Frank Zafiro - Heroes Often Fail

In the refrigerator, he found a bottle of Corona beer. He tossed the three pills into the back of his throat and washed them down with the cold beer. Then he drained the entire bottle.

Inside the fridge, he was relieved to find five more bottles patiently waiting. He reached for the next one.

1504 hours

Tower watched through the observation glass as Browning read deliberately through Fred Henderson’s confession. He marveled at how Browning was able to remain objective and to ignore the current of emotion surrounding this case. It was a difficult task for Tower.

“Where’s my wife?” Fred asked Browning.

“Jail,” Browning murmured, not looking up from the written confession.

“What was the charge, exactly?”

Browning raised his finger to quiet Fred and continued reading.

Fred waited.

Several minutes later, Browning nodded with satisfaction. “You did well, Fred,” he said, sliding the sheaf of papers across toward the man. “I just need you to sign the bottom of each page.”

Fred stared at him for a moment, then sighed. He picked up a pen and scrawled his name on each piece of paper. He handed them back to Browning.

“Now what?” he asked.

Browning straightened the hand-written pages and slid them into a manila folder. “Now we talk about what else you did to Amy.”

Fred’s face fell. “I told you everything.”

Browning shook his head. “That’s just not true, Fred. Our forensics people did a preliminary examination on her body. They suspect she was abused.”

Fred’s eyes flicked to a spot on the floor. “She was…hit with a hammer. That could look like-”

“Sexually abused.”

Fred said nothing. He swallowed and tapped his foot.

“Did you have sex with Amy, Fred?”

“Answer him, you fucking pervert,” Tower whispered to himself, alone in the observation room.

Fred didn’t answer.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Browning said. “The charges of kidnapping and accessory to murder are enough to get you a good twenty years at Walla Walla State Prison. A molestation charge, even your second one, won’t top that.”

Fred raised his hand to his face. He used the back of it to rub his nose.

“Did you have sex with Amy Dugger, Fred? Tell me.”

Fred rubbed the itch on his nose with greater determination.

“Just let it loose, Fred,” Browning urged. “Show me that this truth-” he gestured to the manila folder containing the confession “-is the truth. Don’t make me wonder now. I already know the answer. I just want to hear you say the truth so that I can trust what you told me before. That you didn’t kill her. That you shouldn’t be put to death for that.”

At the word ‘death,’ Fred stopped rubbing his nose and met Browning’s gaze.

“Tell me, Fred,” Browning pleaded. “For your own good. Did you have sex with Amy?”

Fred held his gaze. He wet his lips and swallowed again. “Maybe,” he whispered, but quickly added, “But she wanted me to.”

Browning looked at him with plain disgust and said nothing. Tower felt rage well up in his gut and flow into his chest. He moved before he even thought about it.

“I think…I really think I need help — ” Fred’s voice followed him as he left the observation room and made for the interview room. Without waiting for an answer, Tower swung the door open.

“Stand up,” he ordered Fred.

“Now?” He looked over at Browning and back at Tower.

Tower didn’t order him a second time. Instead, he grabbed the man by his upper arm and jerked him upright.

“Hey!” Fred jerked his arm away.

Tower didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and pushed Fred hard. The taller man flew into the thick wall, striking his head against it. Tower brushed Fred’s chair aside and stepped toward him, his fists balled at his side.

“Don’t hurt me!” Fred squealed. He looked to Browning for a rescue.

Browning sat still and said nothing.

Tower grabbed onto Fred at the wrist and the elbow and slammed him face first into the wall. “Don’t you fucking move,” he growled.

Fred remained still, waiting. His breath came in short, terrified gasps.

Tower paused, his jaw set, his fist cocked and trembling at his side. He felt Browning’s eyes on him.

“Please,” Fred moaned in a small voice.

Disgust overpowered his rage. Tower snatched his handcuffs from his belt. He ratcheted them around Fred’s wrists. Then he twirled the man around and pushed him backward into the corner. Fred slid down into a squatting position and turned his face away from the detective.

Tower glanced at Browning. The veteran investigator said nothing.

Tower squatted down next to Fred. His angry glare burned into the suspect. “You think you’ll play that sicko card, Fred? I don’t think so. Because I think Nancy’s got that one all sewn up.”

“W-what?”

“I’m not buying this Mister Milquetoast routine,” Tower grated. “Nancy’s crazy enough to want to do all this, but not smart enough to figure out how. You’re the brains behind this operation.”

“No, she-”

Tower lashed out, smacking the side of Fred’s head with his open palm. The man recoiled and tried to shrink further into the corner.

Tower continued, “I think you’re the mastermind. And when we’re done with this case, Nancy will be in the nut house and you’ll be left holding the bag. Because a jury is going to want to hammer someone badly on this one. Trust me. And with her off in a straightjacket somewhere upstate, you’re the only one left to pay.”

Fred whimpered.

“You can play up this meek little mouse act all you want. The jury will want someone to pay and that will be you. You’re going to prison for the rest of your fucking life.” Tower let a cruel grin spread across his face. “And that’s when the fun begins.”

“I’m sick,” Fred protested weakly.

Tower shook his head. “I don’t care. We’re not going to charge you with the molestation, Fred. Just the kidnapping and the murder. You know what that means?”

Fred moaned but didn’t answer.

“Yeah, you do, you sick fuck. You know exactly what it means. You’re not going into some cushy prison wing with all the other sexual sickos.” Tower’s grin became a malevolent leer. “You’re going into the general population.”

“No.”

“Yes. Yes, you are. You’re going into the general population and everyone is going to know you kidnapped a little girl. They’re going to know you raped her, Fred. And that you dumped her body in a field.”

“Don’t do this,” Fred begged.

Tower ignored his plea. He smacked Fred in the shoulder. “How do you think all that’ll play out in D Block? You think you’re tough enough to deal with that?”

Fred hung his head and sobbed.

Tower eyed him with disgust a moment longer, then stood up.

“Get used to crying,” he told the man. “You’ll do a lot of it before someone decides to punch your ticket.”

1702 hours

Jill Ferguson watched the television news. The news had reported earlier that Amy was the girl that had been found in a field in West Central. Kathy’s little baby girl was gone forever. Upon hearing that, the first thing Jill did was gather Kendra into her arms and hug her for a solid fifteen minutes. She didn’t tell her about her friend’s fate and she wasn’t looking forward to eventually having to find a way to do that.

The news anchor on the television delivered his lines with polish. “And now we take you to News-5’s own Shawna Matheson for a breaking story regarding the murder of Amy Dugger. Shawna?”

The screen switched to the field reporter, who stood in front of the courthouse with a microphone in her hand. Jill turned up the volume.