Chapter Eight

"Cruci, get off of that!" Landry yells. The guitar is lying down on his living room floor, and the cat has made a bed of it. It leaps up and meows and winks its one blue eye. The brown eye stays open.

Landry picks up the guitar, settles on the couch, and begins strumming. He hasn't played an electric guitar in years. This is an old acoustic, but it helps him think. Sherlock had his violin after all. He racks his brain for other suspects - - someone other than Dr. Taylor or Gracie Taylor. Someone he doesn't know personally. Someone with whom he has no history. Anyone.

Ian Thomas, drug deal extraordinaire, perhaps? After all, Haverty knew about his business. Maybe he was trying to extort a share of the profits. But how could Thomas have gained access to Dr. Taylor's gun, and how would he have managed to put it back?

Landry sighs, puts down his guitar, and heads to his kitchenette. He microwaves a frozen burrito. Seattle's supposed to be a great city for singles, but he hasn't had a date in a month. The last woman he hooked up with was gone in the morning, and he tried calling her, only to find the number she'd given him was out of order. He supposed he could have put on his Sherlock cap and tracked her down anyway, but what would be the point? He honestly wasn't all that into her. It just got lonely sometimes.

He fished in the pocket of his pants and pulled out the cards Dr. Taylor had given him. Julie Saracen, Assistant Editor of City Limits Magazine. And Matt Saracen, "Independent Artist." As opposed to what? A dependent artist? What did that mean? No patron? He'd have ribbed Matt about it, years ago, and not felt an ounce of guilt.

He looks at the cell phone he's left on the kitchen counter, and then at his wallet. He opens his wallet and shoves the business cards inside.

They need to canvas Haverty's apartment complex again. They must have missed something. Something that will clear both Dr. and Gracie Taylor. Maybe they missed a witness. Not everyone is always home when you start asking questions.

[****]

"Ballistic fingerprinting is far from an exact science," Landry tells his partner as they drive back to Haverty's apartment complex. "When you say a probable match, how probable is probable?"

"Probable. Not perfect. But probable."

"Possible, you mean?"

"No," she says deliberately, "I mean probable."

"Probable alone won't hold up in court."

"No, it won't, but we don't have probable alone, Detective Clarke. We have means, opportunity – and most importantly - motive. You know most murder convictions are made on circumstantial evidence alone. And we have a preponderance of evidence here. It's just a matter of figuring out which one did it – Dr. Taylor or Gracie Taylor."

He pulls along a city curb, next to a no parking sign. "I've sent Officer Park to check out Dr. Taylor's alibi." She claims to have been working that night at her office in Antioch University until eleven. She also claims she had her gun with her in her purse the entire time. Dr. Taylor explained away Gracie's fingerprints on the gun. "I've let Gracie use it, of course. If we're going to have a gun in the house, she needs to know gun safety. I've taken her to the range. You can ask there. They've seen her there." That was the only information she would offer up before invoking her right to remain silent.

According to witnesses who heard the shot, the murder occurred around 10:15 PM. So if someone can verify that Dr. Taylor was in her office at that time, she'll be cleared. Of course, there's no way of verifying that she had her gun in her possession. Gracie claimed to be home that night, and Coach Taylor claimed that his daughter was already home and in her room studying when he got back from Haverty's around 10:20 PM, but of course he would say that.

Once in Haverty's apartment building, they start knocking on doors. When they're five doors down, Landry gets a call from the station. "Witnesses have seen Gracie at the range practicing with Dr. Taylor," Landry tells Detective Wells, "so that's the reason for her fingerprints on the gun. And Dr. Taylor's Antioch alibi also checks out. As I told you it would. The assistant dean of the faculty came in around ten and saw her there. Working."

The door opens, and Detective Wells flashes her badge to the man standing there. He wasn't home the first time she canvassed the complex. She starts asking questions, and he tells her that the night of the shooting, he left his apartment at ten o'clock to head to the airport and catch a red-eye to the East Coast.

"Fifteen minutes after Coach Taylor claims to have left," Detective Wells says in a low voice to Landry. Then, to the man, "Did you see anyone entering or exiting that apartment?" She points to the door another six apartments down, which is still covered with police tape.

"Yeah. I saw a girl. Just from the back. I didn't see her face. She was about five foot four, I guess. Short blonde hair. Looked to be seventeen or eighteen maybe."

"Gracie Taylor," Detective Wells says.

"No," Landry insists.

"Detective. Gracie is seventeen. She's five foot five. And she has blonde hair."

"What was the girl wearing?"

"A red and white sweatshirt," the man says.

Detective Wells looks right at Landry. "Hawkins High colors."

Landry closes his eyes and wills it not to be true.

[****]

It takes half the day to get the arrest warrant. Detective Clarke drives slowly up the steep hill, jerks on the parking break at the curb outside the Taylor house, turns off the engine, inhales, and exhales.

"Do you want me to serve it alone?" Detective Wells asks.

"No," he says. "This is my job. I have to be objective." He throws open the door.

The doorbell sounds like a gong when he rings it. It's so quiet in this neighborhood. He can hear the birds chirping. He can hear himself breathing.

Coach Taylor answers the door. "Unless you have a warrant – "

Detective Wells holds up the warrant. Coach Taylor takes it and begins reading. Dr. Taylor comes into the doorway behind him, puts an arm around his waist, and bends her head to read it too. "What's this? What does this mean?" she asks.

"Is Gracie here, Coach Taylor?" Landry asks.

Coach looks up. There's rage in his eyes. Landry's seen that look before. Seen it when a ref made a foul call. Seen it when he threw another coach against the lockers. But it's never been this fierce. Never so much fire. "No," he says. "She's – "

"Dad," comes a soft voice from behind the Taylor's. Coach Taylor slowly closes his eyes.

Dr. Taylor steps back. "Oh, Gracie," she says, "Oh, sweetie."

"What's going on, Mom?"

She's a stunning young lady, Gracie Taylor. Dictionary definition of a lipstick lesbian, Landry thinks. Of course, he wouldn't have thought to think it if Coach hadn't told him. She's seventeen, Gracie. Young. A child, still, in a way.

"Gracie Taylor," Detective Wells says. "You're under arrest for – "

"- I did it." Coach Taylor steps in front of his daughter. "I did it. I went to Haverty's at 9:30, like I told you. I took Dr. Taylor's gun with me. I told him to stay away from my daughter. He told me he wouldn't, that he was going to have her one way or the other. So I waited until I thought no one was in the hall. And then I shot him. And then I left. I did it."

"Dad, what are you – "

"Shush!" he commands his daughter. "Just….don't say anything, Gracie."

"Eric –" Tami reaches for him. "Eric – "

"Tami, don't say anything." He kisses her. He whispers something in her ear. She clings to him. He pulls away and steps down onto the stoop. "I did it," he repeats. "I'm going willingly. I'm not resisting. You don't need handcuffs."

Detective Wells looks at Landry. "No," Landry says, "No handcuffs." He steps down the stairs and gestures to the car.

Coach Taylor walks to it and opens the back door for himself. He glances back and Dr. Taylor, whose face is set in a firm mask, and Gracie, who's crying and asking her mother, "What's going on? Mom, what's going on?"

"I love you," Coach Taylor says. "I love you both so much." And then he slides in to the back seat, shuts the door, and stares straight ahead.