Ricochet

The red, white and blue lights from the police vehicles and ambulance bounced off the barn and the eighteenth century farmhouse. The shuffling of hooves and snorts continually came from the barn, because the horses were not accustomed to commotion at midnight. There was a scent of hay. A couple of officers leaned against the corral fence, one of them smoking, both sipping coffee from 7-11.

Through the window of the farmhouse, you could see the back of one of the detectives, hand on his pistol, leaning over to look at something. The red lights of the ambulance flashed at the window, making a huge sniper target on the back of the detective as they rotated. The front door was open to a hall that led to a door and the room with the window.

In the room, Chris sat motionless on a leather ottoman, his back to the matching chair, the chair Sharon had given him when he’d moved into the farm permanently. He studied the stenciled plaster wall, seeing nothing. His Colt 1911, with seven rounds in the clip, lay on the floor three feet away, and across the room, medical personnel confirmed what he already knew— his wife was dead. Detective Toni Lanco, Pooleville Police, wearing gloves and carrying two plastic bags, walked past the medics. She carefully lifted the gun, removed the clip, made sure the chamber was empty, and placed the clip in one bag and the weapon in the other. Lanco’s partner, Detective Bud Black, stood beside Chris, hand still on his service revolver. Once Chris’s weapon was gone, he dragged a caned chair from the desk and sat facing Chris.

“Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Straight?”

Chris, still in shock, began slowly. “We were watching an old movie, The Horse Whisperer, and I heard a sound outside the window… So Sharon muted the television.”

Chris looked toward the silent television and saw the movie credits running.

“It sounded like someone was trying to remove the window screen. I took my gun from the drawer.”

Slowly, he pointed to the small maple table beside the leather chair. The drawer was open. A lamp sat on top and a cell phone lay beside the lamp.

“I stood up and saw a man standing outside, aiming a gun at me. I shot at him before he could shoot me, but the bullet hit the wall and ricocheted in my wife’s direction. I called 911 immediately.”

Chris watched the sheet being pulled over his wife’s bloody head and became queasy. Detective Black nodded to Detective Lanco, who immediately took a flashlight from her pocket and left. Chris watched her light moving around outside the window.

“Mr. Straight, are you the legal owner of the firearm?”

“Yes, legal. I have a concealed carry permit and purchased the gun for protection. From a dealer who ran a background check.”

“How long have you lived here?” “Two years. It’s Sharon’s place. I moved in when we married. It’s a riding school. Sharon and I love our home in the woods, but there are no neighbors to rely on in times of emergency. “

Detective Black’s cellphone rang and he backed up to the wall across from Chris, still eying him, lowering his voice to keep his conversation private.

Chris thought about Sharon and guns. She’d grown up with brothers who hunted deer and ducks and she’d had no objection when Chris suggested they keep a loaded pistol in the drawer for protection. She’d said it wasn’t a problem because they had no children and her riding students never entered the residence. Chris could only remember her commenting on gun rights or gun control once.

“The gun rights lobby is a group that exploits sportsmen in order to protect the interests of gun manufacturers.” she’d said. “But, anyone who considers hunting murder needs professional help, or, at least, some education about animals and the natural world.”

For Sharon, these were facts, not emotional positions. Chris suspected Sharon had forgotten about the gun in the drawer until a few minutes before she died. Detective Lanco returned.

“Nothing unusual outside the window—screen intact, ground undisturbed, no sign of person or animal walking around.”

Detective Black looked at Chris, then at the window, then at Lanco.

“Check over there near the window for any indication of a bullet hitting something.”

Chris continued to stare ahead blankly. It was perhaps the longest time he’d ever focussed on anything, being a person prone to distraction, one for whom the real estate profession was a good match, a profession that rewarded his quick response and let him move around constantly.

“Mr. Straight, we need to talk with you at the station. It’s procedure after any shooting. Do you want to call anyone to meet you there?”

“Yes, I’d like to call my wife.”

Officer Black wondered if Chris needed medical attention. In his fifteen years on the force, he’d seen people deal with death in many ways. Some immediately called members of their social clubs or sports teams, who rallied the troops to provide intensive support to the survivor. Others called a best friend, a sibling, or a child. Others thought they could deal alone, but they seldom could. He still had nightmares about the guy who insisted on going home alone and jumped from the top floor of his apartment building three hours later. Most bereaved called their spouses, which was not possible this time.

“Your wife, Mr. Straight?”

“I mean, I want to call my ex-wife.”

Detective Black didn’t remember anyone calling their former spouse when their current spouse died, but he’d seen many relationships he didn’t understand in his life, including the one he had with his own wife, which went smoothly, except when he cut vacations short for work.

“Go ahead, make your call.”

He handed Chris his own phone, not wanting him to touch the phone on the table, and listened to the conversation.

“Hi Tammy. Sorry to call so late, but I need a big favor. There’s been an accident and Sharon is dead and I have to go with the police. Could I call later for a ride home?”

Detective Black studied Chris, straining to hear the woman’s response through the phone pressed against Chris’s ear, looking for Chris’s reaction.

“I’ll explain later, Tam. I’m still in shock. Go to bed. There’s nothing you can do. I’m safe. I’ll call when they’re finished. I appreciate it.”

Detective Black took the phone from Chris. He stood and lightly grabbed Chris’s upper arm, signaling him to rise.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Straight, but I have to cuff you. It’s procedure.”

He was surprised when Chris didn’t argue. Many suspects did. Once the wrists were tethered together, he escorted him out of the room to the cruiser parked beside the flashing ambulance, leaving Officer Lanco behind.

#

Tammy hung up the phone and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of green tea. She was a massage therapist, who enjoyed her clients, and liked working for herself. She was married to Chris for a decade, content for half those years, before Chris’s paranoia became a problem for her. He’d wanted her to require background checks for all her clients and she’d refused. He’d wanted her to keep a gun in her studio for protection and she’d refused. He suggested they take a gun safety class together, constantly reminding her of horrible events involving crazy people who bought military style weapons to murder many people in short periods of time.

“It’s common sense to be prepared to defend yourself.” he’d said. “The political divisions in this country are extreme and the drug epidemic is real.”

Tammy was unconvinced and exhausted by his tirades on the need for self defense.

“There’s no point in getting a gun for protection if you won’t use it. I couldn’t shoot another human being even if my life depended on it. Besides, there’s nothing valuable here to steal. Relax, Chris.”

Tammy wasn’t naive. Her father was a war veteran who’d owned guns. She kept bookends he’d made from small torpedo shells in her living room. She’d learned to shoot at a young age, always knowing where the guns were kept, never touching them. As a college student, she’d decided she was completely anti-war and completely anti-gun, believing a disarmed world would be a better one, that war was always bad, that animals should never be shot, and that crime increased when gun ownership increased. As she aged, she tempered her position when she saw hunters treating animals more humanely than commercial meat producers. She tasted venison and liked it.

Chris had begun stopping by the house several times a day to ensure Tammy was safe. Tammy felt stalked.

“I ran my business just fine before I married you. I don’t intend on changing it because you insist on envisioning tragedy.”

She couldn’t get through to Chris and became more and more distant. He told her he was lonely and implied she had more than a business relationship with her male clients. That was the last straw. Tammy moved to a townhouse of her own and served Chris with divorce papers.

Chris still checked up on Tammy every few months, and Tammy was surprised when the great protector called her this evening to ask for help.

#

Detective Black deposited Chris in the back seat of the cruiser. He told the officers in the front seat he would meet them at the station. At the station, he led Chris around a counter manned by a tall, plump, officer with greying temples and a red nose. They proceeded down the hall to a room that smelled faintly of tobacco, vomit, and urine, all presumably impossible to totally remove from the blue-green indoor-outdoor carpeting. The walls were painted light green and a heavy metal table sat in the center of the small room. You weren’t allowed to smoke in the station, but many people who were brought in for questioning wore clothes saturated with the scent from years of the habit. It made Officer Black want a cigarette each time he entered that room, though he hadn’t actually had one since his heart event ten years ago. He took the restraints off Chris.

“Please sit down, Mr. Straight.”

He pointed to an old, heavy gray chair. The paint was wearing off the back where people had leaned for many years. An observation mirror took up one wall. Detective Black hadn’t asked anyone to observe, but flicked a switch to turn on a camera before he sat down opposite Chris.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Straight?”

“No. My stomach’s in a knot. It won’t stay down.”

Black sat down opposite Chris, his folded hands resting on the scratched table.

“I’m required to ask some questions that might be awkward, but necessary in cases like this.”

Chris knitted his eyebrows together and squinted at Black.

“By cases like this, I mean when a close family member has died.”

Chris relaxed slightly.

“Have you and your wife been getting along alright lately?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Was she faithful?”

“Of course. Why are you asking?”

“You called your ex-wife tonight. Do you see each other often?”

Chris moved his head quickly and stared at Black, perhaps realizing for the first time that he might be a murder suspect.

“My relationship with Sharon is fine. She’s, she was, very independent and I respected that. I rarely see Tammy, but our divorce was friendly.”

“I was surprised you didn’t call one of your wife’s friends or one of her family members.”

“My wife has no family except the horses. Her parents are dead and she’s an only child.”

“None at all?”

“She has two aunts who live 2,000 miles away that she never sees. I’ll have to find her address book to contact them… I’ve never met them.”

“No friends?”

“OK… I probably should have called her friend, Jane, but I didn’t think of it. My brain is still trying to process the fact that my wife is dead!”

“I’ve been a cop long enough to know that trauma after a shooting can make it hard for witnesses to see anything except the killing…..or accident.”

Chris squinted again. Officer Black knew Chris was irritated, but continued talking.

“Interesting you were able to break through the fog long enough to call your ex. By the way, police are happy to transport citizens in situations like this.”

“I…didn’t…kill…my…wife. It was a ricochet!”

“OK, Mr. Straight, just one more question. I assume your wife’s property is yours now. Did your wife also hold life insurance payable to you?”

“Yes, of course. ”

Detective Black rose and left the room, saying he’d return shortly. Chris intensely studied the green wall.

#

Detective Lanco took a break from print dusting to call her live-in boyfriend.

“Hi, baby. Sorry we didn’t get to finish the great meal you cooked. I’ll be awhile, but there’ll be overtime money this week. We can go to Angelo’s for veal piccata. Keep the bed warm. See you before the sun comes up.”

Once everything had been dusted, Lanco turned on a reading light, a pole lamp, the overhead lights, and two table lamps. Still using her flashlight, she inspected the window casing again and saw no evidence of a bullet hitting the molding, the window frame, or the tin ceiling. She backed up ten feet, used one hand to point the flashlight toward the window and the other to steady the hand as if it were a gun. She tried to imagine where the bullet would hit in order for it to ricochet into Sharon’s head. It would have to be a spot higher than the window, maybe a foot higher, on the beam decorated with horseshoes.

“Jesus, was this guy that bad of a shot?” she said out loud. “A little trigger happy? High? Poor wife.”

The emergency medical personnel were pulling away in the ambulance that contained Sharon’s body. Two cops still leaned against the fence, securing the scene until Lanco was ready to close it down.

Lanco breathed in deeply to determine if she could detect the smell of gunpowder. She sniffed around the room more, but only detected vanilla from a scented candle on a table across the room. She wondered if the candle was lit to make the evening romantic or to cover another odor. Or maybe to cover the smell of horse manure that surely must have come into the house with the wife from time to time. Lanco didn’t know much about horses, but she hoped someone would feed them in the morning.

Still wearing gloves, Officer Lanco pulled a sturdy chair from the kitchen over to the window, climbed up, and took the four horseshoes from the beam over the window. Each was covered with a number of dings, though the husband had only fired once. Then she understood. The horseshoes were probably not worn by horses, but instead used to play the game of horseshoes, each player flinging two, banging them against a pole in different ways for years. Some dings were bigger than others and it was difficult to determine if any could be associated with a bullet. She took photos, placed each shoe in a plastic evidence bag, and left for the station, hoping she’d be home in bed before her next shift started.

#

At 2:00 a.m., Officer Black returned to the room.

“Coffee?”

“Ya, whatever,” Chris said.

“How do you take it?”

“Lots of milk and sugar.”

Black returned quickly carrying two styrofoam cups. He set them down and sipped his own.

“Can you tell me about the horseshoes? Over the window? In your living room?”

Chris took a sip of his coffee and it looked as if it had ended up in his nose. He sniffed.

“Sharon’s parents always played horseshoes with neighborhood friends in the evenings. When they became frail, Sharon brought the horseshoes home and hung them on the wall for good luck.”

Chris’s eyes widened and he looked straight into Officer Black’s eyes.

“That had to be the source of the ricochet!”

“If so, you’re a bad shot.”

Chris said nothing for a full minute and then spoke slowly.

“It could be the explanation. The horseshoes. Right?”

“Well, we’ll look at them closely. We’ll also have to do an autopsy and look at the bullet.”

“No, I don’t want you to cut her! Don’t you need my permission?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Straight, but it’s the only way to confirm this was an accident.”

Tears came to Chris’s eyes for the first time that evening.

“It was an accident,” he said.

Black had one more question.

“Were you and your wife drinking this evening?”

“We had wine at dinner, but nothing after.”

“OK, Mr. Straight. This is where we are. You have admitted to firing the gun that presumably killed your wife. Ballistics will confirm that. You maintain it was an accident, one that resulted from poor aim and a horseshoe. Ballistics may or may not confirm that. You are still a suspect. It would be weird not to see it that way. You are not under arrest, but I need the address of where you will be tonight and the name of the property owner. If the ballistics report puts you in the clear, you can go home tomorrow and we’ll return your cellphone. I’m sure you have arrangements to make. You’re free to call… your ex. Follow me and I’ll show you where the phone is.”

#

Tammy sat in her car in front of the station sipping vitamin water. Chris should not have called her, but since the situation involved death, she tried to remain compassionate and flexible. She wondered what happened to Sharon, who she’d never met and who either didn’t mind or didn’t know that Chris communicated with Tammy from time to time. Maybe Sharon wasn’t the jealous type. It didn’t matter anymore.

Chris emerged from the station and slid into the car, leaning in as if he wanted a hug. Tammy kept both hands on the steering wheel, didn’t move. Chris stopped when his hand was above the radio, retracted his arm, and grabbed the seatbelt instead.

“Where to?” said Tammy.

“I don’t know. I can’t go home until tomorrow. I told the police I’d be at your place, but I can go to one of the hotels on Route 3. I’ll just have to go back for a minute and tell them where I’ll be.”

“Go ahead and give them my address. You can sleep on my couch tonight.”

When Chris returned, Tammy put the car in gear and drove to the parking lot exit. She waited for a sedan with fancy headlights to pass before turning right and passing the IHop.

What happened?”

“I shot at an intruder in the window and somehow the bullet ricocheted and hit Sharon. They’re treating me as a suspect. Can you believe it? I’m the one who asked them to come? I’m the one who lost my wife.”

Tammy wanted to say Chris shouldn’t have a gun in the first place and that he could have called the police instead, but she didn’t. A part of her believed everything Chris said and another part of her wanted to say I told you so. Maybe she should have refused to come.

“Well, I guess there are protocols whenever a gun is involved.” she said.

They arrived at Tammy’s townhouse in fifteen minutes. Chris unfolded a familiar futon and Tammy searched for sheets and blankets.

“Do you want a drink, or some soup, or something to help you sleep? I’ve got gummies. Do you want to talk?”

Nothing, thanks. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to talk right now. I have to go back to the police station tomorrow and start making funeral arrangements.”

Tammy was glad Chris didn’t want to talk. She’d only asked to be nice. She was surprised he wasn’t more emotional about losing Sharon and found his calmness a bit disturbing. She’d seen him on the brink of breakdown over much less in the past.

“Goodnight, Chris. My clients start coming at 10:00. I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“Goodnight. And thanks for the help, Tam. I’ll try to be up and out before your first customer.”

By the time Tammy entered the kitchen in the morning, wearing stylish exercise clothes, Chris had made coffee and was hanging up the phone. The futon was no longer in sleeping position, the sheets swirled in the dryer, and the blankets were where Chris was sure they belonged.

“I have to go to the funeral home. And probably the morgue. Do you think I could use your car for an hour?”

Tammy handed him the keys.

“Working till 2:00. I’ll bring you to get your own car after that.”

By 2:30, Chris had not returned and Tammy was nervous, especially since his phone was still at the police station and she couldn’t call him. She knew promptness was an issue for Chris, but the business with Sharon made her suspicious. Once, after enthusiastically telling Tammy they would celebrate their anniversary at a fancy restaurant two hours away, Chris had arrived home too late to make the last seating. His sentimental invitation had made her feel special, but it all evaporated when he didn’t follow through, and she’d become angry. She wondered if Chris really did shoot Sharon and if he’d taken Tammy’s car to skip town. She knew nothing about Sharon and was curious if Chris had judged her, too, refused to give her space. Chris had decided Tammy was too trusting in a world where people could not be trusted, a world where you had to punish bad guys. Was Sharon a bad guy? Tammy told herself these thoughts were ridiculous and took ten, deep, slow, yoga breaths.

Fifteen minutes later, Chris pulled into the driveway.

“Sorry, Tam. Things took longer at the funeral home than I expected. I finally remembered the town where Sharon’s aunts live. My mind was a total blank last night. Do you think I could try calling them from here? It’s late morning in California.”

Tammy didn’t mention that Chris could’ve called her, or that it was inconsiderate to borrow a car for an hour and then return it four hours later. She wasn’t married to him anymore and he’d just lost his wife, his second wife. She wondered why he seemed so perky. Didn’t he care that his wife was dead?

“Sure. You know where the phone is. What time is your appointment with the police?”

“5:30.”

Tammy went for a run, watered the flowers, and took a shower. Chris napped on the couch. When she came downstairs at 5:00, he was awake and ready to leave. Outside, he headed for the driver’s side of the car.

“I’ll drive.” Tammy said.

She extended her hand, motioning for him to turn over the keys, which he did without comment.

On the way to the station, Chris chatted about the weather and the news and Tammy thought he was strangely talkative. When they arrived at the station, he asked if she would come in with him. Tammy put the car in PARK and addressed Chris in a soft, but incredulous tone.

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird that you came to me after this horrible thing happened? I mean, no wonder the cop gave you a hard time. Have you even spoken to your brother?”

“No.”

“Well, that bullet wasn’t the only thing that traveled to an unusual place. Sorry to bring up that image Chris, but you need to talk with someone besides me right now. I’ll wait here and take you to your house when you’re done. If you’re not back in thirty minutes, I’ll come in to make sure they don’t expect you to move in permanently. OK?”

#

Detective Black was talking to the dispatcher behind the counter when Chris entered.

“Mr. Straight, please come this way.”

Chris followed Detective Black to the same room they’d occupied the previous night. They sat in the same chairs while Detective Black explained that ballistics tests had been done on the horseshoes. A marksman had managed to make similar marks on one of the horseshoes, but couldn’t definitively prove that the bullet that killed his wife had hit one of the horseshoes first.

“The bullet taken out of your wife’s head certainly came from that direction, rather than from where you said you were standing. There’s no places in the room where you could be high enough to make the bullet hit her the way it did. The time of death, the time of the 911 call, and the time the police arrived, didn’t give you any time to reposition furniture or reposition your wife’s body, and there was no evidence that anything had been moved.”

Detective Black paused to give Chris a chance to process what he was being told. He thought he detected a sense of relief in Chris’s face.

“There’s something else, Mr. Straight. Can you remember anything about the man you saw in the window?”

“It was dark, but he was about my height. His face wasn’t clear, but the gun was in his left hand.”

“Can you remember anything about the sound you heard?”

“It sounded something like sand paper on wood.”

“Mr. Straight, it is our belief that you attempted to shoot a reflection of yourself. We do not think there was an intruder at all.”

“That can’t be true. I heard a noise. I saw a man.”

Officer Black said the movie he and his wife were watching contained background noises that sounded like sanding.

“Maybe you remember when the ranch hand was dragging the wheat into the barn?”

Officer Black had watched part of the movie and the timing of the sounds and the shot lined up.

“There are no charges, Mr. Straight. It was an accident. The state does not require safety training in order to own a handgun, but you might consider a short class if you decide to keep the gun. Do you want a ride home?”

Chris’s world moved in slow motion again, just as it had when he called 911. He exited the station and walked to the driver’s side window where Tammy was reading the news on her phone.

“You can go, Tam. The police will take me home. Everything is okay.”

Tammy didn’t ask any questions, nor did she suggest he call if he needed anything.

“Good luck, Chris.”

Detective Black came out of the station, noted the woman driving out of the parking lot, and wondered what Chris had told her. He motioned for Chris to follow him to the cruiser and the two sped away from the station, Chris in the back seat. It was almost dark when they arrived.

“I’m a shit.” said Chris. “I didn’t even call anyone to feed Sharon’s horses. Thanks for the ride. I’ve got to go.”

Detective Black rolled his window down and watched Chris head for the barn. The light went on and he heard Chris shuffling inside. The horses neighed and kicked their stalls. Chris kept saying, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Detective Black thought Chris might be sorry about lots of things. He decided to come back and check on him later that night.

Acknowledgement: Ricochet was first published online in Storgy Magazine, formerly headquartered in the United Kingdom.