SUMMATION (33 page)

            Mike jumped in. "Of course. He can
stay with me. I'm single, there's plenty of room. And just let somebody try
something at my place. It'd be their last time."

            She looked at Mike for a moment, before
turning towards Mark. "Well?"

Mark
hesitated a moment. "I suppose so. Hate to be a bother..."

            "Don't be ridiculous," Mike retorted.
"What else do we need to do? Anything I can help with?" He was
looking at her.

            "I think we're good for today."
She looked at Mark. "How about leaving me your cell phone number and home
address, and I'll give you a call tomorrow. That okay?"

            "Absolutely." He pulled a pen
out, and looked around for a piece of paper. She handed him her notepad, and he
jotted down his name, number, and address.

            Mike interrupted. "Mark, put down my
name and phone and address, too, just in case they need it."

            Mark nodded and kept writing. "Here
you go. Both of our informations."

            "Thanks. Mark, I'll call you
tomorrow. Actually, would it be possible for you to come in tomorrow afternoon?
To my office? Sometimes it's easier that way."

            "Sure. Whatever you need."

            "Thanks. I appreciate your
cooperation. Nice meeting you, Mr. Peters, er, Mike," shaking his hand, "and
again, Mr. McCulloch, I'm so sorry for your loss." Reaching into her
pocket, she pulled out two business cards, handing one to each man. "If
you think of anything, or need anything, don't hesitate to call me." Then,
looking Mark in the eye, "I don't know what's going on here yet, so please
be careful, okay?"

            Detective Ruger leaned back in her chair.
Tilting back further, almost to the point of tipping over, she could see the
clock, upside down, behind her. One hand straight up, one straight down. Or
vice versa, from her point of view. Six a.m.

            She looked around the table. "Okay,
everybody. Time to break. Go home, get some sleep. Let's meet back about, say,
two this afternoon? The McCullochs aren't going anywhere, and we've got a lot
of people working. There's a lot of information coming in soon, and there's nothing
we're gonna do until then. We're not going to do anybody any good like this. Go
home."

            Silent nods from around the table. Nobody
said anything as chairs slid back, folders closed, and feet shuffled out the
door. With everyone gone, she rewound the video and played it one more time.
They had found one security camera, with video, on site. Fortunately, or
unfortunately, the camera in a tree along the driveway near the street picked
up the library window, and Mr. McCulloch was visible, as was, on occasion, the
attackers. They knew now there were two. Mrs. McCulloch, thankfully, wasn't
visible. The brutality on her husband, though, was difficult enough to watch.
Thanks to high definition, every blow had been played, replayed, and
slow-motioned dozens of times. The shock and pain as the attacker took aim,
then put a bullet in his foot registered clearly. What was even worse was the
look on his face when his attackers took out his wife out of view of the
camera. There was no missing, even without sound, the moment that the attacker
shot Mrs. McCulloch. Blood sprayed all the way to the window. The pain and
desperation in the man's face went dead, and in a manner of moments, his face,
although beaten, bruised, and bleeding, aged a hundred years. It was at that
moment, heart still beating, and blood still flowing, for all intents and
purposes, he had died. His head dropped, and despite additional beating, and
another bullet in the other foot, there was no response. He had shut down. In
final desperation, and probably knowing his time was limited, the attacker put
a final bullet in the beaten man's face, a move that was totally
counterproductive, as he apparently had never gotten the information he wanted.

            The attacker stood there for a moment,
seeming to realize he'd just taken out the one guy he needed for information.
He glanced around the room one last time, then took the keys out of his pocket,
and the two men left. There was a flash of reflection in the bay window that
showed the vehicle, distorted, going passed. The camera that would have showed
the driveway had, either intentionally or not, at some time been knocked out of
alignment and only recorded an out of focus view of a brick wall.

           
He stood for a moment, took out his
keys, and the two men left, distorted car in reflection.
He never got
the information he wanted
, or so it appeared.

            Which was what? What did McCulloch know
that was worth suffering that kind of beating, and the death of your spouse?
Why wouldn't he tell? Or did he even know? The tape was going to Eva Gonzales.
An instructor for the deaf, she was also certified by the state to testify as a
lip reader. By noon, Ruger would have a transcript, but most of the tape was
actually pretty clear, even without sound. There were a lot of "why's",
some very clear "I don't know what you're talking about's", and a
number of "I don't have it's". What "it" was, she had no
clue. There also seemed to be something about "he's crazy", but she
couldn't be sure. It also seemed pretty clear that the guy was sincere.  His
desperation came through clearly. It sure seemed that he really and truly didn't
know what "it" was. It was equally obvious that the attacker wasn't
buying it. Or didn't want to believe it. She didn't need a lip reader for that.

            She needed sleep as much as the others,
but also knew she'd never get it. The most she'd be able to do was go home,
shower, and change clothes. Maybe that would be enough. She guessed it would
have to be. With daylight back on again, her body just wouldn't be ready to
cooperate. She was always too fired up on a new case. Especially one as
obscenely cruel as this.

            Resigned, she locked the door to her
office and headed down the hall to notify the detective bureau's secretary that
she was headed out.

            On the way home, the interviews played
again in her mind. She had to feel sorry for the security guard. Kid was twenty
one. Not that young, she argued. She'd almost finished her time on active duty
by that time, much of it overseas. Certainly she was no kid at that point. You
tended to grow up quick there. This kid wasn't like that, though. Lived at
home, raised by mom and grandmom. Still in school. Armed, but not really
trained for combat. Not like the military, or like the cops. His weapon was for
protecting himself, not going after the bad guys. Had never drawn his weapon
before, not on any persons, not even as a precaution. He'd never had it out of
his holster since he qualified with it during training.

            Said that after he called, he tried to go
around to the back of the house, but was having problems cutting through
neighbor's yards. Dog holding him up next door. Maybe the dogs going nuts put
some pressure on the shooter? Timing would be about right. Kid was pretty shook
up. She'd finally taken his car keys and had one of the other officers drive
him home. She'd called the alarm company herself to have someone pick up the
car, still parked on the street a house or two away.

            She'd tried to tell the kid that it
certainly wasn't his fault, that he'd done the right thing to call, and that if
he'd tried to interfere, he'd only have gotten himself killed, which would have
been no help to anyone. He wasn't a cop. Wasn't trained as a cop. Wasn't
expected to do the cop's job. Didn't seem to help much. The kid just sat there
and cried. Probably in shock, too. Still, it was disappointing that with him
out back, trying to get past a neighbor's dog, he didn't get a look at the
perps, or their car, or the plates. That would have made a big difference.

On the other hand, she only had two deaths to
investigate at the house, not three, thank God. Plus the grandfather, she
reminded herself.                                                                                                   

            The son had been a different story.
According to neighbors of the parents, Mark seemed to be a pretty good kid-
independent, successful. Kid? At twenty nine, he was only five years younger
than she was. Never in trouble. Few years in the army after High School, used
the GI Bill to get through college. Taught history and social studies at one of
the local high schools. In fact, he'd just finished the day at school. At least
that alibi checked. He'd heard news of a home invasion on the news, his parent's
street, couldn't get through to them, and stopped over. All checked, all made
sense.

            Single, he hadn't wanted to follow his dad
and granddad in the family business, according to a long time neighbor and
friend of the parents. Some money involved, but nothing outrageous, so the
neighbor thought, although they had no firsthand knowledge of this, and Ruger
hadn't seen the will yet. He was an only child, so he was probably getting it
all, or most of it, anyway. That didn't seem to be an issue, though. He was
pretty comfortable as it was. The neighbor said the parents were always trying
to give him money, help him out, though he was earning enough on his own, and
wouldn't take it. They were proud of his independence, though a little bit
disappointed that he chose to not follow in the business.  They said he wanted
to be independent. Wasn't extreme about it, though. Said the kid would let his
parents give him some cash once in a while, but had said he just didn't want to
come to depend on it.

            Didn't sound like any reason for him to be
involved.

            Besides, this was about finding something.
Not killing to get the parent's money. Obviously, the attackers were looking
for something, with the place all torn up.

            He was due back this afternoon. She wanted
to talk to him again after she'd had a chance to go over all her information.
Not that he was a suspect, but to check her new information against what he may
or may not know.                                                       

            She clicked on the garage door opener, and
pulled into her garage.             

* * *

            The shower felt good, the hot water
stinging her skin. She stayed in a long time, pictures from the video replaying
in her mind. She replayed it, not because she wanted to, but because she had no
choice. She'd learned that a long time ago, too. One thing she'd learned,
though, was to make use of it. She'd learned to replay the memories in slow
motion, seeming to view it frame by frame, analyzing each of them. Sometimes
she found things she'd missed earlier.

           
He took out his keys, and the two men
left, distorted vehicle in the reflection
.

            Sometimes she didn't.

            This time, nothing came up. They had video
of the car, or a distorted view, but not the plates. Of the attacker, but only
from the back and side. And of the victim. They would probably be able to
figure out the car, even distorted, from the reflection, but the plates were
never visible.

           
He took out his keys, and the two men
left.

             She dried off, and knew there was no way
she could sleep, but should probably at least try to rest for a while. She slid
between the cool sheets, sticking in a few spots that weren't quite dry. She
lay there for a while replaying the video like others count sheep. At least she
should rest for a while.

            She woke and, startled, checked the alarm
clock on the end table beside her bed. One fifteen. With a half hour drive, she
had fifteen minutes to get up, dressed, hair -
shit, I went to bed with it
wet
, she thought.

            Twelve minutes later, she was in the car,
hair tied back, on her way back to the station.

           
He took out his keys
...

            It hit her, and she smiled, then
accelerated. The keys. More specifically, the key
fob
.

            It was a rental car.

* * *

Available now, COVENANT OF THE ARK, by Daniel Syverson