HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by T. J. Brearton

  Rebecca was likely the one to have done it. But why? What was she hiding? And from whom?

  The killer, likely. Anticipating his arrival, perhaps. But then why call 911 right away?

  Brendan sighed. He was almost home. He had to get his mind cleared – it was all jumbling up again, with overlapping puzzle pieces and gaps where none seemed to go. He had to wash up and get dressed; he had a meeting with Olivia in two hours, and he had things to do first. Time to get moving.

  And while he showered and put his clothes on, that image lingered – the silhouette of the man in the doorway. Rebecca’s killer, leaving, slipping away. He disappears as the sun rises, and the heat burns the dry land. The police scour the big, rambling house and ask their questions.

  Who was he?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN / SATURDAY, 12:15 PM

  Olivia Jane had insisted that her suggestion for a noon meeting didn’t mean a lunch date, but Brendan was able to persuade her anyway. “You need to eat; keep your strength up.”

  She finally conceded, but he knew it wasn’t because she agreed with his reasoning. She didn’t want to meet at her own house, and she wasn’t about to go to his house, so a neutral location made sense.

  They met at the Rome Savoy. At noon on a Saturday in the summer, the place was busy. The décor was friendly and familial. Framed photographs adorned the wood-paneled walls. The images showed large families, black-and-white weddings, and regal men wearing double-breasted suits. College sports team pennants hung from the crown molding.

  It took Brendan a moment to realize that he was bothered by the place. It reminded him too much of a bad time. A time he wished, and would wish forever, could be taken back. The Reckoning.

  He forced himself out of the sour feeling and made small talk with Olivia about the weather. They ordered their food and drinks. Brendan sipped on a coke while Olivia opened a bottle of water and poured it over ice.

  “I’ve been removed from the case,” he told her.

  Olivia’s eyes widened a little. “Why?”

  He looked at her levelly and said nothing. He let her put it together.

  After a moment, she asked, “Is that unusual?”

  He shrugged.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Take the weekend, show up for work on Monday, get reassigned to something else.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “I feel great about it.”

  She smirked and raised her eyebrows.

  “Yeah, it sucks. They’ve brought in State Police Detectives.”

  “Now, I know that’s not unusual.”

  “They were at your house.”

  “They were at my house, yes.”

  “And your lawyer, too.”

  “Are you driving at something, Detective?”

  “What did they say to you?”

  She surprised him by laughing. She had a pleasant laugh, and her teeth flashed briefly before she pressed her lips together. “Does this usually work for you? You know I can’t talk to you about yesterday.”

  “You can’t? Why not?”

  She cocked her head. “Are you trying to exasperate me? We haven’t even gotten our food yet.”

  “What can you talk about?”

  She looked at her water for a moment, and took it with both hands. “I can talk to you about Thursday. As a friend. About what happened. About how you feel about it.”

  “I feel great about it.”

  “Now that’s just bad taste. Have you ever had to shoot anyone before in the line of duty?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember what we were talking about the other day? Before . . . everything happened? About absorbing a tragedy?”

  He shifted in his seat. “I think so. You were saying that it’s not normally the first stage of grief to want to sit down and talk about it.” He hung his fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks around “talk about it.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “But you’re asking me to do just that.”

  “I’m wondering whether or not it was a tragedy in your eyes.”

  He scowled. “Of course it was. What else would it be?”

  “Getting the bad guy.”

  “Why would I think Kevin Heilshorn was the bad guy?

  She scowled at him. “I don’t know . . . because he tried to end our lives? Boy, you like to be contrary. Let’s talk about that.”

  He leaned forward. “Wait. That has to come from somewhere. Your meeting with the State Detectives yesterday. They’re looking to hang the murder on him, too?”

  Her gaze became evasive. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

  He was growing a little flustered, but kept his cool. “Please, Ms. Jane. Olivia. What do you think? You spent an hour with him. Do you think he did it?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Off the record, come on. Why do you think he came after us?”

  “Us? Maybe he came after you.”

  “You don’t think he resented you for talking to him? Like you say, about how people aren’t ready for that. Did it set him off?”

  “Are you insinuating that my brief encounter with the aggrieved brother of a dead girl prompted him to come back and try to kill me? Or you?”

  He leaned back. “No.”

  “It sounds like it. Where are you from?”

  “Where am I from?”

  “Yes. Where were you born? Where did you grow up?”

  “I was born in New York City. St. Luke’s-Roosevelt. We moved to Westchester when I was a kid. New Rochelle, then Hawthorne.”

  “With both of your parents?”

  “With my mother.”

  “Your father stayed in the city?”

  “He was a doctor. He couldn’t do a commute.”

  “Was a doctor? No longer a doctor?”

  “He passed away.”

  “I’m sorry. So you were raised by your mother. Where is she now?”

  “Buried next to him.”

  Olivia blinked. She took a drink of her water. “I’m sorry for that, too. They were buried together?”

  “They never divorced, just separated. Neither one of them found anyone else.”

  She looked across the table at him. Her brown eyes were soft. “What about you?”

  He drank his coke. “What about me, what?”

  “Ever find someone? Ever been married?”

  He took a breath and looked around the restaurant. People chatted and ate and rattled their silverware. A little boy dropped his napkin on the floor, got off his chair, retrieved the napkin, and then started to crawl around underneath the table.

  “Yes,” said Brendan.

  “Yes what? You were married?”

  “I was.”

  Olivia watched him closely. She let up on the line of questioning. A few moments passed, and they both observed the rest of the restaurant. Then their food came.

  Once the plates were in front of them, the conversation livened up again, kindled by some idle chatter. Then Olivia got back to business.

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  Brendan felt a little stubborn. He responded with his own question. “Why did you agree to be seen?”

  Olivia looked up from her plate, with a frown. Brendan pulled something from his valise. He set the brown paper bag down on the table and reached inside of it. At the same time, Olivia sat up and pulled away from the table, as if the bag contained something dangerous. “I told you,” she began. “I’m not able to help you with this case.”

  Brendan pulled the paperback book out. “I’m not on the case anymore. This is a book I picked up at a bookstore around the corner. Have you ever read it?”

  She looked dubious, gauging him, but then she lowered her eyes and read the title aloud, “The Screwtape Letters.” Something registered in her gaze. She nodded. “I think so. Years ago.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “I don’t really remember.” She picked it up and then
read the subtitle. “Letters from a Senior Devil to a Junior Devil.” Her eyes flicked up to him. “Sounds like inter-office politics in hell. Why do you have this?”

  “It’s a copy of the book found at the scene of Rebecca Heilshorn’s murder.”

  She dropped it like it was suddenly contagious. “You’re outrageous. This is unprofessional. Are you trying to get me to leave? I can go, you know.” Her voice remained calm, but her eyes danced with electricity.

  “It’s not unprofessional. You and I are two people sitting down, discussing a book.”

  “Is this how they do things in Hawthorne?”

  “I wasn’t a detective in Hawthorne. I was a cop.”

  “You’re telling me that if your boss knew we were here together that he wouldn’t suspend you immediately? Or fire you? I shouldn’t be here; I’m putting your job and mine on the line.”

  She started to make moves like she was about to leave. He reached across the table and gently took her hand.

  “Look.” Brendan kept his voice very low, but emphatic. “A girl was murdered. We know very little about her. She’s not from the area. Seems to have no friends. Comes from a wealthy family. Her brother shows up and finds out she was killed. Now, I don’t think, and neither do you, that his grief threw him into a homicidal rage. Nor do I think he was the one who killed her. I don’t know why, I only spent about as much time with him as you did, but it just doesn’t sit. Unless he was absolutely crazy, and returned to the scene of the crime less than an hour after killing her. And you don’t think he was that crazy, or egomaniacal. I know you don’t. Was he antisocial? Bipolar? You don’t think so, and neither do I. But his father put pressure on the department to take me off the case. Not because I was doing a poor job, but because of what happened with Kevin. It’s understandable, but listen. I believe the killer is still out there.”

  Olivia looked at his hand. She sighed. “Then let your co-workers handle it. Leave it to Delaney. I’m sorry, I just can’t be involved.” She pulled her hand away, but she remained seated. Brendan was nonplussed by her mention of Delaney.

  Neither of them had touched their food for a while, and now their waiter seemed to take notice. He materialized next to their table.

  “Everything okay here, folks?”

  “Fine,” said Brendan. He offered a smile. The waiter eyed their plates, and then returned the smile and left.

  Olivia was looking at Brendan.

  “You weren’t a detective in Hawthorne. You were a cop, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve been a detective for . . .?”

  “Three months.”

  She shook her head, as if to say, This isn’t how it is done. “Why did you become a policeman in Hawthorne?”

  “I do think Kevin was involved somehow. I think he knew something. The question is, what?”

  “Did you always want to become a cop?”

  “Just help me. Please.”

  She dropped her hands onto the table in frustration, rattling the silverware against the ceramic dishes. “Just what do you think it is I can do? Detective, this book could mean nothing. Nothing at all. You’re off a case which has no leads, and you’re probably grasping at straws. Want to know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what happened two days ago. You have your own grief to deal with, Mr. Healy, and you’re trying to cope with it by rushing to solve a case you’re no longer lawfully allowed to. You think that by finding this killer you say is out there that you’ll be able to release yourself from these feelings.”

  “Oh, don’t try to therapize me,” he said, feeling a stab of anger. “You were there, too. You were shot at, too.”

  “I’m not trying to therapize you. You and I both know I can’t therapize you. What I can do – what I’m trying to do – is be a friend to you. But you’re not making it easy because you keep acting like such a jackass.”

  She fell silent, and then began gathering up her things.

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve got skin in the game. We both do.”

  She glanced at him briefly, but kept on readying herself to leave. She took money from her wallet and set it down on the table.

  He watched her.

  “I asked Kevin Heilshorn if he was willing to sign a release so I could potentially share any pertinent information with the police. But he wouldn’t sign anything. And unless he told me he was the killer, or was going to hurt himself or hurt someone else, our relationship was confidential. I hoped to help him through his tragedy. But he remained volatile.” She stood up. Her eyes seemed to charge him with being “volatile” himself. “If you ever feel like you want to talk to me about this – as a friend – stop your obsession and give me a call.”

  “Please take your money back. It’s on me.”

  “I’d feel better if I left it.”

  “Okay.”

  She lingered for a moment. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too.” He didn’t know what else to say. He watched her walk out of the restaurant.

  * * *

  Brendan spent the afternoon on the computer and phone. He found the house Rebecca Heilshorn had rented and dialed the property manager. A woman answered. He asked if it were available for rent. It wasn’t, and he then inquired about a former tenant.

  “Rebecca Heilshorn. This would be about two years ago,” she said.

  “What about her?”

  “I’m an old friend and I’m just trying to track her down. Do you remember her? Did you rent to her?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure. You don’t want to check your records or anything?”

  “Sir, I’ve been recently contacted by the State Police about this same person. I’ll tell you what I told them, I have no records of a person by that name renting the house. We’ve represented the owner for six years.”

  “Who is the owner?”

  “I’m sorry, you say you’re a friend? Why do you want to know who owns the house the woman you’re friends with never rented?”

  “I’m really just in a bind trying to find her. I’m getting married and we were old college friends. It would mean so much to me if I could track her down.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Maybe you could just try one more thing? Just check and see if the home was rented to anyone at that time by the name of Danice.”

  An exhalation over the phone. “Alright. Hold on please.” She came back only a few seconds later. “No, I’m sorry. No one named Danice. Now, I really can’t continue with this, sir. What did you say your name was?”

  “Seamus Argon,” Brendan lied. “If you could please just . . . I’m really desperate here. I need to get in touch with her. Please, the name of the owner?”

  There was another sigh, and then a pause. “Reginald Forrester,” she said.

  The name didn’t ring any bells for Brendan. He made a note to have Colinas run it. “Ok. Thank you so much. I’m sorry to be a trouble.” Brendan hung up.

  Following up with Donald Kettering didn’t work, either. An assistant in the hardware store informed Brendan that Kettering was away for a couple of days. Out of town for the weekend on trade show business. Brendan thanked him and got off the line.

  He turned his attention to his laptop. He sipped on an iced tea and lit a cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the house he was renting, and so far had taken his cigarettes outside. This afternoon he didn’t care. He used a plastic cup with some water in it for an ashtray and pecked at the keys of his Compaq.

  He tried several searches. He cross-referenced Danice with The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis, and the names of Rebecca Heilshorn, Kevin, and the whole Heilshorn family. Nothing cogent appeared. When he entered Heilshorn alone, it drew some slightly more interesting results.

  There was a Laura Heilshorn who was a faculty member in the bioengineering department at MIT. He read parts of her biography out loud in the empty living room. Her interests w
ere described as including regenerative medicine, engineered proteins with novel assembly properties, microfluidics, and stem cell differentiation. Practical applications included spinal cord injuries, Parkinson’s disease, and strokes, in which she performed tissue engineering and designed cellular transportation scaffolds.

  There were other Heilshorns as well, an artist among them. He scrolled down on one page and his breath caught. There was a hit on neuroscience in correlation with a Heilshorn. “Decorrelated Neuronal Firing in Cortical Microcircuits.” But the correlation was insignificant – the Heilshorn in the same hit was not the neuroscientist, but a man named Hung-foo. Besides, the only reason it had struck him, he realized, was because of his own field of study back in his academic days.

  He cross-referenced Laura with Alexander Heilshorn. There was nothing to indicate any relationship between them, either familial or professional. He’d thought maybe that medicine ran in the family. It was still possible that they were related, but he wondered how much it would matter anyway.

  Here he was, at nearly five in the afternoon, no longer on a case, trying to make something out of phantoms.

  Maybe Olivia was right. Maybe he was grasping at straws.

  At five o’clock, he checked the local news online, and watched the live stream. After a few other breaking stories, a feature discussed the Heilshorn murder. He winced as he saw a replay of himself talking to the reporter behind the Sheriff’s Department building. It was only a brief clip – likely they had run the whole thing the evening before, he had carefully avoided watching it – and then Senior Prosecutor Skene was standing in front of the microphones on the steps at the front of the building.

  Brendan watched Skene repeat the usual rhetoric: We have strong leads. We’re working every angle and adding value to the case all the time. We’ll have it solved soon. Refer to the hotline if you have anything you think might be helpful. Be sure to vote in the upcoming elections.

  The story ended and the news turned to national stories on wildfires and tornados. Brendan closed the window on the screen and sat back in the couch.

  It would make sense to let it all go. Not only could he lose his job, but he could end up interfering, and be brought up on charges. As it was, he still had the whole situation with the Kevin Heilshorn shooting to look forward to. It would take up much of next week, for sure. There would be an immense amount of paperwork, and more meetings with Internal Affairs.