The first time I’d met Ford Cornell had been a mere two weeks earlier, shortly after Christmas. I’d nearly swallowed my tongue when I’d taken in the striking young man. Then I’d seen the bruise on his neck and it’d been all I could do not to step up to him and ask him what had happened. I’d had a pretty good idea of the “what” part, since I’d seen plenty of bruises like that both in the mirror when I’d been a kid and on countless women and kids during my long career in law enforcement. I’d figured out the “who” part three days later when I’d received the first call from a concerned neighbor about a possible domestic disturbance at the Sullivan house. By then the bruise on Ford’s throat had started to turn an ugly shade of yellow and green, but there’d been a fresh bruise on his cheek.
My own personal demons had immediately had me looking at Ford’s stepfather as the assailant, but the second I’d laid eyes on Ford’s older brother, Jimmy, as he’d come out of the kitchen, beer in hand, my gaze had landed on the scuffed knuckles of Jimmy’s free hand. The man had eyed me dismissively, but he’d had enough sense to tuck his hand in his pocket as he’d idly leaned against the doorjamb and calmly held the neck of the open beer bottle between his fingers.
My questioning of the entire situation hadn’t lasted long, since the family had closed ranks almost immediately. When I’d asked how Ford had gotten the bruises, it’d been Edith who’d let out a dismissive laugh and declared that her youngest son had fallen down the stairs. Like the first time I’d interacted with Ford, the young man had kept his eyes downcast. When I’d asked him if that were true, he’d merely nodded his head. I’d gone on to ask him to actually answer the question and he’d quickly said, “Yes, sir, it’s true. I’m sorry for disturbing the neighbors.”
The entire scene had been so reminiscent of the countless ones I’d had to deal with back in Detroit that I’d actually forgotten I was in the small town where I’d been assured that the most serious calls I’d get would be disputes over garish Christmas decorations or the occasional squabble over who’d gotten to a prime ice-fishing spot first. I hadn’t believed those outrageous claims when I’d been interviewing for the job, but I’d found myself amused by them because after twenty years of investigating the ugliest of crimes, I’d been very ready for those kinds of “investigations.” God knew I’d needed the change of pace and that was why I’d accepted the job when a retired friend from the force had recommended me for it.
Since Ford hadn’t been willing to speak up against his brother during that first encounter, I’d eyed the beer bottle in Jimmy’s hand. I hadn’t even gotten the chance to remind Jimmy that the conditions of his bail included not drinking alcohol because Edith had piped up and announced the beer was for Ford. Then she’d promptly reprimanded him for drinking so much and stated he’d just end up hurting himself again with another tumble down the stairs.
Part of me had wanted to believe the woman actually thought her youngest had merely fallen, but my inner voice and my gut had been in agreement that she wasn’t that naïve. I’d been proven right just two days later when there’d been another call, again from the same neighbor, about raised voices. It was Ford’s stepfather who’d quietly assured me that Ford had been hurt while they’d been fixing the fence in the back yard, though the older man had been looking over his shoulder at both his wife and Jimmy most of the time, as if needing reassurance he was getting the story right.
Ford had profusely apologized for disturbing the neighbor while Edith had suggested that the same neighbor was a busybody who needed to mind his own business. Since Ford hadn’t been willing to speak up, I’d been forced to leave without doing what I’d wanted to so badly (besides stealing Ford away so he’d be safe).
Put Jimmy in handcuffs and toss him in a prison cell where he couldn’t ever hurt his brother or anyone else again.
Jimmy Cornell was just a bad guy, through and through. Criminals often fell into a variety of categories, including those who just got caught up in something out of desperation or stupidity, those who wanted to make some quick cash but weren’t actually looking to hurt anyone, those who were just too damn stupid to know any better, and those who took pleasure in others’ pain.
I knew in my gut that Jimmy fell in the last category. The asshole may have only been arrested the one time, but I suspected that was only because he’d finally been caught in a situation where his family connections hadn’t been able to get him out of the jam he’d gotten himself and some of his friends into.