Cemetery Lake

CHAPTER TWELVE

It’s a life moment. One of those snapshots of time that never leave you, never seem to fade away. In fact it’s the exact opposite-the colors, the imagery, the detail, they don’t dilute, they grow stronger, clearer; the moment becomes more powerful over the years while others slowly disappear. The smell-the smell of cooking flesh, the coppery smell of blood, the gunpowder, the stench as his bowels let go, the sweat. The air tastes hot, it dries out my mouth and makes my tongue stick to its roof. All I hear is a ringing sound that seems as though it will never diminish, as if it too will only grow more powerful.

It’s a life moment. I sit still, I stare ahead, I take it all in. I don’t know if there are others in the building. Don’t know if the gunshot has already been reported. Blood has formed thick splotches on the ceiling. They seem to hang there, motionless, unaffected by gravity. Bruce Alderman’s body also seems to hang there, the hand still on the gun, the gun still pressed into his neck. The front of his shirt is clean, not a speck of blood on it. His hair is messed up, the bullet forming a volcano shape in the roof of his skull. And still he sits there, as I sit there, motionless, staring at each other, a life moment for me, a death moment for him. Time has paused, as if in a snapshot.

Then it begins again. His hand, still gripping the gun, falls away. It hits the top of his thigh, slides into the arm of the chair; the gun clicks against it and falls onto the carpet. His head drops down, his chin hits his chest; the gunshot hole in his skull is like an eye staring at me, the blood falling through it, giving the impression it’s winking at me. Blood-matted hair falls into place and blocks the view. Blood pools on his shirt. It starts to pull away from the ceiling, droplets that form stalactites before breaking away and raining down. They pad softly into the carpet, make small thudding noises on the fronts of his legs, the back of his neck, the top of his head. It drops onto my shoulders, onto my arms, onto my hands that are still on the desk for him to see. He stays slumped there, this dead weight in my office chair, then slowly he tips forward, he gains momentum, then his forehead cracks heavily into the edge of the desk, jarring his head upright as his body falls, keeping him balanced for a moment longer, the back of his head almost touching his shoulders, his face exposed and his empty eyes staring at me, before he continues down to the ground where he lies in a clump that five seconds ago was a person but is a person no more. He lies on the gun, and still I sit here, watching, waiting: perhaps someone will come along and tell me that this is what I get for following up a line of questioning into an investigation that isn’t even mine.

The pink mist slowly settles; the smell of the gunshot starts to fade, replaced by urine and shit; and the ringing in my ears slowly dulls to a shrilling noise.

I stand up slowly, as if any sudden movement might cause him to pick the gun back up and try prefixing his suicide with the word murder. I move around my desk to the body, careful not to step in any blood. I think of his last words. They deserved the dignity. He wanted me to take him seriously, and he succeeded. Only problem is I still don’t believe he’s innocent. Shooting himself in my office isn’t the action required to prove innocence over guilt; if anything, it helps suggest insanity over sanity. I’d have told him this if I’d been given the chance.

I crouch down and put a hand on his shoulder. Without rolling him, barely without touching him, I go through his pockets.

There is a small envelope that has my name written on it, only he’s spelled it wrong. In the bottom of the envelope is a small key. I’m about to sit it up on my desk when I see the blood mist has coated the surface. I fold the envelope in half and tuck it into my pocket. I go through the rest of his pockets. I find car keys and a wallet; I find tissues, two packets of antacids, a broken pencil, and one of my business cards. I leave them where they are.

I use my cell phone to call the police because my office phone is covered in blood. I ask for Detective Schroder, but get transferred through to Detective Inspector Landry. I’d rather not talk to him, but I’m not running high on options. I tell him the situation as if giving just any old police report. Before I finish I ask him to bring coffee.

“Jesus, Tate, this isn’t my first homicide,” he says.

“You mean suicide.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He hangs up.

I sit on the ground out in the corridor, putting a cushion between me and the wall so as not to stain it with the blood splatter on my jacket, and lean back. I think of what Bruce told me. Why kill yourself if you’re not admitting any guilt? How could anybody possibly believe he buried those girls, but had nothing to do with their deaths?

I pull the envelope out of my pocket. The key looks a little different from others I’ve seen, and I can’t identify it. There are no marks on it, no numbers, no letters. It could be for a house, a lockbox, a safe, a boat-could be anything. It’s just one more item that I’ve taken from somebody today. The ring is still in my pocket, and the wristwatch is still on my desk. I head back into my office and slip the watch into a plastic bag before dropping it into my pocket. This whole area is a crime scene now and I don’t need awkward questions. I take out the key and put it onto my key ring so it looks like one of mine.

I’m still in my office when I hear them arriving. The elevator pings, the doors open, and half a dozen police, including Landry, spill into the corridor. Soon there will be others as they come to question and photograph and document and study. The cemetery crime scene was taken away from me, but this one is mine.

I stand by the doorway and watch. I have worked with most of these men and women in the past, but they look at me as if I’m a stranger. Their greetings are curt, and I am told to step into the corridor and wait.