Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (21 page)

McKenzie looked disappointed. “It ain’t ‘coming along,’” he said. “That ship has sailed.”

“What do you mean? You must have a bunch of leads. I wanted to let you know, I can help out. If you’ve got some legwork that needs doing, just let me know.”

McKenzie surveyed the bottom half of her physique. “Legwork? Yeah, I’ll bet you could do some amazing legwork. I just might have to take you up on that.”

“Knock off it,” Tia said. “I’m serious. What’s left to do?”

McKenzie didn’t try to hide his annoyance. If Suarez wasn’t going to play along, then they had nothing to talk about. His feet went back to his desk and the paper went up.

“This is the Detective Squad. Go work your beat. Like I said, that case is a wrap and Alex Sawyer is dead-bang guilty. I hear she’s thinking of pleading out early and getting the best deal she can. The DA might make an offer.”

“Pleading out? Bullshit.” Tia was stunned.

“Damn, girl. You oughta read the papers. This wasn’t no whodunit. Sawyer was screwin’ the coffeehouse guy.” McKenzie looked at Tia over the top of his paper and changed his tone. “People do that, you know. Men. Women. They get together, and crazy shit happens.”

“What about Sergeant Sawyer?” Tia asked. “How’s he doing? I’ve called the house but no answer.”

“You called the house?” McKenzie said sharply enough that Tia knew she had crossed the line. “No one in the department is allowed to have any contact with him. And no one better be talking to him about my murder case. That guy assaulted me. His policing days are done.”

Tia ignored McKenzie’s complaints in her response and tried to turn the conversation away from Ben.

“Look, I know Alex Sawyer. She didn’t kill anybody. That’s crazy talk. I’ve worked a few high-profile investigations myself, McKenzie. How about I just read the case file?” She paused. “Maybe we can compare notes.”

Too late. McKenzie wasn’t biting.

“Interesting as that sounds,” he said, “no split-tail patrol cop is nosing around my murder case. Now, if you ever want to just step out and have a drink or something, you be sure to let me know.”

Plate Boyd’s voice boomed with annoyance from his adjacent office. “McKenzie, get over here. I got Nancy Grace on the line.”

McKenzie jumped to his feet and headed out the door. He brushed against Tia as he passed.

“This case is the big time, Suarez. When it’s over, I’ll tell you all about it. Like I said, you want to step out for a drink, I’ll buy the first four or five rounds and we’ll see where it goes from there.”

A moment later Tia could hear McKenzie on the phone in the next office, ingratiating himself with the celebrity reporter. It took McKenzie less than a minute to comment on the woman’s “sexy mouth.”

Tia glanced out into the hallway and saw it was clear. She studied McKenzie’s desk. His discarded newspaper partially covered several case files. Most documents were marked by coffee ring stains. An overflowing ashtray cast a pall of nicotine dust over all exposed surfaces. Tia gave some thought to riffling through the desk, but that could spell trouble. Last thing she wanted was to be in a position where McKenzie had any leverage over her. Not to mention, the idea of touching anything that belonged to the guy disgusted her.

As she turned to leave, her eye was caught by a disc half buried under several pieces of paper. She glimpsed a large letter
S
on the disc, but the rest of the label was hidden. Tia made sure no one was watching, then pushed aside the documents to read the full text: “Sawyer 911.” Tia had heard from patrol officers that the whole Carson murder case had started with a 911 call from a pay phone. After a final check of the door, Tia slipped the disc off McKenzie’s desk and tucked it under her shirt.

She hurried down the hallway, passing Sergeant Boyd’s office. She could hear McKenzie telling his new celebrity friend one of his favorite stories, about the time he nabbed a bank robber dressed like a clown. His voice boomed into the phone, marked by indignation.

“No, not me. The crook.
He
was dressed like a clown.”

THIRTY

Though the old man was breathing steadily, Ben couldn’t help but wonder when his last breath might come. Remembering the robust street cop of his youth, he felt certain Lars would welcome an end that allowed for some level of dignity. In the days since he’d been found lying on the floor, Lars had for the most part remained unconscious. He was being fed through a tube. During the rare times when he was awake, he fought—as best he could, given his physical condition—with the nurses and aides, or anyone else who tried to help him. Ben knew Lars wanted his daughter, but Ben couldn’t bring himself to tell Lars what had happened.

What are you going to do without her, old man? What are we all going to do?

Ben had been nine years old the first time he walked Alex home from school. Before they reached her house, a police cruiser pulled up. When the cop got out, Ben stopped in his tracks. The boy gawked at the man he was sure stood ten feet tall as Alex flew into her father’s arms. Ben had looked on and wondered how it would feel to have a girl like Alex love you that much.

Little Alex—also nine years old—had said,
“Daddy, this is my friend Ben. He sat with me at lunch today and now he’s carrying my books, see?”

Twenty-five years had come and gone, and Ben still remembered the first words Lars Norgaard ever directed at him.
“You must be a mighty special young man. Usually I carry her books.”

Ben looked at the old man’s deeply lined face. “You knew right then, didn’t you? Even then, you knew where we were headed.”

As if on cue, Lars’s eyes fluttered open. Ben stood at the bedside, afraid to speak, while Lars stared at the ceiling above his bed. After several seconds Ben bent in close. He tried to speak in a normal, conversational tone.

“It’s me, Lars. It’s Ben. I’m right here with you.”

“Be-n.”

It was weak but unmistakable. Lars was speaking for the first time in months.

“Beee-nnn.”

“I’m right here.” Ben stood where Lars was able to see him. A withered hand moved slowly across the bedsheet as if Lars was trying to reach out. Ben took the old man’s trembling hand and held it gently in his own. Lars struggled to speak.

“Haarr-leeee.”

“What, Lars?” Ben was stunned. “What did you say?”

“Haaar-leeee.”

Ben couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. “What are you saying, Lars? Are you saying Harley? Who is Harley? What does that mean?”

“Haaaar-Leeee.” The required effort caused Lars to struggle for breath. His hands shook, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body began to convulse. Ben shouted for help and heard someone running.

A nurse entered the room and Ben moved aside. The nurse smacked the panic button on the wall above the old man’s bed with the palm of her hand and Ben heard an alarm sound down the hall. Seconds later more medical personnel raced into the room, including Dr. Schneider, who immediately began calling out instructions.

The team worked in concert, quickly and smoothly. Within a minute, Lars was sedated and again unconscious, his face contorted under an oxygen mask.

“Let me see you out in the hallway.” The doctor’s voice was firm, and Ben followed him out of the room.

“What happened in there?” Dr. Schneider asked.

Ben was still dazed by his father-in-law speaking for the first time in almost four months. “He woke up and started talking. He was trying to tell me something. After a couple of attempts, the seizure started.”

Schneider was skeptical. “He spoke? What did he say?”

“He said my name.” Ben thought back. “Then he said, ‘Harley.’ He said that a couple of times.”

“Does your father-in-law know someone named Harley?”

“I wish I knew,” Ben said. “It seemed really important to him.”

“I wouldn’t read too much into this. Fact is, the chances are pretty good the man was hallucinating. For all we know he may want to take a ride on a motorcycle.”

Ben shot back. “Knock off the glib shit, Doc. My father-in-law was trying to tell me something. With everything that has been going on, it could be important.”

“I apologize, Ben,” Schneider said without a hint of sincerity.

“I don’t need your apologies. I just need straight answers. When can you bring him around? I know he was trying to tell me something.”

Schneider spoke in a fast and officious clip. “Ben, Lars has been slipping in and out of consciousness since suffering a blow to the head. The impact may have caused neurological damage. I’m sorry to tell you this, but it is highly unlikely this episode had anything to do with an attempt to communicate. But you’re right. Until he is awake and calm for some length of time, we won’t know for sure. Is that straight enough for you?”

Ben didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, Doc. Your faith in the human spirit is a real inspiration.”

When the man made no reply, Ben went on. “Look, I know what I heard. Lars spoke my name and then repeated the name ‘Harley’ two times. So yes or no. Is there a person with the first or last name of Harley on your staff?”

“No. There is not.”

Ben looked through the open door, at the old man sleeping in the bed. “I want you to hold off on the drugs. I know this man. He’s got something on his mind, and he isn’t going to give up until he gets it out. No more sedatives, all right?”

Schneider folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Sawyer, perhaps it would be best for you to begin seeking alternate arrangements for your father-in-law. I have been as patient as I can—”

Ben turned away. “Oh, lighten up, Doc. This isn’t about your ability. I’m not insulting you. Just quit shooting Lars full of dope until he can get out whatever it is he’s trying to tell us, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

Schneider pursed his lips and responded. “I’ll note Mr. Norgaard’s file that there will be no further pain management without your consent. Good day, Ben.”

Ben watched as the man turned and left, and gave some thought to how it was that doctors were almost always assholes. Stepping back into the room, Ben looked at his father-in-law, a man he had known for most of his life. The old man’s gaunt face was troubled. His eyes were closed, but Ben could see rapid movement beneath the lids. His lips quivered. Ben knew Lars had said something to say, all right, but not to a doctor. Not even to his daughter. Lars wanted to talk to a cop.

THIRTY-ONE

As advertised, the wind blew hard in downtown Chicago. Harlan raised his voice and leaned toward the passenger window to make sure he was heard.

“Get in.”

All things considered, the man negotiated himself into the front seat with a fair amount of grace. He was a good six feet tall, well over that with the heels, and Harlan figured him to be in pretty good shape underneath all the window dressing. The he-she hiked up his skirt and looked directly at Harlan.

“Tell me exactly what it is you’re after and don’t mince words.” The voice was a practiced falsetto. “Cops like to be coy. Men who know what they want speak their mind.”

Harlan shot back. “How do I know there ain’t a cop with a wire in there somewhere?” He gestured toward the prominent forty-inch chest.

“Honey, I don’t know any self-respecting officer who would go this far to nab a john,” the man said, his Adam’s apple jumping as he spoke. “Besides, cops won’t get in the car. If they can’t reel you in from the sidewalk, they’re not interested. My name’s Renee. Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

Harlan looked out the windshield and spoke in a casual tone. “I’m in town for the weekend. Staying at the Hilton up the road. Come on back to my room and we’ll talk about it there.”

Renee laughed, trying to sound effeminate. “Nothing is going to go on there that will cost you less than a hundred dollars. Pay me that now, and we’ll talk specifics about what that will get you later.” He reached out and squeezed Harlan’s crotch.

Harlan couldn’t contain his disgust as he grabbed Renee’s hand and jerked hard. Renee’s real voice came through. “Let go. You’re hurting my wrist.”

“What I’m gonna want won’t involve you puttin’ your hands on my prick, you queen fuck. Don’t touch me again.” Harlan used his “inside” voice—fearsome by any measure.

Renee reached for the door handle, ready to get out. Harlan hit the locks and regrouped. “Hang on now. Relax. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just unlock the door.” The prostitute’s voice was back to its artificial high pitch but had an audible tremor.

“Look,” Harlan said, “I’m doing a favor for a friend of mine, a client, actually. He’s a bit shy but I know how he goes.”

After the bad start, Harlan was off his prepared script, trying to make the story work. He opened his wallet and pulled out his last hundred dollars, closing it quick before the prostitute could get a look. “Here, I’ll pay you the hundred bucks now, and another two hundred when I bring you back in an hour or so.”

Renee looked skeptically at the bills in Harlan’s hand.

“You’re going to pay me three hundred dollars for an hour’s work? Must be an important client.”

Harlan keyed in on the greed in the man’s voice and played to it.

“It ain’t my money,” he said. “Comes out of an expense account that’ll get charged back to the business. But he does strike me as the generous type. You do your thing, and I imagine he’s gonna tip pretty well. Could work out for you.”

“Sounds like I might like your client more than I like you.” Renee took the money; it disappeared into his impressive cleavage. “Let’s go see him.”

Twenty minutes later, Renee, who said his given name was Bobby, was handcuffed to a wooden chair in an empty storage unit in west Chicago. Harlan had run the cuffs under the seat of the chair, making it impossible for a man of Bobby’s height to sit up straight. From a long canvas bag, Harlan took out a thirty-six-inch Louisville Slugger and slung it casually over his shoulder. Bobby eyed the bat and sobbed into the three-inch ball gag Harlan had strapped over his mouth.

Bobby struggled to speak. He wriggled his wrists, but it was a useless effort. Tears smeared the thick paste makeup all the way to his jawline, exposing a day-old growth of beard. His wig had come off during an earlier struggle, and his thinning hair made him look at least ten years older than the twenty-four years he had claimed when he and Harlan had still been on speaking terms.