Fast Falls the Night

by Julia Keller

  Jake parked the Blazer next to the ambulance. Its back doors were flung open, awaiting the return of the gurney. The outside markings said MERCER COUNTY. It wasn’t Molly and Ernie, then, but a squad on loan from an adjacent county. He wondered how her day was shaping up; she was probably off on another call. Another crisis.

  He shook his head. Focus, Jake.

  McHale’s secretary stood behind the giant reception desk. Creamy waves of long, bright blond hair pooled over both of her shoulders. Maybe eighteen, he thought, trying to guess her age on the fly. Twenty at the outside. Tears had made a muddy mess of her eye makeup. One arm clutched her slender torso. The hand at the end of the other arm was pressed to her mouth, which was open.

  At the sight of Jake’s uniform, she uttered a small cry and tightened her grip on her torso.

  “He’s—they’re—I…” Each time she tried to go beyond a single word, the anguish caught in her throat and stopped her. Her shoulders bobbed up and down. She was seized by what appeared to be a violent attack of hiccups. She was quite beautiful, but it was a sealed, homogenized beauty that reminded Jake of a sandwich under a heat lamp in a convenience store, the kind that comes wrapped in a plastic sheath you have to peel off before you can get any real sense of the contents.

  She gave up trying to talk and pointed to her left. Past the spacious reception area and its array of sumptuous furniture was a pair of double doors that had been heaved open. On a plaque next to the doorway were two lines of gold lettering, festooned with little curlicues: FENTION MCHALE ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. From inside, Jake heard urgent voices.

  He crossed the threshold but stayed well back from the action. He didn’t want to get in the way. McHale lay on his back in the middle of the plum-colored carpet, his giant belly sticking up, his white shirt parted at the point where it had come untucked from his trousers, allowing an unfortunate peek at the actual skin, at that massive white mound of flesh. He did not seem to be breathing. There was a raised lump on his forehead, a bruise that was just getting under way.

  He watched the paramedics work. Both of them were on their knees, on either side of McHale. Because they were normal-sized and the victim was obese, the scene reminded Jake of a movie he’d seen once of Gulliver’s Travels, when Gulliver is lying on the ground surrounded by the Lilliputians. The former sheriff, Nick Fogelsong, used to tease Jake about having seen the movie versions of books instead of reading the books themselves. Nick read all the time. Like it makes you any happier, Jake always wanted to snap back at him, because he was stung by the remark, no matter the lighthearted way in which Nick delivered it. Like those books of yours have ever helped you, one damned bit. They hadn’t. Nick Fogelsong was the saddest man he knew.

  One paramedic fitted the bag-valve mask over McHale’s slack gray face and squeezed. The second paramedic looked up at Jake. He was rolling up a blood pressure cuff. Jake noted that both of the paramedics were male. Most of the time he didn’t pay any attention to details like that; paramedics were ubiquitous, just professionals doing a job. Male or female, black or white, young or old—it didn’t matter. They were a blur of blue.

  Except for Molly Drucker.

  “No pulse,” the second paramedic said. He had a gray goatee. “Hope you’ll help us get him on the gurney. Otherwise, we’re gonna need a forklift. Guy weighs a ton.” It was a crude, cruel remark, and if anyone other than colleagues had been present, he would never have uttered it.

  Jake nodded. The first paramedic—he was much younger than Gray Goatee, and he had curly red hair that reminded Jake of strawberries that had been mashed in a blender—was still squeezing, still squeezing, but there was no return on his investment of labor.

  “Where was he when you got here?” Jake asked.

  “In the desk chair,” Gray Goatee answered. He inclined his head back toward the enormous desk by the window. Its front was decorated with intricate marquetry carving, a sweeping panoply of swirls and curves and horns of plenty disgorging plump fruit. “Head down on the desk. Secretary found him that way.” He waggled his eyebrows. They, too, were gray. “Did you see the boobs on her? Jesus Christ. Don’t know why he needed drugs for fun, you know what I mean?”

  Once again, Jake was not offended. People in their line of work found a variety of ways to offset the grisly realities they encountered daily. Wisecracks and inappropriate raillery worked fine. Jake had been known to make similar remarks himself—although not when he was working a scene with Molly.

  “So the secretary called it in?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but she took her sweet time,” said Gray Goatee. He continued to work while he talked. “They always think we can’t tell how long they waited. Bet she had to get rid of the drug paraphernalia. Part of the job description, no doubt. Cover for the boss.”

  “How do you know that’s what she did?”

  Gray Goatee uttered a sound that Jake would’ve described as a guffaw. “Come on. Not my first rodeo, man. Check the top drawer. Left-hand side. Don’t know why, but it’s always the left-hand side.”

  The paramedics never stopped moving, trying this, trying that. Jake looked around the office. It was grand but cold. Despite the fancy furniture and the paintings on the walls trapped in their heavy wooden frames, the room seemed empty to him. The whole building struck him that way. There was no activity, none of the usual crackle and bustle you expect in a workplace. It seemed more like a museum than an office. Everyone knew that McHale didn’t really practice law these days; he had made too much money from the coal companies. There was no point to it anymore. So he played a lot of golf. He came to this chilly monstrosity of an office every morning, whereupon his first and only order of business was to make his lunch plans.

  Which might explain why he was, at this very moment, flat on his back with his belly stuck in the air, gray-faced and pulseless, having injected himself with something to take his mind off his nonexistent troubles.

  All kinds of prisons in this world, Jake mused. Some of ’em are downright spiffy.

  Getting McHale onto the gurney was, as expected, an ordeal. The three of them finally managed it. They pretended to hurry, but there was no reason for that; the man was dead, and they knew it. Three fatalities, Jake thought. And twenty-four ODs.

  Once the paramedics departed he asked the secretary to sit down. She was still crying, but quietly. They retreated to two chairs in the reception area, the high-backed, heavily padded, floral-print kind. They reminded Jake of chairs in the anteroom of a palace. He drew out his small spiral notebook and his pencil. He asked her name.

  “Jill Cousins.” She watched him write it down. “Do you think he’ll be okay?” she said, in a voice so soft that Jake had to ask her to repeat herself, a bit louder. She did.

  “Can’t say,” he replied, but of course he could, if he had so chosen. It wasn’t his place. “The paramedics will do their best. So will the doctors at the ER.”

  She nodded. She sniffled. She unhooked her hands, which had been clasped in the lap of her tight black skirt, so that she could use the backs of them to wipe at her cheeks. That smeared the streaming mascara even more. She didn’t seem to care—she must have a fair idea of what she looks like, he thought, after all the crying—which, to his surprise, made him respect her.

  “What happened?” Jake asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  He thought the sentence was clear, so he repeated it. “I mean—what happened?”

  She nodded. She’d just been buying time.

  “So I was out here at the reception desk,” she said. “And I heard this thump. In Mr. McHale’s office.”

  He looked at the considerable distance between the reception desk and the office door. “That far away, his office door would’ve had to be open. For you to hear something in there. His office door was open?”

  He could tell from her eyes that she had just been caught in her first lie. His respect for her was diminishing rapidly. Nothing like being lied to when you’re trying to save lives
, he thought, irritation building up in him. Like everybody in the damned county didn’t already know that Fenton McHale would snort, lick, smoke, rub, or inject anything that would give him a good buzz.

  “Yeah,” she said. Uncertainly. “He usually keeps it open. All the time.”

  “Really. I have to tell you, Jill, that I find that surprising. I mean, most attorneys—they’re having private phone conversations with clients all day long. They can’t take a chance on visitors overhearing. And so it’s odd that McHale would keep his office door open.” He looked down at his notes. “‘All the time,’ as you put it.”

  “So it wasn’t always open. Just sometimes.”

  “And it was open today. Which is how you heard the thump.”

  “Yeah.”

  He put the notebook back in the breast pocket of his shirt. He buttoned the flap.

  “Jill, I’ll be frank with you. I don’t have time for this.” He kept his voice even. Getting mad at her would accomplish nothing—in the present moment. Later, yes. “We’re in the middle of a crisis here, Jill. There’s some bad heroin out on the streets. It’s killing people. I need to find out where it came from—who’s selling it. Once I find out who’s selling it, I can find out who they’re selling it to. And I need to find out really, really fast, so that more people don’t die.”

  Her black-ringed eyes grew wide with horror.

  “You—you don’t think Fenton is dead, do you? I thought the paramedics saved him. I thought they were taking him to the hos—”

  “Jill. Listen to me.” Jake made sure he had her eyes, that they weren’t still flitting nervously around the room anymore. “I think you were in the office with McHale. I think you saw him inject himself with the heroin. Like you’d seen him do lots and lots of times before. Only something went wrong this time. Instead of sitting back in his big chair and falling asleep, he fell forward. His face hit the desk. Right?”

  She thought about it, and then she nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I couldn’t stop him,” she said, sounding stricken as the words gushed out. “He did what he wanted to do. Yeah, I was in the office. He liked to have me with him when he—well, like you said. But I was always telling him it was wrong. I told him he ought to get some help. Go to rehab. You know. Like the TV show. Intervention. That one. Where everybody gets together and they tell you how much they love you and they send you off to a rehab place. I told him and told him.”

  Lie number two, Jake thought. Fenton McHale paid her a nice salary specifically to not nag him about his drug use.

  He didn’t have the energy to call her on it, though, and he really didn’t care what she had or hadn’t said to her boss. He needed a name. “Jill, I’m not here to hassle you. You’re not in trouble.”

  Her body relaxed. She smiled at him.

  “If,” he added.

  Her face tightened again. “‘If’? If what?”

  “If you tell me right now where he got his drugs.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Hey. You listen up.” Jake’s voice was as stern as he could make it without shouting. “People are dying. Okay? Even as we’re sitting here. Do you want that on your conscience? I don’t think so. I think you’re a good girl. I think you want to do the right thing. So tell me—who’s his dealer?”

  She still wasn’t there. He could see it in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, putting a small moan at the end of the sentence. “I’d tell you if I did—I swear I would. I swear it on the name of Jesus. Like you said—I’m a good girl. I was raised right. And all I know is, Fenton would call me into his office every afternoon and he’d have me watch him while he—”

  Jake stood up. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  She looked up at him. “Go? Go where?”

  “To jail. I’m arresting you for obstruction of justice. You tampered with a crime scene when you hid his drug paraphernalia. I’m sure we’ll find your fingerprints all over it. Stand up. Now.”

  “Wait. Wait. Wait.” She stood up, but as she did so, she reached out a hand and placed it on his forearm. “Okay. Okay. So if I tell you the truth—you won’t arrest me, right? Right? Okay, so—yeah. I know where he got his drugs.”

  Jake shook her off. Gray Goatee might have found her attractive, but he didn’t. It was all he could do not to shudder with revulsion when she touched him.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “This guy comes by once or twice a week. He gives me the package. I give him the cash—the cash I get from Fenton. But when it all started, I swear I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know what was in it. And once I did know, I told Fenton that he really shouldn’t—”

  “Give me a name. You have five seconds.”

  “But I never knew his na—”

  “Four seconds.”

  “Leo Smith.”

  Jake nodded. It was one of the three names remaining on his list. A known dealer, just as the other two—Raylene Hughes and Tammy Kincaid—were known dealers. He and Leo had tangled before. Two months ago, Leo was selling pain pills in the student parking lot at Acker’s Gap High School. Jake arrested him. Leo claimed that Jake had roughed him up. Leo got off with a warning, in exchange for signing a paper stating that he wouldn’t pursue the brutality charge against Deputy Oakes. Somehow, guys like Leo always found their way back out on the streets again.

  Leo was a lying, pathetic hustler, a piece of shit walking around in human form. Jake had a reasonable idea of where to find him. And maybe that would be the end of it. Maybe Jake could confiscate the rest of Leo’s product. Cut off the supply.

  And then if Jake was really lucky, Leo would help them in their prosecution of the source—the actual drug gang that had brought the poison into their county in the first place. The thought made Jake itch to get back to the Starliner. He was eager to see if his hunch was correct—that the old lady on duty had been trying to tell him that the motel was Heroin Central.

  But even if Leo wouldn’t cooperate, at least they could get his tainted product off the market. They could stop the overdoses. Stop the deaths. Give the addicts another chance. Give them another day of life—which just might be the day, the day they decided to change.

  Jake would never express such a hope out loud. Few of his colleagues would ever take him seriously again.

  Well, Bell Elkins might. She was a closet optimist. Jake had suspected as much, early on, and had confirmed it to himself during some late-night conversations with her in JPs, after long, frustrating days spent on hopeless cases. Bell was a lot like him: She knew the worst of this world, but never stopped yearning for better things.

  Yearning silently, that is. Yearning secretly. The way you yearn for a lost lover. No one can know. You have to keep your dignity.

  Jake was back in the Blazer now. He had loaded Jill Cousins’s contact information into his phone. Jake had left her sitting in the expensive armchair with her head buried in her hands, alternately sobbing and murmuring “Jesus, oh my sweet Jesus,” and asking for strength in this time of trial. She had casually thrown that very same Jesus under the bus just a few minutes before, swearing on his name that she didn’t know the identity of McHale’s dealer.

  Jesus, more than likely, would let her off the hook. Last I heard, Jake thought as he fired up the Blazer, He’s the forgiving sort.

  Next stop: Leo Smith’s last known address.

  He made a quick call. The second the call ended, his cell rang. The caller ID said it was Deputy Brinksneader. Jake had left a message for his colleague earlier, reporting his whereabouts. Steve was probably checking in to confirm that he’d received the message, and to pass along his own location. They were two deputies in charge of a county whose total square mileage meant that it should have been patrolled by at least triple that number. Keeping in constant touch with each other was a must.

  “Hey,” Jake said. “I’m leaving McHale’s office. Got a good lead on the dealer. Remember Leo S
mith? Skinny punk who hangs out at that tattoo place on Route 7? He might be our man.”

  “Better hurry.”

  “What?”

  “Three more. Some kids on the riverbank. Took some shit and then keeled over. Some old guy found ’em.”

  “Condition?”

  “Unknown. Paramedics on the scene.”

  Jake slowed down in case he needed to turn around in the next few seconds, heading elsewhere. “Think I should go over there? Or keep tracking Smith?” There were too many places to be and not enough of him to go around. Story of my life, he thought. If he went after Leo, he’d need somebody else to question Raylene Hughes and Tammy Kincaid, just in case they, too, were selling the bad stuff.

  Steve was as busy as he was. So who could he tap to help? Jake had an idea.

  “I’ll check with the sheriff,” Steve replied, “but I say keep doing what you’re doing. Find Smith. I’ll go to the riverbank.”

  “Copy that.” Jake speeded up again. He was less than five miles from his destination. He hoped to wrap it up quickly so he could get back to the Starliner. That was their best chance to shut down the gang itself, the root of this sorrow.

  “Oh—and Jake. Got a question for you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kind of wondering what I’m in for around here. You ever see a day like this? Before I joined the department?”

  “Nope. Can’t say that I have. You know what that tells me?”

  “What’s that?”

  Jake was feeling a little better, despite the latest news. He had a suspect. The end might be in sight. So he risked a joke: “You’re bad luck, Stevie-boy.”

  Bell

  5:59 P.M.

  Lee Ann Frickie did not talk about her religion. Bell had always appreciated that about her. Bell knew her secretary was a woman of deep and unshakable faith, but that fact had never featured in their working relationship—except for those rare occasions when Bell needed her to work on a Sunday morning. It was not that Lee Ann refused. To the contrary: She always agreed. But her agreement came after she had silently considered the request, standing straight and tall, frowning, an index finger tapping her chin. Bell always wondered what sort of private negotiation went on between Lee Ann and her Maker during those fraught ponderings, what bargain was struck. Did she put a few extra dollars in the collection plate, maybe, to cover an absence from Sunday school? Whip up a sugar-free pecan pie—Lee Ann’s specialty—for the bake sale to raise funds for new choir robes, in exchange for being a no-show at the 11 A.M. service?