Harris’s face hardened a bit. “This isn’t a negotiation. You go solo tonight, but tomorrow you and Krenshaw pair up. If I put you out there on your own, the brass will eat me alive if—”
“If I fuck up,” Channing interrupted.
Harris did not respond.
Channing felt beads of sweat start to form on his forehead, and his hands seemed to be independent of the rest of his nervous system. This office had never seemed small to him before, but now it was oppressive. His lungs needed more air. He had to get out of the room.
“I’ll be back this afternoon,” Channing said, then hesitantly added, “And I’ll need a new GLOCK issued to me. I need to get mine checked out by the armorer. I think something is wrong with it.”
“No problem,” replied the sergeant with a trace of apprehension. “I’ll call down to property and you can pick it up before your shift.”
Channing opened the door and began walking out. He paused, then without looking back, said, “Thanks, Ken. I mean it.” Then he left and closed the door behind him.
This time the gauntlet of detectives was ready for him. Several of them approached him and mumbled greetings. Some slurred out condolences. Whether the condolences were because of him losing his partner, his wife, or due to his ordeal, he did not know. Channing shook several hands, each dryer than his, then quickly proceeded toward the nearest restroom.
After flinging a stall door open and then slamming it closed, Channing frantically reached inside his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. The vodka was not exactly odorless, as people tended to say, but it would have to do. He poured half the flask down his throat and waited for the shaking to subside. Four minutes later, he exited the stall, walked to the sink, and threw cold water into his bloodshot eyes. Looking up from the porcelain, he once again gazed into the eyes of a man he no longer knew. What had happened to him? How had it gone this far? If he did not learn to control this thing, he was going to make a mistake, and someone would get hurt—again.
– – –
Nicholas Culligan was never late. Not for a meeting, not for a dentist appointment, not for the thorny semi-annual dinners he had with his son. More importantly, in the four years since being elected as the City Council representative for District One, he had never been late for or missed a single council-related function. He turned the corners of the underground parking lot a little too fast and squealed his Lexus into his reserved parking space.
After learning the ropes during his first year in public office, he became chairman of the council’s least desirable committee. The Committee for Performance and Asset Management handled the city’s contracts, purchases, fleet management, facilities decisions, and information systems. The committee’s realm was a bureaucratic wilderness teeming with opportunities for someone to be implicated for bribery, kickbacks, cronyism, and incompetence.
When, at fifty-six years of age, Culligan had decided to run for city council, it was partly out of boredom, but mostly out of necessity. The previous year, he had retired from a local brokerage firm with a healthy portfolio. Several promising investment opportunities were laid out in front of him to help him coast into the golden years. He would simply roam the fairways of the area’s golf courses in the summer, head down to Hilton Head in the winter, and enjoy a well-earned respite from the hustle and bustle of the financial world. His ace in the hole was the massive amount of stock he owned in a Detroit-based company called Cityflash, which specialized in urban revitalization projects. Culligan got in on the ground floor of the investment after receiving an inside tip that the company had signed a deal with the city of Detroit. The privileged information came from a cousin who happened to work in the Detroit Mayor’s Office. Of course, Culligan knew acting on the information was tantamount to insider trading, but he viewed the financial world as one huge gray area full of mercenaries—and no white knights.
When Cityflash expanded, Culligan’s large investment expanded with it. When the company subsequently signed contracts with other dilapidated cities such as Toledo, Youngstown, and Cleveland, he made millions. With no Internet bubble to burst, the investment was the closest thing to a sure bet. Culligan went all-in.
Then the mayor of Detroit was indicted. Leaders in the other cities met similar fates. Charges were filed that contained ugly words like collusion and conspiracy. The revitalization company that was the darling of the rust belt corroded into scrap metal within a week. The company’s CEO was one of dozens of company employees crucified in the media and displayed as examples of corporate greed and corruption. Everything fell apart. Culligan did not go bankrupt by any means, but his dreams of an easy retirement were gone. He tried to get his old job back, but there were whispers that his rise and fall were tied to Cityflash. With nothing left but a shady background and some influential friends whom he had met through the firm, there was only one place for him to turn—politics. His current committee was the perfect way for him to make up his losses and ride off into a sunset much warmer than the current one he was experiencing this Pennsylvania winter. He was almost there. Just one or two more deals and he would be comfortable again.
Culligan grumbled to himself as he got out of the Lexus. He had five minutes to get to the council chambers. He was never late. Opening the rear driver’s side door, Culligan reached for the briefcase he knew was there but could not see in the poorly lit garage. Finding the handle, he swiftly yanked the briefcase out of the seat, slammed the door, turned to his right, and heard the thud. He heard the sound before his eyes registered the figure that suddenly appeared right beside him. Culligan was confused. The man was not touching him, but seemed to be holding him up. The councilman tried to cry out, but no sound came. He felt his legs give way, but he did not fall. The figure gently turned him so his back was against the Lexus, and now Culligan could see eyes. The man leaned in close, whispered two barely-perceivable words, and raised his right hand. The assailant waved a weapon in front of Culligan’s eyes in a near-hypnotic manner, watched the public official’s eyes widen, and then used the weapon as God had intended.
– – –
Seven hours. Channing had made it seven hours. When he arrived to work at two o’clock, the squad room was buzzing with activity. Some of the detectives who had not seen him earlier welcomed him back. A few who did not know how to react simply gave him a nod from across the room. Some, he suspected, were dodging him altogether either out of an avoidance of the incommodious or worse.
While he sat at his desk, Channing tried to catch up on every interdepartmental memo and notification he could. He checked on his old cases to see if they had been handled. Most had, or were simply filed away as unsolved. Only twice did he have to disappear to the restroom and take a drink to keep the shaking away. He had been issued a new weapon and fresh supply of ammunition when he arrived, but he shuttered to think what would happen if he had to fire it with a trembling hand.
At nine o’clock, his desk phone rang. Someone had changed his ringtone. There must have been some intern using the desk in his absence. That would explain the doodling on his desk calendar that was now several months out of date. Channing picked up the phone, listened, and immediately wished he had picked up the bottle that morning rather than his cell phone. He was going to have to go out on a call.
“Don’t you recognize him?” said the officer at the scene.
Channing did not respond.
“It’s Nick Culligan…as in Councilman Culligan!”
Channing just kept looking at the officer.
“Jackson, are you following me? It’s a city councilman. Right there!”
The use of his first name caused Channing to focus on the woman in the uniform. My God, he thought. What’s wrong with me? Her name was Linda Aluseo. He had gone through the academy with her. They were friends once. He and Mary had even gone to a Pirates game with her and her husband. He did not even recognize her. Focus.
Taking a breath, Channing asked, “Who found him?”
He i
mmediately felt stupid for asking the question. A better question would have been: Who didn’t find him?
“A guy walking his dog across the Warhol Bridge was the first to call it in. Then it was a free-for-all. We got initial statements from him and a few others that stayed around to gawk. We’ve got them all down by the museum if you want to talk to them, but all their statements are the same. None of them said they had actually seen how he got there.”
Channing looked down beneath his feet. Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw bright lights illuminating the night. The reporters were setting up. There was no way he could handle this. Not the press. No way. He looked back down and remained very silent. He suddenly felt a bit of relief when he realized he had a valid question to ask Aluseo.
“How did you ID him? You can’t really see his face from here.”
Aluseo pointed down and said, “I didn’t. River Rescue did. They used their spotlight and binoculars and recognized him.”
Channing looked at her skeptically.
“What can I say?” She shrugged. “They have really good lights.”
Shaking his head, Channing replied, “That’s not what I was thinking. I’m wondering who in the world knows the faces of the city council.”
“Are you kidding me?” Aluseo asked with a slight grin. “Jesus, Jackson, don’t you read the papers?”
She immediately fell silent as she caught her mistake.
“I’m sorry, Jackson. I guess you’ve avoided the news for a while, haven’t you?”
Channing did not speak. He felt his hands start to shake and slid them into his pockets.
“Look, I’m not trying to be insensitive. I should have started off by asking how you are doing, telling you how sorry I am about Alex. But knowing how you are, I just figured you’d rather skip all that and get back to work.”
A boat motor started up in the distance. More camera lights appeared to Channing’s right and left. More flashing red and blue lights approached from all sides. The rotors of a helicopter thumped above. Too much. Way too much. It had to be thirty-five degrees and windy, but he was sweating. He could feel the flask pressing on his heart. He noticed a throbbing sensation through the crisscrossing scar tissue on his chest and back. The scars felt like a web of downed power lines beginning to burn through his skin.
“You’re right. I just want to work. And no, I haven’t read the papers in a while.”
Aluseo adjusted her hat and pushed some black strands of hair underneath it.
After blowing on her cold hands, she said, “Well, Culligan was fighting off some accusations of taking kickbacks from a construction contractor. Some disgruntled employee from the company swore on a stack of bibles that Culligan was dirty and in bed with the company’s president. It was in the papers for a couple of weeks and then…poof. I never saw anything more about it. I think I heard that the accuser changed his story, but don’t quote me on that.”
Channing looked down again. His cell phone started ringing. He knew who it was—Harris. His sergeant probably heard that there was a call-out and that a councilman was involved. Channing catching the case could be a nightmare for everyone involved. Channing pulled the phone out of his pocket. Aluseo, probably sensing Channing’s tension, walked away.
“Channing.”
“It’s Harris. I heard you got a call-out. Whacha got?”
“I haven’t confirmed it, but I’m told the vic is Councilman Culligan.”
The Sergeant was quiet.
After a few seconds, Channing looked at the phone to see if the call was still active and then said, “Sarge, you there?”
“Did you say the victim is a councilman?”
“Yeah. Guy named Culligan. But like I said, it’s not confirmed.”
Harris let another long pause hang in the air. This time Channing waited.
Finally, Harris came back with, “Anyone in custody?”
“No—witnesses didn’t actually see it happen. They just spotted the body.”
“Any chance it was natural causes? A heart attack, stroke, or something like that?”
Channing wished he could say yes. He took the phone away from his face and shivered from the cold wind and the withdraw symptoms. He wished this would all go away. It didn’t matter. Harris would reassign the case tomorrow anyway. There was no way he would let Channing touch this one.
Taking in the scene, Channing slowly panned around trying to process the surreal. To his left was a collection of news vans parked next to the baseball stadium. Stretching across in front of him was the Warhol Bridge, full of onlookers who would never stand out on a bridge on a wintry night under any other circumstances. To his right was the downtown skyline. The red and blue lights of emergency vehicles were reflecting off the buildings to create a bizarre Christmassy effect. Above him were media helicopters with their night-cutting spotlights, circling like vultures. And a soulless distance below him was the frigid Allegheny River. The only things between his feet and the near frozen waters were a three-inch-thick metal grate sidewalk, a long rope, and the blood-covered body that dangled from the end of it. The thick rope was attached somewhere below the Clemente Bridge. Standing directly over the point where the rope attached to the bridge, Channing fought back his nausea, tried to steady his hand that held the cell phone, and raised the phone back to his cold, sweat-covered face.
“No. I don’t think it’s from natural causes.”
Step 2
We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
T he morning after he delivered justice to Culligan, Mayton woke early and performed his one-hour exercise routine. It was not until after he cleaned up and was drinking coffee at his kitchen table that he realized he had not prayed yet. He had not even recited biblical passages during his workout. Progress.
Mayton thought about the previous night’s events. He was certain he had done everything right. When he returned home, he removed and burned all the clothes he was wearing. He stood naked and shivering in his backyard until every last article of clothing turned to ash. He then walked into the outdoor shower he had rigged and scrubbed himself until his skin was bright pink. He did not have any hot water for that shower, but he endured the chill for nearly ten minutes. He did not retain any of his instruments, as they were easy enough to come by. They were somewhere in the bottom of the Allegheny, but far from where he left Culligan hanging.
The only loose end was his old van. He cleaned it as well as he could to eliminate any evidence from Culligan’s body, but keeping it was still a risk. The white 1990 Ford Econoline was the only vehicle he owned. He had picked the wreck up at a church auction and fixed it up enough for it to run and pass a state inspection. Mayton refused to spend money on frivolities such as fancy cars. The van was good enough to get him to work and to help deliver food to the sick, so it was good enough.
Now, Mayton wished he owned another car. Cindy had a car as well because of her job, but Cindy’s used Honda was a reminder that he did not want to have around. He could not stand the sight of that car and, as soon as she passed, he donated the car to charity. It was a reminder of how he failed her. He would have preferred her to stay at home and raise their children, but children were not in God’s plan for the Mayton family. So, Cindy wanted—no, demanded—a career. After enduring several arguments, Lester finally agreed that Cindy would work and she would have her own car. He would have preferred that they carpool, but Cindy worked on the other side of town and argued that wasting money on gas to sit in cross-town traffic in both directions was not logical. When Cindy said they could give that money to the church, Lester became angry, realizing that she was playing on his altruism in order to manipulate him.
Regardless, Cindy took a job in a building near the North Shore. Lester was also hesitant to allow her to work for a government entity, but when his wife told him that she would be working for the Housing Authority to help the needy find homes, he once again relented. She was the most stubborn w
oman he had ever met, but he loved her dearly.
He had pushed her away by trying to control her. He knew that now. His constant praying, insistence on giving everything away, and what she called his archaic beliefs drove her to take a job far from his office. The power he felt through prayer and the church dominated his very being. He tried to explain that to her, but all she would say was that she felt power through loving him. Now he understood. There actually were other ways to feel powerful. The previous night in that parking garage, Mayton finally felt it. It shot through him unlike any biblical passage or religious ceremony ever had. When he looked into Culligan’s eyes and delivered the overdue retribution, Mayton felt the greatest power of all right in his hands: the power of granting life or dealing death. Things were starting to become clearer.
– – –
Channing did not leave the bridge until early the following morning after the body was discovered. It was only by slipping into his car for a minute on the pretense of having some privacy for a phone call, that he was able to down the rest of the contents of his flask and get a handle on his physiology. The sun had been up for a while when Channing finally finished briefing all the supervisors who rushed to the scene so they could feel important. By the time he returned home, dizziness and the feeling of hopelessness a man typically feels where every single person in the world but him is competent, supplemented his shaking.
Exhausted, walking through his bedroom, Channing stripped off his clothes and headed to the shower. Minutes later, while sitting in the tub and letting the steaming hot water rain on him from above, he started to think about the murder. Who does something like that? Dangling a body from a bridge in the middle of a city? That’s someone making a statement. Channing had still been at the scene when the fire department arrived and used some sort of device with hooks and pulleys to bring the body up. Each painful process lasted too long. A couple of times when they were bringing the body up to the bridge, the corpse banged loudly off the steel girders that supported the sidewalk, causing more than a few first responders to cringe.
Measure Twice Page 2
