Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (2 page)

Ryan asked me if I wanted to go over our stories
in preparation for our interviews tomorrow with the ombudsman’s office. I said
no, there wasn’t anything to discuss, seeing as the victim’s weapon was logged
at the scene. We agreed that the shooting was a textbook example of “preventing
an imminent lethal danger to another police officer.”

When we finished up, Ryan asked if he could drive
me home in my cruiser. I told him no, but as I stood up from my desk, he saw I
looked a little wobbly. He insisted, and I was just as glad. Ryan had one of
the uniforms follow us to get him back to headquarters.

I opened my front door, dropped my big shoulder bag
in the hall, stumbled into my bedroom, and collapsed onto my bed. I was out.
That was Monday.

*  *  *

Most nights are pretty bad,
but last night I slept straight through for nine hours—and that was without any
liquor. So when I got to headquarters, I was feeling better than usual. I
signed the form declining representation from my police delegate for the
interview with the ombudsman. The whole interview took five minutes, tops. We
shook hands. He asked me how I was holding up. I told him I was fine.

Turns out the guy I shot had felony convictions
for meth possession and production, armed robbery, domestic battery, gang
activity, and manslaughter. He’d spent eight of the last eleven years in state
prisons in California and Oklahoma. And there was enough meth in his bedroom
for felony possession with intent to distribute. He was your well-rounded,
all-purpose scumbag. The ombudsman had given me this little bio off the record
to tell me to relax.

Maybe it’s true there’s some good in everyone, but
looking at it through a cop’s eyes, there wasn’t anything bad about this guy
being dead.

When I got back to our desks, Ryan was already
there. I filled him in on the disposition of the case. Ryan said, “So the guy
with the knife was dumb enough to leave the meth out on the counter.”

“You’re the kind of guy comes at a cop with a
knife when you could’ve stayed in the bedroom watching TV, chances are you’re
not that bright.”

“Yeah, still, it’s hard to believe.”

I was trying to get a read on my new partner. I
couldn’t tell if he was just making conversation or trying to tell me
something. I assumed all detectives knew that any cop will take a quick look in
a drawer if they suspect drugs, and that eight out of ten will put the dope out
in plain view so they don’t need to waste time getting a search warrant and go
back, which gives the guy time to flush it. And if the guy is a real shithead
and tries to hurt you or your partner, like this guy did, it’s ten out of ten.

Was Ryan saying I was trying to jack up the
charges by moving the dope, which is illegal, or planting it? No, that couldn’t
be. Nothing he said made me think he doubted me at all. Still, I wasn’t sure
what, if anything, Ryan was telling me.

The chief came over to us and asked me if I wanted
to go to Psych Services. Even if I’d wanted to, I would’ve said no. You’re
female on the job, the last thing you want to get around is that shit gets to
you. I shook my head.

“Sure?” the chief said.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You two think you can handle that security for
the debate tonight?”

Ryan looked at me, and we both nodded. The chief
turned and headed back toward his office. He didn’t spend any more time talking
to detectives than he had to.

He had briefed us yesterday about a routine
security detail he wanted us to do: a debate tonight in an auditorium on
campus. I picked up a sheet of paper off my desk. “Okay,” I said, skimming the
page, “we got this Arlen Hagerty, president of Soul Savers, coming to town. And
there’s this other guy comes with him, Jonathan Ahern. Hagerty’s talking about
stem-cell research, right? I’m guessing he’s against it.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “It kills embryos.”

“So it’s not that he
wants
people with bad
spinal cords and MS to stay sick.”

I saw a small smile on Ryan’s face. “I think he
sees it as an ethical issue. If an embryo is a human life and you kill it,
that’s murder.”

I wasn’t taunting Ryan. I didn’t know—and didn’t
really give a shit—what he thought about this. “But if you’re gonna throw out
the embryo anyway, and it might do some good for someone?”

“I think he’d say two wrongs don’t make a right.”
The kid was cool. He could talk to you without telling you what he thought.
With me, you pretty much know before I open my mouth.

I said, “Did you get a chance to check with this
guy’s organization to see if they’d received any threats?”

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for the notebook on his
desk. “They get threats all the time. But nothing out of the ordinary. How’d
the lady put it at Soul Savers? Here it is: just the usual ‘hope you get
paralyzed’ mail.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said. “Keeping it on a high
level. And the chief authorized a metal detector and a sweep of the auditorium,
right?”

“That’s right,” Ryan said. “Plus us and two
uniforms tonight.”

We spent the rest of the morning out at the
auditorium, checking in with the university’s technician working on the sound
and light board for the debate. I talked to the K-9 Patrol officer, who said as
long as chewing gum don’t explode, we’re good to go.

            *  *  *  

Ryan and I were at our
desks, which were pushed head-to-head in the detectives’ bullpen. There were
only three sets of detectives’ desks. Rawlings was a small town, with four or
five murders per year, usually among friends. There were two small gangs that
mostly shot at each other but sometimes missed and hit someone else on a
drive-by. There were about a dozen sexual assaults. And three or four times a
year, a well-dressed guy coming out of the Pink Rose Tavern would slip and fall
for no apparent reason, busting his nose or cracking a couple ribs.

At five, Ryan signed out to go home and eat dinner
with his six-month pregnant wife and their two-year-old girl. He told me he
wished he was able to make it home for lunch like he used to when he and Kali
were newlyweds living in married-student housing at Brigham Young. He knew that
wasn’t possible anymore, but they thought having dinner together at six every
night was important. That was when they all got to talk about their day.

I hadn’t yet decided whether this guy came from
another century, another planet, or both. “See you at the auditorium,” I said.
I grabbed a Mars bar from my desk drawer and surfed the Web for a while before
heading out to the auditorium at 6:00.

The speech was scheduled for 7:00. By 6:15, most
of the security contingent had shown up: the tech Roberto, who was going to operate
the metal detector, and two other uniforms—Bob Ortiz and Roger Harrison—dressed
in plain clothes to blend in with the crowd. People began to drift in: a lot of
professors, community-activist types, a couple dozen geeky-looking students,
plus some nuns and priests. Ryan showed up a couple minutes later. I walked
over to greet him, surprised at how glad I was to see him.

“Hey, Karen,” he said, looking over the scene.
“Looks like everything’s going smooth. Where do you want me?”

“I’m gonna be walking around during the show. I’ve
got one uniform backstage, one out front. I’d like you up near the stage,
looking out at the crowd. Grab a folding chair. I want you to be able to stop
anyone who tries to rush the stage. Put your radio on 2, okay?”

“Sounds good,” he said.

The auditorium was beginning to fill up. The night
was cold and clear, and people were shaking off their coats as they settled
into their seats. I could feel the temperature rise in the auditorium as the
empty seats disappeared.

A minute or two after 7:00, a guy in a sport
jacket and slacks came up on stage. He introduced himself as a teacher in the
philosophy department. He explained how the university was sponsoring this
debate between these two guys who’d traveled a long way, how this was an important
and controversial issue, and how everyone should give them a respectful hearing
and not interrupt. In other words, act like adults.

The hour and a half was shooting by. The audience
was well behaved, the speakers well rehearsed. I cruised the auditorium
silently, stopping by the projection booth and the backstage areas. Every few
minutes I checked in with one of the detail by radio. All of them were in
place, and there were no problems. It looked like it was going to be a
successful event, with no trouble.

After the emcee thanked the audience, Arlen
Hagerty and Jonathan Ahern walked toward each other and shook hands warmly.
Ahern gave the two-handed shake, with the left arm gripping Hagerty on his
right bicep while Hagerty slapped Ahern affectionately on the back. The two
speakers faced the audience and waved appreciatively. The audience stood,
applauding.

As the audience was filing out, I approached the
two speakers. I introduced myself and complimented them on the excellent debate
I hadn’t listened to. They thanked me for setting up the security. “Okay,
gentlemen,” I said. “We’ve got to get you two back to the hotel.” Ryan came
over as I was talking.

Arlen Hagerty said, “Detective, we appreciate the
gesture, but I don’t think we’ll need your services tonight.”

“Arlen’s right, Detective,” Jonathan Ahern nodded.
“This was a really nice group of people tonight. Why don’t you just call it a
night?”

The idea was tempting, but I said, “I’m sorry.
We’re charged with getting you two back safe to the Courtyard. Detective Miner
and I gotta stick with you.”

“How about this?” Arlen Hagerty said. “Jon and I
usually go out for a nightcap afterwards. Why don’t you two join us? It’s on
me.”

I couldn’t think of too many things that sounded
less appealing than sitting with Ryan, drinking club sodas and watching two
guys drink something that looked and smelled really good. But if that was what
it took to get them back to the hotel, that was what I was going to do. “What
do you say, Ryan?”

“Fine with me,” he said, flashing a big smile.

“All right, then,” I said to Hagerty and Ahern.
“One drink, then we get you back to the Courtyard.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arlen Hagerty said, “one drink, then
straight into our jammies.” I tried to block out that image. “Can you suggest a
place nearby?”

“How about in your hotel?” I said. “They’ve got a
nice little bar there.” With any luck, we could get him back there and they’d
decide to skip the drinks.

“No,” Hagerty said. “I’ve already spent too much
time there,” he said, laughing alone.

“Okay,” I said. “Ryan, how about the Cactus, on
Fifth? I’ll take Mr. Hagerty. You take Mr. Ahern.”

The Cactus was a semi-dive for students,
working-class guys, and a handful of bleary-eyed regulars who were already in
position on the sidewalk when the owner threw open the heavy wooden door every
morning around eleven.

The windows were full of neon, the lights were
low, the TVs old and small, the bar sticky. I chose the Cactus to speed things
up, but Hagerty and Ahern walked up to the bar with big smiles on their faces.
Arlen Hagerty turned to me and flashed a thumbs-up. “Excellent choice,
Detective. Just my kind of place.”

“That’s great,” I said, returning the thumbs-up,
realizing that about half the time these days, I was saying the opposite of
what I meant. Ryan and I settled in at a booth near the two men, close to the
door.

The server came over, a college-age girl in a
tight white t-shirt over a red bra, a silver loop where her left eyebrow
trailed off. She had barbed-wire tattoos on each bicep and some heavy black
Chinese characters down the inside of her right arm. Ryan ordered a club soda.
I wanted a Jack Daniel’s double but said, “Make it two.” I sat there, glum,
waiting for the girl to come back with the drinks.

When she placed the two club sodas down in front
of us, the Chinese script on her arm swept six inches from Ryan’s face. Once
she left, I said to Ryan, “What the hell was that girl thinking?”

Ryan looked at me, puzzled. “Thinking about what?”
he said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.” Fifteen years’
difference in our ages might as well be a hundred. I looked over at the bar,
where Hagerty and Ahern seemed to be having a great old time, talking and
laughing like best buds.

I was counting on this to suck, just not so much.
The cubes melted in my club soda as Ryan watched ESPN, his head bobbing to the
Creedence Clearwater on the jukebox. I could tell he was straining to hear what
the two guys were saying. “They’re talking football,” he said. “Mind if I join
them?”

“No, you run along and play,” I said, giving him
an unconvincing smile.

“Thanks,” he said, bolting out of the booth and
joining them at the bar. For the better part of two hours, they talked
football.

They say men look more distinguished as they get
older. I wasn’t seeing it. Ryan looked real good. He stood straight as a steel
beam, his shoulders and biceps testing the fabric of his sport jacket. When he
moved, you could see he was an athlete: graceful, comfortable in his body. His
light-brown hair was cut like a soldier’s, just long enough to comb on the top,
short on the sides, razored around the ears. His eyes were Caribbean blue, and
they danced, as if there were just so many exciting things to take in, and he
didn’t want to miss a single one. He smiled often, a big old grin that lit up
his whole face.

Jonathan Ahern was twenty years older than Ryan,
and each one of those years was etched on his face. The neon from the Coors
sign in the window cast an eerie blue glow through his thinning hair. His
shoulders had begun to slump. When he wasn’t talking, his expression settled
into a frown of disappointment. When he laughed, he was a decent-looking man,
but the laughter didn’t come often, and it seemed to cost him considerable
effort.