Chapter Three Of 'All For One'

I've previously posted Chapter One and Chapter Two of my dark mystery novel, All For One, for easy sampling. Today I'm posting Chapter Three.

 

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What is All For One about?

Mary Austin is the kind of teacher that parents adore and children wish for. Firm and compassionate, a guiding light in their lives, she would do anything to protect her students.

But that loyalty is tested when the school's sadistic bully is found dead on campus, and suspicion falls on six children in her class. None willing to talk. To point the finger.

To reveal the killer.

Faced with this, Mary finds herself confronted with dark memories from her own childhood. Fragmentary flashes from the past that test the bounds of her reality, the onslaught worsening when a tenacious detective is brought in to close the case.

On loan from the Seattle Police Department, Detective Dooley Ashe is plagued by his own demons, but focuses on breaking through the wall of silence the children have erected. Up against a town indifferent toward the crime and suspects virtually untouchable by the law, Dooley turns to Mary as an avenue to the truth.

As an unlikely closeness develops between Dooley and Mary, the suspected children close ranks, worried that one of their own is ready to break and give the detective what he wants.

But when unseen adversaries push back, with both damaging and deadly results, Dooley and Mary are forced to face their personal limits as they each discover the unthinkable identity of the real killer.

I hope you enjoy the sample and will enjoy the entire book.

 

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Three

The rain stopped about five, the clouds blown eastward toward the Cascades by an Alaskan cold front. Seattle was going to have its first icy night of the season.

Dooley laid two pieces of split pine on the fire and drew the wire mesh screen shut. He sat in his den in a chair that was close enough to feel the heat thrown from the growing blaze, but from which he could also look off through the bay window and watch the boats flit about in the harbor.

Every so often a small burst of embers would crackle sharply from one of the logs, and every so often Dooley would twist the cork from a bottle of chardonnay and add a bit to his glass. He sipped, watched the boats, and let himself be warmed by the fire.

And he waited.

Near nine in the evening the doorbell rang pleasantly, a soft chiming that drew Dooley's eyes from the parade of fishing boats straggling in for the night. Feet shuffled on the old planks of his porch, and when he looked past the kitchen and through the darkened living room to the front door a foggy black smudge moved across the frosted pane set into the wood.

The bell rang a second time. Dooley set his wine aside, light from the fire glinting off the sweating glass in dazzling four-point sparks. He went to the living room and stood in the quiet night filling the space. The shape on the porch shifted back and forth in silhouette. In halting, visible shivers as the cold took its toll on whoever was blotting the yellowed light of the streetlamp.

But this shadowmaker was not an enigma. Dooley knew who it was. Knew who it would be even before the moment came.

The shadow stilled as Dooley approached and opened the door.

"Detective Ashe," Joel Bauer said, his determination to speak some piece as apparent as the white, misty breath that rolled off each word. "I don't know you at all, but from the little I've been told I get the sense that you're a good cop. The kind who could never walk away from a case. The kind who'd never give up." An icy gust moved across the porch, tossing the hem of his overcoat. He looked into the wind, short hair barely moving, then back to Dooley. "I'm a good cop, too, Detective Ashe."

A heady proclamation, Dooley could have thought, but the expression Joel Bauer wore, equal parts steel and plea, might have been his some ten years earlier. Or ten months.

Certain crimes got under a good cop's skin, and itched, and nagged, and refused to go away. Couldn't be salved into remission, not with rationale, or promises, or even time. Certainly not with bad booze.

Or even good wine...

Dooley's eyes dipped briefly, then traveled again to Joel Bauer. "You look cold."

"I am."

Dooley stepped aside, opening the door wide. After a moment's hesitation, Joel came in from the cold.

*  *  *

Only one boat remained on the water, a tight cluster of white lights bobbing toward its mooring. Joel stood close to the window, a glass of wine held gut-high.

"Is this good?" Joel asked, lifting the glass and turning to face his host. "I'm usually a beer drinker. Bartlett doesn't pay enough to drink much else."

From his chair Dooley attempted a polite smile, but the expression was barely an approximation. "Wine Spectator rates it a ninety-seven."

"So that's good?"

Dooley nodded.

"You have a nice place here," Joel said. His eyes played over the room and its precise, complimentary furnishings. "View. Everything."

"My ex decorated it."

Joel nodded and took the seat opposite Dooley. A low, cedar table separated them. "You were married."

"I was."

A slow, agreeable nod now, and Joel said, "Ten years now for me. We have two kids. Our son's nine and we just had a girl three months ago." He flashed a smile that died of loneliness a few seconds later. "Do you have any?"

"No," Dooley answered. It felt like a lie, though it was most definitely not.

Joel noticed his host shift where he sat, eyes drifting off to the glowing hearth. "I was surprised when Lieutenant Evans told me you'd be at Anchor Bay today. Were you—"

"You came for a reason?" Dooley focused a hard, sour gaze on Joel as he interrupted the inevitable question.

"I did. I think you know why." Joel cupped his glass now in two hands as he leaned forward, forearms on knees. "That's why you wouldn't talk to me earlier. I told you where I was from."

"I read the papers," Dooley confirmed blandly.

"We had a thirteen year old male killed at school," Joel began to explain, looking occasionally to the golden swirl of chardonnay. "Just a kid. His skull was crushed by a single blow from a baseball bat. Six of his classmates found him, and their prints are the only ones on the bat. One of the six had a broken arm," he qualified with a raised brow. "The day before a few dozen kids used this bat. Not a print from anyone else on the handle. Not a one. The state lab says the handle was wiped clean before the kids' prints got on there."

"One-armed kids don't play baseball anyway," Dooley commented obviously.

"And sixth graders aren't supposed to kill each other," Joel reminded him.

Dooley lifted the bottle of chardonnay by its neck, swished the scant contents, and tipped the remains into his glass. He dipped a finger into the liquid and, content that the chill was still sufficient, drank slow on it for a moment. "Since when are sixth graders unsupervised?"

"It happened at recess, behind a classroom. There's a fence there and an orchard beyond that. It's not a witness-friendly environment. Their teacher was on her break in the teachers' lounge, and the ones watching the kids at recess were on the opposite side of the building leading a game. Softball or kickball. Something like that. The first any adult knew about it was when one of the six kids came to the office for help."

"And what do these kids say happened?"

"They say they found him laying there with the bat next to him. And they all deny touching it."

Dooley let his hand and glass drape lazily over the arm of the chair. His expression edged toward softness. "Kids can lie."

Joel nodded. "You ever try getting permission to hook an eleven year old to a polygraph?"

"Eleven, no," Dooley answered.

Realization showed quickly in Joel's expression, as a curious, morbid eyebrow raised. He started to say something, hesitated, then finally asked, "Jimmy Vincent's almost thirteen now, isn't he?"

Dooley nodded. "Almost."

"Were you there to see him today?" Joel probed further, testing earlier waters.

Words strung together with a rising tone at the end. A question. How close it came to picking at a scab reluctant to heal. "Don't be fascinated by him. He's not remarkable. He killed three little boys. Anyone could kill three pre-schoolers."

"But you got him to admit to it," Joel said. "What did the headshrinkers try for? Six months? You broke through in one."

"Six weeks," Dooley corrected, noting the admiration in the young detective's voice. Far too much, he thought. "Criminals eventually talk."

"Eventually is a long time to a family wanting to know why their child had his head bashed in at school," Joel observed, and the brief sideways glance Dooley steered his way told him that his words had hit home.

"How much cooperation are you getting?"

"The school district is behind us," Joel answered. "They need to know who did what as much as we do. More than that, they can't look like they're hindering the investigation."

Dooley nodded slightly. "How long did it take the family to get a lawyer?"

"Eight hours. Just in time for a weepy press conference on the late news. The papers should be filed tomorrow morning." Joel 'tinged' his glass with a flick of his finger. "One hundred million dollars."

"How about the parents of your six suspects?"

"Not as easy. No one's little angel would do such a thing, and how dare I suggest they would. They're cooperating, barely."

Dooley stood and approached the window looking out to the harbor. He stood close, his breath leaving transient, foggy ovals on the glass. "And the kids just found him."

Joel stared into the fire, hot yellow licks spiraling upward from crumbling knots of orange and black. "These six, I don't know..."

"But you're thinking something," Dooley said. "So share."

"Perfect little kids. Polite. Smart. Good kids. Five of them run the class. President, vice president, stuff like that."

"But?"

"I spent hours with each one, but afterward I got the feeling that there was one little brain telling the mouths what to say."

"Rehearsed?"

"I wouldn't doubt that at all."

"It sounds like a tight, happy group."

"Tight as tight gets. I would have thought more than one would be scared enough to tell the truth. One little girl I was sure of. But they're not. They're together on this. As for happy..." Joel shook his head at the rug. "I don't think they should have the choice to be happy. I think they should be dogged until one of them breaks."

"You think one of them did it and the rest are covering?"

Joel contemplated the question for a moment. "They're all guilty, if you ask me."

A faint, knowing smile reflected back at Dooley in the glass. "How long have you been working murders?"

"Murders?" A muddled snicker slipped from the detective. "People don't get murdered in Bartlett that often. I made detective three years ago and I've worked five. Four of those were drug related, and the last one was a lady who got tired of her husband beating the crap out of her and administered some twelve gauge justice to his sleeping head. I solved them all."

The smile dissolved. "Felt good to put 'em away, didn't it?"

"All but the wife."

"Ah, so you do know what you get when you mix black and white."

"Pardon?"

Dooley turned away from the window and eased over to the fireplace, letting an elbow rest on the simple mantle, his wine glass dangling. It was nearing empty. "Nothing. An objective lesson. So, all your guilty little children..." A quick, improper toss finished off the remaining chardonnay. "Why kill their friend?"

"I'm pretty sure he wasn't their friend."

Animus alive and well in sixth grade. Murderous hate, too? Dooley remembered fistfights and playing dodge ball, all with the same kids and within hours of each other.

"To be totally honest, no one at that school much misses the kid," Joel said. "Or anybody in town, for that matter."

"I'm feeling drunk enough that that doesn't even make me mad," Dooley said. "Did this kid have a name?"

"Guy Edmond. The word from the school was that he was one Grade-A pain in the ass. Parents, too. We knew him pretty well at the station."

"I guess Guy deserved it then," Dooley cracked. "That makes you and me irrelevant."

"I didn't mean—"

Dooley shook his head. "I'm drunk enough to talk crap, too. Forget it."

"I can't break through," Joel said after a momentary pause.

Dooley slid to a sit against the red brick surrounding the hearth and closed his eyes. The subtle blaze tickled hot on his right side.

"You have," Joel added solemnly.

"It's not like flipping some switch on," Dooley said, reluctant eyes opening.

"I know. I've tried."

"You've tried," Dooley parroted.

The remark had enough of an edge that silence was all Joel could immediately offer in response. After a moment of reflection he asked, "Was that you, or was that the wine?"

"A little of both." Dooley shook his head. "It's a hell of a thing when your job requires you to prove that a kid can kill a kid."

"If I had that problem you'd be drinking alone right now," Joel said.

"Consider yourself blessed," Dooley said. "It can mess with you."

"It's a murder."

"It's that, and it's stuff you don't even want to imagine."

"It's still a murder. Someone has to pay."

Dooley nodded, the peace of the knowing in the gesture. "Someone always does." He stared into his empty glass. "So, you came for advice from the man who put a twelve year old away for life."

"I'd like more than advice."

"I can't give more," Dooley said. "I know you want more, and I know you have to ask, so consider the question asked and consider the answer given. I'll look at the file, I'll answer questions. That's what help I can give."

"Can you solve a case without getting close?" Joel challenged.

"This isn't my case to solve. Five and one, or six and oh; that's up to you."

"Please."

Dooley stood and looked past his guest, out over the harbor to the black night spilling from the sky. "The roads are going to be tricky. Slick as snot on a doorknob."

Joel put his glass of wine on the simple pedestal table next to the chair. "Just let me..."

Dooley walked off toward the living room. "You can crash on the couch if you want. There's a throw blanket on the rocker. The lights are on a timer so don't play with the switches."

Joel stood and took a few steps after Dooley. "Detective Ashe—"

"Just Dooley. Got it?" He turned down a hallway in the dark and was gone. A door clicked shut a few seconds later.

Joel Bauer fell back into the overstuffed chair and let his head burrow sideways into the cushion. He watched the fire slowly die and drifted off to sleep thinking of a poor little bastard of a kid with his head caved in.

*  *  *

A defiant burst of embers erupted from the hearth's coal-black center sometime after midnight, batting a sharp crack through the darkened den. Joel stirred at the sound, eyes opening to see an orange glow struggle to live again on the brittle surface of the spent pine. He straightened in the chair, rolled the stiffness from his neck, and blinked to adjust his eyes to the din.

When they had, he saw Dooley sitting across the cedar table from him, the hearth-side of his body cast a pale red—the red of a sunrise trickling over cold gray granite peaks.

"Dooley? What time is it?"

"Late. Early." Bare above the waist, Dooley did not take his eyes from Joel. "What were you dreaming of?"

"Dreaming? Was I dreaming?"

"You were talking to someone named Julia."

"Julia?" Joel wiped his eyes.

"Is that your wife, or your baby girl?"

Joel shook his head. "An old girlfriend. She dumped me the day before the prom."

"Funny." Dooley breathed slow, deep. "We dream of pain."

"Is that what we do?"

"I was dreaming of checkers," Dooley said.

"Nixon's dog?"

"The game. Have you played it?"

"Everybody's played checkers."

"Smoke before fire. Do you remember that? Black moves first? That was the explanation for it. When I was a kid we'd accept that without even asking how there could be smoke without fire. Red should move first, by all rights."

"It's been a long time..."

"Kids really love the game."

"You were dreaming of playing checkers," Joel said.

"Yeah."

Joel twisted in his chair and crossed his arms tight across his chest. With but a wanting show from the hearth, a crisp, prickly chill had invaded the den. "Playing checkers is painful?"

"It can be." Dooley ran a hand over the stubble on one cheek. "These kids you suspect—are they likable?"

"Likable? I don't know."

"You said they were good kids. Do you like them? Could you?"

"Knowing what they did, in all honesty, no," Joel answered, and growled the sleep from his throat. "But then I think the feeling is mutual, so it's a wash."

"You played bad cop with them, didn't you?"

"I was direct," Joel replied, twisting the query his way.

"You should have played checkers," Dooley said.

"What is this thing with checkers?"

Sixty-four squares and little circles skating across them. Smoke and fire. "Maybe I'll tell you when I find your killer."

Joel edged forward in the chair. "You're going to help?"

"I don't want a shadow," Dooley said.

Joel's head bobbed in a rapid nod. "I'll stay out of your way."

"You'll thank me when this is done. I may hate you."

An agreeing grin started to show on Joel's face, but withered before becoming when he realized that no jest was attached to Dooley's statement.

"What made you change your mind?"

"Maybe I'm sick of sitting around this house. Maybe I'm a good cop, like you say."

"You don't sound very sure about those reasons," Joel observed.

"Maybe you're right," Dooley said, drawing a smile from his guest. He looked away from Joel and into the hearth, at the pulsing glow crawling in worm-like tendrils over the fractured log. A wisp of smoke was trailing clearly up toward the flue. Smoke before fire. "Or maybe I thought this time things might turn out better."

"Better? You put the last one away for good."

Dooley's head shook slightly at the fire. "Better for me."

 

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All For One is available as an eBook for Kindle, Nook, iPad, Sony Reader, PC, Mac, iPhone, Android, Blackberry, and other devices using the appropriate reading apps. You can purchase All For One from the following online retailers:

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Thank you!