The Best American Mystery Stories 2012

by Otto Penzler

  “You said there’d been other times when Tom said he’d be here and didn’t show?”

  She nodded, grabbed a tissue from her sleeve, and dabbed at her nose. “Every three years like clockwork. He never made it. Not once. And he always felt so bad after that he’d pay to take us out there. But it ain’t the same as coming home.”

  “No, ma’am, it isn’t.”

  “I don’t know why he hated it so bad. It was like the town burned him and he couldn’t face it again. I kept telling him that folks’d forgiven him, but he didn’t seem to hear. He was a good boy, Webb. You know that.”

  “He made quite an impression on me,” Webb said.

  Gladys studied her hands. Her thumbs worked against each other as if she were rubbing pain out of them. “I’m sorry about Florence,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  He opened his mouth, closed it, unsure what to say. He almost said that it didn’t matter, but it did matter. Tom had ruined his sister’s life.

  “You tell her that money’s still here. I got it in an account for her. Remind her.”

  Webb went rigid. The room spun and he realized he hadn’t taken a breath. Gladys looked up, the lines in her face deeper somehow, and he made himself breathe. He couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “You—?”

  But Gladys didn’t answer. She pushed her chair away from the table, stood, and walked to the sink. She grabbed a glass from the sideboard and filled it with water. Her reflection in the window was wavy and indistinct.

  “He was a good boy, my Tom,” she said. “He just forgot sometimes that things have consequences. Like never coming home. His kids would’ve liked him here, you know? At a game, maybe, or that play Donnie was in. It’d meant a lot.” She took a sip. “Guess it don’t matter now.”

  “Who killed him, Mrs. Johanssen?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” She set her glass down, but she didn’t turn around. “Not sure I want to find out the answer.”

  Neither was he. But fear had wrapped itself around his heart, and he had learned long ago to face that fear, to stand it down as if it were a charging dog or rampaging drunk.

  He was on this path. Nothing, not even his own fear, would make him leave.

  The Johanssens had offered to repay Flo her $5000, and she had never taken them up on it. They had it in an account in her name, had since 1971. When Tom sent them the money to pay off their own mortgage.

  Webb didn’t want to think about how much money was there, what kind of life Flo could have had if she’d only tried.

  He drove away from the Johanssens’ sick and shaking and wishing for a drink.

  Instead he turned onto Hill, drove past the high school, past the duplexes owned by John Johanssen, and stopped at a crudely constructed A-frame on what looked like a vacant lot bordering John Johanssen’s property.

  Three brothers. Tom, John, and Scott. Scott Johanssen was the youngest, Vietnam vet, five children and no job.

  The yard was a mixture of snow and dirt. Toys, half buried in the muck, were colorful reflections in the glare of a powerful porch light. Webb got out of the car and trudged on the unshoveled path. It was icy and awkward, with tramped footprints. Voices echoed from inside the house. Sharp voices, male and female, that cut off abruptly when he knocked.

  There was no screen. When the unpainted door eased open, the scents of dirty diapers and dryer lint floated to him on a bed of warm air. A woman stood behind the door, her body thick with the aftermath of a pregnancy, her blouse stained with milk. The toddler in her arms was kicking her in a vain attempt to get down.

  “Scott Johanssen, please,” Webb said.

  “You a cop?” she asked.

  He nodded, reaching for his badge. But she didn’t wait. She stood aside and yelled, “Dad, another one!” as she let Webb inside.

  He stepped into a kitchen filled with old dishes and an overflowing diaper pail. In the center of the room, a weather-scarred picnic table stood, covered with crumbs and an overturned child’s juice glass.

  “Through there,” she said, waving a hand at the A-shaped doorway.

  He followed the trail of baby clothes and toys until he reached shag carpeting that might have been brown and might have been orange. This room smelled no better than the other. The furniture was old and brown, the upholstery torn. A TV was crammed against the unfinished wall, a red mute across Dan Rather’s face.

  Scott Johanssen was crammed into a Barcalounger that sagged under his weight. The footrest tilted, obviously broken. Scott was balding but still baby-faced, his round features a fatter, younger version of Phil’s.

  “Webster Coninck. Why the hell they got you on the case?”

  “Dad,” the woman said from the doorway.

  Scott shrugged, and slapped the remote on a cup-strewn metal table. “Fair question when you remember that Webster here vowed undying hate toward my brother thirty-some years ago.”

  “I came to offer condolences, Scott.”

  “Yeah, and monkeys’ll fly out of my ass.”

  “Dad,” the woman said. “The children . . .”

  “It’s my house, Cheri,” Scott said. “You don’t like how I talk, you and them kids can go back to that asshole husband of yours.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Webb, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Scott peered up at him. “Condolences my ass,” he said. “You want to know if I killed him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Should have, for all the times he left Mom and Dad hanging. And them kids. They worship him, you know, and he didn’t even have the time of day for ’em. Not even when he flew ’em to Utah. He’d let that slut of his take ’em places, and then he’d show up maybe for supper, maybe for one day of skiing, and that’s all they’d talk about. Me and John, we were always there for ’em, but we were never enough. I was a fat bum, and John was too slick. Their dad was perfect because he was mostly a figment of their imaginations. That’s what Tom was good at. Making up lies about himself that other people’d believe.”

  “What kind of lies?” Webb asked, figuring he’d let Scott talk if that was what he wanted.

  Scott snorted, slid one finger forward, and shut off the TV. A whine that Webb hadn’t been aware of disappeared. “Lies? You mean like that corporate job that made so damn much money? I called him at work lotsa times, always got him direct. Then I lost the number, called information, and got the receptionist. She said she’d never heard of him. I got”—he grinned—“well, lessay I can be a mean s.o.b. when I wanna, and she put me through to personnel. Said they had a Tom Johanssen in their records. He’d been there and left years ago. That was in 1979, and when I’d ask him about it, Tom’d just laugh and say, ‘Scott, there’s business and then there’s business.’ As if I didn’t know that. Every grunt ever lived knows that. Just didn’t want to hear my brother saying it, you know?”

  Webb wasn’t sure he did know. He shifted. His feet had left a fresh snow-mud trail on the flattened carpet. “You ever see him on those trips back here?”

  Scott narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know about them?”

  Webb shrugged. “Amazing what you hear when you’re listening.”

  Scott pushed back on the arms of the chair. The back of the Barcalounger hit the wall.

  “I was still drinking,” he said. “So it had to be eight-eight, eight-nine, down to Tups. I had just come from Ma’s and she was in a fine fix because she thought Tom was coming home. But he never showed. He was good at that, too. So I wander into Tups and take my usual spot when who do I see through that stupid glass bead curtain Tup used to have but my brother in one of his fancy suits, talking to some fat asshole I’ve never seen before or since.”

  “What happened?” Webb asked.

  “I was drinking.” Scott picked up the remote, tapped its end against the metal table, making a sound like a brush on a snare drum. “So I wasn’t thinking, you know? I shout his name and stumble back there and by then him and his buddies are
gone.”

  “You sure it was Tom?”

  “I was drinking,” Scott said. “I wasn’t drunk. Besides, he sent me cash money to apologize for being a jerk and asked me not to tell Ma. Told Dad, though. Big mistake. He tried to find Tom, and when he couldn’t, he spent near a year in Tups, hoping he’d come back. He never did. Then Tom flew ’em all out on one of them Utah ski trips, and when Dad come home, he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “You know what Tom was doing here?”

  “Nope, and I’m sure Dad don’t, either. Like I said, Tom was good at making you think one thing when he was doing another.”

  Webb knew that. He knew that very well. “So what do you think happened to Tom?”

  “I think somebody finally got tired of all the lies and used a bullet to shut him up.”

  “Any idea who that somebody was?”

  “Nope.” Scott stopped tapping the remote and pushed a button. The TV flicked on, so loud that Webb jumped. “I’m sure you’re not hurting for suspects, though.”

  The winter darkness that Webb hated had settled in by the time he left. The sky was black—no stars, only clouds—and the streetlights made the snow seem white. Black and white with no gray. Not even the world had room for nuance anymore.

  John Johanssen lived out near Jenna Hastings Johanssen Conner. John’s house was a 3500-square-foot mock Tudor. It stood on a hill with a view of the river valley, the rolling land, the copper water tracing its way through taconite country. John owned fifteen acres here, and half the town besides. His rents were sky-high and his reputation nasty. But his buildings were never empty, and if Tom hadn’t become such a legend, John would have gotten credit for being the rich Johanssen brother.

  John’s wide, winding driveway had a square snow-blower-built wall on each side. The snow was still picture-perfect, icy pure and fresh-fallen white. The garage door was down. Webb parked on the far side, careful to leave room for a second car to park beside him. He got out, slammed his car door, and the sound echoed in the winter air. He followed the snow-blown trail to the immaculately shoveled front porch.

  He grabbed the carved brass knocker with his bare right hand. The shock of cold ran through his skin and up his arm. He banged once, then waited, scouting for a doorbell.

  He didn’t need it. John’s wife, Evvie, pulled the door open and braced the frame with her right hand. She was too-rich thin and wore fresh makeup despite the late hour. “He’s not here, Webster,” she said.

  “I wanted to talk to both of you,” Webb said.

  Her smile was tired. “You know I can’t do that without John.”

  John had never liked it, not from the day they got married. Any independence Evvie showed somehow reflected on him. Evvie couldn’t talk to another man alone. Webb had been on some of the calls as a beat patrolman. John never hit his wife, but the yelling had terrified the neighbors more than once. Webb suspected that was one of the reasons the couple had moved so far out in the country.

  Webb didn’t argue. He could talk to them together if he needed to. “Where is he?”

  “Funeral home. Someone has to make the arrangements.” She brushed a strand of unnaturally dark hair from her face. “I’ve been trying to call the folks in Utah. The numbers don’t work, except the home number, and Cindy won’t pick up.”

  “Someone at the station probably notified her.”

  “Hope so. We shouldn’t have to take care of him. He never did his part for this family.” Then she shrugged. “Shouldn’t have said that, should I? Speaking unkindly of the dead.”

  “It’s not a sin,” Webb said.

  “At least, not in the world of Tom Johanssen.” She sighed. “I’ll have John call. I know he wants to talk. This has him shook.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t happen years ago.” She took her hand off the doorframe. “Thanks for understanding, Webb.”

  “Always have,” he said.

  She nodded and eased the door closed. It snicked shut, and he stood for a moment, his hand still aching with cold. He’d always liked Evvie. She and John were high school sweethearts, and seemed to have an understanding. But Webb thought John had never treated her well enough, despite the house, despite the trips, despite the money. She had no life away from him, and she should have.

  At least Webb thought so. But he wasn’t sure if that thought came from his own desire to see Evvie alone and have a real conversation, just once, without the guilt.

  He sighed, walked off the steps and back to his car. When he got inside, the porch light switched off.

  The home Jenna Hastings made with her second husband, Steve Conner, was one mile and an entire income district away from John Johanssen’s. Jenna lived in a small three-bedroom ranch at the base of one of the rolling hills. Her nearest neighbor on the left had a front yard littered with dead appliances and car parts. Her nearest neighbor on the right had lost his home in a winter fire fifteen years ago and replaced it with an Airstream because he hadn’t been insured. Jenna had tried to make hers nice, with flower boxes outside the window and a fresh coat of paint every few years. But the little house still looked like what it was—a starter home for a family that had never moved on.

  Webb used to drive out to Jenna’s a lot when Steve was still on the force. They’d have barbecues and parties for the department, and Webb’d watch her four Johanssen boys take care of her two Conner girls. Handsome children all, with the same restless intelligence he’d once seen in Jenna’s eyes.

  He turned onto the highway leading to the Conner place and was startled to see the road filled with cars. Black-and-whites parked haphazardly, their blue and red lights bright splashes against the snow. His mouth was dry, his stomach suddenly queasy. He had purposely had his scanner off, and now he flicked it on, the buzz and crackle of voices uncomfortably loud.

  Steve Conner was standing under the outdoor light, coatless, arms wrapped around his torso. He was yelling at one of the patrolmen who stood, head bowed, blocking Steve from the house. Other officers were walking in and out of the open front door. Even from this distance, Webb could see the damp footprints on Jenna’s red-and-black rug.

  He got out of his car slowly, like a man in a nightmare. The air, frosty cold, didn’t touch him. His feet squeaked on the snow, and some of it fell over the edge of his shoe and instantly melted on top of his sock. He scanned each squad until he saw what he was looking for, Jenna’s too-white face pressed against the rolled-up window, watching as her husband continued to argue with the officer in charge.

  All beat officers, no detectives. That made him shaky. He grabbed one of the patrolmen—a woman, actually, Kelly Endicott, who had gone to school with one of Jenna’s kids.

  “Who ordered this?” he said.

  “Headquarters.” She shook his arm off.

  “Who?”

  She shrugged. “No one wanted a name attached.”

  “What’s the charge?” he asked, hoping that he’d stumbled on something else, that this was a mistake that had gotten out of hand.

  “Murder, Webb.” Endicott’s voice was soft. “They found the gun.”

  He put a hand to his head. It didn’t make sense. They had to do firing tests and match-ups and hours of lab work, and even then they couldn’t be certain that the gun they had was the one used in the murder. The idea of ballistics as used on TV detective shows was as much a fiction as the locked-room mystery.

  “What’d they find?” he asked.

  “Conner’s old service revolver, under one of the cars at Tups. It’d been fired. Conner says the gun was stolen one night when he was at Tups.”

  Webb nodded. “He reported it years ago.”

  Conner, a gun nut, had made a special petition to keep his weapons. Webb had kidded Conner about losing his revolver. Hated the force so much you’ve gone and lost the one thing to remind you of it.

  Webb rubbed his hand over his face. His skin was getting chapped from all the exposure to the frosty
air. “How come Jenna and not him?”

  “No motive,” Endicott said. “He’d never met Johanssen. She had cause, so they say.”

  “She’s had cause for thirty-three years,” Webb said. “Doesn’t mean she’d do it now.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, Webb. Seems to me someone just decided how this would fall, and didn’t do the backup work.” She tugged on her cap. “But what do I know? I’m still considered a rookie.”

  She walked away from him, back to Conner and the officer he was yelling at. Webb glanced at Jenna. She had gained weight since high school. She had a matronly fullness, the kind of motherly warmth once drawn in ads for Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. When she saw Webb, she shook her head, and held up her hand as if he shouldn’t come near. He shrugged, and she shrugged in return. Then he retraced his steps to the car, got in, and went back to the station to see who had caused this travesty.

  During the winter, after five, the station had a different feel, a dark, gloomy feel, as if no hope could return to the world. Most of the desks were empty, but cops milled around, finishing business, leaning on counters, talking on the phone. Webb hated night activity. In this town, night activity was always sad activity: drug arrests, drinking violations, domestic violence disputes. Later, after midnight, the bar fights and the knifings would happen, but now the station’s business was usually about kids in trouble with nowhere to turn.

  The cops couldn’t help them, either. The best the kids could hope for was to return to the parents who had neglected them in the first place. The worst was juvie, the petty-criminal training ground.

  Webb slipped inside. The station smelled of chalk dust and old coffee grounds. The concrete walls muted voices, made them sound as distant as and less important than the voices on the police scanner.

  Darcy sat behind her desk, hands in her short cropped hair, a cigarette burning to ashes in a tray below the bright glare of the desk lamp. She was staring at the notes in her phone log, cheeks red with a stain Webb had learned to identify as anger.