4 Shot Off The Presses

by Amanda M. Lee

  “We’ll be there, mom,” I interjected hurriedly.

  “See, I knew you would see reason.”

  I disconnected wearily a few minutes later. “You don’t have to worry about a sniper getting me. My mother is going to be the death of me.”

  SEVEN HOURS later Eliot and I were on our way to the family restaurant. I had managed to file a story from Eliot’s apartment after a series of phone calls that started with Jake and ended with the Ferndale Police Department.

  Unfortunately, the individual in custody wasn’t answering any questions and, since he hadn’t been charged with anything, his name wasn’t being released to the media. Eliot had been frustrated by the delay, but Jake didn’t have any answers.

  “I just don’t know,” Jake said. “I can’t find a tie between him and any of the victims and it’s going to at least be twenty-four hours until we have a ballistics match from the gun he was carrying and the bullets used in the shooting.”

  “What about on the preliminary level?” Eliot was pressing.

  “It’s the same caliber of shell, a twenty-two,” Jake replied. Well, at least that was one new little tidbit.

  “That could go with anything, though,” Eliot said.

  “It could,” Jake agreed.

  So that was where we were. A short story saying the police had a suspect in custody, but no charges had been levied and they couldn’t be sure they actually had the real perpetrator off the streets. I had no reason to legitimately avoid dinner – so we were on our way to Oakland County and a night of hellish family conversation. I had offered to go by myself, to save Eliot the aggravation of my family, but he had declined.

  “I like your family.”

  “They’re still on their best behavior with you,” I shot back.

  “You mean it gets worse?”

  “You haven’t had the pleasure of seeing my grandfather naked yet,” I reminded him. “You’re not truly a member of the family until you’ve had that picturesque sight.”

  “Well, maybe tonight will be the night,” Eliot mused.

  “We can only hope.”

  When we got to the family restaurant, I jumped out of the truck before Eliot could make it to the other side of the vehicle. He gave me a dirty look, but let it go. He didn’t want to create a scene with my family if he could help it – but he wasn’t above using my close call from the night before against me if he had to. I knew that.

  The first person I saw when I entered the diner was my grandfather holding court on a stool at the counter with a bevy of regulars congregated around him to hear about his county jail exploits.

  “And then I told that judge that I would rather die than go to jury duty,” my grandfather said, rubbing his hands together with obvious glee. “Now, sir, he had to save face so he threw me in jail. I decided to go on a hunger strike, though, and he gave in, like I knew he would.”

  I glanced over at Derrick, who was sitting in the family booth watching the spectacle with a frown on his face. “He went on a hunger strike?”

  “He didn’t eat the donuts they offered him in the morning.”

  “Oh, well, I guess that counts.”

  I slid into the booth next to Derrick, forcing him to slide over to make room for both Eliot and me. “So, anything else new?”

  “Nope.”

  “Would you tell me if there was?”

  “Nope.”

  He was obviously still angry from the night before. “Have you seen Lexie today?”

  “No, but I talked to her. She says that Carly’s family is crazier than ours,” Derrick replied.

  “They’re not crazier,” I countered. “They’re just a different type of crazy.”

  “You mean they don’t skinny dip and put on a show for the neighbors?”

  “They don’t skinny dip, but I’ve seen Carly’s mom hold entire conversations with a cement duck on her front porch. It’s just a different kind of show.”

  “I guess it takes all kinds,” Derrick mused.

  “Pretty much.”

  Derrick watched our grandfather with a cross of consternation and affection. “He likes being the center of attention.”

  “He does,” I agreed.

  “That must be where you get it from,” Derrick said pointedly.

  Eliot laughed quietly beside me. I didn’t appreciate the comment, but I decided to let it go. I wasn’t in the mood to throw down with Derrick at the moment. Thankfully, I was distracted by the arrival of more family members. Pretty soon, we were all wedged into the rectangular booth together.

  “So, how does it feel to be out of jail?” Mario asked our grandfather curiously. “No one made you their bitch, did they?”

  “He wasn’t really in jail,” Derrick countered, ignoring the “bitch” comment.

  “The hell I wasn’t,” my grandfather challenged Derrick. “I was behind bars for days. I was on a hunger strike. I could have died for my beliefs – and I was ready to.”

  “Not eating donuts doesn’t equal a hunger strike,” Derrick retorted. “Plus, I heard you were allowed out of your cell most of the day to play cards with the other police officers because they needed a fourth for euchre.”

  “So?”

  “That’s not jail,” Derrick said stiffly. “You got lucky – and apparently you cheated at cards.”

  “I had the law on my side,” my grandfather argued.

  “No,” Derrick argued. “You broke the law. You did not have the law on your side.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” My grandfather narrowed his eyes in Derrick’s direction. The truth is, Derrick was his favorite grandchild – we all knew that – but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t cause a scene with his favorite grandchild if he thought he was in the right. And, here’s a tip about my family: We always think we’re in the right.

  “A liar? No,” Derrick shook his head ruefully. “I think you think you’re telling the truth. That doesn’t mean it’s the truth, though.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Listen here, son,” my grandfather said with faux patience. “You should learn to respect your elders.”

  Derrick must have been spoiling for a fight. Any other time he would have backed down. That wasn’t the case this time, though. “I do respect my elders,” Derrick said. “I just think my elders should respect what I do for a living.”

  “What? Being a cop?” My grandfather was incensed now. “That was your decision. I told you to pick another career.”

  “I wanted to be a police officer,” Derrick argued quietly.

  I was starting to get distinctly uncomfortable. “I want the special spaghetti tonight,” I announced.

  Eliot eyed me curiously. I usually enjoyed a good family free-for-all. I wasn’t the one that usually broke up a family fight, but I wasn’t in the mood for a screaming match tonight.

  “It’s not on the menu tonight,” my grandfather said stiffly.

  “Isn’t there sauce out in the back freezer, though?” I asked pointedly.

  My grandfather nodded.

  I grabbed Derrick’s arm and pulled him out of the booth. “Why don’t you help me get the sauce?” I suggested.

  “I don’t want spaghetti,” Derrick grumbled.

  “Yes, you do. You love the spaghetti.”

  I didn’t give him a chance to continue arguing. Instead, I pulled him through the swinging double doors and through the kitchen, not slowing down until we were behind the restaurant. “What were you thinking?”

  “What was I thinking? I was right,” Derrick replied snottily. “I was right and he was wrong.”

  “He’s never going to admit he’s wrong,” I pointed out.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Derrick pouted.

  “No, you’re not wrong,” I agreed. “This isn’t a fight you can win, though. So why fight it?”

  “Maybe I can win?”

  “No,” I shook my head, my blonde hair swinging vigorously as I did. “You’re mad about something else and just picking a fight
with him to get it out.”

  “And who am I mad at?” Derrick asked curiously.

  “Me,” I said simply.

  “I’m always mad at you,” Derrick scoffed. “Today isn’t anything special.”

  I considered my next words carefully. “I saw your face last night. You were scared when you heard that I had been shot at. You were even more scared when you realized Lexie was there.”

  “She’s finally getting her life together, or kind of,” Derrick sighed in exasperation. “I don’t want this to derail her.”

  “It won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t you know? Our family knows everything. Lexie is a survivor. She’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine, too.”

  Derrick rolled his eyes but followed me into the detached shed out back. It was dark inside and I could hear Derrick fumbling for the light switch on the wall. “Ooomph.”

  “What happened? Did you stub your toe? Find the light. It’s freaky out here.”

  Derrick didn’t answer. I turned around, trying to find his silhouette in the dark. It was hard to make out, but it looked like he was still standing in the doorway behind me.

  “Dude, seriously, turn on the light.”

  After a few seconds, the light did switch on. It wasn’t Derrick that flipped the switch, though. The figure in the doorway wasn’t one I expected – or even remotely suspected, when this all started.

  “Oh, crap, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Thirty-Five

  “Not who you expected?”

  “Not exactly,” I said carefully, glancing around the dimly lit shed cautiously. The figure in the door hadn’t pulled a weapon yet, but it was only a matter of time. “Where is Derrick?”

  “Is that the little guy who came in here with you? He’s here on the floor. I had to hit him so I could get a chance to talk to you. He’ll be fine, though. I need him to live through this.”

  I bit my lower lip as I regarded Chelsea – yes, Chelsea – as she stood in the doorway. I didn’t know a lot about guns, but the one she was holding looked pretty big. “I didn’t expect you,” I said honestly.

  “Don’t try to talk your way out of this,” Chelsea said. “I know you suspected me. That’s why you followed Brick and me to that parking lot. That’s why you showed up at the insurance agency.”

  “I showed up at the insurance agency to talk to employees of the first victim,” I said firmly. “That’s standard procedure.”

  “Then why did you focus on me and not the other women in the office?” Chelsea asked doubtfully.

  “Because I knew you were the only one that was going to talk to me,” I replied. “I read people. That’s what a reporter does.”

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe you. You knew it was me the minute you came into the office. That’s why you followed us that night.”

  “Actually, I was following Brick,” I replied honestly.

  Chelsea knit her eyebrows together. “That’s what you said then, but I didn’t believe you. Why would you be following Brick?”

  “Because I thought he was a suspect,” I said honestly.

  “Brick? He’s the most honest man I know.”

  “He’s got a trail of angry ex-wives in his wake that would probably disagree with that assertion,” I said.

  “That doesn’t mean he’s a freeway shooter,” Chelsea scoffed. “He would never. He has a code.”

  “I don’t see how an insurance secretary becomes a freeway shooter either,” I said honestly. I was trying to buy time. Hopefully, Derrick would wake up and handle this situation. Or, if I stalled long enough, Eliot would come looking for me. I didn’t think he’d have a problem with a frumpy insurance secretary – even if her gun was bigger than my car.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Chelsea said. “Malcolm had it coming to him.”

  “Had what coming to him?” I was trying to infuse as much empathy into my voice as possible. If she saw me as a friend, maybe she would have a harder time shooting me. I pushed the thought of the dead high school student out of mind, for the time being, though. It was counter productive.

  “What I told you about Malcolm was true,” Chelsea said. “He hit on everyone in the office. He thought we were all his personal property.”

  “You said he didn’t hit on you,” I prodded.

  “He didn’t, not the way he hit on the other women,” Chelsea said. “I thought he would. I know this is going to sound weird, but I was a little insulted that he never even looked at me sideways.”

  “I get that,” I said. “You didn’t really want him to hit on you but it was hurtful that he didn’t hit on you at the same time. I think that’s a common reaction. I’m not sure that was a very good reason to shoot him, though.”

  “That’s not why I shot him,” Chelsea said hurriedly.

  “Then why did you shoot him?” In addition to being a stalling technique, I really did want to know.

  “I was back in the file room one day. It was late. I thought I was the only one there. Mr. Hopper let me work late and take half days on Fridays when my schedule worked out. That’s what I was doing. I was looking forward to an extended weekend.”

  Chelsea’s face contorted as she spoke. She was close to tears. I felt a certain level of sympathy for her, which surprised me.

  “I had locked the front office, so I wasn’t really worried about someone coming in. I heard a noise, though, and when I turned around it was Malcolm.”

  I had a feeling I knew where this conversation was going – and I didn’t like it. I just let Chelsea tell the story at her own pace, though.

  “At first I thought he just forgot something,” Chelsea continued. “He was looking around the room, but he wasn’t really focusing on anything. You know what I mean? It was like his eyes were vacant. He asked me what I was doing and I told him. When he got closer I could smell the liquor on his breath. He smelled like he had been drinking for hours.”

  Chelsea stopped telling her story long enough to wipe the stray tears that had started streaming down her face.

  “Did he . . . hurt you?” I asked finally.

  “He told me that I was his property,” Chelsea said. “He told me that he hired me because he knew that I would give him what he wanted. That I would like it when I gave it to him, too. I told him that I was with someone. I told him that I loved Brick, that I was trying to make a life with Brick. He didn’t listen, though.”

  “He raped you?”

  “Right there on the filing room floor,” Chelsea said bitterly. “He just lifted my skirt and put his hand over my mouth and . . . he just did it right there.”

  Chelsea’s voice was hollow – as hollow as her soul, I suspected. I didn’t know if what Malcolm had done to her had emptied her out or if she’d always been that way. That wasn’t my current concern, though.

  “Did you go to the cops?”

  “I was going to,” Chelsea said. “When he was done, though, he told me the cops would never believe me. He told me that I was fat and ugly and that they would never believe me.”

  Malcolm Hopper was definitely an asshole.

  “I tried to tell Melanie, one of the women at the office,” Chelsea said. “She just laughed at me and told me to stop telling lies. She’d been sleeping with him on and off for the past six months, you know. She said there was no way he would have sex with her and then rape someone like me.”

  “You still should have went to the police,” I offered. “They would have helped you.”

  “I tried to ignore it,” Chelsea pretended she didn’t hear me. “I worked there for another two months. I did my job. Every day I went in there and I did my job. And Malcolm? He pretended nothing had happened. He never even mentioned it. He never apologized. He never did a thing.”

  “So, what was the tipping point?” I asked. “When did you decide to kill him?”

  “When he gave every woman in the office except me a raise,” Chelsea said honestly.
“He said that he couldn’t be successful without his staff and that’s why he gave them a raise. He didn’t give me a raise, though.”

  “If he had, would you have forgiven him?”

  “No,” Chelsea shook her head vehemently. “I wouldn’t have forgiven him. It was the final straw, though.”

  “So you bought a gun?” A really big gun.

  “It’s not mine,” Chelsea said. “It’s Brick’s. I don’t even think he knows it’s gone.”

  “Does he suspect you?”

  “Of course not,” Chelsea laughed. “He would never suspect me. I’m just the sweet little girl he used to date in high school. I’m just the woman that loves him for who he is and doesn’t want him to change – not like those other women he married. I’m the woman that cooks him dinner and cuddles up to him at night.”

  “I thought you were having sex in parking lots?” Not one of my better ideas, I know. My Foot-In-Mouth Disease rears its ugly head at the oddest of times.

  “We had to keep things a secret,” Chelsea said. “I couldn’t spend the night at his house in case his wife came home. If she had proof of an affair, even though they’re separated, she could have gouged him for alimony in addition to the child support. We could stay the night at my house, but that was only once or twice a week – at least until the divorce papers were actually filed.”

  “I don’t understand, Chelsea,” I admitted. “Why didn’t you just tell Brick what happened to you? He would have helped you.” I didn’t know a lot about Brick, but I believed that was true.

  “And tell him that I was treated like a dirty whore? I don’t think so. I couldn’t stand the way I knew he would look at me if he knew.”

  “So how did you target Malcolm? Did Brick teach you how to shoot?”

  “I’ve known how to shoot since I was a kid,” Chelsea said. “My daddy taught me. I’ve always been good with a gun. It was just a matter of learning the way he drove home every night and making sure I had an easy escape route. I’ve always been good with a gun,” she repeated. “I never thought I would use it on a person, though.”

  “You used it on three people,” I corrected her. “If you were just looking for revenge on Malcolm, why do the other shootings?”