Breaking Point_Kindle Serial

by Aric Davis

Resigned to waiting, Ken walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and slammed it. He dropped the can in the recycle bin, considered the still-open fridge, and took two more cans from the box.

  They were at the bridge in five minutes, the flashing lights on top of the cars making all the space they needed in the thick mix of city traffic and bridge traffic.Nelson drove, his knuckles white on the wheel. Van Endel knew how he felt; it had seemed like an eternity since he’d first spotted the twin boys in that McDonald’s, and he was ready to look into the eyes of the man who had supposedly done it. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, he just knew he wanted to see him. He felt like seeing him might make it all come together.

  A part of him was convinced that this was all a horrible misstep, and that the real killer was still in Grand Rapids, but he remembered what Nelson had said outside the station and kept that thought to himself. After all, Cain and Nelson were career cops — he was worse than a new guy. He’d earned his badge as a political move; Cain and Nelson had put in the hours to earn their shields. Van Endel knew that the facts were going to have to stand on their own now, and that this was almost undoubtedly his last day wearing his unfortunate black suit. That realization was as unwelcome as he’d expected it might be, and his only hope as Nelson parked was that seeing the killer brought to justice would be enough of a reward to make putting the uniform back on a little less bitter.

  Nelson and Van Endel exited the car and slammed their doors simultaneously. The wind coming off the water was cold, an odd contrast with the otherwise pleasant weather. Cain and a customs official were talking closely while Dewitt and Albert stood off to the side. Van Endel felt instinctively drawn to walk over to the uniformed cops and wait with them, but instead he followed Nelson over to Cain and the man wearing a US Customs jacket.

  “Detectives, this is Ed Hamilton,” said Cain. “He runs the show here.” Van Endel and Nelson got the handshakes and names out of the way, and Cain said, “I was just getting the general gist of our situation. Why don’t you start from the top for these guys, Ed?”

  “I’ve got your suspects isolated in two separate rooms,” said Harris. “The woman is a wreck — you’ll see for yourself when you talk to her. The man’s a mess in a whole other way. He looks like he just walked off a battlefield. If there’s one who’s going to confess, it’s him, no doubt. Mrs. Farmer is acting borderline delusional.”

  “How so?” Van Endel asked, the fear of stepping on toes squashed by the thrill of the hunt.

  “She can’t seem to wrap her head around the idea that her children are dead, much less that she’s suspected of being part of it,” said Harris. “Either it’s a serious break from reality or she’s telling the truth.”

  “Bullshit,” said Nelson. “There’s no way they packed the kids up, drove over here, husband disappears with the kids, comes back without them, and she doesn’t question it. That doesn’t work. If she cares now, she would have cared then. Either she fried her head over what they did, which seems possible to me, or she thinks we’re a lot dumber than we are. What were they like when they first got to customs?”

  “He was driving, she was the passenger,” said Hamilton. “We had a call for help come over the radio, and I was the second one to the car. I knew who they were from ten feet away; after all, we’d just gotten the pictures within the last hour. I immediately drew my weapon, and when the other responding agent saw what I was up to, he drew his as well. Normally with someone suspected of murder, I would have called more agents over to clear the car, but we were there and I didn’t want to break my line of sight on them to get my radio. I’m just lucky I trusted the other agent, and we’re both lucky that the Farmers were so complicit. They followed our instructions to a tee, and once they were locked down separately, I called you.”

  “Thanks, Ed,” said Cain. “Have they broken any federal laws that you’re aware of?”

  “Aside from fleeing, they have not,” said Hamilton. “That said, if they catch a case on those murders, I could see the fed taking a poke at them just for giggles, assuming there’s a prosecutor with enough of a stick up his ass.” Hamilton smiled. “I’m pretty sure there’s one or two of those out there.”

  “You mind if we get first crack at these two?” Nelson asked. “You’re going to have them here for a while, and I want to try and see if we can get one of them to cop to any of that.”

  “Tell you what,” said Cain, “you pick who you folks want to talk to first, and I’ll get to the other one. We can switch when we’re done.” Cain gave his watch a look. “Once we’re finished with round one, we should see about getting you guys some hotel rooms. It’s going to be a bitch on a Saturday.”

  “We’ll take Paula,” said Van Endel. “You can have Robert.”

  “You sure?” Cain asked, and Van Endel nodded in response. Cain clapped his hands together and said, “All right, let’s get to it, then.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Nelson, as they walked in behind Cain and Hamilton. “It is totally insane to pick some crazy woman over the shooter.”

  “Trust me,” said Van Endel. His mind was already made up: these were the wrong people. No one guilty of multiple murders turned himself in after getting out of the country, not unless he had a gun in his face. Van Endel wanted to hear her say it, to listen to her tell him that they had nothing to do with it. It would be a small vindication for his last day as a detective.

  Hamilton pointed at a pair of doors once they were in the customs building and then gestured to the one on the left. “She’s in there,” he said. “Best of luck.”

  Van Endel opened the door, and then he and Nelson slid inside. The room was small and sparse; there were four chairs, two on either side of a table that had been bolted to the floor. Paula Farmer sat with her face tilted toward the ground. Her hands were bound with handcuffs in front of her, and a length of chain attached them to a small loop on the table. She looked up as they entered. Her eyes were red pits from weeping, and snot and tears were crusted across her face. Van Endel shut the door behind him, and then he and Nelson sat.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Paula asked. Her voice sounded like she’d been rinsing her throat with ground glass and rubbing alcohol.

  “I’m Detective Dick Van Endel, and this is my partner, Detective Phil Nelson. We’re here to talk to you about what’s been happening lately, Paula.”

  “I don’t care about what’s going on,” she snapped. “I want you to tell me that my kids are fine and that this is all some crazy misunderstanding. We heard our names on the radio — can you imagine? They said we were wanted for murder, and I told Robert to turn the car around. We were almost to the bridge when we heard our names again; they said we were wanted for the deaths of our children. Can you imagine how that made me feel? That someone would think we were capable of something like that? I just want to get my children and go home.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that,” said Nelson. “Your children were found dead about a half hour from here—”

  Paula began to shriek. It was like nothing Van Endel had ever heard before. She was beyond emotionally drained, but the news of her children’s demise not only managed to shock her, but woke her back up. Had she been larger, Van Endel would have worried that the restraint at the center of the table wouldn’t be able to hold her. As it was, she was cutting her wrists on the cuffs, and blood was spattering the top of the table in a crimson rain.

  Finally, when both detectives were sure that they were going to need to get someone in to restrain her, she stopped. Her body was still heaving as she sobbed, but she was no longer yelling and no longer fighting her restraints. Van Endel met Nelson’s eyes. Without saying it, they both knew either she was insane or they were missing a bigger part of the picture.

  “Paula, can we talk now?” Van Endel asked. “I understand that you’re in a lot of pain, but I need to get some information from you. Can you talk?”

  “I can talk,” she said. “A
re you sure it’s them, absolutely sure?”

  “We haven’t done dental testing,” said Nelson, “but other than that, yes, very sure. Tim had his driver’s permit on him, and they both had school IDs on their person.”

  “How?”

  Van Endel gave Nelson a look, and Nelson sighed and nodded, before saying, “They were shot to death. They didn’t suffer.”

  Paula shuddered across from them so violently that Van Endel expected to hear a death rattle come from her throat. She shook like a woman pretending to be possessed by a demon, demonstrating for the court how witchcraft was affecting her very soul. Her handcuffs were humming on the table in a thrum that made Van Endel think of a hummingbird. The chains of them were caked with drying, clumpy blood, little bits of it falling onto the spatter on the table.

  “All right,” said Paula, her voice wavering. Van Endel couldn’t help but wonder if they’d already pushed too hard; she seemed as if she were becoming catatonic. Only her voice convinced him that she hadn’t mentally checked out, that she was clearly still processing information. “They were shot. I accept that. That wasn’t my question, though. I want to know how. How did they get to the east side of the state? We drove right through here. How could they be here?”

  “Did the children spend any time alone with your husband, Mrs. Farmer?” Van Endel worded the question slowly. She seemed more even now, and he wanted her to stay that way. “Maybe early on in the trip?”

  “The children weren’t on the trip,” said Paula. She rubbed her nose on her shoulder. Snot stuck there in a smear. “They were with their father.”

  “OK,” said Nelson, “when their father took them from the car this morning and then didn’t return with—”

  “Why aren’t you talking to him about this?” Paula asked. “Why aren’t you asking their father why my babies are dead? Ask him. Maybe he knows. Maybe he did it.” She broke with the last word, sobbing silently now, the fight gone.

  “Detectives are talking to your husband in the next room,” said Nelson. “Hopefully he can tell us what he knows about what happened this morning.”

  “Not my husband, not Robert,” said Paula. “Their father. We didn’t bring the kids on the trip with us. They were with their father.”

  Van Endel felt like he’d woken up from someone firing a rifle next to his ear. Looking at Nelson, he could see that his partner felt the same way. If she’s telling the truth, if there really is an ex…

  “Mrs. Farmer, what is the name of the children’s father?” Van Endel asked the question slowly, sure that he was going to hear her say, “Robert Farmer.” She didn’t.

  “Ken Richmond,” said Paula. “He’s a drunk; we split a few years ago after he got locked up for too many DUIs. He’s the one you need to talk to…”

  Van Endel felt like he might pass out. He shook his head and then stood. Nelson was next to him, standing now as well. Paula hadn’t noticed; she was still speaking. “…Works at a McDonald’s, his manager just got arrested.”

  Van Endel swallowed thickly. He wanted a drink, he wanted Ken Richmond. He wanted to hug the bound woman before him. Van Endel said, “Paula, we have to go talk to the other detectives right now. Someone will be in to see you shortly.”

  Nelson all but threw the door open before moving through it. Van Endel closed it softly behind him, but the noise didn’t matter. Nelson was beating on the door of the other room like it was a tribal drum and King Kong was running late.

  A furious-looking Cain opened it. “What in the fuck are you doing?”

  “We need to get home right now,” said Nelson, “so get me a plane or a helicopter or whatever can get me there the fastest. These two had nothing to do with it, but we know who did.” He looked over his shoulder. “Dick, get on one of those phones now; tell them to get that area safe. Tell them no one moves in until we’re there, got it?” Van Endel nodded, and then crossed the room to a desk with a phone.

  “So what can you do for me?” Nelson asked. “If you think I’m wrong, go ask the husband about the ex. Those aren’t his kids.”

  Cain looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over him. “I’ll see what I can do. Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes,” said Nelson, “looks like the puppy was right after all.”

  Ken had worked his way through half of the cans of beer and was starting to get a pretty good glow on.Before he’d gone to prison, he could have drunk double that and still gone out to dinner with Paula and the kids, probably wouldn’t even have done anything too stupid. Those glory days of his abuse were long gone, though, and while he certainly wasn’t some lightweight about to pass out from a couple of cold ones, he’d gotten a lot more tight than he’d intended. There was a bottle of Old Crow in the cupboard above the refrigerator, and Ken didn’t think he was going to get it down, but he hadn’t even considered it before the beer.

  It was just so goddamn stressful; the not knowing was killing him. Ken felt as though every nerve ending in his body had been frayed on the edge of a razor, every instinct in his body was telling him to run and not look back. The problem was the one that he kept coming back to: if he left and things were good, he could be fucked. But if you stay and they know something’s up, then you’re fucked. At least if you run, you have a chance. Men disappear every day, and you could be one of them.

  The voice was poison. Not only did it tell Ken to run, the voice insisted that if he’d just left earlier in the day, then he’d really have been fine. Better yet, if he’d killed the kids and just continued right into Canada after leaving them in the ditch, he would be long gone by now. The thoughts were poison; they made him not sure what to do, unable to decipher which instinct to trust. Instead of making a decision, Ken just kept plowing through beer. The TV offered no news? Crack a beer. Ambulance goes ripping by with the sirens on? Crack a beer. Finish a beer? Shit, crack a beer. As the collection of empties grew on the table, it was all Ken could do not to just reach up and get the bottle.

  Instead, he played with the magic bullet, letting it dance across his fingers, flipping it from hand to hand. He loaded and unloaded the revolver, over and over again, obsessing over the order of the bullets. They had to be just so, had to be right. The news would break in and steal his concentration, give some limp-wristed update with no new information and then switch back to sports. At least that had changed: golf had made way for baseball an hour ago. Thankfully, the Tigers were having a good year, not that Ken cared much about that. It was just more information you had to have so that you seemed normal at work. Of course you cared about sports. You were some idiot three-time loser, why not worry about who could hit a ball the farthest?

  Ken stood, grabbed another beer, and then walked to the bedroom window. He looked through the blinds and saw one of the older women from his block of apartments walk around the corner with a laundry basket under her arm. Sort of odd — she’d done laundry just a few days ago. Ken had seen her walking up with a basket wrapped in a sheet. He put the thought out of his mind, then watched through slit and untrusting eyes as a marked police car rolled past the main drag. Ken watched it turn at the end of the block, and then, a few moments later, another cop car drove by.

  It’s fine, you see cops all the time. Or you got made. You should have left while you had the chance. Ken gripped the revolver so tightly, he half expected to see it crushed in his palm. But it wasn’t, of course. He shook his beer. It was empty somehow. Ken went back to the kitchen.

  Van Endel watched as the skyline of Grand Rapids came into view, and he pushed his feet against the floor of the Bell 206 B-3 Jet Ranger as though it were solid earth, hoping all the while that they would be landing soon. The helicopter felt stable enough, and was certainly a far faster way to travel than by car, but Van Endel didn’t care. He wanted to put his feet on the ground, even if that meant dealing with Ken Richmond. Van Endel’s fingers thrummed on his Moleskine; the dispatcher had relayed all the available information on Richmond and on his priors. The guy was a
drunk, or at least used to be. Van Endel had taken that into consideration but wasn’t sure it would matter — Ken was going to do what he wanted with or without liquid courage.

  While Van Endel was dealing with orchestrating the early stages of a raid by phone, Nelson had been busy making sure that what seemed like an impossibility was actually true. It had taken Nelson, Cain, and Hamilton just a few minutes of interrogating Robert Farmer to confirm that everything his wife said was fact. Though neither of them had been released, they did have their cuffs removed and were allowed to see each other. All of them save Hamilton, but including the Farmers, had driven back to the police station in a convoy of lights and noise. Nelson had given Tracy the car keys, and Dewitt had driven them to the airport. The Bell Ranger had its blades spinning before they were even on the tarmac.

  The flight took a little less than half the time the drive had taken earlier in the day. Not only did they have the advantage of a much faster speed, they also had the ability to fly in a direct line, rather than being forced to adhere to roads. The pilot of the helicopter was named Russ; he’d done two tours in Nam behind the controls of a Huey, and he promised to get them there quickly and alive. As the helicopter slowly took off, Van Endel had a hard time believing that either of those things would ever come true.

  If the ride aboard the helicopter was bothering Nelson, it wasn’t showing. He and Russ sat in the two front seats of the bird and made small talk the whole way, mostly discussing Russ’s experiences in the war. As best Van Endel could tell, the majority of those occasions saw Russ and a merry band of grunts narrowly avoiding certain death, a vast number of the details of those fights not the sort of things that Russ was allowed to share with a civvie.

  The flight had taken far too long for Van Endel as they finally neared the airport in Kentwood. He could see marked cars waiting just out of the danger zone of the rapidly spinning blades, and then they went straight down. It was almost like an elevator, but much faster, and certainly far scarier.