Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 56, No. 5, May 2011

Why by Robert Lopresti

“Come in, Alan,” said Captain Stevens. “That was a hell of a job you did on the Mattocks mess.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lieutenant Poley. He sat down on the worn visitor’s chair.

“I mean it. The report you wrote will be the model we use for, God forbid, any future events like that.”

“Thanks. There’s one more thing.” Poley held out a single page of paper.

“Something you missed? I find that hard to believe because your—” Stevens frowned at the paper. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“But my God, man. You can’t resign. How much longer until you could retire on a full pension?”

“Six months and a week.”

Captain Stevens shook his head. “I’m not accepting this. You’re just stressed out. Anybody would be.”

“I’m not stressed. I’m done.”

“My God, Alan. What happened?”

Poley shrugged. His career had ended on Tuesday, the day after Mattocks died. A sense of duty kept him going to the end of the week to finish the report, but now it was time to go.

“The final score is four dead, including the shooter,” Shellcross had said at the Tuesday briefing. “Plus three wounded, but they’re expected to recover.”

“If you use the word score again,” said Poley, “you’ll be back in uniform. This was not a sporting event. Are we clear?”

The detective’s face went red. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Good.” He looked around the squad room. Almost twenty cops stared back. “Listen, everybody. This is time for your Sunday morning, church-with-the-in-laws manners. We’ve got reporters in town from all over the country, probably all over the world, and since they don’t have a live perp to point their cameras at some of them are going to look at us.”

“Too bad the bastard killed himself,” said Juarez.

“Saved the state a pile of money on a trial,” said Hacker. “Trials are expensive.”

“I didn’t say I wanted him tried,” said Juarez. She grinned. “I just wished we’d had the chance to finish him ourselves.”

Poley threw a pencil, which bounced off the table and hit Juarez on the chest. He waited until the cops stopped laughing. They had had a hell of a day yesterday. “That’s exactly the kind of thing you can’t say in front of a reporter. Does everyone understand that?”

Nods all around.

“Let’s talk about live suspects first. Now, is there any possibility of an accomplice?”

“No sign of one,” said Washington. “We’ve traced Mattocks from his house straight to the travel agency. No sign that he contacted anyone along the way. We’re still getting his phone dumps.”

“Keep at it. If anyone knew — or had any reason to suspect — what he was doing, we need to know it.” And God help the guy if he exists, Poley thought, because everybody would sure like a scapegoat now, to stand in for the unreachable murderer. Speaking of which—

“Where did he get the guns?”

“Working on that, Loot,” said Garsh. “Everything he carried he could have been purchased legally, assuming he filled out his paperwork and observed the waiting period. We’re checking that.”

“What about our procedures?” Poley asked. “Who’s making sure that we did everything right?”

“Rat Squad,” said Atchison.

“I don’t mean Internal Affairs. I want some of us to check our procedures. See if they were followed and recommend changes if need be. But make sure you cooperate with Internal too. We have nothing to hide.”

Poley sighed. “Okay, now the big one. Any progress on motive?”

Silence.

“Come on. Who’s in charge of that?”

Francey stood up. A big man, he took up a lot of room. “I’ve been compiling it, Loot, but it’s mostly a stack of negatives. The survivors at the travel agency swear they never saw Mattocks before. He has no known connection with any store on that block.”

“There’s got to be some reason he went in there and started shooting people,” said Poley. “Ideas?”

“Was he married?” asked Hacker.

“Divorced last year.”

“So he was mad at his wife. Maybe was she about to take a trip?”

“He wasn’t angry. The divorce was his idea. Said he was bored and wanted a change.”

“Who was the girlfriend?” said Juarez. “Men don’t leave until they have a new cook and housemaid ready.”

“You’re leaving out the most essential service,” said Atchison. People laughed.

“No sign of a new romance,” said Francey. “No sign he was stalking anybody at the travel agency either.”

“Did he have problems with some other travel agency?” asked Kelly. “My in-laws went on a cruise and got so sick they had to be hospitalized. Couldn’t get a cent back.”

“Family says he never used travel agencies,” said Francey. “Most vacations they took were by car.”

“Two of the employees were Japanese,” said Washington. “Any chance this was a hate crime?”

“No evidence in that direction. The techies are going through his computer, but they haven’t found any hate sites. No evidence of drug abuse, by the way.”

“The man was a bore,” said Atchison. “Maybe that’s why he did it.”

“Work problems?” asked Garsh.

“Boss says his job was as secure as anybody’s is these days. No trouble with co-workers.”

“Jesus,” said Juarez.

“That’s a point,” said Katz. “This guy have any religious hangups? Maybe he thought travel was sinful.”

“Went to church on Christmas and Easter,” said Francey. “What else?”

Twenty cops sat in silence.

“Hell,” said Poley. “Maybe there wasn’t any motive. Maybe the guy was just nuts.”

Captain Stevens scowled at the gun and badge Poley had placed on his desk.

“Damn it, Alan, I said I don’t accept your resignation. Take a month off. You’ve earned it. When you come back, if you want I’ll put you in charge of records till you can retire.”

“The burnout squad?” said Poley. “No thanks. I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m through here.”

Stevens raised his hands helplessly. “For Pete’s sake, why?”

Poley shook his head. “Motive,” he said, “is overrated.”

After the Tuesday briefing Poley had gone home. He was too tired to eat, although he knew he should be starving. The photographs of Mattocks’s victims had finished any appetite he could have raised.

He took a beer out of the fridge. Before opening it, he unloaded his pistol and locked both gun and ammo in the small safe in the hall closet. He had started doing that just before the first baby was born and never failed to do it now, even though Janey had left with the kids years before.

Somehow that thought brought Michelle Bedeker to mind. That had been the only time he had fired his weapon in more than twenty years of service.

Afterwards, he had gone to the department’s psychologist, because that was policy. Just a formality, he figured, but he was astonished when the shrink wanted him to come back for another session. “Maybe several. We’re just starting here, Sergeant.”

“You don’t think it was a righteous shoot? Everyone else does.”

The shrink was a thirtyish guy with a sour lemon face. “I don’t like that phrase, but yes, you did the right thing. Ms. Bedeker had a knife at a child’s throat. You saved the boy.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“My problem is that you don’t think it was justified. Don’t tell me otherwise, Sergeant. Your body language calls you a liar every time you mention her.”

Poley had sighed. “Tell me what I need to do to go back on duty.”

“We need to talk more. See what your real problems are.”

“From where I’m sitting, Doc, it looks like you’re my problem.”

“How’s your marriage, Sergeant?”

Poley’s face went blank. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Give me a chance. Maybe I can help you.”

After half a dozen sessions the doctor gave up. Janey left anyway.

Poley sighed. He ought to go to bed, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Instead he went to the bathroom to let out some beer.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He thought about Juarez and wondered again why her husband had left such a terrific-looking woman. She was the one who had suggested that Mattocks’s motive might be a girlfriend on the side. Funny, now that he thought about it.

Poley’s reflection frowned back at him.

Washington, the only black on the squad, had suggested that it might be a hate crime.

Hacker thought the killer might have been having marital problems. Poley had caught him sleeping over in the crib room last month.

Garsh, who had more write-ups than most of the squad together, had asked if Mattocks had had work problems.

Atchison, the compulsive joker, guessed that the man had done it because he was a bore.

Nobody saw the killer at all. Mattocks was just a fun-house mirror.

At the press conference a reporter from the financially shaky local paper had asked if Mattocks had been laid off. The local TV newsman asked if he was stuck in a dead-end job.

“And what did you say, Lieutenant?” he asked the face in the mirror.

Maybe the guy was just nuts.

Copyright © 2011 Robert Lopresti