From A Dead Sleep Page 7

  Consciously slowing down his breathing, Sean slid his fingers familiarly to the back of his head, and he found himself once again glancing aimlessly across the room. Rocco rolled back into a ball.

  “Why would he do that?” he abruptly said out loud, with his face twisted in thought. “Why would that guy jump and then shoot?”

  Fighting off exhaustion and humiliation, the gears in Sean’s head began turning. Since that morning, the peculiarity behind what had happened at the river had taken a backseat to the importance of its believability to others. He was the one person who didn’t need convincing. He knew what he saw.

  One thing was undeniably certain: what he’d witnessed was no ordinary suicide. There was a story left to be told. There had to be.

  The deterrent of the others’ skepticism had kept hold of Sean’s spirit like a pair of tight handcuffs, but now those binds were bending. Perhaps all he had needed was Lumbergh’s withdrawal—in a sense, an admission of defeat. Now, it was Sean’s turn.

  No longer distracted with having to defend his claims, he made himself clear his mind and start from the beginning. If no one was going to believe him, it was time to take the matter into his own hands, if only in a defense of his own sanity.

  With a straining grunt, he lowered his arm under the top of the end table to grab a thin spiral notebook from the middle shelf. He normally jotted down grocery lists in it, but he was about to put the pages to much better use.

  He pulled a whittled-down, chewed-up pencil from the center of the metal binding and began tracing back through the timeline, feverishly writing down each image that came to mind. He included everything from the oddest of details to the seemingly most insignificant.

  Sean’s tired eyes steadily moved from item to item. They stopped on Why the bridge? Without even taking into account the man’s preparations as he sat at the edge, on its own it was strange that he would bother jumping into a roaring river if he was going to shoot himself. Sean understood doing one or the other, but both?

  Perhaps the stranger didn’t have confidence that a gunshot was failsafe. Maybe he was afraid of only critically wounding himself and ending up as a vegetable in a hospital bed for the rest of his life. Maybe drowning was a backup plan. Put himself out of his misery, if needed.

  Yet, if he was so worried about surviving the gun blast, why did he twist his arms into such an awkward position in order to shoot himself? Why not just stick the barrel in his mouth?

  The clues were contradicting each other. Sean shook his head. The mental investigation reminded him of a brainteaser exercise his junior high class had once worked through. It was of a made-up story about a man who had been found dead, hanging by a noose around his neck in an empty room. Without any furniture in the room for the man to drop himself off of, it was up to the students to figure out how he had killed himself. The only clue was a large wet spot in the carpet, directly underneath him.

  Most of the students suggested that the man hadn’t committed suicide at all, but was murdered. Sean remembered receiving thunderous laughter from the other students when he suggested that the man had pissed himself after he died, which explained the wet carpet. The comment won Sean a quick trip to the principal’s office. As he was escorted from the room by a teacher’s aid, however, he had heard the correct answer given by the brainy girl with braces who sat in front of him: The man had stood on a block of ice to tie the noose around his neck. The ice had melted before the body was found. All that was left was the wet spot on the carpet.

  It was a silly exercise, but reflecting back on it kept Sean motivated that there was a logical answer for every mystery. Solving it just required some focus and a little open-mindedness.

  From outside, a slow, fluctuating patter of raindrops began to dance along the roof.

  The silencer. What possible reason could the man have had for using a silencer to shoot himself? Why would he care if anyone heard the shot? It would have been too late for someone to talk him out of doing it. Could there have been a symbolic meaning behind it?

  Sean flashed back to his initial interpretation that morning. Maybe the stranger had shot someone else earlier. Maybe it was done with a bullet through the back of the head. Could the killer have suddenly felt so much guilt that he couldn’t live with himself? A murder-suicide, with an eye-for-an-eye twist. It would answer a few questions. Perhaps the man initially intended only to dispose of the gun off the bridge. Maybe the plan was simply to toss it on over, but then the shame hit him like a ton of bricks.

  The theory seemed to make a reasonable amount of sense. Sean wasn’t totally confident in it, but it seemed to pair answers with at least a few questions. What was left?

  No car.

  The absence of an automobile somewhat put a damper on the idea that the man didn’t aspire to kill himself all along. If he had originally intended on dumping the gun and leaving, how was he supposed to leave? Walk? Standing at the edge of that bridge, the stranger was clearly paranoid about someone seeing him. It was highly doubtful that he would just take off on foot afterwards in broad daylight, where anyone would obviously notice a guy who was dressed the way he was.

  Another question: Without an automobile, how did he even get there in the first place? At this point, Sean thought back to the muddied shoes. The stranger had to have walked to the bridge and not along the road, which was fairly dry. Only one possible explanation: he came from the forest.

  But Sean knew all too well that there was nothing in the immediate area. No buildings. No other roads. There was nothing for a few miles in any direction. Town was about a mile and a half away, even by a bird’s eye. He came through the forest, but how did he get there in the first place?

  Sean wrote down that very question at the bottom of the page. Where did he come from? He stared at that scribbled text for several minutes while roughly scratching at the base of his skull. He stopped when his skin began to burn.

  The rain was picking up, sounding like popcorn popping above Sean’s head. Its damp smell drifted inside through the narrowly cracked, darkened window at the front of his apartment.

  Everything he had come up with was pure speculation, and he knew it. None of it was provable, and he had little desire to present his case to Lumbergh who would likely, once again, disregard it.

  Sean’s concentration was momentarily disrupted when the peppy, opening theme song of the evening news proved far too intrusive. Mute. Ten o’clock already? Where had the time gone? Sean had worked right through an episode of Walker, Texas Ranger. His finger nervously tapped the top of his remote as he listened to the rain fall outside.

  Even in half-assed mode, Sean was sure Lumbergh would have searched around the bridge and possibly the road. But did he go into the forest? Doubtful.

  As far as Sean was concerned, the forest was where it all began. If there were any answers, he would find them there. Only tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough. The rain was picking up. The uncertainty was grueling, and maybe it was all a waste of time, but if there was any kind of evidence waiting to be found, Sean wasn’t about to let Mother Nature wash it away from him like she did the body.

  Chapter 10

  Chicken Parmesan. The tasty aroma lifted the police chief ’s low spirits as he wiped his boots carefully along a thin welcome mat and entered the house through the side door, leaving the evening chill behind him.

  God bless her, he thought to himself, his empty stomach grumbling for attention.

  Hearing some shuffling and the clank of a pot or pan coming from the kitchen, Lumbergh rested his back along the edge of the door frame as he removed his Italian Berluti boots. They resembled dress shoes, but the soles were thick and the tread was deep—perfect for working the mountainous area of Winston, and they looked slick in the process.

  “Honey?” prompted a female voice from around the corner of the dimly lit, narrow hallway.

  “It’s me,” he responded, twisting the knob of the closet door beside him.

  He hung up his co
at, positioned his Berlutis on the prongs of a custom-made oak shoe rack, and loosened his tie.

  Heat originating from a quaint stone fireplace brushed the side of his face as he left the hallway and entered the cozy living area. Wood crackled, and mild flames cast dancing shadows along the wall.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” said the female voice in playful provocation.

  Lumbergh entered the open kitchen area, lit up bright from a curved row of track lights along the ceiling, each bulb aimed in a different direction.

  There he found Diana, her back to him, standing at the edge of a silver stove top. A billow of steam drifted from a large, metal pot in front of her. Her tall, slender frame was clad in a sleek long-sleeved, burgundy blouse and snug blue jeans. Shoulder-length auburn hair rested in waves along her collar.

  “I smelled it from the door. You’re an angel.”

  A playful giggle was her response as she turned her head to meet his tired eyes, which gleamed a little upon receiving her attention. Her bright smile was a welcome sight at the end of a long, bizarre day.

  “And the best part about it . . .” she began as her body twisted to face him, hands on her hips, “ . . . is that my mother’s already been fed, so you get me all to yourself.”

  Lumbergh chuckled. “I’m sorry I’m late, but . . .”

  He was about to elaborate, but a sense of apprehension cut him short. His wife had gone to a lot of trouble preparing his favorite dish. Beyond that, she was in a perky mood, which although not uncharacteristic, wasn’t as frequent of an occurrence as it used to be. He didn’t want to ruin the moment.

  He quickly dismissed his internal debate and took a few steps forward with a gratified smirk.

  “Come here,” he whispered as he pulled her in close, his hand cupping her thin waist. His eyes remained on hers as he tilted his head and guided her into a kiss. Her arms found their way behind his back and she pulled him even closer.

  She stood a little over an inch taller than him, a fact Lumbergh would never admit distressed his ego. Her knees were bent to accommodate the discrepancy.

  After a moment, she craned her head back. “You’re welcome,” she whispered. Her bright, brown eyes gleamed with affection. “What’s this?” she asked, her eyes lowered to the dry coffee spot on his shirt.

  “A stain,” he answered, thinking of Sean Coleman.

  She pulled away to attend to the sound of boiling water dribbling over the edge of the spaghetti pot and fizzling along the burner.

  Lumbergh leaned back, his elbows finding the countertop behind him. A smug grin formed on his face as he gazed approvingly upon Diana’s lean physique. He sometimes jokingly referred to her as his “trophy wife,” but it wasn’t entirely a joke. He really did view her as a prize—not so much as a possession, but rather an escape. She was the only one in his life who could ever draw his attention away, even momentarily, from his one true passion—law enforcement. That distraction, he had come to realize, made him far more than a name or a reputation . . . it made him whole.

  With that prize, however, came sacrifice—the sacrifice that brought him to where he was now—the proverbial big fish in a small pond that he had never set out to be nor ever wanted to be. But while the shadow of regret did sometimes creep out from the darkness to torment him, it was moments like this that chased that intruder back into the night.

  His head shifted to glance at the small kitchen window above the large-basined sink. It had just started to sprinkle outside as he was walking in the door, but now the rain was coming down harder.

  As the sound of raindrops intensified along the shingled roof above, Lumbergh’s teeth instinctively gnawed at the small, expired wad of gum that had endured in his mouth from the moment he and Jefferson stepped foot on Meyers Bridge. He deliberated how he should break the news of her brother’s latest farce. A fresh stick of gum often marked the commencement of a new train of thought for Gary Lumbergh—like the beginning of a new chapter in a novel.

  “Gum. Trash,” ordered Diana, who didn’t turn around.

  She didn’t like to hear her husband chewing gum. It meant he was thinking about work.

  He smirked and quickly disposed of it in the tall, narrow trash can beside him.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Why don’t you pour us some wine and relax?”

  He snagged a bottle of merlot from a steel wine rack caddy on top of the fridge and popped off the cork. He disappeared into the adjoining dining room with the bottle in one hand and the stems of two wine glasses pinned between the fingers of the other.

  The décor inside Gary and Diana’s home represented a clash of cultures—small town charm meets big city elegance. Walls with aged, natural wood paneling were decorated with brushed metal sconces and abstract artwork within jet-black frames. Diana had deliberately transformed their quaint, indigenous house into Gary’s metropolitan home away from home, or at least she did her best to. It was one of many endeavors to pacify her husband’s former lifestyle.

  Gary appreciated his wife’s efforts. He truly did. But the mismatch of arrangements often left him with the same uncomfortable feeling he got when he strolled along the sidewalks of the town square on summer nights. Back in Chicago, cool, worldly jazz music could often be heard trickling out from behind nightclub walls. Chatter at outdoor restaurants was warm and intellectual. In Winston, it was blaring country music and classic rock from open bar doors, queue balls cracking, and drunken expletives echoing off the moon.

  They had both made concessions.

  Diana joined her husband in the dining room where he was finishing filling her glass about half full. With a bowl of salad in one hand and a bowl of spaghetti in the other, she glanced down at his wide grin for a second before placing both bowls on the glass tabletop. Thick, hot steam rose from the spaghetti as she returned to the kitchen to retrieve the rest of the meal.

  Gary’s mind wandered back to the bridge. He and Jefferson had searched it thoroughly, from end to end, and even underneath. There were no traces of the man Sean had described, even along the shore. The only piece of evidence that collaborated Sean’s account was the discovery of his security badge on the ground. And all that did was affirm that Sean had been there, which Gary never had any reason to doubt.

  In the past, Sean’s suspicions of criminal activity at least had a foundation and some plausibility. A misunderstanding brought on by twisted speculation was one thing, but this time Gary could form no other conclusion than being outright lied to.

  Prior to that day, his tolerance for Sean Coleman had already reached its limit, but a clear line had now been crossed. He was the police chief of Winston, and he was being willfully lied to by one of its citizens.

  When Diana returned, her hands full once again, she found her husband’s eyes dazed and transfixed on the dense steam that continued to billow from the pasta. He hadn’t served himself any yet.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked, her lips forming a slight pout.

  His eyes reluctantly lifted to meet hers. After a moment he answered bluntly. “Sean.”

  “Sean? What about Sean?”

  An audible sigh escaped his lips before his gaze lowered back down from his wife’s attentive face. He slumped back in his chair, causing the floorboard below him to creak. His attention rested upon the open wine bottle for a moment. He reached forward for it, extending his arm and opening his hand like he was searching for a lifeline. He robotically filled his own glass, not stopping until the rim was met.

  “Sit down. I’ll tell you about it.”

  Chapter 11

  The boisterous chirping of worn wiper blades and the battering of steel cylinders ceased with the turn of a key. The only sound left was that of a steady and hollow drumbeat of thick raindrops bouncing off of metal. Dull headlights illuminated the outer edges of tall pine trees along with the sloped gravel road that lay between them. A small, orange guardrail reflector directed a shimmer of light back through the windshield of
Sean’s car.

  Concealed inside the dark interior of his automobile, he switched off the headlights and quickly zipped up the olive-green rain poncho that snugly gripped his body. At one time, the garment fit. He raised both hands behind his shoulders to clasp the base of the attached, matted hood. He brought it over his head with the front seam resting at eye level. From under his seat, he retrieved a twelve-inch-long black Mag flashlight and flipped it on. Its batteries weren’t strong, but the beam was bright enough to serve its purpose.

  The car door opened with a shriek of rusted hinges. Cold night air flooded in while the sound of rumbling water bellowed about twenty yards ahead. It echoed off the surrounding forest as if flowing through a concrete tunnel.

  That morning, Sean had awoken at the southwest corner of the bridge. He knew that the stranger, who had met his demise just yards ahead, couldn’t have come from that direction because the man would have seen him or vice versa. That left three other directions. Which corner to start from?

  The car door slammed shut, and Sean’s neck twisted in a semicircle. He aimed his flashlight across the road. Its ray cut through the night and rain to expose thick foliage that prevented a long range of visibility. The area on that southeast corner was heavily wooded. There was little space between each tree, and branches interlaced together like the metal strands of a sewer grid.

  While the stranger’s shoes had displayed a good amount of wear, the rest of the man’s clothes had appeared fairly clean and free of wrinkles and tears. If the man had come from the southeast, his outfit might have well looked like it had been run along a cheese grater.

  North was the direction. The only question was which side of the river to check first.

  With urging rain slapping his back and beads of water dropping from the top of his hood, Sean made his way down to the bridge. The wooden planks beneath his feet groaned as he walked to the center. The eery sound added anxiety to the ominous night air. He faced upstream, shining his flashlight into oncoming, churning water. Its intimidating, cool spray drifted up from the rapids and brushed against his chin. Panning the beam of light from side to side to expose hovering trees, he attempted to formulate which course would make the most sense, but there was no clear answer.