Act of Mercy – Chapter Ten
Rachel was poised to knock on the door when they heard a shot fired inside. She pounded instead. Tim drew his sidearm.
"Benjamin Corey?" she yelled with authority. "US Marshals. Open up."
Nothing. Rachel pulled her weapon as well and they tried the handle then kicked the door in.
"Mr. Corey?" Rachel called, less certain now with the silence crowding around them.
They heard something, broken, like a wounded animal, and moved through the house carefully looking for the source.
"Jesus," Rachel exclaimed. She raised her weapon at the figure sitting at the table in the kitchen. "Drop your weapon!"
Tim stepped into the room past her and stopped, swore softly. He holstered his gun and moved forward, pulling a revolver out of the man's hand. He looked back at Rachel, her eyes wide, horrified.
"He tried to kill himself," Tim explained matter-of-factly, then turned to help. "Fuck. Stupid bastard. A fucking computer geek; five minutes on the internet and he could have found out how to do it properly. Jesus, buddy, wrong angle. Wrong angle."
Tim rifled through the drawers and cupboards while he ranted, found a clean supply of linens and started wrapping them around what was left of a face on the man at the table. The man made a movement to bring up his hands to feel at the damage but Tim stopped him then supported him as he slid boneless off the chair onto the floor, making sounds again like a wounded animal, like he was.
Rachel had lowered her weapon and started breathing again. She pulled out her phone, shakily dialing for an ambulance.
Tim kept talking, calming the frantic motions, knowing the wounds wouldn't kill him, only change him.
Unable to pull her eyes away from the disaster, Rachel watched helplessly while she gave the address, then sank into a chair, dropped her head briefly and methodically holstered her weapon and slid her phone in its case. She took another breath, another, stood stoically and motioned to Tim. "I'm going to check the rest of the house," she said, her voice husky.
She resented and accepted the understanding she caught in his eyes, deliberately turned her back and went into the next room to pull her Marshal mask on where it had slipped and left Tim to tend the wreckage. She couldn't decide what upset her more, the mess that was the man or Tim, the walking cynical encyclopedia of suicide.
She came back shortly, voice steadier, said, "There's a car in the garage." She swallowed and continued. "Same color and model as the one mentioned in the report you got from the Sheriff, the one the neighbor saw behind the Sullivan place."
They heard sirens and both looked relieved. Rachel met the paramedics and led them in, retreated again but with Tim this time to show him the car. The two searched the house, a calmer go around, looking in each room, wanting to be doing something while they waited for the LPD to arrive. When they did, Rachel took back control of herself and the situation, explained why the Marshals were involved, what happened, asked for cooperation, forensics. This wasn't just a suicide attempt, she reiterated continuously, needing them to understand the importance of the house and its contents. Then she stepped out the front door onto the grass and looked at the tree growing in the neighbor's yard, wanted to climb it all the way to the top. Tim was eyeing it, too.
Rachel offered to speak to the neighbors while the LPD secured the crime scene. She and Tim canvassed the nearest houses showing photos of Price and Hill. Two hours later and a blur of shaking heads and they only established that Mr. Corey was a quiet, considerate neighbor and that without exception everyone on the street was shocked by his suicide attempt. Thank you for your time. Here's my card. Please call if you think of anything else.
They walked out of another ordinary house on a street of ordinary houses two hours later, in time to watch a car pull up and three men get out.
"Feds," Rachel huffed. "Shit." She crossed her arms angrily. "Is one of them your friend?"
Tim was grinning unrestrained. "Yep."
"Trust me on this. Pretend you don't know him," Rachel advised and marched back over to the scene.
Tim's grin faltered and he followed her. One of the Feds caught sight of the Marshals and all three stopped and turned. Neil, the tallest, flashed an apologetic grin over everyone's heads at Tim then wiped it off quickly, passing his hand across his mouth and looking down at his feet.
"Gentlemen," Rachel greeted, stopping in front of them, "Deputy Marshal Rachel Brooks, Deputy Marshal Gutterson." She waved a hand back at Tim who had caught up in time for the introductions.
"Special Agent Frasier, Agent Rodrigues, Agent Paulsen."
Curly, Larry and Neil, thought Tim.
"Are you in charge here?" Frasier asked Rachel.
"I don't know. You tell me," she replied.
All three agents smiled under Oakleys, only Neil's mouth moving beyond horizontal. Tim struggled with blank, fought hard to stay expressionless.
"The FBI is investigating Benjamin Corey. I understand he was shot?" Frasier continued with his questions, ignoring Rachel's request for clarification of her status.
Rachel allowed it. "We believe the man we found in the house was attempting to kill himself. He's on his way to the hospital."
"The man? Is it Corey?" Frasier looked at Rodrigues, annoyed.
"We can't be positive yet…his face was...," Rachel waved her hand in front of her eyes, "…and he didn't have any ID on him. I don't like to assume, but it probably is him."
"And the scene is secured?"
She waved over to the organized comings and goings at the residence. "Local forensics are doing their thing."
Frasier started giving orders, doing his thing. "We need to clear these people out and get our guys in there, special attention to his computer equipment, get full statements from the Marshals, start talking to the neighbors. Rodrigues, call in some extra help then get to the hospital. Paulsen…"
"I'll talk to the Marshals," Neil interrupted, a question for the senior agent.
"Sure," Frasier concurred. They split up.
Neil led Tim and Rachel down the front walk, back toward the parked cars. When Rodrigues was out of sight around the corner heading to the hospital and Frasier was inside barking at the local law enforcement, Neil grabbed Tim around the neck, hooked him tightly and messed his hair with his free hand.
"I'm glad you made it out," he said cheerfully. "God, it's great to see you. How's your head?"
"Do you mean the concussion or my current mental state having to deal with you again?" Tim snarled, untangling himself. He snagged a glimpse of Rachel while wrestling and wondered if he would regret giving up what he just did. Too late to take it back, he realized, and got on with the reunion.
"I don't like the tie," Tim grimaced, pointing to the grey on grey on grey, tucked behind a grey suit. "FBI camouflage?"
Neil took off the Oakleys and grinned a devil's grin at Rachel while continuing his conversation with his buddy. "I can't believe you went Federal Marshal." He turned back to Tim and punched his arm. "You could have been working with me."
"Marshals are better looking."
"Apparently," Neil conceded and took hold of Rachel's hand for a proper introduction. "Neil Paulsen."
"And smarter," Rachel returned but couldn't help smiling back for Tim's friend, definitely a charming sleaze. "Rachel Brooks."
Neil glanced back over his shoulder at the house, at the LPD and forensics team being escorted out. "Better give me the story," he prodded.
Tim raised his hand to his temple, mimed a gun and a trigger, pulled. "Happened just before we knocked," he concluded. "Nothing else to say, really. We got here in time to mop up."
"You're sure that's what happened?"
Tim nodded, tilted his head and added tiredly, "Hard to forget what it looks like."
Neil examined the blank note pad he had open and waiting for words, like he was forming a tragic story to write there but hadn't and it was only readable yet in his features.
"You were at the base when…" he rolled his hand, hoping Tim would catch the reference. "I heard you were there. I heard you and Crank found him. Is that right?"
Tim nodded again, said, "Humvee." He looked away, focused unseeing on an angry forensics guy who could be mistaken for a distraction.
"Any word?" Neil continued. "How's he doing?"
Tim shrugged like the motion hurt. "I heard he's at a VA hospital in Georgia."
"Yeah," Neil sighed. "Yeah."
A commotion at the door of the house cut any further conversation. LPD and the remainder of the forensics team cleared out like crows from the road when an eighteen-wheeler rushes by, and Frasier was suddenly heading their direction.
"Friday? Still good?" Neil cut in.
"Still good," Tim agreed, catching the urgency. "I'll fill you in then."
"It's great to see you back in the world, buddy," Neil added quickly, running out of time.
Frasier stopped at the grouping and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well?"
"Nothing new to add," Neil summarized, Oakleys back in place.
"He must've seen us pull up," Rachel concluded. "The shot went off before we even knocked. No sign of a struggle."
"At least not an outward one," Tim said wryly.
"What were you doing here?" Frasier demanded. "There is no reason for the Marshals to be interested in this man."
Tim and Neil mirrored a look of guilt and panic but fortunately Frasier had his angry energy focused on the senior Marshal and missed the twin confession.
Rachel arched an eyebrow and replied without hesitation, with equanimity, "We had an anonymous tip-off about a car that we're looking for in connection with a federal fugitive. It's parked in the garage." Rachel tipped a pen in the direction of the house. "That means that Corey was aiding our fugitive and that puts him squarely in the realm of reasons-for-the-Marshals-to-be-interested."
"Who's your fugitive?" Frasier asked, spot testing.
"Stephen Price. I believe the warrant was the FBIs making."
Frasier nodded, a little cautious now with this Marshal.
Rachel decided to fish. "And we think there's someone running with him, a Quentin Hill from Florida, known pedophile." She leveled a stare to see if she could detect a squirm, but Frasier looked back, a blank. He didn't know anything. "Hill's not an interest for us unless we find him with Price," she continued, "but perhaps the FBI might like to see if his prints show up in the car?"
Frasier balked at being told how to do his job, stiffened. "We'll let you know if we run across anything related to your case."
Rachel remembered whose side she was on and the purposefulness returned in time to keep her from losing it with him. She closed her notebook and looked again at the tree.
"Alright, I guess we're done here." She turned away and headed for the car; Tim followed.
Art poured. He passed around the bourbon, Dan, Rachel, Tim, himself, raised it in a toast, "A quiet day in the Marshals Service. May we actually have one sometime before I retire."
Everyone took a sip; Tim set his empty on the desk then stared at it. Rachel and Art exchanged a look and Dan chuckled.
"See a ghost today, Gutterson?" Dan asked, indicating the empty glass.
Tim realized his was the only one done to the bottom and looked embarrassed.
Art reached over for the bottle and said, "Oh fine, one more. It's Thursday."
It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, but Tim let the moment pass, took the seconds on offer and sipped this time.
"I think you did see a ghost today," Rachel commented.
Tim didn't make eye contact.
"That was a pretty quick medical diagnosis, Dr. Gutterson," she kept prying. "Who's Humvee?"
Tim wet his lips, enjoying the bourbon burn that remained. He answered reluctantly, "Big guy, built like a Humvee. Hummed to himself all the time. Tuneless." A ghost of a smile. "Could drive you mental. He, uh, tried to kill himself when he got orders for another deployment. Botched it bad, like the guy today."
Tim took another sip and tried to make light of it. "If he'd had sniper training, he'd have known how to do it. I got some useful skills coming out of that."
Art looked at him funny.
"Explain," said Rachel.
Tim wondered when he'd gotten so gregarious and decided he'd better fix that before it became a problem.
"Army teaches center of mass shots to snipers, just like at Glynco," Tim obliged her. "But they also teach the head shots. You get a good, sort of 3-D mental picture of where the brain is inside the skull so you can take the shot from any angle. You hold a gun to your temple like Corey did and pull..." Tim demonstrated. "And you've got a good chance of just blowing out your cavities – eye sockets, sinuses."
The picture hung in the air.
Art realized he was staring, covered it quickly by polishing off the contents of his glass then reaching again for the bottle, offering it around. It was a day for seconds.
Tim stopped and bought a bottle for his own on the way home. The nightmares were vivid that night and he was happy he had it.
xxxxxxxxx