A Blood Thing

by James Hankins

  Andrew did the math. “Hold on a second. This guy only has five months left?”

  Henry nodded.

  “And someone is willing to kill, and frame an innocent man, to get him out sooner?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Andrew considered that a moment. “And not to minimize his crime, but . . .”

  “Yeah, all he did was leave the scene of an accident. And by the way, a witness said the other guy caused the crash. Sure, leaving the scene was a felony, given the seriousness of the injury to the other driver, but still . . . he’s not exactly Al Capone. According to the statement he gave when they picked him up ten minutes after the accident, he’d had a beer, so he panicked, worried about a DUI charge. The thing was, they gave him a Breathalyzer right away, and he barely registered. Nowhere near the legal limit.”

  “How about priors?”

  “Up until the accident, Mr. Rogers could have taken good citizenship lessons from this guy. Gandhi was a thug by comparison. Torrance volunteered at a hospital, as well as a homeless shelter, where he also kept the books.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s an accountant,” Andrew said. Henry nodded. “Before you told me anything about this guy, I was expecting him to be . . .”

  “Not an accountant.”

  “Definitely not. What’s he have for family?”

  “None. No wife or kids. No siblings. Parents both died years ago.”

  “So no loved one on the outside who just can’t bear to wait another five months to see him again?”

  “No one who shows up in his file, anyway.”

  Andrew hadn’t been sleeping well since Tyler’s arrest, so maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, but none of this made sense. “Henry, can you see a reason, any reason, why someone would want Torrance out of prison so badly less than half a year before his sentence is up?”

  “Nope. Not a one.”

  Andrew sighed. He rubbed his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms against his closed lids. The intercom on his desk sounded.

  “Yes, Peter?” he said to his administrative assistant.

  “Sir, I just wanted to remind you that you have to be in the conference room in twenty minutes for—”

  “I know,” Andrew snapped. A moment later, he added, “Sorry. Thanks.” He sighed again.

  “Andrew?” Henry said.

  Andrew looked at him. Then shook his head. “I don’t care if this guy is the next Dalai Lama, I’m not letting him out of prison. I’m not giving in to blackmail. I can’t.”

  Henry nodded but said nothing.

  “You don’t agree?”

  “It’s your decision. I’m just thinking about Tyler.”

  “And I’m not?” Andrew said, heating up. “I’m just as—”

  “Relax, Andy. That came out wrong. I just . . . I’m wondering whether it matters all that much if you let Torrance out a little early. He’s a nobody who didn’t do much wrong, and he’s got less than half a year left anyway. Giving him five extra months of freedom is a small price to pay for a lifetime of Tyler’s freedom.”

  “Assuming the caller does what he says he will and gives us the proof of Tyler’s innocence he claims to have. If he even has it.”

  “Yeah, but . . . why not take the risk? If our jack-off caller is on the up-and-up, Tyler’s in the clear. If not, a nonviolent offender is back on the street a tiny bit ahead of schedule. Low risk, high reward.”

  Andrew regarded his brother a moment. Years ago, when Henry was still relatively new to the force, would he have arrived at such a recommendation so easily? Maybe, but Andrew wasn’t certain.

  “You don’t get it,” he said. “It wouldn’t matter if Torrance has a week left. If he was nothing more than a jaywalker. I can’t allow myself to be coerced into letting him out early. Once a blackmailer has you, he’ll never let go. Besides, it’s a slippery slope. If you take that first step over the line, it’s too easy to take the next, then the next. I’m sure Jackpot Barker started by taking a single bribe. Look where he ended up.”

  “You’re not Jackpot Barker.”

  “Not yet. Listen, Henry, I just can’t give in to blackmail. It’s about my oath. My integrity.”

  “It’s also about Tyler.”

  Andrew nodded. “I know that. Believe me, I know. But Tyler didn’t kill that woman. We have to trust that the system will work, and he’ll be acquitted.”

  It was Henry’s turn to nod. He did it slowly, as if to prove a point. “I’m a cop. You were a lawyer. Do you trust the system completely? Do you trust it with Tyler’s life?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I have no choice. I have to. But hopefully, it won’t come to that. Hopefully, we’ll identify our caller soon and find whatever evidence he claims to have that will exonerate Tyler. So where are we on that?”

  Henry closed the file on Gabriel Torrance and slipped it into his bag, then pulled out a second file and opened it on the desk.

  “The fingerprints got us nowhere,” Henry said. “Not in the system. And neither you guys nor the local press seemed to have caught our guy on film or video.”

  “So we’ve got nothing?”

  “I’m not saying that. Because I’m brilliant and had a flash of inspiration.” He paused as though expecting Andrew to weigh in one way or the other on the issue of his brilliance. After a moment, he continued. “I hopped on the Internet and trolled all the big social media sites, trying various hashtags and keywords. #Ribboncutting. #Governorspeech. #Newseniorcenter. Whatever. I was at it for hours. And hours. Finally, I got some hits. Apparently, to some people, it’s a big deal to see you in person.”

  “To some people, I think it is.”

  “They haven’t seen you naked like I have.”

  “You haven’t seen me naked in decades. Last time was probably in the bathtub when we were toddlers.”

  “Well, I wasn’t impressed. Anyway, a few people posted and tweeted pictures of you speaking, and some even took shots of you shaking hands with the crowd.”

  Andrew sat forward. “You got our guy?”

  “Maybe.”

  He slid three photos across the desk. They were printed on plain copier paper.

  “These were the only possibilities,” Henry said, “based on your fantastic powers of recall. Any of them look familiar?”

  The first picture, taken from at least a dozen feet away, showed Andrew shaking hands with a middle-aged man in a baseball cap. He didn’t think their guy had worn a hat.

  The second picture . . . Andrew froze. That was him. Taken from a mere three or four feet away, the photo showed a man reaching toward Andrew’s outstretched hand. The man was in profile, but his features were plainly visible. Brown hair, a nondescript face that Andrew nonetheless instantly found familiar. He wore a navy windbreaker. Andrew looked more closely at the man’s hand, the one stretching toward his own, and saw something dark and angular, the corner of a black object. A cell phone. Andrew’s eyes slid over to the mystery phone sitting on the desk beside his computer.

  He didn’t even glance at the third photo.

  “This is the guy,” he said, turning the second picture around for Henry to see.

  “You sure?”

  “No doubt. See the phone in his hand?”

  Henry nodded. “I saw that. Wanted to see if you did before I said anything about it.”

  “Can you find out who he is?”

  “Already did.” For each of the men in the photos, even though they had all been photographed in profile, Henry had used computer software to create head-on renderings. From there, he used another handy program available to law enforcement personnel: facial recognition software. It had taken a little while, but he’d been able to find solid possible matches for all three men.

  He opened his messenger bag, thumbed through a few folders inside, and removed one. He took a quick look inside, then slid it across the desk. Andrew opened it and stared into the now easily recognizable face. “That’s Alexander Rafferty,” Henry said. “According to the Depa
rtment of Motor Vehicles, he has a clean driving record. According to various social media sites, he’s got a wife and two daughters and likes brewing his own beer, camping with his girls, and attending backyard barbecues. Nothing about him being a dickhead or a blackmailer, but dickheads rarely admit that they’re dickheads, and blackmailers are even less likely to talk about their little hobby.”

  Andrew studied Rafferty’s driver’s license photo. He didn’t have the slightest doubt that he was looking at their guy. “Does he have a criminal record? Wait, stupid question. His prints weren’t in the database.”

  “Right,” Henry said. “The guy’s as clean as they come. Except that, in reality, he’s a dickhead blackmailer.”

  “Do we know anything else about him?”

  “Again, from Facebook, we know that he’s a manager of a local Chili’s. I called. He’s not scheduled to work today. His wife’s a schoolteacher.”

  Andrew nodded. “So what now?”

  “Now I go talk to him and ask him very politely to give us whatever evidence he has that will clear Tyler.”

  “Very politely?”

  “Best to start off polite, anyway.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?”

  “If I can.”

  Andrew understood. He’d have to admit to something that would give Henry probable cause to arrest him. Or he’d have to invite Henry into his house, and something incriminating would have to be lying around in plain sight. Neither of those things seemed likely.

  “And if you can’t?”

  “Don’t worry. Whatever it takes, I’ll get what we need to get Tyler out of this mess.”

  Andrew didn’t like the sound of that. The implication of Henry’s words. And Henry could sense that.

  “Andrew, I’m not gonna cross the line . . .”

  “Unless you have to. That’s what you’re not saying.”

  Henry sighed. “It’s Tyler, you know? It’s family.”

  Andrew didn’t want to be talking about this. He didn’t want to think about it. He was the governor, for God’s sake. He was above talk of vigilante justice. He had always railed against the abuse of government power. How could he now condone—

  “I’m gonna talk to the guy,” Henry said. “See where it leads. And if it looks like I have to . . . well, it’s all me, understand? My decision. My action. Not yours. In fact, you know nothing about it.” Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but Henry cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say. Don’t bother. You couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”

  He gathered his file and the photographs and stuffed them into his messenger bag.

  “Remember, Andrew, if things go sideways, you had nothing to do with anything.”

  Then he walked out of the office, leaving Andrew to wonder when Henry’s blacks and whites had become mere shades of gray.

  A moment later, the phone on Andrew’s desk emitted its distinct intercom ringtone.

  “Yes?”

  “Governor Kane,” his assistant said, “I just saw your brother leave. You have ten minutes until your meeting downstairs with HUD. I left the file on the corner of your desk before you came in this morning.”

  Andrew thanked his assistant, then sent Henry a text: Call me when you have news.

  Rather than use his ten free minutes to review the file about the controversial housing project he’d be discussing with a room full of people very shortly, Andrew spent the time calculating the odds that his brother wouldn’t have to cross the line over the next couple of hours, and wondering whether it would irrevocably change him if he did.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Henry drove his state-issued Ford Taurus past the gray ranch house, circa mid-1960s, that DMV and property records said belonged to Alexander Rafferty and his wife. No cars were in the driveway or on the street in front of the house, but there was an attached garage with its door down, so a vehicle could have been parked inside. Henry looped around the block, parked two houses away, and walked down to the Rafferty residence. He moved quickly up the driveway, peered into the window in the garage door, and saw a silver Hyundai. Alexander Rafferty appeared to be home. If so, Henry was just moments away from coming face-to-face with the man who had framed Tyler for murder—and another moment after that from knocking the guy flat after he resisted arrest, which Henry planned to make sure he did . . . at least a little.

  He stepped over to the front door, keeping his hand near the butt of his pistol, and prepared to ring the doorbell. The door had no peephole, but there was a vertical column of small windows on either side of the door, so Henry would know if Rafferty took a peek at him. He had obviously done his homework, calling Henry by name on the phone, so he mostly likely knew what Henry looked like. If he did, and he didn’t open the door right away, Henry planned to kick it in if he could. And if he couldn’t, he’d break the window nearest the deadbolt, unlock the door, and run Rafferty down, hopefully before he could get his hands on a weapon.

  Henry took a breath and rang the bell. A few seconds later, he was about to ring again when he heard footsteps inside. Not running, not retreating, but approaching calmly. The door opened, and Alexander Rafferty stood just inside.

  Henry’s initial instinct was to take the guy down immediately, then start asking questions, but the man’s demeanor was so calm, so relaxed, that Henry hesitated.

  “Yes?” Rafferty said.

  “Mr. Rafferty, do you recognize me?”

  Rafferty squinted at him. “Should I?”

  He was either a hell of an actor, or he had no idea who Henry was.

  “I’m Lieutenant Henry Kane, with the Vermont State Police.” Keeping his eyes on Rafferty, he pulled out his badge and flashed it with a practiced move. “Any idea why I’m here?”

  That was when Henry saw the first crack. In Rafferty’s eyes.

  “You do,” Henry said, “don’t you?”

  After a moment, Rafferty nodded, and Henry felt a surge of triumph. “I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong,” the man said in a soft, defeated voice. “It didn’t seem like it would be against any law. And to tell you the truth, it wouldn’t have mattered if it was. I didn’t have a choice. I swear to God, I didn’t have a choice.”

  A tear slipped from the man’s eye, and Henry sighed. Alexander Rafferty wasn’t their mystery caller.

  “I was standing with everyone else, waiting for the governor to arrive,” Rafferty said. “We’re interested in the senior center because my wife’s mother died a few months ago, and her father is . . . well, he needs to start getting out of his apartment, you know? And Donna, my wife, she had to work that day, so I said I’d go check it out.”

  Henry nodded. They were sitting at Rafferty’s kitchen table. Rafferty had a cup of coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched since he’d poured it. He’d offered a cup to Henry, who had declined.

  “Anyway,” Rafferty continued, “I’m standing there waiting when somebody said there was a car in the parking lot with its driver’s door open, a silver Hyundai.”

  “Do you remember who made that announcement?”

  “It wasn’t a formal announcement or anything, nothing over a loudspeaker, just someone calling out.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “I think it was a kid, actually.”

  Henry nodded again. There was no way that it was a kid who had been calling them, voice changer or no. Someone must have told him to make that announcement.

  “I didn’t think I’d left my door open, but I had to check, right? Who wouldn’t? So I walked back to my car and saw that the doors were all closed. And that’s when . . .”

  Henry gave him a moment.

  Rafferty took a deep breath. “That’s when I suddenly felt someone behind me . . . I mean right behind me . . . but before I could turn, he said into my ear, ‘If you turn around, your family is dead.’” He paused a moment. “I almost turned around anyway, without thinking. Just a knee-jerk reaction, you know? Thank God I didn’t.”


  “What happened next?”

  “He said something like, ‘I’ve been watching you for weeks, Alex. You and your family.’ Then he named my wife and kids. He knew their names. He said he’d watched Isabella at soccer practice. And went to one of Megan’s swim meets. He said he sometimes drove by Donna’s school at recess just to watch her with the children. It was the most chilling thing I’d ever heard.”

  Rafferty finally reached for his coffee, but his hand was shaking badly and he withdrew it, resting it in his lap again. Henry looked down at his notes, pretending not to notice.

  “I can’t imagine how frightening that must have been.”

  Rafferty nodded. “And this was the worst part: He said he had people watching them all right then, at that moment.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Why the hell wouldn’t I? He knew their names, what they did, where they went, where Donna worked.”

  Henry thought about how he had found Rafferty on Facebook, and learned where he worked, and his wife’s name, and where she worked, and his daughters’ names, and how he’d seen photos of their soccer games and swim meets. It was all so easy, once you knew his name.

  “No reason you shouldn’t have believed him,” he said. “I’m just asking.”

  Rafferty reached out a hand that looked a bit steadier than it had a few seconds ago and took a sip of coffee.

  “I did believe him, yes. I had to.”

  Henry made a note in his little black notebook, mostly to give Rafferty a moment, then said, “So, the guy is standing behind you, tells you not to turn around, threatens your family if you do. Then what?”

  “He told me I had to do one simple thing for him, something that wasn’t even illegal, and if I did that, he’d leave my family and me alone forever. As long as I never told anyone about any of this.”

  Henry already knew, but he asked anyway. “What did he want you to do?”