Habit by T. J. Brearton Page A

mind.
    Brendan dropped to his knees, turned to the side, and retched into a clump of fragrant herbs.

CHAPTER TEN / THURSDAY, 7:43 PM
    “It doesn’t make sense.”
    “It makes perfect sense. This guy is your killer. And you want to hear why?”
    Brendan sat back and inhaled slowly through his nostrils. He was on the couch in Delaney’s office. Through the glass wall between Delaney’s office, the hallway, and senior Deputy – a woman named Benedetto, he could see Olivia Jane. He watched her lips moving as she gave her statement to the officer.
    Brendan’s head pounded. The Sheriff’s Department offices seemed more cramped and garish than he remembered. He longed to be outside and away somewhere, but he knew he needed to stay. He needed to remain in the right headspace, figure this thing out. Delaney seemed like he already had closed the case. He didn’t wait for Brendan to respond and ask why the senior investigator had it right.
    “Because I got the PERK kit back from the deputy coroner,” he said. Delaney was standing next to his desk. He picked up a large file and tossed it casually into Brendan’s lap. “And there’s some sick shit in there.”
    Brendan looked down at the file. He pulled his hand away from his neck where he had been gently massaging the same spot where Kevin Heilshorn had been gushing blood. For some reason he didn’t want to turn back the cover of that file. He didn’t want to see what was inside. But, he had to.
    Delaney rambled on. If ever there was a movie with a surprise ending, Brendan thought, Delaney would ruin it for everyone if he got half the chance. The large, balding detective said, almost excitedly: “He was balling the sister. We found evidence of, you know, promiscuity in the victim’s PERK kit. Something about the vaginal lining. She’s had many sexual partners. There’s a good chance one will turn out to be the brother.”
    “You’re kidding,” said Brendan. Of course, there was nothing funny about it. He started to feel sick to his stomach again. He stood up, letting the file fall from his lap onto the couch, spilling some of its contents. He reached and leaned and grabbed Delaney’s trash can and then slid it back across the floor to him. Delaney watched all of this like a man watching an injured bird flit around on the ground flapping one wing. He scrunched up his face. Then the kinder Delaney re-emerged.
    “You okay?”
    Brendan leaned over the trash can. “Yeah,” he said. His voice echoed.
    “You’ll have to talk to the IACP right away, you know. I can help you with all of that. That’s the tough part, talking to those guys, filling all that stuff out. But, it’s got to be done. You, uh, you ever . . .?”
    “No.” He had never shot anyone in the line of duty before.
    “You did an amazing job. Seriously. From what I’ve put together, just outstanding. The Sheriff is going to be here in a minute to talk to you.”
    “I don’t think he did it,” said Brendan.
    “Think?” Delaney now reverted back to the bit of a hardcase he could often be. Brendan imagined that he also kept it as tight as possible with Senior Prosecutor Skene, and Brendan had heard a rumor that the ADA, a woman named Selena Joanette, was riding his flagpole.
    “There’s nothing to think,” said Delaney. “The kid was at the scene of the crime. He fought with deputies. And I guarantee you that his fluids will match up with the serology report.” Delaney wagged a finger at Brendan. “You said yourself he described some vague ‘meeting’ with the victim. You know how these weird, superrich families can be. For all we know, he and the sister were regularly involved in sexual congress.”
    “We don’t even have the evidence yet to prove that they’re even blood related,” said Brendan softly. The feeling of nausea passed for the moment, and he leaned back away from the trash can.
    “All the more reason, then, to suspect. He could be an adopted brother, for all we know.