CHAPTER 16
Parks sat at her desk, with Wilco curled around her feet. “Harris just came by. He was talking about you.”
“Yeah? You don’t actually listen to that dumb ass, do you??”
“That you busted the mayor’s boy’s nose.”
“He deserved it.”
“No doubt. Still . . .”
“How’s my dog?” I pulled up a seat next to her.
She held up an empty bag of doggy treats. “He’s not a dog. He’s a pig.”
I squinted. Chicken Chews. Great. Chicken still turned my stomach, but my dog? Inside Wilco’s contented stomach, chicken chews churned into chicken farts. “I just got done interviewing the Joyce girl.”
“I did that already.”
“I know. She lied to you.”
“Figures. They all lie to me. I must look easy.”
I glanced at her profile. Hardly what most suspects would call “easy,” let alone what guys might refer to that way. Hair cinched into a tight bun, a creased uniform, an even gaze, and a serious set to her jaw, a straight talker. Yet chubby cheeks and laugh lines hurt her tough don’t-mess-with-me image. A capable cop, but did she have the guts to press suspects where it hurts? Doubtful. I skimmed the monitor in front of her. The Tennessee Incident Based Report System (TIBRS) was up on her screen. “What are you searching?”
“Pusser has me double-checking evidence from the crime scene you and Wilco turned up the other day.”
“They found something?”
“A bullet. Pulled from the skull. Thirty-eight Special ammo. So I’m thinking a small revolver, a .38 or 357.” She clicked on the keyboard. “I’m going back about five years in the database, just to see what turns up. A long shot. Probably a waste of time. But you never know.”
Gran’s gun was a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson 36 J Frame, chambered with .38 Special ammo. Easy for her small hands and compact enough to carry in her purse, or pocket, if needed. There might be cases with similar guns. I hoped there would be—anything to derail this investigation. But nothing would turn up linking the gun to Gran. She hadn’t fired it before plugging Doogan full of bullets. Or . . . had she? Had she used it in the years I was away? I’d have to ask her if anyone had ever seen her . . . Damn! Last year, when the press was hounding us, Gran waved her gun in front of the cameras. Did that air on the news segment? I’d never seen it. Meg told me it took Uncle Paddy and Jarvis stepping in to finally get the cameras to back off, but had they been rolling when Gran stuck her gun in their faces? I had to know. Was that the television station out of Greenville? Ah, crap. The local paper ran the story, too; that nosey reporter and her camerman had been glued to the porch that day as well. Not that it was proof of anything. Just the kind of connection that slaps handcuffs on Travellers. A Pavee with a small revolver that took .38 Special ammo. Another Pavee murdered with .38 Special ammo. To settled law, that kind of “one plus one” equaled “case closed.”
“Brynn? You okay?”
I blinked. “Yeah. Why?”
“I was talking to you. The Joyce girl? You said there was something—” Her focus shifted across the room. I turned. Pusser was coming my way. Mayor Anderson shadowed him, slightly off step, his thick gut straining his shirt’s buttons. Out of nowhere, Harris appeared, coffee mug in hand and a stupid grin on his face, anticipating the drama about to unfold, no doubt. Maybe I should’ve asked him if he needed a doughnut to go along with his coffee, just a little snack for enjoying the show. Or a scone perhaps? Or a smack in the mouth. I stood and faced the approaching entourage head-on, my good-soldier face ready for the assault. Fearless. Stoic.
My stomach churned.
Three months. Three lousy months on the force and I was getting canned. Temper issues, flashbacks, can’t play well with others . . . Why can’t I get my act together? Hell, I’d blown a job as a security guard at a stupid storage facility in only one month. Three months looked like a lifetime career by my current standards. But this job . . . I really needed this job. No, I wanted it. And I’d be damned if I was giving it up without a fight.
Pusser stopped a few feet in front of me. Behind him, Mayor Anderson stared me down, arms crossed, face flushed. I scrambled for something, anything. “Some more info just came in regarding the case. We should probably talk in private before—”
He ignored my words and, with a jerk of his head for me to follow, he moved toward his office, Mayor Anderson on his heels. I followed. Behind my back, Harris laughed.
Inside his office, Pusser started with a slick lead-in. “Deputy Callahan, the mayor wanted to meet with you to discuss—”
“You broke my son’s nose.”
I looked to Pusser for help. Nothing. A regular Mr. Poker Face.
“I said, you broke my son’s frickin’ nose. You don’t have anything to say about that?” His jowls quivered, spittle on his fat lips.
“I’m sorry?” My words came out more like a question than an apology.
He slammed his fist down on Pusser’s desk like he wanted to drive his knuckles through my skull. “Bullshit. This is the second time you’ve gone after my boy. You got something against us, some sort of personal vendetta? You had no right to go to his school and—”
“Your son resisted arrest! He took a swing at me. I had every right to defend myself.”
Pusser’s head swiveled. “Careful what you say, Callahan. The altercation was recorded on a dozen cell phones.”
“Good. Then you’ll see that what I’m saying is true.” I looked at the mayor. “Hatch brought this on himself. He was out of control, dangerous. He assaulted another officer. I was justified in using force.”
Mayor Anderson jabbed his index finger in my direction. “I want her dismissed.”
Pusser’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“What?” Anderson’s eyes bulged. He turned red jowls on the sheriff.
“No. I’ll have DOJ review the recordings. If they rule that Officer Callahan used excessive force, I’ll take appropriate action.”
“I’m warning you, Frank. Get rid of her. Didn’t you watch last night’s news? She lost control of her dog. Compromised evidence at the scene. It was all over the television. An embarrassment to your department. To my town. She’s a hothead. A drunk. A liability.”
My jaw clenched. I’d been called worse. I could handle any hateful smear. Trouble was, in this case, I couldn’t argue with it.
Pusser leaned forward, his tone cold. “A drunk? Really? You got proof of that?”
Anderson turned beet red. “My son’s no killer. He had nothing to do with this. If you people pursue this, you’ll be—”
“Pursue what? The truth? That’s our job.”
Anderson stood. “We’re done discussing this, Frank. From here on out, you can talk to my attorney.”
He slammed the door on his way out.
I blew out a long breath. “Thanks for defending me, boss.”
“Don’t thank me.” He sat back in his chair, his voice even colder now as he looked up at me. “I agree with the mayor. You’re a drunk. And probably an addict, too.”
I swallowed hard. It wasn’t like that. He didn’t get it. Drinking was . . . My throat felt dry, begging for a belt of Black Label or a cold beer. I forced myself not to lick my lips. Okay. So maybe I drank a bit. But the meds? The doctors prescribed those for me. At least they used to. My usual VA doc wanted me off them, so I found another one who understood me better. Or I thought he did. Last visit, he mentioned something about a new pain-pill policy, how I might have to taper off the meds or look at alternative therapy. What a crock. As if acupuncture or yoga was going to touch my pain. No, Doc, there is no alternative for vets like me. We’re home, but we’re still fighting a war: the scarring, the physical pain, the anxiety that comes with the flashbacks.
The VA docs didn’t get it. Pusser didn’t get it. No one got it. I avoided his accusations, looked him straight on. “I have info for you,” I said. A lead. A way to redeem myself. “Winnie gave up the whole story.” I sat and relayed what she’d said about Hatch and Maura making out. How she took off and met up with the Fisher kid. Everything.
“Good work.” His tone was flat.
“You’re going to question Hatch about it, right? He lied before, he was with her that night. The night she disappeared. We need to know if the Meath kid actually showed up. My guess is that the mayor’s kid—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“And Jacob Fisher?”
“I’ll put Parks on the Fisher kid. See what he knows. Maybe he’ll confirm some of what the Joyce girl told you. Or maybe she’s an unreliable witness.”
I bristled. “Because she’s a Pavee.”
“No. Because she’s already lied once.”
I shifted in my chair. “If it’s all the same, I’d like to question the Fisher kid.”
“No. Parks will do it. I want you to take the afternoon off. Go visit your grandmother.”
“My cousin is with her. I don’t need the afternoon off.”
“Take it, anyway.” He shuffled a few papers. “And you’re going to see a shrink. I’m going to get an evaluation set up.”
“An evaluation?”
“Yeah. See if you’re fit for duty.”
A decorated combat veteran, body maimed and brain fried from service to my country, and I get this kind of crap thrown at me? Cool it, Brynn. “Hey, it was just a little booze. I’d tossed a few back before bed. My grandmother just had a stroke. We’re in the middle of a gruesome killing of young women. Who wouldn’t have a drink? And the call came in early. That’s all that was. I’m a good cop. You know that.”
He didn’t bother looking up from his papers. “Go home, Callahan.”