Blown Away

by Shane Gericke

  “She’s got bigger calluses on her right fingers, and the palm and nails are more heavily worn. She uses that hand much more often. Making her right-handed.”

  Benedetti looked impressed. “What else?”

  Emily took a drag of her cigar. It tasted like burnt rope. “Her money and credit cards were intact, so it wasn’t robbery. She’s intact, so it wasn’t rape. She works nights, the last few hours by herself, which explains her having the gun. As for opportunity, Lucy had it 24/7.”

  “So we’ve got means and opportunity,” Benedetti said. “But what’s her motive? Why would this lady kill herself?”

  “The divorce.”

  Both detectives blinked at the bald assertion.

  “It’s not a crisis with the kids,” Emily explained. “Her son’s grown and doing well. It’s not about work. She got a nice raise in a down economy. She looks healthy. Well, except for that,” she said in answer to Benedetti’s smirk. “So unless she had some incurable disease, that leaves her marriage.” She stopped to play the argument through and, satisfied, continued. “I don’t care how common divorce is nowadays. It’s still an emotional nightmare. Especially for middle-aged women who grew up believing marriage is till death do us part. No matter who wanted the divorce and for what reason, Lucy thinks it’s her fault the marriage ended. Her fault she was abandoned.”

  The word brought the familiar catch in her throat.

  “It ate at Lucy, made her sick with loneliness,” she said. “She couldn’t take it anymore and decided to call it a life.” She shook her head at the sadness of Lucy’s decision. “Murder just doesn’t make sense in this case, guys. It’s too risky. The killer would have had to overpower a blue-collar worker surrounded by power tools, stuff her in that tiny trunk, and drive to the cemetery in the middle of the night. What’s he going to say if a bored cop pulls him over for a safety check? ‘Gee, Officer, I thought she seemed a little quiet tonight.’” She shooed flies from Lucy’s crotch, looked at Benedetti. “So I think suicide. But you’re calling it homicide. Why?”

  “Suicides are homicides,” Benedetti replied. “So we treat ’em that way till proven otherwise. But, yeah, I’m ready to rule this suicide, too.”

  “You are?” Emily said, wishing she hadn’t wasted all that time laying out connections he’d already made on his own. “Why didn’t you say so, save me from running my big mouth?”

  “’Cause I wanted to hear what you thought,” Branch answered. “I didn’t call you here only for my bad joke. As it happens, we agree with you. Lucy’s a suicide.”

  “Though I’d like to see her farewell note,” Benedetti said.

  “If she bothered to write one,” Branch warned. “Sometimes they don’t.”

  Benedetti wagged a finger north. “A team is searching Lucy’s town house. So let’s discuss our next problem.” He thumped the Porsche’s macerated hood. “These wheels were borrowed.”

  “Stolen?” Emily said.

  “Yeah. Last night, from the mall parking lot. Lady had primo taste in race cars.”

  Emily agreed. Leather galore, triple-digit horsepower, the deep polished silver, which looked so elegant on a powerful vehicle. But its racing days were over. Granite does not forgive its trespassers. “But why bother stealing a car?” she asked. “Lucy had one already—”

  “Commander!” shouted the grizzled deputy from the ditch.

  Benedetti squinted through the chain links. “Yeah?”

  “Boys just found the suicide note.”

  “Excellent! Where?”

  The deputy spoke into his cell phone, then back at Benedetti. “In an e-mail.”

  “Christ on a crutch, a cyber-cide?”

  “Appears so. The e-mail was in her computer at work.”

  Benedetti stared. “The engine place? Where I sent Luerchen?”

  The deputy grinned. “Sergeant Luerchen made dynamic entry into the building. The office computer was on, and the screen indicated e-mail. Sergeant Luerchen investigated.”

  Benedetti groaned like he’d stubbed his toe. “What’d he do?”

  “Clicked on the mail folder. Saw the suicide note. It was written but not sent.”

  “Gimme the Cliff’s version.”

  “‘Hubby dumped me for a trophy wife, so I’m outta here. Tell my son I love him.’”

  Benedetti nodded. “OK. Thanks. Tell Luerchen, uh, good job.” Under his breath, “For a fat, lazy bastard who’d be pawing through Lucy’s panty drawers if I’d been retarded enough to send him to the town house.” Louder, to the deputy, “Call LAPD, ask ’em to confirm the ex’s alibi. Likewise Scotland Yard for sonny.”

  The deputy nodded. Benedetti turned back. “If that don’t beat all,” he complained. “Rayford Luerchen doing smart police work.”

  “Who’s Rayford Luerchen?” Emily said.

  Benedetti looked like he’d bitten into a worm. “Just the stupidest man I’ve ever met in my entire life,” he said. “He’s cocky, mean, and lazy, and the only badge he’s fit to wear says Mattel. He’s also the sheriff’s wife’s son from her first marriage, which makes him untouchable.” He shook his head. “I send him to the garage ’cause he can’t step on his dick there, and he goes and finds the suicide note that closes this case. I’ll probably have to give the jerk a commendation.” He made a little smirk at Emily. “Course, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hear you like ol’ Rayford.”

  Emily couldn’t imagine where that came from. Luerchen sounded like someone she’d just as soon shoot as talk to! “What do you mean, like him?”

  “Well, you know, that pet name you’ve got for him.” The smirk widened. “Doughboy?”

  The sergeant from the ditch! She looked around, didn’t see him, and felt her face flush hot with embarrassment. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  “Us chiefs of detectives hear everything,” Benedetti said. “Don’t we, Branch?”

  Branch nodded. “Course, it helps that Ray’s deputies like him about as much as you do, and one of them ‘accidentally’ thumbed his radio so we could enjoy the show.”

  Emily shook her head. “Cops.”

  “Cops,” Branch agreed. He looked at his watch and frowned. “Let’s finish up, Marty.”

  “Yeah, I know you’ve got that meeting,” Benedetti said, slapping his notebook in his palm. “The farewell clears up a lot of doubt about suicide. But not all.”

  “Meaning?” Emily asked.

  “Gun suicides are a guy thing. Women almost always choose something less violent, like carbon monoxide or sleeping pills.”

  “Lucy was a mechanic,” Branch countered. “She’s comfortable in a male world. And her gun was right there with her.”

  “Something to be said for convenience,” Benedetti agreed. “But then there’s Emily’s question. Why steal a car when her own is fifty feet away?”

  Emily glanced at Lucy’s wedding ring and felt a small, sad certainty. “How recent was the divorce?”

  “Ex walked out a year ago. Final court papers came through last week.”

  “It took a year?” Branch said. “With no minors to fight over?”

  Benedetti shrugged. “According to her boss, Lucy had three decades invested and wasn’t handing him to some bimbo without a battle.”

  Emily nodded. That information only cemented her conviction. “What kind of car did she own?”

  “Cadillac. Brand-new. Heated leather seats, satellite radio, the whole megillah.”

  “When did she buy it?”

  Benedetti consulted his notes. “Two weeks before the old man bailed.”

  Bingo. “That car was the last significant purchase of her marriage, Commander. Maybe she just didn’t want to ruin the upholstery.” Emily noticed his disbelief and added, “Look, maybe it’s not how you or Branch might react. But it’s exactly how I would. The fact she’s still wearing her wedding ring after all this time proves it—she carried her man’s flame to the
end. Have Luerchen examine that Cadillac. He’ll find it as clean as the day Lucy bought it. As well preserved as she wanted her marriage to be.”

  Benedetti thought about that. “Old man dumps Lucy for a race car…” She’s crazy with loneliness…knows how to hot-wire a car…Mall lots are easy pickings…Final papers push her buttons, so she steals a Porsche—I’ll show you a trophy, asshole!—and drives around working up her nerve…sees the cemetery, gun’s in the purse, tire tracks fit the Porsche…”

  The satisfaction in his voice pleased her. She’d handled her first homicide OK.

  “So I think we can put this one to bed. Assuming the crime lab doesn’t run across inconsistent fingerprints or trace evidence.”

  “Or footprints,” Branch said, nodding to the perimeter. “Any you can’t account for?”

  Benedetti grimaced. “You know how cops react to homicide calls, Branch. A dozen guys ran all over this field looking for a shooter, like the mope’s gonna hang around to confess. It’ll take weeks to match all the footprints we found with the deputies’ shoes.”

  “Well, you’ve got your suicide note,” Branch said. “Written on the computer the victim used every day. Ballistics consistent with a self-inflicted wound. She lives and works locally and would know about this cemetery. She’s got her money and credit cards, and so forth. What’s still bothering you?”

  Benedetti raised two fingers “The boot you guys found—trash or clue? And where does Emily’s police card fit in? Message from a killer? Did Lucy want to see her? If so, why?” He snorted. “Or is it just a goofy damn coincidence designed to drive me batty?”

  Emily wondered that herself. Benedetti and Branch began brainstorming solutions to the boot—some kid tossed it during a drunken joyride, raccoons stole it from the industrial park and dragged it to their nest—but she couldn’t add anything useful. So she squatted, curious to see how much undercarriage survived the encounter.

  “Not much,” she muttered. The tombstone acted like the bullet, ripping out everything in its path, then drenching itself in bodily fluids—brake, transmission, lubrication, coolant. Sheet-metal shards glittered like tinsel. Remembering how she’d traced her husband’s name just a few hours ago, Emily thumbed the mess from this inscription.

  KINLEY

  WILLIAM KINLEY 1784–1878.

  WIVES ANN ALLEN 1802–1840

  ELIZABETH ASHLEY 1784–1884

  Emily sucked in her breath so hard, Branch broke off a sentence. “Hey, you OK?” he asked.

  She pointed to the chiseled lettering. “An interesting…coincidence,” she breathed, fighting off light-headedness. “The name on the tombstone is Kinley.”

  “So?” Benedetti said.

  “That’s her husband’s name,” Branch explained. “Kinley Jack Child.”

  “Late husband,” Emily murmured, rocking on her heels. Something else was at play here. She glanced around—street, fence, Scottie, train tracks, boot, stolen Porsche—but nothing grabbed her.

  “Late?” she heard Benedetti say. “As in dead?”

  Emily nodded.

  Benedetti stared at her left hand, where the hammered-pewter wedding ring tented her latex glove. Shot Branch a look that said, “Thanks for telling me, pal.” Then looked at Emily, bewilderment washing his face. “Sorry for my surprise, but the way you talk about him in the present tense…and the ring…I just assumed your husband was, well, you know, alive.”

  He is alive, Commander! she thought furiously. In here! But she didn’t say it. The words would sound as ridiculous to him as “life goes on” and “you’re still young” and “you’ll fall in love again” did to her at Jack’s funeral. She stood, slapped grass off her knees, cleared her throat. “Jack was killed a decade ago,” she said. “By person or persons unknown throwing rocks from a highway overpass.” Blinded by flying glass, Jack had lost control of his Jeep Cherokee and had crashed into a concrete viaduct on Interstate 88, halfway home from a business meeting at Northern Illinois University in DeKalb. “I’ve got far better things to do on your thirtieth birthday than sell telephone equipment to eggheads, Princess,” he’d vowed to her at breakfast. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” She skipped the part about how she’d raced to the front door in a green lace teddy, intending to deliver a grand thank-you for the matching emerald earrings she’d found in her underwear drawer after her shower. But the peephole revealed two Illinois State Police troopers wearing Smokey the Bear hats and grim expressions. Alarmed, she jerked on the knee-length jacket she used for yard work and opened the door. The troopers doffed their hats and asked if they could come in….

  “That was your husband?” Benedetti asked, interrupting her reverie. He sounded genuinely distressed. “I remember that case. Troopers never did catch the scumbags, did they?”

  Emily shook her head, remembering the official conclusion that Jack was a random victim of kids throwing rocks. Youngsters had played “rock hockey” with cars since the Model T, and the overpass sidewalk was littered with rocks, as was the interstate below. “The deceased has no known enemies,” the official report droned. “Solid bank account and investments, lifestyle reflective of income. No gambling, drugs, adultery, or other vices. No criminal record. Significant community involvement. Highly regarded at work. Solid relationship with Emily Thompson, wife of one year. Ms. Thompson possesses airtight alibi. She was talking with Lydia Branch, wife of the Naperville Police Department’s chief of detectives, at the moment of the wreck, according to phone company records. Vehicle not tampered with.” And so on. The private eye Emily hired to double-check the state investigation agreed—tragedy, not murder. Because the rocks were too rough and dirty to hold fingerprints, the kids had never been caught.

  “That’s the worst part of it, Commander,” Emily said, shaking off the gloom that came from telling the story. “Jack died without knowing why.” She smiled to herself. Her oh-so-logical husband would have detested not knowing the exact details of his fate. It was a loose end. Jack hated loose ends. He liked life as neat and tidy as his beloved engineering flowcharts.

  She considered saying more, because Benedetti looked like he wouldn’t mind hearing it. She quickly squelched the notion. He had bigger priorities than her pain. More important things to worry about than what Jack was thinking when the upside-down viaduct filled his windshield. She’d always hoped he was thinking of her. Prayed it so many times she’d lost count. But she didn’t know. That was the worst part for her—the utterly unbreachable wall separating her from Jack’s last moment on earth. But it was also her problem, not Benedetti’s, not Branch’s. Why waste time speaking of things that didn’t matter anymore and couldn’t be changed even if they did? It was time to concentrate not on her memories, but on one victim she might actually be able to do something about.

  Lucy Crawford.

  She examined her cigar stub and found herself hoping Branch had a spare. Despite its foul taste, working without tobacco right now wasn’t high on her list of priorities. “If I can scrounge another smoke,” she said finally, “maybe we can get back to work.”

  EMILY AND BRADY

  Chicago

  May 1965

  “Congratulations, friend,” doctor announced to the grubby redhead slumped in the corner of the waiting room. “You’re a father!”

  Gerald Thompson lifted his bloodshot eyes from the cigarette-burned floor tile, nodded.

  “You should be happy,” doctor prodded, annoyed this lout wasn’t thanking him. Respect the white coat, if not the man wearing it! “Your daughter’s in with your wife. Do you want to see them?”

  “Yes,” Gerald grunted. He got to his feet, weaving a bit. He brushed crud off his jeans, prompting the other new dads to lean away. He ignored them, stomping his boots, wiping sweat salt off his stubbled cheeks, tucking a work shirt that smelled like unwashed armpits. “I’m ready,” he said, pulling a flat jewelry box from his pocket and staring at it. Doctor nodded, walked him to Room 313, and stepped inside. Gerald took his elbow,
leaving grungy fingerprints on the white cotton. “Just the three of us,” he said.

  Doctor struggled to keep his expression professional. “I suppose that’s all right, Mr. Thomas. I’ll be at the nurses’ station”—he pointed—“if you have questions.”

  Gerald went inside without replying.

  “The state should require parenting licenses,” doctor grumbled to the nurse filling out paperwork. “Not everyone’s fit to have children, you know.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Mrs. Hoffmeyer said, looking up.

  He nodded at the closed door. “Mr. Thomas.”

  “Thompson,” Mrs. Hoffmeyer corrected. She’d had no use for this idiot since the day he lectured the maternity nurses saying, “I don’t know how other doctors handled you, but my team gives a full day’s work for a day’s pay. I’ll tolerate nothing less.” Like they didn’t work hard already! Arrogance came with the territory with doctors, she knew after thirty-four years of working with them, but this one was so beyond the pale that several nurses were thinking of joining the Teamsters. Besides, he was too young and inexperienced to be making such harsh judgments. “His wife, Alexandra, is lovely,” she said. “Why do you think her husband isn’t fit to be a father?”

  “His appearance says it all, Nurse,” doctor snapped, reading a chart through his mother-of-pearl half glasses. “The man couldn’t bother to bathe or shave. And those clothes! Anyone knows you wear something clean and pressed to meet a newborn. Just because a man’s poor doesn’t mean he can’t have pride in himself.”

  “Pride,” Mrs. Hoffmeyer repeated. “In himself.”

  “Correct. The man also weaved as he walked. It’s shameful, drinking this time of morning. This Thomas fellow gives fatherhood a bad name.”

  Mrs. Hoffmeyer pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t know about all that, Doctor. I didn’t go to Harvard like you. But it might interest you to know, I was in the emergency room at dawn. You weren’t here yet.”

  “I know what time I arrived, Nurse,” he said. “Your point?”