Shred of Evidence

You’ve just killed a man. He’s lying on the carpet and the gun is in your hand, heavy and warm, and there’s a smell in the air like burnt cork. There’s not much blood because he died instantly, from a bullet to the heart, and dead men don’t keep bleeding.

You swallow hard. Your pulse is racing and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. You’re afraid someone heard the shot, because you’re in a hotel room with paper-thin walls. Someone could be dialing 911 at this moment, the cops could bust in and find you if you don’t haul ass out of here. Of course, they’ll find you anyway, this foolproof scheme of yours is bitched up good, but you’re not ready to be caught just yet.

You bend over the man you’ve killed. He has hair the color of lamb’s wool, a squashed nose, a patch of stubble under one ear, the left one. He’s looking toward the ceiling. If you move into his line of sight he seems to look right at you, but when you move away again his eyes don’t follow.

On impulse, you poke a finger into his cheek. It’s doughy and soft, still warm to the touch. But he’s already cooling down, like a roast out of the oven, and he won’t stop until he reaches room temperature.

You’re suddenly alone in the room.

A briefcase sits on the bedside table with its lid open. Inside are stacks of hundred dollar bills, wrapped in gum bands. There should be a quarter million in there, but there isn’t. You haven’t counted the money because you don’t care how much there is.

You try to put the gun into the inside pocket of your sport coat. It won’t fit. You consider stuffing it under your waistband, but you’re afraid someone will see it there. Finally you put the gun in the briefcase with the money and snap it closed.

You’re ready to leave. You take a last look around. The bed is made, the air conditioner is running full-tilt. It’s remarkably neat, except for the body on the carpet. Out the window you can see another building.

You worry about fingerprints, then realize it makes no difference because they can find you in a dozen ways. You can’t walk away from this, you’ve got no alibi, no options. But you’re not ready to be caught just yet.

You take the briefcase and step into the hallway. The door closes and locks behind you. You have no key, you can’t go back. You go to the elevator, press DOWN, get tired of waiting and take the stairs. You go out through the lobby of the Burfield Arms Hotel.

The desk clerk watches you. You wonder if he heard anything, but he says nothing and doesn’t stop you.

Outside is a mess.

The street is cordoned off. People are milling around, talking and rubbernecking. Patrolmen in uniform hold them back. No one’s looking toward the hotel; all eyes are on the street, where there’s a body on the pavement with a sheet pulled over it. “Hit and run,” someone says. It’s a bad one, a little boy, you can see a tiny foot wearing a red high-top sneaker.

Blind chance that it happened here, now, today. What should have been a quiet street is a carnival of onlookers and law enforcement officers. You’re glad you put the gun in the briefcase.

Your car is parked three blocks away. You start down the sidewalk toward it. People keep getting in your way. You feel the gun sliding around in the briefcase, bumping from side to side. A cop looks at you. You can’t meet his eyes. Somewhere, someone’s crying.

Your cell phone rings.

You answer it. “Beecham.”

“Beecham, it’s me. I tried to call Norris but there’s no answer. Did you get the money?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Norris? Why doesn’t he answer? This is bad, you know what happens if there’s any screw-up.”

Screw-up doesn’t begin to cover it, you think ruefully. It’s the greatest fuckup in history, the maiden voyage of the Titanic went smoothly next to this.

“We’re fine,” you tell him. “Norris took his share, I’ve got the rest. I’m bringing it now.”

“Why doesn’t he bring it?”

“Because I am.”

There’s a long pause. He has to figure something’s wrong but he wants that money bad. “It’s all there?”

“Yes.“

“It better be.” He breaks the connection.

You reach your car, an old rattletrap sedan, and get in. You pull into traffic on a gently sloping, tree-lined boulevard. You wonder what will happen when you show up at Timkins’ doorstep with a fraction of the money and no answer to where Norris went. But here you are going there anyway, with no clear idea what to do.

You ought to be afraid, but you’re not. What you feel is entirely different.

Worse. But different.

You turn on the radio. Bad music, angry talk-show commentators. No news about this morning’s sensational crime. You wonder how long you’ve got before Old Man Wycliffe panics and dials 911 and the whole thing goes to hell.

I’ll handle it, you told him, give me the money and instructions and above all don’t call the police. He trusted you, he said okay. But the clock is ticking, and his patience is not inexhaustible.

And he couldn’t raise a quarter million, that was the first thing to go wrong.

“I’ve got the money,” he insisted. “I’ll pay it, I’ll pay ten times that! But I can’t get that kind of cash, not by tomorrow, this is all I could lay my hands on.” And he handed you a briefcase with nowhere near a quarter million.

That was the first thing to go wrong. The second thing was a whole lot worse.

Now Norris is dead and you’re pulling into Timkins’ driveway.

Nice house, slate gray, one-story, cedar shingles. There’s a tree in the front yard. You ring the bell and the door opens. “Come in,” says Timkins.

He’s a big man, well-muscled, red hair, tank top. He’s wearing glasses that don’t seem to fit him. He keeps looking at the briefcase. “You’ve got it, then.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Norris, why didn’t he bring it?”

“Norris is unavailable.”

He frowns, but lets you in. You sit in the living room. There’s crap lying around, old newspapers, beer cans, takeout Chinese. You can tell Timkins’ wife doesn’t live here anymore, she got fed up and took off and now no one’s taking care of things. You set the briefcase on a glass-topped table.

Your cell phone rings.

You answer it. “Beecham.”

“Ted, it’s Gordon, I know I’m not supposed to call but I have to know if she’s—”

You break the connection. “Wycliffe’s getting antsy,” you explain.

“He’s got nothing to worry about,” Timkins says, “as long as the money’s all here.”

Your pulse is racing again. “See for yourself.”

You open the briefcase and spin it toward him. He sees the money, pathetically short of the expected quarter million, and Norris’ gun just sitting there, loose. His mouth forms an O, it’s actually sort of funny, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate.

“What is this?” he says, sputtering.

“We had a bad break, Timkins. Wycliffe couldn’t raise the money. We should have given him more time.”

“You said you had the money.”

You shrug. “Little white lie.”

“What about Norris, where’s he?”

“He’s out of it, Timkins. It’s just you and me now.”

Timkins gets up, starts pacing. He sits down again. He can’t decide if he wants to sit or stand. ”You came to us, Beecham. You had it all worked out, you just needed someone to handle the rough stuff. You’re the inside guy, we’re the muscle. Anything goes wrong, we handle it. That’s the deal.”

“Was the deal.”

“What are you telling me?” He’s trying to get it straight but it’s too much, too fast, and Timkins isn’t all that sharp on a good day, which this isn’t. “Why did you come here?”

“For the girl.”

He shakes his head. “You know the deal. No ransom, no return. We all agreed to that. You don’t like it, that’s too bad. Old Man Wycliffe wants his daughter safe and snug, he should have ponied up the quarter mill.”

“He did his best.”

“Not good enough. We’re done, Beecham. Get out of here.”

“With the girl.”

Timkins meets your eyes. He starts to say something. It’s the bad boy speech, how you shouldn’t mess with the big kids, you’re out of your depth and you’re going to get hurt. But he hesitates, because that’s Norris’ gun on the coffeetable between you, and Norris isn’t here, and how the hell did you get it if they’re the big bad killers and you’re just the office boy with a bright idea about ripping off his boss?

It dawns on him then, you can see it in his eyes, the slow realization that he’s looking at someone who’s very different from the man he remembers. He’s looking at someone who killed a man. And you can get that gun before he can, and you’ll use it, because you’ve done it before.

Give him credit, Timkins is a wee bit brighter than Norris was.

“She’s in the bedroom,” he says.

* * *

Sarah Wycliffe is young and pretty, wearing a print blouse and a knee-length pleated skirt. She’s out of it, doped to the gills on whatever they put in her bloodstream, but her pulse is strong and the Old Man’s doctors should have no trouble reviving her. She’s in the front seat of your sedan, where Timkins obligingly placed her, after exacting an idiotic promise not to tell the cops he was in on the kidnapping. The chance of him escaping justice, you figure, is somewhere around zero, but if he wants to think he’s safe for the next few hours you’ve got no problem with that.

You ought to feel better than you do.

Because despite the fact that the girl is just minutes away from a safe and happy return, you keep thinking back to those frantic minutes when Wycliffe gave you the briefcase, crying, begging you to bring his daughter home. You knew he’d never see her alive because Timkins had promised to kill her if the money was one penny short, and you knew he wasn’t kidding, and you were too scared to stop him. You went to the Burfield Arms Hotel to beg Norris to call it off, already knowing what his answer would be.

You were scared. You were upset. You weren’t watching the road. You never even saw the little boy with the red high-top sneakers, until you felt a wrenching impact and saw him disappear under the grille of the sedan.You said “Oh my God” and jammed the brakes. It was too late. You saw that crumpled body lying twisted on the pavement and you hit the gas and took off. You wanted to run and hide, to pretend this day had never happened. You wanted to be a thousand miles from there. But you couldn’t do that, because you had unfinished business with Ed Norris at the Burfield Arms Hotel.

So you parked three blocks away and gathered your nerve and you walked back, praying nobody saw you.

And when Norris decided to kill Sarah Wycliffe, a funny thing happened. You weren’t afraid any more. You picked up his gun off the bureau and shot him dead. Because that was your way out, the path to sanity, you could save Sarah Wycliffe to make up for the little boy in the red high-top sneakers.

But it didn’t work.

You’re glad the girl’s alive but that hit-and-run still haunts you, a moment of fright and shame so painful you still can’t bear it. Saving Sarah didn’t wash away the guilt, only postponed it.

You wonder what else to try.