by Adira August
Friday, October 20th, 2017
Phillip Greenstein met with the Unit after lunch. Dan Gordi joined them on the big monitor. Rich Nugent who headed the scene processing, and Detective Sergeant Ray Peat joined them in person. Avia sat at the high table manipulating images.
Hunter had purposely forbidden coffee. He wanted no one getting comfortable and the meeting to be conducted and concluded as efficiently as possible.
Diana Natani opened the meeting by having everyone state their name and position and announcing the meeting was being recorded.
“Doctor Greenstein, you have a diagnosis of Russell Robl?”
“No. It will be months, at least. I do suspect he is on what’s called ‘the spectrum’ now. That he’s diagnosably autistic. He wouldn’t have been diagnosed in the fifties or sixties because he’s not far enough along the spectrum. He would have been seen as a ‘weird kid’ more than likely. Probably rejected by his peers, possibly assumed to be retarded, as they would have called it then.”
“Is he?” Hunt asked.
“Intellectually impaired? No, I don’t think so. Emotionally crippled? Yes.”
“He made a radio,” Nugent said. “He tapped into the house wiring in the larger part of the attic and made a working a.m. radio.”
“He also concealed a crime and destroyed evidence,” Peat offered. “He drove the victim’s car to a location that would throw off an investigation. Not some random location, one known to be frequented by teenagers.”
“He butchered the bodies,” Gordi said.
Greenstein looked at Hunter.
“You aren’t under oath, doctor. You’re expert spitballing. Is he schizophrenic?”
“Not in any classic definition of the term. Scans show no structural changes in his brain.”
“But there are other definitions?” Natani asked.
“This is an individual with extremely disordered thinking. I suspect serious PTSD not associated with the war. He’s suffering from multiple effects of malnutrition. What will emerge in six months—”
“Cut the shit and give us an opinion,” Merisi snapped.
Greenstein considered him for a moment, then turned to the monitor. “Doctor Gordi, what was Francis Gardia’s cause of death?”
Silence.
“You weren’t able to determine it because of the condition of the remains. I read you’re report,” Greenstein said. He looked around the table.
“Russell Robl believed James Dobbs was killing Francis Guardia by smothering her and beat him over the head with his gun to save her.” He looked back at Gordi. “Does that scenario fit within your findings?”
Merisi leaned forward “Why would—”
Greenstein held up a hand and Hunter shook his head at Merisi, who subsided.
Gordi looked over his notes. “Nothing I found would preclude what you’ve outlined.”
“In fact,” Greenstein said, “there is damage to the nasal bone consistent with smothering, isn’t there?”
“There is.”
“Ms. Twee, did you find anything on the weapon that would support this theory of mode of death?”
She didn’t have to consult anything. “James’ hair and skin was embedded in the cylinder.”
“And was there any indication he tried to clean it off? Hide the evidence?”
She shook her head.
“You’re saying that what looks to us like a guilty person trying to hide the evidence of his crime is … what?” Hunter asked.
“He was trying to keep people from finding him. Just finding him. Invading his home. Hurting him.”
Greenstein sat back and rubbed his face and looked for a moment like a very old man. “He put them in the cider press because he used to stay there in the summer. He thought it was safe and nice. But Russell Robl weighed eighty-three pounds when he was admitted. He couldn’t lift the bodies. He dragged them downstairs and—”
“Made them lighter,” Hunter finished for him.
“He considers what he did burying them where they’d be safe,” Greenstein said grimly. “Lieutenant, in every one of these killings this man believed himself or another to be under attack.
“He reports he was in the kitchen when they came into the utility porch. He hid in the corner, afraid they’d see him if he went to the pantry door. He heard her making a noise and looked out and the boy was on top of her and she was screaming and he was smothering her.”
He shook his head. “He didn’t think about crime. He thought about being found, as much as this person is able to think about anything. I can hang a few labels on him. Schizoaffective disorder might be a good catch-all here. But the fact is, I doubt anything will make complete sense.
“He cannot now, nor do I believe he will ever, be able to assist in his own defense or understand what’s happening. My personal goal is to keep him in Denver as long as possible instead of sending him to Pueblo.”
“So you can study him,” Merisi said.
Greenstein’s face melted into neutrality. “It’s my job.”
And Hunter Dane, intuitive master gamesman, experienced cop, knew he was lying. He knew Greenstein wanted to protect the old man who seemed forever hostage to a disturbed, demonic child.
Hunter stood up. “Thank you. I’m sure in a case this complex the D.A.’s office will give you as much time as you need for an assessment.” He looked at Natani who nodded. “The evidence analysis is also complex. Ms. Twee will be consulting with you.”
Greenstein looked a little shocked at how easily Hunt accepted what he’d said. “Of course.”
The meeting was over. Ray Peat caught Hunter in his office, standing at the window looking out.
“I’m going to talk to the kids’ families,” Peat said. “What do I tell them?”
“That the killer is in custody and will be incarcerated for the rest of his life,” Hunter answered without turning around.
“Joe Stadler’s daughter knew.”
Hunt glanced back at him. “Who?”
“One of the deputies who responded to the scene. You met him. His daughter knew they were planning to have sex. She had a kind of breakdown. Thinks it’s her fault. She should have told her father. Or Frannie’s mother. She should have told somebody. You have anything I can tell her?”
Hunter faced him. “You tell them all they loved Frannie the very best they knew how. And no one can do better than that.”
Thursday, November 2nd, 2017
Hunter spent the last two weeks holed up in the A-frame studying for the Lieutenant's exam. It was Natani who pointed out that the date coincided with his wedding day.
“The test is from nine to noon,” Cam shrugged. “We’ll get married at three.”
They were walking through a furniture store.
“I won’t be able to help, though,” Hunter told him. “With anything. You have the Foundation …” He shook his head.
“Nobody asked you to help,” Cam said stopping in the middle of a living room suite. “You’re the groom in this scenario. You have no say. You show up and do what you’re told.” He grinned. “It’s tailor-made for you.”
He sat down in a tufted wingback chair. “I’m the bride. I have a mother and grandmother fighting over who gets to do the most. … This is amazing comfortable.”
Hunter took the matching chair next to it. “Huh. It is. Tell me again you aren’t being self-sacrificing.”
“No. Pass your fucking test.” He got up and looked around. “This is our third store, you have any likes or dislikes or anything?”
“I like this chair. And I liked that couch we saw at the last place.”
“The one with the ball feet?”
“Right. But mostly, I think I like red.”
“Red.”
“Yeah. Not bright and bloody, more like—”
“-brick. Or maple leaves in fall back east,” Cam finished.
Hunter stood up and kissed him. “C’mon. We’ll stop on the way home for the books I need for the test.�
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Hunt had told Cam he wasn’t comfortable in the townhouse until it was really their home and so he’d moved into the A-frame full time. He took a few weeks off work, on call if anything big came in. Merisi only had to handle one case, a sad autoerotic asphyxiation of the seventeen-year-old son of a local sports personality.
Merisi and Twee made a straightforward determination of accidental death within twenty-four hours. Zee confirmed. Hunter did nothing more than review the paperwork Avia forwarded to him.
Cam picked out furniture and consulted with decorators. He was determined to have the townhouse finished and all Hunt’s things moved in by the wedding, so he could carry Hunter over the threshold into their new home.
It occurred to him he might ceremonially fuck Hunter right there. Then he wondered if he should discreetly install some eyebolts in the top of the doorframe. And then he went and found Hunter who he decided needed a break from studying.
Even for people of influence, it’s almost impossible to find a venue suitable for even a smallish wedding with only a hundred guests on two weeks notice. Surprisingly—to everyone but Mike Merisi—it was Cal Derricksen who provided the solution.
In the high-rise buildings Cal working on, it was customary to finish one or a part of one floor to show potential lessees while the building was under construction so it would be occupied as soon as possible after completion. Cal convinced the owner that this wedding would be rife with lawyers, business people and billionaires.
He showed Elizabeth Snow half the eighth floor which was, as yet, undivided into offices. A huge open space, carpeted, with walls of windows on three sides, it offered fantastic views of the city and Front Range.
The elevator interior was finished (one car) and the bathrooms.
She was delighted and called Cam to come look at it.
“Perfect. Just keep the fairy lights to minimum, okay?”
She cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him. ”It’s a daytime wedding and I have excellent taste. Have you written your vows?”
“That part you don’t worry about,” he said and went to thank Cal who stayed in construction site manager mode long enough to not get tongue-tied or faint in front of Camden Snow’s mother. Or Camden Snow.
He assured Cam it would be a simple matter to get a few temp walls up to make a cloakroom and a dressing room, if he wanted. He could also make a room for the caterers to stay out of sight.
Cam flashed him his shy one-dimple smile and told him how great it was to have someone helping out like this. And suddenly Cal saw not the Olympian and powerful Dom always apparent just under the surface. He saw a boy he knew had no father, who carried so much responsibility alone.
He put a hand on Cam’s arm. “You don’t give it another thought. I’ll take care of this part.”
NOVEMBER 2ND DAWNED bright and perfect, as most Colorado days did. Shafts of sunlight spilled over the hogback as Hunter topped the last rise. He ran the mountain most mornings to greet the sun. Tomorrow they would drive to Hopi, to Third Mesa, and he would take Cam on a run over the terrain he loved, the tumbles of rocks and hidden canyons.
He would introduce his husband to his mother and hers.
He didn’t know how much, in her dementia, his mother would understand. He didn’t know how much, in her complete withdrawal from the white world, his grandmother would respond. But he did know they loved him and would see his peace. And Cam would see part of him he’d never shared.
Hunter didn’t mind the wedding, really. He’d get through it and the endure the other mother, Cam’s mother.
"My son's in love with you, detective. He told me about you. About your"—she hesitated—"attachment disorder. Camden would be an extraordinary human being if he'd never heard of the Olympics. My son deserves to be well-loved."
Which meant not be with Hunter Dane. He’d walked away, because he agreed with her. And Elizabeth Snow had tried to take Cam away, at least for a while.
But whatever it was that drew the two men to one another, they’d all had to surrender to. And tomorrow, he’d get through whatever culturally-demanded exchanges of civility were necessary to be cordial to Elizabeth Snow give Cam a day he’d love remembering.
Hunt ran back down the mountain to the empty A-frame. Cam had a meeting that morning and wouldn’t have time later to get the townhouse ready. So he’d spent last night there, doing the things he felt he needed to, to bring Hunter home after the wedding.
Hunt showered and dressed casually for the test about which he was not concerned at all. Test-taking was a skill to be learned and he had. He took his new suit with him, planning to change at the building. It was a three-piece in shades of medium and dark gray.
He slowed to a walk for the last half mile, wondering at this place in his life where he would take such a great step and know so little, really. Everyone had taken care of everything. Except for buying his suit and going with Cam to choose and order their rings, he had done nothing.
Even when he’d asked Cam about rehearsals and wedding vows, Cam had just said “Trust me.”
And so Hunter had. And as he entered the A-frame he realized that was his real vow. That he would trust Camden Snow forever.
Love, and be lov’d.
Poor Richard's Almanac
Cheswick “Chez” Cannon looked amazingly dapper in a tan suit and brown patent leather shoes. His shirt was a tan and white shadow check, the tie a rather subdued black and brown. He hurried up to Hunter and took the garment bag from him.
When it came time to chose someone to “give him away,” or at least to escort him down the aisle, Hunt couldn’t imagine asking anyone but the club owner he’d known so long and respected so much. Chez was a little bit of ajoke to some, being a rather fussy fellow. But he was a warm host, brilliant club designer and simply a very decent man.
“Come, come, come,” he whispered and ushered Hunter ahead of him like a sheep dog with a stray lamb.
“Chez, why are you whispering and why are you in a rush? I have a half hour.”
Chez looked horrified. “Cam’s around somewhere. We don’t want him seeing you before the wedding, do we?”
Hunter swallowed his laugh and put on a solemn look. ”No, of course not. You think of everything.”
Chez shooed him into a small “room” with six-foot high walls. It had a mirror, a single chair and a spindly standing coat rack. Hunter was impressed there was a mirror, even if it did just lean against the wall.
Chex unzipped the bag and exclaimed over how handsome the suit was. Hunter tossed his jacket over the top of the wall and pulled off his sweater.
“Oh, good, you shaved,” Chez said.
Hunt grinned. ”Dwight made me. I saw him out there, have you met?”
“Briefly. He seems to know just what he’s doing. I’m surprised he photographs weddings.”
“Just this one.” Hunt’s shirt joined his jacket and he dropped his pants.
“Ring, please?”
Hunter frowned. “Ring?” He was pretty sure he saw a few strands of Chez’ thin dark blond hair actually rise a few millimeters.
“You were supposed to bring it!” he cried. “Oh, my God—”
Hunter held out the small box. “Might be in here.”
Chez snatched it from his hand. “Watch yourself or I’ll ask Cam to give us a quilling demonstration.”
Hunter slipped off his shoes. He’d just worn the shoes he’d wear to be married. Black oxfords were black oxfords, after all. Chez found a brush in a small carry-all and shined them.
“I could tell him to demonstrate on you,” Hunter suggested, enjoying the blush that bloomed on the sub’s face.
“You’re teasing me.”
Hunter reached for his suit. “Chez, you don’t know how much I appreciate you being here right now.”
The little man didn’t look up. “Yes, I do.” Hunt could see the smile at the corner of his mouth.
Chez put down the shoes and inspected his hands for cleanliness
. “I’m supposed to take the ring out of the box and put it in your right coat pocket,” he said. Then just stood there watching Hunter button his shirt.
“Okay. And you aren’t doing that because …”
“Well, is it okay? I’ll see it.”
“I didn’t know rings were a thing, that way. Here.” Hunter held his hand out for the box and opened it. “Go ahead.”
The ring inside was a simple band, wide with a rounded top. A line of tiny hemispheres circled each edge.
“Oh, this is milgrain!” said Chez. “My grandparents had some like this.”
“So did my dad and mom.” Hunter reached for his pants, suddenly needing to blink hard.
Chez kept his eyes on the ring, pretending he didn’t hear the catch in Hunt’s voice. “It’s very wide. That’s good. Cam has such big hands.” He plucked it carefully from its velvet nest. “Omigosh! It’s platinum?”
Hunter shrugged. “He’s Camden Snow. Mine’s the same but yellow gold and a little narrower.”
Chez gave him a big smile and placed the ring carefully into the pocket of the suit coat after checking for holes in the lining. Hunter started tying his tie, but Chez slapped his hand away to do it for him.
“Windsor knots for weddings,” Chez informed him.
“Okay. Will the minister or whatever just tell us when to take the rings out?”
“Usually,” Chez told him. “But Cam was rather coy about it when I asked. He said ‘Hunter will know’.”
Hunt sighed, hoping that was true.
Chez wouldn’t let him sit down and tie his own shoes, saying it would wrinkle his pants. Chez took a knee and tied them, himself.
Hunter drew a hard limit at the hair glop Chez wanted to use to keep his hair off of his forehead. “How will Cam recognize me?”
Finally, Chez was satisfied. Music started to play, something Chez probably picked out by Puccini. The voices of the guests died down.
“You see, we were almost late. Check the ring,” Chez said, peering around the end of the wall.
