R. Stine - Red Rain

“Aaaaagggh.” He let out a frustrated growl.

Pinto poked his big balding head into the doorway. “Are you having phone sex again?”

Andy tried to wave him away.

“Big Pavano is calling. Time to have our heads chopped,” Pinto said, motioning for him to come to the chief’s office.

Since Andy arrived on the force, the chief was always referred to as Big Pavano, which was a joke, since Andy was a head taller and had him by at least thirty pounds. But rank was everything, even on a police force of seven.

Andy waved Pinto away again and pressed his face against the phone. “Have to go. We’ll set a date for lunch, okay?”

But Sari had already hung up.

Michael Pavano-as stated to anyone who commented, no relation to Andy Pavano-did not have the cliche looks of a local Long Island police chief. Yes, he had been a marine. Had a pretty good career, working his way up the ranks to master sergeant because he was smart and obedient and liked to follow the rules, felt more comfortable following the rules, liked a structured life and the sense of order the corps offered.

But when it was suggested he be moved to internal affairs, he balked and then resigned his commission. He had no interest in plotting investigations of men who had worked hard enough to become U.S. Marines.

The switch to a uniform in the Boston Police Department seemed natural, but he struggled to find the kind of structure he had as a marine. Of course, it didn’t exist. So when a friend suggested the job opening in the Sag Harbor Department, it seemed like an escape and an opportunity at the same time.

To Andy’s mind, Big Pavano didn’t look like a marine or a cop. For one thing, he was short and slender. (He said he’d made the marine height requirement by standing on tiptoe, a rare joke for someone normally humorless.) He didn’t have the beer pouch of an ex-soldier who had relaxed his standards. He had a full crop of straight black hair, streaked with gray at the sides, and a friendly face, warm blue-gray eyes that somehow always managed to look sympathetic.

There was a sadness about Big Pavano, Andy thought. Maybe because he’d always been married to his post, never had a wife or family.

He had three folding chairs waiting facing the desk in his small, nearly bare office, and motioned for Andy and Pinto to sit down. As they did, a toweringly tall, light-skinned black man in a blue cop uniform ducked his head under the doorframe and stepped into the room.

“This is Captain Franks,” Pavano said, “from the State Criminal Investigation Bureau. I called him in because. . well. . you know why.”

“Morning, Sergeants.” Franks nodded solemnly to them. He had short black hair receding on his broad forehead. His dark eyes studied them with interest, moving from Pinto and Andy. His broad nose had obviously been broken a few times. He had a long scar, old, across his chin.

Tough dude .

He was broad-chested, built like a heavyweight fighter, his uniform jacket stretched tight over his uniform shirt. His state cop badge caught the light from the ceiling fluorescents. Andy saw that he had a standard Glock.22-the policeman’s favorite-in the black holster at his waist.

Chief Pavano dropped into the folding chair next to Andy, perching as erect as a marine. Franks stepped behind the desk and leaned his massive fists on top of the scattered papers on the desktop.

“So what do we have here?” he asked. He had a James Earl Jones voice, booming despite his attempt to speak softly. He wasn’t asking a question, Andy knew. No one tried to answer.

“We have a man murdered in bizarre fashion inside a car in another man’s driveway.” Franks answered his own question. “The method of murder indicates that the killer had some strength and also used some sort of heat-producing weapon. Am I correct so far?”

Big Pavano coughed. “That’s what we have, all right, Captain.”

Andy scraped at some loose skin on the back of his thumb. He knew that he and Pinto were being removed from the case and Franks was taking charge. Why did Franks have to put on a show first?

“Now, we have blood all over the man’s car,” Franks continued, almost as if talking to himself. “The victim’s windpipe is fucking tossed on the backseat, ripped from his throat. And his throat has been burned open. We have a gaping hole there, right, and the skin is scorched black. Like someone tried to fucking barbecue him.”

Chief Pavano nodded grimly. Andy and Pinto stared straight ahead. Andy’s stomach rumbled. He pictured the wet, blood-tipped pink noodle stretched on the backseat of the car. It made him sick every time he thought of it.

“With all that blood and ripped skin, we should have some evidence,” Franks boomed. “The weapon. Fingerprints on the blowtorch? The killer had to reach in through the open window, yes? So how about a fingerprint or two on the side of the fucking car?”

“We took that car apart in the lab in Riverhead,” Chief Pavano told him. “I mean, bolt by bolt, Captain. We dusted it and X-rayed it and lasered it and micro-whatever those guys can fucking do these days. We did everything but taste it. And we came up with nothing. Prints from a tennis ball. Kiddie prints.”

Franks rubbed the scar on his chin, gazing at Chief Pavano thoughtfully. “Well, what don’t we have here? We don’t have a psycho serial killer, right? We don’t have a Hannibal Lecter. At least the killer didn’t eat the fucking windpipe. And God knows, we haven’t had similar murders we can tie to this one.”

“We don’t have a lot of murders in Sag Harbor, Franks,” Pinto murmured. “It’s a quiet little village, you know.”

Franks nodded. He pulled out a small key chain and twirled it in one hand. “So. . we rule out serial killer. We have to look closer to home, don’t we? I think I’ve gone over this story enough. Try this on for size. The psychologist, Sutter, writes a book that people don’t like. He has a book tour. He gets booed and yelled at in one city, then another. Everywhere he fucking goes. City after city, people are angry at him. He comes home. Maybe he’s upset. Maybe he’s overwrought from all the abuse. Maybe the sonofabitch is about to lose it.

“So how does it go down? He needs money to pay the mortgage on his beautiful house by the bay. And he and his wife have just adopted two more kids. She doesn’t work. The load is all on him. It’s making him crazy. Nothing but stress and anger and abuse.

“He thinks he’s going to get a big grant. He’s counting on the fucking grant to keep him afloat. Then this guy Hulenberger arrives and tells him no way, Jose. Like a punch in the face, right? And Sutter fucking loses it. He runs outside, grabs his blowtorch from the garage, runs to the car in the driveway in a fucking insane rage and makes a mess of Hulenberger.”

Silence for a long moment. Andy heard phones ringing down the hall. He heard Marie at the front desk laughing about something. A siren started up with a growl in a black-and-white out in the parking lot.

“Sutter seemed distressed by the murder in his driveway. But he didn’t seem whacked-out or overly stressed,” Pinto offered. “He seemed to have it together whenever Andy and I talked to him.”

Franks frowned at Pinto. “So?”

“He had an excuse for the blowtorch. So we combed the house,” Big Pavano said, shaking his head. “I mean, every inch. Tore up floors and everything, Captain. No other weapon.”

Franks turned his glare on Pavano. “So?”

Silence again.

Franks turned to Andy. “Any thoughts?”

Andy realized he was tapping one shoe on the floor. He forced his leg to stop. “Maybe you’re on the right track,” he said, thinking hard. “It’s just. . no one saw anything. His two boys, the twins. . they were playing ball in the front yard. They didn’t see anything or anyone.”