by Neal Griffin
“Be-n.”
It was weak but unmistakable. Lars was speaking for the first time in months.
“Beee-nnn.”
“I’m right here.” Ben stood where Lars was able to see him. A withered hand moved slowly across the bedsheet as if Lars was trying to reach out. Ben took the old man’s trembling hand and held it gently in his own. Lars struggled to speak.
“Haarr-leeee.”
“What, Lars?” Ben was stunned. “What did you say?”
“Haaar-leeee.”
Ben couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. “What are you saying, Lars? Are you saying Harley? Who is Harley? What does that mean?”
“Haaaar-Leeee.” The required effort caused Lars to struggle for breath. His hands shook, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body began to convulse. Ben shouted for help and heard someone running.
A nurse entered the room and Ben moved aside. The nurse smacked the panic button on the wall above the old man’s bed with the palm of her hand and Ben heard an alarm sound down the hall. Seconds later more medical personnel raced into the room, including Dr. Schneider, who immediately began calling out instructions.
The team worked in concert, quickly and smoothly. Within a minute, Lars was sedated and again unconscious, his face contorted under an oxygen mask.
“Let me see you out in the hallway.” The doctor’s voice was firm, and Ben followed him out of the room.
“What happened in there?” Dr. Schneider asked.
Ben was still dazed by his father-in-law speaking for the first time in almost four months. “He woke up and started talking. He was trying to tell me something. After a couple of attempts, the seizure started.”
Schneider was skeptical. “He spoke? What did he say?”
“He said my name.” Ben thought back. “Then he said, ‘Harley.’ He said that a couple of times.”
“Does your father-in-law know someone named Harley?”
“I wish I knew,” Ben said. “It seemed really important to him.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into this. Fact is, the chances are pretty good the man was hallucinating. For all we know he may want to take a ride on a motorcycle.”
Ben shot back. “Knock off the glib shit, Doc. My father-in-law was trying to tell me something. With everything that has been going on, it could be important.”
“I apologize, Ben,” Schneider said without a hint of sincerity.
“I don’t need your apologies. I just need straight answers. When can you bring him around? I know he was trying to tell me something.”
Schneider spoke in a fast and officious clip. “Ben, Lars has been slipping in and out of consciousness since suffering a blow to the head. The impact may have caused neurological damage. I’m sorry to tell you this, but it is highly unlikely this episode had anything to do with an attempt to communicate. But you’re right. Until he is awake and calm for some length of time, we won’t know for sure. Is that straight enough for you?”
Ben didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, Doc. Your faith in the human spirit is a real inspiration.”
When the man made no reply, Ben went on. “Look, I know what I heard. Lars spoke my name and then repeated the name ‘Harley’ two times. So yes or no. Is there a person with the first or last name of Harley on your staff?”
“No. There is not.”
Ben looked through the open door, at the old man sleeping in the bed. “I want you to hold off on the drugs. I know this man. He’s got something on his mind, and he isn’t going to give up until he gets it out. No more sedatives, all right?”
Schneider folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Sawyer, perhaps it would be best for you to begin seeking alternate arrangements for your father-in-law. I have been as patient as I can—”
Ben turned away. “Oh, lighten up, Doc. This isn’t about your ability. I’m not insulting you. Just quit shooting Lars full of dope until he can get out whatever it is he’s trying to tell us, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”
Schneider pursed his lips and responded. “I’ll note Mr. Norgaard’s file that there will be no further pain management without your consent. Good day, Ben.”
Ben watched as the man turned and left, and gave some thought to how it was that doctors were almost always assholes. Stepping back into the room, Ben looked at his father-in-law, a man he had known for most of his life. The old man’s gaunt face was troubled. His eyes were closed, but Ben could see rapid movement beneath the lids. His lips quivered. Ben knew Lars had said something to say, all right, but not to a doctor. Not even to his daughter. Lars wanted to talk to a cop.
THIRTY-ONE
As advertised, the wind blew hard in downtown Chicago. Harlan raised his voice and leaned toward the passenger window to make sure he was heard.
“Get in.”
All things considered, the man negotiated himself into the front seat with a fair amount of grace. He was a good six feet tall, well over that with the heels, and Harlan figured him to be in pretty good shape underneath all the window dressing. The he-she hiked up his skirt and looked directly at Harlan.
“Tell me exactly what it is you’re after and don’t mince words.” The voice was a practiced falsetto. “Cops like to be coy. Men who know what they want speak their mind.”
Harlan shot back. “How do I know there ain’t a cop with a wire in there somewhere?” He gestured toward the prominent forty-inch chest.
“Honey, I don’t know any self-respecting officer who would go this far to nab a john,” the man said, his Adam’s apple jumping as he spoke. “Besides, cops won’t get in the car. If they can’t reel you in from the sidewalk, they’re not interested. My name’s Renee. Is there something you wanted to ask me?”
Harlan looked out the windshield and spoke in a casual tone. “I’m in town for the weekend. Staying at the Hilton up the road. Come on back to my room and we’ll talk about it there.”
Renee laughed, trying to sound effeminate. “Nothing is going to go on there that will cost you less than a hundred dollars. Pay me that now, and we’ll talk specifics about what that will get you later.” He reached out and squeezed Harlan’s crotch.
Harlan couldn’t contain his disgust as he grabbed Renee’s hand and jerked hard. Renee’s real voice came through. “Let go. You’re hurting my wrist.”
“What I’m gonna want won’t involve you puttin’ your hands on my prick, you queen fuck. Don’t touch me again.” Harlan used his “inside” voice—fearsome by any measure.
Renee reached for the door handle, ready to get out. Harlan hit the locks and regrouped. “Hang on now. Relax. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just unlock the door.” The prostitute’s voice was back to its artificial high pitch but had an audible tremor.
“Look,” Harlan said, “I’m doing a favor for a friend of mine, a client, actually. He’s a bit shy but I know how he goes.”
After the bad start, Harlan was off his prepared script, trying to make the story work. He opened his wallet and pulled out his last hundred dollars, closing it quick before the prostitute could get a look. “Here, I’ll pay you the hundred bucks now, and another two hundred when I bring you back in an hour or so.”
Renee looked skeptically at the bills in Harlan’s hand.
“You’re going to pay me three hundred dollars for an hour’s work? Must be an important client.”
Harlan keyed in on the greed in the man’s voice and played to it.
“It ain’t my money,” he said. “Comes out of an expense account that’ll get charged back to the business. But he does strike me as the generous type. You do your thing, and I imagine he’s gonna tip pretty well. Could work out for you.”
“Sounds like I might like your client more than I like you.” Renee took the money; it disappeared into his impressive cleavage. “Let’s go see him.”
Twenty minutes later, Renee, who said his given name was Bobby, was handcuffed to a wooden chair in an empty storage unit in
west Chicago. Harlan had run the cuffs under the seat of the chair, making it impossible for a man of Bobby’s height to sit up straight. From a long canvas bag, Harlan took out a thirty-six-inch Louisville Slugger and slung it casually over his shoulder. Bobby eyed the bat and sobbed into the three-inch ball gag Harlan had strapped over his mouth.
Bobby struggled to speak. He wriggled his wrists, but it was a useless effort. Tears smeared the thick paste makeup all the way to his jawline, exposing a day-old growth of beard. His wig had come off during an earlier struggle, and his thinning hair made him look at least ten years older than the twenty-four years he had claimed when he and Harlan had still been on speaking terms.
“Ya know, Bobby, I knew this fella in prison, pig farmer from Iron County,” Harlan said while twirling the bat over his shoulder. “Tall like you but a good bit thicker. Strong fucker too. Son of a bitch was always trying to turn self-respecting men into cock smokers.”
Harlan had always liked the sound of a Louisville Slugger moving through the air. He took a couple of healthy swings with the bat.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
“Far as I’m concerned, Bobby, a man can find his pleasure wherever and however the hell he likes as long as whoever is on the receiving end don’t object none. Particularly in prison, where pickings are slim and we’re all fairly accustomed to the depraved side of people. I’m damn open-minded about such things as that.”
Harlan stepped into a full swing, as if he was standing at home plate, and the sound could be heard clear through the room.
Whoooosh.
Bobby yelped with fear and screwed his eyes shut tight.
“I made it clear I wanted nothin’ to do with that old boy, but he came callin’ on me anyways. Brought a couple of his farm boy associates to hold me down. I’ll admit he got the better of me to begin with.”
Whoosh.
“But after that day, he didn’t ever shove that nasty hunk of flesh in anyone’s mouth again.”
Whoosh. Whoosh.
“You know why, Bobby?”
Bobby’s chest heaved. Vomit oozed out around the edge of the red plastic ball and dribbled down his chin. He reflexively breathed in, then gagged, starting the process over. Harlan ignored the man’s discomfort.
“Cuz I bit that thing clean off.”
Whoooooosh.
“Took a good bit of work, and that old boy was banging on the back of my head with both fists the whole time. Damn near knocked me out.”
Whoosh.
“But yeah, it came off all right. I spit that prick out right there on the cell floor. Come to find out that makes for a serious injury. His boys carted him off, smearin’ a blood trail that ran all the way to the damn infirmary.”
Whoosh.
“And they don’t be offerin’ none of that reconstructive surgery shit in a prison hospital. No, sir. Prison docs just threw out the spare parts and stapled ’im up. Hooked in a tube to piss out of and told him, ‘Guess you’ll just go dickless.’ That’s some cold shit for a doc to tell a guy, ain’t it?”
Whoosh.
“And that, Bobby, is the only time I ever felt the slap of a man’s balls against my chin. First, last, and only.”
Harlan used his empty hand to position Bobby’s head while the other held the bat poised over his shoulder. In anticipation of what might be coming, Bobby made a terrible noise that Harlan took for begging. Harlan pulled on Bobby’s chin, and the man’s eyes swam in deep pools of mascara-colored tears.
“I make no judgments about ya, Bobby. I want you to know that. Now just go on and hold still.”
Bobby rocked his head back and forth. Even with the gag, he managed to make such a racket of guttural screams Harlan feared the noise might bring notice even at this late hour.
Harlan improved his stance and again recollected the face of the Iron County pig farmer. Gripping the bat with both hands, he lifted his front foot and stepped into the swing with every bit of strength he possessed. Wood connected with bone, and he rotated his hips like he was swinging for the fences. There was a loud pop as the man’s skull broke into a half-dozen sections, a good bit of the contents spraying out against Harlan’s hands, arms, and face. A sizable chunk that included one eye smacked against the wall, where it stuck for a second or two before falling to the floor, staring back from where it had come. The chair that held the now nearly headless body began to lean to one side, hung balanced for a moment, then toppled over. The man’s head had the look of a giant eggshell shattered beyond any hope of repair. A moment passed, and then Harlan’s hard breath and the settling cranial contents were the only sounds left in the room.
THIRTY-TWO
Tia parked in front of the Sawyer house. It was just after sunup and only one media truck was parked outside the home. The lone occupant dozed in the driver’s seat, so Tia exited her car doing her best to keep the noise down. Tia slipped past the man who had the seat halfway reclined and was snoring loudly. She jogged to the front porch, thinking back on her last visit. Could it have been just a week ago? It doesn’t seem possible.
She had tried to call Ben half a dozen times over the past three days, but an answering machine with Alex’s voice was as close as she got. This morning she decided she had waited long enough. The house stood quiet, and she gave the screen door a light rap of her knuckles. A moment later a woman came to the door.
“Oh.” Tia was surprised. “Hey, Mrs. Erickson. I’m here to see Ben—I mean, Sergeant Sawyer. I called ahead but there was no answer. I just thought I’d come by.”
Bernice was drying her hands on a dish towel. Dressed in a blouse and casual slacks, she looked relaxed until Tia met her gaze. There was pain and fear behind a thin mask of feigned confidence. The woman was doing her best to put up a strong front.
“Hello, Tia.” Bernice swung the door open. Her voice was strained and quiet. “Please come in and I’ll get Sergeant Sawyer.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry to intrude.
Bernice seemed to find some strength in her voice. “No, no. You’re not intruding. Someone has to do something to get this man—”
Bernice stopped when she heard the sound on the stairs. Both women turned and saw Jake halfway down at the landing. He was dressed in sweat pants and a well-worn Oakland Raiders T-shirt. Tia thought back to her last meeting with the boy and found herself at a loss for words.
Jake spoke first. “Have you seen my mom? Do you know when she can come home?”
Tia stuttered. “I-I haven’t, Jake. I’m sorry. But your mom is tough. I’m sure she is hanging in there. But your dad has visited, right? You can talk to him about it.”
Jake scoffed. “He can’t do anything. They don’t even listen to him.”
Ben came down the steps and stood next to his son. He looked asleep on his feet. “What are you doing at home? Didn’t you go to school?”
Tia listened as Jake responded in a tone of disrespect and anger. “I told you. I’m not going to school. No way.”
Ben shook his head, then turned away from his son. He looked at the two women standing in the entry of the house, his face marked with distrust. “What’s up?”
Tia took three steps toward the staircase. “I need to talk to you. It’s about the case against Alex.”
“What about it? I’m trying to get some sleep before visiting hours. Can this wait?”
Jake looked at his dad with a huff and then retreated back up the stairs.
Bernice took a firm tone. “I’m sure Officer Suarez wouldn’t be coming by if it weren’t important, Benjamin. You two need to talk.”
“Really, Sarge,” Tia said. “We need to talk. Now.”
Ben cursed under his breath and came down the stairs with heavy steps. He walked into the living room and motioned for Tia to join him. Bernice left them alone. Ben dropped himself onto a couch and put his bare feet on a coffee table. Tia looked around and took a seat in an easy chair. She had been in the room only briefly during her last visit. Now she noticed the torn up
holstery and the general shabbiness of the furniture. Ben picked up on her observations.
“Nice, huh?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Our fall from grace out in California ended up being pretty costly. Not to mention the damn medical bills these days, but don’t get me started.”
Alex looked at the picture over the fireplace of the Sawyer family. Jake looked to be around five. Ben and Alex were younger too. The family was on a beach, wearing matching outfits and with bare feet. It was a beautiful portrait of the perfect family at what Tia figured was a much happier time. She looked at Ben and saw he was looking at the photo as well.
Tia sat forward in the chair and spoke. “I got hold of some useful intel from the murder. McKenzie is keeping everything under lock and key, but we can work around his dumb ass. I’m figuring if someone is out to frame Alex, we should start at the beginning, right?”
Ben chuckled slightly, and Tia realized from the sound of it that he was exhausted. “Framed, huh? Where do you get off thinking some crazy shit like that?”
Tia stopped. “What do you mean? You think Alex is good for it?”
“Who gives a shit, Suarez?” Ben shouted. He was closer to the edge than Tia had anticipated. “My wife kills a guy, or maybe she doesn’t. Does it really matter? Have you seen the papers? I’ve got some experience in this kind of bullshit. Believe me, facts aren’t all that important to the process.”
Ben rubbed an open hand across his face, then went on.
“I got a call from a friend at the DA’s office. Wanted me to know they’ll give Alex one bite at the apple and that’s it. After that, they’re going to bring all they got. Like I said, it doesn’t really matter if she did it or not. If she doesn’t plead, they’ll put her away for life.”
Tia wasn’t ready to give up, but she had to ask. “What’s the offer?”
Ben stared back. “Murder two. Twelve to fifteen. Minimum-security facility. But they also want my resignation. Shit, they practically told me we have to leave town. The mayor, the Council, the DA—everyone wants the whole mess to just go away.”
