The Trophy Exchange (10 page)

Eleven

In the aftermath of the shooting, the bogeyman of her missing eye raised its ugly head again. In a politically charged situation like this one, everyone wanted a scapegoat. Lucinda, the cop with the missing eye, seemed perfect for the role. She was pounded in the press, and the department withered under questions about keeping her on the job. Lucinda stopped reading the newspaper and watching the local news.

A review of radio chatter and interviews with the other officers on the scene
,
and with those working in dispatch that day
,
made it clear everyone believed the shooter was the only person inside the home. Lucinda had no reason to think otherwise. Internal Affairs could not blame Lucinda
’
s bad judgment for the shooting. That was their first choice for solving the public relations problem – it was a solution that took all the responsibility away from the department itself. But, it was a non-starter.

They took no pleasure in the vindication of Lieutenant Pierce – they needed a culprit. Internal Affairs contracted with outside experts who ran through a re-enactment of the shooting again and again hoping to prove that Lucinda
’
s monocular vision caused the death of the child. No matter how many times they re-played the scenario, the result was the same – it made no difference whether the shot was fired by someone with one eye or two. There was no way for anyone to know that the suspect in the house would use his own small child as a shield.

Lucinda was reinstated,
and so was now
in charge of finding the killer of
Dr.
Kathleen Spencer. Her cubicle was alive again – and so was she – resurrected in the pursuit of death. She no longer saw the grime on the window that filtered and muted the light before it reached her desktop. She only saw the light itself shimmering on the pile of police reports stacked in front of her.

Each one contained comments from the officers who
’
d canvassed the Spencer neighborhood in the immediate aftermath of Kate
’
s death. Not one of them saw anything, heard anything
,
or even had a theory about the reason for her murder. The one exception was
Ms.
Craddick – loopy Rose Craddick – who saw a man with a hood pulled up to cover his face. No doubt she saw the killer. Big doubt that her identification of the perpetrator was anywhere near correct.

Lucinda knew there had to be some leads in these reports just the same. She poured through them again paying close attention to the most insignificant details about life in the Spencer household. As she worked, she made a list of people she wanted to personally interview for a second time and the questions she wanted to ask them.

The phone on her desk rang interrupting her review.
“
Pierce,
”
she said. She stood as she listened to the dispatcher telling her about a possible homicide or suicide.
“
I
’
m on my way,
”
she said as she hung up and slid into her jacket in one fluid motion.

She drove into a tired looking neighborhood where every house had sagging gutters, falling shingles or flaking paint, if not a combination of all three. She parked in front of a too-bright blue ranch house where a rusty chain-link fence surrounded a weedy front yard. Grass and unidentifiable foreign invaders
,
their heads top-heavy with seeds
,
bent over and brushed the sidewalk.

The front door opened into the living room where the body lay half o
ff
a worn sofa. She smelled the lethal mix of spent gunpowder and blood under the dominant odor of stale beer and over-ripe tomato sauce. On the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, a scattered mound of crushed beer cans filled the space.

On the table, an open pizza box held three slices of dried pizza, an open can of beer and a piece of paper. On the note, written in large letters, was a short message:
“
I am a sorry son of a bitch.
”

From down the hall, Lucinda heard the muffled rants of an hysterical woman and the low murmur of a soothing voice attempting to calm her distress. Lucinda approached the body as closely as she could without disrupting the scene. The bullet, it seemed, had entered straight into the victim
’
s mouth and blown out the back of his head. His death – in all likelihood – had been instantaneous. The only weapon Lucinda could see was a handgun across the room on top of a large screen television. She peered around the body seeking but not finding another weapon that might indicate the injury could be self-inflicted. She heard a thumping in the hall but ignored it until she heard a voice shout,
“
Ma
’
am, you can
’
t go in there.
”

Lucinda stood up straight and turned from the body. She saw a wild-eyed woman standing in the entrance to the hallway.
“
I know who did it,
”
she shrieked.

A uniformed officer came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“
Ma
’
am, you need to come back to the bedroom.
”
Then he turned to Lucinda and said,
“
Sorry, Lieutenant. She found the body. She
’
s the victim
’
s mother.
”

The woman looked straight at Lucinda and shrieked again,
“
I know who did it.
”

“
Yes, ma
’
am. You want to tell me about it?
”
Lucinda asked.

The woman jerked a shapeless purse in front of her body and dug inside. Her impulsive, rapid movements sent a reflexive spasm of tension through Lucinda
’
s chest. In automatic response, her hand flew to the butt of her gun, but the woman
’
s hand emerged from her purse without a lethal object, just a harmless cassette.
“
I
’
ve got the evidence,
”
she said waving the tape in the air.

Lucinda held up a paper bag beneath the cassette.
“
Drop it in here, please.
”

“
No. No. You
’
ve got to listen to it,
”
the woman insisted.

“
Ma
’
am, I don
’
t have a tape player with me. Please just drop it in the bag.
”

“
But . . .
”

“
Ma
’
am, just drop it in and we
’
ll go outside and you can tell me what it says.
”

The woman cast an uncertain glance at Lucinda then released the tape. It landed with a thunk inside the paper sack. Lucinda handed it to an evidence tech, put her arm around the woman
’
s shoulder and led her outside.

Lucinda slid behind the wheel of her car and looked over the crazed woman now seated on the passenger
’
s side. The woman
’
s hair spiked out in a hundred directions – Lucinda was certain it was not the woman
’
s normal hairstyle. It didn
’
t go with the conservative gray suit and black blouse. It wasn
’
t in harmony with her hosiery-clad legs and basic black pumps. Lucinda pulled out a notepad and pen.
“
Ma
’
am, could you please tell me your name.
”

“
You
’
ve got to listen to that tape. All you need to know is on that tape.
”

“
I will – I promise. But right now, you need to calm down and talk to me.
”

The woman took a deep breath. The she ran her hands over her head in a futile attempt to get her unruly hair back in place. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, looked at Lucinda and said,
“
O
kay
.
”

“
Your name?
”

“
Frances Wagner.
”

“
And do you know the name of the man inside the house.
”

“
Yes.
”
Frances
’
chin quivered.
“
It
’
s my son.
”

“
His name, please.
”

“
Terry. Terry Wagner.
”
Her voice cracked with each syllable she uttered.
“
She did it. His wife did it. You
’
ve got to arrest her,
”
she blurted out in renewed agitation.

“
Ma
’
am, I need you to calm down and help me out.
”

Frances closed her eyes and nodded her head.
“
I
’
m sorry.
”

“
Why did you come over to your son
’
s house,
Ms.
Wagner?
”

“
Because of the message. The message on the tape. When I got the message, I came over.
”

“
How did you get the message?
”

“
I came home from work on my lunch hour. I was going to make a sandwich and toss in a load of laundry. But first, I checked the answering machine. It was blinking.
”

“
What did the message say?
”

“
It said,
‘
Frances, call the police and get them to come over to the house. Do not come yourself. Please. Do not come here. Just call the police. I
’
m sorry, Frances. I just couldn
’
t take it anymore.
’”
The features on Frances
’
face slid downward like an avalanche. She slumped over in the seat and sobbed.