Paternity Case

by Gregory Ashe

  “I’m leaving. I’ll talk to your father about this. And I’ll talk to Chief Cravens. We’ll have you down to the station for—”

  “Come inside.” Bing stepped away from the door, pantomiming a grotesque mockery of an invitation. “You want to talk so bad, come inside.”

  “We’ll have you down to the station—”

  “No.” Bing was shaking his head, smiling now—that same smile, that same tone, so self-satisfied, so arrogantly entertained. “You get your ass in here. You wanted to talk. Get in here and talk. Right now, Detective.”

  “We’ll have you down to the station for questioning, Bing. If we need to talk to your lawyer first, let me—”

  “Let’s talk about Somers.”

  Hazard opened his mouth to respond, but ice slipped between his lips and froze the words. He thought of Grace Elaine’s accusations, her bewildering insistence that Hazard had somehow ruined Somers’s life, that Hazard had harmed Somers in their last year of high school. And now, staring at Bing, Hazard suddenly knew that this was what Bing was talking about. Bing knew something. Bing, who taught shop, who had been Somers’s coach, who had hung around the high school, who had been one of the guys—Bing knew.

  About the locker room, Hazard thought, and the thought was filled with a sudden, irrational terror that reduced everything else to ashes. The logical part of Hazard’s mind knew that didn’t make any sense. Hazard’s one and only encounter with Somers had happened in their junior year. But there was that look in Bing’s eyes, that knowing look, that smug, scornful look. Like he’d seen Hazard naked, that’s what it was like. Like he’d seen Hazard naked and it just made him want to laugh.

  “Fuck,” Bing said, and now he did laugh. “The two of you are just fucking made for each other.” Without another word, he turned and sauntered deeper into the house. Snow blew through the open doorway. Beyond, the crisp winter light grew hazy and dim, and shadows swallowed Bing.

  Just leave, Hazard told himself. Whatever it is, it isn’t worth it. Whatever it is, that’s not why you came here. You came here for proof. You came here for hard evidence, not for—not for whatever the hell is happening.

  But—

  A little voice in his brain kept insisting: but. But this is an invitation. This is your chance. Once you’re inside, you just excuse yourself to the bathroom again. You take another look and see what you can find. And you want to know about Somers, that little voice insisted, the thought so dangerous that it lingered just at the surface of consciousness.

  Hazard stepped inside. Shutting the door behind him, he glanced around, as though expecting to uncover a trap or a monster lurking in the house’s gloom. Instead, though, he saw only a fanwork of snow that the wind had carried indoors, already melting against the floor. That was all. Big deal. Frozen water, expensive flooring, and a huge, silent house. So why was his heart hammering in his throat? Why did he feel like he was floating from the armpits now?

  Bing was waiting in the living room where Hazard and Somers had conducted their last conversation. He stood at the sideboard again, pouring himself a drink, his face Roman in profile: the strong nose, the dark curls, the frenzied smile.

  “He didn’t tell you, did he?” Bing turned, swirling the drink as he waited for an answer.

  Hazard refused to give him the satisfaction.

  Breaking into a laugh, Bing shook his head. “Of course he didn’t. You wouldn’t have crawled in here like I’ve got a fish hook in your ass if he’d already told you. But you wondered, didn’t you? You had to have thought about it at some point.”

  This time, Bing’s silence matched Hazard’s own, and finally Hazard heard himself say, “What?”

  “He was a good quarterback. Not NFL, we’re not talking anything like that. Not even Division I. But Division II, maybe. If he’d worked his ass off, just maybe.”

  “So?”

  “So you never wondered why he didn’t play?”

  “He went to Mizzou. You just said it. He wasn’t good enough.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m telling you what you said.”

  Bing took a long drink. “You’re stupid.”

  “I want to talk about Friday—”

  “No. We’re not done yet. When we’re done, maybe I’ll talk to you about those questions. Maybe. But I’m not finished.” Bing took another drink, emptying his glass, and turned to refill it. “He had offers. Nothing on paper, but I’d talked to some scouts. Maryville. Truman. Drury. He could have played.”

  Floating. That’s what it felt like to Hazard. Like he’d dropped into a swimming pool and the water forked around his armpits, suspending him over nothing.

  “Jesus, at least tell me you wondered why he didn’t play that last game.”

  Hazard was hearing Grace Elaine’s words again: You took away his life. You broke him.

  “The way you look at him,” Bing said. “It’s tragic. I mean, it’s fucking hilarious, but it’s tragic. It’s like somebody got a Magic Marker and had to draw one fucking thing: a sad little queer. That’s what it’s like, just big black lines that tell the whole story. And you don’t even know. You didn’t even wonder.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You know we partied? I look back on it, and it’s kind of sad. I mean, I was in college. I was the shit in this town. I stayed because I liked that feeling. I got off on it, to be totally honest. And coaching, I mean, Jesus, those kids worshipped the ground I walked on. So I’d buy them beer. I’d go to their parties and score with the hottest girls. Yeah, I know, it’s pathetic. But at the time—” Bing shrugged. “A couple of times, the kids brought coke, and Jesus, they’d light up like firecrackers.”

  “You’re a moron. You’re telling a cop that you—”

  “One night, we were at his house. Somers’s. His parents were out of town—they were always out of town—and he had the place to himself. I bet we had fifty, sixty people there. And we had a back room going on. A kind of VIP lounge. Hollace Walker had coke. You ever done that stuff? No. Look at you: you might be queer, but you’re about as boring as they come. Straight arrow. You know what coke does to you? I mean, it wires you, sure. You get all hopped up. But some people, holy shit, it makes them horny enough to drill through a concrete wall. Your boy, that’s what it did to him.”

  “So what? Somers does a line and pops a boner. What do I care besides the fact that now I can haul your ass into jail?”

  Bing burst out laughing, and then he pounded back his drink and slung the glass onto the sideboard. Advancing on Hazard, he continued speaking. “He went out to his car. I mean, I didn’t know where he was, but this sophomore girl starting throwing up, didn’t seem like she could stop, and I figured I’d better find Somers and start clearing everybody out. He wasn’t anywhere in the house. I looked all over that place. I forgot about that girl because by then I was curious. I wanted to know where he was and why he’d snuck off like that. You remember that car?”

  Hazard didn’t answer.

  Bing came closer, close enough now that the alcohol on his breath stung the air, close enough that Hazard wanted to take a step back—wanted to, but didn’t. “The Camaro. You remember that?”

  He was so close now that Hazard nodded, compelled by the intensity of Bing’s gaze.

  “You know what he was doing? He was jerking off. I mean, not just rubbing one out. This kid was about three seconds away from ripping off his pecker. And the noises he was making. Groaning. He could have been in a fucking porno, that’s what it was like. I’ve never been into guys, but damn.” Bing paused. Another wave of alcohol-soaked breath rushed across Hazard, and Bing reached down, adjusting himself, slowly, carefully, making sure that Hazard noticed. “That’s right, Wahredua’s next golden boy, the star quarterback, the town treasure, yanking himself so hard it was a capital crime, and he was doing it to your picture. Some dinky little thing he’d cut out of the yearbook, but it was you. Emery Hazard. Still had the little capti
on underneath.” Bing was touching himself again, his hand running the length of the hardness outlined in his jeans, his breath on Hazard’s face. “What do you think of that?”

  “I think you were a pervert watching an underage teen. I think you supplied controlled substances—”

  Bing moved so quickly that he took Hazard by surprise. One hand clutched at Hazard’s hair, jerking his head sideways hard enough to bring tears to Hazard’s eyes. When Bing spoke, his voice was low and dominant. “When I caught him, he freaked out. Literally. He drove away without saying a word. He never talked to me about it. Never talked to me again, not if he could help it. He quit the team. He’d cross the street to avoid me.

  “His parents came to me, and they were the ones that told me. He’d spun a whole fable for them about this nasty little queer named Emery Hazard. Emery was following him. Stalking him. Emery was stealing clothes from his gym locker. Emery had given their precious boy a nervous breakdown. I told them I was sorry. I told them there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I sure as hell wasn’t going to get involved, not when Somers knew I’d been supplying coke and booze. But I didn’t forget either.”

  “Get off me,” Hazard said, trying to pull free.

  Bing gave another shake, dragging Hazard half a step forward, and clicked his tongue. “You’ve wasted fifteen years on that kid, and you never knew he sold you out. You know what you need?” Bing’s leg was between Hazard’s now, forcing his thighs apart. “I think you need somebody to take care of you. Somebody who will be in charge of you.” He gave another little shake of Hazard’s head, his voice dropping even lower. “Somebody that can give you what you need. It sure as hell isn’t the little bitch that betrayed you. I don’t normally like guys, but what do you say? Ask nice. Ask really nice, and maybe I’ll let you finish what we started at the lake.”

  Bing didn’t wait for an answer. He twisted Hazard’s head, forcing him down. For a moment, Hazard barely noticed. He was too busy processing what Bing had said. So many things made sense now. The hostility that Somers’s parents showed. Grace Elaine’s inexplicable claims. Somers’s own mysterious behavior around his parents and Bing.

  The pain from Bing wrenching Hazard’s hair, though, pulled Hazard out of those dark thoughts. His eyes shot up and found Bing’s. Just an instant, that’s all the contact lasted. But it was long enough for Bing to realize his mistake. Hazard saw that realization dawn in Bing’s eyes.

  And instead of letting go, Bing doubled down: he clutched at Hazard’s hair, shaking his head like he meant to break Hazard’s neck. Hazard didn’t bother trying to pull free. He struck once, his fist landing low on Bing’s chest. Air exploded from Bing’s lungs. The big man sank, his knees folding, as he wheezed for breath. But he hadn’t let go. His hold only grew tighter, as though he were determined to drag Hazard down with him.

  Hazard struck again. This time, the angle was off, and Hazard’s punch glanced off. He had intended to take Bing in the throat, but instead, Hazard’s fist scraped Bing’s jaw. The blow rocked the man’s head backward. Still gasping for air, Bing struggled to remain upright. His grip on Hazard’s hair had become like that of a man clutching at a lifeline. Sharp pain ran through Hazard’s scalp, and he felt skin and hair rip free, but Bing still held on.

  Fighting back a shout, Hazard drove another punch, and this one went true. He slammed into the soft hollow of Bing’s throat. Bing made a single, croaking noise. His hand came free, bloody strands of Hazard’s hair sticking to his fingers, and he lurched backward. With both hands, Bing clutched at his throat. Another of those terrible croaking noises emerged, and his olive complexion darkened. Hazard straightened, shaking off the worst of the pain, and hammered at Bing with his fists: brutal, simple blows that were all power and no finesse. Blood spurted from Bing’s nose as bone and cartilage crumpled under Hazard’s assault. Bing’s head whipped to one side and then the other as Hazard clobbered his ears. One blow, one really good blow, Hazard got in on Bing’s jaw, and he felt something pop, and a vicious surge of satisfaction ran through Hazard. Good, he thought. Maybe his jaw was broken. Hazard would have been even happier if he’d knocked it clean off.

  Bing hit the floor with two thuds: the first larger, louder, as his ass and back hit the wood; the second softer, like a melon falling off a produce stand, when his head struck. The big, curly-haired man rolled onto his side, a mask of gore darkening his face.

  “You are one stupid motherfucker,” Hazard said, planting a knee in Bing’s back and forcing the man onto his stomach. Something hot—blood—ran down Hazard’s neck. Jesus, how much hair had Bing ripped out? Forcing the pain to the back of his mind, Hazard drew out his cuffs and snapped them around Bing’s wrists. “That’s assault, Bing. Assault against a police officer. You’re under arrest, you fucking idiot. That’s a felony. That’s prison time.” Hazard checked to make sure the phone was still recording, and then he read Bing his rights.

  Straightening, Hazard got to his feet. The side of his head hurt like hell, but he knew it was nothing compared to what he’d dished out to Bing. The bastard deserved it. It was fifteen years in the making. More than fifteen years. But—but Hazard knew he had screwed up too. He had let Bing get too close. He had lowered his defenses. He had—

  —Somers had lied about him, Somers had blamed it all on him—

  —been so caught up in worrying about Somers that he’d forgotten his real reason in coming here. Hazard wiped blood from his neck and flung the droplets from his fingers. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “Where’s your wife?” Hazard said, nudging Bing.

  “I’m going to have your badge,” Bing blubbered through the blood still pouring from his nose. “I’m going to have your ass ripped apart by—”

  “Where’s Daisy?” Hazard asked.

  “You little cocksucker. You faggot asstoy. You don’t have any—”

  Hazard checked the handcuffs and moved deeper into the house, not bothering to wait for Bing to finish. He followed the same hallway he had taken before. He searched the study, where he had heard Bing’s phone call—the phone call that had proven to be the man’s undoing. He found nothing relevant to the case. He passed through the kitchen, gave the garage a cursory examination, and headed upstairs.

  Hadley’s bedroom was exactly as he had left it, and so he proceeded to the next room. It was a bedroom, most likely a guest room, and it showed no signs of recent use. He went to the next room. The master bedroom. He rummaged through the closets and the chest of drawers, and he gave the bathroom a cursory look. Nothing. There were expensive clothes in the closets, designer perfumes on the counter, and a bottle of Valium in the medicine cabinet, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing hard, nothing concrete, nothing he could take to Somers and Cravens and prove that Bing had been behind all of this.

  Time was running out. There was still no sign of Daisy, but she’d likely be home soon. Even if she wasn’t, Hazard knew he was taking a risk leaving Bing alone. Cuffed, yes, and beaten to shit, but alone. That was stupid. It was hardcore stupid. Hazard knew he should head downstairs, keep an eye on Bing, and call in the altercation. Have Cravens send officers out to the house. Hazard knew that Cravens would do everything by the book, and Bing had made a crucial mistake by assaulting Hazard.

  But Hazard didn’t go downstairs. Even though he knew he was being stupid, he couldn’t bring himself to give up this opportunity. His blood was up. Adrenaline burned like a gasoline fire along his veins. He wanted to hurt Bing, and he wanted to do it by finding the proof that Bing was behind everything that had happened. He needed to take advantage of this chance. Hazard’s search of the house was legal because it followed the commission of a crime and an arrest. But although the search was technically legal, Hazard knew he needed to make the most of his dwindling time. Sheriff Bingham would doubtless use all his influence to discredit Hazard’s story of the assault, and even though Hazard had an audio recording, he knew that it wasn’t airtight proo
f of Bing’s attack. Worse, Hazard had come here on his own, investigating a case that the sheriff’s office had closed. And even if the story of the assault held up, Hazard knew that his fellow officers—perhaps at Cravens’s direction—might not be nearly as thorough in their search of Bing’s property. Cravens might not even insist on a search at all. Or Daisy might arrive first and destroy any potential evidence. The list of potential disasters went on and on.

  No, Hazard knew that if he was going to find something that would lay the crime at Bing’s feet, he had to do it himself, and he had to do it now. Abandoning the master bedroom, he retraced his steps to the kitchen and then headed downstairs.

  To Hazard’s surprise, the basement wasn’t finished. Drywall had been hung, and can lights responded to the switch at the bottom of the stairs, but bare cement met Hazard’s wingtips. There was no furniture, no finishings. The walls had been taped and mudded and sanded and were ready to paint. Hazard walked quickly through the open space, and at the far end his shoes scraped through thick, white dust, but he found nothing. A surge of frustration choked him. He had nothing. Yes, he had Bing on assault. If Hazard were truly lucky, he might even get Bing charged and convicted. But that would be a handful of years, maybe less, and then Bing would be back on the streets. And his daughter, the girl he had abused and then killed, would still be dead. Bing would still have everything, and Hadley would have nothing, and that made Hazard so angry that he punched the drywall. The board crumpled under the blow, and a painful shock ran up to Hazard’s elbow. Blood from his split knuckles soaked the gypsum dust, caking it on his hand and turning it black.

  Dust. The thought filtered through the pain, and Hazard found himself examining the basement again. Yes, the drywall had been hung and mudded and taped and sanded. The sanding would have thrown up a hell of a lot of dust, but for the most part, the cement was clean. So why did dust cover a length of ground near the far wall?

  Hazard sprinted down the basement, his shoes slapping the cement and then scraping to a halt at the far wall. Yes. Yes, there was dust. A lot of dust, but only here. Hazard pranced back a step, and then another. A thrill ran up his spine as he tried to construct a mental map of the home. It was a very large structure. Bing had built it to show off; that was how Bing did everything. The house sprawled across the lot. But the basement was unfinished, and it seemed smaller than the floor plan should have allowed.