Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

He came to the volleyball nets. He shouted, “Hey! I’ve got an emergency,” as he came to the back foul line, but his voice was breathy and strained, and it sounded to his own ears like a casual comment rather than an alarm. The young man who had just served stole a quick glance in his direction, but his eyes did not seem exactly to see Mallon, only to note his position as a possible obstacle, then return to the ball. The other team tipped the ball up once, then again, this time lofting it above the net to set for their center forward man to spike.

Mallon kept going. At the edge of the grass along the road, he saw three young women getting out of a car. He was afraid to run at them, because he knew he must look wild and deranged. He walked toward them and said, “Please, if one of you has a cell phone, please call the police. I’ve just seen a murder.”

One of the cops was about forty, and the other was in his twenties. Mallon had seen him before, a blond man riding a bicycle on State Street in a uniform with short pants and short-sleeved shirt that showed chunky reddish forearms and calves covered with fuzzy blond hair. The purposeful way they got out of their car and stepped toward him, fiddling with the gear on their black leather belts, made it look as though they were preparing to subdue him.

They both stood close to him and the older man said, “Did you place an emergency call, sir?”

“Yes,” Mallon answered. “I asked this young lady if I could use her phone.” He turned to indicate to her that she should join them, but he didn’t see her. “She must have left.”

The two cops looked around them, and seemed to notice the volleyball people who had gathered on the grass nearby. The older cop put a big hand on Mallon’s shoulder and conducted him closer to the police car, while the younger cop took a step toward the gaggle of young people, not saying anything, just swinging both hands, palms upward, in a sweeping motion. They turned and walked off toward the volleyball court marked on the sand, having understood from the young cop’s signal that order had been restored and nothing else of interest was going to happen.

Mallon fought to overcome the air of imperturbability that he sensed in the police officers. “I was walking on the beach, maybe half a mile up that way. A man-an older guy-and a young woman were coming toward me from the other direction. The man pulled a gun out of his jacket. There was a boat offshore, and somebody with a rifle shot the man. He fell down, and the person shot him again. The woman ran to the water, swam out to the boat, and they took off.”

“Why?” asked the older cop. “What was going on?”

“I don’t know,” said Mallon. “I don’t understand any of it.”

“Is the man who was shot alive?”

“No,” said Mallon. “Not alive. He’s definitely dead. There’s a big hole through his back and out his chest.”

“Where’s the body now?”

“I left it there. He was dead, and I knew you wouldn’t want a murder victim moved.”

“Let’s go take a look.” He opened the back door of the car.

Mallon stood still and shook his head. “It’s down there. On the beach.”

“We can get there from above.”

Mallon got into the car. The older policeman drove, and the younger one sat half-turned in his seat to stare at Mallon. He had a pen and a small notebook. “Let’s get some preliminaries while we’re on the way. Your name, sir?”

“Robert Mallon. M-A-L-L-O-N.”

“Address?”

“It’s 2905 Boca del Rio.”

“That a house or an apartment?”

“House.”

“Age?”

“Forty-eight.”

“Phone?”

When Mallon gave him the number, he asked, “That home or work?”

“Home. I’m retired.”

The young policeman moved down his dull list, merely extending it into the crime seamlessly. “And you did or didn’t know the victim?”

“Didn’t. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A jacket. Like a windbreaker. It was tan, that material they make trench coats out of. Khaki shorts. A pair of sneakers.”

“What about a hat?”

“Yes. A baseball cap, with a crown that was made of netting. It’s white.”

“And you said he had a companion?”

“A young woman. Twenty-five, thirty at most. Maybe five feet three. She was wearing a black bathing suit. It was a two-piece, but not like a bikini. There was a little more to it.”

“Can you describe her?”

“Yes. Dark hair with sort of a curl to it, so it wasn’t quite frizzy, but kind of stuck out. It was about to her shoulders when she was in the water and it was wet.”

“How old was the victim, again?”

“I don’t know. At least fifty-five, but I would guess closer to sixty-five.”

The older policeman had driven them up along the road beside the cemetery, and now he slowed down and turned into it. He said, “We can see down to the beach from up here.”

They got out of the car and walked past gravestones toward the trees at the end of the last row of graves. Mallon oriented himself by the sun, and marveled at his not thinking of this. Of course the beach would be somewhere beyond the edge of the cemetery. The ocean didn’t stop because there was a cemetery, and then resume later along the road near the Biltmore Hotel. They reached a bluff above the ocean. The older cop said, “Watch your step.”

Mallon walked up beside him and they approached the edge together.

“Tide is way in now,” said the older cop. Mallon looked down. The tide had risen, and seemed to have eaten up the rest of the beach.

“Is this about where you left the body?” the younger one asked.

Mallon did not like the question, but he was aware of seconds passing, and insisting on certain ways of saying things was not going to help him with these two men. “Things look different from up here.” He stepped closer to the edge and looked along the shore toward the city, then in the other direction. “I think this was about it, though.”

“Where do you suppose it went?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably under the water.”

The young cop turned and trotted back toward the car. The older cop stayed with Mallon. “There’s no chance he just got up and walked off?”

“No,” Mallon insisted. “No chance.”

“You ever see anyone shot before?” He was staring hard into Mallon’s eyes.

Mallon returned his gaze. “Not close up. I never saw anything like this.”

“What did the wound look like?”

“He was shot through the back. It was a hole in his jacket, and his chest was blown open right here.” Mallon touched his own chest at the sternum. “And there was lots of blood, and more stuff from inside that came out with it. It looked like pieces of the heart or something. I tried to feel a pulse, and couldn’t. I think he was hit twice, because there were two shots, and he kind of jerked at the first one and fell down. The second was the one through the back, after he was on the ground.”

The older cop nodded and they walked back into the cemetery, toward the police car. The younger cop was standing beside it, still talking into the radio microphone. He ended the call and said to his partner, “We’re going to have some help looking. They’ll be here in a few minutes.” He turned to Mallon. “What we need to do is get a really good description of the boat. Did you see the registration number?”

Mallon stopped for a moment, and tried to bring it back. He could see the boat, but the numbers he knew had to be painted in black letters at the bow were just not in the memory. “I should have looked for it. I just didn’t.”

“Any name painted on the stern?”