The Heavens May Fall

by Allen Eskens

  In those moments when the other sounds around him fell still, he would hear Boady’s words, and he would again feel the pain of that cross-examination. He had tried to exorcise that demon many times, but it continued to return. After court that day, Max drove home, where he hoped to find solace among the artifacts of a life he no longer recognized. The pictures of Jenni that adorned his walls seemed to look down upon him with reproach. He’d let her down. He’d exposed her memory to judgment. He had uttered her name amidst the push-and-shove of a murder trial, and it made him hate Boady Sanden. Boady brought Jenni’s name into that trial. Boady committed the betrayal. Boady Sanden had once been the kind of guy who would sneak into a cemetery after hours to check on a friend. Max didn’t have many friends like that, and now he had one fewer.

  That night, Max parted the curtains of his anger and ended his friendship with Boady Sanden. He mourned that death for the few seconds that it deserved, and then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  In the four days since Max sent Ben Pruitt to prison, a cold front had settled in over the Twin Cities, spoiling Halloween for thousands of children, forcing them to wear coats over their costumes. Max spent that morning sitting at his desk, piecing together the players in a drive-by shooting that he and Niki were now working. Two cubicles away, he heard Detective Voss tell his partner that he was heading down to the crime lab to meet with a tech.

  Max stood and stretched to get Niki’s attention. “I think I’m going to go for a walk. Clear my head. You want a pastry if I pass by a place?”

  Niki swiveled to Max, rubbing the bridge between her eyes. “You’re doing what?”

  “I’m going to go for a walk. My head’s too full. I need to grab some fresh air and clear things up a bit.”

  “It’s thirty degrees out there.”

  “I promise I’ll wear my coat, Mom.”

  “Fine.” Niki shrugged. “Anything cream-filled.”

  Max nodded, grabbed his coat and left.

  For a month now, Max kept away from his wife’s file—at least the one Voss had on his desk. He’d not spoken to Voss, just as Briggs and Walker ordered, other than the casual hello as they passed each other in the hall. Max received no updates. He went back to being the dutiful soldier, turning his attention to putting Ben Pruitt in prison. And he’d done what he’d been asked to do.

  Maybe he felt that he deserved a reward for that, nothing big, just some small update on whether Jenni’s case had caught traction. But he got nothing.

  As Max waited in his car outside of the crime lab, he went over the conversation he would have with Voss when they “accidentally” ran into each other in the parking lot. When Max saw Voss exit the building, Max stepped from his car and headed in the direction of the lab door. Max felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He looked and saw that it was Niki. Max shut the call down and returned the phone to his pocket.

  “Hey, Voss,” Max called out.

  “Hi, Max. What brings you down here?”

  “Checking on some prints we took in a drive-by. And you?”

  “That lady in Uptown with the crease in her head. They think it may have been a wrench. I just wanted to touch base with the techs before we did a second search.”

  “So you’re not here about my wife’s case.”

  “Max . . .” Voss took a half-step back. “You know I can’t talk to you about that case.”

  “Christ, Tony. I’m not asking to be part of the team. I just—”

  “Briggs told me not to talk to you about it. ‘Blackout.’ That was the term he used. He wants a complete information blackout where you’re concerned.”

  “Briggs is a political dick. You know that, Tony.”

  “That may be, but he’s still my boss. Yours too.”

  “What if this were your wife, Tony? Would you be carrying Briggs’s water if it was your wife they murdered?”

  “Don’t do this, Max. You don’t need to know this stuff. If it was my Brenda that got killed, I can tell you right now, I wouldn’t want to know this stuff.”

  “Yes, you would,” Max said. “If that had been Brenda who got run down by a car, you’d want to know. You’d be standing in this parking lot in this cold November wind, and you’d be asking me to throw you a bone. You’d be begging me the same way I’m begging you. Let me in—just a little bit. I need to know.”

  “You’ll get in trouble if they find out. And I’m not talking a letter of reprimand this time.”

  Max knew this to be true. He’d been wrestling with that thought for weeks now, ever since getting called on the carpet in Walker’s office. Something about that meeting had left a bad taste in his mouth. At first he thought it was the reprimand, but as time went by, he realized that that wasn’t it. He came to understand that what bothered him was how easily he put his job ahead of everything else. His job had become the most important thing in his life. His job had always come first, even when it came to Jenni. In the end he asked himself, as a man, what was more important to him? And the answer came to him.

  He looked hard into Voss’s eyes. He wanted the man to see that he meant what he was about to say.

  “Voss, if having this job means that I turn my back on my wife, then I don’t give a fuck about this job. There’s right, and there’s wrong. When the rules get in the way of doing what’s right, do you follow the rules? Is that the kind of man you want to be? Or do you do what’s right? That’s a question that every man has to answer for himself. Well, I’ve answered that question. I have no choice. I have to see to it that my wife gets justice. And, quite frankly, fuck Briggs and fuck Walker and fuck any man who tries to stop me. I owe this to my wife. So, Voss, the question is, What kind of man are you?”

  Voss shifted from foot to foot as he thought about his answer. At first, he couldn’t look Max in the eye. Max could tell that the man was struggling with his decision. Eventually, Voss looked at Max and nodded. “I’ve been working every angle, Max. I checked out the owners of that stolen car. I mean I vetted them like they were fucking al Qaeda. But they’re legit. Their car was stolen and that’s all there is to that. Whoever drove the car cleaned it out good. Not even skin cells on the steering wheel.”

  “But they left my wife’s blood on the front.”

  “And her hair.”

  The sudden image that flashed past Max’s eyes must have been evident to Tony. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought you knew.”

  “No.”

  “We hit a wall, Max. The name on the storage-unit lease was fake. Paid in cash through the mail. No DNA on the payment or the envelope. No cameras. No trace evidence in the car or in the storage unit—I mean, other than what belonged to your wife.”

  “So why keep the car in the first place? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes no sense; I agree,” Tony said. “The best we can come up with is that the car was maybe leverage or held onto for blackmail purposes. Either that or the perp just didn’t know a better way to make it disappear.”

  “But then why send me a key to the unit?”

  “Like I said. It makes no sense.”

  Max’s phone buzzed again, and Voss looked at Max’s pocket and back to his face.

  “You going to get that?” Voss asked.

  Max ignored the phone and reached out a hand to Tony. “I appreciate the word. I promise I won’t be in your hair on this.”

  “What hair?” Tony smiled and ran a hand across his nearly bald head. Max smiled back. “And, Max, you’re right. If this were my Brenda, I’d be saying ‘fuck Briggs and fuck Walker.’ If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  Max gave Tony a pat on the shoulder and turned back to his car, giving up any pretense that he’d come there for any purpose other than to talk to Tony Voss. On the way to the car, his phone buzzed again, this time a single buzz indicating a text. It was from Niki. Am at Pruitt house. You need to get here ASAP.

  Max replied: On my way.

  Chapter 50

  Max walked into the Pruit
t house to find Niki standing next to two men. One wearing khakis and a jacket, the other in dirty work clothes. They stood in a semicircle around a wad of cloth. When Max looked closer, he saw sheets, cream-colored with a large patch of black—dried blood—blooming from the center.

  “Jennavieve’s bedding,” Niki said.

  “Where did you . . . ?” Max looked at Niki, who pointed to the man in the khakis.

  “This is Curt Priem,” Niki said. “He manages properties for Anna Adler-King. And this . . .” she pointed at the man in the dirty clothes. “This is Joe Brumble. He owns Brumble Heating and Air-Conditioning.”

  “I called him,” Mr. Priem interrupted. “As the administrator of Mrs. Pruitt’s estate, Anna is responsible to make sure that this house doesn’t fall into disrepair. She asked me to take care of it. Well, I stopped by the other day and noticed that the furnace wasn’t working, so I called Mr. Brumble to figure out what was wrong.”

  Max looked at Mr. Brumble, a man in his late sixties with thick, pickle fingers, two of which were bent unnaturally across the palm of his left hand. He wore a stained denim shirt over stained denim pants, and a hat that read “Brumble HVAC.”

  “You found this?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “These old houses, they have furnaces older than you. I spend a lot of my days fixing ’em, especially when fall comes around.”

  “Where’d you find this?” Max pointed at the sheets.

  “Well, you see, a furnace draws in air from the house through this cold-air return.” He nodded toward a square shaft at the bottom of the wall in the front room. A black metal grate leaned against the wall next to the hole. “The furnace pulls air in, heats it, and pushes it back out through those registers.” He pointed at a vent near the front door. “If the furnace can’t pull the air in, it won’t work.”

  “Those sheets were in the heating duct?” Max said.

  “Yes, sir,” Brumble said. “I started the furnace to test the air flow, and damned if there was none to be found. Sometimes critters will find a way into these old ducts and build a nest. That’s what I figured, rats probably. So I started digging around and . . . well, I found this. I knew about the murder that happened here. It’s been in the papers, so I called Mr. Priem here.”

  “We didn’t touch it,” Mr. Priem said. “I put a call in to Mrs. Adler-King, but she’s apparently out of the country, and I couldn’t reach her. When I couldn’t get ahold of her, I called the police.”

  “You did the right thing,” Max said. “If you wouldn’t mind, could I have both of you step into the kitchen while my partner and I have a look?”

  “I think I should stay here,” Mr. Priem said. “As Mrs. Adler-King’s representative, I—”

  “Mr. Priem, we’re not going to have a debate about this.” Max looked the man in the eyes and spoke in a calm tone. “It’s either the kitchen or it’s my squad car. It makes no difference to me.”

  Mr. Priem considered his choices for a couple seconds, more for show than anything else, Max suspected. Then he and Mr. Brumble left the room.

  Max squatted down on one side, and Niki on the other. “We’ll need Crime Scene here,” Max said.

  “I already called Bug. He’s on his way.”

  “Get pictures?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then let’s take a peek.” They each pulled latex gloves out of their pockets and snapped them on their hands. Then they carefully peeled back the edges of the sheet, its creases stiff with the dried blood. As they opened the center of the bundle, a glint of silver flickered and they saw the blade of a dagger.

  Niki looked at Max. “Murder weapon?”

  Max paused to nod. Then he carefully peeled loose another fold of the sheet; when he did, a used condom fell out. Max closed his eyes and whispered, “God dammit.”

  Chapter 51

  As Boady Sanden waited in the reception area of the Hennepin County Attorney’s Office, he again contemplated the cryptic request that brought him there, a voice message from Frank Dovey that merely stated that it was important that they meet before the motion hearing on Boady’s request for a new trial. Boady had called back and left three messages for Dovey, hoping for an explanation, but he heard nothing back.

  Boady, in his day, had filed hundreds of motions for a new trial. It was pro forma, a Latin term that meant “as a matter of form.” It just as well could have meant “a waste of time.” Trial attorneys were asked to give a trial court the opportunity to correct their own mistake with a post-verdict motion before appealing up the ladder. However, very few judges had the backbone to admit they had made a mistake.

  Boady didn’t understand why Dovey wanted to meet before the hearing, which was scheduled for that next morning.

  Frank Dovey stepped into the waiting area and invited Boady back. They walked to a conference room. On the conference-room table lay a single folder. Closed. Dovey went to the chair where the folder lay and pointed Boady to a chair across from him.

  When Boady had taken his seat, Dovey slid the folder to Boady. “As part of my continuing duty to provide you with discovery,” Dovey said, “I thought you should see this.”

  Boady opened the folder. In one sleeve was a stack of photographs. In the other was a police report. Boady lifted the photos from their sleeve. He saw Detective Max Rupert standing in the front room of Ben Pruitt’s house. At his feet lay a bundle of material. As he flipped through the photos, the camera moved in on the bundle as hands in blue gloves peeled away layers. At the heart of the bundle, someone had secreted away a dagger.

  “Is this . . . ?” Boady tried to wrap his head around what he was seeing. “Is this the knife that killed Jennavieve Pruitt?”

  “It could be. It fits the incision that caused her death.”

  “Is that Jennavieve’s blood on the knife?”

  “We’ve had it tested and, yes, it’s her blood.”

  “You’ve had it tested? How long have you had this evidence?”

  “Only a week, we—”

  “A week?” It took everything he had for Boady not to launch out of his seat. Instead, he let his voice rise for the occasion. “You’ve had this for a week? We have a motion for a new trial scheduled for tomorrow morning—and you’re just getting this to me now?”

  “We wanted to test the DNA. We wanted to make sure it was Jennavieve Pruitt’s blood.”

  “Damn it, Frank, that’s not your call. You know it’s not.”

  “It doesn’t change the case.”

  “Again, Frank, not your fucking call.” Boady’s anger had moved into contempt and indignation. “You don’t get to dictate what is important and what is not. You’re supposed to give me everything you get, when you get it. Now I have one night to rewrite my motion. It’s new evidence. It completely changes the case.”

  “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

  “No, we won’t, Frank. You’re wrong. If you want me to cite case law, I can. You have the murder weapon, and I assume those are the sheets from the victim’s bed?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Cut the crap, Dovey, you know damned well they are. Where’d they find this?”

  “Pruitt stuffed it into the cold-air return in his house before he left to dump his wife’s body. A repairman working on the furnace found it.”

  “Did you test the knife for prints? DNA?”

  “The only DNA on the knife was the victim’s blood. No prints.”

  Boady shuffled through some more pictures and stopped cold. In his hand, Boady held a picture of a condom—used. He looked at Dovey, so angry he could barely get the words out. “A condom? You found a condom and kept that from me? Are you kidding me?”

  “Again, we wanted to have it tested first.”

  “And?”

  “It was not a match for Ben Pruitt.”

  Boady sat back in his chair as a hundred doors in his mind flew open. “Jennavieve Pruitt was having an affair.”

  “That’s one possibility. But even if that
were true, it doesn’t mean that Ben Pruitt didn’t kill his wife. In fact, it bolsters the State’s case.”

  Of all those doors that opened, not one led to the conclusion that this would be good for the State. “In what universe does this help the State?” Boady asked.

  “It reinforces Pruitt’s motive to kill his wife. Not only did he do it for the money, but he did it because his wife was cheating on him.”

  “Now I’ll grant you that we can agree to disagree. What it does is introduce a lover into the picture who may have had his own reason to kill Mrs. Pruitt, or maybe it was the lover’s wife who killed her.” With those two words, two cogs in Boady’s brain clinked together and replayed the strange glances that Kagen and his wife shared during Everett’s testimony. Suddenly, it made sense. “Have you obtained a sample of Everett Kagen’s DNA?”

  “Kagen? No. Why would I?”

  Boady eyed Dovey carefully, trying to understand if he was positioning his case in light of this new evidence, or if he actually believed that he had no reason to test Kagen’s DNA. Finally, Boady said, “You’re joking, right? They worked together—lots of late nights. He was the last person to see her alive. I bet he drives a red sedan too.”

  “As a matter of fact, he does. A red Impala. But there are a great many red sedans in this state. I drive one myself. Am I a suspect?”

  “Quit being an ass, Frank. You had to see how he acted during his testimony.”

  “What I saw was the testimony of a close friend. I saw that Jennavieve’s death hit him hard—harder than it hit your client, who never dropped a single tear throughout the trial.”

  “Ben did plenty of grieving in jail—and quit deflecting. Are you going to get a warrant for a sample of Kagen’s DNA?”

  “I will not,” Dovey said with an air of finality. “I don’t have probable cause. You know I don’t. He testified that he hadn’t been to the Pruitt house on the day of the murder.”