A Hard Death (27 page)

J
enner had been fired, for all intents and purposes, but it would be two days before the Miami pathologists took over, so it was up to him to document the scene. And he would do Rudge's autopsy.

Major Crimes still needed to interview him about the Palmetto Court bombing; Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had sent an agent over from Miami, and he arrived at Rudge's house with Bobby Bartley and another detective to conduct a joint interview.

While Crime Scene processed the living room, Jenner sat in a metal patio chair at Rudge's kitchen table, answering questions about how he'd found Rudge's body—no, Rudge hadn't been expecting him; yes, the door had been unlocked; yes, he'd just walked right in; no, he didn't think he'd touched anything, other than putting the porch lightbulb back in—for an hour.

They took a break while Bartley caught up with his notes. Bartley's partner, Halvorsen, a ruddy-faced, white-blond Midwesterner, announced, “I count eight empties of Jack, twenty-two empty cans of Bud. Four full bottles of Jack, four cans of Bud.” No one said anything.

Then Halvorsen said, “Doc, you were with Rudge yesterday afternoon, weren't you? What were you doing?”

“We were visiting farms around Bel Arbre, trying to retrace Adam Weiss's steps.”

“Where did you go?”

“UFL Tomato and La Grulla Blanca.”

“That's Chip Craine's place, isn't it?”

Jenner said, “What?”

One of the uniforms said, “Yes, sir, that's Mr. Craine's farm. La Grulla Blanca, that's Spanish for the white crane, you know, the crane bird?”

Halvorsen said, “Half the members at the Polo Grounds have estates up there. La Grulla Blanca is Chip Craine's place.”

Bartley muttered, “Can we just focus on today? I don't want Dave Rudge lying here any longer than he has to.”

They talked about what Rudge and Jenner had found, then went back to their time at Bel Arbre. Jenner told them about the tension between Rudge and the farm overseer at La Grulla Blanca. Then it was the ATF agent's turn, another twenty minutes of what Jenner had seen, what he'd done, if he saw anyone when the bomb was thrown, noticed anything.

The agent questioned him again about UFL Tomato, but Jenner had nothing to add. Then Richard Flanagan arrived with the morgue wagon, and the Crime Scene lieutenant let Jenner back into the living room to examine the body.

T
hey were all watching Jenner—the uniformed officers, Bartley, Halvorsen, the ATF agent, Flanagan, and Bucky Rutledge. They watched him pace the room, watched him photograph the dead detective, watched him take Rudge's temperature, bend his arms to check for rigor mortis. Jenner knew they'd all seen or heard about the
American Crime
thing—they would all be thinking the same thing:
this man gets cops killed
.

He ignored them, had Flanagan and Buddy straighten Rudge so he was sitting upright in the chair, and measured the height of the wound again in the sitting position. Then he squeezed behind the chair to the wall, and measured the height of the bullet impact mark on the wall, the yellow tape measure finicky clean in the riotous halo of blood spatter.

Jenner photographed the bullets shoved into the shot glass. The table around the glass was dry, other than the blood droplets.

He took close-ups of Rudge's wounds, Flanagan holding the head so Jenner could see the injuries clearly. He photographed the wound from different angles, bracketing each exposure. Then he went into the kitchen, tore off a sheet of Bounty paper towels, wet it in the sink, and wiped the blood gently from Rudge's face.

Jenner looked at the damp towel—there was gray smudging amid the blood; he couldn't be sure whether it was gunshot residue or just grime. He preserved the towel, in case Ballistics wanted to test it.

It was a close-range shot: that much was certain. Not a contact wound, but close range, a cloud of little scratches, gray gunpowder residue in the skin, spreading around the hole in a three-inch circle. The pattern was neatly circular on the skin behind the wound, but in front, the scratches scattered out over the cheek and the right side of the nose.

He looked at the revolver, a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson snubby, a typical cop backup piece—automatics jam, revolvers don't. The short barrel meant the spray of gunpowder particles that caused the scratches would've spread out rapidly; Jenner estimated the muzzle was about six inches from Rudge's face when the trigger was pulled.

Halvorsen was holding Rudge's revolver, examining the barrel. Jenner said, “That's not been fingerprinted yet.” Halvorsen glanced at Bartley, then said, “Sorry, doc. You're right.” Bartley disappeared into Rudge's bedroom.

Halvorsen placed the gun down on the coffee table and said, “Crime Scene can rule me out—they got my prints back in the lab.”

He paused, looked around the room, and then continued, “But I think we're all thinking the same thing here, aren't we?”

Jenner turned to him. “What am I thinking?”

Halvorsen said, “Doc, I don't mean to be, like…disrespectful…But you don't know Dave Rudge like we do. He's a great cop, and we love him like a brother, but the fact is, the Job isn't easy, and Rudge took it serious. He had some problems—and we all do. But the fact is, he drank pretty hard.”

“So what? He drank pretty hard—lots of cops do.”

Bartley returned with a gray plastic gun case in his hand. He opened the case, set it on the coffee table, took the cleaning rod and the cloth, and laid them on the end nearest Rudge. The ATF agent stood and walked wordlessly out of the room.

“Okay, Doc, this looks like an accident to me. Rudge is here, he's cleaning his weapon. He's had a bit to drink. He thinks he's emptied the cylinder; he's checking the barrel, he slips, and that's it.”

Bartley looked around the room. “And I think that's what we're all thinking, right?”

Halvorsen nodded, the uniforms nodded, Flanagan hesitated, then nodded slowly.

Jenner said, “If that's what you think, you don't understand what's going on here.”

“Doctor, those first pictures you took when you entered? It's so easy
to screw up and accidentally delete an image file.” He paused. “I think you missed the cleaning equipment in your first photos; you should probably go right ahead and take some new ones. I think the cleaning equipment set out like this, right in front of him, is a pretty big clue to just what happened, wouldn't you say?”

Jenner shook his head. “You have
got
to be kidding me—this is how you protect his reputation?”

Halvorsen's voice was firm. “You've been here not even three weeks, doc! We've known Rudge for a decade—the sheriff has known him since they were kids. Rudge is a great cop, one of the best. We've all got our personal demons, and if one night, in the dark of night, Rudge's demons took him over, and he…made a bad mistake, well…he shouldn't have to pay for that.”

Then Bartley said, “I think this is open and shut. He's a bit messed-up, he's had one too many…He's watching TV, drinking…He picks up his gun, fooling around with it…He empties the cylinder, thinks he's emptied it completely, and it's a complete accident. Or maybe he decides to see what it'd be like to, y'know, tempt fate, and leaves one round in. He spins the cylinder, points it at himself, pulls the trigger…”

Halvorsen leaned in to interrupt. “We don't want him to go out as a suicide, doc. That isn't right. It doesn't have to be that way.”

They were all looking at him now.

Jenner said, “It's not a suicide: it's a
murder
.”

Halvorsen said,
“What?”

“Someone shot him in the head, and set it up to look like a suicide or a Russian roulette death.”

Bartley said, “How you figure that?”

“A few things. First off, the range of fire: I put the muzzle of the gun at three to nine inches from Rudge's face. Suicides need a guarantee: they want to be sure they're buying a one-way ticket—they press the muzzle against their temple, or stick the barrel in their mouth. They don't want any mistakes—try holding a heavy revolver eight inches from your face, see how confident you feel about your aim.”

Bartley was looking unsure.

“Another thing: he gets shot in this chair, obviously. The bullet goes into the right side of his head, exits the back on the left side, and lodges in the wall behind him.”

“Yeah…”

“Bullets go in a straight line; from the height of the wounds and the bullet impact mark on the wall, he was obviously shot while sitting up.

“When people shoot themselves, typically they hold the gun to the temple, pull the trigger. Most times, the path is from right to left, a bit backward and a bit upward. But here the exit wound is lower than the entrance.

“I measured the height of the entrance wound above the floor with him sitting vertical, the height of the exit wound, and the height of the bullet impact site in the wall, and it lines up neatly…”

“And?”

“He was shot by someone standing above him, shooting down.”

Halvorsen looked at Bartley. “Bobby?”

Bartley shrugged. “I guess…”

Jenner said, “Okay, all right, wait. Something else. See that glass with the live rounds? You see it's got blood droplets on it?”

“Yes. And there's blood drops all around it, too—it was there when he shot himself.”

“You sure, Halvorsen? Pick it up.”

The detective pincered two fingers and lifted up the shot glass by its rim; on the table underneath where it had sat, there were several smudged droplets of blood.

Jenner said, “This glass was on the table when he was shot, but moved into this position afterward, probably when they put the bullets into it while dressing the scene.”

Halvorsen said to Bartley, “What do you think?”

Bartley picked up the gun case. “I think I should put the cleaning equipment away.”

I
t was late, but he knew her mother was out.

“Hullo?”

“Lulu? It's your papaw.”

She was silent; he imagined her little face, stricken at the sound of his voice—this was just why he hadn't given her a cell phone with caller ID. Besides, it wasn't like she could complain—her mom would be upset if she knew that Lucy had her own phone, hysterical if she knew who'd given it to her.

“Hullo, Papaw.”

“What are you up to, sweetie? You're up late.”

“I'm going to bed. I just washed my face and brushed my teeth. I did my homework.”

“Good girl.” He paused. They both knew what he'd say next.

“So, Lucy…You were a little piggy today, weren't you? I bet you stuffed your little piggy face at the trough.”

Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her. “No, Papaw. I was good.”

“Speak up when I speak to you, Lucy!” He smiled. “So, were you really good? Did you weigh yourself?”

“I lost two.”

He was quiet for a minute, then said, “Well, two pounds isn't very much now, is it? From now on, I want you to text me with your weight every day.”

She said, “Dr. Vargas says I mustn't weigh myself anymore. She says it's making me sick when I do that. She said I could only leave the hospital if I promise not to weigh myself.”

“That fat sow? Of course she'd say that!”

“Mommy found the scale tonight and took it away.”

“I bet there's one at school, though.”

She was quiet.

“There is, isn't there, darling? Lucy, I want you to weigh yourself at school tomorrow, okay?”

Silence.

“Sweetie, when I saw you at the shelter the other day, I could tell you'd been stuffing your little piggy face again. Your thighs look like cottage cheese!” He paused, waiting. He heard the snuffles begin, smiled, and said, “Aw, sweetie. You know Mommy and I will always love you, no matter how fat you are.”

He let the sobs get wetter. “But I won't always be here, and Mommy won't always be here, and no one will love you if you're a fat little sow—pretty girls are thin girls. You know that, don't you, darling?”

There was silence, and then, in her sweet little voice, “Yes…”

“Good.” He listened to her sob a little. “Now, things are very bad between Mommy and Papaw right now. We had a fight just this morning, and Mommy ran away. And I don't know if I want her to come back. You know how she is, Lulu? Your Mommy sometimes just can't manage to do the right thing…”

The girl was crying freely now.

“Aw, sweetie, don't worry—even if Mommy doesn't come back, Papaw will look after you! Papaw loves you. Papaw will never leave you, okay, Lucy?”

Craine settled back in his armchair and smiled as she wept.

“You know what? You're the only reason Papaw looks after Mommy. Sometimes she's so difficult that even I can barely stand it, but I love you so much that I look after her, because that's the only way I can look after
you
. But if she's really bad, I'll have to send you both away; I shouldn't have to deal with that. And if I have to kick you out, that would be difficult for you. Because your mommy isn't good at very much, you know that, don't you? She'd have to get a job as a waitress or a maid at a motel.”

He listened to Lucy sob. “And you know what else? If I let you go, I wouldn't pay the bills at the shelter anymore, and Mommy can't afford it. And you know what that means?”

She snuffled,
“What?”

“Well, they'll have to kill all the dogs. Put them all to sleep. Even the little puppies…”

Lucy began to wail. Craine had pushed it too far: if she kept it up, the nanny would check and find out who she was talking to, and there'd be problems.

Time to calm her down.

“Aw, baby, don't worry. I'll keep looking after Mommy. But you're going to have to be a very good girl for me. Okay? Don't worry, my darling. Everything's fine. Mommy will come back in a little. You'll be a good girl for Papaw, won't you? A very good girl?”

She sobbed yes.

“Good. I just need you to be a good girl. That's not so hard, is it? Just behave yourself, and don't eat like a little piggy.

“Now I want you to call me or text me with your weight tomorrow.”

Now to finish.

“Do you remember your affirmations, Lucy?”

“Yes, Papaw.”

“Let's say them together now, okay?”

And they began, Craine murmuring softly so he could hear her voice say the words: