The touch of murder, p.25
The Touch of Murder, page 25
“Well, I’m going to ask anyway. Why’d they drop the charges against you?”
“This shit again.” Dylan looked skyward. “Like I told your partner, I got no idea why they dropped the charges, and I don’t fuckin’ care. All I know is I’m free—and I should be free. Cuz they weren’t my fucking drugs.”
“Wait—my partner? Veronica was here?”
“Yeah, asking the exact same thing. But she’s smart, not like you. She knows why I was let go. She knows.”
Veronica knew something all right, more than she was letting on. That’s why Kristin called her when Dylan was let go.
But what?
“Did Veronica say—”
“No more fucking questions, Fatso. I’m celebrating tonight.”
Dylan pulled the door open and began to turn, but Freddie grabbed him before he could slip inside.
“You sure they weren’t your drugs, Dylan?”
Dylan tried to pull away, but Freddie squeezed the back of the man’s arm.
“Fuck off.”
The ex-con straightened to his full height, all six-foot-nine inches, and Freddie let him go. Dylan was still gaunt but no longer sickly.
“I said, fuck off,” he repeated. No longer desperate to be inside, Dylan seemed to be challenging him.
But Freddie didn’t want to fight. Instead of throwing a punch that would have likely ended with him having both a sore stomach and sore jaw, Freddie opted to pull out his cell phone. With Dylan watching on confused, he scrolled through years of photographs. Once he found the one he was looking for, Freddie shoved it in Dylan’s face.
“The fuck is this?”
“You recognize this kid?” Freddie demanded.
“I don’t know who the fuck that is.”
“Look closer.”
Freddie moved the phone even closer to Dylan, but the man had had enough. He slapped it out of his hand, and it fell to the ground.
Freddie made no move to pick it up.
“Yeah, you do, I know you do,” the detective said. “He was one of your runners. Just a young kid, whose dad worked too much, maybe, and was rarely home. A kid looking to fit in somewhere. You found him, and you used him. Groomed him to work for you. He was just a fucking kid.”
Dylan’s expression had been hard before but now it was granite.
“Really? You’re going to talk to me about what it’s like to be a kid?” Dylan let go of the door completely and took a step forward. He towered over Freddie. “You’re going to tell me that some fucking silver spoon trust fund little shit with daddy issues who ran drugs is my problem? That I did something to him?”
Freddie saw red and pulled his gun. Dylan didn’t react.
“Are you sure they weren’t your drugs, Dylan?” Freddie wasn’t pointing his gun at Dylan, per se, but he wasn’t pointing at the ground either.
“What are you going to do, Fatso? You gonna shoot me? Yeah? Or maybe you’re just going to set me up again?”
Freddie faltered.
Did he know? Did Dylan know it was me who planted those drugs? If he did, why didn’t he say anything?
The reality of the situation hit Freddie in the solar plexus harder than any DEA Agent’s punch.
What the fuck are you doing? he asked himself. What the fuck are you doing?
So much had changed.
He’d been a good cop once. Not a great one, not Peter Shade great, but a good, honest cop. And everything had to fucking change.
That fucking night… that fucking traffic stop, that fucking anonymous tip.
Fuck! Fuck!
He thought it was going to be easy to get Dylan to roll over. It had been easy with Braden.
But Dylan wasn’t Braden. Dylan had been through some shit. Some real fucking shit.
Shit that had changed him, too.
Freddie put the gun back in his holster.
“No,” he said dryly. “I’m not going to shoot anybody.”
“Then I’m going inside.”
Freddie let Dylan go and when he was gone, he reached down and picked up his cell phone. He was surprised to see that the screen had landed face-up and that it wasn’t broken.
A young, familiar face stared up at him.
His son’s.
Not Randall’s, but Kevin’s.
Freddie cursed and angrily pressed the sleep button, darkening the screen.
That night, that traffic stop had cost him nearly everything. His brother-in-law, his wife, his kids, his health.
But he saved his son, which made these sacrifices worth it.
There hadn’t been a single moment during all the preceding years, months, weeks, days, hours, or even seconds that Freddie regretted that decision.
Until now.
And the question that rose in his mind, made Freddie hate himself: How different could things have been if I’d just done my job and booked Kevin instead of convincing Braden to take the fall for him?
Chapter 55
“Where’s your partner? Where’s Detective Furlow?” Officer Court Furnelli asked as he slipped into the passenger seat of Veronica Shade’s car.
“Can’t get a hold of him. Left a message but haven’t heard back yet.” She looked at the man with a dark beard and even darker eyes. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”
Court had been putting in long hours, even longer than Veronica. Yet, while he looked tired, he still somehow managed to give off an air of freshness. One day, he’d make a hell of a detective.
“No problem.”
Court informed her that he’d seen at least two figures inside watching TV. At around eight-thirty, he saw one of them retire to what he assumed was a bedroom. Probably Max’s room, and while he was fairly certain that the boy had gone to bed, the room was still fairly well-lit.
That made sense; the boy was afraid of the dark.
Afraid of the monster.
While they watched and waited, Veronica examined the image from LeeAnn’s funeral that Court had sent her. She compared it to Max’s drawing of the monster he’d seen eviscerating Jake Thompson.
“Yeah, it was him alright,” Court said, even though Veronica hadn’t spoken. “Max drew both of them.”
The line work was similar, and although the monster was less realistic, it showed some improvement over the drawing he’d done about six months ago.
The subject, however, couldn’t have been more different.
There was the monster with a large, protruding, almost simian forehead, small red eyes, and puffy cheeks. Then there was the angel of sorts, petite and delicate. It appeared as if Max, while a decent artist, was still learning about space and proportion. He had drawn the angel too large, and the wings were slightly stunted compared to the size of the person who was clearly meant to be the boy’s mother ascending to heaven.
They were wings not lungs, but if you squinted…
If that wasn’t enough, there was the text at the bottom of the page, written in a childish hand: Freed from her sins.
“Are you a religious man, Court?” Veronica asked, staring at the two images, side-by-side. This question undoubtedly broke some HR rule—while Veronica wasn’t technically Court’s boss she was definitely his superior—but she didn’t care. If the young officer could overlook the fact that she’d practically accused him of being the department leak, then they were on good enough terms to discuss taboo work subjects.
And if Court minded, he didn’t show it.
“I mean, I won’t profess to be a devout Catholic or anything like that. But I am Italian, and I go to church on Easter and Christmas. I believe in God, so I guess… yeah, I’m religious. How about you?”
Veronica just scoffed.
Religion…
Father James Murphy came to mind then, his wide face infiltrating her thoughts.
Religion…
She was convinced that this case still had links to the church despite the newest development. For once, it hadn’t been her synesthesia that tipped her off, nor her prejudice, no matter what Freddie thought, but her intuition.
Veronica glanced at the Taylor house, her eyes falling on the illuminated front room. According to her partner, Father Murphy had been more than eager to provide them with a list of all Grace Community employees and volunteers.
Where was that list? Freddie had it… didn’t he?
And if he had it, which Veronica was fairly certain he did, then Freddie would have looked for the Taylors on that list.
Wouldn’t he?
Then again, why hadn’t I just asked them if they went to church? Veronica wondered. I should have asked.
She nibbled on the inside of her cheek, wondering if she should call Freddie and inquire about the list. A year ago, this would have been a no-brainer and Veronica wouldn’t have hesitated. Now, things were different. Their relationship had improved somewhat since Freddie had been reinstated but it was far from perfect.
Would asking him to double-check be taken as an insult?
Veronica shook her head and she scolded herself.
The reality was it didn’t matter what Freddie thought. What mattered was making sure that whoever was behind these murders didn’t kill again.
Her thumb moved from the image of the angel to her recent calls, and she clicked Freddie’s name.
When there was no answer this time, Veronica left a message asking her partner to specifically look for a record of any of the Taylors having worked in the church. She added a curt thank you at the end, just in case.
Silence. As soon as she hung up the phone, the interior of her car was blanketed with an uncomfortable, oppressive silence.
“Just ask it,” Veronica said, feeling Court’s eyes on her. “Just ask whatever you want to ask.”
“I… I feel stupid.”
“Do you want to stay a police officer forever, Court?” Veronica said, cringing at her own condescension.
“No—I want to be a detective.”
“That’s what I thought. And I think you’ll make a good one.” Condescending to patronizing in a single sentence. Great. Great work, Veronica. “Truth is, I’m tired, you’re tired. Unless you’re going to ask me out, just say it, Court. Wait—you’re not going to ask me out, are you?”
Court flushed.
“Hell, no,” he said with a half chuckle.
Veronica pressed her back into the seat.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, no, I mean—it’s just the sheriff and then, like, Cole, you know? I didn’t—I—”
Veronica laughed and she struck Court playfully on the shoulder.
“I’m messing with you. You’re not my type—too nice. Way too nice.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“You need to lighten up, Court. This job… it’ll kill you if you aren’t careful.” Condescending, patronizing, now lecturing? Keep it up, you’re on a roll. “Anyways, what were you going to ask me?”
“It’s—the boy. On the phone, after I sent you the picture, you sounded…” Court sighed, and he finally spat out the question he’d been meaning to ask. “You can’t possibly think that little boy is behind this, do you?”
Veronica understood Court’s apprehension, and maybe to someone else, the question would have been dumb.
But not to her.
Was an eleven-year-old capable of slicing open someone’s throat? Maybe. Were they capable of pulling the lungs to the back? Probably not.
But were they capable of murder? Were they capable of deciding who in their family got to live and who got to die? Would they grow up and shoot a person in the head when a bullet in the arm or leg or stomach would’ve been enough? What about shooting an unarmed man on a bridge?
Definitely.
“Detective Shade? You okay?”
“I’m sorry, just tired.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know. Probably not, but I don’t know.”
This time, Veronica welcomed the silence. The two of them sat in the car, staring at the Taylor residence, not saying anything.
Eventually, exhaustion got the best of her, and Veronica fell asleep.
She dreamed of a bear chasing her. Only when it was right up behind Veronica and she turned around, it wasn’t a bear at her heels at all.
It was herself.
Chapter 56
An elbow in the ribs awoke Veronica from her slumber.
“Sorry, but—”
“What is it?”
Instead of answering, Court just pointed out the window. Veronica blinked the last vestiges of sleep away.
“The man left through the back door.”
Veronica leaned forward, moving her face closer to the windshield. There was a hooded figure moving away from the house.
“Is it David or Alex?”
“Couldn’t tell. Too dark.”
Whichever Taylor it was, he was walking at a good clip—he was already halfway down the block.
Veronica’s eyes darted back to the house. Aside from the front room, it was completely dark.
“Should we follow him?” Court asked.
The answer was obvious. They should follow him. They had to follow him.
But that would leave one brother behind.
And a son.
“No, we shouldn’t.” Court had a confused expression on his face. “You should. Stay close, follow him, but don’t interact unless absolutely necessary. I want to know where he goes, what he does. Got it?”
If nothing else, Court was a man of pure professionalism when called upon. He nodded without hesitation.
“Stay safe.”
“You too.”
Court slipped silently into the night, falling into step behind either David or Alex Taylor. She watched the two men until they dissolved into darkness. And then she wasn’t sure what to do.
Sitting in the car was a nightmare. Veronica hated waiting around.
“Fuck.”
Why didn’t I go? I should’ve gone instead of Court.
But deep down, she knew why. It was because of Court’s question.
You can’t possibly think that little boy is behind this, do you?
Veronica had detected no trace of violence when interviewing Max—either from him or his father. But the boy…
The car seat protested as she shifted her weight.
LeeAnn’s memorial card was clearly a link. The picture with the stunted wings and the quote.
Not a coincidence, no way.
Veronica was reaching for the door handle, intent on heading inside and confronting whichever Taylor brother was still in the home, when the front door opened.
She froze.
While it was impossible to tell if the man whom Court was pursuing had been Alex or David, there was no question who this was.
Same black hoodie, but it was about half the size.
It was Max Taylor.
Now, Veronica was pressed to make another decision.
Although, this one was much easier than the previous one. It took her all of two seconds to decide what to do.
Careful not to make any noise, Veronica opened her car door and slid out. Shoulders hunched, she followed eleven-year-old Max Taylor in the same direction that Court had gone earlier.
It was a chilly night, and she did her best to cover her ears with her shoulders to keep them warm.
Back in the car, she’d asked Court if he was a religious man. He’d answered in the affirmative, but when the question had been posed to her, she’d refrained.
That answer, of course, was no, unequivocally.
And yet, as Veronica followed Max towards Needle Point on foot, she found herself muttering something under her breath.
Something foreign.
It took her nearly two full blocks to grasp what it was.
A prayer.
Not an official one, not a Hail Mary or an Our Father, but a plea to a higher power none the less. And wasn’t that, in essence, all a prayer was? A call for good fortune or luck from an element outside of our control?
Whatever it was, be it a plea, an appeal, an invocation, prayer, petition, or request, Veronica couldn’t help herself.
She wanted, above all else, for Max, no matter how improbable, to be completely ignorant of Jake’s, Cooper’s, or Frank’s deaths.
Because, as Veronica knew better than most, once a killer, always a killer.
***
Court liked Veronica. She was strange, no doubt about it, but unlike most of the other Greenham cops, she didn’t seem to care whether he was young or fresh out of boot camp. All she cared about was that he did good work. And so far, Court thought he’d done just that.
But while he was pleased with his work ethic, his social graces still needed work. Veronica had tripped him up when she’d joked about going on a date. She was attractive—very attractive—and they were both young, perhaps two of the youngest in the entire department. But Court wasn’t interested in her—not like that. He wanted to learn from her, and, in some ways, he wanted to be like her, but he didn’t want to be with her.
Court wasn’t so disillusioned that he thought he could ever be as good as her—he didn’t have her particular skill set—but he had one advantage that she didn’t, something that Veronica herself had already commented on.
No one would ever argue for a life growing up with a meth-addicted mother. But one thing that Court learned very quickly from this very situation was that there were only really two choices in life: adapt or die. And with his mother living in a constant state of flux, her unpredictable and sporadic behavior a cycle of intoxication, withdrawal, and pursuit, no matter the time of the day, adaptation for Court meant rearranging his sleep cycle. Court only slept when his mother was completely out of it. One, two, at most three hours at a time. If he was lucky, over the course of a day, he might have three or four of these sessions. Over time, his body adapted to this segmented schedule.
It wasn’t until much later on that Court learned that this had a name: polyphasic sleep. He could rest in small chunks throughout the day, whenever was most convenient, and appreciate the same restorative effects of people who went to bed at eleven and woke up at six.
Court didn’t have much to thank his mother for. He didn’t blame her for what she did—Ida Furnelli was a sick woman. Very sick. But his ability to sleep in short bursts came in handy as a cop.
