Tami Hoag - Prior Bad Acts

“So what are you doing out here?” Nikki asked, trying for a more upbeat tone as she walked toward the workbench, where textbooks and notebooks were spread out beneath the fluorescent work light.

“Studying,” Bobby said. “I can have the radio on out here and it doesn’t bother my dad.”

“I’ll have to pass this idea on to my boys,” she said, checking out his books. Advanced biology, chemistry, psychology. “Looks like you’re thinking of becoming a doctor.”

“I want to be a forensic pathologist.”

“Smart choice.” Creepy choice, all things considered, but it was better than having him say he wanted to spend his life digging graves, she supposed. With the kinds of tragedies he’d had in his young life, it made a certain kind of sense. “Your patients can never sue you for malpractice. They’re already dead.”

“Right,” he said, managing a little smile.

“You’ve made yourself quite the office out here.”

He had converted some of the shelves above the workbench into bookshelves. On the work surface, he had put down a number of twelve-by-twelve marble tiles to spread his work over. Pens and pencils were neatly organized in mismatched cups and water glasses. A couple of stacking trays held notebooks and file folders. The level of organization was frightening to a woman whose filing system consisted of stacking piles of paper all over her dining room table.

Bobby moved between her and the bench as if he was worried she might try to steal his chemistry notes.

Liska considered it a triumph that she had gotten Kyle and R.J. to keep a path open on the floor of their bedroom so they could escape in the event of a fire. This kid kept his paper clips sorted by size.

“I should have you come and organize my kitchen,” she said. “But then I might be expected to cook.”

He had “in” and “out” trays labeled for bills and family finances.

“You pay the bills?” she asked.

“If I leave it to Dad, it doesn’t get done.”

Even as debilitated as Wayne Haas seemed to be, she thought it strange that he would give that responsibility to a seventeen-year-old boy.

“You don’t ever get to just be a kid, do you?”

Bobby shrugged and looked away from her. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve always had to take care of things myself.”

There was a bitter, ironic edge to his words.

“So what’s the good news?” he asked. “You said you have good news.”

“Karl Dahl was shot and killed this afternoon,” she said. “He won’t be hurting anyone ever again.”

“Good. So it’s over?”

Liska helped herself to a seat on an old riding lawn mower. “As far as Karl Dahl goes. We’re still looking into the assault on Judge Moore.”

“So she’s off the hook for siding with him now, ’cause he’s dead?” Bobby said. “She can go back to her life and do the same thing all over again?”

“Actually, she’s in the hospital,” Liska said. “Dahl abducted her last night. She’s lucky to be alive.”

Bobby couldn’t seem to muster up any sympathy. “If she’d just done what she was supposed to do, none of this would have happened.”

“Judge Moore didn’t let Karl Dahl break jail.”

“She would have let him walk,” the boy said. “He was supposed to go to prison, like, a long time ago. Maybe my dad could have had some closure and moved on if that had happened.”

“Life doesn’t always follow the plan, Bobby. Most of the time it just happens, and we do the best we can.”

Of course he wouldn’t go for that, she thought. This kid probably did an outline for a grocery list. He wanted everything neat and tidy and under his control. She couldn’t blame him. He’d had so little control over his own young life, he had to take it where he could.

On the wall at the far end of the bench, he had put up a coatrack and hung a variety of layers to put on when he started to get cold, in order of lightest weight to heaviest-a short-sleeved T-shirt, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a sweatshirt with a University of Minnesota logo, the black jacket he had been wearing the first two times she had spoken with him.

At least the clothes weren’t pressed and on padded hangers. The shirts hung crooked. He had tossed the jacket up on the hook inside out. Nice to know he wasn’t entirely perfect.

Liska stared at the coat, at the square white tag sewn into the back at the neck. About one inch by one inch. She frowned, but brought her attention back to the boy.

“Maybe your dad can have that closure now,” she said. “With Karl Dahl dead, maybe he’ll be able to let go some of the anger and start to heal. Maybe you can do that together.”

Bobby looked off in the direction of the house as if he could see through the walls and into his father’s bedroom. If he could have willed something to happen, he would have.

Liska’s eyes drifted back to the clothes on the hooks. A picnic bench beneath the coatrack gave a place to sit down and change shoes. Beneath the bench were a small herd of sneakers, a pair of army boots, and what looked like a small piece of luggage partially hidden by a greasy old towel.

No, not luggage.

Liska went to the bench and pulled the towel away, revealing an old brown leather briefcase big enough to carry a bowling ball, or the files, notes, briefs, and motions a judge might carry home at the end of the day.

“Great old briefcase,” she said. “My uncle William carried one of these when I was a kid. He was a real estate attorney.”

Bobby Haas said nothing. He looked from the briefcase to Liska.

“Lawyers like to carry so much paper,” she said. “I think it makes them feel like they must be important. Uncle William had one arm longer than the other from hauling that briefcase around.”

Stamped in gold beneath the heavy brass clasp and lock was a name partially rubbed away over the years, but she could still make it out:A. H. GREER, ESQ.

“Where did you get this, Bobby?” Liska asked as she straightened up and looked hard at the boy.

“I don’t remember. Salvation Army, I think.”

“Really? The things you can find,” she said. “This is really nice. They don’t even make them like this anymore. Did you know Judge Moore had one just like this?”

“No. How would I know that?”

“I don’t know,” Liska said. “You tell me. It was stolen from her when she was attacked Friday night.”

“Are you saying you think I stole it?” he said, becoming visibly upset at the idea. “I didn’t. That’s not even her name.”

“No, it isn’t. But I can tell you whose name it is. Alec Greer, Esquire, is Judge Moore’s father.”

Red in the face, the boy said, “Well, this isn’t hers. I got it a long time ago.”

“Then you won’t mind if I have a look inside,” Liska said.

His eyes went to the briefcase again, then back to her. He was breathing faster. “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

“I can get a warrant. Is that what you want? I can call my partner, and we can stand here and wait for him to bring a search warrant. Then we can spend all night picking this garage apart, and it won’t make any difference. What’s in that briefcase isn’t going to change, unless you have some magical powers you haven’t shared with me.”

He was sweating a little bit now. He didn’t have an instant answer. Liska could all but see the gears in his brain racing as he considered and dismissed options.

“Bobby, the only way you have this briefcase is if you took it from Judge Moore,” she said. “Turn around, spread your feet, put your arms out to your sides and your hands flat on the counter.”

He did as he was told.

“Bobby Haas,” she said, walking up behind him with handcuffs, “I’m putting you under arrest for the assault of Carey Moore.”