The Best American Mystery Stories 2001

Steve Hockensmith Erie’s Last Day

From Alfred, Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine

7:00 A.M.:

The radio alarm by Larry Erie’s queen-size bed turned itself on. A deep-voiced announcer began telling Erie about the morning’s top stories. Erie didn’t really care what the morning’s top stories might be, but he lay there for a while and let the announcer ramble. There was nobody there to give him a playful kick and tell him to shut that noise off. There was nobody there to make breakfast for. There was nobody there to fetch pills for. It was just him and the announcer.

7:19 A.M.:

Erie finally pulled himself out of bed and went out to the porch in his pajamas and robe to pick up the morning paper. It was cool outside, just like the cheerful people on the radio said it would be. A storm passing through in the night had left puddles on the pavement.

He scanned the yard for the little black shape that sometimes came bounding up to him from behind shrubs or garbage cans, meowing greetings at him as if he were a long-lost relative. But the cat wasn’t there. Erie went back inside.

He ate breakfast sitting on the edge of the bed. It was a habit he couldn’t drop even though there was no longer anyone there to keep company.

7:42 A.M.:

Erie showered, shaved, flossed, brushed, gargled, rinsed, and repeated. Then he carefully picked out his clothes. He pulled on his best white shirt, his best suit, his favorite tie. He shined his shoes before putting them on. He looked at himself in the mirror, straightened his tie, smoothed a few errant hairs into place. Then he pulled his gun off the bureau and clipped it onto his belt.

Some cops started to get a little sloppy years before they retired. Others waited till just a few months or weeks before their last day to start letting themselves go. Erie remembered one cop, a fellow detective, who came in for his last day in a Hawaiian shirt and bermuda shorts. It gave everybody a good laugh.

But that wasn’t Erie’s way. He was determined to make every day of his time on the force count. Even his last.

8:07 A.M.:

Erie was reaching out to open his car door when he heard the cat. She was hurrying up the driveway toward him, meowing loudly. He knelt and stretched out his right arm. As always, the cat rubbed her face on his hand several times before flopping over on her back and stretching out her legs. He rubbed her stomach. Her fur was long and matted.

“How do you like that, buddy? How do you like that?” Erie asked the cat.

The cat purred.

Erie had never owned a cat, never really known a cat, never been interested in them. He had no idea how old the little black cat was. She’d been hanging around the neighborhood about a month. She had grown noticeably bigger since he’d first seen her. She had also become friendlier. She wore no collar or tags.

Occasionally Erie had found himself worrying about the cat. Where was she sleeping? What was she eating? He’d seen her once over by Green River Road, and the thought of her trying to cross busy streets had haunted him for hours.

But Erie always reminded himself that he wasn’t a cat person. And he had bigger things to worry about than dumb animals.

“That’s enough for today,” he told the cat as he stood up. She rolled over on her stomach and looked up at him expectantly. “Nope. No more. So long.”

He climbed into his car and started the engine. He backed out of the driveway slowly, keeping an eye on the cat lest she jump up and dart under the tires. But she stayed where she was, watching him, seemingly puzzled by his desire to leave this perfectly wonderful driveway and this perfectly wonderful cat.

8:33 A.M.:

On his way into police headquarters from the parking lot, Erie was stopped by three cops. They were all men he hadn’t seen or spoken to in the last week. Each one stopped him separately and said the same thing.

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

Erie said the only thing he could: “Thanks.”

On his way past the Human Resources office a female coworker called out, “Look who’s early! Hey, Larry, don’t you know you’re not supposed to come in before noon on your last day?”

“The early bird catches the worm,” Erie said.

A uniformed officer stopped as she passed. “You don’t have to worry about catching worms anymore, Detective Erie. You just head down to Arizona and catch some sun. Leave the worms to us.”

8:45 A.M.:

Erie had already cleaned out his office, for the most part. The walls were bare, his desktop was free of clutter, the drawers were practically empty aside from a few stray pens and paper clips and leftover forms. So it was impossible to miss the yellow Post-it note stuck to the exact center of his desktop. It was from Hal Allen, director of Detective Services/Homicide — his boss. The note read, “See me in my office ASAP.” Erie hoped it was a special assignment, a favor he could do for Allen or the department, something that would draw on his decades of experience, something that would make his last eight hours as a police officer count.

8:48 A.M.:

Erie knew he was in trouble the second he stepped into the office of May Davis, Allen’s administrative assistant and official gatekeeper. He’d walked into a trap, and there was no way out.

Twenty people were crammed behind Davis’s desk. Behind them was a banner reading WE’LL MISS YOU, BIG GUY! On it were dozens of signatures surrounded by drawings of handcuffs and police badges and men in striped prison uniforms. The people waiting for him, the entire homicide division reinforced by a couple of evidence technicians and some of his old buddies from other departments, began singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Erie stood there, smiling dutifully, and took it like a man.

9:09 A.M.:

Erie endured the song and the hugs and the slaps on the back and the vanilla cake with the outline of Arizona in orange frosting. He endured Allen’s speech about thirty-three years of service and one hundred and twelve murderers behind bars. He endured it all without ever saying, “What about those twenty-nine unsolved murders?” or “Why would I move to Arizona without Nancy?” And after the ordeal was over and the revelers had all drifted away, it became clear that he was supposed to drift away, too. There were forms to fill out and drawers to empty, right? Instead, he asked Hal Allen if they could step into his office.

“What’s on your mind, Larry?” Allen was a different breed of cop. He was younger than Erie. He worked out every day. His walls weren’t covered with pictures of his kids or newspaper articles about his big busts. He had his degrees — a B.A. in criminal justice, a Master’s in psychology — and inspirational posters about Leadership and Goals. For him, being a cop wasn’t a calling, it was a career choice. But Erie liked him and hoped he would understand.

“I was wondering if I could take back one of my cases.”

“Come on, Larry,” Allen said. “You’re going to have to let go.”

“Just for today, Hal. I just want to make some inquiries, see if I can get the ball rolling again. At the end of the day I’ll turn it back over to Dave Rogers with a full briefing.”

Allen shook his head, grinning. “I’ve heard of this condition. It’s called dedication to duty. We’re going to have to cure you of it. I prescribe a day playing computer solitaire followed by a much-deserved early retirement in beautiful, sunny Arizona.”

“Nancy liked Arizona, Hal. We were moving there for her.”

“Oh.” The smile melted off Allen’s face. “So you’re not—”

“I don’t know. We hadn’t signed anything yet when Nancy took that last turn for the worse. I’m not sure I want to leave Indiana. I’ve lived here all my life.” Erie shifted nervously in his seat. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’m just asking for one more day to protect and serve.”

Allen leaned forward in his swivel chair and gave Erie a long, thoughtful look as if really seeing him for the first time. “You’re not going to solve your one hundred thirteenth homicide today, Larry. You’re just going to end up chasing around stone-cold leads and getting nowhere.”

“I love days like that.”

Allen nodded. “OK. Do what you have to do. But drop by my office before you go home tonight. I want to talk to you again.”

Erie practically jumped up from his chair. For the first time that day he actually felt awake.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Anything you say.”

9:31 A.M.:

Detective David Rogers was on the phone when Erie appeared in the doorway to his office. Rogers waved him in, said “No problem,” and hung up. “The boss says you want to catch a bad guy today,” he said.

“I just want to borrow back one of my cases. Is that OK with you?”

Rogers smiled and pointed at a stack of bound folders on one corner of his desk. “Pick your poison,” he said. “If you insist on working your last day, I’m not going to stop you.”

Erie shuffled through the case files. Did he want the fifteen-year-old crack dealer, four months dead? The unidentified, twenty-something woman found in the woods of Lloyd Park, six months dead? Or the middle-aged insurance salesman, ten months dead?

Lifeless eyes stared up at him from Polaroids paper-clipped to xeroxed autopsy reports. They looked inside him, told him, “Do something. Avenge me. Avenge me.”

But justice isn’t for the dead. That was one of the things he had learned in his years working homicide. It’s no use fighting a crusade for a corpse. It will still be a corpse even if somebody turns its killer into a corpse, too. But the family, the loved ones, the living — they can be helped.

He chose a file and left.

10:07 A.M.:

Unlike most of the older, lower-middle-class neighborhoods around town, Pine Hills actually lived up to its name. It had both pines and hills, though not many of either. It also had a reputation among Erie’s fellow cops for producing wild kids. On Halloween night patrol cars cruised through the neighborhood as if it were Compton or Watts, and EMT crews waited on standby for the inevitable wounds from bottle rockets, M-80s, broken glass, and exploding mailboxes.

O’Hara Drive was a short crooked sloping street in the heart of the neighborhood. It was all of one block long, bracketed on each side by longer streets that curved up to the neighborhood’s highest hills. From the top of one you could see the airport just a mile away. From the other you could see the county dump.

The house at 1701 O’Hara Drive wasn’t just where Joel Korfmann, insurance salesman, had lived. It was where he had died, too. There were two vehicles in the driveway when Erie arrived — a silver, mid-’90s model Ford Taurus and a newer Ford pickup, red. The Taurus he remembered.

He parked at the curb and walked toward the house. All the curtains had been drawn shut. A big plastic trash can lay on its side near the foot of the driveway.

He rang the doorbell. And waited. He knocked on the rickety metal of the screen door. The curtains in the front window fluttered, and a woman’s face hovered in the shadows beyond. Erie tried to smile reassuringly. He pulled out his badge.

“It’s Detective Erie, Mrs. Korfmann.”

The face disappeared. Erie waited again. Finally the front door opened. The screen door in front of it remained closed.

All the lights of the house were off. Candace Korfmann stood back from the door, away from the sunlight. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mrs. Korfmann. I’m just dropping by this morning to ask a few followup questions. Is now a good time to talk?”

“Sure,” she replied lifelessly. She was dressed in a bathrobe. Erie recalled that she was what people used to call a housewife or homemaker. She didn’t have a job to give her life focus again after her husband died. And she didn’t have any children to keep her busy, keep her mind from dwelling on the past, on what had happened in her own kitchen. He pictured her brooding in the darkness of the little white house all day every day, alone.

“Good,” Erie said. “First off, I’m afraid I have to tell you that we haven’t uncovered any new leads. But we’re putting a new investigator on the case next week, Detective David Rogers. So don’t lose hope, Mrs. Korfmann. He’s a good man.”

After a moment’s pause she nodded. “OK, I won’t.”

“Good. Now, second, I was wondering if there was anything new you could tell me — any new memories or thoughts you’ve had that might help our investigation.”

Mrs. Korfmann stared at him impassively. Standing in the shadows, perfectly still, she looked flat, one-dimensional, like the mere outline of a woman. Her shape — the slumped shoulders and tousled hair and slightly tilted head — reminded him of Nancy toward the end, when she was so weak she could barely stand. “It could be anything, even just a rumor going around the neighborhood,” he prompted. “Every little bit helps, Mrs. Korfmann.”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t heard a thing.”

“That’s OK. No reason you should do our job for us. I have just one more thing to talk to you about.” He pulled a card from his jacket pocket. “I’d like to give you this. It’s the number of a woman I know. She runs a group for… those who’ve been left behind. A survivor support group. You might want to give her a call.”

Mrs. Korfmann didn’t move for a long moment. Then she opened the door and reached out to take the card. As she leaned into the light, Erie could see that her skin was pale, her eyes hollow. He noticed a slight swelling in her lower lip and a dark, bluish smudge of bruised flesh under her left eye.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Sure. You take care now, Mrs. Korfmann.”

She nodded, then closed the door.

10:24 A.M.:

Erie started his car. The digital clock on the dashboard came to life. Not even an hour back on the Korfmann case, and already he was done. He had driven across town just to stir up painful memories for a sad and lonely woman. There was nothing to do now but head back to the office and shoot the breeze with whoever he could find lounging around. Reminisce about the good old days, trot out old stories and legends, do nothing. Then go home.

He shut off the ignition and got out of the car. He walked to the house across from 1701 O’Hara Drive and rang the doorbell. An old man opened the door. He was wearing glasses so thick Erie couldn’t see his eyes, just big, shimmering ovals of pale blue.

“Yes?”

Erie took out his badge. “Good morning, Mr. Wallender. I’m Detective Erie. You and I spoke about ten months ago.”

The old man bent forward to peer at the badge. “Of course I remember you, Detective. Come on in.” He shuffled ahead of Erie into the next room. “You have a seat there and I’ll get some coffee.” He disappeared around a corner. “I’ve got some on the stove. Every day I make a pot of coffee and drink two cups. I don’t know why I keep doing that. I pour more coffee down the drain in a morning than most people drink in a week.” Erie could hear cabinet doors and drawers opening and closing, porcelain sliding over counter-tops, the hum of an open refrigerator.

“I’ll just take mine black, Mr. Wallender,” he called.

“Have you arrested Joel Korfmann’s killer yet?”

“Not yet. That’s why I’m here. I’m making a few followup inquiries.”

Wallender shuffled into the living room with a mug in each hand. He gave one to Erie. The liquid in it had the telltale hue of coffee with skim milk. Erie didn’t take a sip.

“I was wondering if you’d heard or seen anything else that might have a bearing on the case.”

Wallender lowered himself slowly into a recliner. “I’ve been keeping my eye on the neighborhood kids. They’re always planning some kind of prank. I called the police a couple of months ago. Thought I saw a boy with some dynamite. A policeman came out. Do you know an Officer Pyke?”

“Yes, I do.” The old man’s vision and hearing might be shaky, but his memory was fine. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Korfmann at all? Do you know how she’s doing?”

Wallender brought his mug to his lips, his hands trembling badly.

“She kind of dropped out of sight for a while there. I figured she went to be with her family or some such,” the old man said. “She was gone maybe two months. When she came back, she seemed to be doing fine. I took it upon myself to drop in and chat with her from time to time.”

“And her state of mind seemed good?”

Wallender shrugged. “Far as I could tell. They were always standoffish people, her and her husband both. She seemed a little friendlier for a while there, but then her young man began hanging around and she was the same old Candace again.”

“Her young man? You mean she has a boyfriend?”

“I guess you could call him that, seeing as how his truck’s there most nights.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“Maybe two months, maybe a little longer.” Wallender’s thin, trembling lips curled into a sly smile.

“Now, don’t go thinking evil thoughts, Detective Erie. She needed a man around, so she found one. It’s understandable. People get lonely. I know a little something about that. It’s not easy living alone.”

Erie tried to smile back but found he couldn’t. His mouth, his whole face, felt stiff, dead. “I’m not thinking evil thoughts, Mr. Wallender. I’m just curious. That’s my job.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. I guess I’m curious, too. Except when it’s a neighbor being curious, people call it nosy.”

“Have you ever spoken to Mrs. Korfmann’s young man?”

“Well, I’ve tried. He’s not a very talkative fella. I’ve been over to chat once or twice when I noticed him out working on his truck. He didn’t have a lot to say. Actually, he reminds me a lot of Joel — Mr. Korfmann.”

“Did you happen to catch his name?”

“Ray. He didn’t mention his last name. He works over at DeRogatis Ford as a mechanic.” The old man grinned again. “That’s all I got out of him, chief. If you want me to try again, maybe I could get his Social Security number for you.”

Erie finally found himself able to smile back. “You’re a real character, Mr. Wallender.”

“I certainly am,” the old man said with obvious pride. “I just wish more people knew it.”

10:43 A.M.:

Erie was back in his car, faced again with the drive to the station, spending the afternoon killing time, the evening killing time, the weekend killing time, the years killing time until time finally killed him.

He thought about Candace Korfmann. Her dead-eyed stare, the way she had stayed away from the light, the black eye. He tried not to think evil thoughts about Ray. But he couldn’t stop himself. Good cops and social workers can smell abuse a mile away, and Erie had caught a whiff of something in the air around 1701 O’Hara Drive. Maybe he couldn’t catch a killer in one day, but he sure as hell could sniff out a woman-beater. What he would do about it, he wasn’t sure.

He started his car and put it in gear. As he pulled away from the curb, he noticed movement in one of the windows of the Korfmann house — a dark shape quickly replaced by the swaying of a blind. Someone had been watching him.

He drove to the intersection of Oak Hill Road and Highway 41, home of DeRogatis Ford.

11:10 A.M.:

A salesman swooped down on Erie before he could step out of his car.

“Good afternoon there! What can I help you with today?”

Erie flipped out his badge. “I’d like to have a word with whoever runs your mechanics’ shop.”

Sweat instantly materialized on the salesman’s forehead.

“Don’t worry. I’m just making a routine inquiry.”

The salesman still looked panic-stricken.

“It has nothing to do with DeRogatis Ford,” Erie added. “I’m trying to locate someone who may be an employee. He’s not in any trouble. Like I said, it’s very routine.”

The salesman nodded and gave Erie an unconvincing smile. “Sure, officer. We’re always happy to help River City’s finest. Right this way.”

The salesman led him through the showroom to a bustling garage. About eight cars were being worked on, some with their hoods up, some on hydraulic lifts. Off to the side customers lounged in a waiting room watching The Jerry Springer Show. The salesman pointed out a short, middle-aged Asian man leaning over an Escort’s engine.

“That’s Frank Takarada. He runs things back here.” The salesman slipped a business card out of his shirt pocket. “If you ever want to talk cars, I’m your man. I’m here Tuesday through Saturday.” He shook Erie’s hand and hustled away.

Erie pocketed the card and headed toward Takarada. The mechanic noticed his approach and eyed him warily.

“Mr. Takarada, could I have a word with you, please?”

“I’m very busy. Maybe later.”

Sometimes the badge-flash routine got quick results, sometimes — especially in public places when plenty of people were around — it just irritated or embarrassed people. Takarada looked like the irritable type. Erie leaned close and lowered his voice. “I’m a police detective, Mr. Takarada. I promise that I only need five minutes of your time. Do you have an office where we can speak?”

Takarada pulled a greasy rag out of one pocket and began wiping off his hands. “Come on,” he grunted. He led Erie to a back corner of the garage. Auto parts in plastic bags hung from pegs on a large partition. Takarada stepped around it. Erie followed, finding a makeshift office complete with desk, computer terminal, fan, and filing cabinets covered with crinkled paperwork. A large board studded with pegs hung on the wall. Car keys dangled from the pegs.

“So what do you want?” Takarada said.

“I’d like to know if you have a mechanic here by the name of Ray or Raymond.”

“Nope.”

Erie felt foolish. He had followed up a blind hunch, something that had nothing to do with his job, based on the memory of a doddering old recluse. He was about to apologize and leave when Takarada spoke again.

“Not anymore. Had one a few months ago, though. Ray Long.”

“What happened?”

“We had to let him go,” Takarada said with mock gentility. He didn’t volunteer anything further.

“This is off the record, Mr. Takarada. Just between you and me. You can be plainspoken.”

“Okay,” said Takarada, who seemed glad to have permission to be blunt. “He’s an ass. Always was. I put up with him for two years and then—” He mimed dropping a ball and punting it.

“When was this?”

“Six weeks, maybe two months ago, something like that.”

“What happened?”

“Instead of being late once or twice a week, he was late every day. Instead of being hungover some of the time, he was hungover all of the time.”

“How did he react when you fired him?”

Takarada laughed bitterly. “Typical macho b.s.” His voice suddenly took on a southern Indiana twang. “‘Oh yeah, man? Well, I don’t need this stupid job, anyway! I’m set up, man! So screw you!”‘

Erie’s fingers and toes began to tingle the way they always did when he sensed a break. He forced himself to relax before he spoke again. “He said, ‘I’m set up’?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Can you tell me if a Candace Korfmann had her car serviced in this shop in the last few months? She drives a silver Taurus, looks like a ’95 or ’96.”

The mechanic looked annoyed. “I’d have to look that up.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Takarada. It’s very important.”

Takarada sighed heavily. “How do you spell that?” He walked back to the computer terminal and took a seat.

Erie’s mind was racing ahead of Takarada as he typed. The dealership’s records would show that Candace Korfmann had brought her car in about two months ago, maybe three. Raymond Long had worked on the car. He had noticed her waiting — she wasn’t an unattractive woman. He took her over to show her something, began flirting. He could sense that she was vulnerable. He got her to agree to a date. He found out she was a widow. Her husband had been an insurance agent. She had received a large amount of money upon his death. Raymond Long saw an opportunity. He wormed his way into her heart, then her home. Now he thought he ran the show. Erie would figure out a way to prove him wrong.

“Yeah, we’ve got a Candace Korfmann in here. Drives a 1995 Taurus, like you said.”

“Does it show who worked on her car last?”

“Sure. Got the initials right here. ‘R.L.’ ”

Erie nodded with satisfaction. “Raymond Long. This was around June or July?”

“Not even close.”

“What?”

Takarada turned away from the computer. “Try May — of last year.”

Erie stared at the mechanic blankly, his mind racing. His pet theory was blown.

Within seconds another one started to take its place.

He gestured at the key rack on the wall. “These are for the cars you’re working on?”

“And the ones waiting out back, yeah.”

“You ever work on vans here?”

Takarada shrugged. “Sure, every now and then.”

Erie mulled that over for a moment. “Anything else?” Takarada was obviously anxious to get back to work.

“If you could print that out for me, I’d appreciate it.” Before Takarada could groan or sigh or roll his eyes, Erie added, “Then I’ll be leaving. You’ve been a big help. Thanks.”

Takarada started to swivel back to the keyboard, then stopped himself. “So, can you tell me? Is Long in some kind of trouble?”

Erie gave the safe cop answer: “No, this is just a routine inquiry.” But he knew trouble was headed Raymond Long’s way. Erie hoped to deliver it himself before the day was over.

11:44 A.M.:

Erie ate lunch at a Denny’s across the street from the Ford dealership. A few too many people were probably expecting him to drop by Peppy’s, the diner around the corner from police headquarters. But he wanted a chance to think.

His turkey club and fries went down untasted. The file on Joel Korfmann’s murder was spread across the table before him.

Erie was pleased to see that the report was neat, thorough, precise. He’d put it together himself months before.

On New Year’s Eve, at approximately nine-fifteen P.M., Joel Korfmann had been bludgeoned to death in his home. The victim, age forty-one, was a Lutheran Family Insurance representative who had spent the day making calls on potential customers. In the evening he had been at the office doing paperwork. (In parentheses after this information were the words “Indicative of victim’s character?” Those were code words. What they meant was, “What kind of jerk makes cold calls selling insurance on New Year’s Eve? Then spends the evening doing paperwork when he could be with family and friends?”) Security surveillance tapes showed that he left work at eight-forty-three P.M. It would have taken him about half an hour to drive home.

The victim’s wife, Candace Lane Korfmann, age thirty-eight, spent the evening with her sister, Carol Lane Biggs, and brother-in-law, Rudy Biggs. Witnesses placed them at the Dew Drop Inn on Division Street from eight-thirty P.M. until approximately twelve thirty A.M.

Carol and Rudy Biggs drove Candace Korfmann home, arriving at twelve-fifty-five. All three entered the house. Mrs. Korfmann immediately noticed that several items — a GoldStar television, a Sony VCR, a Sony stereo — were missing. In the kitchen Rudy Biggs discovered the body of Joel Korfmann. He had been hit from behind by a large, heavy object. Forensics later concluded that he had been hit five times with the butt of his own shotgun, which was also reported missing.

Most of the Korfmanns’ neighbors had been away for the evening celebrating the holiday. But a James Wallender, an elderly man who lived by himself across the street, reported seeing a dark van parked on the street near the house at approximately eight-thirty P.M. Later, Wallender said, he saw it in the Korfmanns’ driveway. (In parentheses here: “Witness seems anxious to help investigation.” That was Erie’s way of hinting that the old man might not be the most reliable witness. Sometimes lonely people were so eager to please they would “remember” things they’d never seen.)

The report concluded that the victim had surprised someone in the house — an individual or individuals in the process of burglarizing it. Seeing the house dark on a holiday, the perpetrators must have assumed the residents were out of town or would be out all night partying. It was a common scenario.

There had been no evidence when Erie had written his report. There were no fingerprints, no hairs, no tire tracks that could be linked to the crime, and the stolen items had never surfaced. And that hadn’t changed. Erie still had no evidence. But he did have something new — a hunch.

Driving back to headquarters after lunch, his mind dwelled on Raymond Long. He pictured him as a young long-haired redneck with muscular arms and fiery eyes. He pictured him killing Joel Korfmann. He pictured him beating Candace Korfmann, finally killing her in a rage — or just because it suited him. He saw it all, crystal clear in his mind. Long the manipulator, Long the killer. Joel and Candace Korfmann, the victims.

The only thing that interrupted these thoughts was a stray one that crept in from another part of his brain as he maneuvered through afternoon traffic. It was the image of cars and trucks whipping up and down Green River Road, leaving roadkill behind them on the asphalt, on the side of the road, tumbling into ditches. He hoped the little black cat was safe.

1:10 P.M.:

At headquarters Erie checked to see if “Long, Raymond” had a criminal record. He wasn’t disappointed. There were three charges of disturbing the peace, two charges of battery, two disorderly conducts, one assault, and the inevitable DWI and resisting arrest. Over the years he had served a grand total of fifteen months in the Vanderburgh County lockup.

The pictures came as a surprise, though. Long was thirty-seven, and he looked every day of it. He was balding, pug-nosed, and jowly. He didn’t look like the kind of handsome young devil who could charm a vulnerable widow — or widow-to-be. Erie assumed he was one hell of a talker.

Erie went back to his office (accepting a number of handshakes and pats on the back on the way) and began calling all the U-Stor-Its and Storage Lands in town. The people he spoke with knew him, knew what he was looking for, knew the drill, but they couldn’t help. No, they hadn’t rented space to a Raymond Long in the last year. Yes, they’d give him a call if a Raymond Long came in.

After saying “Thanks, have a good one” for the eighth time, Erie hung up the phone and left his office. It was time to have a talk with Raymond Long.

2:17 P.M.:

There was something different at 1701 O’Hara Drive when Erie pulled up. He walked toward the house slowly, trying to pin down what it was.

The curtains were still drawn shut. The Taurus and the pickup were still parked out front. The trash can still lay on its side in the yard.

He was walking up the driveway past the pickup when he realized what it was. The truck was splattered with mud — mud that hadn’t been there that morning. Erie crossed the street and rang James Wallender’s doorbell.

“Hello there, chief,” the old man said as he opened the door. “I was wondering if you’d come back again. Why don’t you come in?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wallender, I don’t have time to visit right now. I just wanted to ask if you’d seen any activity at the Korfmann house today.”

“Well, I might have peeked out the window a time or two since you were here.” Wallender winked. “Hold on a minute.” He shuffled away, then returned a moment later with a small notepad clutched in one trembling hand. “You left here at approximately ten-forty-five A.M. Around eleven that fella Ray pulled his truck into the garage and brought the garage door down. At eleven-twenty he drove out again and was gone for a while.”

“Was there anything in the pickup when he left?”

“Yeah. Something big and green.”

“Green?”

Wallender checked his notepad. “Yes, green. At least that’s what it looked like to me.” He tapped his eyeglasses. “I have to look at everything through these Coke bottles.”

“Could it have been a tarp thrown over something in the back of the truck?”

Wallender nodded. “Sure, it could have been.”

“And how long was Ray gone?”

Wallender looked at his notepad again. “Forty-five minutes.”

Erie extended a hand. Wallender shook it. “Mr. Wallender, by the power vested in me by the state of Indiana, I hereby declare you a junior G-man.”

Wallender smiled. “I always said I wanted to be a detective when I grew up.”

3:10 P.M.:

The shoes Erie had shined so carefully that morning were now covered with mud, coffee grounds, and mysterious flecks of filth. His trousers were similarly splattered, and there was a new rip where a piece of jagged metal had snagged his pant leg. Even his tie was beginning to smell bad.

Early on, there had been two other scavengers, a heavyset couple with prodigious guts spilling out from under their dirty T-shirts. They’d seen him — a well-dressed, middle-aged man picking through piles of garbage at the county dump — and stared as if he were some exotic, dangerous animal pacing back and forth in a cage at the zoo. They kept their distance, eventually driving off in a beat-up station wagon loaded with discarded toys and clothes and broken appliances.

Erie told himself he’d only look for another half-hour. If he couldn’t find anything, he’d head back down to Pine Hills and have that talk with Raymond Long. Not that he was going to make much of an impression in his current condition. Maybe after another thirty minutes wading through garbage he would smell so putrid Long would confess just to get away from him.

The ridiculousness of it made him long for Nancy. He wanted to go home and tell her everything that had happened. He couldn’t even tell if his last day had been sad, funny, triumphant, or disastrous without her face to gauge it by.

From off in the distance came the popping and clicking of tires rolling over gravel. More scavengers were headed up the winding back road to the dump. Erie was going to be on exhibit again. He thought about abandoning his crazy theory and just going home for a nice long bath.

And then he found it. It was underneath a big flattened-out cardboard box, the kind washing machines are delivered in. A GoldStar TV. The screen had been broken in and the plastic cracked on top, but it was relatively free of mud and grime. Erie checked the back. Even though someone had made a halfhearted effort to bust up the television and make it look old, they hadn’t bothered scratching off the serial number.

Erie tore into the nearest pile of garbage, tossing trash bags and boxes aside with manic energy. At the bottom he found a Sony VCR, the top crushed as if someone had jumped on top of it. He picked it up and looked at the back. Again, the serial number was still there.

It only took him another minute of digging to find the stereo. It was nearby, underneath a pile of newspapers. It had hardly been damaged at all. There was still a serial number on the back.

That left just one item — the most important of all. Once he found that, he could call in the evidence techs to dust everything for prints and look for tracks that matched the tires on Raymond Long’s truck. The tracks would have to be nearby. Erie turned around to look.

Raymond Long was walking toward him. “Is this what you’re looking for?” he said.

He was holding a shotgun. It was pointed at Erie. His finger was on the trigger.

In the time it took Long to take two more steps Erie had considered five different options: dive and roll and draw his gun; charge Long and go for the shotgun; put up his hands and feign ignorance; put up his hands and try to talk Long into surrendering; run like crazy. Those few seconds were all Erie needed to realize that all his options stank. But he picked one anyway. He put up his hands and started talking.

“Don’t do anything dumb, Ray. A lot of people know where I am. If anything happens to me, they’re going to know exactly who to point the finger at.”

Long stopped about seven yards from Erie. At that range there was little doubt what outcome a shotgun blast would have.

“Yeah, well, maybe by the time they’re pointing fingers, I’ll be hundreds of miles away.” His voice was full of spiteful good ol’ boy bravado. But Erie could see the sweat shining on his face, the damp rings that were spreading under the armpits of his T-shirt.

Erie shook his head. “You won’t make it. Wherever you try to go. Cop killers never get away. Other cops take it too personally. You’ll end up right back in Indiana facing a capital murder charge.”

“Don’t you mean two capital murder charges?” Long sneered. He had a good face for sneering. It looked like he’d done a lot of practicing over the years.

“You should stop talking, Ray. You should put down the shotgun and let me take you in. That’s what a lawyer would tell you to do. You haven’t crossed the line yet — you haven’t doomed yourself. If you put the gun down now, this could all still work out for you and Candace.”

Erie knew instantly that he’d made a mistake. As soon as he’d said Candace, Long’s sneer had turned into a scowl of rage. Erie had pushed the wrong button. Now he had to get out of the way.

Erie threw himself to the left, twisting in mid-flight so he’d take most of the buckshot in the back, buttocks, or legs instead of the face and chest. There was a boom, and a searing pain lanced his side. But it wasn’t bad enough to stop him. He rolled over and came up with his gun pointing toward Long.

But Long wasn’t standing there anymore. He was lying on the ground. Erie watched him for a second, stunned. Long wasn’t moving.

Erie stood up and winced as a bolt of agony struck in a familiar place: his gymnastics had strained his cranky lower back. He limped toward Long, each step sending pain shooting up his spine.

Long was a mess. And he was dead.

Erie guessed that he’d bent the shotgun’s barrel or jammed the chamber when he bludgeoned Joel Korfmann. He might even have used the stock to bust up the TV, VCR, and stereo. So when he tried to shoot Erie, the shotgun had exploded, sending shards of metal and wood out in all directions — but mostly into Long’s body.

Erie checked the right side of his abdomen where he’d felt the sting a moment before. He’d been wounded but not by buckshot or shrapnel. His shirt was torn, and a short, shallow gash was bleeding onto the white cotton. When he’d jumped, he’d landed on something sharp.

He began walking very, very slowly to his car, trying to remember the last time he’d had a tetanus shot.

3:55 P.M.:

A patrol car was waiting for him at 1701 O’Hara Drive when he arrived as he had requested from the dispatcher.

“Geez, Larry, where did the tornado touch down?” one of the officers asked as he limped to their car.

“Right on top of me. Can’t you tell?”

“What’s the story?” the other cop asked.

“I need to pick somebody up for questioning. I’m not expecting any trouble, but I wanted a little backup just in case. You two just hang back and observe.”

“Hang back and observe,” the first cop said, giving Erie a salute. “That’s what I do best.”

Erie walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. Candace Korfmann opened the door almost immediately.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. She was wearing jeans and a River City Community College sweatshirt. “I’m ready to go.”

She stepped outside, closed the front door, and brushed past Erie. “That’s you, right?” she said, pointing at Erie’s car.

“Yes.”

She walked to the car quickly. Erie followed her.

“Do you want me in the front or the back?” she asked.

“The front is fine.” Mrs. Korfmann opened the door and climbed in. Erie eased himself gingerly into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He gave the cops watching from their patrol car an “everything’s under control” wave.

“I hope you weren’t hurt,” Mrs. Korfmann said as Erie pulled away from the curb.

“You’re not under arrest, Mrs. Korfmann. I’m taking you in for an interview, that’s all. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

“Is he dead?”

Erie took his eyes off the road for a moment to watch her. “Yes, Raymond Long is dead. He was killed about half an hour ago.”

She grunted. A long stretch of road rolled by in silence.

“It was his own fault,” she suddenly announced. “He killed himself when he pulled that trigger.” She didn’t look at Erie as she spoke. She stared straight ahead, unblinking.

“What do you mean?”

“I filled the barrel with caulk last week.” She was still staring at nothing, but tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks. “I was afraid he was going to use it on me.”

“He was abusive?”

“Yes.”

Erie stole another glance at her. The tears were still flowing, but her face was impassive, blank. “He was your lover,” he said.

“Yes.”

“He killed your husband.”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitating.

“He used a van from DeRogatis Ford to fake a burglary.”

“Yes.”

“He kept the things he took from your house and brought them with him when he moved in with you.”

“Yes.” She spat out the word this time. “That idiot.”

“Will you repeat all this when we reach police headquarters? In a formal statement?”

“Yes.”

Another mile rolled under the wheels before Erie spoke again. “Why did you go along with it?” he said. “Did you love him?”

Mrs. Korfmann finally turned to face him. That morning she had reminded him, just a bit, of Nancy. But whatever resemblance he had seen in her then was gone now, crushed with the rest of her spirit.

“Joel used to beat me, too,” she said. “Ray said he would protect me.”

5:25 P.M.:

She repeated everything on the record, just as she said she would. Erie stayed in the interrogation room only long enough to make sure it was all on tape. But he left Dave Rogers to prepare her statement and get a signature. He simply stood up and said, “I’m tired, Dave,” and walked out.

Hal Allen was waiting for him outside. “I’d never have guessed it,” Allen said. “You’ve been holding out on us all these years. If I’d known you could wrap up a murder case every day, I never would have let you retire.”

“Too late now, boss,” Erie replied. “All right if I go home?”

“In a second. I wanted to see you at the end of the day, remember?”

“Oh, right. I guess you need this.” Erie slipped his badge-clip off his belt and handed it to Allen. “And this.” He unholstered his revolver and handed that over, too.

“Well, yeah, we need those.” Allen slipped the items into his jacket pocket. “But that’s not what I wanted to see you about. Do you still carry cards for Julie Rhodes, the grief counselor?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Could I see one?” Erie pulled out one of the cards. He handed it to Allen, who looked at it for a moment before handing it back.

“Here,” Allen said. “I think you should use this.”

5:50 P.M.:

Erie stopped at a grocery store on the way home. He found the cheapest red wine in stock and put four bottles in his cart.

But on the way to the register he changed his mind.

He found the aisle marked Pet Supplies and threw a bag of kitty litter and a dozen cans of cat food into his cart. He left three bottles of wine on the shelf next to the cat treats.

When he got home, he opened one of the cans of cat food and dumped its contents onto a small plate. He took the plate out to the front porch along with his wine, a glass, and a bottle opener. He placed the plate on the walk that led to the driveway, then eased himself down on the first step of his porch.

He opened the wine and waited.