The Last Policeman Part 15

"The victim, yeah."

I take that first AP article, from April 2, the one ending with the odds of impact at one in two million one hundred twenty-eight thousand, and hand it to Culverson.

"And here's another one, a few days later." I pull out another sc.r.a.p of dog-eared computer paper and begin reading. " 'Though the object appears to be ma.s.sively large, with an estimated diameter upwards of six and a quarter kilometers, s.p.a.ceguard astronomers calculate its current chances of colliding with Earth as barely higher than zero-what Dr. Kathy Goldstone, a professor of astrophysics at the University of Arizona, calls only just within the realm of non-negligible probability.' And Mr. Zell, he's got that number-six and a quarter-that's underlined, too."

I take out another piece of paper, and another. Zell wasn't just keeping track of the numbers on Maia, on its trajectory and projected density and composition. His box also has articles on all the asteroid-related societal changes: new laws, shifting economic landscape, and he's watching those numbers, too, writing on the backs of the papers, scrawling calculations-long columns of data, exclamation points-adding it all into the matrix.

"Son of a gun," says Culverson suddenly.

"Son of a gun what?" says McGully. "What?"

"See-so-" I start, and Culverson finishes, says it smooth and right: "The strong possibility of death by global catastrophe can be seen as mitigating the risk of death from drug-related misadventure."

"Yes," I say. "Right. Yes."

"Yes, what?" growls McGully.

"Palace's hanger was doing a risk a.s.sessment."

I beam. Culverson nods at me approvingly, and I place the lid back on the box. It's 11:30 now, shift change, and from the break room a couple doors down we can hear the frat-house rumble of the patrol officers, the young Brush Cuts with their nightsticks. They're rattling around, shouting abuse at one another, drinking their skinny little cans of energy drink, strapping on their bulletproofing. Ready to get out there and aim their sidearms at some looters, ready to fill up the drunk tank.

"My theory is, Zell makes a decision, very early on, that if the odds of impact rise above a certain mathematically determined level, he's going to try something dangerous and illegal, an interest that had always been too risky to indulge. Until now."

In early June the odds rise above his threshold, and Zell heads to the house of his old friend J. T. Toussaint, who figures out how to get ahold of something, and together they get high as satellites.

But then-late October-Zell has a bad reaction, or a change of heart, or maybe the drugs run out. He goes into withdrawal.

At this point, McGully raises a hand slowly, sarcastically, like a surly teenager giving his math teacher a hard time.

"Uh, yes, Detective? Excuse me? How does this tragic tale make the guy into a murder victim?"

"Well, I don't know. But that's what I'd like to find out."

"Okay. Great!" He claps, hops off his desk. "So, let's go to this Toussaint fella's house and run the a.s.shole in."

I turn from Culverson to McGully, my heartbeat accelerating a little. "You think so?"

"h.e.l.l, yeah, I think so." In fact, he looks delighted at the prospect, and I'm reminded of McConnell, the philosophical question of our era: How many more times do I get to yell, "Stop, motherf.u.c.ker"?

"But I don't have probable cause," I protest, and I turn back toward Culverson, hoping that he'll object to my objection, hoping to hear him say, "Sure you do, son," but he's still quiet in his corner, ruminating.

"Probable cause?" snorts McGully. "Christ, man, you've got it in spades. You've got the guy procuring a controlled substance, distributing it. Automatic go to jail, do not pa.s.s Go, IPSS t.i.tle IX-right, hotshot? You've got him lying to a police officer. Same deal-t.i.tle I-don't-f.u.c.king-know, t.i.tle Infinity."

"Well, I think he's done those things. I don't know." I appeal to Culverson, the adult in the room. "Maybe we can get a warrant? Search the house?"

"A warrant?" McGully throws his hands up, imploring the room, the heavens, the hushed form of Detective Andreas, who has opened his eyes just enough to stare at something he's got on his desk.

"Wait, wait, you know what? He's driving an oil car, right? He's admitted to that, right? To the WVO?

"Yeah. So?"

"So?" McGully is grinning ear to ear, his hands raised high in the touchdown sign. "Three new provisions just tacked onto t.i.tle XVIII, in re: natural resources management and scarcity." He hops over to his desk, scoops up the new binder, fat and black with the American flag stickered on the front. "Hot off the press, mis amigos. Presuming your man is juicing his French-fry oil with diesel, that vehicle is in fragrant violation."

I shake my head. "I can't arrest him for retroactively violating a newly enacted statute."

"Oh, well, Agent Ness, how high-minded of you." He gives me both middle fingers and sticks out his tongue for good measure.

"You've got another problem, though," says Culverson. I know what he's going to say; I'm ready for it. I'm actually a little excited about it. "You told me yesterday that Toussaint's got a squeaky-clean record. Hardworking guy. Working man. To the extent that Zell has kept up with him at all, to the extent that he's even crossed the guy's mind, why would he go to him for drugs?"

"Excellent question, Detective," I say, beaming. "Look."

I show him the printout I got from Wilentz, on the way up here, the search results on Toussaint's father. Because that's what I was remembering, that's what I found in my notes from yesterday, something about the way J. T. said it, about his old man: "Was he an artist?" "Yes, among other things." I watch Culverson skim the report. Roger Toussaint; a.k.a. Rooster Toussaint; a.k.a. Marcus Kilroy; a.k.a. Toots Keurig. Possession. Possession with intent to distribute. Possession with intent to distribute. Possession. Violation of a minor. Possession.

So when Peter Zell decided to get ahold of a controlled substance-when the odds of impact made the decision for him-he remembered his old friend, because his old friend's dad was a drug dealer.

Culverson, at last, nodding, rising slowly from his chair. McGully, out of his chair in a flash. My heart, galloping.

"Okay then," Culverson says. "Let's go."

I nod, there's a pause, and then the three of us move to the door at the same time, three policemen swinging into action, patting their shoulder holsters and shrugging on their coats, and there's a rush of antic.i.p.ation and joy so strong in my gut that it comes all the way around, to a kind of dread. This is a moment I've imagined all my life, three police detectives up and ready for action, feeling the st.u.r.diness of our legs beneath us, feeling the adrenaline begin to flow.

McGully stops for Andreas on the way out the door-"You coming, gorgeous?"-but the last of the Adult Crimes detectives isn't going anywhere. He's frozen in his chair, a half-empty coffee cup at his elbow, his hair a bird's nest, staring at a tattered pamphlet on his desk: IT IS SIMPLY TO PRAY.

"Come on, pally," McGully urges, s.n.a.t.c.hing away the wrinkled pamphlet. "New Guy has got a sc.u.mbag for us."

"Come on," says Culverson, and I say it, too. "Come on."

He turns a quarter of an inch, mutters something.

"What?" I say.

"What if they're right?" says Andreas. "The-the-" he gestures to the pamphlet, and I sort of can't take it anymore.

"They're not right." I place a firm hand on his shoulder. "Why don't we not think about this right now."

"Not think about it?" says Andreas, wide-eyed, pathetic. "Not think about it?"

With a quick flat chop I knock over the cup of coffee on Andreas's desk, and the cold brown liquid gushes out, rushing over the pamphlet, flooding his ashtray, his paperwork and computer keyboard.

"Hey," he says dumbly, pushing back from the desk, turning all the way around. "Hey."

"You know what I'm doing right now?" I say, watching the muddy liquid rush toward the edge of the table. "I'm thinking: Oh no! The coffee's going to spill onto the floor! I'm so worried! Let's keep talking about it!"

And then the coffee waterfalls over the side of the desk, splashing on Andreas's shoes and pooling on the ground beneath the desk.

"Oh, look at that," I say. "It happened anyway."

All is the same as it was.

The doghouse, the thorn bushes and the oak tree, the ladder propped against the lip of the roof. There's the small white dog, Houdini, weaving anxiously around the legs of the ladder, and there's big J. T. Toussaint, up there fixing shingles, bent to his task in the same brown work pants and black boots. He looks up at the sound of the gravel crunch on the driveway, and I catch a flash of impression, a reclusive animal surprised in his lair by the arrival of the hunters.

I'm out of the car first, straightening up and tugging down the hem of my suit coat, one hand shading my eyes against the winter sun, the other hand raised, flat palmed in greeting.

"Good morning, Mr. Toussaint," I call. "I have just a couple more questions for you."

"What?" he says. He comes up from his crouch, finds his balance, and stands full height on the roof, the sun right behind him and all around him, casting him in a weird pale gray halo. The other doors slam behind me, McGully and Culverson stepping out of the vehicle, and Toussaint flinches, retreats a step upward on the roof, stumbles.

He raises his hands to steady himself, and I hear McGully shout, "Gun!" and I turn my head back and say, "What-no," because it's not, "it's just a caulking gun!"

But McGully and Culverson have their weapons raised, service-issue SIG Sauer P229s. "Freeze, a.s.shole," McGully shouts, but Toussaint can't freeze, his boots have lost their purchase on the shingled slope, he's scrabbling, hands in motion, eyes wide, McGully still shouting-and I'm shouting, too, "No, no, don't-no," whipping my head back and forth, because I don't want him dead. I want to know the story.

Toussaint turns on his heel, tries to escape toward the spine of the roof; McGully fires his gun, a sliver of brick spits off the side of the chimney, and Toussaint turns and falls off the house and down onto the lawn.

"Your house smells like dog s.h.i.t."

"Let's focus on what's material, Detective McGully."

"Okay. It's true, though, isn't it? Stinks in here."

"Detective, come on."

J. T. Toussaint starts to say something, or maybe he's just moaning, and McGully tells him to shut up, and he shuts up. He's on the living-room floor, giant body p.r.o.ne on the dirty carpet, face buried in the rug, bleeding from his forehead where he caught it on the roof on the way down. McGully is sitting on his back, smoking a cigar. Detective Culverson is over by the mantel, I'm pacing, everyone's waiting, it's my show.

"Okay. Let's-let's just chat," I say, and then my body is wracked by a long shiver, shaking off the last of the adrenaline high, the rush of the gunshots, of hurtling forward, charging through the muddy snow.

Calm, Palace. Easy.

"Mr. Toussaint, it seems as if the last time we spoke, you omitted a few details about your relationship with Peter Zell."

"Yeah," says McGully curtly, shifting so that his full weight digs into the small of Toussaint's back. "a.s.shole."

"Detective?" I murmur, trying to suggest take it easy without saying it in front of the suspect. He rolls his eyes at me.

"So we were getting high," says Toussaint. "Okay? We were getting f.u.c.ked up. Me and Petey, we got high a few times."

"A few times," I say.

"Yeah. Okay?"

I nod, slowly. "And why did you lie to me, J. T.?"

"Why did he lie to you?" McGully asks, staring at me. "Because you're a policeman, you dodo."

Culverson makes an amused noise from his place over by the mantel. I wish I were alone with J. T., in a room, just he and I, and he could tell me the story. Just two people talking.

Toussaint looks up at me, his body immobile under McGully's weight. "You come around here, you think the guy got killed."

"I said he was a suicide."

"Yeah, well, that was you lying," he says. "No one is investigating suicides. Not now they're not."

Culverson makes his amused noise again, and I look at him, at his wry face: it's a good point. McGully taps out a fat t.u.r.d of cigar ash on the suspect's rug.

Toussaint ignores them both, keeps his eyes on me, keeps talking. "You come here looking for a killer, and I tell you that Pete and me were taking f.u.c.king pain pills, you're going to conclude that I'm the guy who killed him. Right?"

"Not necessarily."

I'm thinking, pills. Popping pills. Small colorful capsules, waxy coating coming off in a sweaty palm. Trying to imagine it, my insurance man, the squalid details of abuse and addiction.

"J. T.," I start.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "I'm dead now either way. I'm done."

"Yup," says McGully mirthfully, and I will him to shut up.

Because I believe Toussaint. I do. There's a part of me that really does believe him. He lied to me for the same reason that Victor France spent his precious hours snooping around Manchester Road to get me the information I needed-because nowadays every charge is serious. Every sentence is a death sentence. If he had explained his real relationship with Peter Zell, he would have gone to prison and not come out. But there's still no reason to a.s.sume that he killed him.

"McGully. Let him up."

"What?" says McGully sharply. "Absolutely not."

We both look to Culverson instinctively; we're all the same rank, but he's the grown-up in the room. Culverson nods minutely. McGully glowers, comes up out of his squat like a gorilla rising from the jungle floor, and steps pointedly on Toussaint's fingers on his way to the ratty sofa. Toussaint struggles to his knees, and Culverson murmurs, "That's far enough," so I get down on my knees, too, so I can look into his eyes, and I give my voice a coaxing, sweet gentleness, somewhere in the vocal range of my mother.

"Tell me what else."

Long silence. "He's-" starts McGully, and I hold up one hand, eyes still on the suspect, and McGully shuts up.

"Please, sir," I say softly. "I just want to know the truth, Mr. Toussaint.

"I didn't kill him."

"I know that," and I mean it. In this instant, looking into his eyes, I don't believe that he did kill him. "I just want to know the truth. You said pills. Where did you get the pills?"

"I didn't get them." Toussaint looks at me, bewildered. "Peter brought 'em over."

"What?"

"G.o.d's truth," he says, for he can see my skepticism. We're down there on the floor, kneeling across from each other like two religious fanatics, a pair of penitents.

"Dead serious," says Toussaint. "Guy shows up on my doorstep with two pill bottles, MS Contins, sixty milligrams a pill, a hundred pills in each bottle. He says he'd like to ingest the drugs in a safe and effective manner."

"That's what he said?" snorts McGully, settled in the easy chair, his sidearm trained on Toussaint.

"Yes."