Killer Dreams Ch. 06-10

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant O'Malley is going to be thrilled. He'll be the only supervisor here tomorrow, so he'll be in a Tahoe instead of riding the front desk." Our department had been hit hard after the George Floyd riots. We had lost 250 officers already; a rookie class that before gave forty new officers had graduated only eight. That was the equivalent of an entire precinct! Many things got cut to handle 911 calls. The Chief had eliminated foot patrols, three of five community response teams, the Safe Streets Task Force, and the Gang Unit. Tonight, I supervised three units; two years ago, I would have had another Sergeant and seven more patrol cars.

"You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, sir. Tracy's death might knock him into a downward spiral. I can't wait another day, or it might be too late." We both knew what that meant. Suicide among cops was way too common.

He looked at the paper and signed it. "It's a damn shame what happened to David. I'm glad he found a way to move on with his life."

"It wasn't easy for him, sir."

"I guess not."

"Drive safe, Larry." I walked back out to finish my shift.

For the past two years, I'd been working my ass off with extra shifts and private security jobs since there was nothing else to do. The job wasn't easy; the politicians and the public both turned against us. Overnight we were all violent, racist assholes! It didn't matter that I was black. Many community members now saw me as a sellout, not a protector.

Was it wrong and shortsighted? Absolutely. Violent crime was up big time, and the people getting hurt weren't the Mayor or council members with their security teams or the suburban liberals with their virtue signaling. The black community was taking the brunt of it, and the city was in a death spiral. As people and businesses flee the rising crime, the tax base goes with it. Downtown might never recover from Covid and the riots. Many companies closed, while other people realized they didn't have to go downtown to work anymore.

I slid into my silver 2020 Audi A7 Quattro, a present to myself via a police department auction. The buyer lost his car in a narcotics bust. I sent him a photo in prison, showing me in uniform with his fancy ride after the auction. The turbocharged V6 had a ton of power, and I smiled as I pulled out of the Sergeant's Parking near the entrance.

I stopped by my apartment, packing a bag and making a thermos of coffee for the three-hour drive. I tried David's phone again as I drove out of the city, but he still wasn't responding. I put the satellite radio on the NFL Network, relying on talk radio to keep me awake, and hit Interstate 35 North towards Duluth.

It was a beautiful day on the North Shore, clear and warm. Traffic had been light, and I approached his private drive a little before eleven.

I wasn't expecting a Sheriff's cruiser blocking the private road leading down the hill to David's home. The news vans setting up alongside Highway 61 were another shock. My gut was telling me something had gone down, and I was hoping it wasn't what I feared. I stopped near the Deputy, showing him my badge as he came to my window. "Is David Hardin all right? He's a friend of mine."

"No one is answering the intercom, but the reporters saw him swimming this morning. The neighbors called about reporters trespassing on their property, so the Sheriff sent me to sit on the place. Should I be worried about him, Sergeant? His ex-wife's murder is all over the news."

"That's what I drove up here to find out. If you move your car, I've got a keycard giving me access."

"No problem. Give me a yell if you need help. I'll be up here with the traveling circus." I laughed as he moved off.

I opened the gate, driving past the three other homes on this road before reaching his driveway. I parked and got out, hearing Rocky barking frantically inside. No one answered the front door, so I went around to the lake side of the house. The sliding glass door to the pool room was open. "David? It's Larry."

Rocky was scratching and barking from the other side of his office door. "David?"

No answer. I steeled myself for what I might find, then opened the door. Rocky looked at me, then ran behind the desk while barking. I looked around the room quickly; his computer monitor lay shattered on the floor, the custom leather desk chair was lying on its side, and it smelled like tequila. As I moved around where Rocky was wagging his tail, I saw a foot sticking out from under the desk. "Jesus Christ, David."

He was sitting in the dark cubbyhole under his desk, a near-empty bottle of Patron Silver in his right hand. He was drunk and crying over a picture of Tracy on their honeymoon. The glass picture frame had shattered, cutting open his left index finger, and he didn't care. Dried blood covered his hand, extending down to his jeans. He looked up at me, and I could see how broken he was. "She's gone," he whispered.

"I know," I told him. "Let's get you cleaned up." I set the bottle of tequila on the bar, then helped him out from under his desk. He didn't even get up on a knee before I handed him a garbage can. A minute of heaving later and I got him to his feet. I put a shoulder under his arm and walked him back to the master bathroom next door. "How much did you drink?"

"Not enough," was his answer. I glared at him. "Most of it."

"Did you eat today?" I knew the answer because nothing came up when he was retching. "Fucking idiot."

"Fuck you."

"Get that shit off. You've got blood everywhere." He stripped to his boxers and socks while I got the first aid kit from under the sink. After cleaning the blood off, I realized it was too deep for a band-aid. "You're going to need stitches, but you've got the painkillers covered," I told him as I wrapped it in gauze. While he dressed, I started soaking his jeans and T-shirt in the sink with cold water.

I made sure Rocky had food and water before letting David lock up. I bundled him into the back seat of my car, making sure the small garbage can was in front of him just in case. "There are reporters out there," I told him. "Lay down and cover up with this blanket."

He didn't argue and fell asleep before I got back to the entry gate. I let the Deputy know what happened on the way out, then called David's cleaning lady to take care of the mess. Twenty minutes later, we were at the urgent care clinic in Two Harbors.

I flashed my badge when they asked me to stay in the waiting room. The doctor removed a sliver of glass I'd missed and used five stitches to close the cut. As we were finishing up, a patrol officer and a detective entered with a piece of paper. "David Hardin?"

"Yes?"

"Detective Armstrong, Two Harbors Police. I have a warrant for photographs and records of your injuries, plus a DNA sample."

David read the warrant, then handed it to me. "Am I being detained?"

"No, sir. Just the warrant." David called his lawyer, who was expecting the call. After reading the warrant, he told David to comply and promised they would talk soon.

The doctor had to remove the bandage so the detective could take photographs of the cut. David had to disrobe for some of the pictures. I saw no other wounds or bruises, just a scrape on his left calf he said was from a rock. A nurse took a blood sample from him, and the detective had what he needed.

Or not. "BCA is serving a search warrant on your home," he told David. "The Sheriff has secured it until the team can arrive from Duluth."

"My dog is in there, Detective. He doesn't like strangers."

"You should go." The local police didn't have jurisdiction at his home anyway.

David asked me to pick up some stuff for lunch while in town. The warrant beat the cleaning lady, so we told her to come back later that afternoon. While the BCA team conducted their search, David and I sat on his back deck cooking inch-thick ribeye steaks. He was a sadistic bastard, knowing the smell would torment the crime scene techs. We paired the meat with grilled stuffed mushrooms and a salad. I needed to get some food in him now that the tequila was working its way out.

"I didn't do it," he said after we finished the meal.

"I believe you, but now isn't the time, and I'm not the person. They can subpoena me. Protect yourself legally, and I say that as your friend. The pressure on the Saint Paul investigators is crushing, and you're the easy target. You can speak about her death with your lawyer and your shrink. They can't break confidentiality."

"I see Dr. Jennings next week," he said.

"You see her at four," I told him. "I called her while you were sleeping."

"Thanks, Mom."

I shook my head at him. "You scared me today, David. It's a good thing I showed up when I did."

"I'm glad you showed up, partner."

I felt better as I waited for him to finish his therapist appointment that night. With luck, I'd keep him from spiraling out of control again.