Let the Blesséd Be

By Theresa L. Sondys

When his estranged brother, Pastor Paul, makes the two hour trip into Riverton to ask for Detective Lieutenant Matt Warners help after finding a dead dog on his property, Matt agrees to at least look at the animal. Matt is intrigued by the strange circumstances he finds and takes the carcass to a local vet for a necropsy. The trail leads into a web of a questionable suicide, stories of devil worship, witches, curses, human sacrifice; and a Catholic priest who will only tell Matt that he must come to terms with what he believes in order to face a most formidable foe.

The deeper Matt digs into the cult next door to his brother, the more dangerous it becomes and several attacks take place first on Matts house, then on Matt alone, and finally on Matt and his girlfriend Cassie while together. Undaunted, Matt and Paul set out to gather evidence, only to be captured, and the old priests warning becomes a reality Matt must come to terms with what he believes as he faces a formidable foe and the truth about his own past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504912648

Theresa L. Sondys

Theresa L. Sondys, author of The Pink Lady, Star-Crossed Murders, and Let the Blessed Be, is the Senior Program Officer at one of metro Detroit’s most highly respected philanthropic agencies where she is responsible for managing the Foundation’s grant-making programs from intake through final reporting, including site visits and evaluations. Theresa does extensive work in the community, bringing a wide variety of people and organizations together to bring about improvement of the overall health of southeastern Michigan. She has served as president and chairman of various non-profit boards and coalitions. Theresa is an experienced speaker who has taught a wide variety of workshops and seminars (Program Planning, Introduction to Proposal Writing, Grant-writing, etc.) She is a widow with two children and one grandchild.

Book preview

- 1 -

APRIL 2, 1990

The sudden burst of noise caused by the jangling telephone woke Matt with a start from deep sleep. Lying on his stomach, facing away from the phone, he rolled over to reach for it. In doing so, he glanced at the digital clock on the night stand beside it. 5:33 a.m.

His voice sounded groggy even to himself as he picked up the handset and held it to his ear. Warner, he identified himself to the caller.

Morning, Lieutenant, the dispatcher’s office greeted. Sorry to wake you . . .

It’s okay, Matt told him, raising a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. Whatcha got?

Hostage situation. Man holed up in an apartment with at least two, maybe three, hostages. He’s been shooting out the window onto the street below and through the wood of the closed door into the hallway.

Matt bolted upright and threw his legs over the side of the bed. Where?

Peachtree Apartments. Number 322.

Instantly awake, he began barking orders. I want uniforms to evacuate the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th floors and block off the street in front of that window. Get Sweeny on the roof of the building across the street with a sniper rifle and call Snyder – I want him on the door with me.

Yes, sir. What’s your ETA?

Ten minutes. Matt hung up the phone and headed for the bathroom to empty his bladder and brush his teeth, then quickly dressed and dashed out into the pre-dawn darkness. When he arrived at the crime scene several minutes later, a patrolman pulled back a yellow sawhorse barricade to allow him access. Parking the unmarked police sedan behind a squad car, he climbed out and scurried toward the uniformed officer kneeling next to the door of his unit. Matt passed him to crouch behind the front tire.

Is everybody off two, three and four? he asked.

No, sir, Officer Gary Moran shook his head. There’s one lady won’t leave.

What number?

What number what?

Matt sighed. The guy should know exactly what he was talking about, but apparently he didn’t. That’s why everybody calls him ‘the moron’ Matt silently reminded himself. He and Gary Moran had met on two occasions earlier in the year. Matt had written the rookie up both times. What apartment number? he asked slowly, as if it would help.

Oh. Three fifteen.

Any shots since the first report?

Yes, sir. Three short bursts.

So, why are you hunched down over there?

Sir? Gary Moran had passed out of rookie status at the beginning of the year and was now authorized to ride alone. But Matt – and a number of other senior officers (not to mention the scuttlebutt being passed around through the other blues) – had serious doubts as to the young man’s suitability for the job.

Why are you crouching down behind the door? Matt elaborated on his original question.

Because the guy’s shooting. We’re supposed to hide behind the car, right? Moran said, his intonation strongly hinting that the Lieutenant was an idiot for not knowing the facts he spewed.

Right, Matt allowed with a nod. But, where you are, there isn’t a lot of protection.

Moran shook his head. What are you getting at?

Roof and doors are hollow, Moran. A bullet’ll pass right through. Anything hits under the car can ricochet off the pavement right into your legs. And, at the very least, if a bullet shatters the windows, the flying glass could cut you to ribbons.

Then why do they tell us to hide behind the car?

They told you to shield yourself behind the front wheels, Matt said, irritation evident in his voice. You’re away from the glass, a bullet can’t penetrate the engine block, and you’re protected from ricochet by the wheel.

Oh, the younger man nodded, but didn’t move.

So, get over here, Matt ordered, completely exasperated.

Moran stared at him for a moment before comprehending the command. As he began crawling forward, a second car was allowed through the barricade and Dan Snyder quickly joined the two officers crouched behind the patrol car. Like Matt, he too had taken the time to don Kevlar body armor. The bulletproof vests peaked out from under the black jackets they wore with the word POLICE emblazoned across both front and back in large white letters. This better be good, he practically snarled at Matt. It’s too damn early to be up.

No shit, Matt agreed. You ready to go in?

Let’s do it.

What do you want me to do, sir? Moran asked.

Matt scanned the area, looking up and down the street at the patrol cars and officers present. Trade places with Lydaker.

You’re going to make me sit the fence and take him in? Moran objected loudly. I rolled first on the call.

Yeah, well unless you want to be the first one written up for failure to follow the order of a superior officer, you’d better roll your butt up the street and send Lydaker down here.

You’re not following procedure, Moran argued. Procedure says first man up goes in.

Matt tilted his head to one side, lifting his chin and raising his eyebrows, letting his expression challenge the boy in blue.

I’ll report you, he threatened the Lieutenant, sounding for all the world like a third-grader.

From his position behind the uniformed officer, and out of his sight, Dan rolled his eyes and grinned. Matt knew what he was thinking – maybe it had been worth getting out of bed this early after all. Stories about Gary Moran were rife throughout the Department and he’d been written up a number of times based on the complaints of fellow patrol officers and, of course, by Matt himself. Now the rookie was openly challenging – and threatening – a member of the brass. Dan would have one hell of a story to tell when he got back to the cop shop.

Stroking the stubble on his chin he hadn’t taken the time to remove, Matt nodded. "Fine. Report me. But you do that after we take care of this situation here. As for right now, I am the ranking officer at the scene. That means I get to give the orders. That means we’re going to do it my way. And my way has you trading with Lydaker." As far as Matt was concerned, the subject was closed, and he let his face and voice convey that fact.

The expression on Moran’s face said the incident was far from over as far as he was concerned, but he grudgingly complied with Matt’s order. Standing, he began to make his way down the street, walking slowly, as if he were taking a leisurely stroll through the park.

Matt watched his progress for a moment, shaking his head at the young man’s ignorance and insolence. Dave Lydaker was an older, more seasoned officer who knew how to handle himself. Matt wouldn’t have to stop to explain things as they went along. That’s why Matt wanted him entering the building with he and Dan instead of Gary Moran, who’d never been in a hostage situation. But procedure – which Moran so blatantly threw into Matt’s face – didn’t require a superior officer to explain his rationale behind an order. It required the subordinate officer to follow the order immediately, then ask questions or lodge any complaints or objections through proper channels afterward. As Moran sauntered down the middle of the street as if he didn’t have a care in the world, Matt couldn’t help but wonder whether the kid would make good on his threat. Doesn’t matter, Matt told himself with a shake of his head. He was already planning to report the incident himself.

Turning his attention back to the apartment building, Matt saw the muzzle of what looked to be an automatic pistol poking its nose out of a third floor window. Moran, get down! he shouted a warning as a hail of gunfire showered the street below.

Moran took off running and dramatically threw himself over the police barrier at the end of the street. After checking to be sure the angry young man wasn’t hurt, Matt and Dan traded smiles.

That kid’s gonna get somebody killed, Dan observed drily.

I know, Matt nodded. "That’s why I sent him up the street. I didn’t want it to be either one of us.

Before Dan had a chance to reply, a cheery voice brought the radio on Matt’s shoulder to life. Good morning, gentlemen! Vic’s voice called out. Time to bust us some bad guys!

Morning, Vic, Matt spoke into the transmitter. See anything?

Lots of stuff. Nothing you’d be interested in, though.

No shot, eh?

Clear shot into the apartment, but no gunman in view at the present. I got here a split second too late for the last show.

Okay. Keep an eye peeled. We’re going in. On the count of three, Matt, Dan and Dave Lydaker sprang upwards and bolted around the car toward the front of the building. A minute later they had both elevators locked out on the first floor and began climbing the stairs.

Upon reaching the third floor, Lydaker crouched behind the corner of the wall, his weapon trained on the door. Matt and Dan took up places on either side of the door to Apartment 322, Dan on the left, and Matt on the right by the knob, their positions mirroring each other. Crouching on one knee, each man tried to make himself as small a target as possible while maintaining maneuverability. Leaning forward slightly to listen at the door, they heard the unmistakable sound of whimpering children, and exchanged glances.

We still got a tenant on the floor, Matt whispered.

Where?

Matt indicated the door with his head. It’s probably out of the line of fire, but I still don’t like it.

Maybe if you ask them real nice, they’ll leave, Dan grinned.

After a quick shrug, Matt stood and crossed the hall to give a quick rap on the door.

In a minute, came the response.

As he nervously waited, Matt kept an eye on Dan for a signal that something was going on in the apartment down the hall. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected the tenant in 315 to look like, but when the door opened, he knew this wasn’t it. The woman standing in front of him had possibly the longest, shapeliest legs he’d ever seen. She wore a white slip whose hem dusted the top of her thighs, the bodice barely contained her ample bosom, and the color contrasted sharply with the deep bronze color of her skin. Her long, black hair framed an exquisitely beautiful face and hung almost to her slim waist.

Yes? she spoke to Matt in a voice that was deep, sultry and extremely sensual.

Producing his badge and holding it out for inspection, Matt took a deep breath. I’m Detective-Lieutenant Matt Warner of the Riverton Police Department. We have a dangerous situation here, he explained with the wave of his hand toward the door down the hall. The exotic beauty leaned forward slightly to glance in that direction. We’re evacuating the area in an attempt to minimize the threat of injury.

I told the twerp in the uniform that I have to get ready for work . . .

I understand that, ma’am, he interrupted, but surely your boss would understand."

That asshole don’t understand nothing. If I’m late, he’ll fire me. She stepped into the hallway and leaned on the door frame. Although she spoke to Matt, it was Dan she was looking at, and Matt had the distinct feeling she was enjoying being the center of attention.

Even after he sees on the news that your apartment building was evacuated by police . . .

By the time he sees it on the news, I’ll already be canned, she interrupted.

Won’t he take you back?

Maybe, she said with a shake of her head that tossed her hair over one shoulder. But I can’t take that chance.

Matt returned his badge to his belt, then reached a hand up to scratch his head and try to think of a solution that didn’t involve picking her up, tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her out of the building kicking and screaming. He glanced back at Dan, hoping for inspiration, but all he got was a look urging him to hurry. How about if I write you a note? Matt offered.

Is he a cop, too? she asked, indicating Dan with another nod of her head.

Yeah, Matt nodded.

Married?

No, he shook his head, wondering what difference it made. Divorced.

Get me a date with him and I’m out of here in two minutes.

You’re kidding.

She indicated her lack of levity with a slight shake of her head.

After telling her to wait where she was, Matt made his way back down the hall to explain the situation to Dan who looked up first into Matt’s face to see whether he was joking, then down the hall to the beautiful woman standing there in her lingerie.

My pleasure, Dan nodded, donning what Matt assumed Dan believed to be his most charming smile.

She disappeared into the apartment for several moments, then stepped into the hallway looking almost identical to the way she’d looked before except that a knit dress had been pulled over her slip and a coat was now draped over her arm. As she passed the two detectives crouching on either side of her neighbor’s door, she paused long enough to hand Dan a slip of paper. Call me, she purred.

You bet, he smiled again. The two men watched with intense interest and appreciation as she made her way to the stairwell, brushing past Dave Lydaker to descend.

I get the feeling she was ready to leave anyway, Matt commented.

Dan smiled and nodded. Rochelle, he read off the slip of paper before folding it and shoving it into his pocket. Do I get overtime for… The look on Matt’s face stopped him. I didn’t think so. That said, he reached out to slip a noose over the doorknob, then took out the slack in the rope, leaving just enough to allow the door to open, but retaining control on how fast and how far it could go. When he was ready, he nodded to Matt who then reached up to rap sharply on the door.

Who is it? a voice demanded from behind the wooden barrier.

Police.

A volley of gunfire erupted from within, showering the hallway with lead and splintered wood and leaving several small holes in the door.

There goes his security deposit, Dan whispered.

Was it something I said? Matt joked with a grin.

Dan nodded. The p-word has that effect on some people.

Yeah, Matt nodded. Like my brother. He glanced at his watch, counting thirty seconds before calling out to the man inside the apartment. Mr. Cooper, we need to talk.

About what?

The Tigers’ chances to win the World Series, you dumb fuck, Dan commented wryly under his breath. What does he think we want to talk about?

Matt smiled slightly and nodded. What did he think they wanted to talk about, indeed. About why you’re doing this, Matt called through the door.

Ain’t it obvious?

No, sir, I’m afraid not.

I lost my job, and now my wife is trying to throw me out and take my kids away.

Where’d you work? Matt asked, hoping to build a dialog.

Clayton Chem.

What happened? Downsizing? Give him the benefit of a doubt, Matt thought.

Because they said I broke one a their fucking rules. There’s too many damn rules in this world. You know that? Everything you try to do, you got to follow somebody’s damn rules that make everything harder. And, even if you do follow all the rules, you still can’t win.

He was getting upset; time to change the subject. How many kids you got, Mike? Okay to call you Mike? Be friendly, try to get on a first name basis.

Sure. Who gives a shit? Who’re you?

Name’s Matt Warner. Normally, police procedures dictated that Matt introduce himself by his rank first. But, in this situation, he didn’t want to be seen as one of the bosses that enforces the rules, just one of the guys trying to follow them.

You go to Riverton High?

Sure did, Matt confirmed with a nod the man couldn’t see. Neither detective knew where the conversation was leading, but both knew it was best to keep the guy calm and talking, build a rapport, and hope they’d be able to convince him to surrender without anyone getting hurt. You?

Just my senior year. We moved here after my folks split up. He paused for a moment before asking, You the Warner that was such a big sports hero? Broke all the scoring records and stuff?

Yup. That would be me.

Then Paul Warner was your brother.

Still is.

He was in some of my classes. As I recall, he was a little guy with a big mouth.

Matt chuckled. Still is, Mike. Guess some things never change.

Whatever happened to him?

Believe it or not, he became a minister.

No shit? Mike asked, sounding as if the fact was definitely hard to believe and Matt understood completely. Just as Mike had said, his younger brother had had an attitude problem and a big mouth. Matt had always thought it was some kind of Napoleon complex – Paul being only five foot six compared to the older brother’s six one – while another part of it was because he’d been born with one leg shorter than the other and a slightly deformed foot that kept him from doing many of the things all the other boys in the neighborhood did. He couldn’t run, so he ran his mouth. Started fights that Matt invariably had to finish. Paul hurled insults and issued challenges, but it was Matt who ended up with lumps and bruises, not to mention the punishment his parents handed down when word of his fighting got back to them.

No shit, Matt finally confirmed.

He married? Got any kids?

Yup. Married Anne Malecki – don’t know if you knew her.

Real plain girl? Kind of stringy brown hair?

That’s her, Matt said, nodding again. His brother’s wife was a tall, big-boned woman whose face was plain, but whose heart was as big as all outdoors. She was an intelligent, sweet, and loving person and Matt thought his brother was lucky to have her. They’ve got three kids. Two boys and a girl.

How about you? You got kids?

Dan cleared his throat and Matt glanced his way. Apparently Dan was uncomfortable with the personal nature of the conversation and worried that perhaps Matt shouldn’t discuss the source of his own personal hell. I had two daughters, Matt sighed. They were killed in a fire when they were three and five.

You and your wife still together?

No. She committed suicide the night after we buried the girls. Dan was still staring at him and Matt shook his head, hoping Dan understood that he was okay with this. How many you got, Mike?

Three.

How old are they?

I got a twenty-year-old in college from my first marriage, and a nine-year-old and a six-year-old from this one.

Are the little ones in there with you?

Yeah, why? he asked, an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there when he quizzed Matt on his life history.

Because I know that, as a loving father, you wouldn’t want to see them get hurt.

Who says I’m a loving father? Mike snapped.

Well, when we first started talking, you said part of why you were doing this was because your wife was threatening to take your kids away. There was no response from inside the apartment. You’re not going to win any brownie points with a judge in a custody hearing like this. Matt paused again. Send the kids out, Mike. In fact, why don’t you put the gun down and all of you come out.

Gunfire again burst through the apartment door, accompanied by screams from behind it.

I think maybe you rushed the moment, Dan teased.

You want to take over? Matt offered. Dan shook his head. I didn’t think so. Matt took a deep breath, then let it out in a puff and keyed the mike on his radio. Hey, Father Sweeny, you with us?

I’m here, my son, Vic answered. Vic had been dubbed Father Sweeny shortly after joining the police force, when the other men found out that he’d originally intended to become a Catholic priest, and actually spent a year in the seminary. But he’d fallen deeply in love and abandoned all priestly thoughts to marry her. He and Jackie had been married almost thirty years and had seven children. One more reason the nickname seemed apropos.

Can you help me out here? Matt asked him.

I’ll do everything I can.

Matt and Dan exchanged glances. Vic would do what he could. That meant if he got a clear shot he’d take it. Since he hadn’t taken the shot, it meant it didn’t exist

Matt cleared his throat and called out to Mike Cooper again.

What? the man screamed from behind the door.

That’s not going to solve anything.

Three more shots ripped through the splintered door. Oh, yeah? How do you know? Can you tell the future?

In a way, Matt told him. Because, in a way, history repeats itself. And I’ve seen these situations before. If you don’t release the hostages, put down the gun and give yourself up . . .

You’ll what? Blow me out of my shoes?

We don’t want to see anyone get hurt, Mike, Matt assured him, concentrating on keeping his voice calm. Not you. Not us. And certainly not those kids. Why don’t you send them out, Mike?

Why? So you won’t hit them when you break the door down and come in blasting?

This guy watches way too much television, Dan whispered.

Matt grinned and nodded. No, that’s not it at all, he protested gently. They’re scared, Mike. I can hear them crying. They’re being emotionally scarred. I know that has to bother you, man. Let ‘em go. A silence settled over the hallway as they waited for a response. Matt glanced at his watch and waited.

Emotionally scarred? Dan snickered.

Matt shrugged. Sounded good at the time, he whispered. The secondhand on his watch completed its circuit around the dial three times before Matt spoke again. Mike?

Yeah, okay. They’re coming out.

They heard the bolt slide back and watched as the door began to open. Muscles tensed as they readied themselves for action. As each child cleared the doorway, Matt snatched her quickly but gently away from the opening, then Dan tugged the door closed by the noose around the knob. Lydaker stepped forward to take possession of the terrified children and hurry them downstairs to waiting emergency personnel. Matt and Dan listened as the smallest girl’s cries for her mother faded away as she was carried further and further from her home.

Mike? Matt called out again when all was quiet.

Now what? His voice said his patience was wearing thin and Matt knew they were running out of time.

Kids need a mother.

If I give her up, I got no bargaining power.

Matt took a deep breath. Mike, look, I’m going to be honest with you, okay? You really don’t have a lot of bargaining power as it is. Remember what you said about rules? That everybody has to follow the rules? Well, I’ve got rules I have to follow, too. We call them police procedures. And those procedures say I can’t let you walk away from this. He paused to let his words sink in. Now, so far, nobody’s been hurt. The charges against you are relatively minor – malicious destruction of property, discharge of a firearm within city limits… He purposely left out the more severe infractions. Misdemeanors, Matt assured him. You can bargain with the D.A. Cop a plea or something. Get off with a fine and a period of probation. He paused again before pushing on, hoping his timing was right. But kidnaping and terrorism are felonies, man.

I ain’t no fucking terrorist! Mike shouted.

I think you’re getting to him, Dan whispered.

Matt crossed his fingers and held them up for Dan to see. You are if you hold hostages against their will.

She’s my wife!

If you’re restricting her freedom of movement through the use of force, then she’s a hostage and you’re . . .

Okay, okay! Mike shouted from inside the apartment. Once again, the bolt slid noisily back and the door began to open slowly. Mrs. Cooper came out slowly, her tear-stained face trembling as she glanced downward at the men on the floor on either side of the door.

Matt silently directed her toward the stairwell, moving his gaze back to the door just in time to see a hand aiming a pistol at her back. In an instant, he sprang up, launching himself at the unsuspecting woman, the two of them landing on the floor a moment later with Matt’s body shielding her from the bullets again spraying the hallway. Dan tugged on the rope with all his strength, slamming the door on Mike’s wrist and pinning it there.

You okay? Matt asked the terrified woman beneath him. Receiving a nod in reply, he surrendered her to Lydaker who whisked her out of sight down the stairwell. Matt quickly crawled back across the hallway. Standing off to one side of the door, he reached out with his left hand. Drop the gun, Mike, he ordered.

Let go of the door!

Give me the gun first.

You’re hurting me!

Drop the gun! Matt ordered again.

Mike’s fingers began to relax, then opened, and both detectives breathed a sigh of relief as the pistol dropped into Matt’s waiting hand.

Okay, Mike, we’re doing great, Matt spoke reassuringly as he dropped the nine millimeter semi-automatic into the evidence bag Lydaker now held out for him. Okay, Mike, what I need you to do now is put your left hand through the crack in the door.

Are you crazy?

It’s been rumored, Matt admitted. But remember those procedures I told you about? Those procedures say I have to see both of your hands so I know you’re not holding a weapon in the other hand.

I’m not.

Let me see. Matt licked his lips and silently mouthed come on, Mike.

A moment later the fingers of the second hand began to appear, and Matt adjusted his position. As the hand emerged more fully, Matt quickly grabbed both of Mike’s hands with his. Then, when Dan loosened his grip on the rope and quickly shoved the door open, Matt pulled Mike through the open door with one quick, fluid move, and threw him against the wall on the opposite side of the hall.

Mike Cooper broke down in tears while he was pinned against the wall and being thoroughly searched for weapons. This isn’t the way it was supposed to turn out, he sobbed as Matt secured his hands behind his back with handcuffs and Dan read him his rights.

Why? Matt asked. How was it supposed to turn out?

I figured I’d be dead.

The two detectives traded glances, but said nothing. They didn’t need to. They both understood. Mike Cooper was despondent. Apparently he didn’t want to go on, but couldn’t bring himself to end his own wretched existence. He thought it would be easiest to ‘commit suicide by cop.’ Break the law and let the police kill him.

I mean it’s a pretty sad day when you can fire thirty rounds at the cops and they don’t even shoot back once. How come you guys didn’t shoot me?

Cutbacks, Matt shook his head. Department can only afford so many bullets. I already used my ration for the month.

Dan burst into a fit of laughter, shaking his head at Matt’s sarcastic response.

Mike Cooper was not amused and told them so. That’s not funny, he said flatly.

What did you expect? It’s almost ten and I still haven’t had my first cup of coffee.

As the two detectives escorted Mike out the front door of the apartment building, the crowd at the end of the street burst into applause and news reporters crashed through the barricade to thrust cameras and microphones into the faces of the three men coming down the stairs.

Was anyone injured? one of the reporters asked.

No, ma’am, Matt responded.

Are you the commanding officer? inquired another.

Yes, sir. Detective-Lieutenant Matt Warner, he identified himself.

We heard gunfire . . .

That was me, Mike Cooper confessed. I fired at least thirty rounds and these yo-yos didn’t shoot back so much as once.

Why not? a tall blonde woman wanted to know.

Matt looked first at the microphone thrust into his face, then at the woman who’d asked the question. It wasn’t necessary.

What are you going to do now? she asked.

Unable to believe she’d actually asked such a stupid question, and on camera, Matt glanced first at Dan, then at Mike Cooper, before looking straight into the camera. We’re going to Disneyland, he said sarcastically, then pushed his way through the crowd toward the waiting police cars.

"Now that’s funny," Mike Cooper said and began to laugh. The detectives joined in as they climbed into their cars and drove away.

- 2 -

APRIL 4,

By the beginning of April, Spring had usually arrived in southeast Michigan. Not this year. This fact was nowhere more evident than the windshield of the car where a precipitation that was neither rain or snow fought with the rubber wipers for control of the glass. As Paul pulled the car into the parking lot and maneuvered into a space marked ‘Visitor Parking,’ thousands of butterflies filled his stomach and made him question whether he was doing the right thing. He couldn’t believe he was this close. Wasn’t sure he’d be able to go through with his plan. Checking his watch, he noted the time and date. It was 1:50 p.m., April 4th. He took a deep breath and stared out through the windshield, staring through the icy precipitation that had gathered since the last sweep of the wipers. April 4th, he repeated to himself. His brother’s wedding anniversary.

Except that his sister-in-law had committed suicide several years ago. Shortly after the fire that had killed their children, Diane Warner had picked up her husband’s service revolver, put it to her head, and pulled the trigger. Paul had made an offhand comment to his mother that if Matt was going to leave the gun lying around where anybody could get at it, he might as well shoot them himself – a comment his brother wasn’t supposed to hear. But he had. Paul had tried to assure his brother that he wasn’t blaming him for his wife’s death, but Matt didn’t believe him.

You meant exactly what you said, his brother challenged. It’s my fault. I killed her.

Of course, Matt was right. At the time, it was exactly what Paul had meant. Now he knew better. But Diane had not only taken her own life, something in Matt died that night, too. And the already tenuous relationship between the brothers snapped.

Since then, Matt had been reclusive, burying himself in his work, refusing to make time for anyone or anything, and spurning all attempts his family made to mend fences. But a New Year’s Eve suicide – and a daughter lamenting that she’d never see her mother again – had set the detective thinking, and he’d stopped by their parents’ home on his way home from work. Almost out of habit, Paul had made a snarky comment about the revolver Matt carried, and the rest of the brothers’ visit had been tense. Paul had seen his brother twice since then – once at a high school hockey game and again at a surprise party for Matt’s 40th birthday – and thought he’d made progress in his efforts to mend the fences between them. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder whether Matt would even talk to him now, let alone help him.

Turning off the ignition and opening the car door, Paul forced himself to carry on with his plan. He’d never been in the Riverton police station before, and the very idea of entering it now made his palms sweat even as he walked down the street in thirty-five degree weather. The concrete steps were dotted here and there with small chunks of salt to keep the sleet from icing them over and presenting a hazard to the public. Paul climbed the two concrete steps, passed a brass plate labeling the building as having been a Public Works Authority project in the Depression, and pulled open the door to find himself in a small entryway between two heavy glass doors. His heart pounding, the butterflies in his stomach again taking flight, and his sweat glands kicking into high gear, the minister wiped his hands on his jacket and tugged open the second door. The lobby was small, no larger than ten by ten, with scarred wooden benches leaning against each of the side walls. Looking closer, he noticed they were bolted to the floor, and couldn’t help wondering whether they really thought anyone would try to steal the ugly things. Even though ‘No Smoking’ signs were posted conspicuously around the room, a large canister-type ashtray sat at the end of each bench. Relics of an earlier time, he supposed.

The opposite end of the room was dominated by what appeared to be a metal desk situated on a platform about eighteen inches higher than the rest of the floor and protected by a sheet of thick glass similar to that found in banks. The only man in sight was turned away from the lobby entrance, apparently talking to some unseen person behind him, and he paused to shout Be right with you over his shoulder. Paul stood quietly completing his study of the lobby. On each side of the room, between the ashtrays and front desk, stout-looking doors barred entry into the inner regions of the building. The floor beneath his feet was a checkerboard of black and white tiles, bare except for the heavy grey rug directly in front of the entryway. The walls were either a light grey or a dingy white, he couldn’t be sure which. He was gazing out through the glass doors, wishing he was almost anywhere but here, when the desk sergeant called to him from high atop his perch.

Sorry about that, he apologized, What can I do for you, sir?

Paul’s mouth was dry, his heart was pounding in his throat, and his nerves pulled every muscle in his body tight, all of which worked together to make his voice sound somewhat scratchy and about an octave higher than usual as he looked up and told the sergeant that he’d like to see Matt Warner.

Why? the man asked, and his question took Paul aback. He hadn’t expected anyone to ask him why. Hadn’t expected Matt to be so inaccessible.

Clearing his throat, Paul responded It’s personal.

Is he expecting you?

Uh, no. He couldn’t believe all the questions. Why were they making it so difficult for him to see his own brother?

And you are . . .

Paul’s throat was dry and his mind went blank. Paralyzed with fear and uncertainty, he had absolutely no idea what the man in the blue uniform expected from him.

Who shall I say is calling? the sergeant prompted him, as if he knew Paul hadn’t understood his earlier statement.

His brother, Paul.

Really? Don’t look like you. Didn’t recognize you with the beard. How long you had it?

A couple years, Paul muttered, wondering where he knew the man from.

Come on in. Use the door on the right. I’ll buzz you in.

Good at his word, the door to Paul’s right gave off a little buzzing sound. He pulled it open and stepped into a hallway that forced him to go through a metal detector before allowing him any further into the building.

Just go up the stairs, then to the left, the sergeant directed. When you come to an area that’s separated from the hallway by a railing, just ask anybody there. They’ll get him for you.

Paul murmured his thanks and began the long climb up the stairs. His anxiety intensified with every step into the inner sanctum of his brother’s world. A world he’d barely glimpsed, but that struck terror into the very core of his being. At the top of the stairs, he turned left as directed and began walking down the hallway toward the squad room. When it came into view, he stopped, suddenly afraid to proceed any further.

There were five people visible in the room, four men and one woman. One man nervously paced back and forth in a cell situated in the back left side of the room where two walls of iron bars trapped the man in the corner. Hey, he shouted. Where’s my lawyer?

How should I know? snapped a man seated behind a desk near the windows. The part of the blond man visible above the table was thick – thick forearms exposed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves, a barrel-like chest, and a neck so thick and squat that his head appeared to sit right on his shoulders.

Call him again!

Look, the detective shouted back. The law says you get one phone call. You got it. It ain’t my fault if your lawyer don’t drop everything and rush right over.

The Lieutenant said you should call him again.

And I did. His office said he’d be here when he gets here. Now shut up.

Paul fought the urge to turn and run.

The only woman in the room spoke next. I gotta go to the bathroom. Her dirty, stringy brown hair hung loosely around her face, clinging to a nasty bruise on one cheek, and her tattered clothing hung off her emaciated body.

You just went, one of the men told her. He was a burly black man with big, round eyes, a broad nose, and a bushy mustache that trailed down either side of his mouth to the goatee beneath his full lips. The rest of his jaw looked as though it hadn’t seen a razor in three or four days. His hair was a long, black, shiny mass of curls and, unlike the other men in the room who wore shirts, ties, and dress pants, he wore black jeans and a shirt decorated with brightly colored flowers as if he’d just come from a luau. He stood leaning against a desk, holding the telephone to his ear, waiting.

Well, I just gotta go, again, she insisted.

When the black man sighed, the last man in view offered to take her. Come on, Crystal, he said, standing and crossing the room to where the sickly woman sat.

Thanks, Steve, Dan said, and Paul wondered why she needed someone to take her.

The man named Steve escorted Crystal through the squad room, out the gate in the railing, and down the hall leading away from where Paul stood. He was a tall, thin man with only a horseshoe-shaped ring of light hair on his head, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses that lent him an intellectual air. To Paul, he looked more like a science teacher than a police detective.

Yeah, I’m here, Dan said into the phone, then turned around quickly, picked up a pen and furiously scribbled something on a pad of paper that lay in the center of his desk. Paul thought Dan looked more like a criminal than a police officer, but then, Paul had never believed there was much difference between the two anyway. After thanking whoever was on the other end of the connection, Dan hung up, stood straight again, and turned away from the desk. As his eyes noticed Paul silently standing there, watching, he squinted and walked toward him. The officer seemed to grow larger with every step he took until every inch of him loomed over Paul. Once again, the urge to run washed over him, and Paul tried to take a step back only to find his feet had turned to lead and he couldn’t lift them. Help you? Dan asked, his voice almost a growl.

Paul opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The burly detective before him put his hands on his hips and waited. Paul’s gaze shifted to those hands. They were big hands. Some knuckles scarred. Some scabbed over. A fighter’s hands, Paul thought as he took a deep breath, then cleared his throat. I’d like to see Matt Warner, please, he said, but his voice came out as little more than a whisper.

With Dan standing there, staring down at him, Paul worried he might not be able to stand up to the scrutiny. And then he saw his brother. Matt entered the squad room through a door at the far end of the room, casually dropping the papers he carried into a box on the edge of one of the desks, then looking up at the man pacing back and forth in the cell across the way.

Where’s his lawyer? he asked the seated detective.

Supposedly on his way.

Seems to be taking his own sweet time. You forget to pay your bill, Breeze? Matt chuckled. When Breeze extended his middle finger in an obscene gesture, Matt simply ignored it, turned back toward the doorway, then stopped. Where’s Steve?

Crystal had to go to the bathroom.

Paul silently watched Matt from across the room, taking advantage of the opportunity to reflect on just how different the two of them were. Matt was ruggedly handsome like their father, with blond hair and soulful, dark eyes that never failed to attract the attention of the women he met. When they’d been teen-agers, having a crush on Matt Warner was as much a part of growing up as measles and puberty. His normally clean-shaven face sported stubble, and Paul wondered why his brother hadn’t shaved that morning. Both men were on the slender side but, while Paul was often described as ‘scrawny,’ his older brother’s body was muscular and athletic – both his physique and demeanor gave off an aura of strength and power. Paul stood in awe of the self-assured manner and strength of presence Matt possessed, and jealousy raged within him just as it had for many years before.

As Dan turned away slightly, Paul saw that Matt was looking at his watch.

She’s been here long enough now, I guess, he told the seated detective. When she comes back from the can, cut her loose.

You mean it? Crystal yelled, she and Steve returning just in time to hear Matt’s pronouncement. I can go?

Sure, he smiled and nodded. Appreciate the help. You want a ride?

Are you kidding? she asked, returning through the gate to gather her things. No way. Who wants to be seen with any of you guys.

Like many of the people like the Warner brothers who came of age in the sixties, Paul shared her sentiments. Paul had always had an intense dislike for the police – men he saw as an oppressive heat that permeated the city, watching and waiting for any opportunity to sit in judgment of others and flaunt their authority.

While Crystal picked up the few belongings she’d left next to her chair, Steve waited in the hallway, joining Dan in staring at Paul as he silently stared at Matt. A moment later, Dan held the gate open for Crystal, then called out to Matt. Company, he told his boss, nodding his head slightly in Paul’s direction, then retreating to his desk where he grabbed a coat and the paper he’d scribbled on earlier. A moment later, he, too, scurried through the gate and down the hallway. I’ll see you all later, he called out over his shoulder. I got something to check out.

Matt stood in the middle of the squad room, with his hands on his hips, staring across the space to where Paul stood. He took a deep breath and walked slowly forward, narrowing the distance between them until he was only a couple feet short of the railing. Afternoon, Reverend, he nodded a greeting.

Paul’s heart leapt into his throat. All he could manage to say was hi.

This is, uh, quite a surprise.

Yeah, the younger man croaked.

To what do I owe the honor of your presence here this afternoon?

I, I wanted to talk to you, he stammered, his voice barely audible.

Matt’s chin pulled up, his head tilted backward, and Paul swore he could almost see the thought processes being carried out behind his brother’s eyes.

Their mother had always teased Matt that his face was so expressive it was like a movie screen where all his thoughts and emotions were projected for the world to see. She’d always been good at reading those emotions. Paul hadn’t. He’d prepared himself for the possibility that Matt might very well refuse to talk to him. And, of course, he couldn’t blame him. He started to open his mouth to say just that, when Matt’s arms dropped to his sides and he turned to walk away from the railing. Paul’s heart fell.

I’ll get my coat, he called over his shoulder.

With those four words, Paul’s spirits soared. Matt was at least going to listen to him. His brother’s long strides took him swiftly across the room and into what appeared to be his office. When he came back into view, he was donning a brown leather bomber’s jacket.

I’m going for coffee, Vic. Be back in a little while, Matt told the seated detective, then released the clasp on the gate and passed through. Come on, he ordered tersely, and Paul dutifully fell into step behind his older brother as easily and naturally as he had when Matt was eight and he was five and the two of them were inseparable. Matt led him down the stairs and out a back door into the icy rain. They carefully made their way down a steep driveway to the street where Matt took off to trot across the pavement to a diner on the opposite side of the street. He paused on the steps, waiting for Paul, whose physical limitations prevented his keeping pace with Matt. Although never overtly, time and again Matt’s athletic prowess had been rubbed into his brother’s face, resulting in bitterness and jealousy. Just as he had countless times over the years, Paul attacked his brother verbally in an almost unconscious attempt to compensate for his own physical shortcomings.

Nice jacket, Paul sneered as he reached for the door. Who says crime doesn’t pay?

Matt had wondered how long it would take. He and Paul had been close once. When they were kids. But, then Matt received his draft notice and Paul went berserk. It was a combination of Matt going off to fight in an unpopular war and the fact that he would be required to kill that had