by Mark Zubro
I figured if the shooter was patient enough to wait this long and crazy enough to shoot with cops present, it wasn’t going to do us much good to wait until dawn when it would be easier to see us. Murray and I linked up again. We hurried across the lot as best we could.
The cops spotted us and drew their guns. Great, now we were going to be slowed by the cops and made perfect targets for the shooter, but we slowed. Worse the gun you can see.
WEDNESDAY 1:26 A.M.
The cop in the first car that had driven up was tall and thin. His dark blue pants were tight in the crotch. Even his bulletproof vest didn’t make his chest look outsized. His hat hid his eyes. He held his gun out toward us. The second cop was short and squat. Even in the dim light, I could see his hand and its gun wobbling.
“Halt!” the thin guy shouted.
I halted. Murray limped to a stop. He leaned against me.
“You two separate.”
“Raul, it’s Marty Murray,” the reporter called.
“Marty?” The thin guy’s gun wavered.
This time I heard the shot. The side window of the car he had been standing in front of shattered. I heard another shot. The tall, thin cop toppled backward. A third shot and the second cop clutched his shin, and began screeching as he collapsed to the ground.
Still half supporting Murray, we rushed toward them. We got to Raul, the tall cop, first. Another shot thudded into the car door. It missed me by six inches. A fifth shot hit the already unconscious Raul in the upper left quadrant of his torso.
I was surprised Raul was still breathing. His bullet-proof vest had taken most of the impact of the first shot, but the second had missed the vest and hit him where his neck and shoulder met. I put a hand under each of his armpits and tugged and pulled him to the other side of the car. The heavyset cop was only half blocked from the shooter’s view. I dashed forward and heaved him towards safety. He continued to screech. I wished I believed in the slap-someone-upside-the-head theory of calming people down.
When he was out of the line of fire, I crawled around to the driver’s side door of the second cop car. Raul lay a foot from the door. His labored breathing overwhelmed the other night sounds. I got the door open and reached for the radio inside. I flicked the switch and called for help.
The dispatcher said, “Where is Officer Johnson?”
“I told you. He’s been shot. Send help.” I told her where we were. I heard two more shots. More shattering glass.
The dispatcher said, “I must speak with Officer Johnson.”
I said very slowly and clearly, “You dumb fucking asshole. Fucking send fucking help. Later, you can ask fucking stupid questions or make fucking useless demands.” I clicked off.
I reached into Raul’s front pocket trying to find his car keys. Murray’s car with four flats was hardly likely to get us out of there at a speed that would help us elude rifle shots. To haul the wounded into either car would expose me to rifle fire, but at the moment getting us into one of them and getting away seemed our only hope. The keys weren’t in the left front pocket. I tried the right. He was unconscious, but it felt odd reaching into another man’s pockets. I could feel the line of his underwear. I felt change. I pushed aside flesh I might have been interested in if gunshots hadn’t been thudding around us. I wondered at my ability to have erotic thoughts in the face of fear.
I pulled the keys out. I turned to Murray to explain we were going to try to make it into Raul’s car.
From my line of sight on the ground I saw the front door of one of the condos open. A man with a shotgun stood there. Another shot rang out. The outside light near the man winked out. Light from the doorway behind still silhouetted him. I saw him step forward, either stunningly brave or stunningly stupid. He started blasting away. It was a repeating shotgun. He kept up his fire all the way to our car and crouched down with us.
“You guys okay?” he asked. “I called the cops.”
I said, “I hope you had better luck than I did.”
I saw rotating lights in the distance.
WEDNESDAY 2:17 A.M.
The entire Butterfield police department, twelve in all, showed up along with a raft of state cops. Somebody told me one of their own had not been shot in Butterfield since 1892. Raul was taken to the hospital. I saw his chest rise and fall, and heard his labored breathing, but he didn’t regain consciousness as the paramedics hoisted him in and drove off.
They finally calmed down the short guy, Manny Glinga. He had bits of bone sticking out of his leg. We discovered that Murray had several deep cuts on both arms besides the leg injury from when he dropped out of the tree. He resisted the paramedic’s suggestion that he go to the hospital to get stitches in his leg.
They unwedged my shirt from his leg and cut his jeans off. They yanked the splinter out. Murray yelped, leaned back, but managed not to pass out. Nothing fountained from the wound. They applied antiseptic and a bandage.
They seemed to know Murray, and he talked them into letting him get to the hospital later. They lent him a pair of sweat pants that were a size too large.
Rotella dispatched deputies to inspect the condo. I wasn’t looking forward to their report.
A willowy-thin young paramedic took an inordinate amount of time applying ointments to the numerous minor abrasions on my hands and arms. My shirt was a total loss. From the back of the ambulance the paramedic handed me a replacement that I discovered was a size too small. He smiled.
After seeing to his men, Rotella strolled over. A line of sweat rose from his belt up the center of his back and the half-moon sweat stains in his armpits stood out even in the dim light. We explained what happened, but only from the point after we got down from the tree.
He began his questions with, “Were you inside there or trying to get inside?” He managed to mix sneering, condescension, and menace in his tone. He was the kind of evil lord who would be overthrown by peasants toting pitchforks and carrying torches as they stormed the castle.
I said, “No.” Keep it simple is my motto.
Murray said, “No way.” Also good.
“Why’d they shoot out Murray’s windshield?” he asked.
“They didn’t,” I said. I pointed to a six-inch-diameter rock about ten feet from the car. “That wasn’t there when we pulled up. My guess is it was used to shatter the front and back windows.” That must have been the two booms we heard.
Murray asked, “Why not just shoot it out?”
“Fear,” I said. “Not his, ours. A rifle shot is distant and cold, almost impersonal. This is up close and personal. It’s designed to make us afraid.”
“Of what?” Murray asked.
“Of the shooter.”
Murray said, “He took a big risk of being seen.”
“Not much light out here.”
Murray asked, “Are the shooting at us and the destruction of my car connected to Skeen’s death?”
“Why would it be?” Rotella asked.
“Just asking,” Murray said.
Rotella asked, “What were you doing here in the first place?”
“Checking things out,” Murray said.
“Where’s the crime scene tape on the front entrance?”
Murray said, “It’s not my tape to watch.”
“I’m going to have to call your boss,” Rotella said.
“Everybody in this town keeps threatening me with that. Why don’t they just talk to me?”
“We do talk to you, but you don’t listen. We want you to stop doing things that are stupid or in this case, dangerous and stupid.”
“Isn’t that my choice, not yours?” Murray asked. “My choice and not my boss’s?”
Rotella snorted. “Not if he fires you. Not if what you were doing is illegal. Not if I arrest your ass, both of you.”
I said, “We’re the ones who got shot at. Is this a good time to play blame the victim?”
“I’ll blame who I want.”
The two cops who’d been dispatched t
o check inside came back. They hadn’t called in, which you’d expect if they stumbled upon a corpse. No hint of haste or urgency in their movements. They couldn’t be that used to finding dead bodies. They gave the news about the shattered sliding glass door. I waited for the announcement of the finding of a dead body. One of them said, “We’ve got blood near the shattered doors in a third story bedroom.”
“What shattered them?”
“We found bullet holes in the screen and the opposite wall.”
Rotella growled. “We’ll have to wait for forensics from the state cops to check it out.”
Murray and I looked at each other.
“What the hell do you two know about bullet holes and shattered windows?” Rotella demanded.
Murray muttered, “Nothing.”
I said, “Not a clue.”
Rotella glared.
Getting shot at is dangerous. Missing dead bodies? That’s a whole ‘nother level of scary up from being shot at. What the hell was going on here?
Rotella asked, “Where were you guys when your windows were broken out?”
Murray said, “In the rear of the complex checking things out. We told you, that’s where we were when someone started shooting.”
I said, “The question has to be who was watching the condo and why? If Murray didn’t tell anyone we were going to be here, then who has reason to watch it or follow us? Who has reason to shoot at us? Were they trying to kill us or scare us? Or kill only one of us? If so, which one? And why shoot at cops? Or were those warning shots gone bad? I’d think you’d be pissed that your guys got shot at. That one of your officers could die.”
“But nothing would have happened if you guys hadn’t been here,” Rotella snapped.
I said, “But the significant point should be that something happened because we were here. We need to figure out cause and effect not play blame and harangue. Where does that get us?”
“You’re not just a baseball player,” Rotella said. “Who are you?”
I figured lying to a cop was stupid. He was the local law enforcement. This guy could make life very difficult for me.
I said, “I’m a private investigator.” I took out my license and showed it to him.
“You should have told me that the first time we met. In fact, you should have come to see me the first thing when you got to town.”
I didn’t want to piss him off. I didn’t want to cave in to an asshole. I said, “I’m just doing a job for my client.”
“Who is?”
I looked at him. He was the only one in town who didn’t know? I exercised my right to remain silent.
He frowned at me for several moments then said, “You know what your role is supposed to be. It doesn’t include being where you don’t belong. I don’t have a problem with you being in town as long as you don’t get in the way. This isn’t an amateur sleuth sideshow like on television.”
“I don’t intend to be in anybody’s way. I work very hard to please my clients.”
Rotella said, “I don’t want you fucking with this investigation.”
Murray asked, “You think someone shooting at us is connected with Skeen’s murder?”
Rotella said, “I’m not answering your fucking questions.”
Silence for a beat.
Murray said, “It’s late. I got a painkiller from the paramedic, but he told me I’ve got to get stitches and antibiotics. Then I’ve got to get back to the paper. It doesn’t make any difference if you report me. I’m going to tell my editor everything. I’ve got a story. Maybe I’ll be on more than the local news. This has got to be part of the Skeen case. There’s going to be lots of press coverage.”
“Just stay out of my way.” Rotella strutted off to confer with the other cops.
Murray and I were alone at last.
Murray said, “He was dead.”
“Very.”
“He’s gone.”
“Gotta be.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who took him?”
“I’m not the corpse or the killer, and I don’t specialize in body disposal.”
“Was he there when you went back?”
“And he was still dead then.”
“Maybe he wasn’t dead.”
“Maybe you should get a grip.”
“I’m scared.”
I thought that might be a good thing. I said, “Or he was there and the cops are in on it, including Rotella.”
“That’s even more scary.”
“Just another possibility.”
“Probable?”
“I don’t know.” I thought for a minute then said, “Maybe they weren’t following us. Maybe they were after Czobel. We just came along and were collateral damage.”
“Why kill Czobel?”
“He was investigating Skeen.”
“But Skeen is dead.”
I shrugged. This wasn’t making sense.
The cops drove me to my car. Then I dropped Murray at the hospital on the way to my motel. Halfway there, I pulled to the side of the road, turned off the car, and shut my eyes. This was the first time I’d had a minute to myself. I needed time to think about and process that a man I’d been passionate with a little over twenty-four hours ago was dead.
I hadn’t been in love with the guy. What we’d done felt great, but now he was gone forever. I wondered if he had family? Friends? People who would miss him? His death affected me in ways I wasn’t certain of. I let the humid night caress me for a few minutes. I’d have to give myself time. I turned the car back on and drove to Edna’s.
Where the hell was the body? And why was Tyler Skeen dead and now Czobel? I had no answers.
WEDNESDAY 3:58 A.M.
It was nearly four when I parked outside my room at the motel. A dim light emanated from within. I’d left no light on.
I crept to the door and listened. Anyone inside might have been alerted to my arrival by the wheezing of the Escort, if they knew what car to listen for.
A horrible thought flashed through my mind. Could someone have left the body here? It would be logical and vicious. I looked for suspicious cars. Nothing in sight that looked out of place.
I slammed my foot against the door, jumped right, and flattened myself against the wall outside.
I peered in.
Donny Campbell, mouth agape, sat on the bed with a glass of water in his hands. He wore white silk boxers and nothing else. He’d been watching an infomercial on TV. He beamed at me. “As it got later, I was worried about you. What’s going on?”
I wondered if he always worried in his boxers on a bed at four in the morning in someone else’s motel room.
I said, “How’d you get in?”
“It’s a small town. I charmed the maid. She thinks I’m hot.”
I sat down opposite him in the room’s only chair. He rested his right ankle on his left knee as he had in my office the day we met. His shorts gaped open. He did nothing to close them. I doubted if it was accidental that I was getting a full view of what he wanted to display. I looked away.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Campbell was a total stud. Probably he could be trusted, but I gave him the version of the night’s events I’d given the cops. A big part of my job was keeping my mouth shut, even from studs sitting in front of me in their underwear at four in the morning.
When I finished, he scratched, then groped himself, leaving his shorts gaping wider than before. He saw my gaze and let his legs spread wider. His lengthening dick peeked out of the left leg of his shorts.
I responded to the sight with words that didn’t match what was happening in my own pants. “It would be better if we didn’t.” I wanted to. The man was hot, but he was part of the client’s business. Plus, the man I’d had in here twenty-four hours ago was dead. That kind of soured my taste for a rollicking encounter, although I guessed, hoped, Campbell could rollick with the best. But someone I’d been intimate with was dead.
I didn’t feel guilt, but I didn’t feel good either.
“Better for who?” he asked. “I’m not a client.”
“You’re part of the case. Sorry.”
“After the case?”
I reiterated what I’d said in the Pitstop Truckstop. “We can talk. It’s nice to be desired. You are a very tempting offer. I’m not saying ‘no’. I’m saying ‘later’.”
“Fair enough.”
He put his clothes on and left. I examined the damage I’d done to my door when I’d kicked it open. A few minutes work, and I managed to restore it to an ability to close but not lock. I moved the cheap dresser in front of it and vowed to get a security lock on my door or a new room or solve the damn case.
WEDNESDAY 8:00 A.M.
I woke to an empty bed and loud voices from the room next door. Eight in the morning. Not nearly enough sleep. I turned. Muscles complained. I was used to exercise and physical exertion, but a number of my muscles sent painful reminders that they’d been exerted beyond the usual in last night’s escapade.
I couldn’t make out what the loud voices next door were saying. I took a shower. When I got done, I could still hear them.
I threw on gray athletic socks, black boxer briefs, jeans, running shoes, and a black T-shirt. I walked outside.
The noises were coming from the room to the north. I knocked. Immediate silence. A few second later, the door burst open. Two of the guys from the team hurried out. They glanced to the left and right, saw me, nodded hello, and got into a rust-encrusted 1975 Camaro. A fender was missing, and the front windshield was cracked.
They hadn’t shut the motel room door. I wandered to the entrance.
Malcolm Dowley, the resident complainer on the team, sat on the bed. He wore slider shorts and white socks. A guy I remembered as Ralph Olsen leaned against the desk, which was peeling a little more paint than the one in my room. Olsen wore faded green checked boxers, had red hair, and was thinner than Craig Counsell when he scored the winning run in the bottom of the eleventh inning of Game seven of the 1997 World Series.
I said, “I have the room next door.”
