Black Evening

"Are you all right?" Clauson touched Grady's arm.

Grady swallowed. "I'll manage." Although he'd been the police chief of Bos worth for almost ten years, he'd seen few gunshot victims. After all, Bosworth was a modest-sized town. There wasn't much violent crime. Mostly the corpses he'd viewed had been due to car accidents. That thought suddenly reminded him of the accident in which his wife and son had died, and he felt grief upon grief: for his friends, for his family.

Determined to keep control, Grady sought refuge in forcing himself to muster professional habits, to try to be objective.

"These corpses" – Grady struggled to order his troubled thoughts – "have started to bloat. Even as hot as it's been, they wouldn't be this swollen… Unless… This didn't happen today."

Clauson nodded. "As close as we can tell, it was early yesterday."

The overweight man in the gray suit interrupted. "I'll know for sure when I do the autopsy."

The man was the county's medical examiner. He gestured for the trooper to stop taking photographs. "I think that's enough." He turned to the ambulance attendants. "You can move them now." He pivoted toward Clauson. "Provided you don't object."

Clauson thought about it and shrugged. "We've done as much as we can for now. Go ahead."

Feeling colder, Grady heard the zip of bodybags being opened. To distract himself, he stared toward the glistening blue water of the swimming pool while the attendants put on rubber gloves. He was grateful when Clauson spoke, further distracting him.

"Brian and Betsy were expected home yesterday evening," Clauson said. "When Brian's sister phoned and didn't get an answer, she figured they must have changed their plans and spent the night here. But when she called again in the morning and still didn't get an answer, and when it turned out that Brian hadn't opened the restaurant this morning, his sister got worried. This place doesn't have a phone, so she drove out here…"

"And found the bodies," Grady said, "and then phoned you."

Clauson nodded. In the background, the attendants strained to lift a bulging bodybag onto a gurney, then rolled it toward the ambulance.

Grady forced himself to continue. "It looks as if they were both sitting in these deck chairs, facing the pool. The impact of the bullets knocked them out of the chairs."

"That's how we figure it," Clauson said.

"Which tends to suggest they weren't arguing, at least not so bad that it made Brian angry enough to shoot Betsy and then shoot himself when he realized what he'd done." Grady's throat tightened. "People are usually on their feet when they're shouting at each other. But it's almost as if the two of them were just sitting here, enjoying the view. Then Brian goes to get the pistol, or else he's already got it on him. But why? Why would he decide to shoot her? And why would Betsy just sit there, assuming she knew Brian had the gun?"

"He pla

"Obviously, or else he wouldn't have had the gun."

"That's not the only reason I know Brian pla

Grady lowered his gaze toward the concrete, avoiding the black clots at the rim of the pool and the contrasting white chalk silhouettes of where the bodies had been. He concentrated on the weapon.

"Yes." He sighed. "I get the point." The slide on the.45 was all the way back, projecting behind the hammer. The only time a.45 did that, Grady knew, was when the magazine in the pistol's handle was empty. "Brian didn't load the magazine completely. He put in only two rounds."

"One for Betsy, one for himself," Clauson said. "So what does that tell you?"

"Brian thought about this carefully." Grady felt appalled. "He respected guns. He didn't load the magazine completely because he knew that otherwise the gun would selfcock after he fired the second shot, after he killed himself and the pistol dropped from his hand as he fell. He didn't want whoever found him to pick up a loaded gun and accidentally fire it, maybe killing the person who held it. He tried to do this as cleanly as possible."

Grady forcefully shook his head from side to side. Cleanly? What a poor choice of word. But that was the way Brian had thought. Brian had always worried that an animal he shot might be only wounded, might escape to the forest and suffer for hours, maybe days, before it finally died. In that sense, the way Brian had arranged to kill his wife and then himself was definitely clean. Two shots placed efficiently at the soft spot behind each victim's ear. A direct route to the brain. Instantaneous, non-painful death. At least in theory. Only the victims knew if their death was truly painless, and they couldn't very well talk about it.

Grady frowned so severely that his head ached. Massaging his temples, thinking of the bullets that had plowed through Betsy's skull and then Brian's, he studied Clauson. "Usually someone does this because of marriage problems. Jealousy. One of the partners having an affair. But as far as I know, Brian and Betsy had a faithful relationship."

"You can bet I'll make sure," Clauson said.

"So will I. The only other reason I can think of is that Betsy might have had a fatal illness, something they kept hidden because they didn't want to worry their friends. When the disease got worse, when Betsy couldn't bear the pain, Brian – with Betsy's permission – stopped the pain, and then, because Brian couldn't stand the agony of living without Betsy, he…"

"That's something else I'll check for when I do the autopsy," the medical examiner said.

"And I'll talk to her doctor," Clauson said, determined.

Grady's sadness fought with his confusion. "So how does this involve me? You told me it was something about his hand. Something he clutched."

Clauson looked reluctant. "I'm afraid there's no good way to do this. I'm sorry. I'll just have to show you. Brian left a note."

"I was going to ask if he did. I need answers."

Clauson pulled a plastic bag from a pocket in his shirt. The bag contained a piece of paper.

Grady murmured, "If Brian left a note, there's no question. Combined with the way he loaded the forty-five, there's no doubt he made careful plans. Perhaps along with…" Grady shuddered. "I've got the terrible feeling Betsy agreed."

"That thought occurred to me," Clauson said. "But there's no way we'll ever know. He had this piece of paper clutched around the grip of the pistol. When the forty-five dropped from his hand, the note stuck to his fingers."

Grady studied it and shivered.

The note was printed boldly in black ink.

TELL BEN GRADY. BRING HIM HERE.

That was all.

And it was too much.

"Bring me here? Why?"

"That's why I said we had to talk." Clauson bit his lip. "Come on, let's get away from where this happened. I think it's time for a stroll."

They emerged from the swimming pool area and crossed a stretch of gravel, their footsteps crunching as they passed the barbecue pit as well as two redwood picnic tables and approached the largest of the cinderblock buildings. It was thirty feet long and half as wide. A metal chimney projected from the nearest wall and rose above the roof. There were three dusty windows.

"Bring you here." Clauson echoed Brian's note. "That can mean different things. To see the bodies, or to see the compound. I didn't know Brian well, but my impression is, he wasn't cruel. I can't imagine why he'd have wanted you to see what he'd done. It makes me wonder if…"

Grady anticipated the rest of the question. "I've never been here. In fact, I didn't know this place existed. Even with the directions you relayed through my office, I had trouble finding the lane."

"And yet you and the Roths were close."

"Only recently – within the last year. I met them at a meeting of The Compassionate Friends."