The Bodies Left Behind

You carry a gun and do high-speed chases. I want to watch TV at night; you want to study the latest drug-testing kits. I can’t compete with your life. I sure can’t in Joey’s eyes . . . Last night, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Maybe that there was some gunfighter deep inside me. I could prove myself. But that was a joke. All I did was get another human being killed. . . . No goddamn business going out there. And I have no business here. You don’t want me, Brynn. You sure don’t need me.”
    “No, honey, no . . .”
    “Yes,” he whispered. Then held up a hand. The gesture meant: enough, no more.
    He gripped her arm and squeezed softly. “Let’s get some sleep.”
    As Graham went upstairs Brynn absently daubed at the spilled beer until the paper napkins disintegrated. She got a dish towel and finished the job. With another she tried to stanch the tears.
    She heard his footsteps coming downstairs again. He was carrying a pillow and blanket. Without a glance her way, he walked to the green couch, made up a bed and closed the family room door.

    “ALL DONE, MA’AM.”
    Brynn peered over at the painter, who was gesturing toward the living room and its repaired ceiling and walls.
    “What do I owe you?” She peered around as if a checkbook floated nearby.
    “Sam’ll send you a bill. You’re good for it. We trust you.” He gestured at her uniform. Smiled then stopped. “The funeral’s tomorrow? Deputy Munce?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I’m sorry about what happened. My son painted his garage. The deputy was very civil to him. Some people aren’t. They gave him an iced tea. . . . I’m sorry.”
    A nod.
    After the painter left she continued to stare at the blank walls. No trace of the 9mm holes remained. She thought she should put up the pictures once more. But she didn’t have the energy. The house was completely silent.
    She looked over a list of things she had to do—calls to return, evidence to follow up on, interviews to conduct. Someone named Andrew Sheridan had called twice—he had some business connection with Emma Feldman and was asking about the files recovered from the house in Lake Mondac. She wondered what that was about. And somebody from the state’s attorney’s office had heard from the couple injured when their SUVoverturned on the interstate. They were suing. The owner of the house at 2 Lake View had made a claim too. The ammonia had ruined the floor. Bullet holes too, of course. She needed to file a report. She’d delay that as long as she could.
    She heard footsteps on the front porch.
    Graham’s?
    A knock on the wooden frame. She rose.
    “The bell’s out, I think,” Tom Dahl said.
    “Hey. Come on in.”
    The sheriff walked inside. He noticed the smooth walls. Didn’t comment on them. “How’s your mother doing?”
    “She’ll be okay. Feisty, you know.” She tilted her head toward the closed family room door. “We made her up a bedroom downstairs. She’s sleeping now.”
    “Oh, I’ll keep my voice down.”
    “With the meds she’s on, she’d sleep through a party.”
    The sheriff sat and massaged his leg. “I liked the way you phrased it. About those two killers: the bodies left behind. Described it pretty good.”
    “Anything at all, Tom?”
    “I’ll tell you up front there’s not much. That fellow got himself shot was Compton Lewis. Lived in Milwaukee.”
    “Compton was his first name?”
    “Ask his mother or father. Fellow was just a punk, a wannabe. Did construction around the lakefront and ran some petty scams, smash-and-grab at gas stations and convenience stores. Biggest thing was he and some folks tried to rob a guard refilling an ATM outside of Madisonlast year. They think Lewis was supposedly the getaway driver but he dropped his keys in the snow. His buddies ran off and he got busted. Did six months.” Dahl shook his head. “Only kin I could track down was Lewis’s older brother. The only one still in the state. The man took the news hard, I’ll tell you. Started crying like a baby. Had to hang up and called me back a half hour later . . . Didn’t have much to say, but here’s his number if you want to talk to him.” He handed her a Post-it note.
    “How about Hart?” She’d checked every criminal database in five states, all the nicknames, all the mug shots for everybody named Hart, Heart, Harte, Hartman, Harting . . . nothing.
    “No leads at all. That man . . . he’s good. Look at the