Free HardScape by Justin Scott

his side. Now all Bender and Boyce had to do was find the slug, match it to a gun, and make a charge. Of course, whoever was running had his gun with him, and it was one in a thousand the troopers would ever find it. In fact, if he was smart—which ruled out all the Chevalley boys and most of the Jervis clan—he’d toss it in the river.
    Sergeant Bender walked in, calling, “Hey, Doc. You want to give Mrs. Long a shot or something? She’s getting hysterical.”
    Steve Greenan didn’t answer. He, like me and Marian Boyce, was staring at the shotgun Bender was carrying by a wire hanger through the trigger guard. The homicide sergeant said, “Marian. Get the kit and take a powder analysis on Mrs. Long’s fingers after the doc calms her down.”
    â€œWhere’d you find that?” I asked.
    â€œDo one on the jailbird too, just in case.”
    â€œWhere’d you find that?” Steve asked.
    Bender smiled, pleased as punch. “In the gun rack in the turret. Been fired recently.”
    Steve hurried out with his bag to help Mrs. Long. Trooper Moody came in, holding a flashlight in one hand and a little plastic Ziploc bag in the other. “Found a slug,” he announced.
    ***
    I had one friend in the house, and that was Steve. Bender and Boyce got distracted when more cops arrived, and I took advantage of the interruption to buttonhole the doctor. As a medical examiner he was in charge of the crime scene, the boss until he ordered the body removed to the morgue.
    â€œCan I see her?”
    â€œI don’t think they want you to.”
    â€œI know that.”
    Steve Greenan cracked a little smile. I knew for a fact he didn’t love the state police. Now and then they got too rough and needed a medical opinion that an injured prisoner had fallen down the stairs. He’d told me once over a couple of cold ones that he dealt with that problem on a case-by-case basis: If the injured party was a violent son of a bitch Steve would blame the stairs; if he perceived brutality, he would tell them to find another doctor. Either way, he didn’t appreciate being judge and jury.
    â€œShe’s in a guest room. First right at the top of the kitchen stairs. I’ll go have another look at the body and make some pronouncements.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou got something going with her?”
    â€œNo such luck.”
    Steve bustled back to the living room, calling loudly for help in turning the body. I cut through the kitchen and up the back stairs. I was afraid they’d hear if I knocked, so I opened the first door on the right and shut it behind me.
    The room was big for a guest bedroom, bigger than the master in most houses. Rita lay on an elaborately stitched down quilt. She was on her side, staring into the cold fireplace, curled up like a question mark. Her splendid black hair shone in the light from the night table. When I was a child my mother’s hair had been almost as long and black; nights, sometimes, she’d let me help brush its hundred strokes.
    I moved around the bed into Rita’s vision. She looked confused, and seemed to be fighting Steve’s tranquilizer. The drug had strung a veil of high cirrus clouds over her blue eyes.
    â€œWho are you? Oh, you. Guess I won’t have to sell the house now.” She was slurring.
    â€œCan I do anything for you?” I asked.
    She shook her head. Tears trickled down her cheek into the corner of her mouth. She licked them. I backed up. She said, “He was so wonderful.”
    â€œRon?”
    â€œJust wonderful… We were wonderful.”
    â€œI’m really sorry,” I said, adding lamely, “You poor thing.”
    â€œYeah, I’m a poor thing, all right. A real poor thing…Poor Jack…It’s so goddamned fucking ironic. We tried so hard not to hurt him. Keep it from him, while we tried to figure out what to do. And now—now—he’s going to