It was no longer his business or his problem, never would be again.
That was, unless someone made it his problem. He was still Colt and no matter what had happened, she was still February.
He saw Darryl tending the other end of the bar and he wanted a drink but he went directly to the small office in the back.
Morrie was sitting at the cluttered desk, his body hunched, his elbow on the desk, forehead in his hand.
This pose did not give Colt a good feeling.
Colt closed the door behind him and Morrie jumped.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckin’ hell, I’m glad you’re here,” Morrie said, getting up and moving swiftly.
For a big man he was surprisingly fast and agile. This probably had something to do with the fact that they played one-on-one basketball together every Saturday or, when the weather was shit, they’d play racquetball. They’d both been athletes all their lives even though, when they were young, they’d intermittently get drunk, high and smoke, still they’d both always stayed obsessively fit.
For Colt, this was because he spent most of his youth watching his mother popping pills, chain-smoking cigarettes and sucking on a bottle of vodka. She didn’t even bother pouring it, drank it straight out of the bottle, uncut. He never remembered a time when she wasn’t zoned out or hammered, mostly both. She was thin as a rail, rarely ate and, even when she was young, her skin hung on her like old-lady flesh.
His father wasn’t much better. He didn’t pop pills but he smoked weed and snorted coke when he had the money to buy it. He remained sober during the day when he had a job but at night he’d get hammered right along with Colt’s Mom. Most of the time he didn’t have a job so Colt’s memories of his Dad were pretty much filled with him less than sober.
For Morrie, he stayed fit because he’d been around Colt’s Mom and Dad not to mention grew up in a bar.
Morrie picked up a Ziploc bag with a piece of lined paper in it and handed it to Colt.
“This came in the mail today, addressed to Feb,” Morrie waved his hand at the paper. “I put it in that thing, the bag. I didn’t want it to get tainted. Once I figured out what it was, I barely touched it,” he jerked his head to the desk, another bag containing an envelope was lying there. “Did the same with the envelope, it’s here too.”
It was good Morrie watched cop shows.
Colt looked at the paper. He hadn’t seen paper like that in a long time. It was something you’d have at school. It seemed old, the writing faded. On the top in pencil, Feb’s name was written.
He read the note, not understanding it. It sounded like teenage girl bullshit, a handwritten pissy fit. It even mentioned Kevin Kercher who’d gone to IU after high school and never came back, not even for reunions. Colt got to the bottom where the sender signed her name.
Angie.
“What the f**k?”
“What the f**k is right!” Morrie exploded. “Look at the back!”
Colt flipped the paper over and saw, again in pencil, this darker, newer, in different handwriting, the words, For you.
Something heavy and disturbing settled in his gut. Something he didn’t want there. It felt like it felt when he was a kid in his room, listening to his Mom and Dad fight, knowing exactly when it would escalate by the change in their voices, being able to count it off to within seconds before he heard her head hit the wall or her cry of pain before her body hit the floor. He hadn’t had that feeling in years, not in years. Not since he sat on that toilet seat with Feb wiping away the blood his father caused to flow from his face while Morrie got the ice and Jack and Jackie left their kids to take care of him, knowing they’d raised good kids who’d know what to do while they went about the business of rocking his world.
He wanted to open his own flesh and tear the heavy thing out. It didn’t belong there. He’d worked for years making himself into a man who didn’t carry that kind of weight around. Jack and Jackie had helped him get rid of it, and Morrie and Feb. He didn’t want it back, not ever, but particularly not when it being there had to do with Feb.
He looked at Morrie. “Bring Feb in here.”
“I don’t want her seein’ that.”
“Bring her in here.”
“Colt –”
“Morrie, this has to do with a homicide, bring her, the f**k, in here.”
Morrie held his eyes for too long. So long, Colt thought the situation would deteriorate. He’d fought with Morrie, too many times, but the bad blood never lasted long.
But this was about February.
Finally, Morrie muttered, “Shit,” and he walked out the door.
In his head Colt went over the crime scene.
Angie’d been done by the dumpster, murdered, not dumped, right behind Jack and Jackie’s bar.
Lab results weren’t back, autopsy not finalized, but there’d been no apparent struggle. Her eyes were closed naturally which meant she was probably out but not bludgeoned. There were no head wounds, she had maybe been drugged when she’d been slaughtered which was good, at least it was for Angie.
Bloody footprints leading away from the body, that much blood, what he did to her, the killer had to get messy. Footprints ended abruptly five feet away. He’d gotten into a car, his clothes and hands likely covered in Angie’s blood, and drove away.
The hatchet was found not far from where the footprints ended, he’d tossed it aside. No prints on the hatchet, no DNA left at the scene that they could find, though, considering it was an often used alley, they were still sifting through all the shit they found.
But it appeared it was just the footprints and the hatchet and Angie’s body. That’s all he left.
And it had to be a “he”. No woman had the strength to hack those wounds, clean, precise, like he chopped wood for a living and knew what he was doing.
Unless she was a German shot-putter, it had to be a “he”.
Colt’s thoughts shifted to Feb and Angie.
It hadn’t escaped him as he went through his day they’d once been good friends.
Hell, even as recently as a few nights ago he’d watched Feb wander over to Angie’s table and stand beside it, looking down at Angie, saying shit he couldn’t hear but it made Angie laugh.
Angie didn’t laugh much, never did unless she was flirting or unless Feb wandered over to her to shoot the shit with her to draw Angie out, to make her melancholy face alive again, even if for a few minutes.
But a long time ago, it used to be more.
When Angie and Feb were in junior high, Angie was at Jack and Jackie’s nearly as much as Colt was. Jack and Jackie, and Morrie and Feb for that matter, collected strays. Jack and Jackie’s house was always filled with kids and people for as long as Colt could remember. Angie’s home wasn’t much better than Colt’s so, like Colt, but unfortunately for Angie only for awhile, she’d been adopted.
That was, unless someone made it his problem. He was still Colt and no matter what had happened, she was still February.
He saw Darryl tending the other end of the bar and he wanted a drink but he went directly to the small office in the back.
Morrie was sitting at the cluttered desk, his body hunched, his elbow on the desk, forehead in his hand.
This pose did not give Colt a good feeling.
Colt closed the door behind him and Morrie jumped.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckin’ hell, I’m glad you’re here,” Morrie said, getting up and moving swiftly.
For a big man he was surprisingly fast and agile. This probably had something to do with the fact that they played one-on-one basketball together every Saturday or, when the weather was shit, they’d play racquetball. They’d both been athletes all their lives even though, when they were young, they’d intermittently get drunk, high and smoke, still they’d both always stayed obsessively fit.
For Colt, this was because he spent most of his youth watching his mother popping pills, chain-smoking cigarettes and sucking on a bottle of vodka. She didn’t even bother pouring it, drank it straight out of the bottle, uncut. He never remembered a time when she wasn’t zoned out or hammered, mostly both. She was thin as a rail, rarely ate and, even when she was young, her skin hung on her like old-lady flesh.
His father wasn’t much better. He didn’t pop pills but he smoked weed and snorted coke when he had the money to buy it. He remained sober during the day when he had a job but at night he’d get hammered right along with Colt’s Mom. Most of the time he didn’t have a job so Colt’s memories of his Dad were pretty much filled with him less than sober.
For Morrie, he stayed fit because he’d been around Colt’s Mom and Dad not to mention grew up in a bar.
Morrie picked up a Ziploc bag with a piece of lined paper in it and handed it to Colt.
“This came in the mail today, addressed to Feb,” Morrie waved his hand at the paper. “I put it in that thing, the bag. I didn’t want it to get tainted. Once I figured out what it was, I barely touched it,” he jerked his head to the desk, another bag containing an envelope was lying there. “Did the same with the envelope, it’s here too.”
It was good Morrie watched cop shows.
Colt looked at the paper. He hadn’t seen paper like that in a long time. It was something you’d have at school. It seemed old, the writing faded. On the top in pencil, Feb’s name was written.
He read the note, not understanding it. It sounded like teenage girl bullshit, a handwritten pissy fit. It even mentioned Kevin Kercher who’d gone to IU after high school and never came back, not even for reunions. Colt got to the bottom where the sender signed her name.
Angie.
“What the f**k?”
“What the f**k is right!” Morrie exploded. “Look at the back!”
Colt flipped the paper over and saw, again in pencil, this darker, newer, in different handwriting, the words, For you.
Something heavy and disturbing settled in his gut. Something he didn’t want there. It felt like it felt when he was a kid in his room, listening to his Mom and Dad fight, knowing exactly when it would escalate by the change in their voices, being able to count it off to within seconds before he heard her head hit the wall or her cry of pain before her body hit the floor. He hadn’t had that feeling in years, not in years. Not since he sat on that toilet seat with Feb wiping away the blood his father caused to flow from his face while Morrie got the ice and Jack and Jackie left their kids to take care of him, knowing they’d raised good kids who’d know what to do while they went about the business of rocking his world.
He wanted to open his own flesh and tear the heavy thing out. It didn’t belong there. He’d worked for years making himself into a man who didn’t carry that kind of weight around. Jack and Jackie had helped him get rid of it, and Morrie and Feb. He didn’t want it back, not ever, but particularly not when it being there had to do with Feb.
He looked at Morrie. “Bring Feb in here.”
“I don’t want her seein’ that.”
“Bring her in here.”
“Colt –”
“Morrie, this has to do with a homicide, bring her, the f**k, in here.”
Morrie held his eyes for too long. So long, Colt thought the situation would deteriorate. He’d fought with Morrie, too many times, but the bad blood never lasted long.
But this was about February.
Finally, Morrie muttered, “Shit,” and he walked out the door.
In his head Colt went over the crime scene.
Angie’d been done by the dumpster, murdered, not dumped, right behind Jack and Jackie’s bar.
Lab results weren’t back, autopsy not finalized, but there’d been no apparent struggle. Her eyes were closed naturally which meant she was probably out but not bludgeoned. There were no head wounds, she had maybe been drugged when she’d been slaughtered which was good, at least it was for Angie.
Bloody footprints leading away from the body, that much blood, what he did to her, the killer had to get messy. Footprints ended abruptly five feet away. He’d gotten into a car, his clothes and hands likely covered in Angie’s blood, and drove away.
The hatchet was found not far from where the footprints ended, he’d tossed it aside. No prints on the hatchet, no DNA left at the scene that they could find, though, considering it was an often used alley, they were still sifting through all the shit they found.
But it appeared it was just the footprints and the hatchet and Angie’s body. That’s all he left.
And it had to be a “he”. No woman had the strength to hack those wounds, clean, precise, like he chopped wood for a living and knew what he was doing.
Unless she was a German shot-putter, it had to be a “he”.
Colt’s thoughts shifted to Feb and Angie.
It hadn’t escaped him as he went through his day they’d once been good friends.
Hell, even as recently as a few nights ago he’d watched Feb wander over to Angie’s table and stand beside it, looking down at Angie, saying shit he couldn’t hear but it made Angie laugh.
Angie didn’t laugh much, never did unless she was flirting or unless Feb wandered over to her to shoot the shit with her to draw Angie out, to make her melancholy face alive again, even if for a few minutes.
But a long time ago, it used to be more.
When Angie and Feb were in junior high, Angie was at Jack and Jackie’s nearly as much as Colt was. Jack and Jackie, and Morrie and Feb for that matter, collected strays. Jack and Jackie’s house was always filled with kids and people for as long as Colt could remember. Angie’s home wasn’t much better than Colt’s so, like Colt, but unfortunately for Angie only for awhile, she’d been adopted.
