Outlier: One mistake can destroy everything. (2 page)

Saturday, 10 a.m.

“So, tell me what you’ve got,” Ronald commanded in his gravelly voice. Chief Hernandez didn’t like this at all. According to Greg, and he himself who had checked out the house, the crime scene—which was not really a crime scene, in his opinion—was completely clean. There were no signs of forced entry, and nothing had been disturbed.

Alex, the other local cop on the force, had given it another once-over. She, too, had been there plenty of times. She had drunk too much and puked in the backyard a few times like they all had. Nothing was out of place or missing from the house. No money or credit cards had been taken from her purse.

When the time was right, they’d ask Sean to double check. Maybe there was something hidden that only he had known about and somebody else had discovered, but that was doubtful. Sheryl didn’t make much, so she couldn’t have had much. Neither did Sean. His family didn’t have money; his dad had just retired and was drawing a meager pension.

As far as they could tell, if somebody had done this, it must have been somebody who knew her. Knew her well enough to have a key or be let in. Which would make solving this easy, but getting killed by somebody you knew was bad news. Especially in a town this small. Everybody would know. What would that do to Sean? Ronald doubted Sean would be able to function.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Dr. Nguyen, the coroner, said. “No blunt trauma. No cuts, no bruises. It’s as if everything was somehow forced out through any exit that could be found. Which doesn’t make sense.”

“Explain,” Ronald said.

“Well, if somebody’s got a history of hypertension, they may get an aneurysm. That’s when a blood vessel in the brain just pops. But in ninety percent of the cases, that is all internal bleeding. That’s why in some cases, somebody suffering a stroke will appear to be drunk. There’s nothing on the outside that makes it look like anything is medically wrong.

“But this is something I have never even read about before. I don’t even think there’s anything in the literature about this. I don’t mean to be crude or disrespectful, but it’s as if her intracranial pressure suddenly increased by a very significant amount, and the pressure simply crushed her arteries, as well as forcing some of her, uh, brain matter externally.”

They were all silent for a few minutes staring at the autopsy report. They were sitting around the small desk in his coroner’s office, adjacent to the autopsy room. Nobody dared go in to look at her.

“So,” Greg began, staring at one of Dr. Nguyen’s completed Sudoku puzzles and not sure how to continue, “you’re saying her brain just…what…popped?”

Both Officer Greg Lyons and Chief Hernandez looked up. “I mean, that’s what…” Greg stammered.

“Yeah, that’s about it. I have absolutely no explanation as to how or why,” Dr. Nguyen said. “Let me call around, find out if anything similar to this has ever happened before. If so, there will be a record and some sort of causal factor. But at this point, with her medical history,” he opened her file and read her information for the tenth time that morning, “I simply do not have an explanation for this.”

“What do we tell Sean?” Greg asked.

“Tell me about what?” Sean asked, standing a few feet outside the doorway. He looked through the window into the autopsy room and saw the white sheet draped over her. He turned his head to the left and looked into the office.

“I thought you were staying in Rockport,” Greg said, not sure how he’d respond. They’d taken her to San Antonio. A town the size of Rockport simply didn’t have enough money in the budget for a coroner.

“Sean,” Ronald began, “I don’t know how to say this. But it appears she died of natural causes. There are no signs of trauma, no forced entry, and nothing’s missing from her home.”

Sean let that sink in. He’d spent all last night planning out every detail of the investigation. He knew how he’d approach Alan. He knew who he would question, in what order, and what questions he’d ask. He’d lain awake all last night mentally going through a list of suspects. Anybody who had anything at all to do with Sheryl would be questioned by the FBI, under his supervision.

He’d already come up with his explanation to Ronald for why he should work the case. He’d thought up every objection Ron would come up with, and he’d then come up with a dozen ways to overcome them. He knew where they’d conduct the interviews, and precisely how long they’d last. He’d even come up with reasons for doing surveillance on the three people he suspected either had done this or knew who had done this. He’d even calculated how long the investigation would take, and how he’d pressure their prime suspect into confessing.

“Natural causes.” Sean said, staring at the three of them, each in turn.

Nobody said a word. The three stared at the desk. Sean was 6’2” and took good care of himself. He was the perfect guy to have your back in a fight, and the last person you’d want displeased with you for any reason. Sean continued to stare at them.

“How the fuck is that possible?”

Dr. Nguyen looked up. “I’m sorry, Sean; I really am. I don’t have an answer. As far as I can tell, nothing like this has ever happened. There is nothing in the records.”

“Explain,” Sean demanded, starting to feel light-headed.

“Miss Paimen suffered a sudden intracerebral pressure increase of significant magnitude. Cause unknown.”

Three more minutes of brutal silence passed. Sean slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. His expression changed from anger to bewilderment to disbelief.

“But she was healthy. You’re saying her brain—just—exploded? Can you find out why? I mean…I can’t just…”

“Of course,” Dr. Nguyen replied immediately. “This is something completely unprecedented, and I assure you I will find out exactly what happened and why. This has absolutely no medical explanation. I promise you, Detective, I will find out what happened to her.”

“Thanks,” Sean mumbled, his voice passive. A few moments passed.

“Just to clarify,” Sean finally managed, “nobody did this. This just happened.”

“I’m afraid that’s correct, Sean,” Chief Hernandez said.

“So what the fuck do I do now?” Sean asked to nobody in particular.

“Take some time. Two weeks, at least,” Hernandez began. “Let everything settle down. This is a tragedy. We all know what she meant to you. Take more time if you need. As much time as you need. Shit, Greg here can handle anything,” he said, trying his best to keep the quiver out of his voice.

“Yeah,” Sean said, then he turned and left.

“This shit is just not supposed to happen,” Greg said. “She never hurt anybody. Just to die like that for no reason?” Greg said.

*****

Sean drove aimlessly. All his plans, all his energy, all his focus. Gone. Now what, mourn? Bury his girlfriend? Who’ll take care of her mom?
Shit, who’s going to tell her mom? Did they tell her? Should I have let them? Fuck. What now, take two weeks of sitting in that shitty apartment, then get back to work solving crimes in Rockport? Hassle Hurley the weed seller? Figure out who’s taking an extra dollar or two per shift from the Dairy Queen?

Nothing was clear.

“What?!” Jay mumbled, sitting upright on his sofa. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He looked at the clock. 10:30 a.m. His brief panic was quickly calmed by the realization that it was Saturday. No work this Saturday. Only weekdays and every other Saturday. His muscles loosened as he settled back down into the old ratty sofa in his living room. Correction—his mother’s living room. She had gotten up and left already, like usual. He rarely spoke to his mom anymore, although they had never really spoken much before anyway.

But now, since his daddy had died, she couldn’t even seem to look at him. She got money because of it, but Jay wasn’t sure how or why. Sometimes she would leave for days, even weeks at a time. He figured she worked somewhere. He would occasionally see people on TV fighting about money. He heard some of the teachers at the school where he worked fighting about money, too, but his mom never mentioned it.

Jay made enough as a custodian to buy whatever he wanted, which wasn’t much. Comic books, mostly, and beers every once in a while. But he didn’t really like drinking, because that’s when his mom seemed angrier than usual. He worked about the same hours that the kids would go to school, only he had to stay an hour or two after. Most days off he just stayed home and watched TV. Sometimes he would take the bus to San Antonio. There were lots of nice places there, and he could walk around without anybody knowing who he was.

He had graduated the same year as that detective, Sean. They knew each other by name, but they never talked, since Jay stayed out of trouble. Sometimes Sean would see him and say hi. He knew Sean had been going out with Sheryl, that pretty teacher. He also knew her from school. She smiled at him at school sometimes too, when he was emptying the trash in her classroom. But she looked at him funny, like most people do. Like they were sad or something. They’d smile at him, but they would never talk to him or invite him to parties or anything. Just friendly.

He noticed his right hand clutching something. Sheryl’s bookmark. A heavy paper ruler with one of those characters from
One Piece
, about the pirates always looking for gold and that guy who looks like a monkey. Yesterday he had swept up in the back of her room. He liked looking at her, so he always took a little bit of extra time when she was there.

She had smiled and left like she always does. But she left her bookmark on the table. He grabbed it and wanted to give it back to her, but she was already gone. He’d put it in his pocket. He’d thought about leaving it on her desk where he’d found it, but he thought somebody might steal it. And then she would know that he knew it was there and left it. He thought maybe she’d get angry at him for letting somebody steal it, so he’d brought it home for safekeeping. He’d give it back to her on Monday.

Now he remembered why he felt really guilty for some reason. He’d brought it home and sat on the couch. He held it and remembered when he had tried to talk to her for the first time when they were in school together. She looked shocked, and he felt embarrassed. He never talked to her again after that. Girls didn’t like him. They weren’t really mean; they just avoided him. Sometimes he thought they were laughing at him. But when he’d look at them, they’d stop. He had barely passed his remedial classes. After he graduated, they gave him a job as a janitor. He’d never really left.

But last night, he’d held her bookmark and felt a great sadness. The more he held it, the more he thought about her. He thought he had maybe dreamed about her last night, but he wasn’t sure. He usually remembered his dreams, but not in much detail. They usually had stuff in them like he’d watched on TV or read in his comics. Not comics—graphic novels, they were called. They were like comics, but much longer.

He didn’t like holding the bookmark. Not anymore. He put it on the table and went to the toilet, then checked the kitchen. He’d give her the bookmark on Monday. Maybe she’d smile at him then. That would be nice.

Saturday, 5:30 p.m.

One hour in his tiny apartment had been enough. He’d have to ditch that place soon. Or leave. Or something. He’d walked the streets of downtown San Antonio and wandered into a place called The Whistler. It was a college bar with live music on weekends. The place was about half-filled with students and locals. He chose a table in the back out of instinct, since it gave him a view of both the door and the stage.

After his second gin and tonic, a young, pretty acoustic guitar player started belting out familiar music. Popular radio tunes, old classics. Nothing original. He figured he’d drink until he could barely see and then figure something else out. There had to be plenty of hotels around here.

After his fourth G&T, he thought the guitarist was playing directly to him. He looked around; most other tables had couples or groups. He was the only lonesome drinker in the place, and that was fine with him. He wasn’t in uniform, and he didn’t have his Glock 10, but he didn’t care. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he wouldn’t need it.

He took his time on his fifth G&T, as the waitress had seemed to show some concern when he’d ordered it. He knew he was way over his limit, but he didn’t feel a thing. He didn’t want to explain himself or have to call somebody to bail him out of a situation. He just wanted to sit there and not listen to anybody talk. Not talk to anybody. That wish didn’t last long. After her final song, the young guitarist came up and said hi.

“Sean, right?”

“Yep.” No smile, no frown, and barely any facial movement. Just eye contact. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry; is this a bad time? Do you remember me?” She wasn’t easily discouraged.

“No. Sorry,” he said, taking his time scrutinizing her. Her D cups. The smooth skin on her face. Her long blond hair. Innocent brown eyes. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. Why the fuck not?

“What’s your name?” He managed a slight smile.

“Bethany. We never talked much. I didn’t think you would remember me. I was two years behind you at Rockport-Fulton?” She ended that line with her voice trailing up, unsure and starting to wonder if this had been a good idea.

“Yeah, that’s right. I remember the face, not the name. Sorry, one more time?”

“Bethany,” she said, eyeing the empty chair. “Mind if I join you…or are you waiting for somebody...?” She trailed off.

“No, siddown. Whatta ya’ drinkin?”

“I’ll have whatever you’ve got.” He ordered, she smiled, and he let his mind fade even further.

“So, you’re in the police department, right?” she asked.
 

“Yep.”

“I heard you were getting married, to...” She clearly couldn’t remember Sheryl’s name.

“Sheryl,” he said, his eyes suddenly losing focus.

“I mean, it’s not official, but everybody knows it’s going to happen soon, right?”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean? You didn’t break up, did you?” she said, her face showing clear disbelief.

“She died.”

Her face went white.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, putting her hand on top of his. He didn’t move.

“When…” she trailed off.

“Yesterday.”

“Oh my God! What happened?” she asked, way beyond her comfort level.

“Dunno. Some kind of brain thing. Aneurysm or something, I guess. They’re still not sure.” He stared at his drink. She looked between him and the table, not knowing whether to comfort him or silently slink away.

She tried the former. Moving closer, she put her hand on his shoulder, looking tenderly into his eyes.

“Do you—have anybody, I mean, your parents, or...”

“My dad. Her mom. I suppose I should tell them. Prolly do that tomorrow. Now, I’m just in shock. I found her yesterday. I was going to propose. She was on the kitchen floor. ‘Bout twenty-four hours ago,” he said, checking his watch.

“I’m not trying to—I mean, I don’t want to—” she paused. “You shouldn’t be alone now. I know you don’t know me or anything, but this isn’t really the best place. Maybe I should take you home?”

“Not yet. Lemme have a couple more, and then you can take me home. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep. That OK with you? I don’t mean to put you out.”

“No, not at all. Just be careful, OK? I know this must really suck, I mean. Jesus, I sound like an idiot.”

“No, I appreciate it. One more and then we’ll go, kay?”

He finished his G&T and ordered another. He figured he’d nurse it for a while. Not sure what would happen if he left with—who, Brittany? Beverly?

After a few minutes, he decided to try some normal conversation. See how that would work.

“So, you play guitar?”
Lame, man. Really lame.

“Yeah. I don’t know if you remember; we were in that band at school? We played a couple of dances. The other guys—I was the only girl—went to college. I stayed here. I play here on weekends.”

“What do you do during the week?”

“I’m a waitress at a couple places in town,” she said, feeling embarrassed. Every time she met folks from school, she felt tiny. It seemed that everybody had gotten out except her.

“That’s all right. Finding work is hard these days. You probably make good tips, though, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling.

Thirty minutes later they were at her place.

“You do make pretty good tips!” he exclaimed, noticing her two bedrooms, which were twice as big as his. The alcohol was really hitting him. Hard.

“You can sleep in the guest room, or...” That’s as far as it got. They kissed, embraced, and somehow made it from the front room to her bed, leaving a trail of clothes. Their lovemaking was fast, clumsy and desperate. He expected the tears and the wails and the grief to come, but they never did. Only loneliness, despite being in her arms.

The next morning, he woke up thirsty. She was still asleep. He stumbled out into the kitchen and guzzled some water from the tap. He sat at the kitchen table, looking at the trail of clothes. Didn’t feel guilty, didn’t feel proud. Didn’t feel anything. Sleep had been fast, deep and short.

6 a.m. Sunday morning. What now?
He needed a plan. He couldn’t drink or fuck his pain away, but there was still a question.
Why did this happen?
If she had had a heart attack or was hit by a bus, he could deal with that. This was still unexplained. He didn’t like things that were unexplained. Everything happened for a reason. He made a living finding reasons.

He would find this one.

After staring at the table for thirty minutes, he got up. He knew what to do.