by Gerry Boyle
“She had a knife,” he said.
“That girl?”
“Yeah. Looked like she took it from the kitchen drawer.”
“She pulled it on you?”
“In a half-hearted sort of way. She wanted me to shoot her.”
“What did you do?”
“Took it off her. I searched her but didn’t feel the razor blade.”
“Hard to pick up something like that in a heavy sweatshirt,” Kat said.
Brandon considered it. “Should have. Getting rusty already.” He drank more, the ale seeping into his head.
Kat waited, then asked the question.
“You tell South Portland PD about the knife?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She didn’t need to go to jail, have a felony on her record. Never get into college. She was just upset because her friend died. Got all melodramatic. Any Old Port drunk is more of a threat.”
“Not your call, Blake. D.A. can figure that out.”
“Yeah, well, I already made it,” Brandon said. It sounded belligerent, insubordinate, with his senior partner.
“Save the attitude,” Kat said.
There was an awkward silence, then the faint sound of a boat motor in the distance. An off-shore lobster boat headed out from the Portland side, Brandon thought.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay. But one last bit of advice.”
Brandon waited.
“I know you’re hurting. But don’t take it out on the people who are trying to help. Like Mia.”
Kat stood.
Brandon looked at the half-full beer in his hand, put it down on the galley table.
“Something I didn’t tell you,” he said.
Kat took the last swallow of coffee, put the mug on the table beside the beer. Looked at him and waited, hand on her belt.
“The kid. Amanda. Rawlings’ friend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She said he had ‘stuff.’ Some sort of baggage he was carrying.”
“Enough to want to die for?” Kat said.
“That’s what I asked her. She said he wouldn’t want to die because he loved her.”
“Nothing else about this so-called stuff?”
Brandon shook his head. “No.”
“AG investigators will try to recreate his last twenty-four hours. They’ll talk to this girl, his friends, his parents, siblings, whatever. If there was stuff there, it’ll come out.”
“Listen to you, Ms. Glass Half Full,” Brandon said.
“You can come to me with any of it, any time. Day, night, whatever. Don’t keep it inside, Brandon. It’ll eat you up.”
And with a last pat on his shoulder, Kat was through the hatchway, out onto the stern deck, and gone.
Brandon sat for a moment, considered the beer, picked it up and finished it in two swallows. He put the can down, looked over at the writing table, his laptop closed on top of it. Like a magnet it pulled him across the cabin. He flipped it open, waited for the internet to load. He opened the news pages. Portland. Bangor. Headlines barking at him: Investigation of Fatal Police Shooting Continues…Victim’s Family Charges Cover-up…Portland Police Mum on Shooting…Police Critics Demand Answers…Rawlings Known for Creativity, Humor…Blake’s Past Marred by Violence...
And this from Estusa’s Mainefeed website, posted at 9:54 p.m. Body Camera Off, Victim’s Video Card Missing in Police Shooting
“Shit,” Brandon said. Standing over the laptop he read on.
Sources close to the investigation said Brandon had neglected to manually turn on his body camera, equipment recently provided to all Portland police officers. Department policy says patrol officers must activate the camera during interactions with the public. If Blake had done so, the shooting and the events that led up to it would have been recorded. In addition, the source said, a digital memory card that would have been inserted in Rawlings’ GoPro camera to enable it to record was not in the camera and could not be found at the scene.
“No witnesses,” the source said. “It’s pretty much his word because the only other witness is dead.”
“Jesus,” Brandon said. “Hanging me out to dry or what?”
He slammed the laptop closed, opened it back up. Read the story again and then, his fingers moving like they were remote controlled, clicked to the comments. If Blake gets away with this, we’ll know we live in a police state…of course he didn’t turn on the camera. He was about to execute a teenager…this cop’s a psycho, lock him up…AG should nail his ass, so Bubba can nail it in prison…no witnesses means the cop skates, so what else is new?…who knew Maine had the death penalty for a kid acting goofy?...
Brandon closed the laptop. Went to the counter and took out another beer. Opened it and drank half of it down, then stepped out onto the stern deck, illuminated by the lights of the float. He slipped up on the deck and moved forward, sat on the folding chair on the bow where Mia would read papers in the sun. It was dark there and quiet, water lapping at the hulls, the traffic humming on the bridge. Brandon sat and stared out at the harbor lights, a plane descending into the jetport, another crossing the sky high above him like a slow-moving shooting star.
He barely saw any of it, everything whirling around in his head.
The shooting. The other cops. “It was a good shoot, Blake.” Kat’s hand on his shoulder. Mia’s voice on the phone, the pitying tone like he was damaged or sick. Danni and Clutch, the feeling of being pulled into somebody else’s mess. Mia again, not knowing what to say, him having no way to explain. The Rawlings parents, the mom, Tiff, prostrate on the fence like she’d been crucified. Amanda, in that moment willing him to shoot her, too. Thatcher Rawlings, the look of surprise on his face as he died.
It was inescapable, all of it, filled his head, coming at him relentlessly. Guns. Blood. Crying. Cops. “Goddamn it,” he said.
He sat for a few more minutes, stared at the flickering headlights across the harbor, the glow of skyline, the flicker of the buoy lights bobbing in the channel. He slipped his phone from his pocket, started to send Mia a text. But then he thought it would scare her, leave her wide awake with worry. He flicked the text away, saw the red dot over the Facebook icon. Stuff happening there, but did he want to see it?
Hesitating, he opened it. A message:
Chris. really sorry about tonight. Now I think I owe u a beer, not just a coffee that u never even got to drink! Get in touch. I’ll come to u this time. Sorry again!!!! Danni. PS I’m really not a bad person. And my bf said to tell you he hopes no hard feelings. Just a freakin cluster!! U know these jealous types! PS again. U have the book, right? Lemme know cuz I’ll totally freak if some kid at Dunkin is readin my diary!!
That would stink, those high schoolers passing the thing around, having a good laugh. Brandon looked over at the book, the cover with soiled flowers like somebody had trampled the garden. Now he had to get rid of the thing, at the very least get Danni off his back, finish what he started. Probably should have tossed the stupid thing to begin with, but too late now.
He hesitated:
Hey Danni. Yeah I still have it. Kinda scuffed up. Sure we can meet up. Lemme see what next cpl days looks like.
He hit send. Put the phone down. Stared at it and waited. Ten seconds and it buzzed.
Great chris. I’ll wait to hear frm u. don’t forget me now!! I’ll think of a way to repay you!!!
Whoah. Was she hitting on him? Just being appreciative? All he needed, give that freakin’ idiot a real reason to be jealous. Or maybe this guy Clutch had reason, just guessed wrong that night. Brandon reached over and picked up the diary, flipped it open.
Well, Karl came down Saturday. We talked and went out to eat. We made love twice and in the morning he was still there. The love between us is stronger than ever. Our bodies and minds and hearts have become one. I want it to stay like that forever.
He flipped the pages. More about Karl. Danni’s car towed in Portland. Worries t
hat she might be pregnant. Karl saying he wasn’t ready to be a father. Danni finding she wasn’t pregnant. Karl breaking up with her over the phone. Forever turned out to be three weeks and eleven pages.
He looked at his watch. It was three minutes after midnight. He stretched his legs out, put his head back on the cushion. Started to replay the fight with Clutch in his head, grappling with the guy, his drunken breath, putting him down on the pavement. Clutch going slack. The way it was supposed to end, on the street. Not the way it ended in the alley, the Rawlings on his back, the geyser of black blood.
Brandon heaved himself upright, went out onto the stern deck. The marina was quiet, slip lights glowing, water slapping gently under the floats. He dreaded sleep, knowing it would take him back to the shooting, leave him to relive it again and again. The Portland lights were sparkling, reflecting on the shimmering water. He moved to the ladder, mounted the four steps to the helm. Parting the canvas, he crouched and slipped in, went to the helm and sat.
He put the diary down on the console, leaned back in the seat. Suddenly exhausted, he slipped down, went to the settee and flopped down. Stretched out there, the boat rocking, he fell asleep.
Drained. Spent. Done. And his brain kicked in.
He was back in the alley, gun drawn, trying to shout, “Drop the gun, drop the gun,” but no words would come out, just an awful wail, and out of the blackness came the kid, Thatcher, and he was smiling even as the slugs hit him.
He didn’t go down, just kept walking toward Brandon and laughing but when Brandon looked again, it wasn’t Thatcher, it was Mia and he was screaming run, run, still no sound would come out and his gun was still firing, the marks popping out on Mia’s shirt, and then the blood gushing from her mouth, hitting Brandon like it was from a hose. And he was screaming, but he couldn’t control any of it, not the gun, not his voice, not Mia, who turned into Amanda, then Kat, then Thatcher’s mother, vomiting blood through the fence.
Brandon woke up.
He was drenched in sweat, his hair stuck to his neck, his shirt soaked. It was morning, light streaming into the boat through the sidelights, the cabin light still on. He lurched to his feet, his mouth dry, tongue thick, kicked the beer bottle across the deck. He pushed through the canvas, stepped out and lurched down the ladder. On the stern, he went to the transom, leaned on both hands, felt like he might vomit, too.
The images from the dream whirled through his head and he tried to shake them off, opened his eyes and turned to look out on the harbor. It was cloudy and cool, a thin mist on the water, the tide high and ebbing. Brandon looked up at the marina yard, saw a car parked on the far side of the fence. Two people were standing beside it, looking his way. Estusa. A woman wearing a dark baseball hat, holding something. A laptop? No, smaller, and then Brandon heard it. A humming sound above him. He looked up, saw a drone. It was two hundred feet up, circling. And then it hovered, began to descend.
“Go to hell,” Brandon shouted, first at the drone, then Estusa and the woman. When he looked back up the drone was 50 feet above him, buzzing like a giant bug. He raised his middle finger to it, turned and went back down and into the boat. When he turned to latch the hatch door, the drone was hovering over the stern.
Part of him wanted to get the shotgun out of the bow locker, blow the thing out of the sky. Instead he strode through the cabin, grabbed his phone.
Four missed calls, three from Mia. And a text from Mia:
worried about you. Coming over. Just leaving.
It had been sent 8:01. Brandon looked at his watch. It was 8:16.
He went to the stern hatch, eased his way out. Turning to the yard, he saw Mia’s Volvo parked on the road thirty yards from the gate. And then he saw Mia, punching in the code, coming though the gate, crossing the yard. Too late to call. She was on the float, coming toward him. The drone came from behind her and Mia turned at the sound and looked at the thing hovering 20 feet over her head. She turned back, hurried to Bay Witch. Brandon took her arm, helped her over the transom, pulled her inside and up the steps to the helm.
“What the hell?” Mia said.
“Estusa. A drone.”
“Can they do that?”
“I don’t know. But it’s too late.”
“So what do we do? Stay trapped in here?” Mia said.
“If I were you, I’d take off. You don’t want to get sucked into this.”
“I am sucked into this. We’re a team, right?”
“Not your fight, not with that guy.”
“That sleaze,” Mia said. “Somebody ought to—”
She stopped.
“What happened to the diary?”
It was on the console.
“It fell on the ground, got kinda dirty.”
“What ground? Did you take it outside?”
Brandon hesitated. How to explain?
“In a parking lot.”
“What parking lot? Here?”
He thought, everything else was crap, why not add a little more?
“No, in Woodford. I tried to return it to the girl who wrote it. She’s not a girl now. She’s probably thirty, but she looks older, what hard—”
“You what?” Mia said. “Why?”
Brandon sighed.
“It’s hers.”
“How did you find her?”
“Facebook.”
“Christ,” Mia said.
“Christ what?”
“I don’t know. Christ, it wasn’t yours to take. And Christ, why would you be out there, now of all times.”
“I can’t work. I’ve got to do something.”
Mia frowned, then said, “What did she say?”
“She was embarrassed, wanted to have it.”
Mia walked over and picked the diary up. She held it close, eyed the cover.
“What’s this?”
A long pause this time. Pile it on, Brandon thought.
“Blood.”
Mia looked at him, her mouth open.
“Her boyfriend followed her. Thought she was cheating on him.”
“So what happened. He punched you or something?”
“Not really. Tried to get a little physical. His nose ended up bleeding a little.”
“Are you crazy, Brandon?”
“I was trying to do something good. Give her stupid book back.”
“And you could get arrested for beating somebody up.”
“I wasn’t. I left. It’s no big deal.”
“Jesus, Brandon. That gets on line? Along with everything else?”
“I didn’t know it was going to happen. I didn’t know her. I didn’t know she had some nut-job boyfriend.”
“You read any of this? It shouldn’t come as any big surprise that she’d be in a dysfunctional relationship. In high school she had, like, six guys in a year. She’s nuts.”
“I think she was just lonely. Insecure. Wanted a Prince Charming to take her away, live happily ever after.”
Mia moved to him, still holding the diary.
“Come stay with me.”
“Why?” Brandon said. “So you can keep an eye on me?”
Mia’s hesitated. “No, so I can help you.”
“I’m fine. I just need for people to stop trying to take care of me. Kat was here, same thing. She’s here for me, blah, blah, blah.”
Mia took a step back.
“Is that what this is? Blah, blah, blah?”
“No, it’s just that, I don’t know. You can’t help, Mia. I appreciate you trying but you can’t change anything. The kid’s dead. I did it. He was sixteen. Life over. End of story. Kaput. Sorry, kid. Tough break. Shoulda pointed your toy gun at a cop who can’t shoot straight. There’s a couple I know woulda missed you by ten feet.”
“Brandon,” Mia said. “It wasn’t your fault.” She put the diary back on the table, took both his hands, tried to get him to meet her gaze. He looked away.
“It doesn’t matter. My fault, not my fault. That’s what nobody gets. This is mine now
. I own it. So let me get on with it. I’ll figure it out. You can’t help me with that. So just....”
“Just what?” Mia said.
“Just go. You don’t want to be around me now. It’s no fun, I’m a pain.”
“Our life together isn’t just about fun.”
“Yeah, well, our life together isn’t about this mess, either,” Brandon said.
He took a long breath and then said, “I’ll call you tonight.”
“You want me to leave?”
“I don’t know. I need to think.”
“Brandon, I can—”
“You’ve got things to do. So go do them. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Come on, babe, this isn’t the way to—”
“Just go, Mia,” Brandon said. “Please, just go.”
She looked at him but he turned away, looked out the harbor. Mia watched him, then turned and started for the stern. She turned and said, “I’ll call you.”
Brandon nodded, flipped a cushion onto the settee. He felt the boat rise and fall as she stepped off, heard her footsteps recede up the float. He walked out onto the stern deck, watched her as she went through the gate and across the lot to her car. There was no sign of Estusa or anyone else, no sound of the drone. The day was cool and damp, a sharp cutting breeze out of the northeast. Brandon crossed back into the cabin, went to his laptop.
Estusa’s site.
A huge headline: Did Killer Cop Also Kill the Cameras?
He read on: the card missing from the GoPro. His own body cam turned off. The same quote from the newspaper about no witnesses. Rehash followed. Brandon heard a bing, a text tone. He leaned over and picked up the phone. Chooch at the PD.
Girl called looking for you. Said it was important. Wouldn’t say what it was about. Said you would know. Her #....
A girl. Would Chooch call Danni a girl? Did Danni know he was a cop? Not Mia. Chooch knew Mia.
He texted the number:
You trying to reach me?
Put the phone down and wondered some more. A girl. Some kid he’d ticketed? A drunk and disorderly in the Old Port? There had been a teenage girl from Westbrook whose bag was stolen from her gym, seemed to think he was on the case, that he would...
His phone buzzed. The number the girl had left.
