Parting Shot

Four

Barry Duckworth wanted Brian Gaffney to get checked out at the hospital, so he offered to drive him to Promise Falls General. That would also give the detective an opportunity to ask the man more questions about what might have happened to him. Any thoughts Duckworth had that Gaffney’s two-day blackout was alcohol-induced vanished when he had a look at the words inked into his back.

I’M THE SICK FUCK WHO KILLED SEAN did not sound like the kind of tattoo any remotely rational person — or even a blind-drunk person — would choose to have permanently etched into his skin.

If Gaffney had any notion of what was on his back, he gave no indication. So Duckworth took a photo while he still had his shirt pulled up to his neck, and showed it to him.

“Jesus,” he said. “That... that doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I think,” Duckworth said gently, “this rules out your theory of what happened to you.”

Gaffney had the look of a four-year-old trying to grasp a Stephen Hawking lecture. “I don’t... That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing the aliens would do.”

“Yeah,” Duckworth said. “We’re looking for someone more earthbound here.”

Gaffney, still stunned by the photo, nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I must seem crazy. I’m not crazy, you know.”

“Sure,” Duckworth said.

“I mean, I’m a little off. That’s what my dad says. But not crazy. You know what I mean?”

“Sure.”

“I just couldn’t think of any other explanation. Maybe I’ve been reading too many books about UFOs.” He took another look at the photo on the detective’s phone. “Are you sure that’s a real tattoo? It’s not just marker or something that’ll come off?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s on there permanent?”

“I’m no expert on tattoos,” Duckworth said. “Maybe there’s something you can do.” But he had his doubts. “Any idea who’d do that to you?”

Gaffney looked away from the image, allowing Duckworth to put the phone into his pocket. Tears welled up in his eyes. He bit his lip. “No. I mean, the alien thing would actually have made more sense. That they’d grab some random guy and do tests on him. But this, this is totally crazy.”

“Come on,” Duckworth said gently. “Let’s get you checked out.”

On the way out to Duckworth’s unmarked cruiser, the detective asked, “You got family, Brian? Parents? Brothers, sisters? A girlfriend?”

He spoke slowly and softly. “My folks live over on Montcalm. I got my own place about six months ago. They thought — my dad thought — it was time for me to try living on my own, you know? So I found a room in this two-story building downtown. I got one sister. Monica. She’s nineteen. She’d like to move out but she can’t afford to yet.”

“How long have you been in Promise Falls?”

“Like, fifteen years. Ever since my parents moved here from Connecticut.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Kinda. There’s this one girl. She came in for a car wash and we kind of hit it off.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jesse. Like, Jessica Frommer.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

Brian pondered the question. “Maybe a week? We’ve been out a few times, mostly out of town or my place. I think, actually, I was supposed to call her yesterday.” He looked overwhelmed. “Shit, she’ll be wondering what happened to me.”

“You can’t think of anyone — a friend, a friend of a friend, someone in your extended family — named Sean? A man or a woman?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Can I see the picture again?”

Duckworth took out his phone and brought up the photo. Gaffney stared at it and said, “I keep thinking it can’t really be there. That this isn’t really happening. That this isn’t a picture of my back. Who could Sean be?” He returned the phone. “I’ve been turned into some kind of freak.”

On the way to the hospital, Duckworth did a spin through a McDonald’s drive-through, buying Gaffney a coffee and a biscuit stuffed with egg and sausage. The man downed it nearly as quickly as he’d consumed the ripe banana.

The Promise Falls General ER wasn’t crowded. Gaffney was seen within ten minutes. Duckworth quickly briefed the doctor — a young Indian-looking man named Dr. Charles — and said he wanted to speak with him after the examination. Then the detective stepped outside where he could get a decent signal on his cell phone, and opened up a browser.

He entered the words “Sean” and “homicide” and waited. Over a million results, but the first few screens didn’t turn up anything that looked relevant. Some of the hits were crime books or newspaper articles about homicides, written by someone with the first name Sean. He narrowed the search by adding the words “Promise Falls”, but that produced nothing.

He went back into the ER and took a seat. A few minutes later, Brian Gaffney reappeared with Dr. Charles.

“May I discuss your particulars with the police officer?” the doctor asked.

Gaffney nodded wearily.

“Mr. Gaffney’s general heath seems to be okay,” Dr. Charles said. “He’s still a bit groggy from whatever was used to render him unconscious.”

“Any idea what that might have been?”

The doctor shook his head. “But I’d like to keep him here for observation and blood tests. Do you have any idea who tattooed him? If you did, we could find out about their safety precautions, if they used proper sterilization techniques.”

“We don’t know,” the detective said.

Dr. Charles made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Well, if the equipment used was contaminated with infected blood, Mr. Gaffney could be at risk of hepatitis B, hepatitis C or tetanus.”

“Ah, man,” Gaffney said.

“I’m around if you have any more questions,” the doctor said, excusing himself.

Duckworth put a comforting hand on Brian’s arm. “I want to take your picture,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I’m going to go to Knight’s, see if anyone remembers seeing you.”

Gaffney nodded resignedly. Duckworth took a quick head shot with his phone, glanced at it to make sure it was acceptable. “You want me to get in touch with your parents?”

Gaffney thought about that. “I guess,” he said finally.

“Why so hesitant?”

“I’m...”

“What is it, Brian?”

“I guess... I’m embarrassed. I’m ashamed of what’s happened to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Duckworth said, although he didn’t know that for certain. Maybe Brian had consumed far more alcohol than he’d let on. Maybe he’d allowed someone to do this to him, but had no memory of it. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case.

Gaffney half shrugged. “I guess you should let them know.”

Duckworth had him write down his parents’ Montcalm Street address and phone number on his notepad. He decided he’d go there before heading to Knight’s. He was just pulling out of the ER parking lot when his phone rang. It was Maureen.

“Hey,” he said to her over the Bluetooth. “You at work?”

“Yeah. We’ve got a bit of a lull.” Maureen worked at an eyeglasses shop in the Promise Falls mall. “Am I calling at a bad time?”

“It’s okay.”

“How are you?”

It was an innocent enough question. She’d always asked how he was when she called. But now, when she asked, he knew she was asking him something more. She was really asking how he was doing. She was asking how he felt. She was asking how he was managing.

Even ten months after returning to the job.

Not that he didn’t ask himself every day how he was doing.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she said.

But he could tell from her tone that it was something, and her most frequent source of worry, after him, was their son, Trevor. Twenty-five now, back living at home with his parents, and looking for work.

He’d had a job driving a truck for Finley Springs Water. Randall Finley, the owner, had been mayor a decade ago, but was voted out after his dalliances with an underage prostitute became public. He’d made a comeback last year, though, after becoming something of a local hero, and presided over city hall once again.

Wonders never ceased. Nor, Duckworth thought, did the public’s willingness to be conned.

Trevor — like his father — despised Finley and everything he stood for, and when he found another driving gig with a local lumber company, he quit the water bottling plant. But with the housing industry still taking its time to recover, and the demand for building supplies weak, he was laid off three months later. He kept his apartment another six weeks, but with money running out, he’d given his notice and moved back in with Mom and Dad while he looked for something else.

Of course, Barry and Maureen could have kept their son in his apartment by paying his rent, but that had struck both of them as an open-ended commitment they could not afford, so they’d offered him his old room. They had mixed feelings when he took them up on it, but as it turned out, even with Trevor living under the same roof with them, they saw little of him. He was out most evenings, and returned home after Barry and Maureen had turned out their lights.

Trouble was, they often lay awake until he came home, as if he were still a teenager with a curfew. When your kids no longer lived with you, Duckworth said, you didn’t care what their hours were. But when they were back sharing quarters with you, you couldn’t help but wonder, and worry, what they were up to.

“Is it Trevor?” he asked now.

He heard Maureen sigh. “He doesn’t seem himself these days.”

“Like how?”

“You haven’t noticed?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aren’t cops supposed to be keen observers of human behavior?”

Duckworth wasn’t sure whether she was needling him or being serious. Maybe both.

“We’re distant second to mothers in that area,” he said.

“Sure, patronize me,” Maureen said.

“I’m not patronizing you.”

“You are. You think I’m being overly concerned.”

“Tell me what you’ve seen that I’ve been too dumb to notice.”

“Okay, it’s not anything specific. But he seems more withdrawn, more to himself.”

“He’s got a lot on his mind,” Barry said. “He’s looking for work, and living with his parents. How much fun can that be?”

“He spends a lot of time on the computer.”

“He’s probably looking at job ads. It’s not like you can find them in the paper any more.”

“I suppose so.”

They’d both wondered if Trevor needed to go back to school. Learn some kind of trade. After traveling around Europe with a girlfriend, he’d gone to Syracuse University and taken political science, and done well with it. Graduated. No one expected him to become a politician, or work for one, but they’d hoped his field of study would lead to something more challenging than driving a truck for that narcissistic asshole who was now the mayor of Promise Falls.

“I wish I had some idea where he goes off to every night,” Maureen said.

“We never knew where he went at night when he didn’t live with us. He’s entitled to a personal life. What he does at night isn’t any of our business.”

“I know. I — Gotta go. Customer.”

“Talk to you later,” Duckworth said.

When he got to Brian Gaffney’s parents’ house, it was nearly five in the afternoon, and there were two cars in the driveway. It was a modest but well-maintained two-story, and the cars were mid-price GM sedans, each about five years old.

Duckworth rang the bell, and seconds later a heavyset woman in her fifties opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Gaffney?”

“That’s right.”

“Your first name?”

“Constance. Who’re you?”

He showed her his police ID. She looked at it warily as he introduced himself. Most people, Duckworth thought, viewed his ID with some degree of alarm — cops at the door did not usually mean good news — but Constance Gaffney’s reaction struck him as more cautious.

“Is your husband home?” he asked.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“If your husband is home I’d like to discuss it with both of you.”

She called out over her shoulder, “Albert? Albert!”

Moments later, Albert Gaffney appeared. Balding, also heavyset, broad enough in the shoulders to obliterate his wife when he edged in front of her.

“What’s going on?” he asked, loosening the tie around the collar of his white shirt. He took a quick glance at Duckworth and his ID and suddenly looked as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s about your son,” Duckworth said, adding, “Brian.”

“What’s happened to him?” Constance asked, stepping aside to let the detective into their home.

“He’s okay,” Duckworth said quickly. “He’s at PFG for some tests.”

“Tests?” Albert said. “What’s happened?”

“He was... assaulted,” Duckworth said. “And possibly confined for a period of time.”

“What’s that mean?” the man asked. “Assaulted? Was he... I mean, did someone...”

Duckworth guessed what the man was trying to ask. “He was rendered unconscious and...”

How did one describe what had happened to Brian? It wasn’t enough to say he’d been knocked out and tattooed. It was worse than that. One had to see him to fully comprehend the crime that had been committed against him. Duckworth supposed he could show them the photos on his phone, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate.

“The best thing to do would be to go see him,” he said.

“For God’s sake, Albert, get your keys,” Constance Gaffney said. She shot him a stern look. “I hope you’re happy.”

Albert started to say something, but the look in her eyes told him to keep whatever it was to himself. Instead, he turned to Duckworth.

“Who did it?” he asked. “Who hurt my son?”

“The matter’s under investigation,” Duckworth said. “I have a question for you.”

Albert waited.

“Do you know anyone named Sean? Someone with a possible connection to your son or your family?”

“Sean?” Brian Gaffney’s father asked. “Is that who did it?”

Duckworth shook his head. “No. Does the name ring any bells?”

“No,” said Albert. He glanced at his wife, then asked, “Did this happen at his apartment? At his place?”

“No,” Duckworth said. “Brian says it began at a bar. At Knight’s.”

Albert said to Constance, with a hint of vindication in his voice, “You see? It could have happened anyway. He went there even when he still lived with us.”

But something in her face said she was still blaming him for something. “I’m getting my purse,” she said.

“Keys,” Albert said, patting his front pockets. “Where the hell are my keys?”

While they both retreated into the house, Duckworth walked back toward his car as an old green Volkswagen Beetle — one of the originals, not the remake — came up the street and pulled over to the curb in front of the house. A young woman behind the wheel killed the engine and got out.

Duckworth remembered Brian telling him he had a sister.

“Are you Monica?” he said as she approached the house.

She eyed him warily. “Who are you?”

He told her, quickly, what he’d told her parents. Once she was over the initial shock of learning her brother was in the hospital, he asked, “When was the last time you spoke with Brian?”

“I tried to call him yesterday, but he didn’t answer. I saw him last week, I guess. I popped into his work.”

“Monica, do you know anyone named Sean? An acquaintance of your brother’s?”

“Sean?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know any Sean. A man or a woman?”

“Don’t know.”

“Because if he’s seeing someone, I wouldn’t necessarily know about it.”

“This Sean might no longer be with us.”

“Dead?”

Duckworth nodded. “Does that jog any memory?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “No, it couldn’t be that Sean.”

“What Sean?”

She tipped her head at the house across the street. “That was old lady Beecham’s dog. Right after Brian got his license, he backed over him.”

“He killed her dog?”

Monica nodded. “It was years ago, and even though it was her own fault for letting the dog run loose, she was pretty mad about it. But she wouldn’t care now.”

“Why’s that?”

Monica shrugged. “Mrs. Beecham has pretty much lost her marbles.”