Another Excerpt

Chapter 2

Tim Einhorn had forgotten what Aeron’s Point felt like. It had been so long since he had been there. He’d left when he was eighteen to attend the police academy in nearby Bristol’s Row, a place that sounded much smaller than it actually was. It was three times the size of Aeron’s Point, large enough to need a sizable police force and its own academy. He’d lived in Bristol’s Row for the short time it took to complete the academy. And then he’d gone off to California. That was not standard operating procedure, not by a long shot, but he’d wanted to get as far away from the Point as he could, and his instructor at the academy had some friends in the Sunshine State. That was how he left Aeron’s Point behind him, a few days after his nineteenth birthday, and he had not looked back.

But here he was, nine years later, a dull ache on the left side of his neck where the bullet had grazed him and a heavy, water-logged feeling in his chest where a volley of bullets had cracked two of his ribs. Nine years later, and he was a different person. He was no longer an innocent bystander in the world, one who believed that the world was painted in black or white, good or evil, cops or robbers. No longer a virgin in every sense of the word; during his time in California, he’d known women and alcohol and drugs and he knew how hard it was to survive by himself on a patrolmen’s salary; he knew what it was like to eat ramen five days a week. But he was a detective now, the brand new gold shield in his pocket, still glinting in his mind’s eye with the reflection of flashbulbs at the press conference. Everything was different, from the way he dressed, to the way he styled his hair, the way he chewed nicotine gum almost relentlessly, but now that he stood in Northern Terrace Park, nothing was different at all.

He still felt like he didn’t belong. Still felt like the town was watching him, waiting for him to screw up. He would make a mistake, because his father was Edward Einhorn, and if Edward Einhorn’s son didn’t screw things up, then by God, nothing was right with the world. The shiny shield in his pocket didn’t mean anything to these people. This was a small town, the kind of town that didn’t forget when police officers accepted bribes. The rest of the Einhorn clan were good police, but that didn’t matter; Tim was the son of a dirty cop. The sins of the father, visited on the son. He had not stuck around to let himself be stigmatized. He’d gotten out before that could happen, but he’d come back at his uncle’s request. He’d never planned to return to the little New Jersey community. But here he was.

Here he was, about to enter a crime scene.

“Get your shield on,” Gerald Einhorn told him as he turned off his car. “Show them who you are.”

“They know who I am,” Tim said, softly, but he was already reaching for it. It was the middle of April, springtime, but warm weather had not come to the Point yet. The coat he wore was long, brown, clean-cut, brand new. It was a gift from Mayor Grivaldi, for saving his life. A trench coat in exchange for a nicked artery, two cracked ribs, and months of pain.

“Officially, you don’t have any power here. But as long as you’re with me, no one will question it.”

Of course they would. They would question it immediately. He was a California cop and this was not California. But they would tolerate it. With the kind of pull that his uncle had, they would tolerate it, up to a point. But he didn’t how what point that was.

He attached his badge to the pocket of his coat. It was the gold shield of a first-class detective, shield number 091781. The same number he held when he was a third-class police officer, but the gold shield was new, so shiny that it almost embarrassed him. In California, it would have been one thing. He was a hero back there, the man who saved the mayor’s life from a gang-banger. The bright shield meant something else here in Aeron’s Point. It meant he was brand new; a rookie, it meant he didn’t know what he was doing. Tagging along was a bad idea, he knew it deep down, but he could not refuse his uncle.

The first thing he noticed was the blood. There was blood everywhere. He had seen gory crime scenes before and he’d always had a good stomach for it. But this was something else. It wasn’t merely the fact that it was someone he knew. He had seen the bodies of friends and family and informants before. That made it tough, but this was worse. This was a girl who he had known growing up, a girl who had wished him good luck when he left town nine years ago. A girl who told him that she wanted to see California some day and asked him if she could come visit him when she was older. This was someone who had looked up to him in awe, someone who hadn’t seen him as “Edward’s kid.” This was a girl who had been shot six times and left to bleed to death on a playground.

“Chief,” a police officer behind a camera said as a greeting. It took him a moment to acknowledge Tim. “Detective.”

“Christ,” Gerald said quietly. “This is a mess.”

Tim found it hard to breathe for a moment. He drew in a breath and it got caught in his chest. He wished he could chalk it up to the cracked ribs, but this had nothing to do with his injuries. He’d never seen a merry-go-round covered in blood before; it was one of the things he managed to avoid in California, although blood-spattered walls and alleys were common-place. The body was the worst part. He’d never seen this girl as a woman before, and for some reason this felt like more of an invasion of privacy than seeing his female neighbor in the laundry room in a bra and a pair of boxers. It might have had something to do with the fact that Terry’s joints had been reduced to pulp, or maybe it was the fact that she was tied spread-eagled. Maybe it was the thick gag in her mouth or the way her eyes seemed to be staring directly at him. Maybe it was everything.

He should not be here.

“Who found her?” Gerald asked.

The police officer with the camera – he looked like one of the Simone boys – lowered his camera for a moment and gestured towards the lake. At the edge of the lake, a jogger in baggy gray sweats was bent over, hands on his knees, shaking his head slowly in response to whatever question another officer was asking him. “Mister Goldstein was the one who found her during his morning jog.”

“You remember him?” Gerald asked.

“He teaches history,” Tim answered.

“Social studies,” Gerald said.

“Same thing,” Tim said. Tim had been in his class fourth grade. Goldstein had not aged gracefully. Most of his hair had fallen out and he’d developed a bit of a belly.

“We’ll have to go talk to him next,” Gerald said.

“How many times was she shot? Six? Or more?” Tim asked the cameraman. It was hard to tell, there was too much blood. He could see four distinct holes, one in each shoulder, one in her left elbow, one in her right knee; it was quick deduction to assume that there was a bullet in each joint, but there could have been more that were hidden by ragged flesh and bloody clothes.

“Looks like six,” the officer – probably Robert Simone – said. “Shoulders, elbows, knees.”

“Did you find any shell casings?” Gerald asked.

“None,” Jones said. “Not yet.”

“Keep looking,” Tim said. “Once the body is moved, make sure to check under the merry-go-round.”

“All right, detective,” Simone said.

“Come get us when Hackett arrives,” Gerald said.

“Should be here soon. Kelso called him right after you, Chief,” Simone said.

“All right,” Gerald said. “Detective, let’s go talk to Mister Goldstein.”

Kelso was new; Tim didn’t know him at all. That was strange; why would anyone transfer into Aeron’s Point? People left, but they didn’t come in. It was a tiny, isolated, xenophobic community. It wasn’t the kind of town that attracted people.

There was a puddle of vomit at Goldstein’s feet. It looked fresh; Tim had seen enough vomit on the job to get a good sense of what fresh vomit looked like. Goldstein had good cause to be sick – he surely had known Terry. Everybody knew everyone in the Point.

“How are you doing, Mister Goldstien?” Gerald asked.

“Jessie,” the teacher said. “Call me Jessie, Chief.”

“Jessie and I play cards together once in a while,” Gerald said to his nephew. “He usually wipes the floor with me.”

A look of surprise crossed Goldstein’s face as he looked up. “Timothy?”

“Hello, Mister Goldstein,” Tim said. “It’s Detective Einhorn, these days.”

“If we’re going to call you by your first name, you should do the same with us,” Gerald said. Tim would have preferred that things not move to a first-name basis. This wasn’t a bunch of guys sitting around playing cards, this was a crime scene.

“Sorry, Chief,” Goldstein said, shaking his head slowly. He appeared weak on his feet, but his face was flushed, not pale. “But it’s probably better we not do that.”

“What happened, Mister Goldstein?” Tim asked.

“I was out for my morning jog,” Goldstein began, before pausing. He took a deep breath and his face grew even brighter. “I always jog here. Nobody else does, they always go to the new park. But I’m always here every morning, from seven to eight.”

“Where are you parked?” Gerald asked.

“Same place I always park,” Goldstein pointed to the far side of the park. There was just a single car there, a brown station wagon. Terry had not driven here; otherwise, her car would have still been in the parking lot.

“Go on,” Gerald said.

“I usually just run laps around the lake for an hour. I started down there, near the parking lot. I guess I got three quarters of a lap done when I noticed there was a buzzard over on the playground, pecking at something. Wasn’t till I reached the bend and got close to the playground that I…” His voice trailed off and he suddenly doubled over, vomiting onto the ground. Tim moved his feet in the nick of time, barely avoiding splash back.

Kelso spoke up. “Soon as he realized who it was, he ran to the payphone over there by the parking lot and called the precinct. Simone and I were the first ones on scene. We secured the scene and called for back-up.”

“Jessie, Officer Kelso is gonna help you to your car as soon as you’re feeling able, and then he’s going to wait with you until you’re feeling fine to drive off. I want you to take the day off from work and get some rest. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything else we need from you.”

“It’s disgusting, Gerald,” Goldstein said, “what was done to her. I’ve never seen anything like that in my entire life. Never wanna see anything like that again.”

“We’ll take care of this, Jessie. Don’t you think about this no more.”

Goldstien chuckled softly. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that. Don’t think I’m ever going to stop thinking about this.”

They walked back towards the body in silence. Tim didn’t feel he had much to say, not yet. A new figure had appeared at the crime scene, a thin man with hair that was equal parts dark black and gray. He looked like a stereotypical mortician, which is probably what he was.

“Is that Hackett?” Tim asked.

“Don’t you remember him?”

“The name. Not the person,” Tim said.

“He’s aged quite a bit in the last few years. After his wife died, he kind of withdrew a little bit.”

“Her, I remember,” Tim said. When Tim had been young, there were few people his age who didn’t know about Virginia Hackett. She was relatively plain-looking, except for being blessed with the kind of chest that drove immature teenagers absolutely wild. But he barely remembered her husband. It wasn’t till he and his uncle reached the crime scene, and Tim saw him in person, that his memory was jogged. He looked much older than the fifty-or-so years he should have been.

“I just saw her a few weeks ago, Chief,” Hackett said as they approached. “Came in for her annual check-up. Fine condition.”

Gerald must have noticed the confusion on Tim’s face. “Once Doc Anton retired, Hackett took over as our local practitioner. Easier on everyone in the town, so’s they didn’t have to go over to Cedarville for a broken finger.”

“Good to see you, Tim,” Hackett said. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Of course,” Tim said quietly.

“Care to make a rough guess as to time of death?” Gerald asked.

“Sometime between 5 and 20 hours ago.”

“Pretty general,” Tim said.

“Cut me some slack, I just got here,” Hackett said. He turned his attention to Simone. “I need pictures from every angle, at varying distances. Just to be safe.”

“Once you’ve made a cursory examination, sign off on the body so we can transport it back to your lab,” Gerald said. “We need to know what is going on here.”

“I won’t delay, Chief,” Hackett said. He ran a hand through his messy hair and sighed. “This is some mess here.”

“Sure is, Hack,” Gerald said.

“We got to find the guy that did this,” Hackett said.

“We’ll find him. Or her,” Tim said. This didn’t look like the type of thing a woman would do. Nothing could be counted out. Not this early into things.

“I was using ‘guy’ in the general sense, kid,” Hackett said. His eyes fixed on Tim’s scar. “How’s the neck?”

“It’s fine,” Tim said. It was fine as long as you didn’t mind a throbbing ache and an itching sensation underneath his skin. “Looks like she was shot six times.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hackett said. “All in the joints, looks like. Probably bled out, but she may have gone into shock and died. I’ll get her cleaned up.”

“Make sure you run a blood test, see if anything was in her system.”

“We don’t have many problems with drugs in town,” Gerald said to Tim. “But it’s a good idea to run some tests, see what comes up.”

“Standard procedure, Chief,” Hackett said. “Why don’t you two work on finding out who killed her, and I’ll get to work on seeing what did it.”

“We’re gonna head over to Ted Marshall’s house to let him know. Then we’ll probably head to the school. Page me when you get anything.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” Hackett said. He turned away from them, crouching down next to the body, immersing himself in his job.

The silence continued to hang over them as they walked back to Gerald’s car. They both nodded to the officer posted at the park’s entrance and crossed underneath the yellow tape. As they were nearing Gerald’s car, Tim noticed a news van approaching from down the road. This was going to blow up once the reporters found out what had happened in the park.

“Try to take it easy, Tim,” Gerald said as they reached the car.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tim said.

“Being so formal with Jessie. Telling Hackett how to do his job. And I saw the way you looked at Simone and Kelso.”

“We’re on the job. We shouldn’t be going around calling people by their first names. We shouldn’t be personally involved in this.”

“That’d be fine, if we weren’t involved. But we are.”

Tim sighed and got into the car. He waited until Gerald was seated and the car was started before saying anything. It took him that long to formulate the proper response. “It feels strange to be back here.”

“I’m sure it does,” Gerald said. “Almost been a decade since you left.”

“Everybody still remembers what my father did,” Tim said.

Gerald put the car into gear and pulled out of the maintenance drive way before the news van had even come to a stop. Tim saw a reporter and a camera man getting out of the van in the car’s passenger-side mirror. They shrank to little dots as the car sped away. “Yeah, but that doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Sure it does,” Tim said. “Nobody thinks I should be here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hackett. Goldstein. They think I’m an outsider.” That made sense, of course, because he was. “They don’t want me on this case.”

“You’re a detective, Tim,” Gerald said. “You don’t get to be a detective by being a screw-up.”

“I was promoted because I was injured in the line of duty.” Tim sighed. “I don’t belong here, Uncle Gerald.”

“Too bad,” Gerald said. “Because we have a job to do. And we’re going to do it.”