THROWDOWN
by Doug Sutherland
Copyright © Doug Sutherland 2016
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication, (other than brief passages for review purposes) may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher.
First published 2016 by News-Cast.Com Inc.
Cover design by Melchelle Designs
To Maureen
Contents
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20
21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30
31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40
41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50
51 | 52
About the Author
Also by Doug Sutherland
1
Frank Stallings stopped short as soon as he got through the main doors to City Hall. Things had changed. The period ambience of the vaulted nineteenth century lobby was marred by the stainless steel and plastic of a security barrier. Empty plastic trays were stacked on the counter next to a free-standing security arch on the right. The counter was manned by a bored looking rent-a-cop he didn’t recognize. The guy didn’t recognize him either, giving Frank a stern look that didn’t go very well with his age – he was young, early twenties – or his pudgy frame. Frank automatically glanced at the guy’s beltline, checked for a sidearm. He didn’t have one, which at least indicated that Hizzoner Ed Cunningham and the rest of the city fathers hadn’t completely lost their minds. Even though the guard wasn’t armed all the pouches and paraphernalia that festooned the wide belt signaled that he wanted to be. Another closet commando, Frank thought.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
The guard sounded impatient with Frank’s unhurried scrutiny, like he had things to do beyond sitting in an empty lobby. He was stocky, in his thirties, with a noticeable paunch that stopped just short of spilling over the outsized buckle on his utility belt.
“Yeah, I do. With the mayor,” the kid was looking at him without a flicker of recognition, “my name is Stallings.”
Frank stifled his annoyance while the guard made a show of consulting a clipboard. Frank hadn’t been away that long, and he figured chances were the guy knew damn well who he was. Small town police chiefs got their pictures in the local newspapers once in a while–especially the ones who got caught up in small town scandals. Assuming this kid read newspapers or anything else.
“May I see some photo ID, sir?”
Frank looked at him for a long moment and then dug out his wallet, extracted his driver’s license, handed it over. The guard squinted at it like he’d never seen one before, then looked up and stared hard at Frank. Frank had been a cop a long time and there was no way the kid could beat him at that game.The guy folded up, broke eye contact.
“Just put the contents of your pockets, anything metal, in the tray, sir.”
Frank sighed and emptied his pockets into the plastic tray, then took off his watch and his belt and dumped them in too. For a moment he wondered what the guy’s reaction would have been if he’d casually dropped the Python in there. He’d dutifully turned in his department issue Glock along with his badge, but the big .357 was his personal gun and he wasn’t giving that up for anybody. He still had a carry permit for it but left it at the house most of the time. Just as well–this guy didn’t look smart enough to have a sense of humor.
He was standing on the other side of the archway now, wand in hand. He impatiently gestured Frank through, as if he was extremely busy and pressed for time. Frank looked around at the empty lobby, then stepped through and the guy waved the wand over him. Finally he stepped back.
“You’re good.”
He motioned Frank toward the counter. Frank scooped his wallet and keys out of the tray, retrieved his belt and put it on. The guard waited and then handed him a laminated card on a blue nylon lanyard. It said VISITOR.
“Just turn it in when you leave.”
Frank was taking his time now, just to piss him off. He dutifully put the lanyard over his head.
“How much do you reckon all this cost?” he asked, waving a negligent hand around him, “I thought the town was short on money.”
The guard stared blankly at him for a moment, then gestured in the direction of the hallway.
“The mayor’s office is – ”
“I know where it is.”
Even so Frank nearly took a wrong turn, automatically starting to open the door that led to the stairwell, led downstairs to the floor occupied by the police department – his department. He’d been the chief here for nearly five years, had gone through that door virtually every day up until a few months ago. Depending on who you believed he was either on an indefinite leave of absence or by now was just a bad and distant memory. It was long past time for a straight answer.
He wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Jeff Wagner’s phone message had been brief, delivered in a characteristic growl. He’d arranged today’s meeting between Frank and Hizzoner Ed Cunningham so they could ‘put an end to this bullshit’.
Frank’s first reaction had been to blow off the meeting. The only reason he didn’t was that Wagner had gone to the trouble of setting it up. Jeff Wagner was the town Medical Examiner and one of the very few people in Strothwood who had the juice to do that – not to mention the even smaller number of people so inclined. Frank didn’t want to think about whatever political capital Wagner must have expended to make it happen. You find out who your friends are, he thought, and found himself in front of the door to Cunningham’s office. He opened it and went into the reception area.
Julie looked up from her desk, her smile fading as she saw who it was.
“Jeez, Julie, you look like you’re going to call Security or something. It’s just me.”
It came out a little more harshly than he’d intended. Over her left shoulder he could see the door to Cunningham’s office was closed.
“They should have told you downstairs,” she said.
“Told me what?”
“I’m sorry, Frank,” she didn’t look sorry at all, “Ed had something come up and he had to leave.”
Frank just stared at her, lost for a response. Julie avoided his eyes, maybe bracing for some kind of verbal explosion. He’d always liked Julie, even been attracted to her. She’d already been a fixture in the mayor’s office when Frank had first arrived in town. He remembered his initial shock when he’d walked in for his first interview for the chief’s job – she was beautiful, saved only from Barbie doll caricature by a genuinely warm smile and blue eyes that radiated intelligence and humor. Frank wasn’t unaccustomed to beautiful women – it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been ditched by one – but he was sure that he hadn’t been able to mask his reaction in time. The wry look on her face had told him she was used to it and didn’t much care one way or the other.
She was different now – or at least different with him. Over the years they’d been in virtually daily, job-related contact,and they’d developed a casual, easygoing rapport. There’d never been anything beyond that – she’d married young, as most women did in Strothwood – and Frank had kept a suitable distance.
Now that distance seemed much greater.
“I had an appointment,” he reminded her.
Even to his ear it sounded stupid, pathetic. Ma
ybe getting his job back meant much more to him than he thought. It obviously didn’t mean much to anybody else.
“I know, Frank. It was an emergency,” she read his expression, saw the question coming, “he didn’t say what it was.”
Frank knew Ed Cunningham pretty well after a few years working for him. Ed had an aversion to confrontation, which probably meant that the meeting wouldn’t have gone well anyway. Ed hadn’t survived as mayor this long by telling people what they didn’t want to hear. He’d survived by getting other people to do it.
Not Julie’s fault, Frank reminded himself. He kept his tone as pleasant as possible.
“Well, we can reschedule,” he attempted a smile but didn’t quite pull it off, “I have quite a bit of free time right now.”
She either didn’t get it or didn’t want to.
“I’ll have to check with Ed,” she told him, “he’s out of town later this week.”
She didn’t make a move for Ed’s Day-Timer, which Frank knew she kept open on her desk. When Frank was chief that would have been automatic, and accompanied by profuse apologies and light-hearted banter about Ed’s absentmindedness. She’d always been the day to day brains of the operation, holding things together while Ed was off shaking hands and kissing babies.
Frank had turned around and was headed for the door when he realized she was talking to him.
“I did try to call your house to let you know–”
He kept on going.
2
Billy Dancer had been walking for a long time and he was tired. He wasn’t used to the exercise, not after all that time in the hospital. They’d finally let him out this morning, asked him if he had anybody he could call for a drive home, but he didn’t feel right about calling Frank and Frank was the only person in town Billy could ask. Frank had been released a long time before Billy and he’d never come back to see him. Billy figured Frank must think it was Billy’s fault they’d gotten shot. Maybe it was.
Billy didn’t remember much about what had happened. They’d been real careful about letting him out of the hospital, told him he had to stay in the wheelchair until they got outside. Billy had lost a lot of weight but he was still so big that he hardly fit in the chair. It took an orderly and a nurse to get him settled, and when it was time to go the nurse had come along too. Her name was Ellen, and she was really nice to him now even though when he first came in she’d acted like she was afraid of him or something. Once they’d pushed him outside and helped him out of the chair the orderly had just taken the chair back inside but Ellen stayed, looked up at him with a worried look on her face. He hadn’t seen a look like that for a long time, not since his aunt had passed away. He was really glad to be outside in the fresh air but he felt bad to be leaving. Most women were scared of him but Ellen wasn’t, not anymore.
“Frank’s a friend of yours,” she said, “he should be here.”
She seemed to know Frank – he’d been in the hospital too, just not anywhere near as long. Billy didn’t think she liked Frank much.
“I’m okay,” he said finally, “I like walking.”
She got a funny look on her face like she thought he was lying.
“I have to get back to work, Billy,” she put her hand in her pocket, came out with a crumpled ten dollar bill, pressed it into his hand, “get a taxi, alright? They pull in here all the time.”
Before he could say anything she gave him a quick, awkward little hug – her head didn’t even come up to his chin – and then turned away and walked inside. He stood there, watched her go back through the glass doors, then looked down at the money in his hand.
He decided to walk home anyway. He’d never been in a taxi in his life, and right now the ten dollars she’d given him was all the money he had.
3
Frank stared into the black hole yawning in front of him. Six inches of rifling, lands and grooves, all the way back to the tip of a bullet he couldn’t see, would never see if he let the hammer drop and the .357 wadcutter took him all the way into infinity.
There hadn’t been any drama about it. He’d just been cleaning the damn thing, killing time, and when he’d finished putting it together and reloading it the muzzle had swung around, seemingly of its own volition. The Python was a big, old-fashioned wheel gun, long and heavy and harshly beautiful, and finally he lowered it and turned the muzzle away.
Impulse. Frank had spent his adult life dealing with the consequences of impulse, most of it as a homicide cop in Pittsburgh, more recently as chief of Strothwood’s tiny police department. The difference now was that the consequences and the impulses that led to them were his own.
He looked down at the gun, thought of how a single moment could change it all. He’d seen the aftermath of moments like that too many times–cop, no cop, gun, no gun, pills and booze, bad landings from too great a height, carbon monoxide – didn’t matter how it happened or who it was, it was always unspeakably ugly and there were always, no matter how solitary the act had been, at least two victims. The first was the suicide and the second was whoever came upon what was left.
The knock on the door was sudden and loud. He stuffed the big revolver out of sight, between the arm of the old chair and the seat cushion. Infinity could wait.
He wasn’t surprised when he opened the door to find a red-faced Jeff Wagner standing there. Wagner gestured back toward his own irregular footsteps in the snow-filled driveway. His big Crown Vic sedan was parked out at the side of the road.
“Jeez, Frank, you a hermit now too? I could’ve had a heart attack trying to get in here.”
“All you had to do was call.”
“What, and then you were gonna rush right out and clear a path for me?” Wagner snorted, “Besides, I did call – you never called back.”
“Sorry,” Frank said, and meant it. Wagner had left a terse message for him a few days ago, telling him he’d set up an appointment with Cunningham and to make sure he got his butt down there. On time.
It was a minor miracle that Frank had gotten the message at all. Usually when he heard the phone ring he just ignored it. He had answered everything at first, but there were only a couple of calls he really wanted to get. Instead it was always something mundane, usually a canned message from some boiler room trying to sell him something, and the only way he’d managed to ride down the roller coaster of anticipation and disappointment a ringing phone generated was not to pick the damn thing up in the first place.
Wagner shouldered his cadaverous frame past Frank and through the entryway.
“What is it?” Frank asked.
“Nice to see you too,” Wagner growled, taking off his vintage fedora and slapping it against his thigh, heedless of the snow that flew onto the floor. The place was a mess anyway and a little snow wouldn’t make a difference.
Frank glanced outside, then closed the door.
“So how’d it go?” Wagner asked.
“It didn’t.”
Wagner looked at him quizzically.
“He wasn’t there. Julie said he got called away suddenly.”
“Bullshit,” Wagner grunted.
“Yep.”
“You get another appointment?”
“Nope.”
“Well, make one. He can’t dodge you forever.”
“He’s been pretty good at it so far.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, Frank.”
“Not your fault, Jeff, you tried.”
Frank meant that, too. Wagner had gone to bat for him, pestered and shamed Cunningham into agreeing to a meeting. Human nature was human nature, and Frank had found himself hoping the meeting would result in his getting the chief’s job back. He’d done nothing illegal, had done his job, but had caught some public blowback in the process. To a political animal like Cunningham that was enough.
“You want a drink?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Wagner followed him into the kitchen. Frank pulled a half-empty bottle from the cupboard, grabbed a coupl
e of water glasses and set them on the table. Wagner didn’t bother taking off his coat, just sat down in a battered straight-backed chair, torn red Fifties vinyl on the back, and watched him pour the drinks.
“So why are you here?” Frank asked.
“I’m the friggin’ Medical Examiner, aren’t I?” Wagner reached for one of the glasses, “I’m just being proactive. Thought I’d come by to make sure you hadn’t blown your brains all over the wall.”
Frank felt a flash of guilty embarrassment, actually glanced over his shoulder to see if Wagner could somehow have seen the little tableau from the porch. He didn’t think so, but Wagner was watching him now, watching him as if he knew. Frank just shrugged, kept his voice bland and even.
“No, I’m good. I just haven’t been around, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
There was something knowing in Wagner’s eyes but then he seemed to make a decision to let it go. With Wagner that would take an effort.
“Who said I was worried? I’m just being a conscientious public servant,” Wagner made an attempt at a casual tone but didn’t pull it off very well, took a long sip from the glass to cover himself, “ better for a trained professional like myself to find a mess like that than some poor neighbor lady or paper boy. Something like that traumatizes the shit out of normal people.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“Uh-huh. So what have you been doing, Frank?” he glanced disdainfully around the disarray in Frank’s kitchen, “it sure as hell hasn’t been spring cleaning.”
“You saw the snow. It isn’t spring yet.”
“Yeah, it’s late this year,” Wagner nodded, “that what you’re gonna do now? Hole up every winter, never come out ‘til the snow melts?”
Frank shrugged. The truth was he didn’t know what he was going to do. They sat there in silence for a moment.
“You gotta snap out of this,” Wagner finished his drink, stood up, “look, I’ve accomplished my mission. I’ve determined that you’re still alive, if you call this living. The only medicine I practice anymore is cutting up dead people, but my professional diagnosis is that you’re fucked up. Go see a real doctor, get some drugs, talk to somebody. I can sure as shit tell you’re not gonna talk to me.”
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