he said. “May I come in?”

I said nothing, but held the door wide. I was glad I hadn't turned more lights on. No need for him to see my peeling floor and avocado fridge in all their glory.

“In the neighborhood?” I said, gesturing toward a chair.

He looked around. I wished he wouldn't. He sat.

“Sort of. There was a three-car accident out by Tolland.”

I nodded.

“I realized you lived quite near, and so I thought I'd stop by.” After midnight. On the off chance I was accepting social calls. Huh. “Look, I saw your light on when I drove by, and I just wanted to apologize.”

“For?” I asked.

“For blowing up at you that night, and just…bringing my shit to your table. You didn't deserve it.” His eyes were tired, but blazing blue. Beautiful.

“Don't sweat it,” I said. “I shouldn't have blindsided you with my request, which reminds me.” I got up and went to the safe. Retrieved Elmore Fenworth's list. Rummaged through my kitchen drawers until I found matches. “You're not looking for a date, are you?” I asked, waving the papers.

“Pardon?” he said.

I showed him the list. Waited until his expression changed. Knew he'd seen his name. Knew what he was thinking. “Is that—?”

“The name of every able-bodied gay man in the immediate area. You were included because of your profession.”

I struck a match. Listened to the scrape and sizzle. And then held the wavering flame to the bottom of the list. Waited until it really caught and the names burned. Before it singed me, I dropped the papers. The remains floated down to the sink, char settling in a Rorschach pattern. Then I ran the tap until all that remained was black goo in my sink trap. I felt lighter.

“Who made that?” He sounded scared. Even though he was out. He must've realized many of the men on that list, like me, were not.

So I told him about Elmore Fenworth and the list, and he asked why I went looking for that information to begin with, so I had to explain about Mrs. Ashworth.

“She had no idea what she almost witnessed,” I said.

“So you've been looking for two gay men all this time.” He picked up a pen and rotated its bottom, withdrawing the ink tube. How very like Revere. “And you never told your team.”

“I didn't want to give them an excuse to re-create the Stonewall riots,” I said.

“They're that bad?” Here was the sympathy I'd been denied. By isolating myself.

“They're no worse than your average cops.”

He didn't say anything.

“We've got two suspects at the station now. Kids. It's odd, because I wouldn't have pegged either of them as on our team.”

“Maybe they were experimenting? Just fooling around?”

I opened the cabinet under the sink. Pulled out rubbing alcohol and some cotton swabs. I put a dishtowel on the scarred table and set my badge on it.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Rubbing alcohol gets the gunk out.” I unpinned my badge and dipped a swab in the alcohol.

“You clean your badge?” I saw him fighting a smile. The smile was winning.

“At home. If I did this at the station I'd be nicknamed ‘the cleaner' for life. It helps me think.”

“Cleaning helps you think?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I do crunches instead.”

He waved toward the floor. “Don't let me stop you.”

My smile was short-lived. I rubbed at the badge's upper right corner. The swab turned gray. I set it down. Picked up a fresh one.

“You know, my hiding things from my men. It hurt the case. If I hadn't been hiding that I'm gay, I would've gotten to this point sooner. If I hadn't been trying to protect gay male witnesses, I might've moved on that info faster.”

“You're not exactly a villain,” he said.

“And not a hero either.”

“You take things hard, don't you?”

I wanted to make light of what he said. Turn it into a dirty joke. But he was being kind. And maybe I wasn't undeserving. “Sounds like something my father would say.”

“Do your parents know?”

I nodded. “They probably knew before I did.”

“Are they…supportive?”

I looked up from my half-cleaned badge. “Being gay is probably my best feature. They're liberal, Catholics in name only. Academics. To
them, my being gay gives them something to bitch about during tenure-track meetings. How their poor son is mistreated by the world.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “You're full of surprises.”

I didn't ask if they were nice ones. Didn't want to risk it.

“Hey, since I'm here, can I see your Eileen Gray table?” he asked.

I winced. He'd see more of the house.

“Try not to look at anything else, okay?” I said.

“Why?”

“You'll see.” I led him to the living room and flipped the switches.

He didn't keep his eyes on the table only. His mistake. “Spend a lot of time in that chair?” he said, looking at my recliner.

“Perhaps.”

“I think I can see your body imprint.” He walked toward it and I tugged on his shirtsleeve, pulling him back.

“No touching the antiques,” I said.

He laughed.

“So is the table real?”

He took a walk around it and peered at its underside. “Yes. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Let's celebrate with a drink.”

We returned to the kitchen. I gave him a beer. I didn't have any spirits in the house. Then I sat down and continued cleaning my badge. “I just wish I knew why he was lying.”

“Who?”

So I told him about Luke, about everything. “Luke confessed, but I don't believe him. He wasn't telling the truth.”

“Why would he lie?” He picked up a catalog from my pile of unsorted mail. Set it down. “To protect someone?”

“That would be Chris in this scenario. Why?”

He shrugged. “Love? Money?”

“He doesn't have any. Shit.” I set the badge down. “That's it! Money.”

“Really? He killed her for money?”

“No.” I capped the alcohol bottle. Stood and tossed the swabs in the
trash. “He's taking the fall for money. He got himself a lawyer tonight. He told his mother he could afford it. Just after she got through telling me their house is being foreclosed on. I also found out he's fourteen. Chris is sixteen.”

“This isn't getting much clearer,” he said.

“I think Chris convinced Luke to take the rap. He told him he'd pay him and his lawyer fees if Luke claimed to be the lone shooter. Chris is sixteen. He can be tried as an adult. But Luke's two years younger. He'll probably do time in juvie. That's a much easier stint. I bet Chris knows that.”

“So Luke goes to juvie and Chris walks?”

“I won't let that happen.” I gave my badge a final wipe and put the cleaning supplies away.

“How can you stop it?” he asked.

“By having a little talk with Luke.”

“Doesn't he have to have a parent present?”

“Yes. But I'm the police chief, remember?” I pinned my shining badge to my shirt.

“Need to get to the station?” he said. He sounded disappointed. I tried not to let it go to my head. Or other regions of my body.

“Yeah.”

“Good luck,” he said.

We walked outside. He studied my face. “You look really…happy,” he said, as if naming a foreign emotion.

“I am. I cracked the case.”

“You love being a cop, don't you?”

“Yes.” I did. Always. Even when it was hard.

“Good,” he said. “It's good to find something you love.”

I thought he was going to say something more, but he just walked to his car and waved at me before he got in and drove away.

Luke Johnson slept on his cot. A thin, gray blanket was pulled to his neck. In the dimly lit six-by-eight cell, he looked troubled. His face puckered as he dreamed. I whistled, low and short. He moaned and turned to face the wall. We had a drunk next door, sleeping it off. But two cells down was Chris Warren. I couldn't risk waking him. I whispered, “Luke!”

He sat up. “What?” he said. “Who?”

“Here.”

He looked my way. His eyes shuttered. His face drooped. “Oh. You.”

“Come on.” I opened the cell. He looked at it. “This is a limited-time offer.”

He shuffled over, touched the bars, and dropped his hand. “Quiet,” I said. He followed me past the drunk. In the next cell, Chris snored, his blanket on the floor. Luke followed me to the end of the hall and through another door, into the central station. The night-shifters answered calls and played card games. Finnegan, on his way to the coffeepot, saw us. He raised a brow but said nothing as I led Luke to my office.

I closed the door. “Sit.” I pointed to a chair. “Here.” I handed him a mug of cocoa I'd prepared. He was about to get the good-cop treatment.

He rubbed his eyes. Sipped the cocoa. Seemed to like it. Took a larger swallow. “You're not supposed to talk to me without my lawyer or mom present.”

“True. Did you know that before you killed Cecilia North?”

He scowled and set the mug down. “Who cares if I did or didn't?” His knee jiggled.

“Not me.” I sat. Rocked back and set my hands across my middle. “Because I know you didn't kill her.”

“Oh yeah?” He reached for the mug again.

“Yeah. And I know why you're claiming you did. And I'm here to tell you something, son. Whatever money Chris Warren promised you, you're not getting it.”

The mug shook in his hand. His eyes darted away from mine.

“In a couple months, your mother is going to call you from some shitty apartment in a crime-ridden neighborhood in Hartford, and when you ask how she's doing, she's going to tell you the truth. That she's working three shifts to pay your lawyer's bills. Because guess what, boyo? Chris Warren and his rich parents aren't going to give you a dime. It would look awfully suspicious if they did.”

“You don't know anything.” He rocked forward on his chair.

“I don't know
everything
,” I said. “For instance, I don't know why you agreed to suck Chris's dick.” The mug fell to the floor. Cocoa soaked the carpet. The brown stain spread outward. “Frankly, he doesn't seem like your type.”

Luke knelt to pick up the mug.

“Don't worry. The janitors will get it.”

He set the mug on the desk, his face paper white. “How did you—You can't tell anyone!”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because! Because they'll think I'm a faggot and then—” He broke off. Tears ran. Snot flowed from his nostrils like water from a tap. “How did you know? Did Chris tell you? He promised!” He ran his hand under his nose. I handed him a tissue. “Chris said he'd never, and that it wasn't a big deal. Guys on the track team did it. Like an initiation.”

I rather doubted that. “Why did Chris shoot her?” I asked.

He wiped his nose. Snuffled. “I can't believe he told. He said he'd never tell.”

“Chris is not a boy to be trusted.”

He balled the tissue. His wet face hardened. “That fuck.”

“You know, he's been setting you up for some time. He was talking smack about you at Idyll Days. Saying you got your criminal instincts from your father.”

Luke raised his head to look at me. “That prick.”

I looked at the ceiling and said, “Why did he shoot her?”

He looked away from me, toward my plant. “I don't know. She startled us. She yelled at us and jogged by. Chris started talking to himself. Something about how she shouldn't be there. He had the gun. He pulled it up and shot. And she fell. But she was still moving, so he shot her again.” He swallowed convulsively.

“And twice more?” I pictured Chris with the gun. Most likely shooting a corpse. But maybe not. She'd bled to death. That took time.

He wiped at his eyes. “Yeah. Two more times. He kept saying, ‘Stupid bitch' as he shot her. He was so angry. And then he got real quiet. He's like that. He has a temper. And then it passes.” He looked at his hands. I remembered Chris at Idyll Days. Hitting the cat's cage and then apologizing seconds later.

“What happened then?” I asked.

He closed his eyes, but whatever he saw made them snap open again. “He grabbed something that she'd dropped. Some food thing. And he took a thing from her hair. I told him to stop touching her, but he wouldn't listen. And then he said I had to get rid of the gun. He told me to dump it in Hought's Pond. It's deep, if you go out far enough.”

“But you didn't,” I said.

He rubbed his arms. “The pond is miles away. I was scared. It was dark. I kept hearing noises. And I thought the cops would come any minute. The neighbors would call in the shots, and I'd be arrested. But no one came, so I just walked until I reached Baumer's Pond, and I dropped the gun in. Chris had gone. He'd told me to keep my mouth shut and he'd take care of everything.” His knee went up and down, like a carousel horse.

“Why'd you go back to the golf course a few days later? That wasn't smart.”

“Chris kept insisting. He told Tiffany and Kevin we were going to hold a séance. But I think he just wanted to go back; he was so happy he'd gotten away with it. I didn't want to go.”

“Why did you?”

“He threatened to tell, about the sex stuff. He said I'd do as he said unless I wanted to be known as a cocksucker the rest of my life.”

Because that was the world's worst punishment. Being thought a faggot. I said, “Why didn't you walk away that night when he suggested the sex?”

His eyes got dark. He reached for the mug. Dropped his hand when he recalled it was empty. He radiated fear. A harsh, animal smell seeped out of his pores. “He had a gun in his hand. That whole time, on the golf course. When he was telling me it was no big deal.” He drew a shuddering breath. “He had the gun aimed at me. And I thought, if I don't do what he says, he'll shoot me.”

So that's why Luke had given in to Chris's sexual demands. Because he'd had a gun pointed at him. And if he'd believed then that Chris would shoot him, why would he disbelieve any other threat Chris made?

I set my hands flat on my desk. “Luke, you can't say you killed her. You have to make a new statement.”

“I can't! He's going to give my mom money so she doesn't lose the house. And I'll be out in a couple of years. I'm only fourteen.”

“Luke, listen to me. I'm not going to charge you with a murder you didn't commit. I'm going to nail Chris Warren, and you're going to help.”

“But he'll tell,” he said. “About, you know.”

“Yes, and he had a gun to your head. Now stop thinking like the two of you will be back at school together. You won't. Ever. He's going to prison. Adult prison. And if he ever gets out, he'll be a very old man. Understand?”

His eyes. He doubted me. He was still afraid of Chris Warren. Fear can enslave a person. It was time to set him free.

“Listen, son. Chris had a gun, once. He used it to scare you. And he has a temper. But he's locked up in a cell now. I have a gun, always.
And I have a temper. I don't shoot young women.” I stood up, at my full six foot four inches. “I shoot perps. So which of us do you think is the bigger threat?”

His knee stopped moving. His eyes went to my holster. His eyes tracked upward to my unsmiling face. “You,” he said.

“Bingo. Now let's get your lawyer back in here.”

0800 HOURS

I stood outside Chris Warren's cell, watching his chest rise and fall. Sunlight striped the foot of his cot. I knocked my Maglite against the cell bars and called out, “Good morning!” Next door, the drunk muttered, “Keep it down.” Chris sat up. I watched his face figure it out. Squinted eyes, open mouth, turned head to take it all in. He was still in a cell. No nightmare then.

“Sleep well?” I asked.

He grunted and looked at me. His face was puffy. His ginger hair stuck up in back. “Never better,” he said. His voice had gravel in it.

“Glad to hear it. I've got good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?” I leaned against the opposite brick wall.

He stared at me, face full of distrust. And a little curiosity. “The bad.”

“Luke recanted his confession. Says you shot Cecilia North.”

He rubbed his neck. “Right. I'm sure.”

“I can't quite figure you out,” I said. “Sexual sadists don't always go on to murder. But I guess maybe you're just a complicated guy.”

He looked startled. One hand clutched the sheet. But he said nothing.

“Piece of advice for the future. Don't keep trophies and don't trust anyone to keep your secrets. People are a constant disappointment.”

His jaw clenched. “He wouldn't talk to you.”

“Sure he would. I'm the guy who can see that he doesn't serve more than six months in the nicest of the juvie facilities.” An exaggeration,
but a useful one. “You're the guy who wants to send him away for years. And honestly, I don't think he's forgiven you for the blow job at gunpoint.”

His mask fell. He no longer looked like Rick at all. His face was so hard, it was statuesque. “Luke!” he yelled. “Luke!”

“Quiet down,” the drunk in the next cell said. “People are sleeping.”

“He's not here,” I said. I'd had Luke transferred to the juvenile facility a half hour ago.

“Guess I'll see him later.” A small smile appeared.

“Nope,” I said, approaching his cell. Getting so close I could smell his cologne and sweat. Fear sweat. Good. “You won't be seeing him ever again. At least, not until your trial.” I'd moved heaven and earth this morning to get the boys housed at separate facilities. I suspected I'd be paying this favor off for some time, but I didn't care. “Do you want me to pass on a message to him?”

He stood and walked toward me. Made himself as tall as he could. Good trick. He'd need that inside. He'd need a whole lot more, too. He was going to be competing against kids who'd grown up in slums, who'd been incarcerated multiple times. He'd be beaten badly within a week.

“What's the good news?” he asked.

“Ah, right. The good news. Today is Tuesday. Taco Tuesday. Best day of the week, where you're going.” I whistled a happy tune.

Chris smacked his palms against the bars. “You think you're so fucking smart!” He hit them again. A dull clang echoed. “I'll get out of this. I will!” He smacked his hand again. The palm was red. He'd bruise himself if he didn't stop.

“Knock it off.”

“Yeah!” called the drunk. “Shut up.”

Chris dropped his hand and scowled at me. “This isn't over,” he said. But his face told a different story. He knew he might not make it out. That this might be just a preview of coming attractions.

I walked away, whistling.

We'd regrouped in the pen and were staring at the board. Pictures of footprints hung alongside pictures of the corpse. Papers competed for space. A time line. The first page of the ballistics report. Photos of Luke and Chris. It was all there. The whole case.

“You found her hair pin?” I asked Wright. “In Chris's room?”

“Tucked under his socks. Thought it was odd, so I bagged it.”

“He took it from the body after he killed her,” I said.

Finnegan tsk-tsked. “Don't these kids watch TV? Never keep trophies.”

Billy sat in the chair that had supported Revere's flat ass. He nibbled his fingernails. “So Chris shot her and then he took a keepsake?” He squinted at Chris's photo. “I taught that kid soccer. I don't understand why he did it.”

“She scared him. I'm not sure he meant to kill her with the first shot. But the other three?” I tapped the picture of Cecilia, face down on the grass. “He meant to kill her then.”

“I'm just glad the sixteen-year-old shot her,” Wright said.