“Not today.” Art leaned in close so that only Deacon could hear his bass-like voice. “But it’s early yet.”
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?