Debbie was sitting in a chair, hunched forward, one hand clutching her stomach, the other supporting her head. She was swaying slightly from side to side, and her breath came in labored, sobbing gasps. The sight of her sent a shiver through me. Yet I didn’t rush to her side. I had been too well trained for that. Instead, I quickly searched the apartment, the nine-millimeter leading the way, checking all rooms and closets. The place was surprisingly neat. Except for the tiny bloodstains that he had splattered on the arms and cushions of Debbie’s chair, Nye had done his work without muss or fuss.
After I assured myself that we were alone, I went to Debbie and knelt next to the chair.
“I’m here,” I said.
“I can’t stop crying,” Debbie managed to sputter.
I didn’t blame her. Debbie’s eyes were red and bruised. Her nose was broken, and her nostrils were caked with blood—she made sucking noises trying to breathe through it. There was a gaping hole in her mouth where two teeth had been. The right side of her jaw was swollen and discolored. The body I had admired only hours earlier now seemed frail and brittle. The way Debbie clutched her stomach, I knew some serious damage had been done there.
Debbie’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and she spoke so low that I could barely hear her over the wind and rain that rattled the apartment windows.
“He hurt me,” Debbie said. “He hurt me.” Then, “He made me ashamed.”
Her sobbing ceased, replaced with a quiet agony. I hugged her shoulder. I wanted to touch her in a way that would make all the pain and suffering disappear, but I didn’t know how. Better not to try. Vulnerability, my inner voice told me, is the curse of all those who care.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” I said, although in this weather I wouldn’t have wanted to make book on how long it would take to arrive. The plan was nixed anyway.
“Take me . . . hospital,” Debbie begged.
“Yes.”
As I helped Debbie to her feet, the phone rang. We both swung toward the sound, as startled as if it had been a gunshot.
“It’s him, it’s him,” Debbie muttered through cracked and torn lips.
“Good,” I told her. “That means he’s not here.”
I lifted her in my arms. The phone was still ringing when I carried Debbie across the threshold like a bride, hooking the apartment door closed behind us with my wet shoe.
Rain continued to fall, but not as relentlessly. Visibility had improved, and the streetlamps, imperceptible before, had turned each puddle into a silver pool. I struggled with Debbie’s weight, staggering a few times as I carried her across the parking lot to the Jeep Cherokee. I leaned the nearly unconscious woman against the back door, holding her upright with my arm and shoulder while I fumbled for the front door latch.
The crack of a handgun—a sound as angry as thunder—caused me to drop to the wet asphalt, pulling Debbie down with me. She cried out so loudly that I thought at first she had been hit, but it was her injuries that caused the pain, not a bullet. I held her close, her face pressed against my wet shirt, and listened. Nothing. For a moment, I thought I had imagined the gunshot. Then I felt movement to my right. I spun toward it. There was no sound save the rumble of raindrops beating on the SUV.
“Get under the car,” I told Debbie. She looked at me, but in the darkness I couldn’t read her expression. “Get under the car,” I repeated. She moaned and choked as I pushed her beneath the Cherokee. It was a tight fit, but there was just enough clearance.
I raised myself into a squatting position and leaned against the car door, gun in hand, and cautiously lifted my head above the hood. Raindrops caromed off the surface and splashed my eyes.
“Where are you?” I muttered.
As if in answer, the handgun exploded again and a bullet smacked the front quarter panel of the car directly behind me. I fired my gun in reply; fired at nothing, hit nothing. I fired it only for the sound it made. I wanted whoever was shooting at me to know I had a gun, too. I wanted him to know that I would use it.
I ducked and rolled across the asphalt to the rear of the Cherokee. The rain had flattened my hair and soaked my jacket, shirt, and jeans; the shirt and jeans were sticking to my skin. None of that registered at the time as I moved quickly behind the row of vehicles, keeping low, moving in the direction of the gunshot.
The rain mixed with cold perspiration. Muscles tightened in my neck and shoulders; my lungs compressed until I was taking only short sips of air; the pounding of my heart was loud in my ears; fear built. Yet my mind remained clear and pliant. The moment held no confusion for me. I understood what I must do and how to do it. For that I said a silent prayer of thanks to my skills instructors at the police academy and for what experience I had gained over the years.
I passed half a dozen cars and vans, poked my head up a second time. I saw nothing.
“Where are you?” I asked again, dragging breath into my lungs.
I moved several more car lengths.
Still nothing.
Then a scream, loud and painful.
Again I refused to panic. Instead of rushing to Debbie’s side, I moved slowly and cautiously in a half-crouch back to the SUV. I halted at the rear bumper. A man was standing between my car and the one parked next to it, his gun pointed more or less at the pavement.
“Come outta there,” Nye growled. His face was ominous, with thin lips curled over teeth made unearthly bright by the glow of the streetlamps.
I raised my nine and leveled it at his chest.
“Drop the gun, put your hands in the air,” I shouted.
Nye looked at me. I had surprised him. Except not enough to drop the gun.
For a single instant that seemed much, much longer, the blood behind my eyes pulsated with a terrible sense of déjà vu.
Please, God, not again, my inner voice pleaded.
And then, “DROP THE FUCKING GUN!”
Nye was as startled by my voice as I was. I was moving toward him now, never lifting the front sight of the Beretta from the center of his chest.
“DROP THE FUCKING GUN. DROP THE FUCKING GUN. I’LL KILL YOUR MOTHERFUCKING ASS! I’LL KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!”
Nye dropped his gun.
“ON YOUR KNEES. ON YOUR KNEES. HANDS BEHIND YOUR FUCKING HEAD. DO IT NOW.”
I continued to scream at him until Nye knelt and laced his fingers behind his neck. I shoved him forward. He sprawled spread-eagle on the wet asphalt. I pressed my knee against his spine and jabbed the barrel of the nine against the base of his skull.
“Don’t shoot me, please, don’t shoot me,” Nye said.
I thought how different my life might have been if only I had screamed obscenities at the first guy.
14
I was cold. I tried not to shiver in my rain-drenched clothes, my arms wrapped tightly across my chest, only there was nothing for it. No one had offered me a dry jacket to put on, or a blanket, or even a towel to wipe away the water that dripped from my hair and sloshed in my shoes. Certainly no one could be bothered to turn down the air-conditioning that added to my discomfort. Yet I refused to ask for those things. I didn’t want these people to think I was a wimp. Instead, I chose to suffer in silence. Well, not in complete silence. My teeth chattered periodically, and try as I might I couldn’t silence them.
Of the three people standing next to me in the small, unfurnished chamber, only one seemed to notice—an officer whose name I couldn’t remember—and then only because he was afraid the video camera he was operating would pick up the noise. The other two, G. K. Bonalay and David Tuseman, were too busy watching the scene that unfolded on the other side of the one-way mirror to care.
The interrogation room of the Anoka County Sheriff’s Department served also as a conference room. Fluorescent lights hidden behind marbled plastic ran the entire length of the ceiling. The opposite wall was a huge blackboard, and an audio-visual system mounted on a metal stand had been rolled into the corner. In the center of the room, surrounded by a dozen chairs, was
a long table. Richard Nye sat silent and alone at the head of the table. He knew there were people behind the rectangular mirror—I bet he could feel our eyes upon him—only he refused to give us the satisfaction of looking our way, not even when he heard a loud sneeze from behind the glass.
“Bless you,” G. K. said automatically, staring ahead.
“Yes, bless you,” said Tuseman.
Like you guys care, my inner voice replied.
The door of the interrogation room opened and Assistant County Attorney Rollie Briggs stepped inside. He had been popping up throughout this case, yet this was the first time I had seen him. I wasn’t impressed. He was middle-aged and flabby, about half a foot shorter and sixty pounds heavier than Nye.
Yeah, I can see how a clever beauty like G. K. could wrap him around her baby finger.
Briggs was carrying a yellow legal pad. The noise he made as he settled into a chair, dropped the yellow legal pad on the table, and swiveled to face Nye at the table’s head sounded distant and tinny over the cheap speakers in the room behind the mirror.
“Where’s Tuseman? Where’s the county attorney?” Nye asked.
Tuseman stiffened. I knew he was having second thoughts about permitting us to witness the interrogation. I have no idea why he allowed it in the first place, except G. K. kept calling him David and “boss” and he kept calling her Genny and “kid.” I had the impression that they had been close when she worked for him as an intern.
“If he’s smart, he’s in bed,” Briggs answered.
“I want to talk to him,” Nye said.
“But does he want to talk to you?”
“He’s my attorney.”
“Your attorney?”
“Yeah. Him and me had a deal.”
“What deal was that?” Briggs asked casually.
“I was supposed to give up all the bikers and Mexicans I knew who dealt meth in the county,” Nye said. “When I was in jail I was supposed to make as many contacts with the crankheads as I could. When I got out of jail I was supposed to lead you all to them. I did that. I did my part.”
“And in return you drew less than a year in county jail instead of five in state prison,” Briggs said. “What does that have to do with this?”
“We had a deal.”
“Deal’s done.”
“Is it? He’s gonna want me to testify, ain’t he? Well, maybe I’ll get a bad case of whatchacallit, amnesia.”
“Maybe you’ll go to prison for the rest of your life.”
“Lookit,” Nye shouted, stopped, lowered his voice, said, “Lookit, along with my testimony against the bad people, he said he was going to take care of me if I gave him some testimony against Merodie Davies.”
“The county attorney said that?”
Behind the mirror, Tuseman said, “I never.”
“He said he wanted me to testify that Merodie beat on my ass with a softball bat, which is true, so help me,” Nye said. “He said he wanted me to say that Merodie had homicidal tendencies. He said he was gonna put her away, which was all right with me.”
“Why did he want to put her away?”
“I don’t know, man. Somethin’ about teaching a lesson to some old guy thinks he’s God. Lookit, I’m still willing to do that.”
G. K. asked, “Are you getting all this?”
The camera operator nodded.
Tuseman made a noise that sounded like a growl. He formed a fist, but resisted putting it through the wall. Instead, he stared at his assistant.
“What does the sonuvabitch think he’s doing?” he asked no one in particular.
Screwing you over, my inner voice replied. He’s been doing it all along. I gave G. K. a sideways glance. Was it for Muehlenhaus or for her? I wondered. I would like Briggs better if I knew he was doing it for her.
Briggs said, “How was the county attorney going to take care of you?”
“He said he’d watch out for me, keep me out of trouble,” Nye said.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” G. K. clucked just loud enough for Tuseman to hear.
“Yeah?” said Briggs. “Well, that was Thursday, before you started beating up on women. Today is Friday. On Friday all the assholes belong to me.”
“Fuck you,” Nye said.
Briggs reached out with a flat, upturned hand. He made sure Nye got a good look at it as he slowly curled his fingers into a tight fist.
“I got your balls right here and I feel like squeezing,” Briggs said.
Nye cut loose with a long string of obscenities, although he didn’t put much effort into it.
“You want a lawyer?” Briggs asked. “We’ll get you a lawyer.”
“I don’t need to pay some fancy-ass lawyer to cut a deal,” Nye insisted. “I can make my own deals.”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”
“I know my fucking rights,” Nye said. “I’ve been Mirandized a dozen times already.”
“Just so you understand.”
“Let’s just get on with it, all right?”
“Let’s.”
Briggs removed a lacquered pen from his jacket pocket and slowly rotated the barrel to lower the tip into writing position. He turned the yellow pad on the table in front of him until it rested at a perfect angle before reviewing it. Nye beat an impatient rhythm on the tabletop with his fingers while he waited.
“First of all, you’re already going to prison for five years,” Briggs said. “That’s prison. Not jail. You violated the terms of your parole the second you picked up the gun.”
“Shit,” Nye muttered.
“You have a criminal history score of three,” Briggs added. “Do you know about the criminal history score? How it works?”
“Yeah.”
“In Minnesota, the more crimes you’re convicted of, the greater your score.”
“Yeah.”
“The greater your score, the more time you do for each conviction.”
“I said I knew. Jesus Christ, get on with it.”
“All right,” Briggs said, not flustered at all and in no particular hurry. “We have you for first degree assault—”
“First degree?”
“Ms. Miller is in Mercy Hospital with a broken nose, fractured jaw, two broken teeth, three cracked ribs, and a ruptured spleen. Where I come from, that constitutes first degree.”
“Shit,” Nye said.
“With your score, that’s one hundred and twenty-two months. We also have you for two counts of second degree assault for shooting at Ms. Miller and Mr. McKenzie. ‘Course, if you had hit ’em, then it would be first—”
“Fuckin’ McKenzie was shooting at me.”
“Are you pleading self-defense?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, let’s say that charge holds up. We could go for attempted murder instead. You beat up Miller. Miller calls McKenzie. McKenzie comes running. You ambush him. Yeah, I think I can make a case for attempted murder. How ‘bout you? Want me to try? It’ll screw up the math, but I’m willing.”
“Shit.”
“ ’Course, if we had been real lucky, McKenzie would have splattered your brains all over the parking lot—he’s done it before.”
I continued to shiver behind the glass.
Nye smiled the uncontrollable smile of a man who knew he was in deep trouble and it was just getting worse.
“Something funny, Nye?” Briggs asked.
Nye shook his head.
“I’ll tell ya what I think is funny,” Briggs said. “First degree assault, plus two counts of second degree assault at thirty-four months each, plus the five years for your parole violation . . . Why, Richard. You’re going to prison for twenty-one years.”
Nye studied Briggs’s beaming face for a moment.
“Fourteen years if I get a third off for good time,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Fourteen years if the judge adheres strictly to the Minnesota Sentencing Guidelines.”
&nb
sp; “They usually do.”
“Fourteen years if the sentences are served consecutively.”
“Right again.”
“The sentences, they all could be served concurrently with the parole violation.”
“Could be,” said Briggs.
“That would mean I would get out in”—Nye did the math quickly—“six and a half years.”
“Six years, eight months to be precise,” Briggs said.
“Or less.”
“Could very well be less. Especially if you agree to testify in all the meth cases. Except. . .”
“Except what?”
“Do you see anyone around here willing to make a sentencing recommendation?”
Nye smiled and leaned across the conference room table. “What if I make it easy for you and cop a plea?”
“On what?”
“On everything.”
“That would make me very happy,” Briggs said. “Save the taxpayers a lot of money in court fees, too.”
“How happy?”
Briggs rubbed his chin, pretending he was deep in thought, pretending he hadn’t known exactly what he was going to offer Nye before he even entered the room.
Tuseman muttered something unintelligible, then added, “Get on with it.”
“You go down for the nickel plus one,” Briggs said at last. “Six years.”
“Five,” said Nye.
“Six,” repeated Briggs. “And this time you do every fucking day.”
“I can live with that.”
“One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to tell me the truth about Eli Jefferson.”
Behind the one-way mirror, G. K. Bonalay exhaled sharply.
David Tuseman stepped away from the glass and rested against the opposite wall.
I continued to shiver.
“I don’t know nothing about Jefferson,” Nye said.
Briggs rose abruptly from his chair, snatched the yellow pad off the table, and moved toward the door.
“Wait a minute, man,” Nye called to him.
“Wait for what? You can do the fourteen.”
“C’mon, man.”
“Why did you force Debbie Miller to give you an alibi? Why did you beat her half to death when the alibi went sour?”
Dead Boyfriends Page 23
