Toy Soldiers: Still Echoing (PG-13)
Summary: "Your first time seeing a body, Mr. Tepper?"
Notes: Written for my personal Not Exactly NaNo challenge (a snippet a day for all of October). Also story #5 in the Road Trip series, and the fill for prompt 30, "death," because I'm just that efficient. :) Someday I'll get off this mystery-novel subtext, I promise.
STILL ECHOING
*
Just before I left, there was a message on my answering machine. Some reporter from the Globe wanted to interview me for a prospective article, something like THE REGIS HOSTAGE CRISIS, FIVE YEARS LATER.
I called back and said sorry, I'd be out of town for the summer.
Five years.
Snuffy says I should be over it. But some things you don't forget.
Some things you're not allowed to forget.
*
"All cars, calling all cars, we have a report of a body off Route 9 West, mile marker 52, possible homicide --"
"Ah, shit," Jim Sanderson muttered, not quite quietly enough.
His partner gave him a look as she picked up the mike. "This is Sanderson and McKay. We're close to there, so we'll take the call."
Sanderson pulled a face at her, but McKay only shook her head as she hung up the mike again. "You don't need lunch that badly."
"We've already got six active cases," he reminded her.
"You want to explain why we didn't show up when we were right here?"
Shit. Sometimes, McKay was too damn logical to live with. "All right, all right." Next right would put them on Route 9. So much for a nice easy lunch or a nice easy afternoon.
Right around mile marker 52, there was a Camaro pulled over to the side of the road, with a young man, sitting inside. A nice Camaro. Jeez, Cole shoulda answered this call: he was the one who appreciated cars. Sanderson pulled up behind the Camaro, then looked over at McKay. "Any details?"
"Nope. Just what you heard: possible homicide." She smiled at him, way too cheerfully for someone who hadn't had breakfast either, and liked dead bodies even less than Sanderson did.
"I'm telling you, you should ask dispatch more questions."
"That's what we're here for."
Sanderson shook his head, and got out of the car, walking over to the front window to tap on it. When it rolled down, he said, "Hi. We got a call about a body being found?"
"Yeah, that'd be me." The guy didn't look like much more than a kid, maybe college age. He didn't look at Sanderson at first, just at the wheel. Then he took a deep breath, let it out. "Sorry. I'm Billy Tepper."
"Detective Sanderson," Sanderson said. "You mind coming out here?"
"Oh. Yeah, sure, sorry." Billy opened the door, then hesitated. "Are you going to be taking me anywhere? Because I don't want to just leave the car."
"Not just yet, sir," McKay said. She already had her pad and pencil out, but she was good with that reassuring smile. "This is just a preliminary statement. We'd like you to come back to the station a little later for a full signed statement, but you'll be able to take your car for that. Just looking for the basic facts."
Tepper smiled back. "That's good. It's not my car, and Mark would ki-- uh, get pissed at me if anything happened." He got out, and closed the door behind him firmly.
"Not your car?" Not where he'd usually start, but he didn't make detective by letting things drop.
"No. It belongs to Mark Tobin. He's been using it at college, but we just graduated, and now he wants to take it back, but he didn't feel like driving it the whole way, so he asked me if I'd do it."
"Got contact information for this Mark Tobin?"
No hesitation. "Yeah, if you need it." Tepper started to turn back toward the car.
"It's okay," Sanderson said quickly. "Just so we can get it later. So where are you driving from?"
"Cambridge. Um, Boston area. Massachusetts."
"To California? What brought you up this way?"
"Visiting a friend. I'm taking it slow." A shrug.
"Your friend in town?"
"Nah, up in Chicago. I was swinging down from there."
That made more sense. They'd still have to get the friend's name later, but Tepper's story wasn't ringing any of Sanderson's alarms. Sanderson glanced over at McKay, and she took up the thread: "If you're just passing through, how did you come across the body?"
Tepper glanced back over his shoulder toward the woods behind them, then turned to face McKay directly. "I was driving along here, kinda slow because the sun was in my eyes. Then I heard a gunshot, close, so I stopped the car."
"Gunshot," Sanderson interrupted. "Not a car backfiring."
"No, sir."
"You know what a gun sounds like?"
Something in the boy's eyes at that, a momentary flicker away from Sanderson and back again. But all he said was a quiet, "Yes, sir."
"Mmm." He'd have to check once they got back to the station, run Tepper's name through the police database. It was possible that he came from a hunting family, but didn't seem too likely, not from Massachusetts.
McKay gave him a curious look, but she picked up the thread again. "So you stopped the car, and then?"
"Well, first I just sat there, kept my head down. But I didn't hear any more shots, so I got out and looked around."
Kept his head down? Tepper was wearing jeans and a bright blue t-shirt. Not too likely an errant hunter would've hit him. Besides, there shouldn't have been any hunters out there, not over a month past the end of turkey season. He wondered if the kid knew that.
"I got up to the top of the hill, and looked around, and I saw..." Tepper paused and swallowed, then went on more quietly. "I saw the body. Only I didn't know for sure he was dead. I went a little closer, said something just in case he was, y'know, keeping down like I'd been, just being cautious or something. But then I saw his head."
"And you knew he was dead?" McKay said gently.
"Half blown off," Tepper said. One hand clenched, then released, as if in illustration. "So, yeah. So I came back to the car, and called 911, and I guess they called you guys."
Nice cohesive statement, a lot more coherent than some he'd taken in his time. But still a couple points that needed clarification. "You said you saw the body," Sanderson said. "Was it lying out in the open?"
"Next to a couple trees," Tepper said readily. "I saw -- I saw the Chucks first."
"And it's where?"
"Right up there." Tepper pointed.
Sanderson looked at his partner, raising his eyebrows in silent question. She looked at Tepper, then back at him, and nodded once, pocketing her pad. She'd stay here with Tepper, while Sanderson went to take a look at the body. If Tepper was going to slip and say something he shouldn't, he was more likely to say it around her than around Sanderson.
As Tepper had said, the body wasn't hard to find at all. It was a boy of perhaps Tepper's age, maybe a little younger, wearing bright red Chuck Taylor shoes. Otherwise there wasn't much to make the dead stand out: jeans, black t-shirt with something painted on it, close-cut dark hair. Skinny, looked like. A little swarthy, maybe Italian. They'd have to check in his pockets for ID. Apparent cause of death, gunshot wound to the head. The boy had fallen face down, head turned so all you saw was bloody ruin, nothing recognizable. Forensics would be able to tell more. In the meantime, he needed to establish a perimeter and not mess up any clues.
Sanderson backed up a few steps, then turned in place. Only one set of footprints coming from the forest that he could see, and those apparently belonged to the victim. Two sets of footprints coming from the road, his and Tepper's. Even in the slanting tree-shadows, he could tell the difference between his shoes and Tepper's sneakers. The tracks seemed to accord to Tepper's statement: he came up to within a few feet of the victim, stood there for a minute, then backed up and walked back. Or at least didn't immediately run: the prints were full-sole.
No vomit, either. No tears. He'd have to ask dispatch if Tepper had been shaky at all on the phone: it wasn't often that an innocent witness managed to stay that calm in the fact of violent death.
In the meantime, he could find out more by just asking. He came back to find McKay and Tepper talking quietly, about local restaurants rather than anything useful. Sanderson's stomach growled, reminding him of the lunch he was missing, and making him more snappish than he intended. "Your first time seeing a body, Mr. Tepper?"
"No, sir."
That wasn't what he'd expected, even with the gunshot comment earlier. "No?"
Tepper hesitated, and looked at McKay, of all people. She nodded to him, then said, "He was at Regis School. Remember, the hostage situation?"
Very vaguely. It had been, what, four years ago? Five? His sister had been thinking of sending her son to Regis, which was the only reason he'd noticed the reports in the news in the first place. "That's why you recognized the sound of gunshots?"
Tepper nodded once.
Huh. He'd still need to check Tepper out in the database, but that little piece of information would explain the more suspicious aspects. "I see." Sanderson hesitated, trying to decide if there was any way to say 'sorry, didn't mean to be an asshole' and if it was even worth bothering, and gave up. "Right. Soon as forensics and some uniforms get here, we'll head back to the station, then." McKay was glaring at him. Ah, fuck it. "Um. Sorry about..."
Fortunately, Tepper figured out what he meant, and gave him a half-smile. "Nah, it's okay."
That'd have to be enough. The first car was pulling up now, so they'd get the scene cordoned off soon. Maybe he could send McKay off with Tepper back to the station, so he could take another look at the scene. There was something odd about those footprints coming from the trees, and he wanted to take another look.
*
It's not like it was a perfect match -- he wasn't lying on his back, he wasn't shot in the chest, he didn't have a gun of his own. It wasn't Joey. I know that.
But for half a second, it was almost...
Everyone else has forgotten, or mostly everyone else. Except for those of us who were there.
I don't. I can't. I won't. Because that's all I have left, even if it hurts.
-end-
Notes: Written for my personal Not Exactly NaNo challenge (a snippet a day for all of October). Also story #5 in the Road Trip series, and the fill for prompt 30, "death," because I'm just that efficient. :) Someday I'll get off this mystery-novel subtext, I promise.
STILL ECHOING
*
Just before I left, there was a message on my answering machine. Some reporter from the Globe wanted to interview me for a prospective article, something like THE REGIS HOSTAGE CRISIS, FIVE YEARS LATER.
I called back and said sorry, I'd be out of town for the summer.
Five years.
Snuffy says I should be over it. But some things you don't forget.
Some things you're not allowed to forget.
*
"All cars, calling all cars, we have a report of a body off Route 9 West, mile marker 52, possible homicide --"
"Ah, shit," Jim Sanderson muttered, not quite quietly enough.
His partner gave him a look as she picked up the mike. "This is Sanderson and McKay. We're close to there, so we'll take the call."
Sanderson pulled a face at her, but McKay only shook her head as she hung up the mike again. "You don't need lunch that badly."
"We've already got six active cases," he reminded her.
"You want to explain why we didn't show up when we were right here?"
Shit. Sometimes, McKay was too damn logical to live with. "All right, all right." Next right would put them on Route 9. So much for a nice easy lunch or a nice easy afternoon.
Right around mile marker 52, there was a Camaro pulled over to the side of the road, with a young man, sitting inside. A nice Camaro. Jeez, Cole shoulda answered this call: he was the one who appreciated cars. Sanderson pulled up behind the Camaro, then looked over at McKay. "Any details?"
"Nope. Just what you heard: possible homicide." She smiled at him, way too cheerfully for someone who hadn't had breakfast either, and liked dead bodies even less than Sanderson did.
"I'm telling you, you should ask dispatch more questions."
"That's what we're here for."
Sanderson shook his head, and got out of the car, walking over to the front window to tap on it. When it rolled down, he said, "Hi. We got a call about a body being found?"
"Yeah, that'd be me." The guy didn't look like much more than a kid, maybe college age. He didn't look at Sanderson at first, just at the wheel. Then he took a deep breath, let it out. "Sorry. I'm Billy Tepper."
"Detective Sanderson," Sanderson said. "You mind coming out here?"
"Oh. Yeah, sure, sorry." Billy opened the door, then hesitated. "Are you going to be taking me anywhere? Because I don't want to just leave the car."
"Not just yet, sir," McKay said. She already had her pad and pencil out, but she was good with that reassuring smile. "This is just a preliminary statement. We'd like you to come back to the station a little later for a full signed statement, but you'll be able to take your car for that. Just looking for the basic facts."
Tepper smiled back. "That's good. It's not my car, and Mark would ki-- uh, get pissed at me if anything happened." He got out, and closed the door behind him firmly.
"Not your car?" Not where he'd usually start, but he didn't make detective by letting things drop.
"No. It belongs to Mark Tobin. He's been using it at college, but we just graduated, and now he wants to take it back, but he didn't feel like driving it the whole way, so he asked me if I'd do it."
"Got contact information for this Mark Tobin?"
No hesitation. "Yeah, if you need it." Tepper started to turn back toward the car.
"It's okay," Sanderson said quickly. "Just so we can get it later. So where are you driving from?"
"Cambridge. Um, Boston area. Massachusetts."
"To California? What brought you up this way?"
"Visiting a friend. I'm taking it slow." A shrug.
"Your friend in town?"
"Nah, up in Chicago. I was swinging down from there."
That made more sense. They'd still have to get the friend's name later, but Tepper's story wasn't ringing any of Sanderson's alarms. Sanderson glanced over at McKay, and she took up the thread: "If you're just passing through, how did you come across the body?"
Tepper glanced back over his shoulder toward the woods behind them, then turned to face McKay directly. "I was driving along here, kinda slow because the sun was in my eyes. Then I heard a gunshot, close, so I stopped the car."
"Gunshot," Sanderson interrupted. "Not a car backfiring."
"No, sir."
"You know what a gun sounds like?"
Something in the boy's eyes at that, a momentary flicker away from Sanderson and back again. But all he said was a quiet, "Yes, sir."
"Mmm." He'd have to check once they got back to the station, run Tepper's name through the police database. It was possible that he came from a hunting family, but didn't seem too likely, not from Massachusetts.
McKay gave him a curious look, but she picked up the thread again. "So you stopped the car, and then?"
"Well, first I just sat there, kept my head down. But I didn't hear any more shots, so I got out and looked around."
Kept his head down? Tepper was wearing jeans and a bright blue t-shirt. Not too likely an errant hunter would've hit him. Besides, there shouldn't have been any hunters out there, not over a month past the end of turkey season. He wondered if the kid knew that.
"I got up to the top of the hill, and looked around, and I saw..." Tepper paused and swallowed, then went on more quietly. "I saw the body. Only I didn't know for sure he was dead. I went a little closer, said something just in case he was, y'know, keeping down like I'd been, just being cautious or something. But then I saw his head."
"And you knew he was dead?" McKay said gently.
"Half blown off," Tepper said. One hand clenched, then released, as if in illustration. "So, yeah. So I came back to the car, and called 911, and I guess they called you guys."
Nice cohesive statement, a lot more coherent than some he'd taken in his time. But still a couple points that needed clarification. "You said you saw the body," Sanderson said. "Was it lying out in the open?"
"Next to a couple trees," Tepper said readily. "I saw -- I saw the Chucks first."
"And it's where?"
"Right up there." Tepper pointed.
Sanderson looked at his partner, raising his eyebrows in silent question. She looked at Tepper, then back at him, and nodded once, pocketing her pad. She'd stay here with Tepper, while Sanderson went to take a look at the body. If Tepper was going to slip and say something he shouldn't, he was more likely to say it around her than around Sanderson.
As Tepper had said, the body wasn't hard to find at all. It was a boy of perhaps Tepper's age, maybe a little younger, wearing bright red Chuck Taylor shoes. Otherwise there wasn't much to make the dead stand out: jeans, black t-shirt with something painted on it, close-cut dark hair. Skinny, looked like. A little swarthy, maybe Italian. They'd have to check in his pockets for ID. Apparent cause of death, gunshot wound to the head. The boy had fallen face down, head turned so all you saw was bloody ruin, nothing recognizable. Forensics would be able to tell more. In the meantime, he needed to establish a perimeter and not mess up any clues.
Sanderson backed up a few steps, then turned in place. Only one set of footprints coming from the forest that he could see, and those apparently belonged to the victim. Two sets of footprints coming from the road, his and Tepper's. Even in the slanting tree-shadows, he could tell the difference between his shoes and Tepper's sneakers. The tracks seemed to accord to Tepper's statement: he came up to within a few feet of the victim, stood there for a minute, then backed up and walked back. Or at least didn't immediately run: the prints were full-sole.
No vomit, either. No tears. He'd have to ask dispatch if Tepper had been shaky at all on the phone: it wasn't often that an innocent witness managed to stay that calm in the fact of violent death.
In the meantime, he could find out more by just asking. He came back to find McKay and Tepper talking quietly, about local restaurants rather than anything useful. Sanderson's stomach growled, reminding him of the lunch he was missing, and making him more snappish than he intended. "Your first time seeing a body, Mr. Tepper?"
"No, sir."
That wasn't what he'd expected, even with the gunshot comment earlier. "No?"
Tepper hesitated, and looked at McKay, of all people. She nodded to him, then said, "He was at Regis School. Remember, the hostage situation?"
Very vaguely. It had been, what, four years ago? Five? His sister had been thinking of sending her son to Regis, which was the only reason he'd noticed the reports in the news in the first place. "That's why you recognized the sound of gunshots?"
Tepper nodded once.
Huh. He'd still need to check Tepper out in the database, but that little piece of information would explain the more suspicious aspects. "I see." Sanderson hesitated, trying to decide if there was any way to say 'sorry, didn't mean to be an asshole' and if it was even worth bothering, and gave up. "Right. Soon as forensics and some uniforms get here, we'll head back to the station, then." McKay was glaring at him. Ah, fuck it. "Um. Sorry about..."
Fortunately, Tepper figured out what he meant, and gave him a half-smile. "Nah, it's okay."
That'd have to be enough. The first car was pulling up now, so they'd get the scene cordoned off soon. Maybe he could send McKay off with Tepper back to the station, so he could take another look at the scene. There was something odd about those footprints coming from the trees, and he wanted to take another look.
*
It's not like it was a perfect match -- he wasn't lying on his back, he wasn't shot in the chest, he didn't have a gun of his own. It wasn't Joey. I know that.
But for half a second, it was almost...
Everyone else has forgotten, or mostly everyone else. Except for those of us who were there.
I don't. I can't. I won't. Because that's all I have left, even if it hurts.
-end-