by Andrea Speed
He’d never dealt with the Federal Way PD before. Boy, they were going to love him.
It turned out not to be so bad.
The first cop on the scene was a big, corn-fed kid with a buzz cut who looked barely twenty, but he was clearly old enough to hold a rank, and he was hardly out of the patrol car when he exclaimed, “Holy shit, you’re him. The guy from the news. The Grant Kim thing. I thought your name sounded familiar.” Roan assumed a beating would soon commence, but as it turned out, the guy treated him like a fellow cop, respectful and with an almost obscene amount of trust.
Roan recounted what had happened, saying that he was looking at Switzer as a suspect in a case and was intending to follow him home and question him about his involvement (some of the questioning would be with his fists, but he wasn’t about to admit that until he absolutely had to), but then he heard April scream, followed closely by the gunshot. None of this was a lie—you could argue it was a sculpting of the facts, but he could live with that.
Neighbors started gathering before the ambulance arrived, and he wondered where they had been during the shooting. He gave the kid—whose name turned out to be Nate Dougherty; his partner was a surprisingly slight Chinese woman named Mira Chin—his Sig Sauer and knew he wouldn’t be seeing it until forensics was done with it. Oh, why couldn’t he have worn his Glock today? Okay, it was weird to like one gun over another for something other than technical reasons, but he did. So there.
He wasn’t handcuffed, although he rode to the station in their squad car, ahead of any press. On the way there, it was Chin who wondered why Roan hadn’t shot him first thing coming through the door. “He could have shot you or the kids first.”
“No, he couldn’t have. He couldn’t pull the trigger faster than me.”
Dougherty snickered faintly and eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Little cocky, huh?”
“No. Catlike reflexes.”
There was doubt in his pale blue eyes that quickly cycled to concern as soon as Dougherty grokked he wasn’t joking. The cops were quiet for the rest of the ride in, and Roan was glad.
He was asked to tell his version of events several times, but he was never close to being booked, and most of the cops seemed to extend him a curious deference. On the one hand, it made him feel old; on the other, it was kind of a relief. The adrenaline rush of the shooting had worn off, and all he wanted to do was curl up somewhere and take a nap. He was in no mood to scrap with macho bullshit cops.
A few things became clear, slowly but surely. Roan had dropped the phone close enough to the house and had such good reception (he thought it paid to get a good phone if you had to have one of the fucking things) that the 9-1-1 tape picked up a few things, including Roan shouting to Switzer to drop the gun, as well as his response, “They’re mine”. They felt the tape could be enhanced to pick up other things, none of which would probably be good for Switzer. April Switzer had talked to an officer at the station several days ago, saying she was frightened of her ex-husband, but didn’t get a court order against him for fear it would make him violent. (Sadly, sometimes these control freak assholes didn’t need a reason; the fact that you were opposing them was reason enough to go psycho.) Switzer had left a suicide note in his truck, described as “angry, rambling, and pretty bugfuck” according to a detective named Hollenbach, and it explained why his kids had to die, proving he had planned to go the murder-suicide route with his entire family. The main motivation seemed to be his anger over the collapse of his marriage and his certainty his career as a police officer was over. (Was it the raping or the wife beating? There was a plethora of career killers to choose from.)
Switzer died in the ER, but a weary public defender who happened to be at the station for another client—and looked like a younger, thinner Ned Beatty with darker hair—admitted that because Roan had technically trespassed, he could be charged with something. But it was unlikely, because it fell within the realm of justifiable homicide, and also “No way is anyone bringing this to trial, unless they really want to be humiliated in open court. You might want to push this to trial. Not only would no judge or jury convict you, but you’ll probably get a street named after you. And not in the bad part of town either.” Nice to know.
Press were gathering. None had been let in, but the cops were telling him if he actually wanted to avoid cameras, he’d have to leave soon and out the back. The public defender, whose name turned out to be Andrew Gillis, said he knew a good way out, having gone out with clients who attracted more than a fair share of attention. Roan decided he’d have to bite the bullet and call Dylan. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to, that he could catch a lift back to his car and just go home and be able to tell him what happened over dinner, but that wasn’t going to happen if the “action news team” motherfuckers were already circling the wagons.
Dylan was up when he called, which he was glad about, but he hadn’t been watching the news. That was good, and that was bad. With a sigh, Roan asked, “Guess where I am.”
Dylan’s pause seemed strangely portentous. “One day. You’re not even out of the hospital one day and you’re back in?”
“No, not the hospital.”
He gasped. “You’ve been arrested?”
Roan must have lived his life wrong, since the first two guesses were hospital and jail. “No, not arrested. But I am at Federal Way police department headquarters. I decided to trail one of the cops in the Hawley case to see where he called home. He decided today to pay a visit to his soon-to-be ex-wife’s house and kill her and the kids.”
Dylan was silent for a long moment, then said harshly, “Tell me this is a sick joke.”
“I got him before he could get the kids. Sadly, it seems I’m attracting press like sharks to chum. Could you come pick me up?”
Dylan was silent again, this time for even longer. When he found his voice again, he asked, “Are you alright?”
“Unhurt. You know me, Dylan—I’m only half human. He never had a chance.”
“The kids?”
“Surely traumatized for life. But physically unharmed.”
He sighed heavily. “I’ll be right there. Just… is he dead? The guy?”
“Yeah, just died in the hospital.”
“Good,” Dylan spat, with an astonishing amount of venom, and then hung up the phone. That wasn’t very Buddhist of him.
Roan felt like such a dumbass. He was getting a cup of coffee from the communal coffee pot when he remembered that Dylan’s dad was a troubled cop who had killed his wife and himself. Right before Christmas, for fuck’s sake. No wonder Dylan was glad he was dead; it was his childhood, two point oh. The only good thing that Dylan’s dad did was not kill the kids, just his wife and himself. He’d probably brought it all back, the horror and the trauma. He should have called Holden, damn his IT nerd—he’d probably deeply upset Dylan without even meaning to.
Roan ended up having the disgusting cup of coffee with Dougherty and Gillis, as Gillis seemed to have an amicable relationship with the cops. They were hardly on the same side, but there was a grudging respect, and he didn’t seem like a bad guy. Neither did Dougherty, who still had a fresh-faced rookie-like aspect to him. Gillis asked him jokingly if he didn’t want the publicity, why he was always getting involved in these types of cases. It was an excellent question—not one Roan had an answer for either.
Dylan arrived wearing a blue hoodie with the hood pulled over his head so his face was mostly obscured, probably so no one in the press would recognize him as Roan’s boyfriend. He shoved it back, but had a pained look on his face, like he didn’t want to do this and didn’t want to be here. Roan stood and hugged him, tight enough that he could feel how Dylan’s heart was thundering in his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered into his neck, just below his ear. He stroked Dylan’s hair, feeling the heat radiate from his skin like waves of anxiety. “It’ll be all right. I promise you.”
Dylan seemed to relax into him, holding him like he was the only thing keeping h
im from drowning. “It better be,” he whispered back, into his shoulder.
Roan was suddenly aware of the eyes, of people staring at them, mostly cops, some surprised as if they’d totally forgotten or just didn’t know he was gay. Finally, one of the detectives said, in a mostly joking manner, “Get a room, girls.”
Dylan stiffened at this, but he wasn’t familiar with the ultramacho world of cops. Roan met the cop’s gaze and said, “We would, but your mom’s booked the motel in advance of Fleet Week. She just can’t wait.”
Other cops began to jeer at the detective, and as he told them to fuck off, someone winged a balled-up piece of paper his way, and another added, “Yeah, she does like a man in uniform, doesn’t she?” So clearly they ragged on this guy’s mother a lot. But mother insults were as big in a cop shop as they were on a street corner, so it was a good way to go. Easy too, but hey, now he was just one of the guys, gay or not. You just had to know the language.
Gillis led them out the back way, away from prying camera eyes, although Roan didn’t relax until he was in Dylan’s homely little car. Free to talk finally, Dylan asked, “Does this mean the case is over?” He asked it with a great deal of hope.
It would have been nice. Hell, it would have been a nice vacation. But he had a sinking feeling that it not only wasn’t over, but had just gotten a hell of lot more complicated.
8
Mr. Hurricane
Sometimes hunkering down against the press felt like trying not to be seen.
They still had a bunch of Dennis’s business cards, which Dylan would hand out to any of the press that came to the door. Anything Roan said would have to be filtered through “his attorney,” which was total bullshit. Dennis would put them on hold until they hung up. But it was just his way of getting rid of them while leaving the dirty work to someone else. Hey, Roan could work being a weasel if he had to. They also had to unplug the phone, so only people who had his or Dylan’s cell numbers could call (not a big list, certainly not press).
Which meant he fielded calls from Dee (asking if he’d emptied his gun into the bastard, which he hadn’t, which wasn’t the answer Dee wanted to hear—he was only the first of many who would ask him why he hadn’t unloaded a full clip into Switzer. The answer that it wasn’t actually necessary seemed to please no one), Fiona, Holden, Dennis (“How many of these idiots am I handling? You should really pick one to talk to, control the spin the Eastgate PD are gonna put out about Switzer…”), Gordo, Dropkick (“I always knew you’d shoot a cop, but I thought it would be Sikorski….”), and Jay (“If I autopsy him, I’ll save you something to hang on your rearview”). Holden said he’d be by later, but he was willing to come through the back so no one caught a “man whore” coming to their door. Roan told him he didn’t care.
By about six, things had tapered off, and Dylan was suggesting dinner, which Roan was in no mood for. Maybe it was all the hard caffeine, or maybe it was the fact that he'd killed a man, but he had no appetite. He needed to eat something if he wanted to pop a pill though, so he was considering toast when there was a rather loud knock at the door, and a voice bellowed, “Hey, Roan, it’s me!”
Dylan jumped slightly at the sound of the booming bass voice, looked at him, and mouthed, “Who’s that?”
“I do believe that’s the client, Grey Williams,” Roan told him and walked over to the door. As soon as he unlocked it and opened it, Grey shouldered his way in and grabbed Roan in a huge bear hug. In fact, he lifted him off his feet as he came in the door. He remembered to kick the door shut behind him.
“You got the motherfucker!” Grey crowed happily, shaking him like a cat might shake a mouse in its jaws. “Fucking awesome, man! You shot the fucker!”
Good lord—he was all muscle. Did he shoot steroids in his eyeball? “You’re crushing my ribs,” Roan wheezed. Grey actually was; he had a vise grip around Roan's waist, like he was giving him a reverse Heimlich, and his arms felt like stone. It was like being crushed by marble.
“Oh, sorry.” Grey put him down and let him go, but not before giving him a big kiss on the cheek. He then gave him a goofy, happy grin. “You shot the fucker!”
“Only because I had to,” he pointed out. “It wasn’t because of Jamie.”
Grey’s smile faded a bit, but his eyes were still big and bright, as if he were feverish. “I know. Sorry about his wife. At least you got the kids out, though.”
“It was the one good thing about it all,” Dylan commented.
Grey looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. “You the boyfriend?”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “The name’s Dylan.”
Grey either missed the implied rebuke or ignored it entirely. He walked over to Dylan with his hand out. “I’m Grey Williams. I bet you know that.”
Dylan shook his hand, showing some kindness. “I do.” From the way Dylan grimaced, Grey must have not held back enough on the grip.
“You guys have lifetime tickets for all the Falcons home games,” Grey announced, looking between them. “As long as I’m on the team. Good seats too. If I get picked up by the Preds, I’ll make sure you get tickets there too, although I guess that means you’d have to come to Nashville.”
Roan shrugged. “Might for Argent.”
Grey smirked, and Dylan asked, “Who?”
“Jason Argent, the team captain. Wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
Grey laughed at this, and Dylan looked curious. “Really? This guy I gotta see.” And Dylan went and picked up Roan’s laptop, sitting on the sofa to have a Google.
“You follow hockey?” Grey asked him.
He shook his head. “My husband was a fan of the Canucks, but he watched enough games that I picked a few things up. One of which was Jason Argent is perhaps the handsomest hockey player I have ever seen. He looks like he could have been a movie star in the ’70s.”
Grey got a quizzical look on his face that made him look about sixteen. “Husband? You were married? So, you guys are divorced now?”
“No, I’m a widower. He died.”
“Oh, fuck. Sorry dude.”
Roan shook his head. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“Oh,” Dylan said in a meaningful way. “Yeah, he’s definitely your type, Ro.”
That made him chuckle. “He is, huh?”
“Dark haired, manly, solidly built, big—holy fuck, six four? They’re making you hockey players bigger these days, aren’t they?”
“Only the goalies are short,” Roan told him, shooting Grey a slight smirk. He grinned back, apparently getting that Holden had reported the aggressive vibe he got from “Tank” Beauvais.
“He’s a bit older than you go for though,” Dylan said, teasing him. “Thirty-four? Man, he’s almost a grandpa in your books.”
“Yeah, very funny,” Roan replied darkly, as Grey did actually chuckle. His manners finally kicked in and he asked Grey, “Wanna drink? We have sodas and bottled teas, juice.”
“Umm, got diet?”
“Diet cherry Pepsi.”
“Fine, I’ll take one of those. Thanks.”
“I didn’t take you for a diet soda drinker,” Dylan told him, as Roan retrieved one from the fridge.
“I’m on a training regimen,” he replied. “I’m watching my sugar intake.”
“Always smart,” Dylan said. Roan handed Grey the can and sat on the sofa beside Dylan. Grey sat on the love seat across from them, his muscular frame making it look more like a chair. “So what kind of diet are you on?”
Grey shrugged a shoulder as he gulped down half the can. He put it on the coffee table as he said, “Mainly high protein, but I generally carbo load on game days.”
That probably explained why he felt more like a statue than a human being. “I’m going to be turning the bulk of the investigation over to Holden,” Roan told Grey, deciding to just get it out of the way. He had a sneaking suspicion subtle wouldn’t really work with Grey anyways. “The fact that I shot and killed Carey Switzer in his former
home will mean I will be the star of the shit list at the Eastgate PD for the next hundred years or so. No one will talk to me, except to call me a few choice names.”
“But isn’t he just your street guy?” Grey asked, still confused.
“Is that what he told you?” Grey just nodded, and looked momentarily like a golden retriever. “He is, but he has a way of cozying up to people that can get results. I’m not very good at cozying.”
“Probably because your idea of cozying is usually punching someone,” Dylan pointed out sardonically.
“Not always,” he protested. “Sometimes I just cuss them out.”
“Or scare the shit out of them,” Dylan countered.
Grey stared at him with a crooked half smile. “Sure you never played hockey?”
