Read Online The Dead Detective by William Heffernan - Free Book Online Page B

that a cop who made a lousy girlfriend because she was never available, well, the chance of her becoming a good wife and mother down the road just wasn’t in the cards.”
    Harry was quiet again, then said: “Maybe wives and mothers are overrated.”
    There was another long pause and Vicky allowed it to draw out.
    “The house back there, the one I grew up in,” Harry finally said. “My mother murdered my brother and me in that house.” He drew a long breath, almost as if he needed it to steady himself. “One morning she just decided we had to die. So she drugged our orange juice and dragged us into the garage. Then she laid us out, side-by-side, put small silver crosses on our foreheads, and covered our faces with hand towels. Then she started her car and left.” He shook his head. “She went to that church you saw.” He punctuated the sentence with a mocking breath. “Anyway, a neighbor heard the car running and called the cops. Two Tampa uniforms forced the garage door open and found us. We had both stopped breathing; no heartbeat; nothing. They worked on us anyway, and they were able to bring me back. But my brother was younger and smaller. They couldn’t help him.”
    Now Vicky drew a long breath. “When was that?”
    Harry kept his eyes on the road. “Twenty-one years ago. Twenty-one years ago today.”
    “Where’s your mother now?”
    Harry glanced at her briefly. “Central Florida Women’s Correctional Facility. She copped a plea to avoid the death penalty. She got life.”
    And that’s where you were today, Vicky thought. On the anniversary of your brother’s murder. And that’s where you told that correctional officer you were going to take his Glock and shove it.
    “Do you ever see her?” Vicky asked.
    “Never have, never will. She writes to me once a year. Always makes sure it arrives on this date. There should be a letter waiting for me when I get home.” He turned and stared at her. “I don’t answer the letters.”
    No, you just visit the prison and sit outside, she thought. “She have any shot at parole?”
    “Not if I can help it,” Harry said.
    They were quiet for several minutes. Then, as they pulled up at a stop light, Harry turned to her.
    “Did you notice the look on Darlene’s face?” he asked. “The look of surprise that seemed to be changing into terror as she realized that her throat had been cut and she was going to die? Then how it froze, halfway between those two sensations, as she lost consciousness?”
    Vicky nodded, unable to form any response.
    “Well, I remember that. I remember lying on the garage floor, starting to wake up from the drug my mother had given me, but still too knocked out to pull myself together and get up. I remember seeing the exhaust fumes coming out of the back of her car; smelling them, but being too weak to force myself up so I could pull my brother and myself out of there. And then I remember the terror I felt when I knew I was going to die … how everything started to cloud up and fade away as I lost consciousness again. It was like my head was suddenly being filled with cotton.” He stared at Vicky for a long moment. “That’s how it was for Darlene. That’s how it is when you know you’re going to die and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
    The light changed and they drove on in silence, Vicky thinking about what Harry had told her. She couldn’t even imagine what a heavy weight he carried around inside. But she did know it was heavy enough to be a problem in the case they were working. She also knew it was a concern she couldn’t voice, at least not yet. But there was no getting around the fact that Harry Doyle might be the wrong cop to be working the murder of a child-harming monster like Darlene Beckett.
    The dark sedan stayed three car lengths back in the far right lane. Traffic was light so it was easy to maintain a safe, unobtrusive pace, to speed up whenever it was needed to make a light; then fall back and