Friend of the Departed

by Frank Zafiro

  “Were they close?”

  “Thad and Henry? Oh, I don’t think so. No more than with anyone else in the office. Perhaps a little bit more, due to the nature of Thad’s role. But I can’t be sure. Henry and I…as I mentioned, we haven’t spoken about very much of consequence during these last few years.”

  “Did you fight?”

  “No, not really. There really wasn’t much in the way of conflict. Our distance came about more as a long drifting. A little bit each day, each week, each year. Then suddenly you look up and the gap between you is monstrous.” Her face bore a sad expression. “We tried to stay friends, but that doesn’t really work. Friends talk about more than just the weather and basic household logistics. There were no children to fill the conversation or insulate that space. So it seemed that the same distance that was slowly killing our marriage ultimately did the same to our friendship.”

  “You should never have been married to him in the first place,” Jeni said quietly.

  Marie smiled. “No, perhaps not. Nor you to Walter. But even so, I mourned the loss of our friendship. As I said, Henry was a kind soul. He deserved a better marriage, and someone who could give it to him. He certainly didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  “You said he was kind. Was there anyone who didn’t like him?”

  “Not that I knew of, no. I’m sure there was, but I couldn’t imagine who.”

  Thad Richards, I thought. That’s who.

  Only I didn’t know if that was right, either. Even if Richards committed murder for the insurance money, that didn’t necessarily mean he hated Henry. It only meant he was greedy.

  “I haven’t heard anything about family,” I said, changing tacks. “Did Henry have any family nearby?”

  “No,” Marie answered. “Henry was a late baby, and both of his parents have already passed. He has an older sister who lives in Maine. Elizabeth is her name. She came for the funeral, but didn’t stay.”

  “I take it they weren’t close.”

  “I’d only met her once before,” Marie said. “On my wedding day.”

  “It all sounds very English,” I said.

  “Belgian,” Marie said. “His family name and roots come from Belgium. Though if I had to guess, I’d have to agree with you. On mannerisms alone—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  We all stopped.

  “Who could that be?” Marie asked, half to herself.

  She rose and walked to the door. I turned in my seat to watch her. Something pinged in my emotional radar but I couldn’t pinpoint what the response meant.

  Then Marie opened the front door and I saw who was there.

  48

  Walter Garrison stood in the doorway. His expression was neutral, but it was a forced neutrality, and it immediately worried me.

  “Hello, Walter,” Marie said easily.

  “Jen here?” Garrison asked, his voice tight.

  “Yes. Please, come in.” She stood aside and swung the door open wider.

  Garrison strode in. He wore a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting button down shirt that wasn’t tucked in. He held something cream colored in one hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Jeni said immediately, tension crackling in her voice.

  Marie’s expression turned to one of concern.

  Garrison looked from Jeni to Marie, to me. His eyes stopped on me for a long moment. “Who is this?”

  “He works for my lawyer,” Marie answered. “He’s asking me some questions for my case.”

  Garrison processed that briefly, and seemed satisfied. “Well, that’s just his bad luck, because I have some questions of my own.” He dropped the cream colored paper onto the coffee table. I saw that it was an open letter and envelope. Even from where I sat, I could see the flowing, feminine script of the writing on the stationery. “I found this.”

  No one spoke. Garrison glared at Jeni, waiting.

  “Walter, I’m sorry—” Marie began, but stopped when Jeni spoke up.

  “What do you want to know?” Jeni asked.

  Garrison clenched and unclenched his jaw repeatedly. Then he asked, “Is it true?” He motioned to the love letter on the table, then to Marie. “With her?”

  Jeni hesitated, but only briefly. Then she nodded. “Yes, it’s true. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? That’s the best you can do?”

  “It’s not your fault,” Jeni said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  Garrison’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “My wife has turned into a dyke, and it has nothing to do with me?”

  Jeni cringed at the epithet, but seemed to decide to ignore it. She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. It was a poor choice of words. I meant—”

  “Fuck what you meant,” Garrison said coldly.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that. Jeni recoiled from his words. Then anger flashed across her face. I looked back to Garrison, who was reaching into the small of his back. I didn’t need to wait to know what was there.

  “Bitch!” Garrison screamed as his hand came up with the gun in it.

  I launched myself from the chair, driving forward off my good leg. But it was my bad shoulder that slammed into his chest. The force of the impact made me cry out in pain. A loud, concussive bang filled the room, followed by the sharp odor of gun powder.

  We crashed to the floor in a heap. I reached out for his gun hand, found his wrist instead, and latched on. He twisted underneath me, his strong frame tossing me off the top of him. “Get out of my fucking way!”

  “No,” I said, simply.

  He scrambled to his knees and I struggled to stay with him. My grip on his wrist seemed tenuous at best, and I realized it was his right hand against my left. That was a battle I was going to lose.

  I threw a hard right straight into his mid-section. The top layer was soft but it was solid underneath. He exhaled in surprise and a little pain, but my punch didn’t slow him down. He rose the rest of the way to his feet. I used my grip on his wrist to haul myself up to stand in front of him.

  “Stop!” I said. “You don’t want to do this—”

  He punched me in the face with his left hand. It wasn’t a great punch, but it surprised me and I saw momentary stars. That gave him the opportunity to rip free of my grasp on his gun hand.

  “Walter, don’t!” Jeni yelled. “Stop it! This isn’t the answer!”

  Garrison heaved me aside with a giant push and leveled the pistol at his wife. “I fucking loved you,” he raged.

  Jeni stared back at him. Her body was trembling in fear, but her expression became both resigned and resolute. “No, you didn’t,” she said, her voice strong but uneven. “You loved things. And I was just another one of those things.”

  “That’s bullshit!” He punctuated his words with a jab from the gun.

  I stepped toward him, and he swung the gun back to me. “That’s far enough. Stay away. This doesn’t concern you. It’s between her and—”

  There was a blur of motion behind him, followed by a wet thump. Garrison’s eyes lost focus, and his arm fell. A half a beat later, he toppled to the carpet.

  Marie Brassart stood behind him, the white stone bust in her hand streaked with blood.

  49

  “Oh, Jesus,” Jeni Garrison said softly. “Oh, Marie.”

  Marie Brassart clutched the stone carving in her hand, staring back and forth between Walter Garrison’s crumpled form and Jeni’s surprised expression. “He was pointing the gun at you,” she said quietly. “He….he was going to hurt you, so I…I…oh, my.”

  She let the carving fall from her hand. It thudded heavily on the carpeted floor, bounced shortly, and sat still. Marie sank into the chair, shaking her head slightly in small movements, her eyes glazed in shock.

  A silent moment passed, then Jeni rushed to her. She wrapped her arms around Marie, squeezing.

  “It’s okay, baby,” she whispered soothingly. “It’ll be okay.”

  Mar
ie didn’t answer, but she began to sob soundlessly.

  I watched all of this as if it were some sort of performance for my benefit. Then my shoulder throbbed painfully, and that spurred me to action. I took one limping step and knelt next to Garrison. He lay perfectly still. Dark blood matted his short hair. I pressed my fingers to his carotid artery and waited for a pulse.

  There wasn’t one.

  “Everything will be all right,” I heard Jeni whisper to Marie.

  I looked up and met her gaze. Her expression implored me to tell her that she hadn’t just lied to Marie, that everything really would be all right.

  I shook my head, and Jeni’s face twisted into something profoundly sad. Tears flooded from her eyes and streamed down her face.

  “God help us,” Jeni murmured thickly. “God help us all.”

  My first call was to Harrity. His receptionist Maureen seemed to sense the urgency in my voice and put me straight through. I explained what had happened slowly and mechanically, surprised at how calm I remained throughout the conversation. Maybe it was a holdover from my days on the job.

  When I’d finished, Harrity was brisk and direct.

  “First, call the police. Tell the dispatcher as little as possible.”

  “How much?”

  “Just that there has been an altercation, and that someone has been killed in self-defense.”

  “They’ll push me for more, and try to keep me on the line.”

  “Hang up. Then leave the crime scene. The three of you can wait for the police on the front porch.”

  “All right.”

  “You know how the police will respond, correct?”

  I knew how I would have, years ago. “Yes.”

  “Make sure to tell the other two. We don’t want to complicate matters.”

  “Too late for that,” I said.

  “Further,” he said. “I should have said we don’t want to complicate things further.”

  “What about after the scene is secure?” I asked. “They’ll take us all to the station.”

  “Of course they will. And I will meet all of you there.”

  “So say nothing?”

  “Marie should say nothing. Just ask for me. You and Mrs. Garrison should also ask for an attorney, but I can’t represent either of you.”

  “Because we’re witnesses.”

  “Yes.”

  I thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t see why I can’t tell the police exactly what I saw and did. I didn’t do anything wrong, and neither did Marie.”

  “If I were your attorney, that would be my advice to you. But I have to ask that you restrict your statement only to the events that happened in the living room, and not divulge anything regarding my client’s case.”

  “All right.”

  “Can you compartmentalize your statement in that way?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know if Jeni can or not.”

  “That should be a conversation between her and her attorney.”

  “Understood.” I hung up, and turned to the two women. Both were now staring at me with red-rimmed eyes. I wondered how much of the conversation they’d heard. “Listen up,” I said. “This is what we have to do.”

  And I explained it to them.

  50

  Things went about as I expected them to. The dispatcher was efficient. She tried to get more details from me, but I hung up. She called back, and I told her again that we were all on the porch and that the gun was still inside. She asked if I was sure he was dead. I told her that unless he could halt his heartbeat on demand, I was pretty sure. She didn’t like that and her next question had a snappish tone to it.

  I hung up.

  Patrol units arrived in a frenzied rush. The officers approached with exaggerated caution, fanning out and flanking us. I saw two with shotguns and one with what looked like a short version of an M-16. One officer called to the three of us in a loud voice, directing each of us in turn to walk toward their position. I figured they considered me the biggest threat, so I went first.

  As I got close, the voice bellowed at me to turn around. I did so slowly. When he directed me down to my knees, I looked over my shoulder at him. “I’m a witness,” I said.

  He pointed the M-16 directly at me. “On your knees!”

  I turned away and lowered myself to one knee. I winced as my second one hit the ground.

  “Now fall forward and catch yourself with your hands,” M-16 barked.

  I did. My shoulder cried out in protest but held.

  “Hands out to the side,” M-16 commanded. “Palms up.”

  I complied.

  “Cross your ankles.”

  I crossed them, then waited for what I knew was coming next. First there was the tramp of feet. Then the weight of two officers fell upon me. The worst was the heavy shin across the back of my neck, pinning my head to the ground. The downward pressure crushed my cheek to the grass, making me glad this wasn’t happening on asphalt.

  They pulled my arms behind my back. I winced from the shoulder pain, jerking my whole body.

  “Don’t resist!” one of them said

  I didn’t bother explaining that I wasn’t. It wouldn’t matter.

  The cold metal of the handcuffs snapped around both of my wrists. Rough hands frisked my beltline and pockets before sliding down each leg.

  “Clean,” said the same voice that had warned me not to resist.

  I heard the nearly silent three count pass between them before they stood simultaneously, jerking me to my feet. The force of the motion caused my shoulder to flare in pain and I winced again.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Old injury,” I gritted.

  He didn’t answer, and the two of them bustled me back down the driveway to a waiting police car. They performed another search of my person at the car, this one more thorough, and removed my wallet and my keys. Then I found myself in the back of the patrol cruiser.

  From there, I watched the same process occur twice more, once for Marie and once for Jeni. Even though they’d known what to expect thanks to my briefing, they responded awkwardly to the officer’s commands. Despite that, it appeared to me that the two responsible for taking them into custody went a little easier on them than they had on me. I was glad for that.

  Once the three of us were secured, there was a long wait while the officers formed a tactical plan and went into the house. I knew that as soon as they’d determined the scene was safe, they’d lock it down, call detectives, and take us to the station.

  Five minutes later, an unmarked police car arrived and parked right behind the car I was in. A single figure exited, and headed leisurely toward the house. I spotted the light blue sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, tinged with white.

  As he drew close to the car, he peered in casually, then stopped and did a double take. He obviously recognized me. By then, he was close enough that I recognized him, too.

  Sergeant Rick Hunter.

  I’d known him passingly when I was on the job. He’d worked swings and I was on graveyard, so our interaction was limited to crossing paths in the locker room before or after shift, along with the occasional training session. He’d always been something of a self-righteous prick back then, and when he got his sergeant stripes, he made less of an effort to disguise it.

  The last time we’d met had been a couple of years ago, when he was on scene at a motel where a woman had supposedly committed suicide. I was there because of a case I was working for a hockey player named Phillipe Richard. Hunter wouldn’t tell me anything about the situation, and ordered a young officer to escort me from the scene. It didn’t matter. I knew she’d been murdered without him telling me.

  Now, Hunter stared through the back window at me, his eyes cold and calculating. After a minute, he shook his head slowly in disgust, turned, and headed toward the house.

  Fifteen minutes later, officers began straggling back toward their cars. I knew they’d leave one at the inner perimeter of the crime
scene and a couple on the outer perimeter, but that still freed up most of those that had responded. First, the owner of the car Marie was in returned, and headed off with her. Jeni’s escort went next.

  I waited.

  Within a few minutes, an officer sauntered toward the car I was in. I recognized him when he was a few feet away. Aaron Norris.

  And the hits just keep on coming, I thought.

  Norris actually wasn’t such a bad guy. Not the hardest worker, and kind of a smart ass, but I never had any run-ins with him during or after my time on the job. But I hadn’t come across him since then, so I didn’t know what his reaction was going to be. And if Hunter got to him…

  Norris popped open the back door. “Come on out. I need to search you.”

  I opened my mouth to say that the other officers already did, but stopped. It didn’t matter. He was transporting me, and he hadn’t done a search yet, so he would. It was a matter of safety. More than that, it was standard procedure, and if I’d done a better job of sticking to it years ago, my life would have been a whole lot different. So would Amy Dugger’s.

  “Now, please,” he said, putting the slightest bit of steel into his tone.

  I slid across the plastic covered seat and planted my feet on the ground. With some effort, I rocked back and then forward to get up and out of the car. It was surprisingly hard with my hands behind my back. Norris caught me on the forward swing and gave me some extra momentum. Then, wordlessly, he turned me to face the car at the rear wheel well.

  Without being told, I spread my legs shoulder width apart. The motion made me feel a little dirty, because I knew it was the practiced action of a criminal familiar with police procedure. But Norris didn’t comment on it. He checked the handcuffs first, loosening both of them by a single ratchet click.

  “Better?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Goddamn rookies don’t stop until they hit bone,” he muttered. “No finesse to any of them.”

  I didn’t reply, mostly because I remembered slamming on the handcuffs pretty hard on a few occasions myself.