the Kill Clause (2003)

by Gregg - Rackley 01 Hurwitz

  "Why isn't there a perimeter up?" Tim said.

  "We, uh...we still have him. He's inside."

  Tim's mouth went dry. His fury narrowed, gathering like a parachute pulled through a napkin ring; with focus it seemed less likely to bleed into sorrow. Bear slid up next to him like a revving car at a stoplight.

  "What about CSU? Did you even call them?"

  Fowler grew suddenly interested in the ground. "We called you." He toed a desiccated weed, which gave off a good crackle. "I know if my little girl--" He shook off the thought. "The boys and I just weren't gonna let this one fly." He unsnapped the thumb break again, slid his Beretta from the holster, and held the pistol out to Tim, butt first. "For you and Dray."

  The three men stared at the pistol. Bear made a noise deep in his throat that didn't quite shape itself into a judgment one way or the other. Fowler's face was still flushed and intense, a lightning bolt of a vein forking his forehead. Somewhere in his jumble of thoughts, Tim grasped why Fowler had contacted Bear on his cell phone, not the radio.

  Bear shifted so he was close to Tim, beside him but facing opposite, his back to Fowler, his eyes staring out at the dark of the canyon. "What do you want here, Rack?" His fingers spread, then clenched into fists. "As a father? As a representative of the law?"

  Tim took the pistol. He walked toward the garage, and neither Bear nor Fowler followed. He heard sounds issuing through the warped door. Murmuring voices.

  He knocked twice, the ragged wood biting his knuckles.

  "Hang on." The voice belonged to Mac, Fowler's partner and another of Dray's deputy colleagues. Some shuffling. "Stand back!"

  The garage door swung up on screeching springs. With inadvertent theatricality, Mac moved his large frame out of Tim's way, revealing Gutierez and Harrison standing on either side of a scrawny man on a torn couch. Tim recognized the detectives now--local boys. Dray had worked with them when they were still patrolmen out of Moorpark Station; Homicide had assigned them the area, no doubt, because of their familiarity with it.

  Tim's eyes swept the interior, taking in a heap of blood-moist rags, a pair of little girl's fingerprint-muddied cotton panties plugging a draft in the far wall, a bent hacksaw with the teeth worn down to nubs. He fought to get his mind around these objects, these inconceivabilities.

  He stepped forward, his shoes slippery on the oil-stained concrete. The man was clean-shaven, his face razor-nicked at the jaw. He hunched over his legs, elbows tucked into his crotch, hands cuffed before him. His boots, like Bear's, were caked with mud. The two detectives stepped away as Tim approached, straightening their poly wool suits.

  Mac's deep voice issued over Tim's shoulder. "Meet Roger Kindell."

  "You see him, you puke?" Gutierez said. "This is that little girl's father."

  The man's eyes, focused on Tim, showed neither comprehension nor remorse.

  "That this could happen in our fucking town," Harrison said, as if continuing some previous conversation. "The animals are drifting north. Invading."

  Tim stepped forward again, until his shadow fell across Kindell's face, blocking the dim light from the bare lamp bulb. Kindell sucked his teeth, then bent his face into the bowl of his hands, his fingers massaging the line of his scalp. His voice was loose, vowel-heavy at the ends of his words, and a touch guttural.

  "I already tole you I did it. Lee me alone."

  Tim felt his heartbeat hammering in his temples, his throat. Controlled rage.

  Kindell kept his face turned down into his hands. Black crescents stood out beneath his fingernails--dried blood.

  Harrison uncrossed his arms, sweat shining on his ebony face. "Look at him. You look at him, son." Still no response. In a flash the detective was on top of Kindell, hands digging into his throat and cheeks, knee riding his gut, bending his head back and up so he faced Tim. Kindell's breathing flared his nostrils; his eyes were sharply defiant.

  Gutierez turned to Tim. "I got a throw-down." Tim glanced at the proffered bulge at the detective's ankle beneath his pant leg, a crappy gun to be left on the scene clutched in Kindell's dead hand. Gutierez nodded. "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, my friend."

  Harrison pulled himself off Kindell, shoved his head to the side, and nodded at Tim. "You do what you need to do."

  Mac was playing lookout at the wide opening of the garage door, his head swiveling back and forth, checking the darkness despite the fact that Bear and Fowler were less than twenty yards away with a clear line of sight to the main road.

  Tim turned back to Kindell. "Leave me."

  "You got it, brother," Gutierez said. He paused beside Tim and slipped him the handcuff key. "We already frisked the piece of shit. Just don't leave any of the wrong kind of marks on him."

  Mac squeezed Tim's shoulder, then followed the two detectives out. Tim reached up, grabbed the dangling rope handle on the garage door, and tugged. The door creaked again, gained momentum fast, and slammed shut. Kindell didn't so much as blink. Cool as a blade.

  He took note of the Beretta in Tim's hand, pointed down at the floor, and turned his head to the wall, as if expressing vague uninterest. His hair was cropped short, a grown-out buzz cut that resembled fur.

  The question came out before Tim considered it. "Did you kill my daughter?"

  The lightbulb in the lamp emitted an odd humming noise. The air wrapped around Tim, dank and tinted with the odor of paint thinner.

  Kindell turned back to face him. His even features were set off by an unusually flat and elongated forehead. His hands rested together in his lap. He didn't look as though he planned to answer the question.

  "Did you kill my daughter?" Tim asked again.

  After a thoughtful pause, Kindell nodded slowly, once.

  Tim waited for his breathing to even out. He felt his lips trembling, fought them still. "Why?"

  Same sluggish cadence to the words, as though they'd been slowed down. "Cuz she was so beautiful."

  Tim racked the Beretta's slide, chambering a round. Kindell emitted a muffled sob, his eyes starting to stream. The first sign of any emotion. He glared at Tim defiantly, even as snot ran from his nose and forded his upper lip.

  Tim raised the pistol. His hands were shaking with rage, so it took a moment for him to line the sights on the tall target of Kindell's forehead.

  Bear leaned against his truck, massive arms crossed, eyeing the other four men.

  "You don't motherfuck around with a deputy's family," Gutierez was saying. A deferential nod to Bear. "Or a marshal's."

  Bear didn't nod back.

  Fowler weighed in. "They don't give a shit anymore. No sense of anything."

  "Amen to that," Gutierez said.

  "It's like that guy who walked the sarin nerve-gas bomb into the day-care center. Ezekiel or Jedediah or whatever." Harrison shook his head. "Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing."

  "How's Dray doing?" Mac asked. "She all right?"

  "She's tough," Bear said.

  "Ain't that the fuckin' truth," Fowler said.

  Gutierez again--"She's gonna be better once Rack brings her back a little news."

  "You know Tim well?" Bear asked.

  The detective shifted his weight from one shoe to the other. "Know of him."

  "Why don't you leave his nickname to those of us who do?"

  "Hey, come on Jowalski," Mac said. "Tito don't mean no harm. We're on the same side, us out here."

  "Are we?" Bear said.

  They waited, glancing at the closed garage door, bracing themselves for a gunshot in the silence. The crickets were at it, filling the air with nervous chirping.

  Mac wiped his brow with a forearm, though the night was cool. "Wonder what he's doing in there."

  "He's not gonna kill him," Bear said.

  The others' heads swiveled toward Bear, surprised. Fowler wore a shit-eating grin. "You don't think?"

  Bear shifted uncomfortably, then crossed his arms as if to lock down his posture.

  "Why wouldn't he
?" Gutierez said.

  Bear regarded him with unadulterated disdain. "For one, he's not gonna want to be yoked to you jackasses for the rest of his life."

  Gutierez started to say something but took note of Bear's flexed forearms and closed his mouth. The crickets continued to shrill. They all did their best to avoid eye contact.

  "Fuck this. I'm gonna get him." Bear drew himself up off his truck. Beside him even Mac looked small. Bear took a step toward the garage, then stopped abruptly. He lowered his head, eyes on the dirt, frozen between advance and retreat.

  Tim kept the Beretta trained on Kindell's head, his body still and rigid, a shooter's outline cut from steel. After a moment his gun arm began to quake. His eyes moistened; two jerking breaths racked his shoulders. With a sudden, stunning certainty, he knew that he would not kill Kindell. His thoughts, absent the focus of the task, pulled back to his daughter. He was overtaken with a sadness so stark and selfish and crushing that it seemed to defy the limits of his heart. It came on fierce and full-powered, like nothing he'd ever confronted. He lowered the gun and bent, fists on thighs, as it throttled through him.

  When he regained awareness that he was still drawing breath, he straightened as best he could. "Were you alone?"

  The same roll of the head, up, down, up.

  Unremitting cramps in Tim's chest kept him curled into an old man's arthritic hunch. His voice rasped, weak and uncomprehending, "You just decided...decided to kill her?"

  Kindell blinked hard and drew his bound hands over his face like a squirrel grooming. "I wasn't supposed to kill her."

  Tim's body snapped upright, his posture firming. "What does 'supposed to' mean?" No answer. "Was someone in on this with you?"

  "He didn't--" Kindell stopped, closed his eyes.

  "He who? He didn't what? Someone else helped you kill my girl?" His voice was shaking with fury and desperation. "Answer me, goddamnit. Answer me!"

  Kindell remained still, impervious to Tim's questions, the smooth ovals of his closed eyelids like veined eggs.

  The garage door flew up with a bang, spilling light across the weed-dense grounds. Kindell stumbled out, propelled by Tim's shove, his hands now cuffed behind him. Tim caught up to him quickly, fisting the chain between the cuffs and pulling it up so Kindell's arms locked straight behind him. Kindell grimaced but didn't cry out.

  Bear and the others silently watched them approach. As Tim neared, Kindell tripped and went down, his knees and chest taking the shock of the ground. His grunt sounded like a bark.

  Kindell struggled to stand up. He bore no bruises or signs of punishment. "You asshoe. You uckin' asshoe."

  "Better watch your mouth," Tim said. "I'm your best friend right about now."

  Bear exhaled in a low, cheek-puffing rumble.

  Fowler glowered at Tim like a woman scorned. Gutierez and Harrison looked equally displeased.

  "Can we have a second here?" Fowler said, the skin tight around his jaw.

  Tim nodded, then followed the three men a few paces away from Mac and Bear.

  "He's a piece-of-shit motherfucker," Fowler hissed.

  Tim said, "No argument here."

  Fowler spit a brown stream into the brush. "You're gonna let pieces of shit like this run loose in our town?"

  Tim looked at him with a steady gaze until he turned away.

  "What the fuck, Rackley? We were doing you a favor here."

  Gutierez smoothed his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. "This guy just killed your daughter. How can you not want to cap his ass?"

  "I'm not a jury."

  "I bet Dray would have another opinion on the matter."

  "You're probably right."

  "Juries suck," Fowler said. "I don't trust the courts."

  "Then move to Sierra Leone."

  "Listen, Rackley--"

  "No, you listen." Ten yards away Bear's and Mac's heads snapped to attention. "There's an ongoing investigation here that you may have just fucked up in your eagerness to tie things up neatly."

  Harrison weighed in from above crossed arms. "It's an open-and-shut."

  "He didn't kill her alone."

  Gutierez blew air out through clenched teeth. "What the fuck is this?"

  "Someone else was in on it." Tim's hand was jiggling back and forth, thumb tapping his thigh.

  "He didn't tell us that."

  "Well, then, it looks like you've exhausted your bag of detective tricks."

  Bear walked over, his boots creaking, leaving Mac with Kindell. He scowled at the others, standing protectively at Tim's side. "Everything all right?"

  "Your boy here is looking to complicate matters that aren't complicated." Gutierez glared at Tim. "You're being emotional."

  "That's for sure."

  "How do you know there was someone else involved?" Gutierez jerked his head at Kindell, still lying prone on the ground. "What did he say?"

  "He didn't say anything outright--"

  "Nothing outright," Harrison said. "A hunch, huh?"

  Bear's voice issued so low Tim felt it in his bones. "You'd better mind your fucking mouth after what he's been through tonight."

  Harrison's smirk vanished instantly.

  "This is precisely why we don't kill people without a trial." Tim regarded the three men. "Call CSU. Start your investigation. Gather evidence."

  Fowler was shaking his head. "This is a fucking mess. Kindell heard us talking. Planning this out."

  Gutierez made a leveling gesture with his hands. "It's fine. We'll move forward with standard procedure. If the scumsuck wants to whine to the public defender, it'll be his word against ours." He glared at Tim and Bear. "All of ours."

  Tim debated informing Gutierez that the last thing he intended to expend energy on this night was Gutierez's anxiety, but he didn't want to give anything up to him.

  Behind them Mac helped Kindell to his feet.

  "You were never here," Harrison said. "We stick together on this, no matter what."

  Bear gave a cough of disgust. They walked back to the vehicles, their breath visible in the cold air.

  "You're a lucky little motherfucker," Gutierez said to Kindell, who'd finally found his feet. He poked him hard where his chest met his shoulder. "Did you hear me? I said you're a lucky motherfucker."

  "Lee me alone."

  Bear circled his truck, climbed in, and turned over the engine.

  Mac cleared his throat. "Tim, man, I am so sorry about...everything. You send Dray my condolences. I'm really sorry."

  "Thanks, Mac," Tim said. "I'll tell her."

  He climbed into the truck and they drove off, leaving the four deputies and Kindell behind them, standing out from the night in carnival flashes of watery blue.

  Chapter 3

  BEAR PULLED UP to the curb, and Tim moved to get out, but Bear grabbed his shoulder. It had been a silent ride home. "I should have stopped you. Stepped in. You were in no shape to make that kind of decision." He squeezed the wheel.

  "It wasn't your responsibility," Tim said.

  "It's my responsibility to do more than stand around while my partner maybe kills some mutt in a moment of justifiable rage. You're a federal agent, not some yokel deputy."

  "The boys just got a little fired up."

  Bear struck the steering wheel hard with the heels of his hands, a rare display of anger. "Stupid pricks." His cheeks were wet. "Stupid, stupid pricks. They shouldn't have dragged you into it. They shouldn't have jeopardized the investigation."

  Tim knew Bear was turning his grief to anger and throwing it at the nearest target, but he also knew he was right. Tim spoke to the words, because he knew if he touched the grief right now, he'd come apart. "Nothing happened."

  "It's not done happening yet." Bear wiped his cheeks roughly. "And we don't know what those idiots did before we got there, how well they secured the scene. They weren't looking for accomplices. They weren't looking to build a case. It's not like they were dotting their i's and crossing their t's for the DA. It's not li
ke they were expecting a trial."

  "They're gonna have to be aboveboard now. After we've been there."

  "Great. So in addition to the case being tied to their competence or tremendous lack thereof, we are, too." Bear shuddered hard, like a dog shaking off water. "Sorry, I'm sorry. You got enough on your plate."

  Tim managed a faint smile. "I better go check on my yokel-deputy wife."

  "Shit, I didn't mean that."

  Tim laughed, and then Bear joined him, both of them still wiping their cheeks.

  "Do you want me to...Can I come in?"

  "No," Tim said. "Not yet."

  Bear was still idling at the curb when Tim closed the front door behind him. The house was dark and empty. Two holes had been kicked through the living room wall, leaving jagged edges in the dry-wall. Though Tim had left Dray with two of her friends who'd come over to help with Ginny's party, he was not surprised to find the house silent. When Dray was upset, she handled it alone. Another trait she'd learned from four older brothers and six years and counting on the job.

  He passed through the small living room into the kitchen. The simple interior had been improved upon over the years by Tim's meticulous attention. He'd torn up the floors and laid down hardwood in the halls and bedrooms and replaced the brass-plated and faux-crystal chandeliers with recessed lighting.

  On the counter sat Ginny's cake, uncut, the top puddled with wax. Dray had insisted on baking it herself despite her lack of prowess in the kitchen. It was uneven, sloping left, and the frosting had been applied and reapplied in a failed attempt at smoothness. Judy Hartley, their next-door neighbor and a recent empty-nester, had offered to assume baking duties, but Dray had refused. As she did each year on Ginny's birthday, she'd taken the day off work to pore over borrowed cookbooks, determined and stubborn, pulling cake after cake out of the oven until she'd produced one she deemed acceptable.

  Dray wasn't there, though the cabinet where they kept the liquor stood open. The handle of store-brand vodka was missing.

  Tim walked quietly down the hall to their bedroom. The bed, neatly made, stared back at him. He checked the bathroom--also no luck. He tried Ginny's room next, across the hall. Dray was sitting in the darkness, the half-gallon bottle between her legs, the glow of a Pocahontas night-light discoloring one side of her face. On the carpet before her sat the cordless phone and her PalmPilot, the backlight still glowing.