James Swain - Bad News Travels

Beth got a call from her sister, and decided to take it on the sidewalk across the street, where there would be less chance of being overheard. Lancaster cleaned his plate, and accepted the waitress’s offer of a refill on his coffee. His own cell phone started to make noise, and he glanced at its screen.

His newsfeed had sent him a breaking story. Reading it, his heart sank. A cop in north Florida had taken his own life. It was a sickening trend. More cops died by their own hand than in the line of duty. Exposure to trauma, accidents, and shootings led to mental health issues, which went unnoticed until it was too late. He’d lost several buddies this way, and always kicked himself for not being more aware of their anguish.

The story didn’t offer many details, and left out the officer’s name until next of kin were notified. He did a search, and found a more thorough report on a site called Patch. The officer was a thirty-year veteran who’d recently been suspended. Yesterday, the officer had posted a note on Facebook, and apologized to all his friends for the pain he’d caused them. Sometime after that, he doused the walls of his living room with gasoline, and set the place on fire. He parked himself in a recliner, and put a gun to his temple. With his home engulfed in flames, he ended his life.

It was how most cops checked out. With a gun.

The reporter had posted a video showing the smoldering remains of the house. It had been burned to the ground, with only the stone fireplace remaining.

The officer’s car sat in the driveway. It had managed to escape the inferno, and was all that was left. It looked eerily familiar, and he called his friend at the Department of Motor Vehicles and did a quick check on the license plate.

Beth crossed the street and returned to the table. She took a hard look at him.

“You don’t look well. What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Sykes committed suicide last night,” he said.

“If Detective Sykes was such a terrible person, why wasn’t he kept locked up?” Nicki asked that evening at the dining room table in her parents’ home. “A guy like that shouldn’t be walking around, should he?”

“He was in jail, but he made bail,” Jon explained.

“Shouldn’t the police have kept him in jail? He broke a lot of laws, didn’t he?”

“Unfortunately, that’s not how the system works,” Jon said. “In the eyes of the law, a person is innocent until proven guilty. Unless the crimes the person committed are heinous, most judges will allow a suspect to stay out of jail until trial.”

“Even really bad people?”

“Yes, even bad people.”

“I think the judge made a mistake,” Nicki said.

Daniels wiped her mouth with a napkin. The dinner had been delicious, her sister’s culinary skills on full display. She didn’t often feel jealous of Melanie, but this was one of those special times. Facing her niece, she said, “The judge set a very high bail. Sykes was able to pay it, so he was released.”

Melanie served them dessert. Homemade crème brûlée.

“Do many people kill themselves after they pay bail?” Nicki asked.

They hadn’t discussed the case over dinner, but instead had talked about Nolan’s medical practice, and Melanie’s volunteer work at the Shriners Hospital. The past two weeks had been rough, and it was time for the family to put things behind them.

“Some people do,” Daniels said. “The director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office told me that Sykes lost his daughter, and that he suffered from depression.”

“Is that why he did it?” Nicki asked.

“That’s what everyone I’ve spoken to thinks.”

“But you can’t be sure.”

“You can never be one hundred percent sure. But it’s a good assumption.”

Daniels ate her dessert, hoping it would end the conversation.

“How much was the bail he had to pay?” Nicki asked.

Melanie and Nolan gave their daughter reprimanding looks. Nicki ignored them, and focused her attention on her aunt. She was like a dog with a bone, and wouldn’t let go of something until her curiosity was satisfied. Jon stepped in.

“Why is that important?” he asked.

“You said his bail was high,” Nicki said. “From what I’ve read about police work, it doesn’t pay very well, and many policemen struggle financially. I was just wondering where he would have gotten the money to pay it.”

Jon glanced across the table at her. The expression on his face said that Nicki had a valid point. Where had Sykes gotten the money to pay bail, and walk out of jail?

“His bail was three hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Daniels said.

“Wow. That’s a lot of money. I wonder where it came from.”

The dining room fell silent. Jon shrugged as if to say, Who the hell knows? It was yet another question that would probably go unanswered. Nicki spooned dessert into her mouth and emitted a happy noise.

“This is really good, Mom,” she said.

Jon’s ocean-facing apartment in downtown Fort Lauderdale was above most retired cops’ pay grades. The building was new, and had plenty of modern conveniences, including a state-of-the-art security system and an emergency generator capable of keeping the place running for several days in case of a hurricane.

Jon’s unit had two spacious bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, and a balcony with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic. Hollywood had paid Jon big bucks for his life story, and he’d bought into the building while it was still under construction.

Everyone who lived in the building knew Jon, and they often leaned on him when there was a problem. As they waited for an elevator to arrive, an elderly man wearing tennis shorts and a floppy hat hurried over to them.

“Jon — just the man I was looking for. Got a minute?”

Marty was a transplanted New Yorker who ran off a different clock. For him, a minute was more like twenty, with Marty doing most of the talking.

“Sure, Marty. What’s up?” Jon said.

“That whack-a-noodle on the moped was riding around on the property last night. He came right up behind my wife, and scared the daylights out of her.”

“Did you call security?”

“By the time I did, he was gone. The guy’s a menace.”

The elevator had arrived. “I’ll be up in a few,” Jon said.

Daniels went up, and let herself in with the spare key. She poured herself a glass of white wine, and went onto the balcony with her laptop. Nicki’s comments about Sykes’s high bail had gotten the wheels turning. Was Sykes’s $350,000 bail part of her father’s missing money? If so, then Sykes wasn’t a victim like he’d so adamantly claimed.

The FBI’s Jacksonville office had sent her the crime scene report, and she decided to start there. Sykes’s neighbor had smelled smoke and come outside to see the flames, so he’d called 911. By the time the fire trucks arrived, Sykes’s house and its contents were destroyed. The firemen had later discovered Sykes’s body beneath the rubble. The local pathologist had done an autopsy, and said that Sykes had died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The pathologist had ID’d the body using dental records.

The local cops had questioned the neighbor, who was the only witness. His name was Kyle Benn, and he was a retired postal worker, and a widower. Benn was part of the neighborhood watch group, and had told the police that he liked to sleep with his windows open, just in case there was a burglar canvassing his property.

Daniels immediately saw a discrepancy. Benn was a busybody, who knew his neighbors’ business. So why hadn’t he heard Sykes’s gun discharge? Had his TV drowned out the sound? Or were their houses far apart, and the sound hadn’t carried?