As Amanda had recounted, one evening after midnight Brenda thought she heard something downstairs and triggered the alarm using a bedside keypad. Inside eight minutes, Wheeler showed up like the cavalry, lights flashing and gun drawn. Crack investigative work revealed that the noise was caused by the cat doing cartwheels in the living room. All was well and the day was saved. Shaky laughter all around. Brenda Lane was justifiably grateful for the timely, heroic response of young Officer Wheeler and likely tripped over herself thanking him, her voice filled with equal parts relief and embarrassment.
She was less pleased when Wheeler showed up the next night. And the night after that. And continued to do so several times a week. He haunted their neighborhood, often staked out front sitting in the cruiser or walking up the drive and ringing the bell at dinner time. To check on them, naturally.
As the days and weeks progressed, she lodged complaints, trying to get the watch captain to take him off the beat, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what kind of priority it was for the MPDC. When I interviewed some cops at the station, I found out that Wheeler was talking a big game, telling everyone how he was nailing Brenda every other night. She was a cop chaser, he said, crazy about uniforms. And now she was trying to get back at him because she'd found out he had a girlfriend. That kind of talk gets around, trickles both up and down the ladder. They blew her off, nodding and doodling aimlessly when she called. A few of the cops even warned him to watch out she didn't start stalking him.
But the complaints kept rolling in, with Brenda getting more upset and more demanding. She mentioned she was going to hire lawyers and contact newspapers. Her ward representative got involved and began making waves. The brass was being pressured to do something and the word was on its way down to get Wheeler reassigned to another squad before something happened to embarrass the department.
But the next squad that he dealt with was Homicide.
A few months after Wheeler's first response, late on a weeknight, he called in that he was checking out another possible breakin at the Lane's. Dispatch asked for details since they hadn't received a 911. Wheeler didn't respond. Three minutes later, the switchboard got a frantic call from Brenda Lane that someone was at her front door, trying to break in. The woman was so frightened the operator could barely understand her. I listened to the tape many times. The garbled recording cut off with her high pitched voice screaming "You?" and then "Don't, don't, don't" followed by gun shots.
Ten seconds after making the call, Brenda Lane was dead.
It took me half an hour to get across town from wrapping up another homicide. When I got to the Palisades, the Lane's property was lit up like the President's tree at Christmas time. There were four MPDC cruisers with lights on, an ambulance, and a forensics team van, all of them pulled up to the curb in front of the house or on the lawn itself. Had it been a street corner downtown, it would've been routine. For the Palisades, it was a circus. Neighbors in bathrobes and wrong-buttoned shirts were crowded on the sidewalk, hugging their arms to their chest and standing on tiptoes, trying to see into the house.
I pushed my way through, looking for someone who knew what was going on, then did a double-take. My partner, Jim Kransky, stood next to a cruiser, his arms at his sides and his stance awkward, as though he'd been stopped in mid-stride on his way to somewhere important. His eyes were glued to the front door like he expected the devil to walk out.
"Jim, what are you doing here?" I asked, walking up to him. "I thought you knocked off early after that Logan Circle thing this afternoon. The stabbing."
He turned to me, looking pale and worn out, but wired. He was a thin man and his features had always been sharp, but tonight his face was all planes and points, like there were knives underneath the angles of his cheeks, jaw, and chin. Normally, his eyes would be moving, scanning, taking in the environment, the people, the situation, but right now he looked blank and hollowed out. It was obvious he didn't know who was talking to him.
He blinked and took a breath, as if coming-to. "Hey, Marty. Yeah, I went home for a little while, tried to get some sleep, couldn't. I heard this thing come over the wire and thought I'd check it out."
I raised my eyebrows, but said nothing. When I took the rest of the day off, I stayed off. I looked towards the house. "What do we know?"
"White female, single, thirty-three. Her name is--was, Brenda. Brenda Lane. Shot three times. One in the head and two in the chest."
"Where?
"Bedroom, second floor."
"Anyone else?"
His face was pained. "A daughter. Ten, twelve years old. Amanda. She was at a sleepover at a neighbor's."
"God," I said, glancing at the house, then back at him. "Who called it in?"
"Mike Wheeler. Over there."
I turned. A knot of four cops stood in the driveway, arms folded or thumbs in their belts. The closest to me I recognized, but couldn't place the name. Simon? Simeon? He was thick like a engine block. You could draw a straight line from his shoulders to his shoes. Standing close enough to Simon to brush shoulders was a bald guy in his forties, with the fit-look of a runner or biker. The third cop, leaning against the fender of one of the cruisers, was tall and greyhound-thin and sported a buzz cut so close that the bones and muscles in his skull stood out in shadowed relief. The last was my height, but paunchy, with brown hair brushed straight back. He had a comb-shaped mustache that didn't do much for him. He was smiling or laughing at something the tall one had said.
"Who're the badges?" I asked. "I know Simon."
"Tim Delaney is the fire plug. Lawrence Ferrin is the walking stick."
"Ferrin? Really?"
He nodded.
I groaned inwardly. Jim Ferrin was the assistant chief of police. Lawrence was his son. The father had a reputation for keeping close tabs on departments, sticking his nose randomly into cases. Worse, there were whispers that he was on the take, for being crooked as the day is long, though no one had ever pinned anything on him. If his son were sniffing around this investigation, or involved, it could be anything from a pain in the ass to a major crisis.
"That's just great," I said. "Who's the one with the gut?"
"Mike Wheeler," he said, his voice steely.
I looked at him. "Problem?"
He glared at the group. "We've had our run-ins."
"Which is why you're over here and he's over there."
"Yeah," he said, then glanced back at the house. He reached up and rubbed his eyes until I thought they were going to pop out. "God."
"You okay? "
He sniffed loudly and shook his head. "The little girl. Reminds me of Lacey. They're almost the same age, go to the same school."
"She's starting...sixth grade this year, right?"
"Yeah. I met the mother at school events a few times. She's--she was a nice lady."
"That's lousy."
"Yeah."
I waited. "How's Beth?"
His lips straightened into a taut line. "I wouldn't know."
I looked away, uncomfortable. We stood for a second, looking at the front of the house, at the flash of lights playing on the windows. My own divorce was a year gone, but that didn't empower me with any special insight. Even if I'd had any, I'm not sure I would've shared; my partner was a private person. I would barely have known he had a wife except for the holiday parties. I turned to go talk to the badges when Jim grabbed my arm.
"Marty," he said, then stopped.
"What?"
"Wheeler called it in because Wheeler did it."
That got my attention. "Wheeler was the shooter?"
"Yeah."
"Christ," I said. My stomach started to churn. "Did no one think to tell me that before I got here?"
Jim was silent. The answer was obvious. You don't say that kind of thing over the radio.
"Anyone call Internal? And Comms? And the union?"
"On their way."
"Any other surprises I should know about before I step
in them?"
Kransky hesitated. "I…no."
"You want to walk it with me?"
He waved me on. "Already been."
I pinched the bridge of my nose with a thumb and forefinger, trying to hold off a headache that was on its way. I opened my eyes and headed for the front door. Suddenly, I wasn't so eager to talk to Wheeler. Priorities shift when the shooter is standing right there. Better for me if I got a look at the crime scene first. But Wheeler had other ideas.
"Detective?" he called. I stopped and turned. He walked across the lawn from the driveway and met me on the herringbone-patterned brick walk leading to the house.
"Mike Wheeler," he said as he came up, holding his hand out. His eyes were glittering and a little too wide open. I shook his hand without enthusiasm.
"Marty Singer."
"Thanks for coming so quickly, Detective."
"It's what I do."
A smile split his face like I'd told a joke. He stroked his mustache then his hand strayed to his gun belt and started playing with one of the loops. "Do you have any questions for me? Or maybe I could take you through the scene? It's confusing."
I glanced around, wanting him to go away. "I think I can handle it."
"It all went down in the bedroom. She had a nine, loaded and ready. Don't know where she got it, but she sure as shit had it pointed right at me the second I came through the door."
"I don't think you should--"
He plowed ahead as though I hadn't said anything. "I thought I was going to take a round right then and there, the way she had that thing aimed at me."
I stopped him. "Wheeler, look. First, you should be more concerned about the fact that you shot someone tonight. Second, you and I aren't on the same team right now, so keep your distance. Third, you better start thinking about what you're going to say to Internal. You'll have to take admin leave, go through the interviews, and pass the review board. There's going to be press everywhere and people calling you day and night. You worry about that and I'll handle my end."
"I know, but I thought if you saw how it happened. You know, where I was and how she was going to shoot--"
"I said I don't want to hear it."
"I think my side of things is crucial, Detective--"
I stepped up to him, stopping six inches from that mustache. "Wheeler, this is a homicide investigation. And since the Palisades isn't exactly crack country, there's going to be a shitload of explaining to do about how and why a MPDC cop happened to shoot a civilian dead in her bedroom at eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night. I don't know if this is a justified shooting. As far as I'm concerned, you're innocent until proven guilty. I'll get your story in time. But the more we talk before I put in a report--the more it looks like my investigation is tainted by me chatting with the guy who pulled the trigger--the more likely it is that the whole fucking thing will be balled up and thrown in the trash. And I don't like doing busy work. Now, would you please get the hell away from me? Or do I need to get Detective Kransky to come over here to put you down?"
Wheeler looked at me for a second, his face going through a couple of interesting shades of red and purple, then he closed his mouth with a snap and stalked away. I shook my head as I walked to the house, trying to clear my mind.
The front door hung from a single hinge; the lock had been ripped out of the wall and the brass safety chain snapped. I took my time looking around. The decorating was tasteful, if uninspired. The wall color was beige, the paintings were neutral, impersonal, the furniture likewise. It was as if the owner had wanted to decorate, then tired of the idea and asked someone else to do it for them. I moved down the hall. The conversations of the neighbors and the sound of running engines faded to a murmur.
There were stairs ahead of me, a parlor to the right, and a living room to the left. A neighbor and a badge were in the living room with a little girl. She was enveloped by one of those generic blue blankets that all cop cars and ambulances stock. Only her face was showing and it made me stop. Her skin was white, translucent, like the petals of an orchid. Doe's eyes peered out of a face that was both blank and slightly expectant, as though waiting for someone to tell her that everything that had happened was staged. A stunt, a big put-on. I'd seen that same face more times than I care to remember--it was the face that all survivors have. She stared at me as though trying to memorize my features, but I knew she wasn't seeing me.
I walked over and introduced myself. The neighbor hugged the girl protectively and glared at me, but I ignored her and knelt down. The girl watched me the whole way. I asked for her name and she told me. It was Amanda.
I fished out a card and gave it to her. "Amanda, this is for you. Things are going to be crazy for a while, and these people will take care of you, but I want you to call me if you need anything, okay?"
She looked at me with those eyes for a while, then a tiny white hand snuck out from under the blanket and took the card. There was a little glass figurine of a unicorn in the same hand. She hadn't said anything but her name. I smiled awkwardly. At the time I put her silence down to shock. It didn't occur to me until later that Amanda had no reason to trust anyone with a badge.
I left them and went upstairs to take in the scene, nodding to the rookie who was guarding the scene. The bedroom was at the back of the hall, its light bright and penetrating. The lab techs were finishing their work, so I peeked in the other rooms while I waited for them to wrap up. Things seemed neat, orderly, and undisturbed. A few minutes later, the techs snapped their cases shut and clicked the latches. The pictures were done, measurements taken, posture described and noted. They picked up their gear, gave me a nod, and scooched past me. I stopped one of them.
"The light on like this when you got here?" I asked.
"Just like that," the tech said. "Bright as day."
"No mistake about that?"
He shrugged. "It's how we found it."
"All right, thanks."
They left. I squinted at the room from the hall, but a heavy oak dresser with a stereo on top blocked my view, so I moved into the room. I touched nothing, leaving it in situ, as the textbooks like to say. There were more thoughtless appointments on the walls. Framed pictures of sailboats and things like that. Facing the door and with my back to the hall, the queen-sized bed was against the left wall, arranged under a large window. Brenda Lane's body was sprawled on the far side of the bed. Some clothes had been flung over the chair. A pair of sandals rested on the floor at the foot of the bed, one lying over the other.
I studied the body. Two shots to the chest, one in the head, like Kransky had told me. The impact of the third shot had flung her back and she lay wound-side down so that her head disguised the exit. Long, dark hair fanned across the pillow. I moved closer and looked at her face. The bullet's entry made any kind of judgment suspect, but she seemed to have been a good-looking woman, with a heart-shaped face. Her right arm had flopped across her chest, almost covering the other two bullet holes. If you ignored the blood, you could've mistaken her for someone sleeping off a hard night. She wore baby-blue cotton p.j.'s with a pattern of miniature lambs jumping over tiny fences.
On the floor by the side of the bed, a foot or so from her outstretched left hand, was a Browning BDM. I bent down to take a closer look. The BDM is a squared-off, ugly thing. It's not the biggest handgun in the world, but it's a real macho-looking piece. Residual powder flecked the trigger, guard, and barrel from where the lab team had dusted them. The safety was off. I plucked a handkerchief from my pocket and flicked the safety on, then slid the clip out. It was a modified, fifteen round clip not normally available to civilians. I counted fourteen still there. No one had said anything about Brenda Lane getting a shot off, so there was one in the chamber. It's a procedural no-no, but live weapons at a crime scene make me nervous, so I ejected the solo round and put it and the clip beside the gun where I'd found it.
I stood. Something was bothering me. I returned to the hall and paused outside the door. I made a pistol
with my finger and thumb, aiming it at the body sprawled on the bed. Or tried to. With the angle I had, I couldn't even see it: the dresser was in the way. Keeping my arm outstretched, I shuffled by the half-step into the room until I was sure I had a clear shot. Not until I was five feet into the room did I feel I could've gotten even a one-handed snap shot off. Eight feet if I wanted to be sure of my aim.
I let my arm drop and soaked it all in. I didn't like what I saw. Or felt. I went back downstairs. The girl was gone, probably whisked away to a hospital. I walked outside, tired and with a crawling feeling in my gut. Wheeler and the clump of cops were still there, talking. Kransky was gone.
I was about to go over to Wheeler to talk to him when my pager went off. The number was a general extension for the MPDC HQ. Not a number to ignore. I veered toward the old Buick I was driving that year and called in from my car phone.
A firm, clipped voice answered. "Ferrin."
I took a breath. "Marty Singer, Chief. You paged me?"
"Singer. I heard you've got a real cluster fuck on your hands."
"I just walked the scene, Chief. I haven't talked to the shooter yet. It's an MPDC cop named Wheeler."
"I know who it is," Jim Ferrin said. "That's why I'm calling. The press is going to be riding our ass on this and we don't need any screw-ups in the field."
"I wasn't planning on dropping the ball," I said.
His voice was brittle. "Make sure you don't, Singer. We have a shitty reputation in this town as it is. If we gloss over any part of this case, it'll look like we're covering for Wheeler. And we can't suffer a black eye of that magnitude. Got it?"
I bit back a smart-ass reply. "Got it."
"Then get back to work, Detective," he said, and hung up.
I sat there, digesting what my assistant chief of police had just said, then shrugged. I hadn't planned on either hiding evidence or fabricating it. If a cop killing a civilian was a media relations nightmare, it wasn't my problem. I got out of the car, pissed off, and looked around for Wheeler. I caught his eye and motioned for him to come talk to me. He said something out of the side of his mouth to the other cops. Ferrin and Delaney laughed. Wheeler walked over to me with his thumbs hooked in his belt like a gunslinger, except his sidearm was missing, already turned in as evidence.
A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) Page 3
