MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Page 12

  So, what did I do? Nothing. That’s a sour pill to swallow when considering that I’m now partly responsible for another man’s death. And I’m not at all sure I can cover up Amy’s second murder. I’m not at all sure I should. It crushed my soul just thinking she could have done this again, but like I said, we took vows, and somewhere in those many word-filled commitments, I remember saying: In sickness and in health.

  * * *

  By the time of Amy’s second murder, I was no longer working homicide. A gunshot wound ended my days on the streets. I could still contribute—even participate in a few investigations (mostly older, unsolved, cases)—but I no longer had the legs for the type of door-to-door work needed to cover the homicide beat.

  Jenna White was the detective in charge now, overseeing many of the new cases. She often jumped between missing persons and homicide, since one case led to the other frequently enough. Nobody in the department had the experience she had—given the fact that she’d lost her daughter to a kidnapping a few years earlier. Maybe it was the past that gave her a hard look and an even harder demeanor, but she saw through everything and connected clues that were invisible to the rest of us. Without a doubt, she was one of the better detectives and not just hanging around to collect a paycheck.

  “Morning,” Jenna said, passing my desk, the smell of fresh coffee following her. With her summer-red hair, she wore a striped top that matched her gray slacks and as usual, she kept just enough buttons open to keep things interesting. The tune she was humming told me that today was going to be one of her better days.

  She’d confided in me once about her days—and how the bad settled in on most while the good occasionally made a brief appearance. Today would be a good day because the past would forget about her, or she’d forget about the past. I wasn’t sure how she’d worded it, but the net result was the same: today was a better day. She sat down at the desk next to me, the song she was humming slipped softly from her lips. “Good day, Sunshine…”

  “Beatles?” I asked, recognizing the melody. She smiled, and a light flush came to her face. I smiled back, glad to see her more cheerful. She was an excellent detective, but that’s all she was, having given up on most everything else in her life. “Good song, haven’t heard it in years.”

  “Beatles marathon on the radio,” she admitted, turning to face her computer. The top of her shirt separated just enough to catch my attention. I couldn’t help but notice, but I turned back to my screen and to my thoughts about the man Amy murdered. When Jenna’s screen came alive—a glow showing on her face—I peered over for a glance. As suspected, she was working the case that had me up nights: the murder of Garret Williams. Like the buttons and the homeless man, it was the evidence found on his body that could produce the biggest clue—Amy’s ring. My Amy.

  I’d only seen it one time before, but I recognized it immediately. And once I recognized the it, I knew that my one chance at saving Amy, saving us, would be to steal the ring before Jenna reviewed the collected evidence. I just had to figure out how to get it without being caught.

  To make matters worse, Garret Williams was one of us, a police detective. My wife had murdered a cop. That’s capital murder, meaning a lot of eyes on the case and eligibility for the death penalty. Complicating the case, Garret wasn’t just any cop; we had worked together. He’d been to my house—he had met my kids and had met Amy. She didn’t just kill some random stranger this time. But why was Amy even with him? What was the connection? I closed my eyes, cringing, my gut chewing on a million terrible thoughts.

  Amy’s ring—a gaudy, ugly and nearly indescribable thing—was something I’d come upon quite by accident. She’d said it was a gift, a friendship ring, and that I shouldn’t make fun of it. We were struggling back then, having just lost a baby, and when I saw her expression, I could see how important the ring was to her, and I had the crazy idea of buying a pendant or earrings to match. Without Amy knowing, I’d snapped a picture of her ring and started my search in hopes of finding any jewelry to match. The station was the safest place to do a discreet online search for similar jewelry, and that’s when Jenna got a memorable glimpse of Amy’s ring. Standing behind me, staring at my screen and shaking her head, Jenna quickly agreed; it was one of the ugliest rings she’d ever seen.

  “Sentiment does have a way of making things beautiful,” she’d said, placing her hand on my shoulder. “But ugly is ugly, and I doubt you’ll find anything to pretty-up that much ugly.”

  “Funny,” I’d replied in a warning tone. “Don’t you have some cases to catch up on?”

  It was the smallest of exchanges, the kind that fills our days—often spoken in passing and easily forgotten. But like I said, Jenna was an excellent detective, and that meant she was dangerous, too. I knew once the ring showed up in the evidence, she’d know who it was that killed Garret Williams.

  * * *

  “Steve, you okay?” Jenna asked, noticing my hands at work kneading my thigh. “You’re going at it kinda hard.”

  I shook my head, saying nothing and rapped my leg impatiently like an animal chewing on a dead limb. Since the shooting, I’d lost most of the feeling and mobility there. While the doctors made no promises of what might or might not return, I’d also made no plans of letting my hopes up. I decided this would be the best it was going to get and that I needed to live with the handicap. Smacking and picking at the tender muscles was a habit I’d formed, stirring a wave of pins and needles and ridding any momentary numbness. And, like a smoker, I’d also found the habit helped me to think.

  “Good days... and bad days,” I said, hoping she’d pick up on the meaning. “Ya know?”

  “I do,” she answered plainly, but her eyes showed concern. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Jenna turned her focus to her screen and clicked through the reports on the Williams case, selecting the coroner’s folder and a collection of files. I recognized the summary and scene reports as well as the autopsy, but I couldn’t be sure when the ring had been collected or if any pictures had been taken yet. I leaned in some more, trying not to get noticed. In the case of the homeless man and the buttons, I’d swiped the buttons before forensics received them. With no photographs and no analysis, there’d been no evidence. The same could be true for Amy’s ring.

  I mirrored Jenna’s moves, clicking to open the same reports. Our computer screens became a carbon copies of one another. I searched for any pictures across the different folders, scanning the file names, recognizing our station’s template files and the occasional spreadsheets for crime-scene inventory. But I found no image files. I’d leaned too far, putting an unfamiliar strain on my leg. I tried ignoring the needling sensation, but sweat beaded on the back of my neck—a response to the lightning turning my skin into electricity. I shook but held my place a moment longer.

  A quick click and preview of the spreadsheets, and I saw no line items describing Amy’s ring. I dropped forward, perspiration running down my nose, my lungs cramped for air. I had a chance of getting the ring before any processing could be done. I knew the guard who manned the evidence cage, Jimmy Blume—a drinking buddy from our academy days. He owed me for helping him pass, but did he owe me enough to let me into the cage? It was near noon, and I knew he didn’t inventory new cases until after lunch. A new flash of lightning rode up my leg and into my crotch, causing me to double over and groan.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Jenna asked. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I’d had worse, but this was bad. She stood to come over, and I jabbed my hand out, crashing down on my mouse to close the windows on my screen before she noticed the Williams case files. “Steve, you’re really sweating. Should I get some help?”

  I shook my head, strangely thankful to have an excuse for getting up. “I think I’ll have to walk off the spasms,” I told her, swiping at my brow. “Will do me some good to move.”

  “Okay. If it’s not too much when you get back, would you mind helping me go over some of this?” she asked
, nudging her chin toward her screen. “Not sure I’m seeing everything.”

  “Sure thing,” I said and pushed up on my desk, struggling to stand. The standing up was just an excuse to go to the evidence locker, but the pain was real.

  * * *

  Jimmy Blume was a monster of a man. I’d often thought he might be too big to be a cop. Maybe standing guard at the evidence locker was the perfect job for him. Big, and not necessarily bright, he had an equally big heart, making it easy for me to want to help him at the Academy. While most in our class had moved on to become detectives, Jimmy floundered. By now, I think he’d worked every beat there was to work wearing the uniform. And, as it turned out, Jimmy’s assignment at the station as a guard over the evidence locker might just be one of the luckiest happenstance moments in my life.

  “Mr. Blume!” I yelled, startling him from his usual slumped posture. He dropped a crinkled newspaper and stood at attention. I shook my hands and limped out of the narrow hallway’s dim light, adding, “Just me, Jimmy. Relax.”

  “Scared me is all,” he answered sheepishly. “Gets too quiet down here.”

  “Any good news in the world?” I asked, pulling the newspaper around. The headline was a few days old, and the corners of the paper had already begun to fray. Curious, I lifted the front page to find a Marvel comic book beneath. I gave Jimmy a stern look. He bit his lip and furrowed his brow. “I think I like what you’re reading better than what’s in the newspaper.”

  “Not gonna say nothing?”

  “What you read in the cage, stays in the cage,” I answered, knocking my hand against the metal. I turned the comic book back around to face him.

  “Thank you, Steve,” he gave me one of his simpler smiles. “I get bored sometimes, and I like the pictures.”

  I nodded my understanding and leaned onto my good leg, trying not to wince. Lifting up onto the plank of wood that separated us, I scanned the room behind Jimmy. The evidence locker was more like a room than a cage, but I guess the name was a fit across all police stations. The door separating the outside from the inside was the Dutch door variety, divided in the middle with the top open and the bottom made to accommodate a small table for receiving and signing out the evidence. A small metal fence covered the open areas and gave us an excuse to call it the cage. Inside, I saw a well-worn chair where Jimmy sat, the seat sagging under a flattened cushion. The rest of the room was filled with rows and rows of shelves stretching front to back and rising from the floor to the ceiling. There was a step stool in the corner—the handle caked in a thin layer of dust. Jimmy could touch the ceiling easily enough, so he’d likely never had a need for the stool.

  “Checking something out?” he asked, readying a clipboard and clicking the end of a pen.

  “Not sure,” I answered while I continued to survey the room. In the corner, near his chair, I saw what I was looking for. An old cardboard box, the words ‘Received’ scrawled across the front. The box was filled with slender envelopes and thick, chunky bags. It was the evidence waiting to be inventoried. Amy’s ring was in there somewhere. There was a pinched feeling in my gut—anxious and gnawing. I breathed a heavy sigh and prepared myself. I was about to break the law again, and, like before, it didn’t sit well.

  I looked Jimmy straight in the eyes. He glanced away, uncertain. After a moment, his gaze wandered back, and I could sense that he was uncomfortable. After shifting about, he finally asked, “What? You gonna say something to the Captain ’bout my reading?”

  I shook my head again, reassuring him. “Jimmy, I’ve got to ask a favor,” I told him and directed my focus to the box next to his chair. “Evidence hasn’t been checked in yet?”

  “Not till this afternoon—” he began and shifted uncomfortably again. “—after lunch. Same time, every day. Captain’s order so I don’t forget to do it. Why?”

  He sounded protective, but I wasted no time and got to the point, “Need to see one of them bags,” I told him.

  “Not supposed to do that, Steve,” he answered. “Once it’s in the box, I have to inventory the items before anyone’s allowed to check ’em out.”

  “I only need it for a couple of minutes,” I said, lifting my voice in hopes of persuading him. “Hey, Jimmy, who’s always helping you when they can?”

  Jimmy dipped his chin and picked at the frayed newspaper. “You do,” he answered, sounding dutiful. “You promise? Only a few minutes, right?”

  “A few minutes,” I answered and clapped his arm. “Damn, Jimmy, got some muscle in your arms... have you been working out?”

  He smiled, distracted by the comment, and lumbered toward the box, snatching it from the floor in a single, swift motion. “I lift the weights at the gym sometimes. After my—”

  “The Williams case,” I interrupted, knowing I was pressed for time.

  “Williams case?” he asked, shaking his head. “That one’s not checked in yet... was told it’d be in this afternoon.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, raising my voice. I took hold of the table and felt my arms go tight. “Should be here! Check again, Jimmy!”

  A momentary look of hurt came over Jimmy’s face, but it quickly turned to anger as he dropped the box and rose up, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders with the door. Jimmy always slouched. I’d forgotten about that. Standing as he was now—defensive and on guard—he filled the doorframe. I shrunk back onto my heels.

  “Hard of hearing?” he asked, a peculiar look in his eyes as he wondered about the saying or what he was supposed to say next.

  “Okay,” I told him and motioned to settle down. “Sorry. Captain wanted something checked early. It’s my ass too, you know.”

  “Then you need to talk to Detective White,” he scolded, his voice becoming soft as he returned to his usual slouch.

  My heart sank. The energy in me drained in a single wave. “Detective White has the evidence?”

  Jimmy nodded and flipped the corner of the newspaper to open his comic book, dismissing me. “Said she’d bring it by this afternoon. Needed to review something first.” My legs turned to mush, and I fell forward onto the half-door and tried to brace myself.

  “Steve? Is it a heart attack? I’m sorry I raised my voice to you. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “You’re good,” I told him, patting his arm again. “Thanks for giving the evidence a look. I’ll talk to Detective White.”

  With nothing in hand and nothing else to say, I turned around and limped away. And as I entered the dark hallway, I heard the chair groan beneath Jimmy’s weight.

  Jenna White had the evidence. She had the ring, and I knew why it was she wanted my help.

  * * *

  The stairs leading back to my desk felt wobbly and abysmally impossible to climb. I gripped the railing, my knuckles turning white, and slid each foot upward a step at a time. It was torture. As the doorway neared, I saw the faces of my children. I saw the sad years ahead without their mother; a feeling of betrayal nestled in every memory like a parasite. I imagined being a single father—driving lessons and proms and graduations. Alone.

  But what if Amy mentioned the homeless man? What if, during her arrest and interview, she decided to confess everything? An image of her ugly ring slammed into my skull like a bullet and nearly toppled me over. The doorway blurred, and the steps went out of focus. I hiccupped, and the sour taste of metal filled my mouth. My chest collapsed under the force of an invisible weight. For a moment, I thought Jimmy might be right. I thought that maybe I was having a heart attack.

  I had to protect myself, too, and make this work. Get the ring and make it all go away. I’d have to ask Jenna to forget what she’d seen. Ask her to break the law and let a murderer go.

  “Steve?” I heard Jenna say. Her voice sounded distant, but my vision had begun to clear. I’m having a panic attack, I told myself as I forced my eyes to focus. My breathing came in rasps, and my heart walloped like a drum thumping mercilessly in my ears. “Steve, I think I need to ge
t you home.”

  “Help me to my desk,” I said, reaching my free hand toward her voice. Her slender fingers found mine, warm and sturdy. She clutched my hand and braced my arm, letting me lean onto her as we limped together toward my chair. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  “This is more than your leg, isn’t it?” she asked and helped me to my seat. The view of my desk remained hidden in a gray blur while my heart slowed and eased back to a steady rhythm. I heard the sound of water and once again felt Jenna’s warm touch as she cradled my hand and led me to a cool glass. The station’s humid air had already turned the surface outside wet. She patted my head with a paper towel and asked, “PTSD?”

  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I hadn’t considered the diagnosis, but having been shot and almost died, I probably should have thought of it.

  “Something like that,” I answered. “More about the pain, though. Still a struggle. I should have used the elevator. I know better, but just don’t trust that old rattling cage.”

  “Color is coming back. You look a little better,” she said, pressing her palm against my chest. “Pulse isn’t as thready either.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I told her, feeling the warmth of her skin near mine. I suddenly felt uncomfortable with her so close to me. “Appreciate the helping hand.”

  “Can we talk, now?” she asked. Immediately, my eyes focused like laser beams on a target, and all woes ailing my body were dismissed as I mentally prepared for what was coming. “Found something on the Williams case that I need you to look at.”

  “Sure,” I said, playing along, and then eased my chair around as she went back to her computer. She opened her desk drawer and pulled on an evidence bag, lifting it and placing it carefully onto my desk. I moved my keyboard and mouse out of the way while scanning through the clear plastic for what had been collected from the Willams murder. “You do know this should have been checked in.”