A Beautiful Corpse. Christi Daugherty

be reached when the shit hit the fan.

      ‘Traffic cops just pulled over Wilson Shepherd on Abercorn.’ Harper raised her voice to be heard above the scanner and the engine. ‘Sounds like he’s putting up a fight. Miles and I are en route.’

      ‘I’ll tell the copy desk,’ Baxter told her. ‘We’ll hold the front page. Don’t do anything stupid, McClain.’

      ‘Never,’ Harper said, hanging up.

      Dropping the phone, she pulled out onto the parkway so fast her tires squealed.

      She wasn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline raced into her system faster than caffeine possibly could.

      A story like this was as good as eight hours’ sleep. Better even. No drug ever invented could match it.

      Every cop in the city was going to the same place she was. There was no one to pull her over. The speed limit was forty-five but she hit a hundred and stayed there until she saw flashing blue lights ahead. Then she tagged along behind them.

      Abercorn carved a curving path across the edge of the city before pouring into the flat, coastal countryside. At the speed she was going it only took minutes before the crowded city streets outside the Camaro’s windows dissolved into lush green suburbs, scarred by strip malls and big box stores.

      The police standoff was easy to locate. A dozen patrol cars blocked the road, lights flashing.

      Harper slammed the car into park and jumped out, running through the haphazardly parked vehicles.

      Miles had positioned himself behind an empty squad car.

      ‘Have they got him?’ Harper asked, breathless.

      ‘They do.’ Miles squinted through the viewfinder. ‘He just doesn’t know it yet.’

      With his Canon balanced on the roof, he was focused on a crowd gathered around a pickup truck in the distance. The patrol car that had pulled it over earlier was parked behind it, blue lights still swirling.

      The doors of both vehicles gaped open.

      In the flickering blue lights, Wilson Shepherd stood facing a line of police officers. He was sweating and panicked.

      A silver, semi-automatic handgun glittered as he aimed it at the cops, all of whom were pointing their guns at him.

      Everyone was yelling.

      ‘Drop your weapon! Put down the gun! Drop it! Drop it now!’

      Wilson ignored their commands.

      ‘I didn’t do it!’ he screamed back. ‘I didn’t kill Naomi – do you hear me? Does anyone hear me?’

      ‘Drop your goddamn weapon! No one will hear you until you drop that weapon!’

      Miles tilted the camera to look at the images on the display, a frown creasing his forehead.

      ‘I need to get closer.’

      He looked around, his face tense. They both knew time was everything right now.

      ‘There.’ Harper pointed to an empty space to the left of the pickup – protected by two trees, but with what looked like a clear view.

      Miles nodded, tucking his camera under his arm. ‘Let’s go.’

      Ducking low, the two of them threaded between the parked patrol cars. None of the police noticed them. Everyone was too focused on the scene unfolding.

      Leaning against the tree to steady himself, Miles raised the Canon.

      ‘That’s better,’ he breathed.

      They were so close, Harper could see the panic in Shepherd’s wide, frightened eyes as he swung the gun wildly.

      It was impossible to square this Wilson Shepherd with the one she’d seen sitting at The Library, waiting for Naomi and nursing a beer.

      He looked ten years older. His clothes were stained and disheveled. He appeared deranged, waving that gun at the police, tears and sweat streaming down his round cheeks; snot running from his nose.

      ‘No, no, no,’ he kept screaming hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t me. Why won’t you listen?’

      The cops weren’t in any mood to do what he wanted. They were concentrating on that gun. Shouting constant commands in a kind of hyperactive, almost hypnotic wall of sound.

      Harper wondered how long their patience would last.

      Not long, as it turned out.

      A shadow moved, low and slow, in the darkness to the left of the pickup’s front tire.

      She touched Miles lightly on the arm, pointing.

      Turning the camera, he zoomed in.

      Glancing up at her, he whispered, ‘SWAT team.’

      They both crouched low.

      It happened quickly.

      Two shadowy figures leaped onto Shepherd’s back with machine-perfect timing, knocking the gun loose, and sending him sprawling.

      Harper was close enough to hear the sickening slap of his face hitting the pavement.

      A uniformed officer kicked the gun away. Then the others descended on him.

      With four adrenaline-fueled cops on top of him twisting his hands behind his back, Shepherd was done.

      Through it all, though, he repeated the same words over and over like a mantra. Sobbing them into the ground.

      ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.’

      Miles jumped to his feet. ‘Let’s get closer.’

      But the two of them had taken only a few steps from the sheltering trees when a cop, large and sweaty, wired from the excitement of the arrest, moved in on them.

      ‘Get back,’ he ordered.

      Harper didn’t like the look of him. Cops get itchy whenever they’ve had to pull their weapons.

      This one’s hand was dangerously close to his holster.

      She and Miles took an automatic step back into the glow of the headlights.

      To her surprise, the cop’s demeanor changed abruptly.

      ‘Oh, hey, Miles,’ he said. ‘I didn’t recognize you in the dark. How’s it going?’

      ‘I’m great, Bob,’ Miles said, keeping his hands clearly in view nonetheless. ‘Trying to get the front-page picture for tomorrow’s paper.’

      ‘You go ahead.’ Bob waved him on. ‘Try to stay out of their way.’

      ‘I’ll keep my distance,’ Miles promised.

      ‘Be sure and get my good side,’ Bob joked, turning sideways.

      Laughing politely, Miles moved past him toward the crowd of cops who were now lifting Shepherd to his feet.

      When Harper started to follow, though, Bob’s pleasant demeanor evaporated.

      ‘I didn’t say you could get closer.’ The warmth left his voice. ‘Traitors stay at the edge. In fact …’ He pointed behind the row of parked patrol cars. ‘Why don’t you go over there?’

      ‘Come on,’ Harper pleaded. ‘I won’t get in the way. Can’t you give me a break?’

      Bob’s face hardened.

      ‘I don’t have to do a thing for you,’ he said. ‘And right now, you’re trespassing on a crime scene and failing to obey an officer. Actually, you got some ID? I’m writing you up for disorderly conduct.’

      ‘What?’ Harper couldn’t believe it. The cops always harassed her these days, but they didn’t go this far.

      She squared