by Claire Booth
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did you find out Patrick was angry with you?’
She laughed. ‘He told me. Loudly. Called me up and cussed me out. Said I’d made Johnny another fake birth certificate and betrayed him. And he said that he’d take something of mine, just like I was taking something from him.’
He waited. It took her slightly more than a nanosecond.
‘Oh, God.’ A pause. ‘He was going to go after Hailee. Something of mine.’
Hank nodded. ‘But he went after Lauren Blenkinship by mistake.’
She sagged back into her chair. ‘And now that poor kid is in the hospital. Shit.’ She rubbed at her face and then refocused on Hank. ‘What would I have been taking from him if I made another fake birth certificate?’
‘His free ride with Euford Gunner.’
Her smile was small and very sad. ‘Yeah, well, there’s no such thing as one of those.’
Hank rose to his feet. ‘No, there’s not.’
FORTY-FIVE
Sheila had seen most of the conversation. She distilled it for Sam and let him extrapolate.
‘O’Connell must have found out about Gall’s plans for a party at the apartment,’ Sammy said. ‘But if he wanted to go after Hailee, why didn’t he do it there? Unless he decided that he needed to get to her before she started socializing with the other teenagers. But he ended up accidentally chasing Lauren instead.’
‘Yeah,’ Sheila said. ‘And what was he planning to do to Hailee? Threaten her? Beat her up? Something even worse? I don’t know. I do think he didn’t plan beforehand to end up running through the woods. Whether he pushed Lauren or she fell while trying to get away, I think that the chase was spur of the moment.’
Sam tugged at his ear. ‘So then O’Connell ends up back at the apartment. Because he knew Gall and the others were going there, and he needed an alibi?’
‘Probably,’ Sheila said. ‘But they certainly never showed. And it seems like, from the back-and-forth texts, that Gall was with the high-schoolers from about eight o’clock on, and didn’t go back to the apartment. So I don’t think he’s our killer.’
Sam nodded and looked down the hallway. ‘Do you think he’s going to stop at some point?’
Sheila wasn’t holding out hope. Hank had been pacing back and forth ever since he came out of the interview room. She should strap her Fitbit on him. He’d shoot her daily step-count over the top. He made it to the end and strode back to where they were standing.
‘We should go talk to Mick Fitch,’ he said. ‘He’s still in a holding cell here, right?’
‘We are not going to go talk to that worthless human being,’ she said. ‘There’s no reason to at the moment. If his prints come back on that knife, then sure. But right now, no.’
Hank scowled at her and went back to wearing a groove in the BPD’s floor. Sammy gave her a sly grin and turned away before Hank could see. At least one of her men seemed to be recovering – finally. They loitered for a good half hour before Dale suddenly came hustling around a corner and headed straight for the crime lab faster than she’d ever seen him move. She and Sam fell in line and she heard the thudding of Hank’s boots as he raced to catch up from the far end of the hall. They all burst in to find Brian Handlesman calmly straightening a pile of papers. He held up a hand in a stop motion and they all meekly lined up on the opposite side of the big work table.
‘I’ve dusted the knife,’ he said. ‘And I’ve run all the prints I was able to pull off it.’
‘All of them? How many—’
Sheila stepped on Hank’s foot before he could say any more. The man’s foot must be mightily sore by now. ‘Give the guy this one,’ she whispered. ‘Let him shine for a minute.’
Hank’s stiff posture evaporated. He nodded encouragingly at Brian and kept his mouth shut.
‘I had a few comparison prints I needed, so I got a hold of Kurt Gatz at your office,’ he gestured at Hank. ‘He’s on the line now.’
A hearty hello came out of the speakerphone on the table.
‘There were three distinct sets, including prints from Emily Fitch’s index finger and thumb,’ Handlesman said.
‘Which, since she’d hidden the knife, made sense,’ Dale said to no one in particular. ‘I still think she might’ve done it,’ the detective muttered.
Handlesman shushed him and tossed it to Kurt, who said through the phone that none of the remaining prints matched those of Johnny Gall, which he had in his files courtesy of the medical examiner. Sheila and Sam nodded at each other.
While he was at it, Kurt said, he’d also accessed the prints that the medical examiner’s office had taken from O’Connell’s body. Those matched a thumb and a middle finger print lifted off the knife. They all started muttering on that one.
‘That could mean he fought for the knife with his killer,’ Sam said.
‘Or that he was the one who had the knife in the first place,’ said Hank. ‘He brought it to the apartment looking for Johnny Gall.’
‘Only it wasn’t Gall he ended up seeing,’ Dale said. He leaned on the table. ‘You said there were three sets. Come on, Brian, you’re killing us here.’
Handlesman grinned. The remaining ones, clear prints of the index, middle, and ring fingers, were not in the system. They all stared at the smiling technician in disbelief. Dale looked like he was about to climb over the table and throttle him.
‘Just wait,’ Brian said, pointing at the speakerphone.
‘Hi, again,’ Kurt said cheerfully. ‘So I had a thought when Brian said he couldn’t find a database match for the third set. A couple days ago, the Sheriff brought in an empty bottle of organic lemonade and told me to dust it and log it.
‘The prints on the bottle match those three on the knife hilt,’ Kurt said. ‘Clear as day.’
They all turned toward Hank but saw only the door swinging slowly shut. Sheila leaned toward the phone. She was pretty sure she knew, but …
‘Did he say whose prints were on the bottle that he wanted preserved?’
‘Yeah,’ Kurt said. ‘Euford Gunner’s.’
Dale spun around. ‘And Hank took off without us?’ He started for the exit.
‘Wait,’ Handlesman said. ‘There’s more. You all need to hear this.’
‘Hear what?’ Sheila said.
‘There’s another print.’
‘You said three sets,’ Sam pointed out.
‘Three distinct sets. There’s one smudged partial. I ran that, and got a tentative NCIC database match. Some guy named Franklin John Rasmussen.’
Dale paused for a split second on his way out the door and then was gone after Hank. Sheila watched the door swing close and felt her jaw drop at the same time. She grabbed Sam’s arm and hauled him toward the door.
They sped toward Euford’s stone mansion in Raker’s BPD unmarked. Hank had gotten all the way to the parking lot before remembering that he’d started his day driving a minivan that was no longer drivable.
The detective turned into the sweeping driveway and pulled up in front of the door. Both men got out and contemplated the enormous house.
‘Maybe we should’ve brought backup,’ Raker said.
‘Nah, we’re fine. You want to take the front or the back?’
Raker chose the front. Hank suspected that was because it was a shorter walk. He reflexively checked his service weapon and jogged around the building. The jarring made his head hurt where it’d collided with the minivan window. He took a quick peek in the garage door window and saw the big Caddy was inside, then got around to where they’d first seen the musician sitting by the pool. The water today was cloudy and full of leaves. The sun umbrella was gone. He moved closer to the big glass sliding doors and waited.
Seconds later, Raker’s pounding on the front door echoed all the way to where he stood. He could see through the great room to the foyer, although he couldn’t see the door itself. When the reverberations faded, he heard faint shuffling coming from his left,
over where the kitchen was. He stepped to the side for a better angle but still couldn’t see much.
Approximately two minutes passed before Raker knocked again. Plenty of time for a hobbled old man to at least make an appearance, if not make it all the way to the door. Hank stepped forward and tried the handle on the sliding door. The glass slid open easily.
‘OK, I’m not really sure what’s going on,’ Sammy said as he buckled into the passenger seat. ‘Who’s Franklin Rasmussen?’
Sheila tore out of the parking lot. The stage manager could be any place, but there was only one place to start. On the way, she explained. By the time they pulled up in front of the Classic Country Song Theater, Sam was shaking his head and wondering aloud if this case could possibly get any weirder. Sheila said no.
The front doors were locked. She left Sammy there and went around toward the back door and the loading dock. She was almost all the way around the building when she realized she hadn’t called for backup. Hank was starting to rub off on her. She grumbled at herself and grabbed her radio. She issued instructions and then tried the back door. It swung open.
She moved slowly through the jumble of sound equipment stacked everywhere. She didn’t like this at all – no good sight lines and way too many nooks and crannies to search effectively. She quickly jabbed at the hidden door and made sure no one was in Emily’s secret room. Then she made her way farther in.
One set of stage lights was on. She sidled along the right side and looked out at the bare, broad expanse of floorboards. It was hard to think of the whole huge place filled with music. Although, with what they’d just found out, it was likely the ol’ Country Song would now continue to stay silent.
There was a thump, like something had been dropped. She froze, trying to figure out where it’d come from. Damn acoustics.
Another thud. Enough of this. She straightened and marched across the back of the stage. If Rasmussen was here, he’d have no idea they’d found his prints on the murder weapon. He’d be going about his duties, not lying in wait so he could pick off law enforcement officers.
She reached stage left and headed back toward Euford’s palatial dressing room. The door was half open and she pushed it aside just as something clattered onto the floor of the room.
Euford was over by the refrigerator, behind the big, granite-topped island. They stared at each other as Raker continued to bang on the front door. Hank waited him out, standing loosely just inside the sliding door. Finally the old man spoke.
‘I don’t suppose you want a lemonade?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I do need to ask why you’re coming at me from both directions.’
‘I think you know why. I think you’ve known why all along.’
He might have turned slightly pale, but it was hard to tell with the expensive lighting fixture right above him. Hank knew he should go let Raker in, but he didn’t want to break eye contact.
‘Why’d you kill him?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘We have the knife.’
Now he went pale, without question. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s funny, seeing as your fingerprints are all over it.’
They had another little staring contest. The guy was cool, Hank had to give him that. Aside from all the color draining from his face, he’d had no reaction.
‘What I don’t get is why you didn’t just take the knife with you.’
Silence.
‘Unless,’ Hank said, stepping slowly into the middle of the room, ‘you panicked. You stood there, in that little bedroom in that empty apartment, and you panicked. And so you ran. Because you move a whole lot better than you let on, don’t you?’
Gunner’s gaze flitted – just for a second – over to the couches, where his cane leaned against the coffee table.
‘What made you so angry that you stabbed to death the person you loved spending time with? The person who kept the loneliness at bay?’
Now the hand on the kitchen counter started to tremble. Just a bit. Hank heard movement behind him, which he really hoped was Raker, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off Euford to look.
‘I need to ask you both to leave,’ the old man said.
‘No. We’re here to place you under arrest,’ Raker said. ‘For the murder of Patrick O’Connell, real name Eric Michael Ganton.’
Raker moved into Hank’s view and readied his handcuffs.
FORTY-SIX
Rasmussen was moving around clothing racks. He saw Sheila in the mirror and froze.
‘Geez, ma’am. I didn’t know you were coming. How … how’d you get in?’
‘Back door. It was unlocked.’
‘Oh.’ He hadn’t moved, his hands still on the rack and surrounded by glittery cowboy fringe shirts in every color. ‘Do you need to search again?’
‘We might,’ she said. ‘Have you noticed anybody hanging around? In connection with that hidden room we found?’
He relaxed, just an iota. She knew why, now.
‘Ah. No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘I can sure see why you’d be interested in that, though. What a trip. I can’t believe it was there, right under our noses. You need to look at it again?’
‘Maybe,’ Sheila said. ‘But I have some questions for you first. I need you to come down to the station with me.’
Rasmussen didn’t seem surprised, which didn’t surprise Sheila. He nodded, took one step, and then flung the clothes rack straight at her. Where the hell was he going to go? She was standing at the only door. She fought through the mess of costumes, kicked aside the metal rack, and stopped. He stood there with a gun leveled right at her face.
Euford didn’t come forward. His left hand still shook as it lay on the granite. Then his right one moved, like it was opening a drawer. He pulled out a large steak knife. Raker let out an exasperated sigh.
‘What’re you going to do with that, Euford?’ Raker said. ‘Throw it at us? I didn’t know that was part of your act.’
The musician’s shaky left hand grew still. It was the calm of a decision made. Hank tensed and took a step forward.
‘We’ve already talked to Frank Rasmussen,’ Raker said.
Hank stopped. What?
‘He’s told us everything,’ Raker continued. Euford froze. Hank tried to look like he knew what the detective was talking about.
‘Yeah,’ Raker said, moving toward the kitchen area and readying the handcuffs. ‘So I suggest you start doing the same, because only one person is going to get looked upon kindly by the prosecuting attorney.’
Who the hell was Frank Rasmussen? Hank suddenly remembered the seventies rock T-shirt. The stage manager guy. Jesus, was there anyone who wasn’t involved in this case?
He refocused on Euford and started to get worried. The old man did not seem like he was about to meekly extend his wrists toward Raker’s cuffs. Hank started around the opposite side of the island from the detective. They both closed in. Euford raised the knife.
‘Don’t.’ He pointed it at his own throat.
‘This is bullshit, Euford.’ Raker’s voice filled the whole huge room. ‘You were man enough to survive in the music business for fifty years, and this is how you’re gonna end things?’
Hank moved a bit closer. ‘Euford,’ he said quietly, before Raker could speak again, ‘what about Patrick? He can’t speak for himself anymore. Do you want Rasmussen to be the only one who gets a say in all this? Do you want him to be the one who gets the last word on the kid you loved like a son?’
Sheila dove behind a clothing rack as a bullet split apart the door jamb, right at eye level. Great. He was a decent shot. She crouched on her knees, her Glock in her hand and her heart in her throat.
She was shielded only by a mass of satiny shirts and pressed jeans. But she was also blocking the bastard’s access to the only exit. She scooted back until she hit up against a wall. The door was to her left and the costumes and the shooter on her right. But she coul
dn’t sit and wait for him to make a break for it. If he decided to keep shooting instead, she was toast. Even as bedazzled as they were, those shirts were not going to block a bullet.
She had to get eyes on him. She started to move a wad of denim aside. A shot ripped through the adjacent outfit. Now he was pissing her off. She shoved at the clothes, caught a glimpse and fired. There was a yowl. She’d be more pleased if she wasn’t pinned down like this. Either one of them could make a break for the door, but would then be completely exposed.
A lot of profanity and two more bullets flew at her from the other side of the room. One shot hit the wall near her ear. She got as low as she could and fired again. She heard the crack of what had to be the mirror on the far end. She’d aimed too high. She corrected and squeezed the trigger.
A dot of blood appeared at the tip of the knife. Hank kept talking.
‘He never had a family. He’d been in foster care since he was two years old. You were his first true home. You were the first one to treat him like a person, like a son. Don’t let that get thrown out the window. Don’t abandon him like all those other people did, all his life.’
The dot was rolling down the blade. Another joined it.
‘Be his family, Euford.’
Euford shifted slightly to look at Hank full on. ‘You think you can guilt me into telling you something? You don’t know anything about guilt.’
Hank almost laughed. Instead, he took another step forward. ‘Talk to us, or don’t. Either way, you’re under arrest. Either way, all of this goes away.’ His arm swept out toward the cavernous great room. ‘Either way, Patrick O’Connell lies in the morgue, waiting for family to claim him. Just like he did when he was alive.’
He turned away from both men and walked firmly toward the front door. Behind him, he heard a clatter and then a soft thump that sounded like a bag of laundry gently dropping to the floor. He kept going.
FORTY-SEVEN
Another yelp. She couldn’t see exactly where she’d hit him, but from the whimpers, it must’ve been someplace pretty good. But as long as he could fire that pistol, she wasn’t going to be able to get out of here. Or get him into handcuffs. He fired again. It ripped into her sleeve just above the elbow. She was seriously starting to consider emptying her clip into this asshole.
