Sandra Brown: Ricochet

The judge’s elbows were braced on his knees, his head down. He was speaking softly to a cop named Crofton, who was balanced tentatively on the edge of the sofa cushion, as though afraid he might get it dirty.

“Elise went downstairs, but that wasn’t unusual,” Duncan heard the judge say in a voice that was ragged with emotion. He glanced up at the policeman and added, “Chronic insomnia.”

Crofton looked sympathetic. “What time was this? That she went downstairs.”

“I woke up, partially, when she left the bed. Out of habit, I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was twelve thirty-something. I think.” He rubbed his forehead. “I think that’s right. Anyway, I dozed off again. The…the shots woke me up.”

He was saying that someone other than he had shot and killed his wife. Who else was in this house tonight? Duncan wondered.

“I raced downstairs,” he continued. “Ran from room to room. I was…frantic, a madman. I called her name. Over and over. When I got to the study…” His head dropped forward again. “I saw her there, slumped behind the desk.”

Duncan felt as though a fist had closed around his throat. He was finding it hard to breathe.

DeeDee nudged him. “Dothan’s here.”

Dr. Dothan Brooks, medical examiner for Chatham County, was a fat man and made no apology for it. He knew better than anyone that fatty foods could kill you, but he defiantly ate the worst diet possible. He said that he’d seen far worse ways to die than complications from obesity. Considering the horrific manners of death he’d seen over the course of his own career, Duncan thought he might have a point.

As the ME approached them, he removed the latex gloves from his hands and used a large white handkerchief to mop his sweating forehead, which had taken on the hue of a raw steak. “Detectives.” He always sounded out of breath and probably was.

“You beat us here,” DeeDee said.

“I don’t live far.” Looking around, he added with a trace of bitterness, “Definitely at the poorer edge of the neighborhood. This is some place, huh?”

“What have we got?”

“A thirty-eight straight through the heart. Frontal entry. Exit wound in the back. Death was instantaneous. Lots of blood, but, as shootings go, it was fairly neat.”

To cover his discomposure, Duncan took the pair of latex gloves DeeDee passed him.

“Can we have a look-see?” she asked.

Brooks stepped aside and motioned them toward the end of the long foyer. “In the study.” As they walked, he glanced overhead. “I could send one of my kids to an Ivy League college for what that chandelier cost.”

“Who else has been in there?” DeeDee asked.

“The judge. First cops on the scene. Swore they didn’t touch anything. I waited on your crime scene boys, didn’t go in till they gave me the go-ahead. They’re still in there, gathering trace evidence and trying to get a name off the guy.”

“Guy?” Duncan stopped in his tracks. “The shooter is in custody?”

Dothan Brooks turned and looked at the two of them with perplexity. “Hasn’t anybody told y’all what happened here?”

“Obviously not,” DeeDee replied.

“The dead man in the study was an intruder,” he said. “Mrs. Laird shot him. She’s your shooter.”

Movement at the top of the staircase drew their gazes upward. Elise Laird was making her way down the stairs followed by a policewoman in uniform. Sally Beale was as black as ebony and hard as steel. Her twin brother was a defensive lineman for the Green Bay Packers. Sally’s size alone made her physically imposing. It was coupled with a stern demeanor.

But Duncan’s gaze was fixed on Elise Laird. Her face looked freshly scrubbed. Her pallor couldn’t be attributed to the glare of the gaudy chandelier, because even her lips appeared bloodless. Her features were composed, however, and her eyes were dry.

She had killed a man, but she hadn’t cried over it.

Her hair was secured with a rubber band at the back of her head. The ponytail looked mercilessly tight. She wore pink suede moccasins on her feet and was dressed in a pair of soft, worn blue jeans and a white sweater that looked like cashmere. With the outdoor temperature hovering around ninety degrees, the sweater seemed out of season. Duncan wondered if she felt chilled, and why.

When she saw Duncan, she halted so suddenly that Officer Beale nearly ran into her. The pause was short-lived, but lasted long enough to be noticed by DeeDee, who gave him a sharp glance.

When Elise reached the bottom step, her gaze locked with Duncan’s for several beats before it slid to DeeDee, who stepped forward and introduced herself. “Mrs. Laird, I’m Detective DeeDee Bowen. This is my partner, Detective Sergeant Duncan Hatcher. I think you two have met.”

“Darling, did the shower make you feel better?” The judge came from the living room and quickly moved to his wife, placing his arm around her shoulders, touching her colorless cheek with the back of his finger. Only then did he acknowledge the rest of them. Without so much as a hello, he said, addressing the question to Duncan, “Why did they send you?”

“You’ve got a dead man in your house.”

“But you investigate homicides. This wasn’t a homicide, Detective Hatcher. My wife shot an intruder, whom she caught in the act of burglarizing my study, where I keep valuable collectibles. When she challenged him, he fired a pistol at her. She had no choice but to protect her own life.”

Standard operating procedure was to keep the witnesses of a crime separate until each had been questioned, so that one couldn’t influence the other’s account in any way. A criminal court judge should know that.

With consternation, Duncan said, “Thanks for the summary, Judge, but we would prefer to hear what happened directly from Mrs. Laird.”

“She’s already given an account to these officers.” He nodded toward Beale and Crofton.

“I talked to her first,” Crofton said. “It’s pretty much like he said.”

“That’s her story,” Beale confirmed, slapping her notebook against her palm. “His, too.”

The judge took umbrage. “It’s not a story. It’s a true account of what took place. Is it necessary for Elise to repeat it tonight? She’s already been traumatized.”

“We haven’t even seen the victim or the scene yet,” DeeDee said.

“Once we’ve taken a look and talked to forensics, we’re certain to have questions for Mrs. Laird.” Duncan glanced at her. She’d yet to utter a sound. Her eyes were fixed on a spot in near space, as though she had detached herself from what was going on around her.

Coming back to the judge, he said, “We’ll try and keep it as brief as possible. We certainly wouldn’t want to contribute to the trauma Mrs. Laird has suffered tonight.” He turned and addressed Sally Beale. “Why don’t you take her into the kitchen? Maybe get her something to drink. Crofton, you can continue with the judge.”

Judge Laird didn’t look happy about Duncan’s directives, which purposefully kept him separated from his missus, but he consented with a terse nod. Stroking his wife’s arm, he said, “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

Sally Beale laid her wide hand on Elise’s shoulders, firmly but not unkindly. “I could use a Coke or something. How ’bout you?”

Still saying nothing, Elise went along with the policewoman. DeeDee gave Duncan a questioning look. He raised his shoulders in a shrug and proceeded down the hallway to rejoin the ME. “What about it, Dothan? Does it look like self-defense to you?”

“See for yourself.”

Duncan and DeeDee paused on the threshold of the study. From that vantage point, they could see only the victim’s shoes. They asked the crime scene techs if it was all right to come in.