A Dream of Death (19 page)

Gloves. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten. I reached into
the right pocket of my cargo pants and took out a pair of black latex gloves.
Everything I touched was evidence, it needed to be preserved.

First was the gun. It needed to be proven safe. I took it
from Carter’s lifeless hand, the fingers gave only slight resistance. Rigor
mortis hadn’t set in. Less than three hours. I dropped the magazine out of the
pistol and racked the slide back several times to ensure there were no rounds
left in the gun.

A casing.

All that came out when I racked the slide was a spent shell
casing, not the live round I was expecting.

My mind was spinning. When a bullet is fired from a
semi-automatic pistol the slide comes back ejecting the spent casing, then
snaps forward bringing a live round into the chamber. No live round meant
something had stopped the gun from doing its job. Held properly, the gun would
have worked.

No live round and only the faintest smell of gunpowder. The
windows were all up and the doors locked. I looked around for a suicide note
and saw nothing. I slid my finger across the touchpad on the in-car computer
and the screen came to life: “I’m sorry” was typed on the screen.

A brief, typed message.

Everything was adding up. Unfortunately, it was adding up to
murder.

I stepped back, taking my body out of Carter’s cruiser for
the first time since I’d opened the door. Sirens broke the crisp morning air
and I knew I had very little time. I looked in the car again, at the youthful
face, at the gold wedding band, and I couldn’t decide whether to scream or cry.

A murdered cop.

It had to have been someone known to him. We were notorious
for keeping our car doors locked and to let someone in the car, Carter must
have trusted them. His duty bag caught my eye, a large black canvas bag with J.
CARTER #4532 and an OPP emblem embroidered on the top.

Facing the wrong way.

The zippered opening was away from Carter, facing toward the
passenger side door. It had been moved and put back wrong. Whoever killed
Carter had been sitting in the car with him.

A cell phone rang from somewhere in the car.

The casing had been ejected from the gun when I racked the
slide. It would have been ejected on its own had the gun fired normally, but
now it was on the floor of the car, consistent with a suicide. But there should
have been a live round expelled when I racked the slide. I picked up the
magazine and pushed the top round out into the palm of my gloved hand then
threw it under the car.

I went around to the passenger side and opened the door then
turned the duty bag around, the opening facing Carter as it would have been
when he was working. The sirens were getting closer, I had to work faster.

The phone rang again.

I leaned in across the duty bag and patted the pockets on
Carter’s shirt. When I touched the right pocket the phone rang and vibrated
against my hand. The Velcro tore apart as I lifted the flap on the top of the
pocket then reached in, my gloved hand taking out the phone.

Home.

He was overdue and someone was worried about him. I’d been
on the receiving end of those calls a few times. Stuck on overtime and too busy
to remember to call home.

The phone rang twice more before the call display
disappeared and the voice recorder app took its place. I scrolled to a point
near the beginning and listened.

“—figure it all out?”

“I’ve got a lot of information, a lot of names. I just can’t
put it all together.”

I didn’t recognize either voice. And I didn’t have time to
think about it—the sirens were closing in, I looked out toward the main road
and could see the lights flashing. I was almost out of time.

I scrolled forward, hoping for something.

“—he’s in on it, I know that much.”

“You have no idea how high it goes.”

Shit.

I stopped the playback and put the phone in my pocket, then
backed out of the car. It had been dry the last few days and whoever had been
here left no evidence. No mud meant no tire tracks or foot prints.

There were two cigarette butts on the paved road beneath
Carter’s window. Back to the passenger side. None. But there was a slight burn
mark, and some ash on the ground. I knelt down and blew the ash away then
scraped at the burn mark with my foot.

Two cruisers rounded the corner onto Shain Road and began
speeding toward me. And here I was, destroying evidence and covering up a
murder. Not bad for only my second week back.

But I didn’t know who I could trust.

I would like to thank, first and foremost, my family for the
ongoing support provided in virtually all facets support can be given.

Next, to the beta-readers who were sworn to secrecy
regarding my true identity: you know who you are, and you know how grateful I
am.

To Dave King, editor extraordinaire, for his hard work
taking my vision and giving it a lovely layer of polish. Dave can be found at
DaveKingEdits.com
.

And to the readers, I cannot thank you enough for taking the
time and spending the money to read something I made up. I hope it was well
worth your while.

Harrison Drake is the pseudonym of a Canadian writer and
career police officer who has chosen anonymity in order to protect a safe,
secure and quiet lifestyle for his family. The author’s next novel will focus
heavily on police corruption and the author wishes to be able to write freely
and without fear of reprisal.

The author is hard at work on numerous other writing
projects in numerous other genres.

Website:
HarrisonDrake.com

Twitter:
@HDrakeTheWriter