DARK KILLS a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by BREARTON, T. J.

  Hamill didn’t answer. His arm was still in the air, his finger pointing. He was looking at the front of O’Sullivan’s. The door was flanked by the plate glass window, two neon signs hanging in it. A figure loomed on the right.

  “He’s there,” Dana said, watching. The heat was still blasting through her, and it was warm in the car, too warm. Warm and smoky and claustrophobic. She wanted to get out. She realized she was having a hard time trusting her partner. Ten years, and it suddenly felt like a stranger sitting beside her. She slowly turned back to Hamill, choosing her words carefully.

  “Who did you call, Rob?”

  Hamill flinched, as if she’d hurt his feelings. “What do you mean, who did I call? I just had a call to make, man. Personal.”

  “Why didn’t you want to get out of the car? Why change your tune about Perry Brady?”

  Hamill looked serious for once. His brown eyes glossed over. His upper lip peeled back, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “I wanted to finish my smoke,” he said. “What are you suggesting? That I’m lying to you?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Why did someone run from us, Hamill?”

  His usually smirking face was consumed by a dark mask. “Who knows. Because he thought that we were there to bust him for something? Because he was drunk?”

  “Let’s go inside and talk to this guy. Where do you know him from. Here?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Are you crazy? Rob? Let’s at least give him the runner’s description, see if anything—”

  “No,” Hamill said. He raised his eyebrows and was for a moment the old, jovial Hamill, though his eyes were dead. He dropped the shifter into drive and the tires barked on the pavement as he hit the gas and pulled away from the curb. A trio of students about to cross the road froze for a second and then scattered as Hamill tore past. “I got a better idea,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX / No One Knows Anybody

  Dana reached into her pocket for her handkerchief. It wasn’t in the usual place. She tried her other pockets. No luck.

  “You seen my thingy?” she asked Hamill. “For my eye?” Dana scrabbled around on the floor. She couldn’t get into the back because of the metal grill.

  Hamill didn’t answer. He was hunched forward over the wheel, focused intently on driving. He was taking the same route at the guy from the bar had run. They soon left the downtown area and headed towards the paper mill, the lone convenience store, and the dark train tracks beyond.

  “I need it, Rob. Pull over.”

  “You’ll be alright.” Hamill said quietly.

  “Rob, just pull over for a second. Help me look, alright?” She reached up and pointed to her face, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I hate this, okay?”

  “Wipe it away with your hand,” Hamill scowled, and turned back to the road.

  “Rob! Just pull the fucking car over for a second. Right there at the gas station. Let me look for it, for God’s sake.”

  Hamill sighed. The convenience store was on the right, lit up like a small airport. Dana thrust her hips forward, reaching into her pants pocket, where her phone was. She slipped the phone out and quickly jammed it into her coat where there was more room, darting looks at Hamill to see if he’d noticed.

  Finally Hamill flipped on his blinker. He was going to make the turn.

  “Jesus, thank you. I just need to look down between the seats. I know it’s here.”

  “You’d think it was a pair of panties the way you’re going on about it,” Hamill said. His typical humor, but delivered joylessly. He turned the steering wheel and the tires bumped up over the sidewalk and into the convenience store parking lot. He made a quick maneuver into a spot and the car came to rest, rocking on its shocks. Dana flung the door open. She got out and felt around under the seat, making a show of looking for her handkerchief. She glanced at Hamill.

  “Come on, you gonna help me or what?”

  Hamill rolled his eyes and reached for the door latch. The moment he turned his back to get out, Dana rose to her feet and started away.

  She cut between the front of the car and the wall of the convenience store. The inside of the store was just as bright as the lights overhanging the gas pumps, shocking fluorescents for which Dana felt grateful. Hamill spun around as she walked past. He threw up his hands, his face ashen and his eyes glinting. “Where you going?”

  “Can’t find it. Gonna see what they got in here.” She walked briskly but tried to remain calm. “I’ll be right back.”

  Hamill did not look happy. “I just got out of the—”

  “Keep looking for me,” Dana called back. Her hands felt numb as she swung the big glass door open.

  Hamill could see her through the glass. She headed deeper into the store. She went down an aisle that seemed to have a few household products like cleaners and toilet paper, made as if she was scanning the bottom shelf, then dropped out of sight.

  Squatting on her haunches, she pulled out her phone. She dialed 911 and then dropped the phone back in her pocket. When 911 operators received a call and no one spoke, they typically ran through a couple of different procedures, tracing and monitoring the line. She needed to buy some time; Hamill was still by the car. Any calls dispatched by 911 would come over the radio, and Hamill would hear it. Dana could have called the barracks directly, maybe spoken to Trooper Maize, but it would take longer to find any cars in the area without the benefit of GPS. By calling 911 direct, the call would go out to the gamut of law enforcement, and if she needed immediate backup, any local PD or Troopers in the area could respond.

  Dammit, Hamill. What was happening? Dana suddenly felt like she was acting rashly. She needed to talk to him, not go off half-cocked like this. This was an overreaction. She felt sheepish, crouching there beneath the bright lights amid the shelves of magazines and candy bars. She prepared to shut off her phone.

  The call connected. The tinny voice emanated from her pocket. “911 emergency services. What’s the nature of your call?”

  She could see the top of the door at the front of the store. There were coolers stocked with beer humming behind her. On the shelves, more cleaning products; laundry detergent, scrub brushes, rags, a few cooking utensils, and a short section of magazines. The top shelf magazines were partially obscured by a black gate.

  “Hello? This is 911. Can you speak? What is your location?”

  She heard the chime and watched as the front door swung open. She could only see the top of a head. The unmistakable thick curls of her partner. Then the head drifted out of sight.

  Now. Do it. Dana brought the phone to her ear. She spoke in a strong whisper.

  “This is Detective Dana Gates. Shield Number 4408. I’m on Broad Street and Route 9, Alfonso’s Convenience Store. I need immediate backup.”

  The 911 operator started asking more questions, but it would have to be enough. Dana ended the call and slipped the phone back in her pocket. She grabbed one of the dish towels and stood up. As her head cleared the shelves, she realized her partner was in the next aisle. Hamill immediately looked over, concern on his face. Dana held up the folded dish towel. “This will do it,” she said.

  Hamill’s no-nonsense side took over again. “Alright, come on, we’re wasting time.”

  Dana went to pay at the register. A young woman in nurse’s scrubs and a huge camel-colored coat stepped up to the counter before Dana.

  “You still haven’t told me what the hell is going on,” Dana said to Hamill, who was by her side. Hamill had to know something. Whatever he had done, he knew that bouncer. Did he have something to do with Tep not being on the door that Friday? Why? Hamill could act the fool at times, but he was a good cop and a shrewd detective. If he’d had something going with that bouncer, something incriminating, something to do with this case . . .

  And the mystery man they’d chased? It seemed like Lori Stender had called it: Maybe you ought to rethink why that person ran from you outside of the bar.<
br />
  Maybe that kid had run because he’d recognized Hamill, too. And he’d run to the woods not just because Dana was following him, but because the kid was trying to tell her something. I’m taking you here, because this leads to where your partner dumped the first victim.

  No. She didn’t know anything yet. Her partner was standing right beside her. There were civilians in the store. It was best to make her purchase, get Hamill back outside, and let the cavalry pick him up. Safer that way. Then they would get to the bottom of things. Maybe Hamill was sick. Maybe something else was going on. Ten years . . . ten years with somebody by your side. No one knew anybody.

  Dana felt heavy. The nurse stepped away and the clerk, a student with a rash of acne, raised his bored face to Dana’s. Dana slid the rag across the counter and the clerk rang it up. She tilted her head towards her partner. “What did you do, Rob?”

  Hamill stared straight ahead. “I made a mistake.”

  Dana paid the clerk, hands shaking. Her heart hammered in her chest. She turned away from the counter and headed towards the door. The first local black and white came streaming in with lights twirling, siren silent. Dana dropped her purchase and pulled her gun. She spun on her partner and pointed the weapon at him.

  “Down, Rob. Down on the floor,” Dana told him.

  The clerk freaked out and dropped behind the counter. A kid with a soda ducked for cover. A second Plattsburgh PD car screeched to a halt and two uniformed cops hopped out, brandishing their weapons. One laid cover at the car while the other ran up to the glass door behind Dana.

  Hamill stood in the center of it all. Dana saw something new on his face. As Hamill dropped to his knees and laced his hands above his head, he looked sad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN / Questioning

  Dana watched him through the glass, along with half a dozen other investigators, including Yarrow from the FBI. Hamill was sitting at a table with his hands folded in front of him, alone in the room.

  “He doesn’t have an alibi for any of the three dates and times,” Bouchard said soberly. “He was off duty for the first two, and on his own for the third.” He looked at Dana. “You can confirm he wasn’t with you on any TOD dates, can’t you, Gates?”

  “Holly Arbruster was the sixth. That was Hamill’s day off, I was on shift. Sonia Taylor, on the thirteenth, same thing. I got the call and Hamill joined me at the river. I don’t know his whereabouts prior to that. And I was with Lori Stender when Hamill called me to report about the third victim. If her TOD is the twentieth, I was at home, in the middle of a Skype call.”

  “With the psychic author.”

  “Correct.”

  Bouchard looked at Hamill on the other side of the glass. Bouchard’s eyes glistened beneath heavy lids. “No family, no girlfriend, lives alone. Spends half his time sleeping on the bunk at the Plattsburgh substation, but he wasn’t there for any of the times in question, or the troopers at the desk would’ve seen him. Shit. This is . . . I don’t know. I don’t have the words.”

  “Captain?”

  Bouchard looked over at Dana, those rheumy eyes distant. As if he was thinking about early retirement. A house somewhere warm with his wife and three dogs.

  “We don’t know anything yet, Cap. He’s not talking.” Dana glanced at Yarrow, who had taken off his suit jacket and was rolling up his sleeves, still looking perfectly dapper while doing so. She looked at the other men and women crowded into the small observation room; two internal affairs agents, the lieutenant, and the US Attorney.

  “I know we don’t,” Bouchard said with a bitter edge. “That’s why this has to stay quiet.”

  “That’s going to be hard,” Yarrow said. “We shut down things as best we could at the convenience store, we talked to Plattsburgh PD, we spoke to the witnesses, but in this day and age . . .” He held up a hand in resignation.

  It seemed to Dana that the FBI agent had two speeds; steady and more steady. She felt a sudden covetousness for the agent’s detached demeanor, when Dana felt like she’d been anything but detached lately. She’d been letting her personal life and her emotions cloud the investigation. Trouble at home, her past rearing up, her temper getting the better of her. She hadn’t even seen what was going on with her partner.

  “He’s not saying anything,” Bouchard said.

  Dana studied Hamill across the distance. It was like someone else was sitting there. During a case, Hamill was either goofing off or obsessing about some detail. He was unorthodox, but he produced results and had one of the best records for closing cases in the department. He hated leaving things unfinished. Dana worried, and played by the rules, often causing resentment by her insistence on following procedure. Hamill made the system work for him, while he grinned and chain-smoked. They were a good match.

  And then this.

  Her partner potentially involved in a series of killings — somehow. Sitting there on the wrong side of the table, looking like some vital piece of him had been stripped away.

  “Okay,” Yarrow said. “We’re going to play this real light and easy. Like jazz. Anyone like Miles Davis?” He didn’t look around, but finished with his sleeves. They were perfectly rolled up, Dana noticed, an equal number of folds in each sleeve.

  Dana stared at Yarrow, now more irritated than impressed. “Here I go,” he said.

  “No,” Dana said, looking through the glass, “I’ll do it.”

  * * *

  Ho-tep, the bouncer, was on ice in one of the other interrogation rooms, and Yarrow, conceding to Dana, decided to head there. The plan was to get the story on how Hamill and Tep knew each other, to start there and see if Hamill could be unpacked and whether any truth would tumble out.

  Dana entered the room and closed the door loudly behind her. She pulled out the chair, rasping it across the concrete floor. She did this deliberately, but Hamill, who was staring into space, didn’t bother to look up. She sat down and crossed her legs.

  “What a day,” she said.

  Hamill seemed to gather himself. He met his partner’s eyes across the table.

  “You called 911 on me,” he said, incredulity in his tone.

  “You were acting funny.”

  “Acting funny? I’m always acting funny.”

  “You recognized the bouncer. More importantly, the bouncer recognized you.”

  “So?”

  Dana planted both her feet and leaned forward. “Rob, the bar where one of the victims worked, you knew the bouncer. He knew you. And you never brought that up? Then I confront you on it, and, you know, you just kind of . . .” Dana leaned back and snapped her fingers in the air. “Like a light going off. Look at you.” She cocked her head and tried on a smile. “You taking the pot, Rob?”

  No reaction from Hamill to her attempt at humor. Just that lifeless glare. Dana didn’t think her partner hated her, or hated the world. Rob Hamill was still there, underneath a veil of apathy. Like he was thinking about something else. The fact of his lonely existence, perhaps. As if this whole case, three dead girls, had been a big downer for him.

  Dana spoke. “You said something to me, back in the store. You remember?” She thought she saw a spark in his indifferent stare. She went on, “You said, ‘I made a mistake.’ What were you talking about?”

  Hamill’s mouth curled down in a kind of pout, but he said nothing.

  “The bartender at O’Sullivan’s quit. Did you know that? Rob? Did you know the bartender quit? Did you know he gave us a fake name? I’ve got a call into the owner. He lives in South Carolina during the winter. But we’re going to talk to the O’Sullivan’s manager, get the full story on ‘Sven’.” She used her fingers to hang quotes in the air. Hamill didn’t react so she pressed on, “Know anything about Sven? About Charlie?”

  Hamill stared at the table. “Only what you do.”

  “How about Angie Gilroy, Rob? Remember her? She was the one who called in Holly Arbruster as missing. You were supposed to question her. To follow up.”

  Something
flickered in his eyes again, and he glanced up. “I looked in the goddamn file. There was nothing there.”

  Dana tucked her chin back and made a face. Truth was, she knew neither of them had really given Gilroy any attention. But she was probing Hamill, looking for soft spots. “Come on. Really? Rob, you gotta stop hiding. I’m facing my demons, you gotta face yours, too.”

  “Oh, fuck you,” Hamill said quietly.

  “Fuck me? Why?”

  “Always about you. You think this whole case is about you. Because your brother drowned.”

  “Yeah, in Topper Pond. Same way we found Lange.”

  “There’s been other drownings in that pond in the twenty-five years since your brother died. Get over it.”

  “I see we’ve hit a sensitive area here,” she said sarcastically, trying to keep control, to push her emotions back. They’d been through it before. “Maybe you’re a bit upset because we can’t make your Perry Brady angle stick.” She cocked an eyebrow. “We keep coming back to this; you keep pushing, though we’ve got nothing solid on him. We raided his home. No poison. Just the jacket of the girl he was sleeping with. And a book with the names of the other girls he wanted to sleep with, too. That doesn’t make a killer. Oh, and according to Lori Stender, the girls all knew the score. And that casts some doubt on Sonia Taylor being heartbroken, suicidal. You hear me, Rob? I’m taking back my suicide theory.”

  Hamill lowered his head. “I was going to tell you.”

  She tried to stay calm. “Tell me? Tell me what?”

  “I was going to drive you, you know, to where we ran. Chasing him. I wanted to tell you that night, too. I just couldn’t. And then Plattsburgh found Arbruster’s body.”

  Dana felt sick. It seemed like Hamill was on the verge of confession. She braced herself. “Tell me now.”

  He shifted his demeanor and looked up at her, eyes afire. “You called 911 on me, D. You took your gun out and pointed it at me. You and all your fucking crazy theories. You should be sitting here. Not me.”

  She had enough and stood up, mashing her lips, stifling harsher words. Then she let loose anyway. “Don’t go down this road, Rob. Look at you. Handcuffed, in worse shape than I’ve ever seen you, full of . . . something, I don’t know. Guilt, Rob? Yeah, I know all about guilt.” She felt an unexpected surge of emotion, and her lips quivered. She dropped her voice to a bare whisper. “Please, Rob. I need you.” She imagined the cops in the next room, leaning in to hear. She didn’t care. “Don’t do this,” she said.