by Tim Garvin
Later he would wonder: Did he even consider not taking them? He had not. The section of his nature that made the extravagant swan dive off the water tower now started him across the canal. Except he was barefoot, so he turned and trotted back to the tent and rummaged out his tennis shoes, and also—good thinking—his trusty Ka-Bar. He knew military straps and buckles, but right now needed shortcuts, all and any.
A Jiggle of
Crossed Beams
The headlights of a car emerged from the oak lane and drove to the edge of the lot in a hot gleam. When the lights doused, Randall’s flashlight revealed a civilian sedan. A short heavy-bottomed man got out, set a leather bag beside his feet, opened an umbrella, then started toward them.
Seb spoke to Randall. “I should have brought that bug spray, if I was thinking. You mind getting it? Car door.” Randall and the wide man passed on the grass.
Seb said, “Randall’s getting you some bug spray.”
The man’s round face opened. “That’s a good idea.” He set down his medical kit, found a pair of gloves, and slid them on.
Seb said, “You got here fast.”
“I was on the way home when I got the call.” He closed his umbrella and played his flashlight over the corpse. “That’s Leo Sackler, as was reported to me. The plot does thicken.” He was gray-haired, in his sixties, and when he bounced his head, his cheeks flounced like satchels, and his neck accordioned.
“Randall couldn’t reach him for a pulse, but he touched the face and said it was cold.”
“Oh, he’s dead. You don’t hang on a rope with your eyes open and tongue out unless you’re dead. Here’s a poem: They told me, Francis Hinsley, they told me you were hung. With red protruding eyeballs and black protruding tongue. Evelyn Waugh. I have finally found occasion for it. But perhaps you deplore banter at a death scene.”
“So far it’s not banter. Banter takes two.”
The coroner brushed Seb’s face with his light. “Well put, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“My wife wants to come sing with you. She’s a contralto. With major pipes. She doesn’t have PTSD though, unless I gave it to her. Do you ever use ringers?”
“We haven’t, but it’s something to think about.”
“She’d blow your socks off. She was a ringer back home at the Hartford Episcopal choir, also the African Episcopal. Why’d I say back home? This is home.” The coroner, Walt Carney, was one of the many relocaters from the north that had flooded Swann County in the last decade for the weather and prices.
Randall returned with the bug spray and sprayed Carney’s proffered ankles. Another cruiser entered the lot, and a tall middle-aged sheriff’s officer got out. He was slender and dark, his stride a mix of rolling elegance and discipline.
Randall said, “This is Lieutenant Fernando, my shift commander.”
“I know Jose,” said Seb.
Fernando said, “You got a murder?”
Seb said, “We’re just starting. All I need is Randall. The investigation squad’s on the way.”
Fernando appraised Randall. “Tape it and keep it clear. The press will be descending. Doug Baker has been notified.”
“Doug Baker …”
“The public information officer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fernando played his flashlight onto the plastic-wrapped trees. “That’s your plastic?”
“Yes, sir. The—”
“I’ll tell the sheriff we need stakes.”
Randall slumped his gratitude.
Fernando said, “I interviewed that Peener guy at the hospital, Seb.”
“How is he?”
“The doctor said he’s okay. But he’s going to file a complaint.”
“It was by the book, Jose. The bartender just happened to open the door.” To Randall and Carney, who were listening intently: “I got in a fight arresting a guy.” To Fernando: “Kate got the testimony. So that’s the same bartender backing me up twice. Bad, but there it is. Oh, well.”
Fernando said, “I talked to the sheriff, and he instructed me to notify the SBI.”
“Is he putting me in the courthouse?”
“He didn’t say. I talked to him before this murder.” Fernando looked back to the corpse in the well. “Our deceased here has got a daughter over in Amboise and a son in prison. The daughter works at the town hall. The wife remarried long ago. I’m heading over to notify the daughter right now. If you want to talk to her tomorrow, I’ll let her know.”
“Tell her I’ll get to her sometime before noon. Provided I’m still on the case. Text me her number, will you?” He thought of Mia and their coming meeting. The paper wouldn’t have anything yet about the fight or complaint. It would soon though, all about the cop with serial brutalities. Her green eyes had gazed in a straight way.
Fernando said, “I’ll leave you guys to it. Update me on the half hour, Randall.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fernando spoke to Seb again. “You don’t need another patrol for the press? I expect you’ll get the satellite vans out here.”
Seb said, “Randall looks big enough to handle them.”
Which earned more Randall gratitude.
As Fernando walked back to his cruiser, Carney said, “That lieutenant sings with you, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” said Seb.
“Has he got that bell note, that mariachi bell note, you know what I mean?”
“I do know, and he does.”
“You don’t look like you got in a fight.”
Randall said, “That’s what I was thinking.”
Seb calmed off a pulse of battle joy. He said, “It wasn’t much. The poor guy went headfirst into a door and got hurt.”
There was a polite silence.
Carney said, “What’s the weather going to do?”
“Clear the rest of the night.”
Two more sets of headlights entered the lot as Fernando’s cruiser pulled out, and an ambulance and sedan parked next to Carney’s car. Two blue-shirted technicians emerged from the ambulance, and a woman stepped out of the sedan. She opened her trunk, hung two bulky SLR cameras from her neck, and lifted out her camera bag.
Seb said to Randall, “Looks like you’ve got bug spray duty. After that, let’s tape it off.” As the three newcomers approached, Seb said to the men, “You guys hang out in your van, if you will.”
The two ambulance guys said they would and turned back. The woman waved her flashlight across the corpse. She said, “Is that an accident?”
Seb said, “I’m investigating.”
She set her bag down and began to check camera settings, then startled back as Randall crouched at her side and began to spray. “What the hell, man!”
Randall said, “Bug spray. High grass.”
“Well, ask, my goodness. I don’t do deet, and that’s deet, I bet.”
Seb said, “Might be better than two hundred chigger bites. Detective Barb Addario, meet Deputy Randall Garland.”
Barb said, “Well, spray me, Randall. But next time use your words.”
“I apologize.” She presented her ankles one at a time to be sprayed. She was a short, black-haired woman, midthirties, athletically built, a bulky awkward-looking pistol fastened to her belt.
Seb lifted the stepladder and set it aside. Then he and Barb carefully peeled up the plastic and handed it to Randall. Seb inspected the newly uncovered earth. It was wet, heavily rained on, hardly different in appearance than the exposed side. It was barren of footprints.
Barb began taking flash pictures, depositing numbered yellow markers as she worked. She said, “Seb, hit his face with your flashlight so I can get focus. So what do we think? Murder, suicide, or accident? Looks like an accident. With his arm that way.”
Carney said, “That’s what I halfway conc
lude.”
Seb said, “I have some doubts.”
Barb lowered her camera. She and Carney waited. Seb said, “That rope is tied off short here on the ladder.”
Barb began shooting again, her flash strobing the corpse like a funhouse tableau.
Seb said, “Suicide, you don’t put a rope around your armpit. And an accident means he got tangled in a lasso.” Seb beamed his light on the unattached bucket. “The rope went to that bucket, don’t you think? Then somehow he got hung in it.”
Barb said, “He could have been pulling himself up the ladder, kind of a helper rope. Probably not.”
Seb said, “It’s too short for a safety rope.”
Carney said, “Maybe he was getting it around his waist—as a safety rope—and he fell in.”
“You wouldn’t tie a safety rope off that short. You loop it and feed yourself down.”
“You would. Maybe he wouldn’t.”
Barb said, “Oh, boy. Criminal investigation in action.” She was working the perimeter of the hole, dropping markers, shooting, stepping, shooting, stepping.
Seb said, “I’m wondering why he didn’t start swinging and get back on the ladder. With that rope under his arm, he wouldn’t have been unconscious right away, would he?”
Carney said, “He might have panicked and run out of breath. Or out of blood to his brain. That rope’s hardly a quarter inch.”
“Will the autopsy show he fell?”
“It might, if his neck is broken. But it might not. He could have fallen by stages, grabbing the ladder and whatnot.”
“In that case, he would have started swinging, wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe he started to fall and tried to grab the top of the ladder and bam, six feet straight down. Even if it didn’t break his neck, it might have knocked him out.”
Seb said, “You want me to conclude accident, don’t you? I’m starting to think you killed him.”
“Now that’s some good banter,” said Carney.
Barb said, “I’m done up here.” She let her cameras hang and switched on her flashlight. “This is so interesting. We have no idea what happened, but pretty soon we’ll have a theory. And it could be complete bullshit since we don’t have a time machine.”
Carney said, “The commission is way too cheap for a time machine.” His flashlight swung to collect their smiles. At the last county commissioners meeting, Carney had lobbied for one of the new CT autopsy scanners, proposing a regional death investigation center, a moneymaker, but the commissioners had declined, resulting in unaccustomed tension when Carney lamented the range of their imaginations.
Barb said, “This right here is exactly why innocent people go to jail. We get a theory and stick to it. They better not call me, because I’ll testify everybody was so mystified a detective accused the coroner.” She too moved her light to collect smiles.
Another car entered the lot. As it parked, the lights doused, and the door swung open before the car stopped moving. Marty Jerrold, a short blocky man in his early forties emerged in a yellow T-shirt, shrugged into his weapon rig, then snatched a plaid sport coat from the car seat and thrust into it as he approached. He wore his brown hair close-cropped. His belt ran under his round stomach like a sling. He switched on his flashlight, brushed the beam over the three figures at the well mouth, then paced around until his beam illuminated the death mask. He said, “What happened? Did he fall?”
Barb said, “That’s just what we’ve been discussing. Chime in, Marty. Did he fall, make a bad job of suicide, or did someone hang him? Start detecting.”
Marty threw his hands wide, a gesture of affable drama. He said, “Who caught the case? Seb, right?”
“I’m on call, so I caught it.”
“Goddamn. My section, and you catch a famous whodunit. You got my case. I hope you’re satisfied.”
Seb gave the impression of thought, then nodded. “I am satisfied.”
Marty played his beam over the corpse. “I’m voting for accident. That’s a selfie stick. You find a phone?”
Seb said, “Not yet. Randall’s doing a grid search. It might be in the house.” He went over their discussion—a safety rope, a slip and entanglement, the problem of the ladder being available and not used.
Marty said, “Unless his neck is broken. Which I vote it is. Not because I don’t want you to have a career-builder in your second year. I’m just detecting.”
Seb had spent only a year in patrol before being promoted to detective corporal. His early promotion had raised eyebrows in the department, and a few hackles.
Marty said, “There’s a shitload of murder motive though. This dude has got major money.”
“Had,” said Barb.
Another car entered the lot. Two men emerged and approached, following flashlight beams.
Marty said, “We beat the brass, so good start anyway.”
Lieutenant Stinson, the taller of the two men, played his light over the corpse. He was in his forties and wore a plain brown shirt with stinson stenciled over the pocket. Sergeant Morris, younger, shorter, and wider, wore an identical shirt stenciled with morris.
Marty said, “Did you guys have to forfeit?”
Sergeant Morris said, “The league let our teammates roll the last few frames. It’s going to screw up my average though.”
Stinson said, “Where are we, Seb?”
Seb restated their conclusions, and lack of them, plus the unfound phone.
Stinson said, “Here’s how we go—Seb, you’re the lead, so you get to boss these guys around on your first murder. Can you do that?”
“I can.”
Marty said, “He’ll be enthusiastic.”
Stinson said, “I suggest somebody for the phone records, somebody for the bank and lawyers, somebody for the prison, somebody for known associates, somebody for the canvass.”
Marty said, “That’s more somebodies than we got.”
Stinson said, “You guys are working for Seb, okay?”
“Sure,” said Barb.
Marty said, “Fine.”
Stinson said, “I talked to the sheriff about Peener, Seb. And just so you know ...”
Seb said, “Fernando told me. I’m going to be investigated.”
“Yes, you are. I recommended courthouse duty, but the sheriff said leave you on this murder.”
Barb said, “What’s this?”
Marty said, “Investigated for what?”
Seb said, “I got in a fight, and a guy got hurt.” He briefed them, the bar fight, the alley fight, the door, Handley twice.
Barb said, “Well, that sucks.”
Marty said, “I need to hear more about this fight.”
Stinson said, “You’re finished with the photos, Barb?” When she nodded, he said, “Let’s get him out of there. Can we, doc?”
Carney said, “I been thinking that over, and here’s my recommendation. One guy—I’m thinking Deputy Randall—pulls him straight up out of the hole, very gently, by the rope. Barb videos to make a record. Otherwise, you have to go down and stamp all over everything down there.”
Randall, who had heard his name, approached. “It’s taped. I can pull him up, no sweat.”
They spread a sheet of plastic, and, while Barb videoed with the on-camera LED, Randall pulled the body smoothly from the well.
It was the corpse of a tall rangy black man, narrow shouldered and light framed, in a sodden mud-stained white T-shirt and baggy jeans. His face was long and age-creased. His dark tongue bulged between perfect false teeth. His hair was thick, like a crest of dirty foam. Carney knelt in the sodden earth, stroked the eyelids across the swollen eyes. He severed the rope with a scalpel and arranged the cut section alongside the frozen arm. A faint smell of feces became evident. As Carney bagged the hands, he said, “I’m guessing eight to ten hours, by rigor
and temperature. Let’s get him in the shop, and I’ll be more certain.”
Barb said, “If it’s a murder, oh boy.”
Carney said, “That’s what I told Seb, the plot does thicken.”
Seb held his breath against the feces odor, knelt, and patted the jeans. He removed a ring of four keys, zipped them into a clear evidence bag. There was no phone.
Stinson gestured for the blue-shirted ambulance techs. They approached with a body bag, laid it beside the corpse, and unzipped it.
Randall handed one of the men the bug spray. While they sprayed their ankles, he glanced apprehensively through his assembled superiors, hesitated, then said, “Doc, why not put his tongue back in his mouth before they close him up?”
Carney raised his eyes from the corpse to gaze attentively at Randall. Then he nodded. “Why not.” He removed a wooden spatula from his kit, knelt, and prodded the tongue back into the mouth. He closed the jaw, held it for a moment. When he released, the mouth opened, but the tongue stayed put. He exchanged glances with Randall, who nodded his thanks. They watched the medical techs lift the corpse onto the bag, then begin tucking the feet, shoulders, and head inside.
Seb looked at Randall. “He was a decent guy, was he?”
Randall said, “I don’t know if he was. He was to me. You think someone killed him?”
“I’m wondering.”
Carney said, “You think he was digging for something?”
“Maybe treasure,” said Barb. She videoed the zipping up of the corpse and turned off the camera. Inky blackness closed around them, and all seven switched on flashlights. A jiggle of crossed beams followed the paramedics and their long black burden to the ambulance.
Seb said, “Everybody heard about the chopper crash?”
Stinger
The case on the right side was bashed in and crudded with sand where the initial impact had been, but the other case was perfect, sitting a foot out of the water. Several of the plastic missile beds between the cases were empty, but three missiles remained, buckled into place. Cody cut away the nylon straps of the good case, hauled it free, and shoulder-carried it across the creek to the sand. He flipped the buckles and opened it, and there they were, new-looking and fine, a gripstock, launch tube, and battery pack for the fim-92, the man-portable surface-to-air-missile known as a Stinger. He closed the case and secured the buckles, then trotted to his boat and in five fast heaves grunted it across the sand and into the water. He tossed the flytrap pillowcases between the seats, then stuffed the clothes and food into the sleeping bag and crammed it and the tent into the bow. He toted the launcher case across the sand and laid it down sideways in front of the driver’s seat.
