Nightzone

Nightzone by Steven F. Havill

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Authors: Steven F. Havill
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riddled Mr. Baum would sue us for about the national debt, even though the whole sorry affair was his fault. If he died, the family could have a field day. Schroeder was a good prosecutor, but lawsuits scared him…about half as much as they scared the county legislators.
    Usually impeccably turned out, this morning the district attorney was a bit on the scruffy side. Even a hint of peach fuzz touched his cheeks below the black bags under his eyes. He nurtured what little hair he had left in one of those 50s buzz cuts, so that wasn’t out of place. With his straw-colored suit, Schroeder reminded me of a college singing group’s lead tenor—slim, bland-faced, too blond to be true.
    He had positioned himself at the end of the small mahogany conference table, a collection of papers and photos spread out before him. A second officer—I couldn’t recall his name—regarded me with beady blue eyes caved under a forehead whose supra-orbital ridge looked as if it had borrowed some simian heritage.
    Without lifting his head from his hand, elbow planted on the table, Schroeder looked up as I entered.
    â€œGood morning, gentlemen,” I said, and Schroeder unwrappe d himself, rising as if every joint in his body had failed him. I skirted the table and shook hands.
    â€œThank…” he started to say as he attempted to generate some grip. He cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming, Bill.” He waved a hand under his nose. “Excuse my frog. Something out in the prairie set off my sinuses.” He turned to his partner. “You’ve met Paul Mellon, I’m sure.”
    Mellon. I’d known Paul Mellon since he was a rookie state policeman patrolling out of the Quemado district, trying to find things to do. He’d become desperate for action a time or two, wandering south to my turf. Most memorable—and it brought a smile for me just then—was his traffic stop of a young off-duty Deputy Robert Torrez just west of Posadas. Bobby’s aging, smoking, disreputable Chevy pickup looked as if it belonged hidden behind a barn somewhere, and Bobby himself was a perfect match. Fresh off an interagency drug interdiction deal, the young deputy was unshaven, long of mane and short of temper. The traffic stop with Mellon hadn’t gone so well.
    A big, raw-boned man, Mellon rose with grace and extended a mammoth paw. As he did so, a smile chased all of the intimidation from his features. Dimples, even. The deep-set blue eyes twinkled.
    â€œSheriff, it’s always a pleasure,” he rumbled. With that voice, he could have been a television evangelist. I took my time settling into one of the oak chairs, reminding myself that no amount of bonhomie would disguise why we were all here. I had shot a man, and when I did that, I had set in motion the vast complex of legal proceedings. I made a quick resolution to mind my manners.
    â€œLieutenant Mellon will be the lead investigator this time around.” Schroeder scribbled a note on his legal pad. “Are you all right with that?”
    Was I all right with it? Schroeder was trying to be his soothing best, why I don’t know. No elections loomed on the horizon. Both Bobby Torrez and Estelle Reyes-Guzman were conspicuously absent from this little deal, but figuring out why wasn’t rocket science. Schroeder would make every effort to assure that his ass was covered, and Mellon’s presence, rather than members of the Posadas department, would assure objectivity—perhaps.
    â€œYou bet,” I said. Lieutenant Mellon apparently didn’t believe in paperwork. The table in front of him was bare save for one little yellow pad. A BIC lay capped beside it. Maybe the state cop had already made up his mind, and expected to hear nothing new.
    â€œTell us what happened,” Schroeder said.
    I launched into my recitation without preamble, probably sounding rehearsed. I didn’t consult my notes, since the episode

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