Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (62 page)

Nothing can keep
me away from Renata.

“Men in
general are quick to believe that which they wish to be true.”

―
Julius
Caesar

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Here I am, neck-deep
in cow patties again. I’m back in the police interrogation room, sitting on a metal
chair that is bolted to the floor. The uncomfortable chair, no doubt, is
designed to add another layer of discomfort to interrogation.

I mentally run
through a checklist of my surroundings; cheap linoleum flooring—check. No
windows, faint smell of unwashed bodies and stale air—check. Me sitting across
from Detective Bronowski and wondering what’s going to happen—check.

Yep, all
accounted for. Everything is exactly as I remember it.

The only apparent
difference is the manila folder sitting in front of the detective. I wonder
what’s in it? And who the hell is this guy I’m supposed to have murdered?

To my mind, the
second time around is much easier. I’m cool as an autumn rain, not bothering to
count my heart rate, or measure my breaths. I’m more concerned about my
girlfriend.

My stomach
flutters, but not from nerves. God, I love that woman. Last night was such a
revelation. It’ll take me a long time to come down from that high.

Bronowski sits
across from me, his lips a tight line of censure. His features are composed,
but there’s a surly sort of scowl behind his brown eyes. I could ask for my
lawyer, but I don’t want to wait around for him to arrive. I need answers. I
want to know what this is all about.

“Are you going
to tell me who Edgar Gates is?” I ask, deciding to speak first.

Detective
Bronowski studies me with narrowed eyes and ignores my question. There’s fury
behind his dark gaze. I curb my irritation. Whatever evidence he has must be pretty
compelling because he’s
seriously
pissed off at me.

“Mr. Wilkinson,
do you own a .300 Win Mag Sniper Rifle?”

OK, that was
unexpected.

“Yes,” I reply.
There’s no point lying, I can see he already knows the answer to that question.
I have my body on lockdown, so I’m sure I don’t display any noticeable reaction.
Still, this can’t be good.

I own an indoor
/ outdoor rifle range, with an extensive array of armaments. The Win Mag is one
of my personal favorites, proudly on display in the reception area. I used to
use it all the time. It’s a versatile weapon with an accuracy well over the
thousand yard range.

I have to
wonder. Was the mysterious Edgar Gates killed with
my
rifle? If so, how?
I’ve got a state-of-the-art security system for my shooting range, but anything
can be overridden by a smart, determined thief.

Unless…could
one of my newer employees be in on this?
I refuse to believe any of my
regulars would be that disloyal.

Detective
Bronowski leans back in his chair. He looks mighty agreeable, tamping down his
emotions making his body language open, calm and cool. Just us two ‘
good ’ole
boys’
here.

“I understand
you were a sniper with the US Army Rangers,” he says. “Were you any good?”

My lips tug into
a small half-smile. “I was great.”

“Is that right?”

When the
detective hears my reply, I observe a brief flash of excitement in his eyes—which
he quickly subdues. Adrenaline floods his veins… the thrill of the hunter, hot
on the trail. I curb a chuckle, as I purposely shift to mirror his posture and
position.

I was about to
put an end to the session and demand my lawyer, but not so much anymore. The
thing is, this is gettin’ kinda interesting and I’m as innocent as a newborn
foal.

I lift my gaze
until our eyes meet. “What kind of distance are you talking about?”

“Oh, say 700 to
800 yards,” he replies.

“As a Ranger, I
was absolutely accurate up to 1500 yards, often fortunate enough to hit my mark
at over 2000. Why do you ask? ” I murmur, ostensibly studying my nails. In my
peripheral vision though, I see his eyes brighten and his mouth twitch.

This really is
too good.

The detective is
following me right on down the garden path. I almost feel bad about bursting
his bubble.
Almost.

Once more,
Bronowski totally ignores my question. “I’d like to show you some pictures and
get your expert opinion,” he says casually.

“All right.”

He finally opens
the manila folder before him. In it are large glossy prints. They’re crime
scene photos, taken with an eye for detail. I scan through each of them
objectively.

“What do you
want to know?” I ask.

“Can you tell me
what you see?”

“If you like,” I
say amicably. “This is a young man, perhaps twenty to thirty years old. He’s
been professionally assassinated by double taps, one to the heart, one to the
head. The heart shot is right on the money, it’s a larger area with less chance
of missing. At that velocity, a person bleeds out pretty quick. For a targeted
kill, directly after a shot to the chest, the sniper aims for the head. That’s
what happened here. There are entrance wounds, but no exit. That means
hollow-point bullets were used. Hollow tips enlarge upon entry, maximizing
tissue damage and blood loss. If it’s any consolation, this guy never felt a
thing. He was dead in a heartbeat—before he even hit the ground.”

“We found the shell
casings. Only two shots were taken.”

“Oh, yeah?” I
ask curiously. “What distance?”

“The sniper was
on a water tower, 728 yards away.”

There must be
something in my expression because the detective notices. “What?” he asks with
hard eyes. “What are you thinking?”

As a cop,
Bronowski’s dealt with the worst humanity has to offer. Clearly, he’s placed me
in that category.

My brows draw
down in concentration. “It’s odd.”

“What’s odd?”

I shrug. “Professional
hit, silenced weapon…”

“How do you know
it was silenced?” Bronowski positively jumps on my observation.

I meet his eyes.
“Stands to reason. No witnesses have come forward, right? This man was probably
shot at dusk or full night, using a silencer and a night vision scope. Less
chance of being seen or heard.”

“So, what seems
strange to you?”

“A trained
sniper would never leave casings.”

When Detective
Bronowski raises an eyebrow in query, I explain. “Training becomes deep-seated
and automatic. Snipers are taught not to be seen or heard, and they don’t leave
evidence behind—
ever.
It becomes ingrained after a while. Habit. No
sniper would leave their spent brass. Not an expert. Not the real deal—and this
shooter was the real deal.”

“Why do you say
that?”

“He made two
shots, both hit their intended target. This was a quick, clean kill.”

“Maybe he was
interrupted,” Bronowski offers. “Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.”

I shake my head.
“Nope. A shot like this? At 700 yards? No, he left those casings on purpose. He
left you a message. This guy wanted you to know only a professional sniper
could’ve taken those shots.”

“Are you suggesting
he
wants
to be caught?”

No, he wants
ME to be caught.

I shake my head.
“I wouldn’t say that. He left those shell casings behind for a reason. It was
intentional.”

“How many people
would you say could’ve made those shots?”

“Classic head
and heart at that distance?” I shrug. “I expect any trained sniper or professional
assassin could do it.”

“Wilkinson, your
gun was the murder weapon. It had your prints—
only
your fingerprints on
it. The man was killed by a professional sniper, shot at 700 yards.” The
detective pauses, looks straight into my eyes. “I want to know why you did it.”

“You’re sure it was
my gun?”

“We picked it up
this morning at 6 a.m. from your shooting range. Ballistics match perfectly and
your fingerprints are all over it.”

No doubt my
morning manager, stressed to the max, has already left at least ten messages for
me by now. Too bad I had my phone on silent. It didn’t occur to me to check it.
Not that it matters at this point.

“It's not
looking good for you, Wilkinson. Edgar Gates was a cop. You’re up shit creek in
a barbed wire canoe. I think we’re done here.” He shifts forward in his chair,
then stands up with a note of finality. “Just one thing. Why did you do it?”

More
déjà vu.
Bronowski is looking for
a motive.
Again.

“I didn’t do
it.”

The detective
slants me a snide, mocking smile. “
Seriously?
You’re innocent? That’s
your defense? You’re gonna go with
that
? We’ve got you dead to rights,
Wilkinson. There’s no point in going to trial. If you confess, we may be able
to take the death penalty off the table.”

“Was Officer
Gates working on my father’s murder?”

The detective
jerks his head in a slight nod. “He was the forensic computer technician for
the Chester Wilkinson case. When the warrants were served, he took charge of
every piece of technical evidence seized.”

I frown in
concentration, considering the ramifications of what the police know, compared
to what
I
know. Still, I’m not worried. I’m pretty sure my perceived
insensitivity pisses Bronowski off.

Irritated, the
detective spins and stomps toward the door, probably intending to get one of
the uniformed officers outside to take me away. To his mind, the case is
closed.

“Wait,” I say. “If
you sit down and listen, I’ll tell you everything.”

Appeased by what
he no doubt hopes will be a full confession, Bronowski nods, pulls out his
chair and sits back down.

“First, I have a
question I’d appreciate an answer to,” I say.

“What?” he snaps
impatiently.

“How did you
know to get a warrant for my rifle? Who told you I shot Edgar Gates? Did you
receive a tip or something? If so, did the informant give you his or her name?”

“That’s more
than one question and I’m not at liberty to say,” he growls.

I see from Bronowski’s
grim frown that he doesn’t
want
to tell me, either. He’s also uncomfortable
with these questions. A thousand to one, the police received a phone message
from an unnamed informant, no doubt from a throwaway phone. A thousand to one,
or a million to one, I sure as hell wouldn’t lose any money on that bet.

“OK, how about
the shell casings?” I ask. “Were my fingerprints on those?”

The detective
still isn’t talking, but I think I’ve placed another layer of reasonable doubt there.
Not that it would make a difference. He’s convinced I committed this murder.

“Let’s just
pretend for one moment I’m
not
guilty.”

Bronowski rolls
his eyes.

“Just for one
moment—
humor me
, please. If I’m not guilty, someone has gone to a lot of
trouble to set me up. Why would anyone do that? What’s in it for them? Who
would benefit from Gate’s death and why?”

“I have work to
do, Wilkinson.”

“Detective, did
you obtain a copy of my medical records upon my discharge from the Army?”

“Why?” He
gestures toward my badly scarred face. “I assumed you were discharged because
you were critically wounded.”

“True,” I admit.
“But, if you take the time to read my medical records, you’ll find the reason I’m
incapable of having taken those shots.”

Bronowski frowns,
his features reflecting distrust and disbelief. He’s definitely not going to
like hearing what I have to say.

I press on. “Despite
what it looks like in the movies, snipers never shoot with one eye closed. A skilled
marksman needs
both
eyes open for depth perception. Forget seven hundred
yards—I couldn’t have killed that man at fifty. The accident that injured me, also
robbed me of the ability to be a half decent shot, much less a sniper. I didn’t
murder Edgar Gates, Detective Bronowski. I couldn’t have. It may not look like
it, and not many people know it,” I point to my left eye, “but I’m totally
blind in this eye.”

“The truth
will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”

―
Gloria Steinem

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

It takes three
hours, but I’m finally released from police custody. Edgar Gates was shot and
killed with my sniper rifle, complete with only my fingerprints on it. Lucky
for me, whoever came up with this little frame up job, didn’t do their
homework.

Anger swirls
around me, thick as fog.

I killed while
in the military, but I’m not a murderer. For now, I deliberately tamp down the burning
fury I feel toward my unknown enemy. For the emotional upset and panic they’ve
caused Renata, I’d like to beat them senseless.

I’m surprised by
this somewhat familiar rage, but I shouldn’t be. It's one thing to cross
me—it's another to hurt my girl. There's a special place in hell reserved for
the lying, murdering soon-to-be-sorry asshole. He’d better pray the police find
him before I do.

For the first
time since my injury, I find myself in the peculiar position of feeling
relieved
to have lost sight in one eye.

Detective
Bronowski walks me down to collect my phone. As I sign for it, he asks
diffidently, “You want a ride home?”

I meet his eyes.
It seems to be an apology, of sorts. “Yes, thank you,” I reply, as I hit the
speed dial. “Give me a moment, I need to make a quick call.”

“There’s no
rush,” he says as we walk outside toward a white, Chevy Impala. I stop at the
passenger door and raise a questioning eyebrow. Does he want me to sit behind
the security grill in the back?

Bronowski nods
his approval for me to ride up front, which pleases me. It’s a small bridge of
trust, another olive branch. I open the door, pause and listen to her phone
ring as I wait for Renata to pick up. I want to tell her all is OK, I'm on my
way home.

The detective
opens his door, climbs in and sits down in the driver seat.

Renata answers her
phone and I tell her the good news. She’s relieved to hear the police have
released me. Still, there’s something in her voice. She sounds unusually tense.

“What’s going
on?” I ask warily.

“Your sister
decided to visit. She’s here right now.”

“Shit
.
I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so,” I tell her. “We’re leaving now.” In a
hurry, I hop into the front seat and shut the door. “Will you be OK until then?”

She sighs
heavily. “I think so. Betty Jo’s upset—long story. I’ll tell her you’re on your
way home. She has no idea where you’ve been.”

“Thanks for that.
Hang in there. I love you,” I say openly, no longer hung up about that word.
I’m getting to be comfortable with the whole
love
thing.

“Love you, too,”
she immediately replies.

Bronowski
snorts, slanting me a disillusioned look as he starts the car, puts it in gear.
“Babysitter, huh?”

“Yes, she is,
actually,” I say, “but we’ve moved on from that to girlfriend.”

“Oh, yeah?”

I turn toward
him and smile broadly, giddy with pride and happiness to announce that
I
have
a
girlfriend
for the first time in my life. "She’s hopefully, my soon
to be fiancée,” I confide, grinning like an infatuated fool. “Renata doesn't
know yet, so I'd appreciate you keeping that to yourself.”

“You don’t say?”
His brows raise in surprise. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

A buoyant sense
of joy returns in full force. Briley’s babysitter is my live in, madly-in-love-with-her,
hot sex, girlfriend. I doubt I’ll ever be good enough for her, and I don’t want
to hold her back. Yet, I dream someday she’ll accept me as her husband. Then we’ll
be married and live happily together for the rest of our lives.

For years my
inner voice has whispered caustic self-talk such as,
‘Monster! Pervert!’
or,
‘I deserve to be alone,’
and,
‘I’m too damaged to be with others.’

While I don’t
delude myself my negative thoughts are gone forever, I’m no longer constantly oppressed
by this shit. Now I see myself as a good person, a person who deserves
happiness. Someone who maybe, with time, may even deserve Renata.

As we drive, I intermittently
glance at Detective Bronowski. I can tell he has something on his mind, but I decide
to wait for him to initiate a conversation.

Our relationship
has changed. Bronowski sees me differently now and it reflects in his manner
toward me. It’s obvious someone else killed that young man and they thought I’d
make a great scapegoat. His doubts are working for me. If I was setup for this
murder, perhaps I was also set up for my father’s murder.

“Someone went
through a lot of trouble to frame you,” he says.

I scowl. “So it
seems. Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill Edgar Gates?”

“No.”

“And you say
he’s the forensic guy? He worked on the computers, phones and tablets seized,
due to the search warrant on my shooting range?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” My eyes
narrow as I regard him. I think we both ‘see.’

There’s
undoubtedly a connection between the murder of Edgar Gates and the murder of my
father. I just don’t want anyone to think that connection is
me
.

Bronowski shoots
me a look. “Edgar found sensitive data on a dusty old computer system we picked
up from the basement of your shooting range. On it were a number of pictures,
thousands, really. The kind of pictures pedophiles like.”

Fuck!
Thousands? How the hell do I respond to that?

My father and
his damned camera. I shouldn’t be surprised. He had a video camera he loved,
too. He’d taken endless tapes of himself with his kills.

I swallow hard, say
nothing and stare down at my hands. Restless and uncomfortable, I struggle to
remain still. An array of disturbing emotions and sensations rush through me. I
can only imagine what the detective is thinking.

He
knows
about
me and my father. But does he know
I know
that he knows?

I brace myself
and admit my shame, “My father was a pedophile.”

“Yes,” he says
in a deadpan voice.

Good.
I
blow out a deep breath, gathering my nerve. Dare I trust him?
Do I have a
choice?

I need Bronowski
on my side. I don’t know how I’ll be attacked or set up in the future. If I’m
not careful, maybe the next murder might be successfully laid at my door.

My lawyer would
advise me what every lawyer advises, to never confide anything to an officer of
the law.
‘Admit nothing’,
is his solution to everything. That and,
‘Take
no responsibility–even if you did it. If you acknowledge liability, it will
cost you.’

This counsel
goes directly against my ‘Twelve-step program’ which advises me to make a list
of people I’ve harmed, and become willing to make amends.

A lawyer's sole
focus is to keep clients out of jail and protect their assets—seemingly I
decide sardonically, so that
they
can acquire them.

In the long run,
I don’t think self-interest should be the prime motivation in every case. There’s
something to be said about taking responsibility for one’s own actions. What’s
the point of saving money, or even your freedom, if you end up losing your
soul?

I was an angry
asshole as a teen. I managed my rage by keeping away from everyone. Isolated
and alone, I’d been so absorbed by my own evils, I couldn’t connect to others.

I never knew
what my father did to anyone else.

To my mind,
making amends,
as recommended by my recovery program, isn’t about
redemption. Nor is its goal simply to feel better about oneself. For me it’s
about setting things right.