Burden of Truth

by Terri Nolan

  Echoes of harsh-sounding foreign words bounced up the turret. The inflection was instantly recognizable even though she hadn’t heard it since her grandpa died. The intruder was an Irishman, cussing in Irish Gaelic.

  She got it. The intruder had run down the turret and hid in the entry coat closet. He didn’t know it, but it was the best place to hide. The cops didn’t come through the front door. The entry would be one of the last places checked.

  She thought she heard pops and thumps and glass breaking, but the thunder messed with her ears. She wasn’t sure. Voices from indistinct areas shouted. “Out Back.” “Police.” “Put the gun down.” “Stop now.”

  There came a long silence. No commands. No thunder. As if Mother Nature turned off the stereo.

  She wanted to know what was happening. Her knees hurt. Her foot hurt.

  The cop’s radio crackled to life.

  Suspect down.

  thirteen

  Birdie sat in a living room chair under the watchful eye of a uniform. Her identity had been verified. She’d been uncuffed. Two suited men approached. One knelt in front of her and said, “Are you okay, Miss Keane?”

  She looked at the badge around his neck then glanced up at the face. Crinkled eyes, brown skin, mustache. Kind. “What is your name?”

  “Detective Nunez. I need to ask you some questions.”

  She looked up at the other man. No police badge was visible. “And you are?”

  The man didn’t answer. He looked down at her with an air of superiority that she took an instant dislike to—especially since he was in her house. His face was familiar though: bent nose, straight eyebrows, scarred complexion, dark eyes. She’d seen him before, but couldn’t remember where. He gave her the creeps.

  Nunez said, “Tell us what happened here this evening.”

  She pointed a shaky finger at the suited man. “Who is he? If he doesn’t identify himself, I won’t talk in his presence. My father is Captain Gerard Keane from Hollywood Station.” Her voice went up an octave. “I know you have a job to do, but I have rights, and I don’t have to talk to anyone who presents the color of authority, but won’t identify himself.” The adrenaline had worn off long ago and her hands shook violently.

  The man smirked, whispered in Nunez’s ear, and walked away.

  “Do you need something before we continue?” Nunez said.

  “I’m an alcoholic. I need my chewing gum,” she said, hiccupping back a sob.

  Nunez reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small pack of peppermint. He handed her a piece. She thrust it into her mouth and began chomping like her life depended on it.

  “Take your time,” said Nunez, sitting down. “Start at the beginning.”

  Birdie made a good witness. She told him everything without embellishment.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Eight years.”

  “You live alone?”

  She nodded.

  “How many times has your house been broken into?”

  “Just tonight.”

  “Why would you feel the need to have a loaded gun in your desk?”

  “I have several guns in the house.” Oh, you shouldn’t have said that. “They’re all registered.” Her voice picked up speed. “I’ve been threatened in the past … because of my work … I have a CCW.” Stop talking. Don’t ever offer unasked information to the police.

  Another uniform approached and spoke to Nunez. “There’s a mess in a room upstairs; storage boxes overturned, papers everywhere.”

  Matt’s boxes. Everything seemed wrong. What could the intruder have wanted with those? They didn’t contain anything worth breaking in for. The unidentified man appeared within Birdie’s sightline and he seemed interested in the report.

  “What’s upstairs?” said Nunez.

  “Bedrooms. Bathrooms.”

  “I’d like you to accompany me upstairs to get an indication of what he was after.”

  They toured Birdie’s bedroom. It was as she’d left it. Ditto the guest room across the hall. The one that held Matt’s boxes was a disaster. The contents of every box were dumped. Journals, yellow pads, files, papers, awards and memorabilia littered the room. The intruder was definitely looking for something. Birdie felt an overwhelming protection toward the materials that represented Matt’s life. She made an instant decision to lie to Nunez. She was a skilled and clever liar. Most functional alcoholics were. There could be serious consequences of lying, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was Matt’s privacy.

  “What’s all this?” said Nunez.

  Okay, Birdie, you can do this. Don’t twitch, don’t wink or avert your eyes. Don’t rub your hands together. Don’t change your posture; don’t change the pitch of your voice; don’t take an obvious breath. Just let the lie flow easily.

  She shrugged. “Nothing of importance.”

  Nunez raised an eyebrow and said, “Obviously he was looking for something.” He made the correct assumption that the intruder made the mess. Looking at the apparent neatness of the rest of the house, it was a good call. But Birdie wasn’t about to confirm it. If she did then the contents of the boxes would become evidence, and she wouldn’t allow that.

  “I should clarify,” she said. “Nothing of importance to anyone other than myself. I’m a reporter. Those boxes contain notes, research material, copies of stories, stuff like that.” You’re taking a big gamble. What if he decides to look closely? “As I said before, I’m an alcoholic.” Go ahead, lay it on thick. “Today was a bad day. I got frustrated. Made a big mess.”

  “What about jewelry, cash, or other valuables?”

  “In the gun locker in the garage.”

  “We’ll look at that, too. Let’s continue.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened downstairs?” she said.

  “Your intruder got cornered and killed himself in the backyard.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  They finished inspecting the house. Birdie determined that nothing was missing, but she wasn’t 100 percent sure that the intruder didn’t take something from Matt’s boxes.

  The yard had become a hive of activity—uniforms, suits, guys with tackle boxes, lights on tripods, cameras—the dead body business.

  A familiar voice came from the kitchen. “Where is she? Bird?” Thom appeared. “Are you all right?” He swooped her into a hug. “I came code 3.”

  “I’m glad to have some friendly company.” She gave Nunez her best evil eye, even though he was just doing his job.

  “Gerard’s on the way,” said Thom.

  “Oh, let’s not get crazy,” she said.

  Nunez piped in. “Yes, let’s not get crazy. You are?”

  Thom flashed the badge and gave Nunez a business card. He wasn’t impressed. He said, “Well, Detective Keane, RHD, Wilshire has it under control, but it was nice of you to come.”

  “Come on, Bird, we’re going to the library.” He ticked his head at Nunez. “You know where to find us.”

  Birdie found herself leaning on Thom. She turned and looked for the man with no name but couldn’t see him. She worried that he had moved upstairs to check out Matt’s stuff.

  “Have any hooch?” said Thom.

  “In the cabinet.”

  She didn’t specify which and he didn’t seem to care. He opened several doors to find the stash. Birdie stood at the door watching the stairway to see if anyone moved up or down from the third floor. So far nobody had.

  “Pay dirt. You shouldn’t have this shit here.”

  He found a bottle of her ex-favorite liqueur, B&B. It was an 80-proof blend of Benedictine and brandy made with over seventy ingredients that included herbs, citrus peel, and honey. Yum. A recovering alcoholic shouldn’t have liquor in the house, but
she’d convinced herself that she kept it for Father Frank—really, it was her in-case-of-emergency stash.

  “You want hooch, I give you hooch, and then you scold me for having it in my house. Don’t drink it then.”

  “Heck no. This is good stuff.”

  He poured the deep amber-orange liquid into a Waterford snifter. Swirled it in the glass. The pungent aroma wafted up Birdie’s nose into her sinuses, moved to the back of her eyes, and up into her brain. An instant euphoria washed over her and she didn’t even taste it with her lips. She remembered the slow, warming movement down the back of her throat, the warmth of the liquid lingering in the middle of her chest, the peppery aftertaste. She reached for the glass.

  The unnamed man appeared in her peripheral vision. She flinched and turned to look at him. He looked past Birdie’s shoulder and caught Thom’s eye. Birdie swiftly turned toward her cousin. His eyes diverted to the glass. Ahhh, now she remembered …

  _____

  Birdie often stayed with her cousins at Magnolia Manor on holiday weekends. One Saturday night after she and Madi said goodnight to the adults, the teens slipped out the front door to attend a house party. The girls drank too much, smoked pot, and got totally wasted.

  By the time they returned, the Manor household was tucked in for the evening. They’d been stupid enough to leave without a house key. They managed to jimmy the window above the kitchen sink and crawl in just as the phone rang. Moments later there were shouting voices. Birdie and Madi barely had time to slip into the pantry before Louis and Nora came crashing through the swinging kitchen door. The girls watched the action through the louvered doors.

  Nora unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a tarp, quickly shook it out and laid it on top of the oak breakfast table. Louis filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. Nora systematically laid papers towels on the countertop and began to line up what looked like surgeon’s tools. Just as the boiling water in the kettle began to whistle, two men burst through the kitchen door. Both wore the familiar blue uniform of the LAPD.

  A man held up Thom’s bloodied body. Louis helped the man lay his son onto the table. Louis poured the water into a large bowl and placed a stack of small white towels at Thom’s head. Nora scissored away his bloody shirt. She placed a wooden spoon into his mouth. As Nora wiped away the blood from Thom’s torso, she calmly gave instructions.

  “You, hold his legs. Don’t let his hips move.”

  “Louis, hold his arms above his head. Keep him still. Don’t let him squirm.”

  Birdie and Madi huddled together, too petrified to move, but compelled to watch Nora perform an illicit surgery on her eldest son, on her very own kitchen table. It didn’t take long. Thom’s muffled cries rang in their ears as they watched Nora work. The girls saw the terror in Thom’s eyes as he writhed in pain. Finally, there were whoops from the men when Nora pulled a bullet from his side.

  After Thom was stitched and bandaged, he was stripped of remaining clothing and Nora gave him a shot in the butt. He was cleaned and carried away.

  Long after the kitchen went dark, the girls were still too scared to move. They held on to each other long enough to fall asleep.

  Some time later, the kitchen light woke them. The louvered door opened. Thom stood there, attempting to stay standing. He said, “I cover for you two. You cover for me. We never speak of it. It never happened.” Then directing his eyes at Madi, he said, “Little sister, you have ten seconds to get upstairs to your bed.” Madi bolted, leaving Birdie alone with Thom.

  She attempted to leave, but he placed his hand on her chest.

  “Cousin,” he said, “do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” she managed to squeak.

  “You don’t tell anybody. Not even your parents.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have six seconds.”

  It was her turn to bolt.

  _____

  Birdie’s memory of the kitchen surgery wasn’t that specific. Her young self filled the holes. Accuracy could be debated. She and Madi never had the courage to discuss it and compare experiences. And they’d never asked Thom. That was a scary thing. Time passed. Birdie had other, more pressing matters to pursue. The finer details faded.

  After all these years, she relived the important parts. The man who brought Thom into his parents’ kitchen was younger then. And he didn’t have the same position he had today. But it was the same man. The one in her home. West Bureau Deputy Chief Theodore Rankin.

  A two-star boss.

  Birdie also remembered the one thing that always bothered her about that night: clean cops don’t get bullets removed on kitchen tables. She turned to look at Thom. His eyes were on the window with the view, seemingly avoiding hers. One question invaded her thoughts: was this long-ago incident with Thom and Rankin connected to the intruder?

  fourteen

  Detective Nunez needed the front door unlocked and an explanation of how the alarm system worked. Birdie punched a few buttons and the electronic lock buzzed, unlatching the front door. Then she examined the master control panel. It hadn’t been touched since she left to meet her dad. There had been no storm-related power loss; even if there had been, a battery backup would engage.

  “It’s an electronic and manual system,” said Birdie. “A code can be entered into a touch pad to unlock a door—each door has its own pad. The key, which works on a pin and tumbler system, can also be used, but the key isn’t ordinary. It has a transponder embedded in the body that emits an electronic signal to prevent duplication.

  “The windows stay armed unless a specific zone of the house is turned off,” she continued. “If the house were broken into a silent alarm would be triggered and the security company would attempt to reach me via phone. Then they’d dispatch the cops.”

  “Have you ever been billed for false alarms?”

  “Never.”

  “To get into the house without tripping the alarm someone would have to have a code or a key. Any idea how the guy got in?”

  “I assume that a master thief might know a way to bypass the alarm. I’d have to talk to the company about that.”

  “Why don’t you have a better system?” said Nunez.

  Birdie shrugged, slightly confused. “It came with the house. I thought it was good.”

  “A good system could time stamp enter and exits. A good system would have video. Basic security protocols recommend motion-detection flood lights. Considering that you’re a single woman living alone in one of the largest houses in the neighborhood, you have a crap system.”

  Birdie gulped. Other than family heirlooms she didn’t have anything worth stealing so she had never scrutinized the security system.

  “Um … I feel really weird asking this—after all, a guy died, but … do I need to call a clean-up crew or something?”

  “I’m not certain. I’ll give you a referral list.”

  A forensic man approached. “Ma’am, I need to check your hands and clothing.”

  “She didn’t fire her weapon,” said Nunez. “But what about the DB on her grass? After the coroner transports the body, is there something she should do with whatever is left?”

  “In this case, no,” he said. “There’ll be blood and tissue and some tiny bone fragments left behind in the grass. I mean, we can’t scoop it all up. But nature will take care of it. First there’ll be flies. Then maggots will consume the biologicals. The bits of bone will be swept clean of contaminants by other insects that will eventually feed the soil. Come spring that patch of grass will be greener and healthier than the rest.”

  “That’s gross,” said Birdie.

  “Beauty in simplicity,” said the man. “It’ll happen fast, but there might be an odor. I’ll tape off a large area. Stay off it and let the bugs do their jobs.”

  “What’s going on here?” asked Thom—drink in one hand, unlit
cigarette in the other.

  “No need to get protective,” said Nunez. “We were getting a forensic lesson.”

  A voice from the other room called out for Nunez. He departed and took the forensic guy with him.

  “Come on,” said Thom. “It’s only drizzling. Let’s go outside so I can smoke this sucker.”

  They leaned on the rail and looked down at the coroner’s investigator inspecting the body.

  “I never thought my home would be the scene of an active investigation. Why all the fuss? Matt’s su—death didn’t get this kind of attention.”

  “It’s a force investigation. A man killed himself in front of a bunch of cops while being chased. The department will check the gun of every cop on scene. Including backups. They will determine, absolutely no doubt, that he actually killed himself.”

  “You think a cop shot him?”

  “No. But the department will do its due diligence.”

  “Seems like a waste of money.”

  “It is. But if they don’t and this guy’s family screams foul and sues the department it will cost more in the long run. Lots of families get rich off the city in settlements alone.”

  Nunez stuck his head out. “My captain has a few questions for you. Follow me, please.”

  Birdie ended up back in the same living room chair. The captain stood over her and asked the same questions. She gave the same answers. When he seemed satisfied, he said, “We’ll need you to come into the station to make an official statement.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  The man spun, irritated, then he quickly smiled and extended his hand. “Captain Keane. How are you? I didn’t realize there was a family connection.”

  “This is my daughter.”

  “I see. Well, it’s straightforward enough.”

  Gerard nodded his head. “We’ll be in the library if you need anything.”

  Thom poured some B&B into a crystal snifter for Gerard.

  Gerard took a sip and said, “You look tired, sweetheart.”

  “Tired? I look tired? What the hell, Dad? Some dude broke into my house. His dead body is on my lawn!”