Authors: William Bernhardt
Oh my God. Oh my God.
…
gotta go
…
gotta get out
…
gotta go
…
gotta get out
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gotta get away from here
…
Where was he going? He didn’t know. Where could he go? Where could he go that he wouldn’t be recognized, wouldn’t be identified, wouldn’t be reported? They had to be looking for him by now. What with all the noise and the screaming and goddamn Harvey next door, they must know by now. Can’t keep secrets in this town, no sirree. He’d learned that a long time ago.
He clenched the steering wheel all the tighter. They’d be looking for him.
…
gotta go
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gotta get out
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gotta go
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gotta get away from here
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gotta get away from here before it’s too late
…
In the dead center of the turnpike, he saw a red pickup aimed straight for him, headlights blinding. He clenched his eyes shut and swerved to the right. The pickup whooshed past, missing him by inches. He suddenly realized he’d been driving down the center of the highway. Driving down the center, going about ninety, not knowing the difference.
He was going to die tonight, wasn’t he? Jesus God, that was what this was all about. Meeting his Maker. Paying for his sins. It wasn’t fair that they should die and he should live. He had to die, too. That’s what he was doing out here in the dark on the turnpike. He was going to kill himself.
He realized he was breathing in gasps, practically hyperventilating. Go ahead, he told himself. Do it. That would be a nice touch. And you’ll die all the quicker.
His hands were so wet they kept slipping off the wheel, sending him careening in one direction or the other. I wonder if it’s made the news yet? he thought. Wonder if I’m getting a good spin?
One way to find out. He snapped on the radio. He didn’t have to wait long.
“… police are chasing Mayor Wallace Barrett down the Indian Nation Turnpike eighty miles south of Tulsa. Reports indicate that he is driving at an excessive speed in an extremely erratic manner, and that he does not respond to overtures from the police caravan. Conflicting reports continue to come in from the scene of the crime. Once again: Mayor Barrett’s wife, Caroline Barrett, and their two young children, Alysha, age eight, and Annabelle, age four, have been murdered. We will continue to update this story as new information emerges.”
He shut it off. Police caravan? What the hell were they talking about? He checked the rearview mirror.
The bright, almost blinding glare of headlights shone back at him.
As he rose up the next hill, he spotted at least four separate sets of headlights.
They’d found him. In almost no time at all.
He rolled down his window, sending the car swerving back and forth across the center line. The wind rushed past his head, making a thundering noise, blotting out almost everything else.
“Pull your vehicle to the side of the road!”
The command came from the cop car just behind him, practically tailgating, as close behind as they could risk getting to a car going ninety, anyway. Someone barked another command, but he couldn’t make it out. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t.
…
gotta go
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gotta keep going
…
He heard something else, something that had been there all along but was so drowned out by the wind he hadn’t distinguished it. A chopping noise. From overhead.
He stared up into space. It was a helicopter! But not a police copter. The huge channel number painted on the side glistened in the darkness. Someone was speaking to him through an electronic megaphone. He could barely make out the words.
“
Mister Mayor!
”
Yeah, that’s me. Mister Mayor—that was what the reporters in town always called him. So they not only knew where he was, but who he was.
“Mister Mayor!” The wind swept the words away, making them almost unintelligible. “Did you do it?”
Jesus God. They knew everything. And they had minicams. He knew the new infrared models didn’t need much light. He was on television! The whole goddamn stupid chase was on television. He saw the cameras, saw the blinking red lights. Two of them, at least. Hell, it was a better turnout than he had for his last press conference.
He heard some static from behind, barked commands from the cop cars. The police were trying to get the press to stay back. It wasn’t working.
“
Pull your vehicle to the side of the road!
”
He rolled up his window. What was the point? He had to figure out what he was going to do. What the hell was he going to do?
He’d never be able to lose them. And he was coming up to the tollgate. He couldn’t stop. What was he doing to do?
All these unresolved dilemmas were suddenly blotted out by the appearance of a semitrailer truck dead on the horizon. It was barreling toward him, seconds from impact. Small wonder; he was more in the semi’s lane than in his own.
The semi driver laid on his horn. He couldn’t possibly move that huge heavy truck in time. Barrett knew it was up to him. He twisted the wheel around, jerking his Porsche to the right. He lurched out of the path of the semi at so sharp an angle he was practically perpendicular to the road. He careened off the shoulder and onto a nearby embankment.
He saw the brick tollbooth just ahead, illuminated in his headlights. He smashed his foot down on the brakes, but it was too late, much much too late.
“I’m coming home, Jesus!” His hands rose off the wheel and covered his face. The white brick wall filled his field of vision and he screamed for just an instant before the thunderous impact silenced him and everything around him faded to black.
H
OMICIDE DETECTIVE MIKE MORELLI
pulled his Trans Am onto Terwilliger and searched for the house. The hardest part was not reading the numbers on the curbs; it was keeping his sagging eyelids pried open.
“Jeez, Tomlinson,” he groaned at the man in the passenger seat, “how long have we been awake?”
“Twenty-five hours and counting,” Tomlinson replied. Tomlinson was Mike’s protégé, a detective in training.
“Christ. How many murders can one little town in the heartland have? First that poor schmuck in the bathroom at the River Parks. Then a homeless man living in a cardboard box under the West End Bridge. And now the mayor’s entire family. Who’s next.”
“It’s been a tough night.”
“That’s for damn sure.” Mike massaged his face. “I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, I do,” Tomlinson said matter-of-factly. “Sunspots.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sunspots. Lots of sunspot activity today. I heard it on the radio. Crime always soars during high sunspot activity periods. It’s like the full moon.”
“Do tell.”
“Has something to do with shortcircuiting the synapses in our neural networks. All those little ganglia go
snap!
Tempers flare, and suddenly you’ve got a crime wave on your hands.”
“This is a fascinating theory, Tomlinson. Perhaps you should write this up for one of the police journals.”
“It’s been done. Well, not in the police journals, but in other influential publications.”
“Like the ones they sell at supermarket checkout stands?” Mike cruised to the end of the street. “Ah. This must be it.”
Cars were parked all around an impressive two-story brick house on the north side of the street. Swarms of people were streaming in and out of the house. A crowd was huddled on the front lawn; some people were even taking snapshots.
“What the hell is going on?” Mike put the car in neutral and jumped out, leaving Tomlinson to park.
Mike grabbed the first available cop he saw. “Who’s in charge?”
A young fresh-faced cop, who obviously knew who Mike was and knew better than to mess around with him, snapped to attention. “Lieutenant Prescott, sir.”
Mike’s teeth ground together. “Jesus God. Why did it have to be Prescott?”
“I don’t know, sir, I just arrived a few—”
Mike cut him off. “Why hasn’t this crime scene been cordoned off?”
“I—I don’t know, sir. I guess Lieutenant Prescott—”
“Is what? Incompetent?” Mike stomped up to the front porch. “Where the hell is he?”
The young cop lifted a shaking hand. “Inside,” he whispered.
Mike pushed his way through the door, bumping into a large man wearing shorts and a T-shirt. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
The man seemed startled. “I just wanted to have a look-see. I live two streets down. Always wanted to see the inside of this place.”
Mike grabbed the man by the shoulders and shoved him forcibly toward the door. “Get the hell—”
He stopped when he noticed the man was hiding something cupped in his hands. “What is that?”
The man reluctantly opened his hands. “Just a little souvenir.” It was a pair of cuff links bearing the insignia of the mayor’s office.
Mike snatched the cuff links. “You’re taking evidence from a crime scene?”
“No, no, I found this in the mayor’s bedroom.”
“Get out of here!” Mike shoved him right through the door and down the front steps, then whirled around and stomped into the living room. He found another police officer talking on the phone.
“Sure, honey, I should be home by eight—”
Mike pushed down the interrupt button and canceled the call.
“Hey, I was talking—” A flash of recognition lit in the man’s eyes. “Lieutenant Morelli!”
“I assume you dusted that phone for prints before you rubbed your sweaty little paws all over it?”
“Well—”
“Goddamn it, why didn’t you use your car radio?”
“Well, I—I mean, Lieutenant Prescott—”
“Of course. Lieutenant Prescott. Do you think Lieutenant Prescott is going to be able to save your ass once I put you up for suspension?”
“Well, sir—”
“Goddamn it!” He grabbed the man by the lapels. “Why isn’t there any paper on the floor?”
“I guess we didn’t see the point.”
“The point?” He grabbed the officer’s head and pushed it down. “Look at that floor! There’s probably been about a thousand or so people stomping through here. Any blood or footprints or other trace evidence has been destroyed. This crime scene is contaminated.”
A voice sounded behind him. “Look, Morelli, if you have to play the tough guy, why don’t you pick on someone your own rank?”
Mike whirled around. “Prescott!”
Prescott was a fair-haired, somewhat stocky man, almost a head shorter than Mike. What he had lost in height, Mike thought, he made up in swagger.
“What the hell is going on here, Prescott? Why hasn’t this crime scene been secured?”
Prescott smirked. “Relax, Supercop. This one’s in the bag.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We know who did it. And we’ve got him in custody. Our esteemed mayor was seen fleeing the scene of the crime, blood all over him. And everybody saw him trying to escape last night. We’ve got him cold.”
“You stupid little prick. That doesn’t matter.” He stepped forward till he was practically hovering over Prescott. “If you screw up the crime scene, we could lose everything. This whole case could be thrown out of court.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Prescott said calmly.
“Says you.” Mike glared at him. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Last I heard, I was the head man in Homicide.”
“As I understand it, you were busy interviewing vagrants under the West End Bridge. Obviously, someone needed to take charge of this case immediately.”
“So Chief Blackwell sent you?”
“Think higher.”
Mike swore silently. “The council.”
Prescott touched his nose. “Bingo.”
Mike’s jaws clenched together so tightly he was afraid he might pop a filling. This went to the very heart of why he hated Prescott—besides his obvious incompetence. Prescott had never risen through the ranks like the other men in his department. He had been brought in from another county, not by anyone in the police department, but by special appointment of the city council. He was their man. Whenever they wanted something done, whenever they needed some information, they called Prescott.
“And why is the council involved in this?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, even for you. And soon as word came down that the mayor’s family had been murdered, and the mayor himself was being hunted by the police, the city council called an emergency meeting and took charge of the situation. They contacted me directly and asked me to handle the initial investigation.”
“To preserve the evidence? Or destroy it?”
“I resent your uninformed implication—”
“All I know is what I see, Prescott. I’m standing in the middle of a totally botched crime scene. Any evidence that may have once been here is worthless.”
“I told you already, we have the killer in custody. We don’t need your Sherlock Holmes routine this time, Morelli. We’ve already got our man.”
“Yeah, well, I just hope you don’t lose him”—he leaned right into Prescott’s face—“by being such a goddamn incompetent fuck-up!”
The police officers on duty froze. Everyone knew about Lieutenant Morelli’s temper, but this was extraordinary even for him. The entire room fell silent. Except for a soft whirring noise.
Prescott grinned back at Mike. “Smile. You’re on Candid Camera.”
Mike turned slowly and saw the truth. The cameraman from Channel Eight had caught the whole exchange.
“This is a crime scene!” Mike barked. “Get out of here!”
The camera continued to whir.
“I’m going to take that goddamn camera and smash it—”
The cameraman ducked and scurried out the door.
“Good. And as for you, Prescott, you’re off this case.”
Prescott’s face contorted. “You can’t do this.”
“Just watch me.”
“You don’t have the authority.”
Mike’s face flushed an angry red. “I’m still the head of Homicide. You are my subordinate and you are
off this case
!”
“I’m going straight to Blackwell with this. And beyond.”
“You do that.”
Prescott glared at Mike for a few more moments, then stomped out of the house.
“All right,” Mike said, addressing all the uniforms in the area, “we’re turning this into a real crime scene starting right now. I want paper on the floor immediately. Covering all walkways.” He pointed to the officer closest to him. “That means you. And I want you all to keep your grubby hands off everything till the print team has a chance to dust. Then we’ll let the trace evidence team see if they can possibly find any remaining traces of hair or fiber or blood or DNA. I want pictures of the whole house, from every possible angle, especially where the bodies were found. And I want all unauthorized personnel out of here!”