Cop Town

by Karin Slaughter

  Fox was standing right there when he did it. His eyes had locked with Senior’s at the last second. As soon as the trigger was pulled, Senior’s eye jerked to the side. It was almost comical the way he seemed to be looking out the window and looking at Fox at the same time. The gun fell to the floor. Senior didn’t fall after it. He sat ramrod straight in the chair, the same as he had every night for as long as Fox could remember.

  Twenty-two caliber. The bullet hadn’t exited his skull. It had zinged around inside his brain like a mosquito. Side to side. Front to back. There wasn’t much blood. Just a trickle came out of the black hole above Senior’s ear. His mouth moved. His throat flexed up something like a bird’s caw.

  Fox looked at the pie the preacher’s wife had brought. The crust was dark around the edges. His mother would’ve never brought over a pie with a burned crust.

  Senior made the caw sound again.

  Fox broke off a piece of crust and put it in his mouth. The buttery richness spread across his tongue. Then the singed aftertaste. He reached into the heart of the pie and pulled out a handful of filling. Fox licked the cherry goo from his hand as he walked over to his father. The thought occurred to him that his hand was redder than the bullet wound in Senior’s head, and then the disparity was remedied when Fox scooped the gun off the floor, pressed the muzzle to his father’s head, and pulled the trigger for the second time.

  Lesson ten: A man always finishes what he starts.

  The most important lesson. The only lesson that really mattered.

  Fox had something he needed to finish soon. Not because there was any rush, but because there was no use drawing it out. Jimmy Lawson was still crying. He would be crying an hour from now or a year from now.

  Fox was not a murderer. He was an executioner. There was no pleasure in Jimmy’s pain.

  At least not much.

  Fox pushed himself away from the basement door. He checked the lock. He didn’t turn around and go back into the house. He couldn’t go anywhere.

  Pressure.

  Even when he wasn’t thinking about Kate, his body was wanting her. Fox held his hand against his stiff cock. He needed time with Kate. Alone time. He couldn’t watch her from afar anymore. He had to have her—in his house, in his bed, in his basement.

  Fox would keep her until the pressure went away. He realized he had decided this a long time ago, maybe the first time he saw her. Even then, his brain was working on two plans at the same time. Fuck her. Kill her. Fuck her again.

  What was the harm?

  No one would ever know what went on between them. Senior was long in his grave, buried beside the rest of the paupers. He would never hear about his son fucking a Jew. He would never know about the control Kate had exerted over his boy.

  But Fox would know.

  He put his hands to his eyes. The shame hit him like tear gas. The spikes impaling his corneas. The glass in his lungs. The choking, suffocating knowledge that he was in love with her.

  Love.

  There was no use denying it anymore. The lightning bolt to his skull wasn’t the plan clicking into place. It was Kate working her Jew magic. The dirty bitch had turned the tables on him. He had thought he was hunting her, stalking her, but in truth, Kate had already caught him.

  Fox was going to take back that control. Kate was going to bend to his will. Maybe she would break. Only time would tell. Fox had to get her alone. That was the most important part. He had to have her undivided attention. He was going to study her. He was going to learn her weaknesses, record her responses on his clipboard so he knew the best way to go at her each time.

  This wasn’t like Senior going after Fox’s mother. Kate wasn’t innocent. She was a liar. She was an imposter. She had tricked Fox into falling for her, just the same as Rebecca Feldman. Just the same as every slit Fox had loved since his mother.

  Fox started nodding. Now he understood what had happened. The lightning had not failed him. This was all part of the plan. His brain had been planning this for weeks. The chains were already bolted snug into the rafters. The soundproofing was in place. Fox wasn’t out of control. He had been in charge all along.

  It was just a matter of bringing them all together.

  Here was the plan: Finish the job. Start a new one with Kate.

  Fox reached into his pocket and pulled out the dog tags he had taken from her apartment. The metal discs made a familiar click when he rubbed them together.

  Murphy.

  Patrick R.

  His social security number, though he would never pay taxes again.

  His blood type, which he’d spilled all over some godless jungle.

  His religion, though fuck the Pope for not stopping the war.

  Fox looped the chain around his neck. He tucked it into his shirt. The cold metal kissed his chest.

  He wondered if Kate’s lips would feel the same way.

  26

  Maggie got lost on her way to CT. She had driven from her house to the West Side a hundred times before, but her brain had checked out and her muscle memory had abandoned her, and instead of finding herself at the Portuguese lady’s house, they were stuck downtown in morning traffic.

  If Kate noticed, she didn’t say. Maggie was glad for her silence. She couldn’t understand Kate’s transformation. She had gone from being the Sheep to showing the makings of a damn good cop. Maggie had gotten a glimpse of it yesterday when they pored over the Shooter files. This morning, Kate was making connections faster than Maggie could keep up. Every day, Kate seemed to get better at the job.

  And every second, Maggie was getting worse.

  She was terrified Kate was going to rope-a-dope her into admitting the truth about Jimmy. Not that Maggie knew the truth. Was her brother gay? Was he a murderer? Could she believe one without the other? Were both some kind of cruel fabrication?

  Her head was going to explode if she kept asking these circular questions.

  Maggie had gotten to the point where she was doing all the stupid things that she looked for when she was confronting a suspect. Her hands were shaky. She was sweating. She couldn’t look Kate in the eye. They should drag Maggie out of the car and put her in front of a class at the academy. She was textbook guilty.

  And she was so, so tired.

  Last night, Maggie had left her mother’s house with the thought in her head that she would never go back. She hadn’t packed. There was nothing in her room that she needed. She’d grabbed her belt off the counter and walked out the door. She’d radioed a cruiser to come pick her up on the corner. She’d had them drop her at the station. She’d showered in the empty men’s locker room. She’d changed into a fresh uniform she kept in her locker.

  Everything Maggie did had felt so permanent, but she knew there was nowhere to go but back. She didn’t have a place to live. Her car was in the shop. She didn’t have a dime to her name. She didn’t have a fancy apartment with a white shag rug and more clothes in her closet than there were days left to wear them.

  Terry controlled all the money. The idea hadn’t seemed like such a bad one at the time. Delia couldn’t open a separate bank account without her husband’s signature, and Hank cleaned them out every time he got home from the hospital. Delia started giving Terry her checks when they almost lost the house. Maggie started giving him her checks when she got her job on the police force. And when either one of them stepped out of line, Terry yanked the strings on the purse so tight that it strangled them.

  There were all kinds of new federal laws that were supposed to open financial doors for women, but they were still firmly closed in Atlanta, Georgia. There was always a work-around, always some catch that kept the door from opening. Maggie couldn’t get a bank account that Terry couldn’t access. She couldn’t get a car loan without Terry’s co-signature. She couldn’t get a credit card or rent an apartment without Terry’s permission.

  Nearest living male’s information.

  That’s what all the forms asked for. Maggie had spent months c
alling apartment ads in the paper. All of them required a man to vouch for her. Even the sketchy ones. She was too afraid to ask Terry, and Jimmy refused because he didn’t want to get caught in the middle.

  Jimmy.

  Last night, Maggie had started with his friends, banging on their apartment doors, waking their families, all the while knowing Jimmy would not be there. She went to the bar where he sometimes grabbed a drink after work. She called every old girlfriend whose name she could think of. She checked the back seat of his cruiser. She busted open his locker at work. She visited the shooting range. She went to the Grady High School football field. She searched the locker room, the coach’s office, the basement where kids sneaked in to make out. She woke up all the managers at the motels along the interstate. She walked through Piedmont Park with a flashlight. She shined her headlights into underpasses and down alleys where she knew gay men went for company. She went to porn theaters and all-night diners.

  The despair built with each new parking lot and alley, every frightened, anonymous man who fled at the sight of a police car. Maggie had to find her brother before Terry did. She didn’t know whether or not her intention was to save his life. That felt strangely secondary to locating him. Her primary goal was to get some sort of explanation. Jimmy had to look Maggie in the eye and tell her why he had written that letter.

  The letter.

  Every single word was seared into her brain. Delia had torn up the paper, but Maggie had transcribed Jimmy’s confession into her notebook as soon as she left the house. She’d studied each sentence individually. She had blocked off phrases. She had looked for some kind of hidden meaning. There had to be more to it than the actual words.

  Because what was the point?

  Even on the off chance that Jimmy really was gay, and Don Wesley and all those other men had been gay with him, then why murder them? Each held a weapon just as powerful as the other. They were like Russia and the United States agreeing not to release their nukes because of mutually assured destruction.

  And if Jimmy wasn’t gay, then why confess to the murders? What was his motivation? Maybe Kate was right about Jimmy’s state of mind. He’d seen Don shot right in front of him. He’d failed to save his partner’s life. He’d been shot in the arm by a madwoman. Was Jimmy like those battle-fatigued soldiers who went nuts when they got back into the real world? Was the letter a cry for help?

  If that was the case, Jimmy had found the one thing that ensured Terry would put him out of his misery. The only thing he hated more than blacks and liberals was homosexuals.

  “Son of a bitch!” Maggie banged her fist on the steering wheel.

  They were driving up Third Street, a few blocks from the Georgia Tech tunnel, and there was London Fog traipsing along the sidewalk like he hadn’t a care in the world. He was still wearing the old man’s overcoat, but this time she saw the legs of his worsted gray pants above the shiny black loafers on his feet.

  Maggie swerved the car so hard the engine stalled.

  Kate grabbed the dashboard. “What are you—”

  “Him.” Maggie was already getting out of the car. “That’s the rapist who went after that little girl.”

  Kate got out of the car, too. “You’re sure?”

  “He stole the grandfather’s coat.” Maggie pulled the nightstick off her belt. She was talking loudly enough for London Fog to hear, but like the other day, he just kept on walking. “He raped a thirteen-year-old girl. He stole her grandfather’s coat.” She jogged to catch up with him. “His name is Lewis Windall Conroy the Third. He’s from Berwyn, Maryland.”

  That stopped him. His hands clutched in his pockets. He still didn’t turn around.

  Maggie stood behind him. She slapped the nightstick against her palm. “Get on your knees.”

  He didn’t move.

  Maggie wasn’t in the mood for second warnings. She swung the metal baton through the air and slammed it into the back of his legs.

  Conroy dropped like a sack of hammers.

  Kate gasped. “Maggie!”

  “Get up,” she told the man. “Get up, or I will hurt you as bad as you hurt that little girl.”

  Conroy could only make it to his hands and knees. The baton had knocked the wind out of him. He opened his mouth, but only drool came out.

  “I said get up!” Maggie cracked his tailbone so hard that the metal sang.

  Conroy screamed. His arms and legs flew out from under him. He fell facedown on the sidewalk.

  Maggie gripped the baton. “You think your daddy’s gonna get you out of this, Lewis?” She yearned to hit him again, to hear the crack of bone, the screech of pain. “Get up,” she repeated. “Get up, you baby-raping asshole.”

  He tried, but his arms would not lift him. He fell flat to the sidewalk again.

  Maggie told Kate, “Help him up.”

  Kate looked terrified as she gripped Conroy under the arm. She wasn’t strong enough. He offered nothing but resistance.

  “Please …,” he begged.

  “Use your legs,” Kate said.

  “Please, lady.” Like all of them, he sensed Kate’s weakness. “Please, help me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Shut up.” Kate let him fall back onto the sidewalk. She asked Maggie, “What do you want to do with him?”

  The question stopped her. She hadn’t thought it through.

  “Please,” Conroy whined. “This is all just a misunderstanding.”

  Kate said, “Radio the girls.”

  Maggie knew this couldn’t go out on the radio. She looked around. There was a phone booth on the next corner. “Are you okay with him?”

  “We’ll be fine as long as he understands I’m just as good with my nightstick as you are.” Kate raised an eyebrow, acknowledging the lie. She was so damn good at this. When had that happened?

  Kate asked, “Do you need change?”

  “I’ve got it.” Maggie shoved her nightstick back onto her belt as she walked toward the phone booth. She was so furious she couldn’t get her fists to unclench. Lewis Windall Conroy III. He could walk into any apartment building in the city and rent ten units. He could buy any car he wanted. He could do whatever the hell he pleased.

  Except get away with raping a little girl.

  The phone booth smelled like piss. Wet vomit splattered the floor. Maggie held the door open with her shoulder as she leaned in. She dialed the station and requested a landline-to-radio transmission. Delroy answered with her call sign. Maggie didn’t identify herself or bother with an explanation. “Corner of Third and Cypress.”

  “Gimme fifteen.” Delroy ended the transmission.

  Maggie hung up the receiver. The door sprang back on its hinges. She could see Kate standing over Conroy. Her nightstick was drawn, but she held it in front of her face like a Roman candle.

  Thirteen years old.

  Lilly was the same age. She was pretty and she might even look sexy if she wore too much makeup, but she was still a child who played with her Barbie up until a few months ago.

  Maggie looked down at her hands. She made the fingers straighten one at a time. She wanted to be calm by the time she made it back to them. She wanted to think that she wasn’t out of control like Terry or a cold-blooded murderer like Jimmy, but by the time she reached Conroy, all she wanted to do was take out her gun, shove it into his mouth, and pull the trigger until it clicked and clicked the same as it had with Anthony.

  “How long?” Kate asked.

  “Too long. Stand up.” She grabbed up Conroy by the collar. He knew better than to resist. He stumbled like a colt taking its first steps. “That way.” Maggie kicked his ass to get him started. “Move.”

  Kate was at Maggie’s side. Her nightstick was still in front of her face. Maggie pushed it down at an angle so she could get a better swing.

  Conroy walked slowly. His head was down. He was looking for a way out. “Ladies, please. We can talk this through. It’s all just a misunderstanding.”

  “That
girl needed stitches when you were done with her. Did you know that?”

  “Is that what this is about?” He sounded relieved. “For godsakes, I’ll pay the doctor’s bill. My father will write a check.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “Why don’t you ask her family? I’m sure they’ll accept the money. Trust me, she knew what she was doing.”

  “Did she trick you?” Maggie had heard the excuse so many times that it made her stomach turn.

  She didn’t tell me how old she was. She was mature for her age. She came on to me. She wouldn’t stop. What was I supposed to do?

  The entire world gave men the responsibility for everything in it except for their dicks.

  Maggie pulled her nightstick again. “Pick up your feet.”

  He glanced furtively left and right. Now he was looking for an escape.

  Maggie pressed the baton to the base of his spine. “Try to run, asshole. Just give me a reason.”

  “I know your names.”

  “We know yours, too.” Maggie ignored the panicked look Kate gave her. “It’s gonna be a lot of fun seeing you on the front page of the newspaper beside a photo of that little girl you ripped apart.”

  “What do you care?” he demanded. “She’s just some damn little pickaninny.”

  “And you’re a spoiled little bitch who’s gonna take a beat-down instead of going to prison for the next three years.”

  They were at the phone booth.

  “Get in.” Maggie pushed him. He hesitated. There was vomit on the floor. He didn’t want to get his loafers dirty. “Take off your shoes.”

  “What?”

  She banged the baton against the phone booth. “Shoes. Off.”

  He slipped them off. There were pennies in the loafers. He wasn’t wearing socks. He had probably paid more for his worsted wool pants than Maggie made in a week. She was sick and tired of these wealthy people who floated through life like it was nothing.

  She told Conroy, “Take off the coat. It doesn’t belong to you.”

  He didn’t protest this time. The coat came off. Kate grabbed it before it hit the ground.