The Fallen

Chet Fellowes was a large, poorly shaped man who gave off an air of self-serving intelligence. He had sloping shoulders, long arms, and small, quick eyes. He played for Bogle on the department golf team and was rumored to be a scratch golfer and a cheat.

I’d never been in his office. He sat behind his desk and watched McKenzie examining the Fellowes family photographs by the window. Behind him were college and academy diplomas, commendations, and awards. Fellowes slumped down and crossed his hands over an ample gut.

“Bad,” he said. “Garrett Asplundh was, what, thirty-nine years old?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And he wasn’t robbed?”

“No. He was shot from about two inches away. They left his cash, cards, vehicle, everything.”

“Prints on the gun?”

“Wiped clean with Tri-Flow.”

“You bring your own Tri-Flow to clean up the gun, that’s an execution.”

“That’s what we’re thinking,” I said. “Did Garrett make enemies here?”

Fellowes eyed me flatly. “You bet he did. Professional Standards, with an attitude like his? A lot of people, they really disliked him and I can’t blame them. Like having a... what’s the word? Being around Garrett was like having a hawk following you all around. When he went to the Ethics Authority everybody was relieved.”

“Who in particular was relieved?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You two are way off if you’re looking for a suspect in this department. Come on.”

“Captain Fellowes, enemies are enemies,” I said. “As an Ethics Authority investigator, he had come up with videodiscs of men buying sex from prostitutes. Some of those men are powerful in this city. Some are cops.”

Fellowes’s mouth hung slightly open. It looked like he had to halt facial movement in order to complete his thought.

I watched him closely.

“Who?” he asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” I said. “Captains Villas and Sutherland are fully informed.”

His eyes shifted from me to McKenzie then to me again. Fury makes a small room smaller. I could sense the captain’s anger spike, then settle down to a manageable temperature.

“I thought you probably knew about all of it, sir,” I said. “Since you’re a captain in Vice.”

“Of course I knew about it.”

The red squares of deceit spilled out of his mouth and floated out over his desk. His face was almost gray. “I’ll take care of any problems within Vice. We take care of our own in Vice.”

“And we’ll find out who murdered Garrett Asplundh,” I said.

My words seemed to hang in the air of Chet Fellowes’s office. He shifted his big body in the chair. I was surprised by the level of menace that emanated from a man who looked hapless and uncoordinated. But Fellowes called on some inner strength while he considered me, and I could see in his eyes that he would be merciless if given the opportunity.

“We also wanted to talk to you because you were at the Asplundhs’ Fourth of July party,” said McKenzie.

Fellowes fixed her with a flat, small-eyed stare. “That’s ancient history. You put things like that out of your mind if you can.”

“Tell us about it,” I said.

“Why? It has no bearing.”

“You’re sure of that?” I asked.

Again, a look from Fellowes that told me he would get me someday.

“That was a bad day,” he said. “I mean, really — three years old. What a shame. Nothing we could do. A dozen adults all hovering over this pale little thing Garrett had fished from the pool.”

“How did it happen?” asked McKenzie.

“About sundown everybody left the pool area to go set off some fireworks in the street. I remember Garrett standing by the gate that guards the pool, and he waited for all of us to file on through, and I was the last guy out, me and Phyllis, my ex-wife. And I clearly remember Garrett snapping that lock into place and spinning the combination dial and pulling on it once or twice. Then it was fireworks.”

“Out in the driveway, right?”

“Yeah, over twenty people there, counting the kids. Stella had Samantha in her arms. I remember because I held my daughter at that age. Samantha was a real go-getter, I remember that, too. Running everywhere, laughing and playing, a happy kid. It was a nice evening. Real warm and kind of humid, and up and down the block you could hear the fireworks going off. Just little stuff, you know — Smokey Joes and Piccolo Petes and sparklers for the kids. The air smelled like sulfur. Twenty minutes, half an hour went by. And I saw Stella go into the house. She wasn’t carrying Samantha anymore. A minute or two later she came back out, walking fast, head up, you know, worried about something. Garrett, then, he came out behind her, calling for Samantha. Some of the adults followed them into the garage, then around the side of the house looking for her. Phyllis and I stayed where we were but I kept looking back toward the house, and then someone yelled for Stella. I mean, really yelled loud. You knew something had happened. Then I heard Stella scream from the backyard. And this short kind of... uproar of voices, a bunch of people yelling at once. The only words I clearly remember hearing were ‘breathing,’ and ‘911.’ Phyllis turned an ankle running for the backyard, which didn’t help things any. When I got back there, Garrett and Van Flyke had Samantha laid out on a chaise by the pool. Garrett was already doing CPR. Stella had just gotten the gate unlocked so most everyone was still on the other side of the fence. Garrett had jumped it to get to his daughter. I think maybe some other men had jumped it, too. To help, you know. Sam, Garrett’s brother, he was the one who pulled her out.”