“I know from where you’re looking at it that wasn’t a fair shake, Frank,” Vince said. “But you’re not helping yourself here. Put the gun down.”
“It’s too late.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve been under a lot of stress, Frank,” Vince said. “Stress at work, stress at home. Everybody gets that. Put the gun down. We’ll work it out. You’ll take some time off, get a little help with that stress. Sixteen years with a spotless record. This night is just a blip on the screen, Frank.”
Farman shook his head. “You don’t know . . . It’s too late.”
“Your son is right down the hall, Frank. He’s eleven years old. He’s in trouble. He needs you, Frank. He needs his dad. You can put the gun down now. We can straighten this out so you can be around for him.”
“I tried to raise him right,” Farman said. “Same as my old man raised me. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
“He’s got some problems, Frank,” Vince said, shifting over another step. “It happens. Who knows why? You’re the one who can still help him. A boy needs his dad.”
The color came up in Farman’s face again. He adjusted his hold on Dixon’s throat, flexed his fingers on the grip of his weapon.
“Yeah? Well that bitch called Child Protective Services on me,” he said. “Now I’ve got that on me.”
A bad feeling ran through Vince’s stomach as Anne’s words played through his head: . . . on my way home something really scary happened with Frank Farman.
“It doesn’t matter, Frank,” he said. “That’s just a misunderstanding. You’ve done your best. You’ve been a fine example to your son, Frank. Everybody here knows that. So, come on. Put the gun down and we’ll sit and work this out. Your arm has to be getting tired by now.”
“No,” Farman said, but he was sweating like a horse, and his gun hand was trembling.
Vince hoped for Dixon’s sake it had a heavy trigger.
78
Mendez had only stepped out of the conference room to make a pit stop. Too much Mountain Dew. He was living on caffeine. When he came back out of the men’s room, the world had turned on a dime.
He watched now on the monitor in the break room, thankful the county had spared no expense in outfitting the building with state-of-the-art security. Cameras in every room but the john.
Farman had his service weapon jammed to Dixon’s temple. Vince was trying to talk him down. Frank wasn’t having it.
Mendez thought back to the conversation they had just been having about the possibility of Frank Farman being See-No-Evil. Vince didn’t go for it, but Mendez thought it could be.
If the killer was a man in a trust position of authority, who personified that more than a man in a uniform? Moreover, he could easily incorporate himself into the investigation. He could even maneuver himself into the position of would-be hero as they pursued suspects.
“Mendez.” Trammell stuck his head into the room. “We’ve got a big problem.”
“Yeah. I’m watching it.”
“No. Out front. Come on.”
He looked up at the monitor, thinking he shouldn’t leave. What could be more urgent?
“Really,” Trammell said. “Come on. Leone can keep him talking. You’ve got to see this.”
They jogged down the hall and out the front doors of the building, stepping into a scene out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
The grounds were being lit from above by the white glare of chopper-born spotlights. Parked smack on the lawn was a county cruiser, doors and trunk open. Deputies held a perimeter beyond the car, keeping cameras and people at bay.
“Frank’s car?” Mendez shouted to be heard above the beating of the helicopter blades.
“Yeah.” Trammell led him around to the back of the car and the open trunk. “And Frank’s wife.”
Sharon Farman lay dead in the trunk. Beaten, strangled, cut. Eyes and mouth glued shut.
79
Dennis lay on the cot that had been brought into the room. The detectives had brought him a TV to watch and some pizza and soda, but he didn’t want to watch TV, and he wasn’t hungry. Some ugly fat cowgirl deputy was supposed to be watching him, but she was sitting at the table reading a book, and she hardly ever looked at him.
All Dennis really wanted was to go home. Miss Navarre had said he wouldn’t be going home. But what did she know? She didn’t work for the sheriff. His dad worked for the sheriff. His dad would get him out.
But he had only seen his dad through the glass in the door. His dad hadn’t come in to talk to him or to yell at him or anything. He had only looked in the window the one time, and he hadn’t come back.
Maybe he never would.
Not for the first time, Dennis wondered what it would be like to be a part of real family like the ones on TV. Like Wendy Morgan’s and Tommy Crane’s.
He had always hated Tommy Crane. Tommy Crane had everything. Tommy Crane was smart. Tommy Crane was talented. Tommy Crane had cool parents who gave him everything he wanted.
He had always hated Tommy Crane, but as he lay on his cot in a room in the sheriff’s office with no one caring about him and no one coming to see if he was all right, Dennis thought it would be pretty darn good to be Tommy Crane tonight.
Tommy’s bedtime ritual went the way it had every other night in the past week. His mother—still in a terrible mood—made him take his allergy medicine. He had then run into his bathroom and thrown it back up.
He was mad at her now. Even though he had vowed she wouldn’t ruin his perfect evening with his father, she had. His mother always had to be the center of attention, and she managed that any way she could. Usually by yelling.
Tommy was tired of it. Why couldn’t his mother be somebody else? Or why couldn’t it be just him and his dad? Sometimes he secretly wished they would get divorced, but then he always got afraid that he would have to stay with his mother instead of his dad.
They were arguing now. Tommy crept down the hall as far as he dared and tried to listen. He couldn’t make out most of what they were saying on account of they had gone into their bedroom at the far end of the hall and shut the door.
Every once in a while a word stood out. His name. Why would you . . . ? How could you . . . ? Anne Navarre . . .
Tommy felt sick in his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with his allergy medicine. He didn’t want to be the problem. Tears filled up his eyes, and he hurried back down the hall to his own room.
He didn’t have to listen, anyway. He knew what would happen. His dad would get fed up with fighting, and he would leave and not come back for hours.
Only this time he wouldn’t be going alone.
80
Anne paced around the kitchen, wondering what to do. What could she do? Nothing. She had called 911 as soon as Vince had disconnected from her line, and she had been told they were aware of the situation at the sheriff’s office.
The Situation. Frank Farman was in the sheriff’s office with a gun to Sheriff Dixon’s head.
Anne shivered at the thought of how close she had come to disaster herself at the hands of Farman. If Tommy and his father hadn’t come by . . .
She wondered now just how disturbed Frank Farman really was. Had he killed his wife? Had he killed only his wife?
It would have been so easy for him to pick his victims. Every woman would stop for a police car. Every woman would trust the man in the uniform who got out of that car. All he had to do was pull them over on a lonely stretch of road . . .