The Fallen

His blood type was B positive.

His heart appeared normal for a thirty-nine-year-old man. His veins and arteries were unobstructed. His kidneys and pancreas were normal. His liver was slightly enlarged, likely the result of prolonged heavy alcohol use.

The medical examiner’s report told of the same hernia operation that was mentioned in the hidden threat assessment run for us by Hollis Harris.

“Funny he wasn’t drinking that night,” I said.

“Why?”

“They say here he had some liver damage from heavy drinking. Every drinker I’ve known drinks every day. When they’re sick they drink. When they’re in the hospital they’re pestering you to sneak them a bottle. They drink when they’re nervous or happy or down or celebrating or thinking or washing away sorrows or just washing the car. You know, drinkers drink. But that night he didn’t.”

“Stella said he’d quit,” said McKenzie. “Maybe he was telling the truth.”

“For his last night alive, he was.”

“What else do we know about him that night?” asked McKenzie. “We know he met Harris at five P.M. Then Carrie Martier at six-thirty, from whom he got a nasty DVD. Then April Holly at seven-thirty. He was supposed to meet his ex at nine, but he never showed. He was wearing a gold tie when he got to April’s and a blue one when he was shot.”

I thought for a moment. “According to Harris, he was scattered and unfocused.”

McKenzie considered. “And later April said Garrett was looking forward to something or someone. We’ve got a big window here. M.E. says time of death between eight and two the next morning. That’s a lot of time to do a lot of things. To do a lot more than just change your tie.”

“Why did he change the tie?”

“For Stella, don’t you think?” said McKenzie. “If you’re going to take eight thousand artsy pictures of your hottie and put them on your wall, you’re going to make sure you look sharp when you see her. If you’re going to reconcile, you want to look your best.”

For Stella, I thought. For your ex. The woman who bore your daughter and later almost sued you for divorce. The woman who was the object of your desire, object of your artist’s eye, object of your obsession.

Still your hottie. Reconciliation.

“Stella said he was going to the bridge to say a prayer,” I said.

“For what?”

“For what would happen between them later that night.”

“You’d figure he’d go alone,” said McKenzie.

“Sure, alone.”

“Okay, Robbie, but Garrett was an ex-cop. He was a good investigator. He was bright and alert and suspicious and ready. And sober. But he sat there behind the wheel and somebody drives up and leaves that extra set of tire tracks we saw. And Garrett takes it point-blank.”

“He got fooled.”

“Big time. He trusted the shooter.”

The M.E.’s report noted that Garrett’s left arm had once been broken just above the wrist, something that had eluded Hollis Harris’s lightning-fast hidden threat assessment.

His weight at death was 204 pounds, adjusted for the loss of two of his estimated five and a half liters of blood.

McKenzie and I sat at our own desks, lost in different chapters of Garrett’s murder book. She waited until the other detectives were gone and Captain Villas’s door was shut, then came over and leaned down close.

“Villas will have to tell the chief about Fellowes. The chief will have to tell Professional Standards. They’ll have to interview us. They’ll want the discs and we should have our stories straight about making copies or not making copies.”

“I’ll burn them.”

“Just for us?”

“Just for us, McKenzie.”

“Gotcha.”

A minute later Sally from HR called and told me that Councilman Anthony Rood and his aide, Steven Stiles, had hosted an “exploratory fund-raiser” aboard the aircraft carrier Midway the night Garrett was murdered. Her sources had told her that both men arrived onboard about six o’clock and left around midnight. Rood had nailed down pledges for eleven thousand dollars and found “substantial support” for a run at a California assembly seat.

A few minutes after that, Ethics Authority Director Erik Kaven called. His voice sounded like his face looked — craggy and lined and suspicious. I pictured his Wyatt Earp mustache and his bright, distrustful eyes. I recalled that he had killed the two bank robbers with a total of two shots.

He wanted to know how the investigation was going, and I told him it was going well.

“Are you getting full cooperation from Van Flyke?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s been helpful.”

“Garrett was a smart man. Smarter than his boss. But Garrett had an Achilles’ heel that occasionally hurt him as an investigator.”

“What was that?”