More than half an hour passed when another officer, this one huge, three-hundred-plus pounds, and African American, approached the vehicle. He wore an untucked Hawaiian shirt that on a normal-size person could double as a muumuu. He opened the back door.
“Ms. Tynes, I’m Sheriff Mickey Walker of the Sussex County Police Department. Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?”
“Did you catch him?”
Walker did not reply. He waddled toward the entrance to the trailer park. Wendy hurried behind him. She saw another officer questioning a man in a wife-beater T and boxers.
“Sheriff Walker?”
He did not slow down. “You said you believe the man wearing a ski mask was named Ed Grayson?”
“Yes.”
“And that he arrived after you did?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what kind of car he was driving?”
She thought about it. “I didn’t see, no.”
Walker nodded as though this was the answer he’d been expecting. They arrived at the trailer. Walker pushed on the screen door and bent down to squeeze inside. Wendy trailed. Two other uniformed officers were already there. Wendy looked across the trailer where Dan had fallen.
Nothing.
She turned to Walker. “You already removed the body?” But she knew the answer. No ambulance or crime scene vans or hearses had driven past her.
“There was no body,” he answered.
“I don’t understand.”
“No Ed Grayson or anyone else either. The trailer is exactly as it was when we entered.”
Wendy pointed to the far corner. “He was lying there. Dan Mercer. I’m not making it up.”
She stared at where the body had been, thinking, Oh no, this couldn’t be. She flashed to that movie/TV scene you’ve seen a million times, the dead body gone, the pleading woman saying, “But you must believe me!” and nobody does. Wendy’s eyes moved back toward the big cop to see his reaction. She expected skepticism, but Walker surprised her.
“I know you’re not making it up,” he said.
She had been ready to launch into a prolonged argument, but now there was no need. She waited.
“Take a deep breath,” Walker said. “Smell anything?”
She did. “Gunpowder?”
“Yep. Fairly recent, I’d guess. More than that, there’s a bullet hole in the wall over there. Went clean through. We found the slug outside in a cinder block. Looks like a thirty-eight, but we’ll know more later. Now I want you to look around the room and tell me if you notice anything different from when you ran out.” He paused, gestured awkwardly. “Except, you know, for the no dead body and all.”
Wendy spotted it right away. “The carpet is gone.”
Again Walker nodded as though he’d already known what she’d say. “What sort of carpet?”
“Orange shag. That’s where Mercer fell after he was shot.”
“And that carpet was in the corner? Where you pointed before?”
“Yes.”
“Let me show you something.”
Walker took up a lot of room in the tiny trailer. They crossed the room, and Walker pointed a beefy finger at the wall. Wendy could see the bullet hole, neat and small. Walker wheezed as he bent down to where the body had fallen.
“Do you see this?”
Small curls of orange shag, like thin Cheetos, littered the floor. That was great—evidence she’d been telling the truth—but that wasn’t what Walker wanted to show her. She followed his finger.
Blood.
Not a lot. Certainly not all that had poured out when Dan Mercer had been shot. But enough. More of the orange shag remnants were caught up in the sticky liquid.
“Must have bled through the carpet,” Wendy said.
Walker nodded. “We have a witness outside who spotted a man putting a rolled-up carpet in the back of his vehicle—a black Acura MDX, New Jersey plates. We already called DMV on Edward Grayson of Fair Lawn, New Jersey. He owns a black Acura MDX.”
FIRST THEY CUED up the theme music. Very dramatic. Bah-dahduuumm . . .
Wearing a black robe, Hester Crimstein opened the door and strode lionlike toward the judge’s seat. The drumbeat picked up as she grew closer. The famous voice-over, the same one who did all the “In a world” movies before he passed away, said, “All rise and rise now, Judge Hester Crimstein presiding.”
Smash to title: CRIMSTEIN’S COURT.
Hester took her seat. “I’ve reached a verdict.”
The female chorus, the same ones who sing the quick radio call letters like, “One oh two point seven . . . New Yoooorkkkk,” sang, “It’s verdict time!”
Hester tried not to sigh. She had been taping her new TV show for three months now, leaving the cable-news confines of Crimstein on Crime, her show that dealt with “real cases”—real cases being a euphemism for celebrity wrongdoings, missing white teens, politicians’ adultery.
Her “bailiff” was named Waco. He was a retired stand-up comic. Yes, for real. This was a TV set, not a courtroom, though it looked like one. While not exactly a trial, Hester did preside over a legal proceeding of a certain kind. The two parties sign a contract for arbitration. The producers pay the settlement, and both the plaintiff and the defendant are paid a hundred dollars a day. It’s win-win.
Reality shows have a bad rap and deserve them, but what most ably demonstrated, especially the ones involving either courtship or courts, was that this remains a man’s world. Take the defendant, Reginald Pepe. Please. Big Reg, as he liked to be called, had allegedly borrowed two grand from the defendant, Miley Badonis, his girlfriend at the time. Big Reg claimed it was a gift, telling the court, “Chicks like to give me stuff—what can I say?” Big Reg was fifty years old, weighed a paunchy two-fifty, and wore a mesh shirt that gave his chest hairs enough room to curl through. He wasn’t wearing a bra but should have been. His hair was gelled into a spike that made him look like the latest anime cartoon villain, and there were gold chains around his neck, dozens of them. Big Reg’s wide face, emphasized by the sad fact that Hester’s show now filmed in high def, contained enough craters to make one search for a lunar rover on his right cheek.
Miley Badonis, the plaintiff, was at least two decades younger, and while nobody would be speed-dialing the Elite modeling agency upon gazing at her, she was, well, fine. But she had been so anxious to get a man, any man, that she gave Big Reg money with nary a question.