Breaking Point_Kindle Serial

by Aric Davis

  “Why dumping garbage?”

  “She had nothing in her hands, and there was no spilled food on the floor. If she’d only been going to the bathroom, there still would have been garbage by where the boys were eating. There were five bullets used, right?” Nelson nodded. “I think after he killed Mrs. Russow, our guy either thought about killing himself or actually tried.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “I disagree,” said Van Endel, ignoring the little voice that was reminding him that he was talking to a superior. “If I were you, I’d be looking at disgruntled former employees. I know, too obvious, but that goes back to what I was saying. If he didn’t expect to survive the shootings, then there was no thought to hide who he was. Not in his actions, and not in his behavior, until the moment where either his gun failed or he decided he was too smart to get caught.”

  “He just got lucky if you’re right,” said Nelson. “Damn lucky that there were no witnesses, and damn lucky again if he had a misfire.”

  “Well, there are two things I would look at, Detective. One, ex-employees with a grudge. The other is that I would see if those two boys saw anything.”

  “Already talked to them,” said Nelson. “We got nothing.”

  “Well, either they saw a man dressed in a work uniform doing something loud or they missed everything. But if they saw a person dressed like an employee walking around when the bombs went off, then you’re looking at an ex-employee, most likely.” Van Endel frowned. “Maybe even someone working that day who I didn’t see.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, Officer,” said Nelson as he stood, “and I appreciate you talking to me, and hearing your theories. Personally, I think we’ve got a botched robbery. That said, I do respect your ideas, and readily admit that you got a lot of the details spot-on. The revolver, for example. No shells, had to be a wheel gun. You keep thinking like that, good things are bound to happen.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Ken was clearing tables in his McDonald’s, whistling and smiling as he picked up the trash left behind by customers too lazy to bus their own tables. It was exactly the sort of mundane task that normally would have set him off; after all, there were trash cans everywhere. If he tried, he could think of something wrong with almost every task he could be ordered to do in the restaurant. The only ones he really dug on were taking out the trash, because it allowed momentary freedom while he was outside, and rearranging things in the walk-in cooler, for the same reason. This sort of work, cleaning in public while the rude customers could stare at you as you worked and talk shit, was the worst kind. Just like everything else since the shooting, though, this was different.

  Ken couldn’t help but wonder about what was going to come next. Was the shooting going to be something that was just his little secret until he eventually died, or would he do something like that again? Part of him was still waiting for police to storm the McDonald’s or to at least come around asking questions, likely with a sketch of him or asking about his car. If that was going to happen, though, wouldn’t it already have happened? After all, it wasn’t like the police waited to talk to a suspect. If TV had taught him anything, it was that it was all too common for the cops to talk to people just to eliminate them from suspicion. With them not coming around, it just meant that he’d gotten away that cleanly.

  What if I did it again? Ken wondered as he bused a table left disgusting by a pack of shithead teenagers who were cutting class, and the thought wouldn’t go away. What if I did it again? He knew that he would have to be more cautious, there was no doubt about that. There could be some sort of benevolent spirit that allowed his gun to go unfired, but he didn’t think that sort of luck translated to being sloppy. Only shooting up places when it was dark out would help things; so would stealing a license plate for his car. Even better, obscuring part of the one that he already had on there — that would be a hell of a red herring if he were lucky enough to pick one that someone else was using.

  Ken had never been much of an illustrator, but this was easy. All he’d need to do was take the plate off the car, trace two of the letters, then fill them in white with a blue border. After that, put them in a plastic sleeve and glue them to the car. No one was going to see a car leaving the scene of a shooting and think, I bet that license plate has a sticker on it. The person would be too busy just trying to write down what he’d seen. It was a sound plan, but for what? If he was planning, was he really going to do it again? The idea hit him like a ton of bricks, and it wasn’t until Mr. Everett was tapping him on the shoulder that Ken realized that he was standing still in the middle of the restaurant.

  “Ken, is everything OK?” Mr. Everett asked. “You’ve just been standing there. Are things OK at home?”

  The question was an odd one. Mr. Everett knew nothing of Ken’s home life; other than knowing Ken was a three-time loser and a drunk, Mr. Everett didn’t know anything about him at all. Ken started busing the table closest to him, one that he hadn’t even realized was dirty.

  “No, Mr. Everett,” said Ken. “Everything is good. I just got to thinking on something and sort of froze. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s fine, Ken,” said Mr. Everett, clapping Ken across the back. “How about from now on, you let me do the thinking for both of us, and you worry about keeping the dining room clean for our guests? Does that sound like something we can agree on?”

  “Yes, Mr. Everett,” said Ken. He wanted to slap the man to the ground, grab him by his shirt, and tell that smug motherfucker, “I kill people, and I will kill you.” Ken didn’t, though; he just got right back to cleaning at the same speed he had been working at before the revelation. He wasn’t fast, but he was making sure to clean up everything, and to look like he wasn’t rushing. “Thataboy,” said Mr. Everett, “that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Once you get caught up after this lunch rush, why don’t you clear the bins for me in here, capisce?”

  “Huh?”

  “When you’re done cleaning, take out the garbage.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Everett,” said Ken. “I’ll get right to it.” Ken watched Mr. Everett walk back into the kitchen in his peripheral vision as he bused another table. There would be plenty of time for planning, but to do it right was going to take just as much luck as he’d had the day before. That, Ken had no trouble believing in. If there was some vengeful force demanding souls from him, he had no doubt that the idea was either its own creation or something that it would love to see grow to fruition. He wanted to dance, but he cleaned instead. There would be plenty of time to dance later.

  Van Endel hit the siren and the lights and pulled out of the speed trap. The car, a white Oldsmobile, pulled over immediately. The spot Van Endel had selected in the church parking lot made catching those in a hurry almost too easy. Bushes fully obscured the car, but he had a direct line of sight between them to aim the radar gun through. The car he’d just clocked was going fifteen over, fifty in a thirty-five. Not a big deal during rush hour; that was how everyone drove on this strip, and there was little that one cop could do about it. This was different, though. It was eleven in the morning, not quite rush hour.

  Van Endel turned off the siren and walked to the car, ticket book already out. He got to the car and said, “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please,” then got a whiff of the car. The man in it was fumbling with his wallet, but it was beyond obvious that he was drunk. The odor from the Olds was that of a rolling bar, one that managed to spill as much as it served.

  “Got right here,” slurred the man, his voice staggering as badly as Van Endel expected him to on foot once he was out of the vehicle. He passed Van Endel the license but was still working on the insurance and registration. Van Endel kept his eyes on the man as he fiddled with the glove box, finally finding the paperwork and passing it through the open window. Van Endel checked the ID, it matched the name on the insurance and registration, so at the very least Tim Olson wouldn’t be looking at a charge of gr
and theft auto.

  “I need you to step out of the car, Mr. Olson,” said Van Endel. Normally he would have had the civilian turn off the car, but he was worried Olson might put it in drive and go for it. At least right now he was docile. Van Endel opened the door by reaching his hand into the car, and Olson spilled out of it. Van Endel stuck to protocol. “Let me help you up, Mr. Olson,” said Van Endel as he grabbed the fallen man by the arm and helped him to his feet. Olson, vertical finally, leaned against his car.

  “I should say that I have may have had to say too many to drink,” said Olson. Somehow none of the words were slurred, yet they were still entirely unintelligible.

  “I think you may be right,” said Van Endel. He grabbed Olson under the arm to help walk him to the Crown Vic, and began a slow walk with the wavering and not-all-there Olson. Finally, Van Endel made the Vic, opened the back door, and slid Olson inside.

  “Mr. Olson, I’m placing you under arrest for suspicion of driving under the influence,” said Van Endel, readying himself for the oft-ignored speech, and then quickly recited Olson’s rights regarding the Miranda v. Arizona case from 1966, finishing with “Do you understand these rights?”

  “I understand everything,” said Olson, lying down across the backseat of the police car. “I understand everything,” sang Olson, and Van Endel couldn’t help but smile. No Pavarotti, but the boy can sing. Van Endel shook his head, then walked to the car and shut off the engine, pulling the keys from the ignition and tucking them into the driver’s-side sun visor before closing the door. He walked back to his own car, got in, and shut the door, then grabbed the handset from the CB.

  “Dispatch, come in,” said Van Endel, and a voice on the other end crackled and said, “This is dispatch, go ahead.”

  “I need a tow truck,” said Van Endel. “I’ve got a very drunk perp in the car, and the sooner we get him to the station, the better.” Van Endel looked in the rearview mirror at Olson. The man was snoring. Dispatch crackled back over the CB, “Tow truck is en route, ETA fifteen minutes. Do you need backup?”

  “No, I’m good,” said Van Endel, then hung up the handset. God, I hope they hurry.

  The tow truck arrived half an hour later. It was late by fifteen minutes but did show up sooner than Van Endel had expected. He gave his info to the driver and noticed that the guy was sort of giving him an odd look. “Is everything OK?” Van Endel asked, and the man replied, “You just look familiar, sorry.” Van Endel considered going through the list of schools or possible acquaintances they might have shared, but let the topic die. He’d already wasted almost an hour on Olson and just wanted the man back at the station and out of his hair. He signed the work order for the truck and said, “Have a good one” to the driver, then walked back to his own car, where Olson was still sawing logs.

  “You ready to go, buddy?” Van Endel asked the sleeping Olson, and received a response that sounded like someone trying to start a four-stroke engine with a chain saw. “Guess that means yes.” Van Endel put the car into drive, flipped on his left turn signal, and shut the flashers off. The station was fifteen minutes away if he made good time, and fifteen minutes was an eternity with the snoring Olson.

  Van Endel finally pulled into the lot at the station an interminable twenty-five minutes later, the highlight of the journey having been a train that seemed like it was trying to win a greatest-number-of-cars contest. Van Endel had been unable to see anyone from Guinness there, but he had awarded the train a symbolic trophy. Van Endel finally parked the car, and when Olson woke in the backseat, he said, “And to all a good night!” That was when Van Endel heard the splashing, and then felt the urine coming through the grate that was separating them.

  He was dripping piss, furious, and out of the car like lightning. Van Endel was mentally urging himself not to beat the shit out of Olson for pissing all over him and the car, and managed to suppress his rage by the time he got the door open. He pulled the suddenly energized Olson from the car and slammed him against the side of the Crown Vic, then cuffed him. “You smell like shit, friend,” said Olson, his tone the type one might reserve for politely telling a friend that he had spinach in his teeth. “C’mon,” said Van Endel, nudging the staggering Olson away from the car and toward the door that led to the lockup, mercifully an entry separate from the one to the station.

  It took five minutes to get the noodle-legged Olson all the way over to the door, but Van Endel finally got him buzzed in. Once inside, Van Endel was relieved of his reeking captive by two jailors, who ushered Olson off for fingerprinting.

  “Christ, do you stink,” said Tom, the sergeant with the unfortunate job of running admissions for the day. “I mean, it’s really something.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Van Endel, “you think I don’t know? C’mon, give me a sheet so I can sign this guy over and go home to get changed.” Tom slid the sign-in sheet across, and Van Endel traded him his end of the paperwork. There would still be work to do on the booking, but that could wait until after he was cleaned up. It wasn’t standard procedure, but neither was being covered in piss.

  “I don’t mind you coming back, Superstar,” said Tom, “but Chief Jefferson does. He wants you in his office pronto. Now, he didn’t specifically say what to do if you smelled like a stew bum on his final bender, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to me that might happen.”

  Van Endel didn’t say anything, just trudged out of the jail, and it wasn’t until he was outside that he wondered just why in the hell Tom had called him Superstar. He strode into the police department feeling like an absolute asshole, and when the entirety of the people working inside stood as one to give him a standing ovation, Van Endel knew that he was going to have to kill Tom at some point.

  “Yeah,” said Van Endel as he walked to the stairs that led to Chief Jefferson’s office, spinning a finger over his head to share in their excitement. This sent the cheers to a fever pitch, and Van Endel trudged up the stairs like a man walking to his death. He walked into the foyer of Jefferson’s office, and the chief’s secretary covered her nose and waved him through.

  Detective Nelson sat on the guest’s side of the desk, Chief Jefferson sat on the other. There had been many times in Van Endel’s life when he’d felt soiled, but this was a new low. Both men recoiled as he closed the door behind him, the stifling odor of Olson’s piss attached to him like a Siamese twin. Van Endel’s eyes flittered to both of them, and then he walked to a chair next to Nelson.

  “Sorry.”

  “Please spare my chair the stink. What in the hell happened to you, Officer?” Chief Jefferson asked in an irritated and clearly offended tone. He walked to a window and flung it open; birds scattered at the noise. Van Endel stood awkwardly next to the chair.

  “I picked up a guy doing some day drinking who decided my car looked like a urinal,” said Van Endel. “I’m not any happier about it than you are, trust me.” Chief Jefferson’s eyes bugged out of his head, and Van Endel was unsure about what he’d said that could be so troubling.

  “You didn’t rough him up, did you, Officer?” Chief Jefferson asked in a worried tone. Nelson had an amused look on his face, despite the smell.

  “No,” said Van Endel. “I mean, I wanted to, but I just brought him in. You can go see him if you want; he’s in the cooler next door if you need to see for yourself.”

  Chief Jefferson nodded, then slid a copy of the Grand Rapids Press across his desk to Van Endel. The headline said, “A Light in the Darkness.” Underneath the headline was a picture that took up nearly half of the page. It showed Van Endel with a young boy in each arm, kneeling to let them into his squad car. This is what all the clapping was about, and probably why that tow-truck driver was so weird.

  “You may or may not recall seeing a pair of houses across the street from the McDonald’s where the shootings took place,” said Chief Jefferson. “Doesn’t matter. A press photographer lives in one of those houses and came outside after she heard your siren. I think we can all agree that i
t would have been far better if she had gotten a shot of the license plate of our perp, but you get the hand you’re dealt.” Chief Jefferson took the paper back and lay it on his desk. Van Endel found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the upside-down image of himself.

  “In this case,” said Chief Jefferson, “that hand has been dealt in the manner of giving us some free PR, along with a chance to be seen as more than just the jackbooted thugs that half of these ex-hippies see us as.” Jefferson threw his hands in the air. “Christ, that stench. All right, to the point. Detective Nelson here has graciously agreed to take you under his wing to work as the primaries on this case. Don’t take this the wrong way, Officer — you are young, and this promotion may not stick. This may be my idea, but that doesn’t mean I particularly like it. The fact of the matter is, I want your face there for the cameras when we bust this asshole. If I were you, I would look at it as a good chance to do some high-level police work, in hopes of landing a more permanent spot in the future. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for the opportunity, and—”

  “Thank me later,” said Chief Jefferson. “Go home, take a shower, and put on a suit. Nelson will meet you back here once you’re proper. Please, get out of my office.” Van Endel did, wanting to shake the chief’s hand but knowing that was the last thing his boss wanted to do.

  Van Endel nearly tripped leaving the room, and felt a deep flush coming over his face. Nelson was next to him on the stairs. He smiled broadly and said, “Hold up. Don’t let Jefferson fool you. I was told what to do, not asked, and if you fuck up my investigation, you will be sorry.” Nelson kept moving while Van Endel stood, temporarily frozen. “One more thing: no more crazy ideas like you had in that interview. This thing is a robbery, and that’s how we’re going to play it. Got it?” Nelson was gone before Van Endel could even answer.