Frank Zafiro - Some Degree of Murder

“You may think you’re some kind of supercop, Tower, but I got news for you. You screwed up this crime scene worse than any rookie could. You failed to keep me updated on developments in your case, even when you had to know you had a serial killer situation. And from what this Osmond kid is telling Billings right now, Lieutenant Hart is going to have you in Internal Affairs for an ass-reaming. I wouldn’t plan on staying in Major Crimes much longer, if I were you.”

“Whatever,” I muttered.

“What was that?” Crawford asked, his tone sharp.

I fixed him with an even gaze. “I said, whatever. Lieutenant.”

Crawford eyed me for another long moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue listing my sins for me. Maybe adding insubordination to the list. Finally, he spat on the ground next to my feet, shook his head and stalked away.

As I watched him go, Browning touched my shoulder. “You’re taking on the Crawfish now?”

“I’ve got no time for his bullshit.”

“You need to go home, John. I’ll have a uniform give you a ride.”

“No, I can drive.”

Browning pressed his lips together.

“Unless you’re holding my car,” I said.

Browning thought about for a minute, then shook his head. “All you did was call radio from it, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I’m not holding it.”

I nodded my thanks, but Browning held my gaze. “I just need to know something from you, John.”

“What?”

“Mistakes aside, can I investigate this knowing that everything is squared away?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Browning didn’t stop looking at me. “It means that aside from the business of not bringing in backup or other detectives and whatever happened at that kid Osmond’s house, is everything square on this case?”

“It’s all square.”

“And you’re sure?”

I gave him an unwavering stare directly into his eyes. “You ever known me to lie, Ray?”

Browning slowly shook his head.

“Okay, then,” I said and turned away. My stomach felt like there were streams of acid roiling inside it and my chest was heavy. I started walking toward my car.

“John!”

I turned back to Browning, wondering if he’d have his gun in one hand and his cuffs in the other. But he only stood at the front of Crawford’s car, watching me.

“Yeah?”

“Brittany. The girl inside is named Brittany Gardner. I thought you might want to know.”

My throat constricted and I couldn’t answer out loud. Instead, I gave him a nod of thanks and walked to my car. When the engine started up, I could feel the wetness on my cheeks and was surprised at it. I cruised slowly out of the outer crime scene and under the perimeter tape that the uniform officer lifted. He looked sixteen years old, though I knew he had to be at least twenty-one to be on the job. I hoped briefly that he hadn’t noticed the tears on my face, then I didn’t care.

VIRGIL

Her eyes stared up at me as I held her in my hands. The eyes were bright and blue, a sense of excitement dancing behind them. Her lips were forever frozen in a large beaming smile, exposing perfect white teeth. Several freckles dotted her checks and a small dimple showed on the right side of her face.

“I did it, Fawn,” I said softly to the picture.

I was sitting alone in my hotel room, in the same chair Gina’s body had warmed only an hour before.

The tears stung my eyes and rolled down my face.

“I’m a fuckin’ pussy,” I mumbled to myself. I tucked her picture into my jacket pocket and wiped my eyes with the palms of my hands.

With a quick snatch, I grabbed my bag off of the bed and left the hotel room.

Gina met me down in the hotel lobby. She stood when she saw me get off of the elevator. She wore her black sweatshirt with Levi’s and white running shoes.

“You all right?” she asked.

”Yeah.”

She slipped her hand into mine and escorted me out to her beat-up Toyota which sat behind a black limousine with the Davenport logo on it.

I tossed my bag into the trunk before climbing in to the passenger’s seat. Gina started the car after a few mis-fires and we pulled away from the curb.

“Listen,” she said, “I hope you know you can trust me.” Her eyes flicked over to me and then back to the road. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking that you took a big chance by asking me for help.”

I watched her as she spoke.

“You might have done that without much thinking down the road. So now you’re wondering how you make sure I won’t say anything.”

Gina changed lanes to get around a slower Mercedes. “I just want to let you know that you don’t have to worry about me. You did this for your daughter. I helped you for Serena. The goal was the same. I’m in this as much as you.”

I faced forward and looked out the window as she pulled into the parking lot of the combination Greyhound/Amtrak station. She swung the car around into a parking spot near the front of the building. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the car off.

We sat quietly for a few minutes until she spoke. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here’s a drop box in case you need to get a hold of me. I check it once or twice a month, so don’t expect an immediate answer.”

She pulled the piece of paper from my fingers and read it. “Who’s Dave Semenko?”

“It’s just a name on the P.O. box. An old hockey player.”

“Is Virgil your real name?”

“Virgil is as real as I’ve got anymore.”

Gina reached over and slipped her hand behind my neck. She pulled me into her and kissed me. Her lips parted for me one final time. When we broke, her eyes were wet and she patted me on the leg. “You need to catch a train.”

I rubbed my thumb gently over her lips. “Thanks,” I said softly and climbed out of the car.

TOWER

The days were getting longer. That’s what the woman on the radio said to start out her one-minute plant advice radio spot. The days are getting longer and all of our green leafy friends will be enjoying more sunlight.

I switched off the radio and shifted in my seat. The parking lot at the Oak Avenue Open Bible Church was empty except for a 1970 or 1971 Chevy Nova parked right next to the office entrance. Being it was a four-door, I figured it belonged to the Church Pastor.

Traffic was sparse on Indiana Street just to the north and no one paid any attention to me parked in the far corner of the parking lot under the yawning limbs of an oak tree. I glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, then back out through the windshield. The silence inside my car was heavy and I lowered the window to let in some of the outside world. The rumbling hum of the car’s engine mixed with the occasional sounds of traffic and the voices of children down the block on Oak Avenue.

I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. Echoes from the last twenty-four hours rang in my ears and images flashed unbidden behind my eyes.

Brittany Gardner’s slack mouth and bloody thighs.

Virgil Kelley’s hard eyes.

The crack of a Glock and the wet splat of Rowdy’s head being torn apart.

Lieutenant Crawford’s cigar smoke and sarcasm.

Ray Browning’s doubt.

Then, this morning, came the long list of questions from Lieutenant Hart in Internal Affairs, who had supplanted Browning as the primary investigator of what was now termed an “incident.” Browning was to re-investigate the Fawn Taylor case and the Serena Gonzalez case, as well as the shooting of Cody Heinz. Lieutenant Hart would review all three for any violations of policy or any improprieties.