The General (Professionals 4)

I needed to keep her from spending the rest of her life in jail.

So I couldn’t wonder if her eyes were small and red from crying… or pain from her injuries. I couldn’t walk over to her, wrap an arm around her, and tell her everything was alright now.

Because it wasn’t.

Right then, in that moment, nothing was alright.

Except her dead husband.

That was the only right thing in the whole situation.

“Okay. I am going to sound clipped and callous right now, Mrs. Ericsson. I’m not trying to be offensive. I just need to get this job done. So I need you to stay as calm as you are right now and work with me, okay?” She gave me a tight little nod. “Okay. How long ago was this?” I asked, looking down at the bloodstain again, trying to discern the level of drying.

“Fifteen minutes?” she guessed, shaking her head like she was trying to clear it. “No more than thirty.”

“Good.” That was really good. This could still be fixed. “I can’t make this disappear, okay? I know you know we can do that. But we can’t do that. Not with someone this high profile. So we need to make this seem like a robbery gone wrong sort of thing.”

“Okay,” she agreed and I noticed her lips were trembling, but her gaze was clear and steady.

“You are going to need to talk to the police. Then the detectives. Then the senator. Then his people. So you need to get this memorized. You need to be convincing.”

“I can do that,” she agreed, voice getting stronger. Sure.

“I imagined you’ve had to fake it a lot in your life with this fuck,” I agreed.. “Now tell me about that gun. Yours? His? Legal? Not?”

“It’s his and it’s legal.”

“Have you ever touched it on the inside? Cleaned it? Loaded the bullets yourself?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? It’s important.”

“I hate guns. I’ve never touched it before.”

“Okay, I need you to come closer over here, give it to me,” I said, pulling thick leather gloves over my hands, reaching for wet wipes in my jacket. The bleach kind, not the baby. She moved stiffly across the floor, stopping at her late husband’s feet, holding her shaky arm out to me. I took the gun, wiped it, then slipped it into my pocket. It would be found in the gutter down the street. “Here,” I said, pulling out wipes for her. “You need to scrub at your hands and arms, under your fingernails,” I instructed, watching as she started. “Here, for your chest and face and dress,” I added when she handed me those first few sheets back. “All gunshot residue needs to be gone,” I explained.

“Okay.” She didn’t question, just followed orders. She was smart enough to know how important this all was.

“I need your phone,” I added, watching as she stiffened. “You called my office before you called the police,” I explained. “They can’t find that phone. Does he have one?”

“In his jacket pocket,” she told me.

“Okay. Here is how it goes. This part is going to suck for you. But it has to happen.” I could have sworn she mumbled something about how everything sucked for her, but I wasn’t sure. “You need to drop down on top of his body, get the blood all over your knees and skirt. Touch his chest like you had tried to push the blood back in.”

To my surprise, she didn’t comment, didn’t hesitate, just moved to do exactly as I ordered. Even went further, laid her body over his like a grieving wife would. She was good. Thank God.

“Now. Where did he beat you?” I asked. “In the house,” I clarified.

She flinched back at the truth of those words, but didn’t hesitate to answer. “The kitchen.”

“Okay. Here is the story,” I told her, squatting down next to his body to scrape under his nails into a baggy. He clearly beat her a lot. His skin had hardened up. His knuckles hadn’t even broken open. Terrible for her, but also good. Her blood in his knuckles would be hard to explain. “You were in the kitchen. What were you doing?”

“Making tea.”

“Okay. Good. Best to stick with the facts. You were in the kitchen making tea and he was…”

“In the study.”

“Okay. So instead of him coming in and beating you, someone else came in. Is there a door in the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“To the garage or backyard?”

“Backyard.”

“Perfect. I will unlock it. I will leave boot prints in and out and unlock the door. Someone came in that way. But you didn’t hear him. And then he beat you. You didn’t see a face. You blacked out when he got his hands around your throat. Use different words. Say you don’t know what happened. Your vision swam. Next thing you knew, you woke up propped against the counter. Not on the floor. If you were on the floor, you’d have a head injury or have left blood from your face on the tile. You had slumped against the cabinet. And then you heard your husband yelling. Then you heard the pop. As you moved out that way to try to help your husband, the man rushed past you with a gun. Bumped into your shoulder, making you knock against the wall. Don’t be too technical, but give details. People remember things. Their memories trip back in. You rushed in here, trying to save your husband, but he was already not breathing. You reached for his phone and called the police. And, if this is possible, sweetheart, I am going to need you to cry. Your voice will need to shake. Your words tumble together.”