by Frank Zafiro
“You can’t tell anyone, okay?” he said.
Georgina smiled and made a cross over her heart.
“I promise,” she said.
1219 hours
Kopriva sat in his chair and stared at the wall. His eyes took in the bamboo wall hanging that his sensei had given him years before when he’d earned his black belt. The picture showed a pale moon, partially eclipsed by dust or tendrils of clouds. Beneath the moon was a tiger. Sensei Allen had called the piece “Tiger Under a Raging Moon.”
Looking at it now, Kopriva allowed his eyes to slowly blur. That day seemed like decades ago to him now. He was a different person now, no longer the tiger. The throbbing pain in his shoulder and knee seemed to agree with him.
He replayed the scene at the Henderson home over and over again in his mind. Now that he knew that little Amy Dugger was alive when he was in the house, the vision was like a macabre film. Every misstep he made rang loudly in his ears like an accusation.
“I killed her,” he whispered, his voice ragged from throwing up earlier. The taste of bile remained in his mouth and he made no effort to rinse it out. It seemed fitting that he should taste it.
There was a knock at his door. It was a tentative, soft knock and he knew immediately who it belonged to.
The knock came again and he made no move to stand or open the door. After a third knock, there was a rattle of keys and Katie MacLeod came into his apartment. She spotted him sitting in the chair and gave him a small, worried smile. “I called the office, but Georgina said you’d gone home.”
Kopriva stared at her and did not reply.
“Georgina…she told me what happened.”
He remained silent.
Katie’s worried smile faded into a frown. “Stef, are you okay? It wasn’t your fault—”
“I’d like you to leave, Katie,” Kopriva said in an even voice.
She stopped suddenly. Surprise registered in her eyes. “Leave? Why?”
“I want to be alone.”
Katie was hesitant. “Okay…but are you sure you don’t want to talk about—”
“I asked you to leave!” shouted Kopriva, suddenly enraged. “Is that so fucking hard to understand?”
Katie jumped at his words, surprised. “Stef, I don’t think you should be alone if—”
“No one asked for your goddamn opinion,” Kopriva said, his voice gruff.
“Why are you talking to me like this?” Katie asked. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Then leave. That would be a big help.”
Katie said nothing, but she made no move to leave. Instead, she took a step toward Kopriva. “I know what you’re feeling,” she said to him. “I know what—”
“You don’t know shit,” Kopriva said.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “How can you say that after yesterday?”
Kopriva shook his head. “What happened on the bridge is nothing compared to what I did.”
“What?” Her eyes widened in surprise.
“You heard me.”
Katie swallowed hard and wiped away tears. “That’s the most horrible thing you could ever say.”
Kopriva didn’t respond.
“I know it hurts,” Katie said. “But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Leave me alone,” Kopriva said.
“I know how you feel, Stef,” she said. “I do.”
Kopriva looked up at her. His voice was hard and unfeeling. “You have no idea what I’m feeling. You couldn’t stop some guy from hurting a baby. Fine. Maybe you failed. I don’t know. But you didn’t kill anyone.”
“Stef—”
“I killed her!” Kopriva yelled. “Do you understand that? Now get the fuck out of my house and out of my life!”
Katie recoiled from his words, hurt and anger apparent on her face. Kopriva didn’t care.
Without a word, she turned and left, slamming the door behind her.
When the sound of the door slamming had faded into silence, Kopriva rose from his chair. He walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Reaching for the brown prescription bottle, he popped the top and shook three pills from inside. When he put the prescription bottle back in the cabinet, he stared into the mirror for a moment. Guilty eyes stared back at him.
In the refrigerator, he found a bottle of Corona beer. He tossed the three pills into the back of his throat and washed them down with the cold beer. Then he drained the entire bottle.
Inside the fridge, he was relieved to find five more bottles patiently waiting. He reached for the next one.
SEVENTEEN
1504 hours
Tower watched through the observation glass as Browning read deliberately through Fred Henderson’s confession. He marveled at how Browning was able to remain objective and to ignore the current of emotion surrounding this case. It was a difficult task for Tower.
“Where’s my wife?” Fred asked Browning.
“Jail,” Browning murmured, not looking up from the written confession.
“What was the charge, exactly?”
Browning raised his finger to quiet Fred and continued reading.
Fred waited.
Several minutes later, Browning nodded with satisfaction. “You did well, Fred,” he said, sliding the sheaf of papers across toward the man. “I just need you to sign the bottom of each page.”
Fred stared at him for a moment, then sighed. He picked up a pen and scrawled his name on each piece of paper. He handed them back to Browning.
“Now what?” he asked.
Browning straightened the hand-written pages and slid them into a manila folder. “Now we talk about what else you did to Amy.”
Fred’s face fell. “I told you everything.”
Browning shook his head. “That’s just not true, Fred. Our forensics people did a preliminary examination on her body. They suspect she was abused.”
Fred’s eyes flicked to a spot on the floor. “She was...hit with a hammer. That could look like—”
“Sexually abused.”
Fred said nothing. He swallowed and tapped his foot.
“Did you have sex with Amy, Fred?”
“Answer him, you fucking pervert,” Tower whispered to himself, alone in the observation room.
Fred didn’t answer.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Browning said. “The charges of kidnapping and accessory to murder are enough to get you a good twenty years at Walla Walla State Prison. A molestation charge, even your second one, won’t top that.”
Fred raised his hand to his face. He used the back of it to rub his nose.
“Did you have sex with Amy Dugger, Fred? Tell me.”
Fred rubbed the itch on his nose with greater determination.
“Just let it loose, Fred,” Browning urged. “Show me that this truth—” he gestured to the manila folder containing the confession “—is the truth. Don’t make me wonder now. I already know the answer. I just want to hear you say the truth so that I can trust what you told me before. That you didn’t kill her. That you shouldn’t be put to death for that.”
At the word ‘death,’ Fred stopped rubbing his nose and met Browning’s gaze.
“Tell me, Fred,” Browning pleaded. “For your own good. Did you have sex with Amy?”
Fred held his gaze. He wet his lips and swallowed again. “Maybe,” he whispered, but quickly added, “But she wanted me to.”
Browning looked at him with plain disgust and said nothing. Tower felt rage well up in his gut and flow into his chest. He moved before he even thought about it.
“I think...I really think I need help –” Fred’s voice followed him as he left the observation room and made for the interview room. Without waiting for an answer, Tower swung the door open.
“Stand up,” he ordered Fred.
“Now?” He looked over at Browning and back at Tower.
Tower didn’t order him a second time. Instead, he grabbed the man by his upper arm and jerked him upright.
&nbs
p; “Hey!” Fred jerked his arm away.
Tower didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and pushed Fred hard. The taller man flew into the thick wall, striking his head against it. Tower brushed Fred’s chair aside and stepped toward him, his fists balled at his side.
“Don’t hurt me!” Fred squealed. He looked to Browning for a rescue.
Browning sat still and said nothing.
Tower grabbed onto Fred at the wrist and the elbow and slammed him face first into the wall. “Don’t you fucking move,” he growled.
Fred remained still, waiting. His breath came in short, terrified gasps.
Tower paused, his jaw set, his fist cocked and trembling at his side. He felt Browning’s eyes on him.
“Please,” Fred moaned in a small voice.
Disgust overpowered his rage. Tower snatched his handcuffs from his belt. He ratcheted them around Fred’s wrists. Then he twirled the man around and pushed him backward into the corner. Fred slid down into a squatting position and turned his face away from the detective.
Tower glanced at Browning. The veteran investigator said nothing.
Tower squatted down next to Fred. His angry glare burned into the suspect. “You think you’ll play that sicko card, Fred? I don’t think so. Because I think Nancy’s got that one all sewn up.”
“W-what?”
“I’m not buying this Mister Milquetoast routine,” Tower grated. “Nancy’s crazy enough to want to do all this, but not smart enough to figure out how. You’re the brains behind this operation.”
“No, she—”
Tower lashed out, smacking the side of Fred’s head with his open palm. The man recoiled and tried to shrink further into the corner.
Tower continued, “I think you’re the mastermind. And when we’re done with this case, Nancy will be in the nut house and you’ll be left holding the bag. Because a jury is going to want to hammer someone badly on this one. Trust me. And with her off in a straightjacket somewhere upstate, you’re the only one left to pay.”
Fred whimpered.
“You can play up this meek little mouse act all you want. The jury will want someone to pay and that will be you. You’re going to prison for the rest of your fucking life.” Tower let a cruel grin spread across his face. “And that’s when the fun begins.”
“I’m sick,” Fred protested weakly.
Tower shook his head. “I don’t care. We’re not going to charge you with the molestation, Fred. Just the kidnapping and the murder. You know what that means?”
Fred moaned but didn’t answer.
“Yeah, you do, you sick fuck. You know exactly what it means. You’re not going into some cushy prison wing with all the other sexual sickos.” Tower’s grin became a malevolent leer. “You’re going into the general population.”
“No.”
“Yes. Yes, you are. You’re going into the general population and everyone is going to know you kidnapped a little girl. They’re going to know you raped her, Fred. And that you dumped her body in a field.”
“Don’t do this,” Fred begged.
Tower ignored his plea. He smacked Fred in the shoulder. “How do you think all that’ll play out in D Block? You think you’re tough enough to deal with that?”
Fred hung his head and sobbed.
Tower eyed him with disgust a moment longer, then stood up.
“Get used to crying,” he told the man. “You’ll do a lot of it before someone decides to punch your ticket.”
1702 hours
Jill Ferguson watched the television news. The news had reported earlier that Amy was the girl that had been found in a field in West Central. Kathy’s little baby girl was gone forever. Upon hearing that, the first thing Jill did was gather Kendra into her arms and hug her for a solid fifteen minutes. She didn’t tell her about her friend’s fate and she wasn’t looking forward to eventually having to find a way to do that.
The news anchor on the television delivered his lines with polish. “And now we take you to News-5’s own Shawna Matheson for a breaking story regarding the murder of Amy Dugger. Shawna?”
The screen switched to the field reporter, who stood in front of the courthouse with a microphone in her hand. Jill turned up the volume.
“River City Police are moving quickly in the case of murdered six-year-old Amy Dugger,” the tiny blonde reporter said into the camera. “Earlier today, two people were arrested in connection with this case. Now, police are declining to identify these individuals publicly, but News-5 has learned that the suspects may have been relatives of the murdered girl.”
The new anchor broke in. “Any word from the Chief of Police, Shawna?”
“No,” said the field reporter, “but requests for information on this case were referred to Lieutenant Crawford of the Major Crimes Unit. He was unavailable for comment, but informed us that there would be a formal press release in about one hour.”
“Thank you, Shaw—”
“One more thing on this case,” Shawna Matheson said forcefully. “I have learned from a source inside the police department that during this investigation, a police officer was sent to investigate at the home of the suspects now arrested in this case. According to this source, Amy Dugger was still alive at the time those officers went to the suspect’s house.”
The news anchor’s interest was piqued. “The police didn’t find her?”
“No, Jack,” Matheson said. “And according to my source, police turned down an offer by one of the suspects to search the residence.”
There was a moment of dead air as the words sank in. Then, dramatically, the field reporter said, “Reporting from the courthouse for News-5, I’m Shawna Matheson.”
The screen returned to the anchor, who had recovered from the shock of the information. “There you have it,” he said, barely containing his glee. “Apparently, the police failed to search the residence and find Amy Dugger while she was still alive. News-5 will follow this story closely. And now, in our nation’s capital—”
Jill Ferguson was already dialing the Dugger residence.
1704 hours
“Are you sure?” Peter Dugger said into the phone.
Crawford stood nearby, watching. He had come to update the couple on the arrest. They had taken it well, much better than the death notification he’d made earlier. Then the phone rang and Kathy Dugger answered it. He spoke with Peter until Kathy asked her husband to take the phone.
“Thank you,” Peter Dugger said and hung up the receiver. He turned to Crawford. His gaze was icy. “Lieutenant, did you send officers to my mother-in-law’s house during this investigation?”
Crawford cursed inwardly, but nodded. “I did.”
“My wife’s friend just told me that the news reported Amy was alive when your people were there. Is that true?”
Crawford nodded. “I believe so.”
“You believe so? Or she was?”
“That is what Fred Henderson has said.”
Peter Dugger nodded coldly. “Is it true that Nancy told the officers they could search her house and they didn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Why not?”
Crawford took a breath. “The officer made a mistake,” he said.
“A mistake?” Peter Dugger shook his head forcefully. “No. That officer murdered my daughter.”
1809 hours
Katie MacLeod sat on her couch, wrapped in an afghan. She had cried herself out and now her mind seemed to be whirring along at light speed. Once the initial sting of Kopriva’s words faded, anger began to seep in.
He was being selfish, she decided. He was acting as if he had cornered the market on pain and suffering and no one else could even begin to understand his plight.
He’d pushed her away. And after she’d opened up to him like she had, that was what hurt the most.
There was a solid knock on her door. She scowled momentarily, wanting to be alone.
It might be Stef, she thought.
Katie tossed the afghan asid
e and went to her front door. She glanced through the peephole. Chaplain Timothy Marshall stood outside.
Katie turned the deadbolt and opened up the door. “Hello, Chaplain.”
Chaplain Marshall smiled warmly at her. “How’re you doing?”
“Good,” she said, knowing she didn’t look like it. “You want to come in?”
“Thank you.”
Katie stepped aside and let him inside. She closed the door and locked it.
“Tea?” she asked him.
Chaplain Marshall nodded. “Thank you. That’d be super.”
“What kind?”
He grinned. “Earl Gray. Hot.”
Katie found herself grinning back in spite of everything. That was Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s trademark phrase. Chaplain Marshall was an avid Star Trek fan. A casual fan herself, Katie had grown up watching Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. She’d watched only a few episodes of the second show, but enough to know that it didn’t stack up in her mind to the original series.
Chaplain Marshall, of course, disagreed. It was a frequent subject of debate whenever he rode along with Katie on patrol.
Katie moved to the kitchen to make the tea. “Kind of a sissy drink, but all right.”
Chaplain Marshall rose to the bait. “Just because Picard was an intellectual instead of a Neanderthal, that doesn’t make him a sissy.”
Katie retrieved her tea kettle from the stovetop and filled it with water. She made her argument from habit. “Oh, come on. I don’t think I ever saw an episode where he left the bridge of the Enterprise. At least Kirk had the guts to go down to the planet once in a while.”
“In direct violation of Starfleet regulations,” Chaplain Marshall huffed, standing at the entrance to the small kitchen. “You always say that, but I’m telling you that he probably went down to the planet more to get some alien space chicks than to accomplish the mission.”
“He was a man of action, that’s all.” She put the kettle back on the stove and turned on the burner.
Chaplain Marshall shrugged. “The proof is in the numbers.”
“Numbers?”
He nodded. “Seven and three.”
