Never the Crime

by Colin Conway

  “Who else was involved?” he asked quickly. “Captain Farrell?”

  “No,” Stone said.

  “Captain Hatcher?”

  “No. No one else.”

  “What about at city hall? The mayor’s chief of staff?”

  “No.” Stone shook his head. “The mayor got the letter and gave it to the chief. The chief asked me to check into it. That’s it.”

  That was never it, but he let the matter slide to the back burner.

  “Was there anything to the sexual assault allegation?” he asked Stone.

  “Honestly, I couldn’t tell. She was a little flaky. First, she said it was consensual, then she acted like maybe it wasn’t. It was confusing.”

  “What’s the report number?”

  Stone froze. “The…what?”

  “I’m assuming you wrote a report,” Clint said. “What’s the report number?”

  “I…I don’t have it.”

  “What’s wrong with you? You didn’t clear it One-David, did you?”

  “No, I wrote a report.”

  “Well, get the report number to me.” Clint glanced down at Meyer. His mind clicked on something. Sonya Meyer. Shelly Mason. Both had the initials S.M. Was this a coincidence? “The girl who wrote the letter,” he asked Stone. “What was her name?”

  “Bethany Rabe.”

  B.R., not S.M. So nothing there…wait!

  “Bethany Rabe committed suicide last week,” Clint said coldly, his jaw clenching. His car-side conversation with Captain Farrell rang in his ears now, and the missing pieces fell into place.

  “I know.” Stone look remorseful.

  Clint ground his teeth. “And Tyler Garrett responded to the scene.”

  Stone nodded, then gave the detective a questioning look. “How’d you know that?”

  “I’m a goddamn detective!” he snapped. “What do you know about the Rabe suicide?”

  “Just that it happened. You should talk to Ty. He’s the one following it up.”

  Ty, huh? You two are on a first name basis now? Clint looked hard at Stone, appraising him. Was this white bread son of a bitch in league with Garrett? Or in love with the man’s image like most of the department?

  Stone squirmed under Clint’s scrutiny. “What?” he asked.

  “Give me Shelley Mason’s contact information,” Clint demanded.

  Stone paused, then fumbled to remove his pocket notebook. He read off her phone number. “I promised I’d keep her name out of it,” he said, a pleading tone in his voice.

  “That was a stupid thing to say. We’re the police, not some newspaper.”

  Stone gaped at him, looking chagrined.

  Norton’s rookie approached with a roll of crime scene tape in her hands. Clint took a quick look at her nametag. J. Yang.

  He pointed. “Run the tape from here to there, Officer Yang.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice seemed less rattled than before.

  Clint watched while she attached one end of the crime scene tape and strung it across the front of the house. He didn’t need to monitor her work, but it gave him a chance to think. His mind was whirring. Garrett’s fingerprints were all over this. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had been Garrett that killed Sonya Meyer.

  But why?

  Clint shook off the question. Why was almost always the last answer an investigator got, if ever. But one idea already sprang to mind. Maybe Garrett had gone from the drug trade to some modern form of pimping. Clint didn’t know if his objective was money or blackmail material, but either one was a possibility. Or both.

  For now, he’d focus on the evidence. He’d comb the scene for the physical variety, but he would need to backtrack Stone’s investigation, too.

  Fucking Garrett! He wanted to leave this scene once it was secured and go interview Shelley Mason. He knew he could do a better job than whatever feeble attempt Stone managed. The temptation was strong, but he resisted. Mason wasn’t going anywhere.

  Then a thought struck him.

  Unless Garrett kills her, too.

  The man was capable of it, Clint knew. But why kill either of them? The detective let his mind tackle the question. Maybe Garrett was running these girls. One of them, maybe Meyer, decided she wanted out, and her death was Garrett’s answer. Or Garrett could be blackmailing the councilman…but if that was the case, why kill Meyer?

  He chewed on that. If the councilman submitted to the blackmail, that made Meyer dangerous. And expendable.

  Garrett didn’t leave loose ends dangling. The son of a bitch had been thorough twenty-one months ago, and he’d been careful since. There was no reason to believe he wouldn’t be again.

  Clint couldn’t be in two places at once. It was either the crime scene or Shelley Mason. And if Mason was somehow involved with Garrett, then she might be able to give him up.

  The detective tapped his pen on his notepad, thinking.

  Officer Yang tied off the crime scene tape, looking to him for approval.

  Clint nodded and she looked relieved.

  The crime scene or Mason?

  He glanced at the doorway that led to Meyer’s dead body. That was real, he reminded himself. She was dead, and someone killed her. Maybe it was Garrett. That was just as likely as Shelley Mason being involved with him, maybe more so. And you only got one shot at a crime scene. One shot to get it right. If Garrett killed Meyer, then this was the chance Clint had been waiting for. His best chance to bury Garrett.

  That decided it for him.

  At the same moment, a news van pulled up, stopping in the middle of the street, just outside the outer perimeter tape.

  “Get me some more cops,” Clint told Stone. “We need to secure the alley and keep these hyenas at bay.”

  “Will do,” Stone said, and trotted toward his car.

  “Mind the outer perimeter,” Clint said to Yang. “And absolutely no details to the media. Tell them nothing, got it?”

  Yang nodded. “Got it.” She headed back toward the yellow tape at the sidewalk.

  Clint stepped inside Sonya Meyer’s house, closing the door behind him. He ran his hand over his fresh haircut as he examined the scene.

  Shelley Mason would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 51

  He entered the house as before and called out, “Skunk, where you at?”

  When the man didn’t answer back, Tyler Garrett froze and listened. Something wasn’t right. The man had texted him to meet yet he wasn’t responding.

  Garrett pulled the Glock from the back of his pants and tucked it into his chest. He didn’t push it away from his body like they did in the movies. That was a sucker’s play, just asking for someone to reach out around a corner and try to take it away. Keeping the gun pulled tight to his body reduced the chance someone could take it from him and would require them to get close to do any harm. By that time, it would be too late for them.

  He moved slowly through the kitchen, past the restroom that still reeked of shit, the stairwell to the basement, and then into the living room.

  Skunk stood in the corner of the darkened room, his hands in his pockets. His yellow windbreaker stood out, but it was hard to see his features especially with the hood up over his head.

  “Hey, Skunk.”

  “Yo, T.”

  “What are you doing over there?”

  “Just chillin’. You know, lyin’ low, lyin’ low.” His words were slow and rhythmic.

  “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  Skunk didn’t reply.

  “Are you high?”

  Skunk chuckled. “Yeah, man. Maybe. A little.”

  “Step into the light.”

  He took a hesitant step forward. Garrett kept the gun pointed at his chest.

  “You gonna shoot me, T?” he asked, his voice still rhythmic.

  “Take your hands outta your pockets, buddy. Let me see what you’ve got in there.”

  He removed hi
s hands and opened them. When Skunk saw his palms, it was as if he was seeing them for the first time.

  Garrett lowered the gun. “You got me worried, man. What happened with the girl?”

  “She din’t lissen.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I tol’ her to keep her mouth shut, but she woon’t lissen.”

  Garrett tucked the gun into the back of his pants. “Why wasn’t she listening?”

  “I don’t know, T. I tol’ her what you tol’ me. That the cops was coming, and she need to keep her mouth shut.”

  It wasn’t exactly what he’d told Skunk, but it was close enough.

  “What happened when you told her that?”

  “She started lipping, man.”

  “Lipping?”

  “You know. Talking smack, talking big.”

  “The girl did that?”

  “Yeah,” Skunk said, his head bobbing several times as he nodded. “She was…a bitch.”

  “How old you think she was?”

  “Wha, man?”

  “Humor me.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Was she like eighteen or nineteen?”

  Skunk’s head bobbed. “Prolly. Yeah.”

  Garrett stepped to him. “So a young bitch was talking smack to you?”

  He slowly blinked. “Yeah.”

  Garett slapped him.

  The smaller man spun to the floor. He pushed the yellow hood from his head and got back to his feet.

  “The fuck, T?”

  “Get your head right, Skunk. This is important.”

  “Yeah, man. Okay.”

  “Tell me exactly what went down.”

  “Yeah, man, right, okay. The girl, she was unbelievable.”

  “Unbelievable?”

  “Yeah, you understand? She just yammered.”

  “Yammered?”

  “Like a little barky dog. Like a chihuahua. Yap, yap, yap. That’s what she sounded like. A little bitchy chihuahua.”

  “Right,” Garrett said.

  “Chihuahua,” Skunk said in a sing-song pattern.

  “Focus, man. What happened then?”

  Skunk’s head bobbed. “I tol her if she din’t stop talkin’, she’d end up dead. Jus like you tol me to say.”

  Garrett knew what happened then and he grimaced. “Tell me you didn’t kill her.”

  “You tol me to use my best judgment. You tol me to! The bitch wouldn’t stop, Garrett. She wouldn’t stop! I had to do something. She was gonna call the cops.”

  “Was she really?”

  Skunk stared at him.

  “Was she really!” Garrett yelled into his face.

  The smaller man in the yellow windbreaker flinched. After a moment, he shrugged. “I dunno.”

  Garrett closed his eyes and thought. He looked for every angle that it could come back on him.

  “I’m sorry, T.”

  When Garrett opened his eyes, he asked, “Where are the papers I gave you?”

  “What?”

  “The papers?” he asked with a snap of his fingers.

  Skunk reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, crumbled piece of paper. It was the photograph of Dennis Hahn. He handed it to Garrett.

  “Where’s the note? The one with my writing?”

  The smaller man shoved his hands back into his pants, then he tried the pockets of his jacket. Finally, he shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “Did you have it at her house?”

  “Yeah, man, that’s how I found her.”

  “But you’re not sure you had it when you got here?”

  “No.”

  “Could you have dropped it while you were at the house?”

  Skunk grew quiet as the thought.

  Garrett watched him think. Finally, he grew impatient and repeated, “Could you have dropped—”

  “Maybe, man, maybe. I dunno. It happened so fast.”

  Garrett snatched him then, yanking him by the jacket and turning him around. He shoved Skunk’s head into the wall, but the smaller man didn’t go down.

  Instead, he just stood there, staring ahead, trying to understand what had happened. Garrett shoved his face into the wall again, this time harder.

  Skunk lost consciousness then and began to collapse. Garrett snaked his right arm around the man’s neck, making sure his forearm remained on the throat. With his left hand, Garrett grabbed his right wrist and applied pressure to Skunk’s windpipe until he crushed it.

  He let him collapse to the ground then. Garrett stepped back as Skunk flailed about, gurgling on his own blood. When the smaller man finally fell silent, Garett nudged him with his foot. Skunk didn’t move.

  Now, he needed to find the note with his handwriting on it. It was a piece of evidence floating out there that pointed back to him.

  Garrett needed to go to Sonya Meyer’s house before someone found her.

  CHAPTER 52

  Officer Ray Zielinski wadded up the hamburger wrapper and pushed it into the paper bag. He’d just finished wolfing down two greasy burgers. It was “2 for $2 Tuesday” at the local fast food restaurant, and he’d taken advantage of the price. Brown-bagging it got old.

  He wiped off his fingers and checked the waiting calls on his MDC. The list appeared on the screen, and he frowned. There were more now than when he’d cleared the neighborhood dispute and hit the drive-through just a short time ago. Was he the only one taking calls today?

  Through the power of the MDC, he could check on the rest of his lazy platoon. In the old days, he had to keep it straight in his head where everyone was, but now the information was a button away.

  He couldn’t resist the temptation to run a quick unit status check on the entire team, and saw that everyone was tied up on calls, including a couple of units loaned south to secure a homicide scene. Now, no one was available and calls were stacking up.

  “That’s the sergeant’s problem,” Zielinski grumbled. “Not mine.” All he could do was take them one at a time.

  He scrolled down, looking at the call types and locations. If he was the only one free, then he decided he’d earned the right to call shop. His gaze flicked down the list, until it stopped suddenly on an address he knew.

  Agency Assist the call type read.

  He put himself en route to the call, knowing it was a bad idea. He even knew how IA would frame it. Two trips to Lyle Bunney’s house looked like a coincidence. Three times was definitely purposeful. How many other calls were available to him, but he chose this one?

  Zielinski didn’t care. He was tired of being pushed around. His exes, the strain of money problems, the constant worry about getting jammed up by complaints, the recent collision, the shit with Garrett…he was sick of it all. Besides, maybe he’d get a chance to apologize, or tell Lindsay Wagner to eat a bag of dicks. He didn’t know what he really wanted, except that he wasn’t going to let any of it stop him from doing his job.

  When he turned onto Lyle Bunney’s street, he spotted Lindsay Wagner’s car parked right in front of the house just like before. In keeping with the déjà vu theme, he pulled to the curb in the same spot he’d parked the two previous visits, several houses away. Then he exited his car and approached the social worker.

  Wagner recognized him from a ways off. He scowled and put his hands on his hips. “What are you doing here?”

  “You called the police,” Zielinski said. “I’m the police.”

  “I didn’t want you.”

  He stopped a couple of feet away from Wagner. Something was different, and he noticed it after a second. Wagner’s long, thick beard was braided, Viking style.

  Zielinski smirked. “This is the police department, not a buffet,” he said. “You get who you get.”

  “I don’t want you here,” Wagner said.

  “Everyone else is tied up. You get me, or you wait.”

  “How long?”

  Zielinski shrugged. “I’
m not a fortune teller. A while.”

  “That’s unacceptable,” Wagner said.

  “Unacceptable?” he bristled. “Where do you get off dictating how we—”

  A gunshot split the air, followed immediately by a bullet thunking into Wagner’s car.

  Wagner froze, his eyes widening.

  Zielinski drew his pistol instinctively, moving toward cover and pointing his gun in the direction of Lyle Bunney’s house, where the shot came from. “Get down!” he shouted at Wagner, reaching for his radio.

  Wagner stared at him, unmoving.

  Another shot rang out.

  Wagner’s eyes flared even wider in surprise, then slammed shut as he grimaced and howled in pain. His hands flew to his leg, and he crumpled to the ground.

  “Shit!” Zielinski yelled.

  Another shot slapped into the side of the car. Zielinski’s mind raced, even as everything slowed down. He remembered the .22 rifle inside Bunney’s house. It had been a bolt action, not a semi-auto. Bunney would have to work the bolt for every shot and find his target again.

  A shot buzzed over Zielinski’s head, causing him to duck in response. Then, moving in a crouch, he pointed his pistol at the house and fired. He aimed for the windows but didn’t worry about exactly where his shots landed. All he wanted was suppressing fire to buy him a few seconds.

  Wagner stared down at his own bloody leg. When Zielinski reached him, he holstered his Glock, grabbed the screaming man by the belt and his braided beard, and dragged him behind the car. As he cleared the edge of the car, and let go of Wagner, a bullet skipped past him, whistling off the pavement.

  Zielinski hunkered near the wheel of the car and drew his gun again. He slid his radio free and brought it up to his mouth.

  “Shots fired!” he called. “Baker one twenty-three, shots fired!”

  CHAPTER 53

  Detective Clint stood in the living room, watching impatiently while the crime scene tech meticulously measured and photographed the crime scene. He’d begun his own career as a tech, and overseeing their work was something he usually took pleasure in, if only because these men and women knew how to professionally and efficiently do their tasks. But today, he wanted the job finished, and the results completed, as unreasonable as he knew that time frame to be.