Measure Twice

by J. J. Hensley

  “…recordings.”

  Channing’s head snapped up. He had mentally checked out again.

  “I’m sorry. What?” he asked.

  “You asked if we should look at the last tape. They don’t use video tapes anymore. Everything is digital and then burned to disc. They are just recordings. I just don’t want you to write down the word tapes in any of your notes or reports. When this goes to trial, the attorneys are going to pick everything apart.”

  “Right,” Channing said. “You’re absolutely right. Let’s look at the last recording.”

  – – –

  The work on Abdella was complete. Luke 6:36 had always instructed Mayton to be merciful, so he was not. It was all very confusing to the man who had once wanted to join the clergy, but found he did not have the charisma needed to sway audiences. That, and owning an unpleasant voice that seemed to screech when he attempted to speak loudly, made any thoughts of addressing a congregation unbearable.

  To do the Lord’s work he had to act contrary to the Lord’s word. Did that make him similar to one of the zealots who selectively chose passages from the Bible or the Quran and then blew up buildings and harmed children? He did not know how to reconcile the contradictions in his life; he only knew that somehow the scales had to balance. A life had been taken and her life had been worth all of theirs put together. Whether the words were, “Do unto others” or, if one preferred the Old Testament, “An eye for an eye”, the same message was conveyed: balance. Some Eastern religions counted on karma to maintain life’s equilibrium, even if it depended on the existence of a future life. Mayton had to admit one of his biggest flaws had always been a lack of patience. He needed to see justice done in this lifetime.

  “I don’t think you’re going to get many visitors in here today, Lester.”

  The old man’s voice startled Mayton. He dropped the items in his hands and they clanked together next to his feet.

  “It’s chillier out there than my first wife’s reaction when I told her I was lookin’ forward to shipping out to Korea because the cookin’ was better and the chances of her mother visiting me were pretty slim!”

  Rick laughed at his own joke and Mayton, who was sitting on a barrel next to the fire, made a sad attempt to show amusement.

  Rick took a few steps inside the cabin and let the door close behind him.

  “You okay there, buddy? You’re looking a little green around the gills. You’re not coming down with something are you?”

  “No. Just tired I guess.”

  “Thinkin’ about that wife of yours? I only met her a couple of times, but she sure was a sweet thing.”

  Mayton did not want to have this conversation. Who was this man to presume that he knew Cindy at all? Who was he to assume that he knew what was on Mayton’s mind? How could he have the nerve to—?

  “Look, Lester. I’ve been married three times. I lost the first wife to my own stupidity and my second to a heart attack.”

  Rick took another step toward his audience of one, looking around at all the items on the walls, when Mayton kicked some straw that was on the floor over the items he had dropped.

  “Life goes on, my friend. I lost a lot of friends in Korea and Father Time took most of the rest. All you can do is appreciate what time you have and make the most of it. You have to overcome adversity when it stares you in the face. What was it Martin Luther King said? ‘A man is judged by how he handles challenges.’ Well, I think that’s how we figure out who we really are.”

  Mayton knew the quote Rick was referring to and recited it in his head. The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

  Lester was just staring into the fire. The old man had stopped his approach; there was something in Mayton’s eyes. Modern soldiers would have probably called it the thousand yard stare. Rick was not sure what to call it, but he took it as an invitation to leave.

  “Well…I…uh, I’m going to go take care of them horses. They don’t much like the cold either. You take care, Lester.”

  Just as he had not heard the door open, he did not hear Rick close the door on his way out. Mayton kept gazing into the fire and snapped out of his trance only when he smelled the straw at his feet starting to burn. Quickly, he stamped out the smoldering straw and picked up the instruments he had dropped.

  The measure of a man. In the past, Mayton would say it was not his place to measure or assess the acts of others. That time was gone. Mayton returned his attention to his instruments. They had to be perfect. He worked on them for the better part of an hour, looking over every detail. He measured the first one. Then he measured the second, which would be identical to the first. The third was already hanging on the wall exactly where Rick had been looking.

  – – –

  “I’m not authorizing the BOLO.”

  Harris was adamant and his tone did not leave the impression that his mind could be changed, but Lambert tried anyway.

  “It’s the only lead we’ve got! What’s the harm in putting it out there? If you aren’t going to issue the lookout for law enforcement, let’s at least give it to the press!”

  “No way,” was the sergeant’s only reply.

  “And why the hell not?”

  Harris raised his eyebrows and gave Channing a look that said, You explain it to her.

  Channing turned toward his partner. “Remember the D.C. sniper investigation a few years ago?”

  “What about it?”

  “They had a witness who said they saw a white van driving away from one of the shootings. The next thing you know, hundreds of cops spent countless hours looking for a suspect in white van. In fact, the case was so jacked up from the onset, the FBI profile of the shooter was just as inaccurate as the vehicle description. Everyone down there was looking for a white male, loner type in a white van, while two black guys were cruising around in a dark Chevy Caprice picking people off at will.”

  Lambert was not giving up and Channing understood why. He had been down that road before. When you only have one thread of evidence, you pull on that thread until something unravels or it breaks off in your hand. However, in this case, Channing knew Harris was right.

  “We have to put it out there! A white van was seen leaving the parking garage right after Culligan’s time of death. Then, a similar van was seen heading onto the Clemente Bridge from the south and exiting to the north, but only after a longer-than-expected delay. It’s got to be the suspect’s vehicle.”

  Channing looked back at Harris, who was stoically staring at the coffee mug on his desk again. Channing thought, That has got to be the most fascinating damn mug in the history of law enforcement. Channing cleared his throat in an attempt to break the spell of the hypnotic mug.

  Harris looked up and said, “We can’t risk a repeat of what happened in D.C. If we put vague information like this out, with no license plate number or driver description, we’re asking for trouble. We need more before we put the info out there.”

  Channing had tried to explain all this to Lambert before they went to see their sergeant. However, as soon as Channing had started to give his opinion, she had cut him off and insisted on taking the matter to Harris. Now that Harris had confirmed what Channing had started to say, the youngest of the investigators was incensed.

  “Then at least give me a new partner.”

  Now it was Channing’s turn to look at the coffee mug.

  Harris stood up. “We’ve covered this already and that issue is closed.”

  Now Channing had confirmation that he was the subject of the first animated conversation he had witnessed between his two coworkers. The angry silhouette pacing on the other side of Malloy’s door had been imploring him to give her a partner who did not come with so much baggage.

  “You two get back out there and find some of Culligan’s enemies. Somebody thought this out enough that they climbed under a fucking bridge in the middle of a c
ity and rigged ropes so they would support a body. Not an easy task without some serious equipment, mind you. Not to mention, the killer treated a city councilman like a voodoo doll and nearly cut his head off.” Harris took an overdue breath. “Did the forensics report come back yet?”

  Channing let Lambert answer. Better to let her get her mind back on the task at hand. Besides, she was the lead detective and had to feel like she just got double-teamed by the good ole boys club.

  “The cause of death was the gash across his throat. The M.E. said that if his throat wouldn’t have been cut, he would have died soon enough anyway. Both lungs were punctured by something sharp and round. Not like a knife, but round like a big nail.” Lambert looked down and referred to the forensics report she had in her hand, flipped a page, read a few lines, and looked back up. “The initial tox screen was negative and there were no signs of any other trauma, other than some bruising on Culligan’s back that appears to be at the same height as the roof of his Lexus. I’m figuring that he was stabbed with this thing and fell back against his car before he got his throat cut.

  “Also, about the throat…. The M.E. said the cut was deep, but wasn’t made by the sharpest blade. Something with a smooth edge—not serrated like a lot of knives are. So whoever did this had some serious upper-body strength.”

  Harris nodded and asked, “Anything else?”

  Lambert seemed to hesitate and then, after some internal debate, came to a conclusion. “There was some dark transfer of material around the wounds on the victim’s chest and neck. Some of it is on his shirt where the punctures were made, too. The lab results are going to take a couple more days.” Lambert stood a little taller, put both hands behind her back, and looked at the wall in front of her. “It would have been visible at the scene.”

  There it was. That was what she had been holding back from Channing when he recounted his observations at the scene. He had made the conclusion that Culligan had been shot and Lambert knew that if Channing had done his job worth a damn, he would have noticed the dark marks around the wounds and either looked at the wounds more closely or mentioned that it appeared gunshot residue was on the shirt. If he missed the residue around the neck, that could be easily explained by the substantial amount of blood that had poured out of the cut. Channing took a deep breath and realized Lambert recognized his incompetence from the very start. Not only was his reputation damaged from previous events, but he was building himself an entirely different type of bad reputation due to his shoddy performance at the scene. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to get out of that office and head into a bathroom stall. The flask was calling his name.

  Harris knew what all of this meant and managed to keep his facial expression neutral. He nodded and tried not to allow any awkward pauses to enter into his office.

  “These are very specific facts. Check the files for any crimes we’ve had where similar weapons may have been used—a knife that left a trace and some other weapon that created a puncture wound in somebody.”

  It was the sergeant’s use of the singular wound that steered Channing’s thoughts away from the flask that was so very close to him.

  “Wounds,” he said as if responding to a conversation that only he could hear.

  “What?” asked Harris.

  “Wounds—plural.” Channing looked up from the mug. “I think we’re looking for three weapons, not two.”

  Harris and Lambert waited.

  “The punctures in Culligan’s chest came first, right?”

  The other two investigators agreed.

  “Well, let’s say you get stabbed in one side of the chest and pinned against a car…”

  Channing quickly took hold of Lambert’s shoulder, turned her toward him and made a stabbing motion with his right hand.

  “What is your reaction going to be?”

  Lambert, still trying to comprehend the fact she was being stabbed by a mentally unstable detective holding an imaginary weapon in his hand, said, “I’m going to reach out and try to grab the weapon that’s in my chest.”

  The female detective reached up with both hands toward Channing’s fist, which was balled up just above her left breast.

  “And look what you did.” He smiled and paused to give Harris and Lambert a chance to process what was happening. “You instinctively reached up with both hands and pulled your right arm across your chest...”

  Lambert’s eyes opened a little wider and she understood.

  She finished his sentence with, “Covering the area where the other puncture wound was inflicted.”

  Channing continued his demonstration and had his partner lower her arms again.

  “And there were no other wounds to suggest there was much of a struggle. So, the stab wounds would most likely be simultaneous.” With that, he raised both his hands and violently plunged both fists in a stabbing motion toward his partner’s chest, stopping just short of actually hitting her with force. “Which means he was either using one very large, symmetrical weapon with two sharp rounded points—not the easiest thing to conceal or maneuver in close quarters—or he had two weapons, one in each hand.” With that, Channing proceeded to repeat the double-stabbing motion, but this time pushed Lambert all the way against a wall.

  “I stab the victim, puncture both lungs—taking the fight out of him—which gives me all kinds of time to reach for a knife and…”

  Channing pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and slashed it across Lambert’s neck. She was surprised to find that the look in his eyes and his sudden animation during the entire demonstration both scared and excited her. She could feel her heart beating in her chest. It was not sexual excitement; it was the type of excitement one experiences with an adrenaline rush. Only she felt like her rush was a vicarious one. She could feel his excitement. His passion. Where in the hell did that come from?

  Channing finished his pen-assisted coup de grâce, felt a sudden influx of embarrassment, then put the pen back in his jacket pocket.

  Looking away from Lambert, he said, “Uh…so…I’m thinking Culligan was killed with three weapons. Two were used simultaneously, and then the knife a few seconds later.”

  The room was quiet for a moment, and then Harris broke the silence.

  “Okay. So go check on any potentially related cases and start tracking down anyone who held a grudge against Culligan.” Looking at Lambert, he added, “Keep the white van thing in mind. You may be one-hundred-percent right on the vehicle. We just need more information before we act on it.”

  – – –

  She took Mayton’s hand as they walked through the woods. There was a light coating of snow on the path and they could hear the gentle crunching of the flakes with every step. He loved these walks. Listening to her talk and seeing her warm breath stream through the chilled air was the most peaceful experience he could imagine. She was telling him that she wanted for them to go on a trip together, a vacation to Aruba or maybe the Dominican Republic. She wanted to see different things and wanted him to try to relax more. He smiled and indulged her, but he knew he would not spend the money on something as wasteful as a vacation. Too many other obligations required his attention.

  His mind must have drifted as they walked because now they were in their bedroom. Cindy was pacing and he was sitting on the bed. It was their bed, but the room was somehow different. The walls seemed darker and the overhead light fixture gave off a yellow hue.

  She was upset—angry even. An envelope holding airline tickets was in her hand.

  She was mad at him and he was just saying, “No. There are more important things to do than travel.”

  She was crying now, but rather than comfort her, he pushed harder.

  “Why don’t we just pray on it? Pray with me, darling. Pray with me.”

  She would not even look at him. She stared at a painting hanging in the room. A painting he did not recognize.

  “Pray with me, Cindy. Pray with me.”

  She turned toward him, started to sp
eak, then reached up and started pulling her hair out. She cried harder. The hair came out in giant fistfuls. In her hands, her brown hair looked gray and she had it interwoven between her fingers. Her head was now bald with the exception of a few bloody patches of hair. She dropped to her knees. He reached out for her, but she slapped his hand away. Then, she screamed so loudly he had to cover his ears, and when he raised his hands to block out the noise, they were full of her hair. Then, he could taste it in his mouth. He opened his mouth and could feel the long strands hanging over his lips. He was choking on a large ball of hair that filled his mouth and throat. He could not breathe.

  He could not…

  He hardly ever dreamed. Well, that was not true. Mayton was sure he dreamed, but he was not one of those people who could usually remember dreams after he awoke. When he opened his eyes, it took him a few seconds to realize he was in his own bed. Then, his heart leapt and he turned to his left where Cindy used to slumber. The emptiness in the bed did not compare to the cavernous ache he felt when he realized that it had just been a dream. She was still gone. He had still failed her. He still had work to do.

  Mayton looked at the clock, which read 4:30 a.m. Knowing that falling asleep again would be impossible, he decided to get an early start on his morning workout. A year ago, he was a slight man, but now his arms and shoulders bulged out of his shirt. Before Cindy died, he rarely exercised, but once he had plotted a course of action, he began shaping his body in the same manner he shaped all his instruments. His torso was now solid, fully functional, and, when necessary, lethal. Getting under the Clemente Bridge had been easy. He found it amazing how—if you wore a reflective yellow vest, put on a hardhat, and set a few orange traffic cones around an area—nobody seemed to question your reason for being there. Do it early on a Monday morning, before the commuters start roaming around, and people are just happy that work is being done before rush hour starts.