Thin Gray Lines

  ONE

  March 30th, 2006

  Kent, Washington

  Deputy Corus parted the crowd of onlookers, noting chirps of excitement mingling with shrieks of fear, and knelt beside the man on the grass. The Plaza Park office building’s exterior was made entirely of glass, reflecting Kent’s small downtown in its facade. A gaping, ten-foot-wide hole in the highest story was ringed with ragged shards of glass, some dangling precariously. He couldn’t see much at that angle, but angry and terrified cries emanated from within.

  The man on the ground was still alive despite the thin wooden sign post sticking up through his stomach. He lay on his back, taking shallow breaths, his fleshy cheeks jiggling like gray Jello. Some of the signage had passed through his abdomen, torn, but still legible. “Luxury Office Space for Lease.”

  “I’m dead,” the man whispered. “I’m dead.”

  “No, you’re not,” Corus said, though he could understand the misconception.

  “I’m dead. I can’t feel my legs.”

  Corus looked at the legs in question. Both broken. The right knee had parted, leaving the top of the tibia exposed, glistening and white.

  “That’s probably for the best, sir.”

  A shattering rang from above. Corus looked up on instinct before averting his eyes and diving over the man’s face.

  Shards of glass rained down around them, and Corus braced for the warm, dull pain of a fresh stab wound. He waited a moment, then reared up.

  “Get back!” he shouted at the onlookers. “Everyone back!”

  The crowd heeded the warning, ebbing and twisting, but moving as one like a flock of sparrows.

  Deputy Sergeant Danny Jameson broke through the crowd, knocking one young man aside on accident. He was a big, barrel-chested man, with the blue eyes and playful manner of a malamute, but now his face bore the intensity of his football days. He was in game mode.

  “What’s his condition, Rook?”

  “Looks stable to me. How long until EMT?”

  “No clue. I’m going up. Follow me.”

  Corus looked about for something to shield the fallen man from a murderous seventy-foot rain of glass. It was early Spring, and many people wore coats, but that wouldn’t stop the razor edge of freshly broken glass. Corus spotted a neon vest. A huddle of construction laborers who’d been working nearby now watched from afar.

  “Do you have anything that can cover him?” Corus boomed “Maybe a piece of plywood?”

  To the construction worker’s credit, he understood the situation without any more explanation and spoke into his radio. A minute later he strode over.

  Corus held out a hand. “Just stay back.”

  “We got something. It’s coming.” The worker tossed over his hard hat. “Here’s this in the meantime.”

  Corus caught it and placed it over the wounded man’s face.

  Corus desperately wanted to join Jameson in storming the building before a bad situation turned into a standoff, but feared leaving the man’s other vital areas unprotected.

  The rumble of a diesel engine hit his ears, and the giant bucket of an excavator poked around the corner. The driver rumbled through the parking lot on treads like a tank, and the crowd made way. He parked it by the sidewalk and extended the boom, pulling the scoop back as if to tear a fresh hole in the earth. Then the machinery froze in position over them, like an ugly but impenetrable umbrella.

  “That work for you?” the construction worker asked.

  The scoop bounced gently at the end of the boom, but covered the man completely.

  Corus gave him a nod and sprinted through the entrance, heading for the emergency stairs, then skidded to a stop as an elevator door opened with a soft ping.

  Corus ducked in and hit the seventh floor button. He shifted side-to-side on the balls of his feet like an edgy racehorse, the soft sounds of Enya wafting about the car. On level six, he unholstered his weapon. When the doors opened on seven, the main corridor was clear, but muted voices wafted from the general direction of the broken window.

  He entered the law offices of Pennar, Goldwynn and Rich, surprised to find the receptionist still at his station, earpiece in, cell phone in hand, texting away. His gelled hair had frosted tips, and one ear held more piercings than Corus could count.

  “You’re still here?” Corus asked. “There’s a situation.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s awesome.”

  “Awesome?” Corus blanched. “A man fell out a window.”

  “Have you ever seen your boss get thrown out of a seventh story window? It’s like ten Christmases at once.”

  “Are you sure you need to be here?”

  “No one said I could leave. I can’t lose this job.”

  “I’m saying it. Go. It’s not safe.”

  The receptionist took off his headset and picked up a satchel he slung over his head. “For the record, I was nice to Harrison. I wasn’t the one who made him snap. He even said hi to me as he walked in just now.”

  “Harrison is the one causing the scene here?”

  “He’s a senior associate. Or he was. Are you gonna shoot him?”

  “I bet you’d get a kick out of that.”

  “I live for chaos.”

  Corus holstered his weapon. “So, what’s this guy’s deal?”

  “He won a big case last week, then he lost it.”

  “Sorry. You said won?”

  “Yep. Started getting in fights with the bosses. He was a good lawyer, but firms like this one are all about optics. Got walking papers.”

  Corus ventured down a short corridor into a wide office space with a nest of walled-off offices in the center with open work stations and cubicles surrounding it. Along two exterior walls, offices were spaced out with glass partitions.

  The conference room held ten or so people, with one man standing in gray sweat pants, a purple sweatshirt and reddish hair and beard. He stalked back-and-forth at the head of the table, holding a knife to his wrist then brandishing it as he ranted.

  Jameson observed the scene from a safe distance behind a copier. Corus knelt at his side.

  “He’s got a knife,” Jameson said. “Suppose we should shoot through that glass?”

  As Corus’ training officer, Jameson asked lots of questions like that, gauging the quality of Corus’ responses and offering better answers. There were moments, though, where Corus wondered if the square-jawed sergeant was asking his opinion in earnest.

  “My feeling is no.”

  “If he starts actually stabbing people, we’re gonna have to shoot.”

  “After he starts stabbing?”

  “Problem is, we can’t get in there the normal way. He’s got a broom through the door handles on the inside.”

  “I bet we could break it.”

  “You can’t bet lives on how easy a broom handle breaks. Could be cheap and flimsy. Could be quality pinewood you couldn’t break over a knee.”

  “I’m pretty sure they make brooms out of lower quality wood.”

  “Shut up, Rook. Just be ready to shoot if we have to.”

  “Roger. His name’s Harrison by the way. Was a senior associate before he got fired.”

  “The guy on the ground tell you that?”

  “No, the receptionist.”

  “These kinds of guys are either violent psychos or sad losers who want a cop to pull the trigger because they don’t have the guts to.” Jameson cut a hand between them. “The key is knowing the difference. He isn’t stabbing yet, so I’m leaning toward sad loser.”

  “He threw someone out the window.”

  “Just watch and learn how an experienced professional handles delicate situations.”

  Jameson walked nonchalantly to the conference room. “Excuse me. Mist
er Harrison?”

  The red-haired man turned. Jameson pressed his nose to the glass and knocked. “Can I have a word?”

  “Show me your hands!” Harrison bellowed.

  Jameson put his hands on the glass, high above his head. “Here are my hands. What’s the problem, here? Why do you have that knife?”

  “He’s guilty. Guilty!” Harrison prodded the knife at the air.

  “Are you off your medication?”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “Sir, if you’re not crazy, then you’re acting like a real asshole.”

  Harrison blinked.

  Jameson jutted his chin at the hostages. “Do any of you geniuses know how to yank a broom out of a door handle? Jesus. It’s not a bank vault.”

  A man in a gray shirt and dark tie looked around, then angled his body toward the door.

  “No!” Harrison said.

  “What are you waiting for?” Jameson whined. “He can’t stab you all at once.”

  The man in gray snatched the broom from of the handles and ran out. Corus waved him to the exit like a third base coach, instructing him to wait outside. More trapped lawyers streamed out of the conference room.

  “You can’t leave!” Harrison dropped the knife and started sobbing. “I hate all of you!”

  Before the last woman darted out, she paused at the door. “Sorry, Owen. I’ll visit you in jail. Or the asylum or wherever.”

  “Get out, Brenda!”

  Jameson held the door for her and kicked the knife away, more interested in the broom. He hefted it in his hands, then snapped it over his knee like a twig.

  “You were right, Rook,” he announced over a shoulder. “Another one of your sterling observations.”

  Corus walked in behind him and picked up the knife.

  Jameson was so broad that he didn’t seem tall until you got close. As he neared Harrison, a man of average height, he stood a full head higher. “Thanks for not stabbing anyone, chief. Hands on the wall.”

  Harrison complied, still shaking and weeping. His clothing was baggy, even for sweats, and his wrists appeared abnormally thin, as if he hadn’t been eating. Corus patted him down and found nothing, but accidentally pulled the loose pants down, revealing two stark white butt cheeks and thin legs, one with a tattoo on the calf.

  “Jesus, Rook. There’s rules against that.”

  Corus took a closer look at the tattoo before yanking the sweats up. “Mister Harrison, were you a Marine?”

  “Yes,” he whimpered. “JAG.”

  “Did you see combat?”

  “I was stationed stateside.”

  Corus turned him around instead of cuffing him. Jameson didn’t protest. If anything, a look of real concern overtook him.

  “Anything bad happen?” Jameson asked.

  “I shouldn’t be here.” Harrison screwed his palms into his eyes. “It’s over. My life’s over. How did I get here?”

  “You’re a lawyer,” Jameson said. “You work here.”

  “I shouldn’t be a lawyer. I should be locked up. I got people killed. He killed before, then he killed again. And I set him free.” Harrison slumped down the wall, sobbing again.

  “Is this about the case you just won?” Corus asked.

  Harrison looked up, eyes baggy from lack of sleep. “He’s a killer. I didn’t see it. Now I do! And Penner and I got him off. We let him go.” He bared his teeth in mixed agony and anger, spittle bubbling out, his pale skin turning to red and blue splotches as he raged.

  “Easy, chief. You’re gonna blow.” Jameson held up a hand. “Listen, you didn’t set anyone free. The court system delivered justice. And no one’s dead.”

  “They’re dead. I killed them.”

  The deputies shared a glance, and Corus crouched down.

  “Did something happen when you were in JAG?”

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I had to force them to listen. I had to force them to help me before he kills more people.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s all happening again!”

  “What happened in the service, bub?” Jameson asked. “That’s what this is really about. That’s how this stuff works.”

  “I got a man off. He was accused of terrible things. Raping an Iraqi woman and killing her and her child.”

  “A soldier?” Corus asked.

  Harrison nodded. “I believed he was a good kid falsely accused. I believed in my gut that he was innocent. I used every ounce of my ability to win that case. And I did. It was my proudest accomplishment of my life.” His lip quivered. “And less than a month later, four more civilians were dead by his hand.”

  Oddly, Harrison stopped crying. He got calm and looked Corus in the eye. “I killed those people because I couldn’t see what he was.”

  Jameson picked him up. “That was in the past. You’ve got problems, but they’re today’s problems. That’s the key.”

  Harrison winced as he cranked the cuffs tight.

  “I gotta ask,” Jameson said, after reciting his Miranda rights. “That glass is two-inches-thick and tempered. How’d you break it?”

  “Oh…” Harrison sniffed. “I made a special hammer with a diamond tip. I didn’t know it would work so well.”

  “Where is it?” Jameson asked.

  “It fell.”

  “Instead of being a lawyer, and an attempted murderer,” Jameson said, “you should have become an inventor. Guess it’s not too late. You can patent it from prison.”

  A team of firemen and EMTs worked diligently to roll Mister William Penner, esquire, onto a board, careful not to jostle the wooden post. One fireman stood to the side periodically calling out instructions. Corus smelled Army on him and he was a friendly sort. He casually answered all of Corus’ questions about the finer points of keeping puncture wound victims alive.

  “Pressure, pressure, pressure. At Fort Sam Houston, they drummed it into us medics,” the firefighter said. “It’s all about pressure. You never remove the offending implement, and if it’s no longer in place, you gotta jab something in the wound. Find the artery, clamp it with whatever you got. Use your dirty-ass fingers, a rusty wire. Hygiene don’t count if they bleed out.”

  As they carted Penner off to the ambulance, the sign post’s pointed end jutted from his lower back, still caked with earth.

  Corus thanked the firefighter for his tutelage, then joined Jameson in surveying the scene for evidence. Jameson was quick to snatch up the hammer and place it in a large evidence bag. He marveled at it, turning it in the light.

  “That’s just good craftsmanship. My pop used to make stuff with his hands. Tried to teach me, but I didn’t like manual labor. I regret it. I can’t even fix stuff around my house. Reason fifty-seven my wife hates me so much.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I make up for it in other areas.”

  “You’re a good listener?”

  “I listen to her having loud orgasms.”

  Corus caught sight of the woman named Brenda who’d spoken to Harrison as she left the conference room. She stood in a huddle with three of her coworkers. Corus approached and asked her if they could talk. They walked under a young maple tree by the sidewalk.

  “Were you friends with Owen Harrison?”

  She pursed her mouth as she nodded. Tears spilled down her cheeks from behind her glasses. “He’s such a sweet guy. The nicest guy.”

  “Was the change sudden?”

  “He’s had moods, but never seemed dangerous. This last one was bad.”

  “Can you describe these moods?”

  “He gets weird after big cases.”

  “When he wins?” Corus asked.

  “Yeah,” she said with a hint of realization. “Usually it’s the other way around. Maybe that’s why I never understood.” Her eyes flitted back-and-forth as she searched her memories. “Sometimes Owen wins a big appeal or murder case, and then it’s like he goes dark. He gets paranoid.”

  “About the case?”

&
nbsp; “About everything.”

  “These events, did they involve an accused person going free?”

  “You know, I think that’s it.”

  “Have any of those people gone on to commit atrocious crimes?”

  “Oh, no. Our bosses are pretty careful with who we represent. It’s part of their reputation, only representing innocent people.”

  Corus thanked her for her time and spotted Jameson by the patch of pressed grass where Penner made his landing, gazing up at the hole he fell from.

  He walked over. “Amazing he survived.”

  “His aim could use some work, but he landed on his back just right. I heard that people survive parachuting failures. Twelve thousand feet. Blam. Mostly dead, of course, but a few live.”

  “I once saw a soldier fall off the back of a pickup,” Corus said. “Like four feet. Twenty-two years old. Picture of strength. Broke his back.”

  “It’s all a roll of the dice, isn’t it? Random.”

  “Rolling dice isn’t random. It’s probability.”

  “Shut up, Rook.” Jameson made for the cruiser. “Let’s get lunch. I’m starving.”

  TWO

  Corus fell face first onto his bed at the end of his shift and lay still as a dead man.

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door.

  “You need anything?” his wife, Karen, asked. “Rough day?”

  Corus grunted.

  “I’m going to my Aikido class. Oh, and I didn’t cook anything for dinner. Bye!”

  Karen said something unintelligible from the front door then closed it.

  Moments later, feet stepped in the hallway that weren’t hers. Normally he’d have reached for the 1911 in the nightstand, but he recognized the pitter patter of Deputy Albert Chu’s size nines.

  “Deputy Corus,” Chu said from the doorway in a put-on voice. “Dispatch, here. We have a sixteen-twenty-two in progress. In need of assistance.”

  “That’s not a code,” Corus groaned.

  “It’s one I made up,” Chu said. “It means officer in need of a hug.”

  “I’m not hugging you. I’m not hugging anyone. I’m not moving.”

  “Come on. Day eight of full-time, big boy police duty is complete! We should be drinking beers in a cop bar and complaining about our wives, or the DA, or our hard-ass captain.”