The Merciful
“I got your files,” Dynamo says, striding into the back room where I’m waiting. “Had to get a paper copy like a caveman so I wouldn’t leave a trace, and they can’t leave this room.”
He flashes me a grin as he closes the door and strides across the room to pull out the chair opposite me. He swings it around backwards and sits astride the seat before opening the folder.
“Now, there’s a lot of legal jargon in here, but it’s all there—stenographer notes, evidence files, judges’ findings, everything. You know how to read all that?”
“No,” I admit, groaning inwardly at the thought of having to find someone who can figure it out without also drawing suspicion.
“Then I’ll just sit here on my phone while you read, and when you find something you don’t understand, holler.”
“You know how to read legal jargon?”
He shrugs and shoots me a grin. “Don’t act so surprised. I know lots of things.”
He knows how to run an underground fight club and illegal street races, how to find fighters and racers and the audience for both, how to avoid being busted for years. But if he knows anything about the legal system, I’d have guessed it was from the other side of the bars.
“How do you know?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“You have your secrets, I have mine.”
“Then how do I know I can trust you?” I ask. “You could tell me anything, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Aww, you’re killing me, Red,” he says, giving me a pained look and clutching his chest. “What reason would I have to lie to you?”
“I don’t know, since I don’t know you at all.”
He sighs. “I have a lot of attorneys in the family. I’ve picked up stuff over the years, and then I read through the file and asked everything I wasn’t clear about so I could help you out if you had questions.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, touched that he went to such lengths to help me, and guilty that I didn’t trust him. I should know better. He knows me well—at least the side of me I keep hidden from the rest of the world. I clearly only know one side of him too. I’d never have guessed a guy with tats from fingertip to chin who coordinates multiple illegal activities would have “a lot” of attorneys in the family.
“Sorry enough to make it up to me with that date you keep promising?” he asks with a lazy grin, leaning back and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tossing it onto the table between us.
“I never made any such promise,” I point out. “And do you really want to guilt me into a date?”
“Hey, a guy’s gotta take what he can get.”
“I’m sure you can get more than a pity date.”
“Not with you,” he says, nudging my foot with his. He swipes the pack of cigarettes from the table and nods to the folder. “But we’ll be here all night, so I’ve got plenty of time to charm you into a real date. Go ahead. Get started.”
“Okay,” I say, nervously licking my lips before opening the thick file. Half an hour later, my head is spinning, and I can’t make heads nor tails of half of what I’m reading.
I sit back with a sigh, watching Dynamo tilt his head sideways to light another cigarette, a little frown of concentration between his brows as he pinches the filter between his lips and angles the tip of his cigarette into the flame cupped in his palm.
“You read this entire file?” I ask, hopelessness weighing down my tired limbs as I thumb through the huge stack of papers remaining.
“Yep,” he says. “Got a question?”
“Only a million,” I admit with a little laugh.
“Shoot, why didn’t you ask?” he says, spinning the folder toward him and pulling it over.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t want to look dumb.”
He tips his chin back and exhales, taking me in through the stream of smoke. “There’s a reason people go to law school to learn this shit,” he says. “Want me to give you the gist, and then you can read through for details, already knowing the basics?”
“God, yes,” I say, sinking back in relief.
“Basically, everyone involved in this case is happy it’s sealed, and there’s a reason it can’t leave this room,” he says.
“What does that mean?” I ask, my heart skipping.
“It means there’s a lot of fuckery in this file,” he says. “Maybe even more than the average case.”
“Such as?”
“Basically, as soon as they got the DNA back from her clothes, the prosecutor decided it was gang related and made up his mind about what happened. Then they found some evidence to support that, got eyewitness testimony from a Mercy Soules—” He raises a brow at me and drags on his cigarette before he goes on. “And then a body showed up, no dental records obviously, but it fit her description well enough that they were happy to call it a day, case closed. It was a terrible, rushed, sloppy job, but because of the prosecutor’s track record with the judge—which is of course not supposed to be a factor, but in a small town, how can it not be?—he was trusted, and the defense… Something was going on there too. In the end, though, prosecutor got a win, judge got one more tally on his list of cases that made good on his campaign promise to clean up the town, reduce crime, and crack down on local gangs. Everybody wins—except the three kids who went to juvie.”
“The defense,” I say, staring down at the pages in front of me, since I can’t look him in the eye. I wish he hadn’t looked at the case. I’d rather have gone to a stranger, hired some paralegal online to dumb it down for me. I don’t want a guy I respect to know what I did.
Dynamo takes a slow drag on his cigarette, slumping back in his chair with his wrist resting on the top of the back of it, which is up against the table.
“Everyone seemed happy enough with the outcome except the father of said Mercy Soules, who got a new, better lawyer for his son. Money doesn’t buy everything, but it does buy freedom. The minute Daddy lawyered up, suddenly the son got out on good behavior and time served, and everyone went away happy. At least everyone who was going to make noise.”
“What about Angel?” I ask, starting to flip through more pages. “The Norths have money.”
“Yeah, I found that interesting too,” Dynamo says. “He was in for under a year, though, so not too long. My guess? His parents knew he had protection in there from some other Crossbones who were doing time, and they didn’t want to bring more scrutiny to the organization, knowing their son was safe and it would be risky to try to buy off a judge. They’ve got people in their pockets, but this guy wasn’t one of them.”
I take a few minutes to absorb that as I look through the file, and then I go back to the beginning. I stare at a grainy, photocopied picture of her bloody clothes in the dirt. I’m glad it’s not in full color. Juvenile trials are closed, and the details were never shared to the public, but I had to look at this picture once before, identify them as the same ones Eternity was wearing that day. The blood splatters slither into my thoughts unbidden at random times or creep into nightmares just when I think I’ve locked them away for good.
Maybe that’s what I was trying to do to the boys too, stunned with the pain of rejection and her death. I couldn’t contain that amount of pain, so I locked away every reminder of her, as if I could seal my pain like a confidential file, never have to examine it too closely again. But it’s been ripped wide open now.
“Talk to me about this,” I say. “The main piece of evidence, right?”
“Until they found the body,” he says. “Which turns out, didn’t have the impact you’d think. They didn’t even bother with an autopsy. But then, decapitation is a pretty obvious cause of death.”
“So, the defense thought they were guilty too,” I say, mostly to myself. “They were afraid what the autopsy would find, and that it would make the murder charge stick.”
“Could be,” Dynamo says, flicking his cigarette into the trash can in the corner. “They rushed a plea deal as soon as the body was found, which the prosecution was all too happy to take.”
“Which means… One of them probably confessed to something,” I say, feeling sick. “Even if it wasn’t murder.”
“That, I don’t know,” he says. “My guess is, we’ll never know, unless you find those boys and get them to tell you themselves.”
Why would one of them confess, if they didn’t do it?
The only explanation is… They did.
They did something to her, and even if it wasn’t outright murder, it led to her death.
I shiver, my skin crawling at the reminder of Saint’s rough hands, Angel’s soft mouth, my own trembling surrender.
“I do know this,” Dynamo says, draping his other hand on top of the one with the missing middle finger and burn scars under the tattoos. “Beheading is not the Crossbones signature kill.”
I swallow hard, darting a glance at him. I’m not surprised he knows that, and I’m not na?ve enough to ask how. He does illegal work on this side of town, and he carries the marks of the violence he’s endured both on his body and in his eyes. If he’s not a member of the Skull and Crossbones, he’s had plenty of occasion to deal with them.
“Do you think it was really them?” I whisper, my fingertips ghosting over the photo of her clothes. There are photos of the body later, but I don’t want to look at them.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Dynamo says. “But if it were me, I’d find the DNA test, or find a way to get one.”
“There’s no DNA test?” I ask.
“I couldn’t find one,” he says, nodding at the file. “If there ever was one, it’s not in there now. My guess is, if they identified the body later and it wasn’t your friend, they didn’t want any proof on the record that they’d ever known. That’s the sort of thing that gets you put on a podcast about shady criminal justice systems, bribery, and botched trials. My girlfriend watches those true crime shows, and nine times out of ten, when a case isn’t solved, it’s because the cops fucked it up.”
“I saw DNA tests, though,” I say, riffling through the papers.
“The lab sent back DNA from the clothes,” he says, helping me sort through to find them. “They found sets of DNA on the clothes. Hers, and three more.” He pulls out the papers and slides them across to me. “As soon as they got a match and saw it was someone who’d already been arrested for a violent crime, and that it was gang related, the trial was basically over before it began.”
“Angel,” I whisper, reading the top of the page. “I remember that fight. The parents of the other guy were going to bring assault charges, but they dropped them.”
“There were two more sets of DNA on the clothes,” Dynamo says, passing over two more pages, then another. “And here’s the findings that say one of them had shared DNA with the first. I couldn’t find the DNA tests from the other two kids, if they took them. Like I said, there’s a lot missing or a lot of assumptions. Probably both.”
“No, that makes sense,” I say, scanning the pages. “Heath is Angel’s uncle.”
“His cousin.”
“What?” I ask, looking up.
“He’s his cousin,” Dynamo says, sliding the explanation page on top. “See, it says the DNA was a 13.5% match. An uncle would be about twice that.”
“But… That’s not possible.” My head is spinning. I already have a hard enough time figuring out how all their family is related. If somebody was cheating, and one of their fathers is not really their father, I’ll never be able to figure it out.
“What about grandparents?”
“Same as uncle or aunt,” he says. “Half-grandparent would be the same as a cousin.”
“And a half-uncle,” I say, nodding with relief. “Okay, this makes sense now. Heath and Angel’s mom are half-siblings.”
At least I don’t have to tell Heath some really bad news about his parents. I remember him standing up there with me that day, refusing to let me go down to the river with them, saying he had to stay with me because he was her brother but refusing to tell me why. I remember how tense he was, bitter and resentful and angry at the world, kicking rocks and fuming and pacing. When did he go back?
“What about her DNA?” I ask. “They matched it with Heath’s?”
Dynamo shakes his head and turns the paper over to find the back is blank. “It doesn’t say.”
“So, they matched Angel’s DNA to a sample already in the system, then said another sample matched, so it must be Heath, and the last one didn’t, so it must be Saint, and that was enough?”
“Like I said, there’s probably a reason so much is gone or was never investigated to begin with. Bagging the son of one of the heads of the Crossbones is a huge political win.”
“So, the judge wanted that on his resumé more than actual justice,” I say, feeling sick. “And I gave them exactly what they wanted.”
“It’s probably not your fault,” he says. “The second they found North DNA on her clothes, they would have been salivating to make the arrest.”
I drop my head back, so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. “Why do I feel like I got more questions than answers out of this?”
Dynamo yawns and then stands, sweeping the pages back into the folder. “I think that’s enough for tonight. Hit me up if you want to look over them some more or need me to look up anything. For now, we could both use some sleep. My house?”
“Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes. “There are three boys who possibly murdered someone who might have something to say about that.”
“Damn,” he says. “Why didn’t you start with that? I would have stopped asking you out a long time ago.”
“Really? That works?”
“Yeah, Red,” he says. “Been there, done that, never going down that road again.”
“Good to know.”
“Let me walk you to your car,” he says, then chuckles to himself. “Or you can walk me to mine. Sounds like I’m the one who needs protection, and my track record with self-defense is about as sound as this file.”
He gives a wry smile and wiggles his disfigured hand, which he hides from most people. But we aren’t in Catholic school anymore. Here, we’re all a little more real, a little more accepting, a little more able to laugh at the dark humor most of us possess to cope with whatever demons brought us to this place to begin with.
We’re halfway across the parking lot when he speaks again. “Hey, I know you can take care of yourself, but be careful, okay? The Skull and Crossbones is a pretty major enemy to have.”
“They’re not all my enemies,” I say, trying a joke to lighten the mood.
“There’s one of you, and a lot of them,” he says. “No matter how badass you think you are, you can’t fight your way out if an entire gang comes for you. If you want my advice, steer clear.”
“Wait, so you’re still worried about me even if I won’t go out with you?”
“Hey, I can’t lose my money maker,” he says, flashing me a grin.
“I’ll be careful,” I say, though I’m already beyond that. I’m in far too deep for caution to help me now.
“Listen, I have something for you,” he says, stopping at his truck.
“More?” I ask. “I’m really going to owe you a date if you keep this up.”
“Is that supposed to stop me?” he asks, opening his door. He takes out a small pet carrier. “I know you can defend yourself, but this is for those moments when you don’t know if you need to.”
“What is it?”
A tiny mew answers from inside the crate.
“You’re giving me a cat?” I ask, staring at him.
“They’re good judges of character,” he says, lifting the crate to peer in. “My sister had one. She didn’t listen to its instincts, but you can. He might even be from the same line. They look similar, and cats get around.”
“I can’t have pets,” I say. “I live in a dorm.”
He arches a brow. “You do? Hm. Interesting.”
I wince, cursing myself. There’s not really a reason he shouldn’t know, just that anonymity is something I’ve grown to treasure in his world.
“I found this little guy hanging around behind the warehouse, and I didn’t want him to run into the road,” Dynamo says when I don’t answer. “He was crying because he was so hungry. I think his mom must have been hit or picked up and brought to a shelter. The guys told me to bring him in too. But I think he deserves a good home. Don’t you?”
“You’re manipulating me.”
“Clearly.” He laughs and sticks a finger through the grate on the front of the carrier, and the kitten bats at it with one unsure paw.
“How would I even take care of him?” I ask.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says, releasing the latch and gently lifting out the little ball of grey fluff. He holds it up next to his cheek and makes puppy dog eyes at me. “How can you resist this little face?”
“I think you’re asking me for a favor more than doing me a favor.”
“Just point him at anyone you’re uncertain about, and he’ll tell you whether to trust them,” he says, depositing the little creature into my hands.
I’m about to protest, but the tiny kitten looks up at me with the wide blue eyes of an angel, and then he licks my thumb with his tiny, rough tongue, and my heart melts into a puddle.
“This is an ambush,” I protest, laughing as I rub my cheek against the kitten’s fur. It’s so soft I can hardly feel it. “You’re not fighting fair.”
I’m not fighting anymore, though. My heart is already so filled with love it hurts. If there’s such a thing as instalove, I just fell headlong into it.
“Hey, you’re getting a deal,” Dynamo says. “I’ll even throw in the crate and a couple cat toys for free. We don’t have cats anymore so…”
“Fine,” I say, not even able to put up the pretense of an argument. “Since you did me a solid with all that information. Seriously. Thank you.”
He holds out a hand to give me knuckles. “Anything for you, Red. Who knew you were such a softie behind the mask?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say, glowering at him. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
“I don’t know,” he says, pulling out his cigarettes. “A baddie who can’t say no to a stray kitten? I like it. I bet it’d sell tickets.”
I just shake my head. “I’ll call you.”
“You always do,” he drawls, closing the door and strolling around his truck to climb into the driver’s side.
I stand in the lot holding the kitten for a minute, until he mews and rubs the top of his head against my palm. Cupping him between my hands, I lift him to my face to see into his eyes again. “You’re going to need an important name if you’re going to help me solve a murder.”