Orchard Grove (23 page)

“Please state the nature of your emergency,” ordered the dispatcher.

“I’d like to report a suicide,” I said.

“Is the victim alive and/or in need of medical assistance?”

“The victim is fucking dead.”

“I see,” she said. “Please stay on the line and refrain from any further foul language.”

I didn’t exhale until she placed me on hold.

I
t took the cops, a team of EMTS, and the fire department only a few minutes to get to Orchard Grove. During that time, Lana never moved an inch from down on her knees on the gunroom floor. Susan stood out in the hall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face tight as a tick, every single pore and wrinkle filled with anxiety. She wasn’t speaking and neither was I, even if I did want to scream at her. She wasn’t looking at me either, avoiding eye contact altogether, as though to lock eyes would be an admission of guilt, both in her complicity in the plot to kill John, and in her withholding the truth about her relationship with Lana. In the time it had taken that bullet to pass through John’s brains until now, she had transformed herself into a person whom I did not recognize.

While the blue-uniformed EMTs looked over the body, checking for vitals that were obviously no longer vital, another crew of uniformed cops scoured the house. What exactly they were looking for, I had no idea. But these were the men and women who had worked with John, however briefly, and maybe it was standard operating procedure for them to make a thorough examination of the home that belonged to one of their own brothers in arms.

They also made sure to take care of Lana, escorting her from the gunroom to the kitchen where they tried to coerce a statement from her, however gently. Susan never left her side, making her tea, holding her hand, wiping her tears as they fell from her blue eyes down her smooth cheeks. It was all very dramatic and convincing. Had I been one of the cops placed in charge of questioning her, I would have said she was truly upset, truly grieving, truly shocked. But I wasn’t a cop.

I was a killer.

Then Carl showed up.

The big plain clothes detective just barged through the front door, barreled his way through the cops and emergency professionals standing in the vestibule, and entered into the gunroom where his partner still sat in the swivel chair behind his desk. Carl was dressed in the same blue blazer and tie he was wearing that afternoon when he, John, and Lana got together for their little come-to-Jesus regarding his feelings for his partner’s wife. For sure I smelled alcohol on his breath as he brushed past me without so much as glancing my way.

Following him into the room, I stared at what was left of his dead partner’s head. He made a point to examine the blood-stained automatic that was still gripped upside down in John’s right hand, as though not entirely convinced his partner managed to perform the ultimate final act of self-destruction on his own. By then Lana had come back into the room, her eyes still filled with tears, a pink tissue crushed in her hand. The tension between the two was almost too much to bear, even for me.

After a beat he turned to her, staring her down with big brown eyes that were no longer hidden by aviator sunglasses. She returned his gaze and sniffled.

“He was always so careful,” she said. “Even when he was messing around… he was careful, you know?”

“It was an accident,” I said, picturing myself grabbing John’s hair, shoving the piece in his mouth, pulling the trigger. I swallowed something that felt and tasted like a brick. “He was showing me his collection. He insisted on demonstrating how a cop eats his piece. He obviously didn’t know the gun was loaded.”

Carl turned quick, shot me a look, then reached out with his hand, placed it on Lana’s shoulder.

“Don’t stay in here anymore,” he said.

Wiping her eyes with the tissue, Lana walked out, as ordered.

Then, turning back to the couple of forensics cops who were also standing in the room on either side of the body, their hands covered in blue latex gloves, Carl said, “Tag him and bag him, for Christ sake’s. Then get him the hell out of here already.”

He took a step toward me, eyed me once more.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and the way he said it, made my blood turn to ice.

Brushing past me for a second time, he left the house through the front door.

I
t takes an enormous amount of energy and concentration to keep from gagging. Her stomach muscles are convulsing, her chest heaving as she watches two separate beams of bright white Maglite dancing on the gravelly riverbank. When she begins to make out voices along with the stomping of boot heels, she knows that two police officers are standing only a few feet away from her.

“Whaddaya think, Detective Miller?” says the first cop.

“What do I think?” says, Miller. “I think two things are possible here, Brad. Either we’ve scared away the perp. Or, we scared away somebody who just happened to come upon that mutilated body back there. That’s what I think.”

“And he or she ran away because he or she don’t want to be accused of no homicide, ain’t I right?”

“Only reason people hang out in these woods at night is to shoot up. No junkie in my book is taking a chance on getting snagged for murder one. ‘Sides, Brad, whole thing doesn’t fit the profile. The North Albany Mauler knows what he’s doing. He’s methodical and precise in the method and manner by which he kills. No way he’d be caught out in the open like that. Having studied this case for three years, I suspect our killer…our Mauler…is white, single, fairly well off, and gay.”

“That the shit they teach you in college, Miller? I remember when cops didn’t go to no college, me included.”

“Times’re changing. It’s the 1980s. Computers can help us narrow down the playing field. Soon everyone will have a computer in their house, access to more information than is stored in the Library of Congress, right at their fingertips.”

“Sounds like science fiction. But then, I guess everybody’s got cable TV now. Fifty freakin’ channels and a Home Box Office station that shows movies. It’s like the Jetson’s.”

“High technology is advancing right now… right this very second… as we jerk off on this riverbank doing absolutely nothing.”

“Okay then, young Detective Miller, your call. What the fuck do we do now?”

“Let’s get back, Brad. I wanna take a closer look at that poor young man who’s sliced from ear to ear.”

“But what about down there in that concrete hole in the ground? Shouldn’t we check that out?”

“The culvert? Good idea. But be quick.”

She panics. She has no choice but to try and make herself invisible. But how exactly? The tubular culvert is partially filled with fluid. Rancid, toxic fluid that contains God knows what. Instant cancer is what she’s breathing. And now she’s got to soak in it? She hears footsteps outside the tube. No choice. Lays herself out, face-first down into the filthy water, hopes for the best.

A
few minutes later a man dressed in plain clothes entered through the front door. When one of the uniformed officers identified me as the man who’d been with Detective Cattivo in the gunroom when he shot himself, Plain Clothes approached me.

“I’m Senior Homicide Detective Nick Miller,” he said, holding out his right hand. “The deceased worked with me at the APD. You’re the writer? The movie guy? I understand you were with him when the, ahhhh, accident occurred.”

Why isn’t Carl in charge of the investigation? Maybe Carl, as John’s partner, is too close to the victim. Maybe the situation is too emotional for him. Maybe his judgment would be called into question, especially if he was sleeping with the deceased’s wife…

I took Miller’s hand, shook it. The hand was cold but strong.

“Yes,” I said. “I was there. In the room. Unfortunately. He insisted on demonstrating.”

“Demonstrating a suicide?”

“Eating his piece. He was insistent, Detective. It was his idea, his gun, his bullet. Hell could I do?”

He took back his hand, shoved both hands into the pockets on his professionally cleaned and pressed khaki trousers. Looking down, his eye caught something.

“You’ve got some blood on your wrist,” he said. “Lots of blood inside a brain. It tends to spatter. Ever see the Zapruder Film… JFK’s murder?”

I swallowed something cold and bitter, released my crutch, raised up my hand. On the wrist, several specs of blood. How in God’s name was he able to see it? I guess he was trained to notice such things. Trained to spot even minute traces of blood.

He got the attention of one of the forensics people working inside the gunroom. A woman. He asked her to step out and take a picture of my wrist, which she did. He then gave her my name, which she jotted down in a notebook before making her way back into the room.

“Look,” he went on, looking downwards, taking notice of my foot, “I’m going to take a decent look at the deceased before they ship him out. You can either come along or wait right here for me.”

“Which would you prefer?” I said, my mouth still dry and pasty from frayed nerves.

“You gotta ask?” he said.

I followed him into the gunroom.

Miller was a tall guy. Thin and wiry, like a life-long competitive runner. Maybe even a marathoner. I pegged him for his mid-fifties. Getting on in cop years anyway. He had all his hair, but it was cut Marine Corps short, and what I took to once be sandy blond had by now morphed into an almost snow white gray. His face was narrow, if not concave at the cheeks, and shaved close. But then, I’m not too sure the fair-skinned Miller could grow a beard if he wanted to.

His baby blue summer-weight button-down was ironed and immaculate, as was his yellow necktie, which was knotted perfectly under his strong chin. His blazer was also lightweight and only when I looked for it, could I find his sidearm, which was nicely concealed by fabric that more than likely had been specially tailored to accommodate the piece.

I only point all this out because he struck me as the polar opposite of John Cattivo who, in life, was as obvious about his distaste for neatness as he was his love of guns and love/hatred for himself and his wife.

The same two forensics officers were still working on John. The young woman who’d taken a photo of my wrist was still snapping away at John’s head. When Miller walked in, she shot him a look and issued him a pleasant smile, as if they were two coworkers mingling around the water cooler. Funny how commonplace violent death is to some people who are in the business.

Miller didn’t start right in on examining his coworker. In fact, he didn’t give John’s shattered head a second look, as if the carnage that painted the wall and window behind him were just another aspect of the interior decorating, and a mundane aspect at that.

Instead he took some time to admire the impressive Cattivo firearms collection.

“I’m aware Cattivo was a gun nut,” he said contemplatively. “But I wasn’t aware to what extent. Christ, there’s gotta be three-hundred grand hanging on these walls.” Then, turning to face the dead detective. “And a whole lot of
Oops
spread out over that wall.” He smiled. “At least,
Oops
is your story. Isn’t that right, Mr. Forrester?”