Measureless Night (Ash Rashid Book 4)

by Chris Culver

  I found unlit candles on the end tables on either side of the bed, and maroon fabric strewn over the lamps, dimming the light they cast onto the floor. Red rose petals stood out on the gray of our comforter. She had done the same thing the night we were married. Hannah lay beneath the covers.

  “I’m sorry for tonight,” I whispered.

  “Don’t be,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s something special in the closet. We’ll have to try it out some other time.”

  As I took off my shirt, I rotated my shoulder in a circle, feeling the bones click against one another. Early on in my career, my first partner in homicide, Keith Holliday, and I had come under fire while trying to serve an arrest warrant. The shooter hit Keith in the neck and me in the shoulder. Keith bled out on my suit and died in my arms. I don’t know what happened after that except that I passed out and awoke in a hospital bed with Hannah standing over me, crying. I promised her that as soon as I got back on my feet, I’d quit and get a new job, one that would never end with me in the hospital or in an early grave. Before she could say anything, I passed out again, but I remember feeling her tears on my cheeks.

  Hannah has never again mentioned that night, but I think it was the first promise to her I ever broke. I didn’t quit—if anything, I became more engrossed in my work. It started as a way to make a living, but as I’ve gotten older, it’s become more than that. Certain people are put on this earth to do certain things, and I believe God put me here to help balance the scales, to put the world right. It’s not just a religious edict—although justice is a central tenant of my Islamic faith—it’s part of who I am. I can’t ignore that, and every single time I’ve tried, I’ve come to regret it.

  “The room looks nice,” I said, going into the closet to throw my dirty clothes in the hamper. In the small section reserved for my hanging clothes, Hannah had added a black silk nightgown cut low in the back but otherwise more concealing than revealing. That was her style. She didn’t need to flaunt what she had. The nightgown was just revealing enough to be sexy, but not so much that it crossed the line into tawdry. I wished I had been able to see it on her rather than a clothes hanger.

  “The gown is nice,” I said, pulling on a pair of pajamas. I walked back into the bedroom and then turned off the lights before climbing into bed.

  “It is a nice gown,” said Hannah. “But I thought it’d just get in the way for now.”

  I reached over to kiss her goodnight and found that I had come to bed overdressed. Hannah giggled.

  “I guess I don’t need my pajamas after all,” I said, sliding over to her.

  We made love and then held each other, enjoying the quiet stillness of the moment. Hannah eventually drifted off to sleep, but slumber couldn’t find me. I didn’t want it to. I swung my legs off the bed and looked over my shoulder at Hannah.

  “I’m going to go for a drive,” I said, whispering. “I need to clear my head.”

  Hannah blinked a few times and then yawned and sat up, the blankets clutched to her chest. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but I just need some alone time to process what happened.”

  She put a hand flat on my upper arm and looked directly in my eyes. “If you need to talk, we can talk.”

  “I just need to get out of here for a little while.”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  I kissed her, and then stood up and dressed as quickly as I could before grabbing my car keys and leaving. The night was cold and dark, but it did little to sap the feeling welling in my stomach. I didn’t have a destination in mind, so I simply pulled my car out of the driveway and pressed on the accelerator. In the back of my mind, I knew that I needed to keep moving, that if I stopped, I’d think about Michelle. And if not Michelle, I’d focus on someone else, someone I didn’t want to think about. Most police officers with my experience develop coping skills to distance themselves from the things they see at work, but no matter what I do, I can’t. My memories follow me home.

  Even without making a conscious decision about my destination, I pulled into the parking lot outside a familiar sports bar fifteen minutes after I set out. I had spent a lot of time in that bar over the years. The last time I went there, I went with a buddy after a particularly bad day at work. I don’t think I had much to drink—just a beer—but I left feeling better than I had when I entered.

  I parked and took my keys out but stayed in the car. If I went in there, I knew I’d have more than a beer. This wasn’t just a bad day. This was a day I wanted to forget. In weeks past, I would have called Michelle at that point. She’d say something encouraging, something kind, something that would talk me back from the edge. If I called her now, though, her phone would ring and ring forever. My friend was gone, murdered in one of the most horrific ways I could imagine. I needed a break from that for just an hour or two.

  I went in and stayed an hour, long enough to down three shots, two beers, and a basket of pretzels. I had a buzz, but I wouldn’t be over the legal limit to drive. Unlike in years past, the liquor didn’t make me feel better, but it did make me feel different than when I had arrived. That was good enough for me. After the bar, I drove home, all the while thinking of what I would tell my wife. Already, I could imagine the hurt in her eyes, but she deserved to know. Maybe not tonight, but soon.

  I crept inside as quietly as I could, and, just like old times, rinsed with mouthwash before going to the bedroom. Thankfully, Hannah didn’t wake up for more than a moment as I crawled into bed.

  I don’t know how long the two of us slept, but we both woke up at the same time to a creaking sound. We’re parents, so we’re accustomed to things going bump in the night and to the sound of our floorboards shifting as someone walks around. Our kids weren’t home, though, and our floors should have been silent. Hannah sat up first, holding the covers over her chest.

  “Was that sound outside or in?” she asked.

  “Out, I think,” I said, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. My head was a little light, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the booze or from a lack of sleep. “Sounded like the front porch. Probably nothing, but I’ll check it out.”

  She nodded, but I could tell I hadn’t settled her nerves.

  “Do that, and then—”

  Hannah stopped mid-sentence. My breath caught in my throat as the creaking noise shifted into a heavy, heart-stopping thump. It sounded almost like a car backfiring, but it shook the entire house. For a moment, I froze.

  Then it happened again, rattling the walls.

  All at once, my mind caught up with events and the world spun into rapid motion. Someone was trying to kick down my front door. I stood and sprinted toward the closet.

  “Call 911,” I said, pounding my combination into the lockbox that held my service pistol. The heavy thumping at the front door continued, rhythmically, like a heartbeat. The front door was solid wood, two inches thick and weighing well over a hundred pounds. Even if the guy had an ax, it’d take him an hour to break through. The frame, though, was comparatively flimsy, so I didn’t know how much damage it could take.

  Hannah grabbed the cordless and sprinted into the closet after me, throwing on a robe, while I grabbed my weapon, a forty-caliber Glock 22, from the box.

  “The safe’s open. The Beretta’s loaded and ready,” I said, slamming a magazine into my weapon and then pulling the receiver back to chamber a round. “You know how to use it. If somebody other than me comes in, shoot him.”

  She nodded and hunkered down against the wall. I held my weapon at my side and stepped into the hallway that led to our front door. The front door shuddered as the assailant pounded against it.

  “I’m an armed police officer. Stop immediately.”

  He kicked the door again, and the frame splintered with an audible crack. At one time, my hands would have shaken so badly in that situation that I’d be a danger to everyone around me, but as the assailant’s foot connected with th
at door again and that frame finally broke, a calmness came over me and I lost myself in the moment. My hands steadied, and my breath settled into a slow and even rhythm. Despite the five drinks I had consumed that night, I felt as sober as the day I was born.

  The door crashed open, slamming into the wall. Hannah shouted, but then she, along with everything else, seemed to disappear and the world felt as if it had stopped moving. Two people existed in that moment: me, and the dark figure who had just kicked in my front door. He held his hands empty at his sides, but he very well could have had a gun in his pocket. I didn’t know what he wanted, but he wouldn’t have kicked down my door if he had good intentions. Everything about me went cold as my finger slipped from the trigger guard to the trigger.

  “Slowly put your hands on top of your head and lie on the ground.”

  “You killed my sister.”

  I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t place it. My heart thudded hard. Whether I recognized him or not didn’t matter; he was a threat.

  “Put your hands on top of your head and lie on the ground.”

  He made no move to comply, but he didn’t step forward, either.

  “You killed my sister. She was your friend.”

  Past the anger and the hurt, I knew that voice. I had talked to him just a few days ago. Some of the stiffness left my shoulders. I didn’t lower my weapon, but I relaxed a little.

  Dante?

  “Whatever’s going on—”

  His right hand shot into his jacket pocket, interrupting me. My shoulders tensed, and I held my breath.

  Don’t do this.

  “Hands in front of you. Now.”

  He struggled to pull something large out of his pocket. Then I saw it, or a corner. It was black, and even without seeing it, I knew it was a gun.

  “Drop it, please.”

  But he didn’t stop, and he didn’t drop anything. He jerked his weapon free of his coat, and I fired before he could raise it toward me. Six shots, center of mass. They struck his chest like hammer blows. He fell to his knees and then to his face before he could even raise his arm an inch.

  “He’s down. I’m okay,” I shouted, creeping forward, my gun still held in front of me. As I got closer, my stomach dropped like I had just stepped off the edge of a cliff. Our intruder was definitely Dante Washington, Michelle’s brother, and he did have a gun visible, tucked into the back of his pants. But he hadn’t gone for that, though. He had tried to pull out his cell phone.

  “Damn.”

  Chapter 7

  When I got back to the closet, I confirmed that I was okay before walking around the exterior of the house to make sure Dante had come alone. That done, I called the police from the front porch. Hannah came out to meet me. She had dressed fully and even thought to bring me a coat and some shoes, both of which I appreciated. Once I had the phone call made, we sat down on the front steps to wait for the police to arrive, giving me time to think.

  I had run into Dante by chance a couple of weeks ago when he came to pick his sister up from an AA meeting in the basement of their church. We hadn’t seen each other in a couple of years, so we sat and talked for a few minutes around the coffee urn. He had just finished law school and planned to start his own practice out of an office in his house. He even showed me a picture of his girlfriend, a woman he planned to marry when he could afford the ring. Life had turned out well for him and promised to get even better.

  And now I had killed him, taking all that away.

  This was bad. Even though Dante had broken down my door and screamed at me, he hadn’t gone for his gun. I shot an unarmed man. My stomach roiled, and my hands trembled. He was just a stupid kid who made a mistake, and I shot him for it. Hannah must have sensed how upset I was because she scooted toward me and held my hand in hers.

  “That was Dante Washington,” I said. “Michelle’s brother. I killed him.”

  “He didn’t give you a choice,” said Hannah. “You did the right thing.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. “This was wrong.”

  She didn’t say anything to that, but she squeezed my hand. “It’s okay.”

  Neither of us said anything else until the first uniformed officers arrived approximately five minutes after we had placed the call. I disentangled myself from my wife, and then stood, holding my weapon up in one hand and my badge in the other. The officers confiscated my gun, separated us, secured the scene, and then waited for the cavalry to arrive. Within twenty minutes, we had half a dozen detectives, including two from internal affairs, in my front yard. While the internal affairs detectives interviewed Hannah, one of our forensic technicians swabbed my hands for gunshot residue and a paramedic drew two vials of my blood to test for drugs or alcohol—standard practice for an officer-involved shooting. I didn’t feel drunk, but they’d find booze in my system. That certainly wouldn’t help the situation.

  After the IA detectives finished with Hannah, they asked me to come to their car so they could interview me. I sat in the back while the two detectives—neither of whom I knew—questioned me from the front. They let me tell the story at my own pace, and I told them the truth as well as I could. It was dark, I was scared, and I thought Dante was going for a gun when I shot him. They seemed understanding.

  “To clarify,” asked the officer in the driver’s seat once I finished, “did you recognize the intruder as Dante Washington upon his arrival?”

  I shook my head. “Not at first. I thought I recognized his voice, but he was hoarse. I couldn’t be sure.”

  “What did he say?”

  I took a breath and then let it out slowly, feeling a tiny bit of the tension in my gut go out with it. “He said I killed his sister. She was murdered. Paul Murphy’s working that case.”

  Both detectives jotted down notes, but then the one on the right glanced up. “We’ve spoken to Detective Murphy. He’s on his way here.”

  The guy on the left put his pen behind his ear and then narrowed his eyes at me. “I need you to be honest here, because we’re going to talk to your neighbors and your friends. Will any of them tell us you and Dante have reason to dislike each other?”

  Again, I shook my head. “No. I barely knew him. I talked to him about three weeks ago, and he showed me pictures of his girlfriend. He was saving up to buy her a ring. He was a nice guy.”

  Both detectives nodded, but I doubted they believed me. The one on the right, the younger detective, spoke next. “During the altercation, are you sure he never reached for his weapon?”

  “I thought he was reaching for a gun, but it was his phone. I shot him because I thought my life was in danger.”

  The two IA detectives looked at each other, and then the one on the left spoke. “Are you positive that’s how it happened? It would be better if he had reached for his gun.”

  I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean better?”

  Both detectives, again, looked at each other before folding up their notepads and looking at me again. The driver, the older of the two, sighed. “I’m not going to lie to you. We can’t arrest you for protecting yourself from an intruder, but this is still going to turn into a giant mess. Whether Dante broke into your house or not, you shot an unarmed man. I want to believe you, I really do, but your story doesn’t make sense. If he was such a nice guy and you two got along so well, why would he kick down your door and accuse you of murdering his sister? Something’s not adding up here. The press gets wind of this, they’re going to crucify you. Let us help you. Tell me it’s possible that he went for his gun.”

  At first, I didn’t know what to say to that. I leaned back and blinked.

  “I’m not going to lie.”

  “I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to consider the possibility that he reached for his firearm rather than his cell phone. By your own admission, it was dark, it was late, and you were scared. And let me guess, your wife was screaming, right? You didn’t know what was going on. All you knew was that someone broke into your house. You wa
nted to protect yourself and your wife. With all that going on, it’s understandable if you were confused by what you saw. It’s possible that he was going for his gun and not his cell phone, right? You could have seen that.”

  I didn’t know these detectives, so I didn’t know if they were trying to trick me into saying something I shouldn’t or if they were genuinely trying to falsify the record.

  “What are you guys trying to do?”

  “We’re trying to understand what happened,” said the older detective. “You’re not making it easy.”

  “Fine. I’ll make it crystal clear,” I said, holding up my hands. “Dante kicked down my door. I held him at gunpoint and told him to lie on the ground. He then reached into his pocket for something. I asked him to take his hands out and put them where I could see them. He then pulled something black out, and I thought it was a gun. I shot him. His firearm, however, was behind him. He didn’t reach for it.”

  The detectives looked at me, nodding. Neither wrote down what I had just said.

  “For your own good, you should consider the possibility that you’re mistaken,” said the older guy. “You’re IMPD, and you shot a man. That reflects on all of us, and we’re not going to let Indianapolis turn into Ferguson, Missouri. Here, if you shoot an unarmed man who was reaching for his phone, you’re going to hang. Do you understand what we’re saying?”

  The implications of that dawned on me slowly. They didn’t want the truth. They wanted a story they could sell to the media. “You can’t arrest me for shooting a man who broke into my house.”

  “No, but we can recommend the chief fire you,” said the older detective. “We don’t have to protect you from the press, either.”

  “Do what you think is right,” I said. “Since I’m not under arrest, I’m going to get out of this car and I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation. If you need to talk to me again, I’ll give you my lawyer’s number.”