Jon Talton - Powers of Arrest

“April, I am so sorry. Lauren was such a joy to have in class. I wish I would have had a chance to get to know her better.”

“Thank you,” the woman said. “At least they caught the monster who would do such a thing. Thank God.”

“Yes.”

They made small talk for ten minutes. April inevitably asked about the origins of Cheryl Beth’s accent. Then, “I’ve been so afraid something like this might happen. I told myself not to over-react, not to be the overbearing big sister…”

“What do you mean?”

“Lauren thought she was being stalked.”

Cheryl Beth sat upright.

“It started about a month ago. She told me this creep came onto her in a bar and she tried to give him a nice brush-off and he wouldn’t go. She finally ended up leaving, getting in her car, and driving off with the guy standing on the curb watching her. Then she started seeing him on campus. He’d follow her at a distance, but she knew he wasn’t walking there by accident, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t a coincidence. This happened twice.”

“Was he a student?”

“I don’t know. Lauren said he definitely didn’t fit in with the college crowd in the bar. He was older, she said, but he was in good shape. Oh, he was completely bald. She said he looked like Mister Clean, you know?”

That didn’t describe Noah Smith.

April said, “In the bar, he’d been all friendly and funny, but when he wanted to take it further and she said no, he got all weird. Then the stalking.”

Cheryl Beth asked if Lauren had notified the police.

“No,” April said. “She was forever blaming herself for things. She was afraid she’s been too provocative and flirty in the bar. Then she thought maybe she was imagining that he was really following her. But she was afraid. I can tell you that. I was about to come down there and make her go to the campus police when this happened.”

“Did you tell all this to Detective Brooks?”

“I don’t know who that is,” April said. “My parents got a call from the university and had to go down and…” A sniffle broke her control, “…identify Lauren’s body. They didn’t know about this. Lauren wouldn’t tell them. They’re very protective and she wanted to be independent. It makes me want to throw up.”

When the phone rang a little after seven, Cheryl Beth thought it might be April calling her back. She answered on the first ring and could hear the anxiety in her own voice.

No one spoke. She could hear a background of voices and telephones ringing, then a hand muffling the receiver. The peculiar dread of a mysterious call sanded her nerve endings.

Finally: “Cheryl Beth?” A man’s voice. A nice baritone, vaguely familiar.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“I’m not sure you remember me. My name is Will Borders. I was a patient at Cincinnati General when you were the pain nurse…”

She felt a catch in her throat and hesitated. Then, “Of course I remember you, Will. Tell me how you’re doing?”

“I’m doing well. I’m back at work, on the force.”

“I’ve seen your name in the paper and hoped you were all right.” She could hear more voices and phones in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m in homicide right now. Detective Dodds sends his best.”

A deeper voice called, “Hello, Cheryl Beth!” and laughed.

“Tell him ‘hi’ back.”

She heard a rustling and Dodds came on. “Are you still as beautiful as the last time I saw you?”

“Hello, Detective Dodds.” She laughed. “The last time you saw me I was beaten up and bloody.”

“You were the most beautiful beaten up and bloody I’ve ever seen. Anyway, I’ll give you back to Mister President.”

“Sorry,” Will said. “He gets very enthusiastic.”

“I can see that. Why does he call you Mister President?”

“Long story.” He paused. “Anyway, I’m walking. I use a cane. But I’m walking.”

“That is so great. I prayed for that, Will.” She blurted that last part out suddenly and then worried if she had gone too far.

After a long pause, Will said, “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time. I’ve wanted to call and check in. There’s no excuse for not doing it sooner.”

She smiled and said nothing.

He said, “I wonder if you’d have a drink with me sometime? It’s okay if you say no. I understand. I know this out of left field…”

“Will,” she interrupted, “I’d love to.”

“God damn you.”

Will glared at Dodds as the entire homicide unit erupted in applause and laughter.

“I didn’t even know who you were dialing at first.”

“You may call me J.C. the matchmaker,” Dodds said, a smug grin on his face. “You were too much of a chickenshit, so I had to do it for you.”

“Asshole. And stop that ‘Mister President’ shit. Now where do I take her?”

“Palm Court,” came one suggestion behind his back.

“Too formal,” Will said. “What will that make her think?”

“I dunno,” Dodds said. “Like you have class? How about the Precinct? Historic old police station, cop motif, all that.”

“Across the river,” Lieutenant Fassbinder said. “Nice view of the city.”

It felt good to be back in homicide again, in the fifth-floor offices leased from the county in the art deco tower at 800 Broadway that once housed the Cincinnati Times-Star newspaper. The old energy, the familiar faces, now everyone fueled with the adrenaline to catch whoever killed Kristen Gruber. Her name was written in red capital letters on the big white board that tracked the progress of the year’s homicide cases: unsolved. Immediately above it, also in red, was Jeremy Snowden, the cellist. That call early that morning seemed like a lifetime ago. In fact, the board had half a dozen names in red. All unsolved cases. The unit was already stretched.

Still, everyone was eager for a piece of this case. It was a murdered cop and, thanks to the television show, also a dead celebrity. Will went through the same briefing he had given the commanders before their press conference. Much was being held back, including that Gruber’s purse or wallet, cell phone, badge, and gun were not on the boat. Her keys were missing. The divers brought out sonar to search the river bottom for the firearm. Her clothes were aboard, neatly folded, but her panties were missing.

“Maybe a trophy taker,” Slamowitz theorized, picking his teeth as usual.

“Maybe she didn’t wear panties.” This from Kovach, who was one year from retirement and smiling for the first time Will could remember.

Fassbinder told LeAnn Skeen, the only woman in the unit, to be on the first morning flight to Myrtle Beach to interview the parents. Will knew he was reasoning, from experience, that a female detective would be better at coaxing information out of a grieving mother and father.

“Take your bikini,” Dodds said.

“I’d use one of yours, J.C., but your man-boobs are too big,” she said.

“Meet me at the Hustler store, baby.” He smiled lasciviously.

“Stop it, children,” Fassbinder said, “or I’m going to have a sexual harassment claim on my hands, probably filed by Dodds.”

“Always keeping the black man down,” Dodds said in mock severity.

For these minutes the unit had the snug feel of the old days. Amazingly, his old desk across from Dodds was empty, too, as if waiting for him. Dodds still had the homey needlepoint sign on the cluttered desktop that said, “Our Day Begins When Your Days End.” But everything had changed. Will had spent ten years in this office and now he felt like a stranger. He was off homicide and his real desk was over at headquarters. And even though he had received a round of applause when he walked in tonight, his first appearance there since getting out of the hospital, he knew they no longer really considered him one of them. He was the PIO, the guy on television, the one who walked with a cane. He sensed that at least some of his former colleagues wondered why the hell he was the lead on this case. He wondered the same thing. But he had cleared too many murders for this to be anything but an awareness leavened deep in the collective consciousness of a group used to working together.