the scene. The prints were approximately three feet behind Mikey Weber’s body, and they bore no remarkable characteristics or treads—just a completely smooth sole. The shoe size was an eleven and based on the depth of the print and angle of the bullet entry, the suspect was approximately five-ten. They assumed the suspect weighed around 165 pounds; again, nothing remarkable. Just once, Lockhart wished he could get a seven-foot tall or 500 pound killer; someone that would stand out in a crowd. At least he had some information, but toxicology could still take more than a week to return their results.
Donaldson said something, but Lockhart was too focused on the file to actually catch the words instead of just some garbled bass. “I’m sorry. What?” Lockhart said.
“I asked, what song are you humming?” The chief kept his focus on the back window. Whether it was a newspaper or gravy, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to speak to Lockhart while concentrating his vision elsewhere.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was making any noise at all.”
“Mostly just humming, but you kept saying something like ‘battlefield’.”
Lockhart felt his face warm with embarrassment. “Love is a battlefield?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Donaldson turned and looked at Lockhart with a raised eyebrow.
Lockhart stared up at the chief defensively. “What? It’s Pat Benatar, a four-time Grammy winner, and it’s a great song.”
The old, wry police chief chuckled. “No need to get defensive. Nice to see you’re human inside.”
Lockhart chewed his lip and closed the file folder. “It was never been about me needing or wanting to act inhuman.”
“Oh, really?”
Lockhart shifted and stood slowly. His back slid up the wall as he slowly stretched out his legs and knees. “Yes, really,” He said as he rubbed his kneecaps. “I concede that this is new territory for you all, and it feels very personal—not only the crime, but my coming here to lead the investigation.”
“Yeah, it does feel personal,” Donaldson said as he turned back to the window.
“The concession is conditional. I will concede that point if you concede that when I say things, it is with the sole intent of solving a homicide and not just to bust yours and your deputy’s balls.”
The chief looked back over at Lockhart and offered a small nod.
Ideally, in Lockhart’s opinion, the chief and the town would start to look at him as a solution instead of a hindrance.
Suddenly, Lockhart’s radio clicked on. “Fight in progress out front!” It was Agent Her at the front of the bar. Lockhart snatched the radio. “Maintain your position, Agent. Chief Donaldson and I will intervene. Agent Estabrooks will take over our position.”
Lockhart and Donaldson circled around the storefronts to avoid giving away their vantage point, which he felt safe doing only because the deputy and agents were in position to record the incident.
Out front of Izzy’s Bar, a crowd had formed from the bodies pouring out the door; many appeared to be in an outright drunken stupor. Lockhart pushed his way through the shouting and shoving to find Michael Weber Sr. holding another man in a headlock. Weber was squeezing so hard that the man’s head was turning a turnip shade of red. Lockhart yelled for Weber to release his hold, but Weber refused. The crowd around them was obviously drunk and clearly on Weber’s side, or else they would have taken up a mob mentality. When a crowd of drunks approves of a fight, they will be content to watch and maybe join in if they saw a chance to kick a downed man. Lockhart hated crowds. There was no rationale to them. Their actions were equal parts stupidity and fear that created a strange kind of bravery. Lockhart barked at the elderly chief to push the crowd back. The man in the headlock was starting to struggle less, no doubt blacking out.
Both men were hunched over and Lockhart couldn’t grab Weber’s hands, so he did the
Donaldson said something, but Lockhart was too focused on the file to actually catch the words instead of just some garbled bass. “I’m sorry. What?” Lockhart said.
“I asked, what song are you humming?” The chief kept his focus on the back window. Whether it was a newspaper or gravy, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to speak to Lockhart while concentrating his vision elsewhere.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was making any noise at all.”
“Mostly just humming, but you kept saying something like ‘battlefield’.”
Lockhart felt his face warm with embarrassment. “Love is a battlefield?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Donaldson turned and looked at Lockhart with a raised eyebrow.
Lockhart stared up at the chief defensively. “What? It’s Pat Benatar, a four-time Grammy winner, and it’s a great song.”
The old, wry police chief chuckled. “No need to get defensive. Nice to see you’re human inside.”
Lockhart chewed his lip and closed the file folder. “It was never been about me needing or wanting to act inhuman.”
“Oh, really?”
Lockhart shifted and stood slowly. His back slid up the wall as he slowly stretched out his legs and knees. “Yes, really,” He said as he rubbed his kneecaps. “I concede that this is new territory for you all, and it feels very personal—not only the crime, but my coming here to lead the investigation.”
“Yeah, it does feel personal,” Donaldson said as he turned back to the window.
“The concession is conditional. I will concede that point if you concede that when I say things, it is with the sole intent of solving a homicide and not just to bust yours and your deputy’s balls.”
The chief looked back over at Lockhart and offered a small nod.
Ideally, in Lockhart’s opinion, the chief and the town would start to look at him as a solution instead of a hindrance.
Suddenly, Lockhart’s radio clicked on. “Fight in progress out front!” It was Agent Her at the front of the bar. Lockhart snatched the radio. “Maintain your position, Agent. Chief Donaldson and I will intervene. Agent Estabrooks will take over our position.”
Lockhart and Donaldson circled around the storefronts to avoid giving away their vantage point, which he felt safe doing only because the deputy and agents were in position to record the incident.
Out front of Izzy’s Bar, a crowd had formed from the bodies pouring out the door; many appeared to be in an outright drunken stupor. Lockhart pushed his way through the shouting and shoving to find Michael Weber Sr. holding another man in a headlock. Weber was squeezing so hard that the man’s head was turning a turnip shade of red. Lockhart yelled for Weber to release his hold, but Weber refused. The crowd around them was obviously drunk and clearly on Weber’s side, or else they would have taken up a mob mentality. When a crowd of drunks approves of a fight, they will be content to watch and maybe join in if they saw a chance to kick a downed man. Lockhart hated crowds. There was no rationale to them. Their actions were equal parts stupidity and fear that created a strange kind of bravery. Lockhart barked at the elderly chief to push the crowd back. The man in the headlock was starting to struggle less, no doubt blacking out.
Both men were hunched over and Lockhart couldn’t grab Weber’s hands, so he did the
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