The Edge of Justice

by Clinton McKinzie

  TWENTY-THREE

  IT'S DARK AND quiet on Ivinson Street when we get outside. From a few blocks away there is the faint pulse of music wafting from the downtown bars and the sound of drunken laughter. Jones only trusts to take my handcuffs off when we are standing by his low-slung Corvette. I rub at the deep cuts they left on my wrists, then pass my hands over my freshly swelling face. I feel like I'm ten feet tall and thin as a piece of paper. The lightest of breezes could knock me over. Thank God that for once the Wyoming wind is still.

  “That girl called, that reporter friend of yours,” Jones explains. “Said she saw from her room's window the cops taking you away in a car. She got the hotel to let her in your room, got your phone book, and started punching numbers. She remembered you saying how we were friends and woke me up to see if there was anything I could do. She sounded pretty worked up, man. You sure she's not your girlfriend?”

  I don't answer the question. “Thanks, Jones. I owe you. In a big way.”

  “Shit yeah, in a very big way. But don't worry too much 'bout my job. Yesterday I got a letter from the FBI. I'm going to Quantico in four weeks.”

  “Congratulations. I hope you find a better class of cop there. I'm not too impressed with Laramie's.”

  “Yeah, fucking rednecks. I'm overdue for a little affirmative action. So, you want to stay at my place? Wife would love to see you, but she's still a little pissed about you taking me climbing the other day. She'll love that dog of yours.”

  The seams of my grief begin to part again but I somehow hold them together. I don't tell Jones what happened in the mountains—I can't bear to talk or even think about it yet. Instead I say, “No, the hotel is fine. I want to check on Rebecca and make sure those guys don't mess with her. Then I've got to be in Cheyenne for the hearing this afternoon. I'm going to have to figure out some way of making myself presentable.”

  “You show up looking and smelling like you do, the judge'll hold you in contempt. Watch your back, man. You need anything, just call.”

  He drops me off under the security lights of the parking lot by my truck. I pick up my pack from where it still rests on the pavement by my back bumper and get the .32 from under the seat. I slip it into my pocket. Jones maneuvers the Corvette so he can watch me limp down the exposed corridor to my room. I don't know which is Rebecca's and need to call the desk.

  But she is in my room when I come through the door. She sits at the small table by the window, hunched over with the phone to her ear, her unwashed hair tangled over her face. At the sound of the door swinging open she starts like a deer, then says, “He's here!” into the phone and comes to me, the receiver's cord stretched to the breaking point. “My God, what happened—”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “McGee, on his cell. He's driving over.”

  I take the phone from her and say hello to my boss.

  “What the hell is going on?” he roars.

  I start to explain but he cuts me off. “I'm pulling off the highway—wait for me.” Then he hangs up.

  Rebecca is still in my arms, her lips pressed against my neck. I toss the dead phone onto the bed and hold her closer. I thank her again and again. This is the second time she has saved me with her courage and resourcefulness.

  “What happened? I saw you being pulled into the police car. . . .” She is crying now. “Your face . . . Ross said something about your brother. . . .”

  I quiet her by cupping her face in my hands and kissing her mouth, and tell her I will explain when McGee arrives. Her arms grip my bruised ribs so tight that I think I'll faint, but I don't want her to let go.

  Even through the room's closed door I can hear the tap of his cane as he comes down the hallway in the late-night silence. I put Rebecca in a chair and go to the sink to wash my hands and face.

  McGee comes in looking even more tired than usual. The lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes are so deep they look as if they were carved by an artist gripping a pencil in his fist. His beard is limp and ragged instead of its usual ferocious bristle. He weaves visibly on his feet as he comes into the room, breathing hard from the walk. As bad as he appears, I can see in the mirror that I look worse. Probably feel worse too. Anger is the only thing keeping me on my feet.

  Once he is seated on the bed, I tell him about finding Chris Braddock's body in the Big Horns, and then tell them both about what Bender and Willis did to me and Karge's intention of keeping me locked away until after the sentencing. Gingerly lifting my blood- and sweat-encrusted shirt, I display the sharp bruises that are rising under my skin from the pointy toes of Sergeant Bender's boots.

  After McGree growls out a long stream of his signature obscenities, he tells me of my brother's escape from Canon City. He doesn't yet know any of the circumstances—Colorado is playing it close to the vest. But for now I'm considered a suspect in aiding him, as I had just visited him for the first time three days earlier.

  “I'm sure the sheriff was all too happy to tell them I was nowhere to be found,” I say. “It gave them a great opportunity to tuck me away for a few days, until the Knapps get their ride on the gurney and Karge's election is all but assured.”

  Rebecca asks, “How can they think it won't come out after the sentencing?”

  “For one, they think they . . . can easily discredit our young friend here,” McGee explains. “They'll capitalize on his reputation as a rogue . . . and hope he doesn't have . . . an alibi for his brother's escape. . . . Second, they'll try to silence me . . . with a threat to my pension . . . or my health benefits . . . which God knows I need. . . . And soon Karge will be in a position . . . to control any investigation, as the governor-elect. . . . But I think these are desperate measures . . . not fully thought out.”

  “They're panicking,” I say.

  “They're fucking out of control,” he growls. “There's more bad news, lad. . . . Talk of filing murder charges . . . against you again, for the Sureno shooting. . . . The Attorney General himself called . . . said they're thinking of suspending you . . . until a decision is reached. . . . Karge is cranking up the pressure.”

  We all sit silently for a few minutes; the only sound is McGee's ragged breath. I'm rocked back on my heels—they're going to take everything from me.

  “I wish I could write about this, get it all before the public,” Rebecca says angrily, breaking the spell. “Only my editor won't approve it until there's more solid evidence. What can you do from here?”

  “I've got enough for a warrant now,” I say. “For Heller and Brad Karge. I'm going to write it out now, get it to a judge. Once the word of their arrest is out, the County Attorney will have no choice but to postpone the sentencing.”

  “Run it down, lad. . . . What do you have?”

  “Kate Danning's dead, with injuries inconsistent to a fall. I've got the bottle with Brad's fingerprints on it and Kate's blood type at the least. Witnesses that place Brad, Heller, and Chris at the scene. As circumstantial as that is, we've also got the fact that Chris is dead and the cut rope as evidence. Again, Heller and Brad were at that scene too in the Big Horns. That makes the inference that Kate was killed all the stronger—those two are taking care of the one witness we know was there when Kate died.”

  “You need probable cause to get a judge to sign the warrant, right? Is that enough?” Rebecca asks. We're silent for another moment.

  McGee explains the concept of probable cause to her. In legalese, it requires facts and circumstances sufficient to cause a person of reasonable caution to believe that a crime has been committed and the person named in the warrant committed the crime. He concludes by saying, “It's very close, depends on the judge. . . . It's a lot stronger if we tie it in with Lee.”

  “The only connection we have with Lee right now is that she might have been about to turn in her drug suppliers,” I say, “and Heller's a known and convicted dealer. And there's the cord, but of course the coroner threw out whatever was used on Danning. Anyway, no Albany County ju
dge will be anxious to sign a warrant that casts doubts on the senior county judge's trial, especially when it's the trial of the century.”

  “Then take it to the judge in Johnson County . . . just get the fucking thing signed,” McGee says.

  After another moment's silence I say, “I need to get a search warrant for Heller's house too. See if that cord's there, the stuff Billy's been buying in Buffalo. But I don't have any proof that the cord's in his house, so a judge will never sign it. We have to find out if it's there, though. Then we'll know for sure if those guys did Lee and set up the Knapps.” I say this looking straight at McGee, wondering how he will respond to my unspoken proposal of breaking into Heller's house. McGee spins his cane in his hands while his bright blue eyes stare back at me. I think I see him nod once, almost imperceptibly. That's enough for me.

  Then he says, “What about a motive . . . something that ties it all together?”

  For a few minutes we play the universal parlor entertainment of cops and prosecutors everywhere: the guessing game. Who did it is usually obvious. It is why he or she did it that is always the subject of much discussion and so hard for a jury to understand. So you pitch theories back and forth, trying to find one that makes sense. You look for one that gets you to nod and say to yourself, “Yeah, I can see it. I might've done that if I didn't have more control.” And you take comfort in the fact that you have more control. We all have more or less the same urges; some are just taken to a more perverted degree. It is self-control that distinguishes the violent criminal from the law-abiding citizen.

  My theory is little more than conjecture, but I feel it is true in my bones. Heller's getting older, losing his strength and skills, losing the idolatry of the young followers that surround him. He is seeking new ways to control them without having to risk his life to draw their awe on the rock. Control with drugs and rough group sex. And I think he's come to like it, this new method of manipulation he has developed. I think he likes degrading the youth he is jealous of—drugging them, choking them, penetrating them, and destroying them. He's found a new way to feed the Rat.

  At some point Rebecca moves from the chair to curl up on the bed near where McGee hunches, leaning on his cane. The mental and physical exhaustion has reached a point that will finally allow her to rest. I feel the same—I'm near collapse. She asks in a sleepy voice, “What about the sheriff, Sergeant Bender, and Karge? They're obstructing your investigation. They falsely arrested Anton. Can't you charge them?”

  I look at McGee. His face turns red anew with either embarrassment or anger. I hope the stress doesn't prove too much for him. “I've got to go to the fucking AG . . . the one who's already endorsed Karge for governor . . . before we do anything like that,” he tells us. “And he's got to keep Karge happy . . . if he wants to keep his job. . . . It's not very goddamn likely . . . he'll approve any charges like that . . . even if we can prove them.”

  “We'll worry about them later,” I say, looking at the digital clock on the nightstand. “I'm going to shower, sleep a few hours, then get the warrants written up. And I've got to be in Cheyenne for the hearing at one-thirty this afternoon.”

  It's two in the morning when I finally get in the shower and try not to gasp as the hot water stings my bruises and open sores. When I come out ten minutes later McGee has gone back to his own room at the hotel. Rebecca is still curled on the bed in the clothes she has worn for the past two days. Her breath is soft and slow—she's asleep. I pull on a pair of shorts and lie down beside her, gently folding the comforter over her like a taco. It seems like I just closed my eyes when the phone blares beside my head.

  “Burns,” I say, putting my free arm across Rebecca's back to slow her attempt at bolting upright.

  “I'm sorry, lad . . . but I just got the call . . . Sierra Calloway's been found dead . . . to the east of Buford in Laramie County . . . I'll pick you up in ten minutes.” I recall that Laramie County is to the east of the town of Laramie and Albany County.

  More asleep than awake, a thought rings through me like the crystal tone of a bell. “He's taking care of the witnesses, Ross.”

  “Appears so,” he replies and hangs up.

  I explain to Rebecca what's happening and get her to lie back down. “There's nothing you can do right now,” I tell her. “The Laramie County sheriffs won't allow you near the scene. Just go back to sleep.”

  “This is a nightmare,” I hear her murmur in an exhausted, frightened voice as I tug on a shirt and pants in the darkness.

  A few minutes later, earlier than I expect, there's a soft knock on the door. I unlock it and pull it open while turning to take my wool jacket from the hook. When I turn back to the door it's not McGee waiting there but Lynn White.

  “Hey man,” she says softly, almost purring, “I figured the only way I'd get you back in bed is by—”

  She stops when she sees my swollen face in the corridor lights and her eyes become wide. “What happened—”

  Then her mouth drops open and she looks into the room past me when Rebecca says from the bed, “Anton?”

  “Lynn, this isn't a good time . . .”

  But she is already backing away from the door, looking small and angry in her baggy blue jeans and fleece jacket. Her brown eyes are as hard and smooth as river stones when she shoots me a final glare, then turns and runs past the pool, almost colliding with McGee as he shuffles down the hall.

  I say to Rebecca, “I'll call you later.” Then close the door. Despite everything, I see McGee has a sardonic grin on his evil face, the first I have seen in a long time, when he turns back to me after watching the girl flee down the hall and out of sight.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  HER TRAILER'S UP past Buford, in Laramie County. . . . The sheriff up there's asked us to assist . . . our crime scene techs are coming too . . . they'll be there in ninety minutes,” McGee tells me as we get into his state-issued sedan. I know that Laramie County often works with DCI, especially since our office is based in Cheyenne, Laramie County's biggest town.

  The car's interior is permanently stained with the odor of McGee's foul cigars. The smell penetrates even my swollen nose as I ease myself down into the passenger seat. When he's done wrestling his bulk behind the steering wheel, the amused look is gone from his face. We discuss what little he knows about Sierra Calloway's murder. He doesn't ask me for an explanation about the angry girl running down the hall and I don't offer one.

  Stars still hang low over Happy Jack Mountains near Vedauwoo as McGee drives me east on Grand Avenue out of town. The early-morning wind has swept the dark sky clean. A beautiful dawn is inevitable, but the circumstances will not allow me to contemplate it. I don't even turn my head to look at Vedauwoo as we drive past. My eyes are nearly swollen shut from the bruises and exhaustion. My ribs ache a little each time I inhale. A knifelike pain cuts across my stomach every few minutes, caused either by hunger or damage from the kicks I received. And I'm on my way to see the corpse of a girl who was probably killed for just talking with me.

  It takes us thirty minutes to cross the county line due to McGee's cautious driving. Just before we reach the line, McGee points at a boarded-up saloon off to the side of the highway.

  “I had a case from there once. . . . It used to be a strip joint . . . nearly twenty years back. . . . The place did a little prostitution on the side. . . . One morning a bunch of sheriff's deputies brought in five strippers for arraignment. . . . One of them was famous in those days . . . called herself ‘Chris Colt and Her Twin .44s'. . . . The deputies had run an unapproved undercover sting . . . they said they had evidence of illegal touching for pay going on. . . . Turned out the evidence was a bunch of Polaroids taken by the bar's own photographer . . . each showing a grinning deputy holding the Twin .44s. . . . Apparently the boys were angry . . . they didn't get more than just a feel . . . so they arrested all the girls.” McGee chuckles dryly and shakes his head. “I threw the charges out.”

  I ask out of habit, “Is there a point t
o that story, Boss?”

  “Of course, lad. . . . One of the moronic young deputies . . . was named Daniel Willis. . . . He's moved up in the world since then . . . but he's still a vindictive piece of shit. . . . I wonder if I still have that photo of him somewhere.”

  In the remaining moonlight that hangs over the prairie, I can see that Buford is not really a town at all, just a dark gas station with an attached diner, a few collapsing barns, and a couple of trailers. We turn onto a dirt road that parallels the highway.

  A few miles past the insignificant town, a Laramie County Sheriff's Office SUV is parked with its lights off before another, smaller, unmarked dirt road. In the faint light, we can see that the road stretches south across the rolling plain toward the towering ice and granite of Rocky Mountain National Park and the 14,000-foot massif of Longs Peak. McGee pulls in behind the car and turns his lights off and on again. In their illumination the figure in the driver's seat makes a follow-me gesture and starts his car. We trail it down the unmarked road through the dust it kicks up. Our two-car caravan rocks up over a small rise, then drops into a broad depression that's a mile or more in circumference.

  There's a long, battered trailer there among low shrublike trees. A partially collapsed shed hunkers behind it and there's a dog run to the side. Two more SUVs bearing the emblem of the Laramie County Sheriff's Office are waiting with their lights turned on, pointing at the trailer. The barking of dogs penetrates the otherwise quiet night.

  McGee pulls up alongside one and puts his car in park. I roll down my window and let McGee speak across me to the elderly man behind the wheel.

  “Morning, McKittrick. . . . I won't say it's a good one. . . . This is Special Agent Burns. He's DCI.”

  The sheriff nods at me, taking a minute to examine a little skeptically my two-day growth of beard and tired, beaten face. He doesn't say it, but I can read what he's thinking—Heard about you.