Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  “Charlie!” Kevin shouted from down the alleyway, just beyond the scope of the crime scene tape. He was waist-deep in a dumpster, next to a grimacing uniformed officer. Kevin’s hand was raised above his head, and he was holding something. Charlie’s heart sped up as it became clear what the tech held. “I think I found the murder weapon!”

  “You always did have the luck of the Irish.” Charlie exchanged an excited smile with Cynthia.

  If this was the murder weapon, Cynthia didn’t need to worry anymore. No matter what happened last night during her blackout, she wasn’t implicated in these deaths. It meant they could spill everything to Benton and the team, and it even simplified his and Cynthia’s relationship. Their marriage wasn’t necessary.

  He waved Kevin toward the van, forcing himself to patiently wait for the tech to deliver the evidence. Kevin carefully held it between his latex-protected fingertips, and was taking his damn time walking to Charlie. By the time he’d arrived, the task force had gathered, too.

  “Good job, Kevin,” Charlie said. Gilroy, Modena, and Benton leaned close, staring at the gun as Kevin held it aloft. “Teresa,” Charlie said, “get an evidence bag, please.”

  The tech reached into the back of the van and pulled out a large, clear plastic ziplock evidence bag. She opened its top and held it out to Kevin, who dropped the handgun inside. Charlie took the bag, peering at it through the clear plastic. He sniffed.

  “It’s been discharged recently,” he said. Cynthia’s eyes were closed, and he suspected she was saying a little prayer of thanks.

  Teresa hurried over to the van, and came back with the camera. Her hands trembled as she handed it to Kevin. Charlie didn’t blame her. This multiple murder case, this massacre, was about to be busted wide open. The murder weapon would be traced through the ATF and would potentially tell them who’d bought it, and from whom. The serial number, plus any potential prints, could pinpoint exactly who’d wielded it.

  After photographs were taken, and the camera was stored back in the van, Kevin and Teresa followed the ambulances back to the morgue. Now that the bodies were gone, so were the crowds and chaos of earlier. Uniformed officers guarded the scene, standing alone, looking bored as they stood at the crime scene tape perimeter.

  “Let’s hope the ATF can match the gun to its owner,” Benton said. “Serial number was clear enough.” He waved Modena closer. “Have them put a rush on tracking the buyer’s ID. Six dead should bump us to the front of the line.”

  Cynthia seemed happy enough, but Charlie saw her hesitancy. “A Coppola contract killer wouldn’t use a traceable gun for a hit unless they wanted you to know who owned it. And a Glock? No way. They pride themselves on using HKs. Serial number or not, it’s unlikely that gun tells us anything they don’t want us to know.”

  “Or they weren’t killed by a Coppola contract killer,” Gilroy said. “We don’t even know if the gun is related to these kills. It could have been in the dumpster before, or even after, these vics were shot.”

  Modena vibrated with checked tension. “Even if we catch the killer today, it doesn’t change that these witnesses were promised protection. They’re dead. It will have lasting effects on our ability to recruit other snitches.”

  Cynthia nodded. “Newly enrolled WITSEC witnesses, snatched and grabbed, and then executed and left for maximum media coverage. We have the message. But who’s the message for?”

  “And who’s the messenger?” Benton said. “I think we need a list of witnesses the FBI are grooming. See if they’re somehow connected with these kills. Charlie, those crowd photos would be very helpful right about now. As soon as you can get them to us, please.” Charlie nodded.

  “You know Dante Coppola is probably involved,” Modena said.

  “He’s in federal prison in Pensacola, Florida,” Gilroy said. “He doesn’t even have phone rights.”

  “And hard to see Coppola’s motive, here,” Cynthia said. “These vics snitched just like he did.”

  “I’ve heard rumors he’s married,” Modena said. “Living the good life in Club Fed.” Rumors only, because Modena wasn’t officially privy to Coppola case files anymore. Not after he’d become romantically involved with Coppola’s ex-wife.

  “Yeah. Angelina Modelli,” Benton said. “Records suggest they’re hot and heavy. We’re building a case against her, too, and she’s not covered by Coppola’s immunity deal.” Charlie knew who they were talking about only because he’d been brought into the case at the very end when asked to replace their forensic expert at trial.

  “I’d feel sorry for them if they weren’t mass murderers,” Cynthia said. “She’s loved Coppola forever, had to live through his marriage to someone else, and now that she’s got him hook, line, and sinker, the bureau is about to swoop in and separate them again.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for them.” Modena looked as if he’d bit into something bitter.

  “Separate them?” Charlie said. “Coppola is in jail, right?”

  “Conjugal rights,” Cynthia said, avoiding his gaze. “Modelli is a frequent visitor of Coppola’s at Club Fed in Florida.”

  “Charlie,” Benton said. “I have to brief the acting lieutenant, and the special agent in charge. If you want me, call me. I’ll be around. We need those crowd shots.”

  “I’ll text Kevin when I get in the car,” Charlie said. “Do you mind if I grab Cynthia for a quick lunch? We haven’t eaten today.” Benton nodded, and then left with Gilroy and Modena. The agents fell into deep conversation, discussing the case, leaving him and Cynthia alone to duck under the crime scene tape and head toward Charlie’s car.

  “It’s a miracle,” she whispered, glancing behind them. “The murder weapon. You said to wait until we see what the crime scene turns up, and you were right, but I didn’t even dare to hope we’d find the murder weapon.” Charlie didn’t want to ruin her mood, and he didn’t quite know how to explain himself, so he waited, hoping the right words would come to him.

  “Let’s grab some lunch.” He was starving.

  “Lunch?” Cynthia pressed her palm to her belly. “How can you think of food at a time like this?” Charlie led her past the news people packing their equipment and loading it into their vans. He had to get Cynthia out of there so he could think, and explain. Things were happening fast.

  “Listen,” he said, “I can’t do anything until the bodies are at the morgue, and I have about a half an hour before they’ll be expecting me at the hospital for a ten-hour shift. I need the food.” He took out his car’s automatic key and unlocked the door. He opened the passenger side door for her and waited until she’d settled inside before leaning toward her, his forearm on the roof. “How do you want to walk back this whole marriage thing? We should say you can’t marry a man willing to propose at a crime scene.”

  She laughed, took off his MIT ring, and slapped it on his outstretched palm. If she’d kept her eyes on that ring a beat or two longer than necessary, or didn’t retract her hand immediately, he blamed it on her exhaustion. He suppressed his urge to mourn, because the ring never belonged on her finger. It was too big and ungainly. Cynthia wore delicate jewelry, if at all. She deserved his grandmother’s emerald—not that he’d be slipping a ring back on her finger any time soon. He had news. Not good news, and he wasn’t sure how to break it to her, though he was positive withholding this particular bombshell was wrong, maybe even impossible. She had to know, if only to be safe.

  When he slid behind the wheel, he reached for his phone in the console and texted Kevin, requesting the crowd photos to immediately be forwarded to the task force, and then put the phone back down. He scanned the street, saw no one watching them, and then turned toward Cynthia. Sun streamed in from her side window and transformed her normally straight blond hair into burnished curls of gold: a halo effect. It was stunning. She was stunning.

  “You’re spectacular, Cynthia.” The words
just popped out of his mouth, and he wasn’t sure who was more surprised—him or her.

  She frowned. “I look like shit. I’m exhausted, bloated, and I think my breath smells.” She cupped her hand and breathed in it. He knew what she was smelling. Peppermint. Because that’s what she’d tasted like when he’d kissed her after his proposal.

  “Cynthia…” Damn, he just had to come out and say it. “The gun found at the crime scene is mine.”

  Cynthia’s eyes widened. She blanched, but otherwise took it well.

  “Combined with the evidence in my trunk,” he said, “I believe someone is framing me for these murders. You need to be as far away from me as possible. Physically, and on paper. I know you won’t agree to protective custody, but maybe we should bring Benton in on this, if only to add another level of security around you. I can’t help thinking you’re being used. They assaulted you and left you with six dead bodies. Somehow, you’re playing a role in the killer’s scheme.”

  The resulting silence in the car was complete, and seemed to have a weight to it, pressing down on him. He feared talking simply to fill it, so he remained silent, too, and focused on the sounds he made as he shifted in his seat, then tapped his thumb against the leather-bound steering wheel. Cynthia swallowed hard, and her chest rose and fell repeatedly, as if she were having a hard time breathing. Her previously pale cheeks flushed red, and she reached out, grabbed his hand on the steering wheel, and squeezed it tightly.

  In the blink of an eye, she’d pulled his MIT ring from his finger and slipped it onto her left ring finger. Cynthia faced forward, staring out the front windshield.

  “After long and deliberative consideration, Charlie Foulkes, I’ve decided to accept your proposal of marriage.” She buckled in, looking as if she was in a daze, then lifted his iPhone out of the console between the two seats, typed in his passcode—her birthday—and opened the Google Maps app.

  The animatronic voice resonated from his iPhone’s speaker. “Starting route…”

  He assumed she’d typed in a restaurant’s address, that she’d decided where she wanted to eat for lunch, but Charlie wasn’t hungry anymore. For the first time in ten years, he had no idea what he could do to save himself, and it sickened him.

  But if Cynthia was hungry, he’d feed her.

  “Where’re we going?” he said, his voice sounding strained even to his ears.

  Cynthia took a steadying breath. “The nearest justice of the peace.”

  Chapter Five

  “And before you argue,” Cynthia said, “I know as well as you do that once the West Virginia warehouse receives Modena’s request to trace your gun, he’ll hear back—”

  “He won’t.” Charlie shifted into gear and pulled into traffic.

  “—within a day. This is the ATF. Not the DMV.”

  “Even if they found the paperwork on my Glock—which they won’t—”

  “Of course they will!” She felt a panic attack coming on. Her heart was racing, and she was breaking out into a sweat. It was even becoming hard to form words. “I’m either having a stroke or a heart attack.” She rubbed her chest. The only common denominator between the crime scene and Charlie was her. Maybe she hadn’t been at the gym when that “blonde” appeared in his driveway. They’d yet to follow up on that, and she had been videotaped blocks from the scene with her recently discharged gun in hand. “By the time your gun is traced—”

  “I bought it ten years ago.” He took a sharp right, forcing her to steady herself with a palm on the dashboard. “At a Walmart that has since closed. It can’t be traced back to me.” His confidence seemed unreasonable, since the ATF agents were rock stars and finding records was their jam.

  “By law, Charlie, these records must be kept, so they’ll find them.” Then Charlie would be called in by Benton for questioning, maybe arrested. “If you bought the gun, especially from a store, there’ll be a record of the purchase—forms, maybe even a logged background check.”

  Charlie shrugged, slowing the car as they approached a red light. “You’d think, right?”

  When the light turned green, he sped up and went through the intersection. All calm and collected. Whereas Cynthia’s stomach felt like it was bursting with butterflies, Charlie was…shrugging off the ATF. She envied him his delusion. The man had always been an apple to her orange, and today was a prime example. As a student of behavior and interpreting the vagaries of the human mind, Cynthia’s tools were statistics and, more often than not, gut instinct and opinion. Charlie’s was data. So, what was she missing?

  “This is me crying uncle,” she said. “Tell me.” He’d said he bought it at Walmart, so the gun wasn’t purchased through private sale or a gun show. It was illegal to have a computerized national weapons register, or any register that could be used to create a national registry, but forms were mandatory. They just had to be on paper. “What don’t I know?”

  “We don’t have that kind of time.” His cheek kicked up, and his eyes crinkled with a smile.

  She felt incapable of humor. “Charlie, even with its antiquated search process, the ATF can trace a weapon within twenty-four hours.”

  “The Walmart closed,” he said, “and the stored records were destroyed in a fire.”

  Cynthia sighed with relief. “Way to bury the lead, but it sounds sketchy, and any prosecutor will say so in court.”

  Google Maps told Charlie to turn onto the freeway. “Stop looking so unhappy,” he said. “The news could have been worse.” He chucked her under the chin, making her feel like the naïve middle schooler she’d been when they first met. Back then, her biggest worries were math grades, and that she’d be flat-chested for life. “Relax,” he whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was for her benefit or his, because Charlie seemed less than relaxed. “Whoever is framing me didn’t do their due diligence. That’s good.”

  “Are you positive it’s your gun?” Hope tickled the edges of her despair.

  “It my gun.” He grimaced. “The serial number is mine, and Cynthia?” He arched a brow, his derision on display. “Really? You think I don’t know my own gun?”

  “But… How many people have your gun safe code?” It was her birthdate, just like his phone code.

  “You and me, and it wasn’t broken into. Whoever took the gun had the code.” He kept his eyes on the road and his expression blank, but he had to be thinking it. He had to be thinking what she was thinking.

  “Why would I steal your gun?” she said, in a small voice. “Or put that stuff in your trunk?” None of it made any sense.

  “Stop it,” he said. “We’ve been through this.”

  “We’re both thinking it. We need to contact the gym.”

  “Of course, but you didn’t do this.” He squeezed the steering wheel until his forearms bulged.

  She felt like a triggered jack-in-the-box. “How do you know?”

  “Because you’d never hurt me.” He said it quietly, clearly, and she heard the truth of his words. She’d never hurt him. “Your memory will return,” he said, “and then you’ll see. Until then, just…trust me, Cynthia. Okay?”

  “I do trust you.” But could she trust herself?

  “You didn’t break into my house and steal from me. You didn’t plant anything. But someone did, and we need to find them.” He glanced at her. “We’ll call the gym. Between their records and your recollection of eating a falafel outside the precinct, you couldn’t have been the one in my driveway.”

  “I’ll call them now,” she said, pulling her phone from her suit jacket.

  “And Cynthia?” He kept his eyes on the road. “I can fight the whole of the BPD, the FBI, and all the alphabet agencies, but I can’t fight you, too. So, work with me here.” He looked exhausted as he turned the car, following Google Map’s prodding down unfamiliar roads.

  “It looks sketchy. That’s all I’m saying.” She
sank deeper into her seat.

  “It’s not all bad news. My gun might give us a fingerprint, or maybe whoever stole it contaminated it with their DNA,” he said. “Look on the bright side.”

  “I’m afraid for you, Charlie.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. She held on, squeezing back.

  “We’ll stay at my house, or your house, or we can just take turns, because of the cat. The killer is still out there.” Fear tugged at his features. “I’m not giving him another shot at you.”

  “I’m still alive.” That was a chilling clue. “Why’d the killer allow me to live? To walk away? Maybe you’re right, Charlie. Maybe the killer is using me.”

  Google Maps directed them to take a right at the next block. He stopped for a red light and met her gaze as they waited for it to change. When the car’s silence stretched out, and his expression gave nothing away, she wondered if she should just tell him. Everything. How she felt about him, what she wanted from him, what she feared, and all the crazy things that were suddenly on the table if it meant keeping Charlie safe. The only thing stopping her from confessing was the fear Charlie wouldn’t welcome it. This was Charlie, after all. Uncomfortable with big emotions. Didn’t like scenes. Didn’t understand women. Staying silent seemed safer.

  “Terrance would be horrified.” He tucked a lock of unruly hair behind her ear.

  She nodded. “He never really grew out of the whole ‘girl germs’ phase.”

  “Oh, yes he did.” Charlie chuckled, glancing at the streetlight, seeing that it was still red. “We were college kids. We liked ‘girl germs.’ Terrance treated you like you were spun glass, and didn’t act around you like he’d acted around…just about everyone else. Cynthia, your brother thought you walked on water. We both did.” The light changed, he put the turn signal on, and soon they were down the street, parking at the curb outside a small white Cape Cod-style house sporting a shingle on the lawn advertising the JP’s services.