Maznicki swallowed and took a safety step away from Arthur.
“How about you keep your disrespectful jokes down, Deac; his nephew’s here.” Art tipped his head to the side in a quick motion.
Deac shifted to get a look around Art’s bulk and saw Ethan Tannor standing by the bedroom door. “Man, c’mon,” he whined. “We all know Ethan ain’t a blood relative.”
“All the same, shut your damn hole for once.”
“I … uh …”
“Remember, it’s for your own health.” Art patted Deacon hard on the back of the neck, then walked back to Ethan’s side.
“Hey,” Deac called out to Art’s retreating form. “Are you still joining us at McSorley’s for drinks tonight?”
Art spun back to stare at the other man. He moved his eyes around the scene and finally back at Deacon, his expression saying, Look around and answer your own damn question.
Moments later, Art and Ethan stood with Sergeant Davis. They – mostly Art – were going over the young cop’s statement for a second time. It remained the same: after being dispatched to the location, Davis arrived to discover the homeowner, Tobias Keane, with a gunshot wound to the head. Davis had not needed to break into the property. The gate to the premises was open and the front door was unlocked, as if to make it easy for the first responders.
On the surface it was a run of the mill suicide, but this one had hit close to home and it felt like anything but ordinary. Notwithstanding Deacon’s earlier behavior, there was a pronounced seriousness among the team at work.
After Davis had given his second retelling of events, Art gave him permission to step away so the forensic team could continue examining the area.
Art placed a gloved hand on Ethan’s shoulder in a silent demonstration of support. He spoke, breaking Ethan’s five minute silence. “Hey big man, if you need to step outside and get some air, or remove yourself from the situation, everyone will understand. I’ll catch a ride home with one of the guys.”
Ethan wanted to brush Art’s hand away and absorb all of this in solitude. But seven years of partnership on the force was too much of a bond to allow him to treat the gesture with indifference. He knew Art was only trying to help. “I’ll be fine.” Ethan muttered, working hard to keep his voice steady.
He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and scanned the room. His gaze skittered around, touching on the desk in the corner, the books upon the shelves, the closet that held a false wall where his uncle’s safe was shielded, and finally once again the bed that held Tobias’s motionless body.
Ethan’s personal attachment struggled with his cop instincts. He wanted to turn away, to not look upon this another moment, but his intuition won out and forced his eyes to soak up the information in its entirety.
Tobias Keane’s body was frozen in a state fitted for a horror movie. His neck was in a painful looking position, knocked violently sideways by the gun blast. The left side of his head was an explosion of viscous, bloody matter, mixed with chunks of brain tissue. Thankfully, Tobias’s skull had lolled to the left, leaving the damaged side pressed against the mattress, mostly hidden from sight. The blood had already begun to congeal, and was probably caked to the bed; they were going to have a hell of a time separating Tobias’s scalp from the sheets. His right temple had a burn mark in the shape of a nearly complete circle that matched the muzzle of the .45 lying on the floor by the bed. A member of the forensics team crouched beside the weapon, camera in hand.
Ethan would have never thought his adopted uncle was capable of something like this. The man had been in frail health as of late, but was that what really prompted this act? Had Tobias been coming down with something like Alzheimer’s or one of the other countless varieties of dementia? Had he been taking some kind of drug that affected his thinking? What was going through his mind before he pulled the trigger? The only thing that bore the answer to the question was the .45 caliber bullet that had been carried away by a forensic specialist, but even that wouldn’t be able to share its secret.
All of these thoughts and more tumbled through Ethan’s mind. It had been a while since he visited Uncle Tobias. Work had taken up most of his time these past couple years, so their latest get-togethers had been sparse and short. A sudden, painful, sense of regret filled him, but Ethan mentally shook himself. He couldn’t allow himself to play the ‘What If’ game. He had to stay on point.
He continued to survey the activity around him: uniformed cops, forensics, and the coroner who was waiting on standby to remove the body after all the techs had worked their magic. Ethan had little doubt about the conclusion that would be reached. Suicide. Without question.
But why? The thought emerged again, unbidden.
Art remained by Ethan’s side, gazing about with pensive eyes. Finally, he looked over at Ethan, caught the other man’s gaze, and raised his brows in a silent question.
Ethan inclined his head, indicating that he was going to take Art’s advice and head outside. He made slowly for the door, his legs feeling like lead as he left the room. He was overdue for some fresh air.
As Ethan neared the front doorway, his eyes fell on the key holder attached to the wall and a thought took root. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t spotted before removing the spare set of house keys from its hook. The old leather Pittsburg Steelers strap attached to the key ring reminded Ethan of happier times spent with Tobias, watching their favorite team play on lazy Sunday afternoons in front of the television.
He walked outside and made his way down the driveway toward the motorized gate that had been left open while crews moved in and out of the premises. A couple of uniforms stood next to the tape that had been draped across the opening and Ethan nodded to them as he slipped under the yellow barrier.
Almost the instant his foot made contact with the sidewalk beyond the gate, he was ambushed by a hoard of television crews.
“SIR, SIR, a statement about the deceased, please!” a random voice rang out from the horde of vultures.
Ethan moved forward, pushing cameras out of his face. The reporters pressed even closer, making it almost impossible for him to plow his way through the wave of bodies and machines.
“Please, people! Move it back. We need to cordon off this area as a possible crime scene. You have to step away.” His patience was at the breaking point. If he didn’t extricate himself from this crowd, he might be hauled away in the back of a police cruiser.
As he passed by the trash cans at the curb of his uncle’s house, Ethan stopped and hollered back to one of the officers by the gate. “Can we get some tape around these?” He pointed to the two large green bins. “There could be evidence in there.”
The officer bent his head in acknowledgement, moving away to grab the tape. Ethan watched him go and a strange feeling ran through his gut, twisting it into knots. Before he was able to focus on the cause, another voice spoke out from the mob, “So it was a murder then?” This was followed by, “Are there any suspects?”
Ethan silently chastised himself for the unintentional slip, which had merely been a reflection of his reluctance to accept the obvious. Still, something wasn’t right and his subconscious stirred again. “I didn’t say that,” he insisted. “But what I am saying is step back behind the line I’m about to make, or you’ll be doing your reporting in a cell.”
It was clear the multitude of people didn’t like their options, but they heeded his words and moved back with little complaint. Ethan hated this part of his job. Yes, reporters had the right to deliver the news, but for God’s sake, why did they only savor the bad stuff?
This was one of the reasons Ethan didn’t watch much news anymore. Stories that had happy endings came last, and that particular coverage was rare. Death, destruction, chaos: these accounts were highlighted all the way to the living rooms of citizens across the nation. The implementation of twenty-four hour news coverage a few years ago resulted in negative headlines receiving days of exposure so that all kinds of scandalous stori
es were rehashed incessantly. The consequence of such coverage was a disgusting bastardization of the press.
Pushing the rest of his way through the gathering of people, Ethan saw the Parkers, Tobias’s closest neighbors. Percy Parker stood with his wife and a young man of at least seventeen. Then it dawned on Ethan that the young man was their son. Had it really been that long since he’d seen them? The last he remembered, young Stephen was just a kid dribbling a basketball down the street.
Time passes too quickly. A surge of anguish hit him like a blow to the gut. He didn’t bother heading in the Parker’s direction; they were busy listening to the reporters deliver the news of Tobias Keane’s death to the world.
Ethan dropped the nice family from his thoughts and separated himself from the throng, his body language a clear deterrent against any reporter who might have wanted to follow him with more queries. He rounded the corner, undisturbed.
Finally alone, Ethan stood on the sidewalk, head bent down as if studying the cracks in the concrete. He remained that way for a long time as the endless questions without answers conquered his mind.
***
April 21, 1986, 10:52 PM
Almost five hours later, the last of the police were leaving. Ethan was still outside, now standing just beyond the property gate and looking at the house he’d called home for three years of his life.
He squinted up at the night sky. It had been such a bright and glorious day, but ruined by such tragic news. He felt like praying for rain so that others could share his grief, but that would have been selfish.
The storm clouds are only over me tonight.
Dismissed was the reality that countless others did fill his shoes today and every day. How many wives had just become widows? How many women died during labor, giving birth to motherless children? Who had just lost a parent to the ravages of time? None of that crossed Ethan’s mind; he was lost in his own moment of sorrow.
At the opposite curb sat a squad car, no doubt positioned there by Jacob Fredericks, Ethan’s captain, to serve as a lookout. It wasn’t every day that a member of high society was found dead; Fredericks would probably have units trade off watching the house to ward off looters.
The camera crews and reporters that had been hovering for hours must have finally gotten their fill of the bad news because their crowd was thinning out as the remnants wrapped it up for the night.
Weary from the news the day had brought him, Ethan stepped from the curb and walked across Yorkshire Way to his Mustang.
Just the sight of the vehicle flooded him with memories. Tobias and he had spent a year and most of a summer rebuilding it after the fateful accident that took his parents away all those years ago. The car was now one of his prized possessions, despite its sad history.
Ethan opened the door and slid into the bucket seat. He spared another glance at his uncle’s house, and a swell of emotion hit him again. He sucked in a ragged breath, resting his head against the steering wheel, fighting back the grief.
After a few moments, he sat back and angrily brushed a hand over moist eyes. He felt the need to head home and kill the pain before it overwhelmed him. Ethan cranked the car and pulled away from the curb, waving lazily to the on watch patrol unit as he drove off.
04 Whiskey Business
April 21, 1986, 10:58 PM
Ethan headed back into the city, detached from his surroundings. He was so oblivious that he failed to regard the vehicles around him, the speed limit, and he idled the car at more than four green lights. He eventually made it home to The Elysium Terrace, pulled into the underground garage of the upscale building, and parked in his space without incident.
Normally he took the elevator to his floor, but this time Ethan opted for the stairs to release his built up tension from the day.
He went to the main lobby to grab his mail and saw Donald Yeats, the lobby receptionist, tucked behind the front desk reading a book. Don was an interesting man; he dressed like a Bee Gee and brimmed with constant energy, as if the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever was on perpetual replay in his brain. The man seemed clueless that the 70s had passed by several years ago.
Ethan usually enjoyed his daily chit-chats with Disco Donnie, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood. He made a hurried escape to the staircase and took the seven flight trip up two steps at a time.
Upon opening the door to his condo, Ethan discarded his mail and newspapers on a table by the entrance, and went straight for his liquor cabinet in the kitchen. He pulled down a bottle of Maker’s Mark, and got a glass from the cupboard. He pushed on the ice cube dispenser for what felt like forever before he resigned himself to the fact that waiting another ten seconds would cause thirty cubes to drop all at once.
Irritated, he opened the freezer door and battled with an armful of backlogged cubes before they fell out. Cursing, he pushed back on the door again, banging it against the counter as it over extended on its hinges. He snatched a few loose cubes from the ice box and dropped them into his glass. After twisting off the waxed cap, he upended the bottle and splashed out three fingers of the strong liquor. He decided on an extra finger for good measure.
As Ethan turned away from the liquor cabinet, his shoe bumped into a piece of ice. It skittered along the floor and under the stove. He looked down, saw the scattering of cubes, and left the kitchen. Screw it. The mess could wait until tomorrow.
Ethan pulled his firearm from its holster, his badge from his belt, and placed them in a wooden serving dish atop the table. He walked across the living room and sat down in his reading chair, staring out at the cityscape. It was normally a breathtaking view, but tonight he looked at it with dead eyes. The sound of muffled gunshots floated up from the streets below. He frowned and looked down into the rolling current of his whiskey and the ice cubes floating like large buoys. As his day was coming to an end, other officers and detectives would be beginning theirs.
His gaze swept over the room. What was it all worth in the end? What was the meaning to life? It seemed like no matter how hard he tried to help end the violence, it would just spring up elsewhere. He thought of Art, just over thirty years on the force, and the stories he told from his time in service before joining up with Ethan. It didn’t seem like things had been any better, even back then. How could you keep your soul fighting against such odds?
He looked away from the possessions he’d accumulated over the years and began to think about how he got here. Despite Ethan’s posh address, he couldn’t have been able to afford a place like this on his own. Uncle Tobias had purchased it for him after he left the Army. Now he’d never get a chance to repay the debt, like they’d agreed.
The blinking light on his answering machine by the bookshelf caught Ethan’s eye. He craned his neck to read the display. There were two unheard messages. He didn’t feel like listening to any sympathy calls now. In fact, he didn’t give two shits about anything at the moment. He just wanted time to himself so he could forget this day. After two or three more drinks he’d call it a night and hope tomorrow carried better news to his front door.
He stood up, plucked the phone from its cradle and laid it on the table. No more incoming calls for tonight. He could hear sirens in the distance as he took another swig of whiskey. Just a normal night in the city. Crime didn’t rest in this town. It never would.
Ethan pressed the chilled glass against his forehead and closed his eyes. The coolness helped ease some of the tension in his head. The next several days would take a lot out of him in more ways than just dealing with the emotional loss of what had happened. Tobias didn’t have any other family, so that left Ethan to handle the funeral arrangements and estate settlement. It was going to be a nightmare.
He brought the glass to his mouth and threw back the drink, grimacing at the liquid burn, but loving the feel of it hitting his stomach. The warmth that spread signaled the beginning of temporary relief.
05 The Boss Man Always Rings Twice
April 22, 1986, 7:39 AM
; The harsh jangle of the bedroom phone jerked Ethan awake with a start. The empty glass sitting on the bedside table next to the set of keys with the Steelers emblem brought yesterday’s events into sharp focus. It wasn’t a dream – and why is that damn thing ringing?
He let the thought go; he’d gotten pretty drunk last night and must have put the living room phone back on its hook at some point before crashing out. The answering machine could get it. He didn’t feel like talking right now anyway. The ringing shrillness died down only to sound up again. Whoever was on the other end would keep at it until he picked up. Groaning, Ethan fumbled for the receiver.
“Yeah,” he managed, barely getting his raspy throat to work.
“Ethan.” The gruff voice belonged to his boss, Fredericks.
“Hey,” he mumbled.
“First off, my condolences for your loss,” Fredericks said with uncharacteristic softness. “I know it’s tough, but I wanted to tell you everyone at the station is working hard to get this taken care of. So just take it easy and don’t worry about a thing – I’ve already put you on bereavement, until you say otherwise.”
“No, I’m okay. I’ll be heading in soon.” Ethan’s voice was starting to come around. He also noticed he was still in his work clothes.
“Jesus, are you serious? If I were you, I’d have drowned myself in the Devil’s juice last night!”
“What makes you think I didn’t?” Ethan snapped.
“No offense intended, Ethan,” Fredericks’ gravelly voice deepened. “I’m just saying – I figured you wouldn’t be up to working on this. You know what the evidence supports. For us, it’s an open and shut case, so it’s not like we need you here for moral support, if you know what I mean.”