When Things Fall Apart

By Alan Brenham

Newly minted homicide detective Kit Hanover is paired with a crusty veteran who makes no bones about his feelings for Native Americans. Their prickly partnership becomes more antagonistic when her first murder case proves devastating, and she is reassigned. Determined to work the case in her own time despite the emotional consequences she finds herself and her family the target of an unknown madman. She withstands the inexplicable attacks as she continues her investigation until she finds herself face to face with the murderer. Only one of them can survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Brenham
• Release date: Sep 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215535288

Alan Brenham

Alan Brenham is the pseudonym for Alan Behr, an author and attorney. He served as a law enforcement officer before earning a law degree and working as a prosecutor and a criminal defense attorney. He has traveled to several countries in Europe, the Middle East, Alaska, and almost every island in the Caribbean. While working with the US Military Forces, he lived in Berlin, Germany. Behr and his wife, Lillian, currently live in the Austin, Texas area.

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CHAPTER ONE

Friday, October 12th

It was a good night to kill a lawyer. He looked at the pale blue sky with its runway show of reds, yellows, and oranges. Strips of white clouds intermixed with ribbons of violet. The air was in the upper fifties. Cool enough to make him zip up his black jacket. With a black ski mask pulled over his face and a Sig Sauer nine millimeter in his hand, he waited against the tall hedge.

His watch showed it to be almost seven o’clock. From past surveillance, he knew the man would be walking out the office door at any minute. He panned the street. Not one car or pedestrian was in sight. The neighborhood seemed eerily quiet, almost as if it was holding its collective breath, waiting and watching what would happen.

An image of his young wife hovered in his mind’s eye. They’d been married four years. Her pet name for him was Ken. She’d crowned him with it because he would buy her Barbie dolls to add to her collection. So since he was her Ken, she was his Barbie.

He believed she’d always be faithful even after his surgery dulled their sex life. She had sworn to love him in sickness and health and forsake all others. But then this asshole came along.

He didn’t know when or where his wife and that prick’s hook-up started. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that the guy had lured the love of his life into an adulterous affair, and tonight, the bastard was going to pay.

He had seen all the signs, her girls-nights-out increasing from one to three, the unsigned love note he found in her underwear drawer with its cartoonish graphic of a sexy penguin and rather childish, even girlie handwriting: That was the most awesome weekend ever!!!.

Why the hell a goddamn lawyer would write such stupid words on an even stupider card in such pansy handwriting baffled him. What pissed him off to the max was how that older man, that lawyer, had mislead his young wife with such juvenile bullshit. But the crowning blow was when he saw her in that bar in the Stockyards having a drink with that asshole.

It was like groundhog day all over again. Three years before Elaine, his fiancé, Rebecca, cheated on him with a co-worker. The final blow came when Ken caught Rebecca at a motel with the co-worker. But for two guys in the next room who pulled him off the asshole, Ken would’ve beaten him to death.

Just then, the law office’s backdoor swung open. Immediately Ken’s gloved fingers closed tight around the gun. He waited as the prick headed for his fancy Porsche. The asshole strutted like he didn’t have a care in the damn world. When the prick fished his keys from his pocket, Ken’s thumb flipped the gun’s safety off.

He approached the car stealthily from the blindside while the lawyer unlocked the driver’s door.

The lawyer dropped the keys when Ken jammed the gun into the back of his head.

Okay, the lawyer said, slowly raising his hands. Whoever you are. I have cash . . .

Shut up, Ken said, ramming the gun barrel against the lawyer’s head, knocking him into the door. Get your ass over to that green pick-up.

Once the lawyer reached the truck, Ken said, Get behind the wheel.

The lawyer pulled the driver’s door open.

Ken poked the gun barrel in his back, shoving him forward. Get in.

Once the lawyer was behind the wheel, Ken climbed into the passenger side. He tossed the keys into the lawyer’s lap. Start it up and drive.

Following Ken’s directions, he drove north to Loop 820, then west to the Marine Creek boat ramp.

Park it.

The lawyer pulled into a marked parking slot and put the gear shift in PARK.

Give me the fucking keys.

Why are you doing this? If it’s money you want, take my wallet.

Ken pressed the gun barrel against his head. Get out of the goddam truck.

Ken met the guy on the driver’s side. Put your hands behind your back, asshole.

He secured the lawyer’s wrists with a plastic cuff, the man asking, Why are you doing this? I can pay you money.

All will be revealed soon enough, shithead. Ken shoved him. Start walking.

When the lawyer reached the entrance to the pier, he stopped.

The gunman poked him in the ribs with the gun. Keep walking, dickhead.

The lawyer walked past the pier entrance.

Ken grabbed him by the elbow. Not that way. Out on the pier.

A few minutes later, the lawyer stood at the end of the pier.

Now get on your fucking knees, dickhead.

The lawyer started to look back at his antagonist.

Eyes front, asshole. Ken jammed the gun in his ribs. I’m not gonna tell ya twice. Get on your fucking knees.

If you plan on killing me, the least you can do is tell me why.

Sounds fair enough. Ken flipped the safety on and then slipped the gun into his waistband. Next, he pulled a black tire iron from inside his jacket.

It’s like this, you sorry motherfucker. You dipped your cock in the wrong hole.

What are you talking about? The lawyer turned to look at him.

Eyes front, he snapped. Shit for brains.

I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m married.

"Don’t even go there, you sorry prick. I read your goofy love letter to my wife. You can’t write them to your wife? Shit no. You have to write them to my wife."

I didn’t write any love notes to anybody.

Let me ask you a question since you’re not too busy now to answer one. Where’s your wife? Is she at home?

No, she’s out of town at a conference.

What would she do if she were to find out her husband’s been dipping his rod in someone else’s pussy?

She wouldn’t say anything because I never did it, nor would I.

Really? Why did I see the two of you having a drink together at Clyde’s Tavern in the Stockyards.

A short pause before the lawyer answered. Elaine’s your wife?

The one and only.

She’s Judge Samuel’s court reporter. The drink was just between colleagues after a day in court. It was just an after work drink, for Chrissake. That’s all it was—nothing else. I swear to God. And I sure as hell didn’t write any love letters to her. Jez.

You’re a fucking liar. I saw you with her in Food Lion.

We happened to be there at the same time. Nothing more.

A couple seconds ticked by until Ken asked, Let me ask you this. How would you feel if some dude was screwing your wife?

I wouldn’t like it.

Neither did I. Ken swung the tire iron like a baseball player knocking the ball out of the park. It struck the back of the lawyer’s head.

The lawyer uttered a loud grunt, toppling face-first on the pier.

He slammed the tire iron into the lawyer’s head again and again. Blood sprayed onto his jacket and pants. Ken kept striking until the lawyer quit breathing. He wasn’t satisfied. He turned the man over. Images of happier days with his Barbie flooded his brain and ignited a frenzy. He continued hammering the lawyer’s face and head. He stopped when his arm was too tired to swing again.

Laying the tire iron down, he pressed his gloved finger on the man’s neck. No pulse. He ransacked the dead man’s pockets, taking car keys, a wallet, his cell phone, and the lawyer’s business cards. Noticing the tattoo on the forearm, Ken used his knife to slice it off. Without those items, the police couldn’t ID the guy right away.

Going through the wallet, he removed cash, counting out two hundred and fifty dollars, then stuffed the money in his pocket. The driver’s license was next.

He heaved the wallet into the lake. Then, opening the call log on the dead guy’s cell phone, Ken checked for familiar phone numbers. Seeing none, he hurled the phone as far out into the lake as he could.

Looking at the body, an image of his beloved Barbie flashed before his eyes. A sudden burst of anger made him draw a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. Leaning over he plunged the knife into the dead man’s body, That’s for the love note. A second stab. That’s for taking my wife to a bar for a goddam drink. The third stab would do as payback for the rendezvous at Food Lion, the fourth for trying to cuckold Ken. The last one was for being a lawyer.

Finished with exacting his payback, he rolled the body off the pier into the water. Exhausted from the furious assault, he stood there, collecting his breath and savoring the deed. So long, prick. You won’t be fucking another man’s wife again, you sorry son of a bitch.

Back at his truck, Ken peeled off the gloves, did a complete change of clothes, then drove away from the marina. He stopped at a highway trash receptacle, squirted lighter fluid on his coveralls, gloves, and sneakers, then tossed a match inside. A car wash was his last stop before home.

Holding a glass of Maker’s Mark, he sank into his favorite leather armchair to consider what would happen once the prick’s wife returned from wherever she went. She’d file a missing person report when he didn’t come home. Then, the police would find his car at his office, search it and find nothing that would lead them to him.

CHAPTER TWO

Saturday 8:15 AM

Kit Hanover received her first homicide case. An unidentified body had been fished out of Marine Creek Lake. Her supervisor, Sergeant Adam Combs, introduced Kit to her partner—veteran Detective Wade Shepard.

Shepard, meet your new partner, Kit Hanover.

Kit gave him a bright smile, but Shepard’s expression turned cold as he looked her up and down. Finally, he clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head. Put her with Robbins or Thomas or somebody else. They’ll do a better job of training her than I can.

She’s with you, Combs said.

Aw hell, Sarge. I don’t want a damn rookie following me around like a puppy, he said, gesturing to Kit with an open hand.

Kit gave Shepard a look and then sighed. If another detective can teach me the ropes, I’m all for it.

Combs replied sternly to Shepard, then to Kit, The two of you will work this case. He pointed a rigid finger at Shepard. As for you, if working with her bothers you, then I’ll assign you to the Cold Case section.

Fine, he said, exhaling with a snort. But Turner’s been my partner for the last two years. Why change?

Because I’m the sergeant. I’ll make the assignments as I see fit. She’s working on this case with you, period. Any more questions?

No.

Sarge? Kit asked Combs.

What’s on your mind?

Him, she said, casting a wary eye at Shepard. I know I’m the new kid on the block, but can I be assigned to work with another detective? Then, nodding at Shepard, she said, He’s used to working with Detective Turner.

Combs sighed. Unfortunately, this unit isn’t a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator. You will work with him. Now that we’ve settled that question . . . He pointed at the door. Go find out who the victim is and why he ended up in Marine Creek Lake.

Yeah, sure, Shepard said. I hafta finish a report.

Okay, but I want you two on the road in five minutes. Patrol officers and Forensics are already on scene.

* * *

Shepard returned to his cubicle, opened the personnel records app, and gave the raven-haired Hanover’s application for a detective promotion a quick once-over. He sat back in his chair when he saw she was a Native American. Fuck me. He splayed his hands out. Bad enough, I gotta work with a no-balls rookie. Now I gotta nursemaid a fuckin Indian. He shoved the chair back as he stood up. Shit!

He walked up to Combs’ office. I hate breaking in rookies, Sarge. Especially some prairie nigger’s daughter.

If I hear that term again, your ass’ll be working cold cases until you retire . . .

Shepard started to speak, but Combs cut him with a raised hand. OR animal control. Am I clear on that?

Yeah. I still don’t know why I got saddled with her. She probably doesn’t know her ass from first base.

She not only knows her ass from first base, Combs replied. She’s pretty damn familiar with second base. Kit got her cherry busted on her first day on patrol. She shot and killed a robbery suspect before he shot an officer. She jumped through all the hoops in the officer-involved shooting circus. At the promotion interview board, she definitely had her shit together. So if I hear one more fuckin’ complaint from you, you’ll be working cold cases for the next year. Now, get going.

Shepard let out a disappointed sigh. Okay. You’re the boss. But I want my old partner back as soon as this case is done.

I’ll think about it. Now get going, and I better not hear that you gave her all the shit work to do.

He gave Combs a mock salute then headed for the exit door, passing by Kit without a word. He got in the driver’s seat and cranked up the engine.

* * *

Here’s how it’s going to work, Pocahontas, Shepard said as Kit buckled her seat belt. He leaned close to her face. I’m the lead investigator, understand?

Yeah, Kit said, gritting her teeth as anger surged. She opened her mouth to hurl an insult at him but closed it quickly. Recognizing Shepard as a dinosaur, she figured even her best barb wouldn’t dent his hide. This guy was ignorant of everything outside of his own little world.

Good, he said. "Don’t forget it. When I arrive at the scene, just think of me as the Lone Ranger. I’ll ask the questions and decide how to conduct the investigation. If I ask you anything, just answer yes, Kemo sabe."

Kit kept silent. How about I call you asshole and do whatever I deem necessary since it’s my case too.

Road noise was the only sound inside the car for the next five minutes.

What the hell are you doing in Homicide, Pocahontas? Kinda figured you for a schoolteacher on the reservation.

My name’s Hanover. Detective Kit Hanover. Not Pocahontas. With that gray hair and those worry lines on your forehead, I figured you to be a Walmart greeter, not a detective.

Silence blanketed the car’s interior until Shepard spoke. Well, Pocahontas, my name is Walt Shepard, but you can call me sir . . . or Kemo sabe. He chuckled at his own joke.

If she didn’t put a stop to it, Shepard would continue his racist barrage. Determined not to let him have the last word, she fired back. You’re Walter John Shepard. You’re a forty-seven-years-old racist jerk, married with two children, a son aged fifteen and a daughter aged sixteen. You’ve been masquerading as a detective for the past eleven years. The last six in Homicide. Detective Turner has been carrying you for the past three years. She looked at him. Did I miss anything?

He shot her the hairy eye. "You’re a wiseass, aren’t you?

Nope, she replied, gazing out the window. I just like to know all about who I’m working with.

A beat of silence passed between them.

Where were ya born?

Lawton, Oklahoma.

Oklahoma, huh? What Indian reservations are up there?

Comanche Nation. She wasn’t about to indulge him in a conversation about the various Native American tribes in Oklahoma.

Shepard shifted in his seat. Well, here’s how it gonna work, Pocahontas. When we arrive, I’ll handle the investigation and interviewing. You can either watch and listen or . . . I dunno, maybe you’ll learn something, or you can sit in the car and chant . . . or send up smoke signals or whatever you people do to stay interested.

Hearing Shepard’s slurs, Kit focused on what her father always told her. You’re the best of two worlds, my baby girl. Her father’s words almost made her feel sorry for the old detective.

You people? Showing an angry stare, she waited for a response.

Feeling her eyes on him, Shepard glanced at her. You know what I mean.

Chant and you people royally pissed her off. I guess this will be the first homicide investigation covered by Medicare.

What’s that supposed to mean? I’m too old?

You know what I mean. As much as she wanted to keep firing comebacks at Shepard, the best course was to keep her mouth shut.

You talk to your tribal elders like that?

That did it. I don’t know any tribal elders, only snarky assholes like you.

She folded her arms over her chest and gazed out the side window. The car ride passed in frosty silence.

When we arrive at the scene, he can do whatever floats his boat, but I’m not standing around like an obedient schoolgirl or staying in the car.

Heard you killed a man two years ago. What was that about?

He called me Pocahontas.

Okay. You made your point. Now, tell me what really happened.

In Kit’s mindset, killing someone wasn’t anything she was proud of or cared to relive. It wasn’t a badge of honor. It had been a necessity. Silent seconds ticked by while she gazed out the side window.

Cat got your tongue?

Knowing he wouldn’t let it go, she sucked in a deep breath and then answered. My FTO (field training officer) and I were dispatched to a robbery at a convenience store. I went around back to assist an officer from a responding unit. The suspect came out the back door and drew down on the other officer. I shot him.

That was your first day on the street, wasn’t it?

Yes. She adjusted herself in the seat as the image of the dead suspect, Norman Sellers, flashed into her mind.

Helluva way to start being a cop.

Maybe.

Ever wish you hadn’t become a cop or maybe considered turning in your badge after that?

Nope.

Bet you still have those nightmares, am I right?

Not particularly interested in discussing the shooting incident, she asked, Will the victim’s body still be at the scene?

She knew it wasn’t a question of any real significance, just something to end the discussion about the shooting incident.

Who knows.

She saw the Marine Creek boat ramp sign as Shepard drove along the Loop 820 service road. Hoping to put an end to his interrogation and race baiting, she pointed at the sign. One more mile.

Shepard didn’t reply.

Kit opened her investigative notebook and entered a notation they’d arrived on scene with the date and time. Shepard parked next to the forensics van. He climbed out and walked toward a uniformed officer and two civilians.

Kit opened her jacket and adjusted her badge chain as she headed in the same location.

Shepard pulled his suit coat back to show his badge. Where’s our vic?

The ME’s people transported it to their office, the officer said.

Any ID? Kit asked, ignoring Shepard’s scowl.

Nope. No wallet or jewelry. Looked like the vic had a tat, but his killer sliced it off.

So what happened? Shepard asked.

The officer gave a nod toward two men. These two came early to fish. The officer pointed at the pier. They hooked the body and then called us.

Kit panned the area, noting a vehicle count in her notebook, then fixed her gaze on the pier. Four forensics team members were out on the end of the pier. Two folded chairs lay next to two tackle boxes and fishing poles.

What time was that? Shepard asked the older of the two fishermen.

Around seven, the fishermen said. He looked to the other guy who nodded as if seeking agreement.

Yeah, about seven, said the younger one.

Where did you first see it? Kit asked. She wanted to know if the body was tied to a pier post or was free-floating.

Her question drew a quick yet mild rebuke from Shepard. Let’s just have one of us ask questions so the witnesses won’t get confused, okay?

It was sort of caught on something right by the corner of the pier. He pointed at the pier. See that red tackle box? The one on the far left. The body was floating right below that.

Did you drag the body to the ramp or tether it to the pier? Shepard asked.

I reeled it close to the end of the pier where I could see what it was. I left it hooked on my line when I realized it was a body. That’s when I call nine-one-one. When the police arrived, I took them out on the pier and showed them.

Kit walked toward the pier.

Whoa. Whoa. Where do you think you’re going? Shepard asked.

Out on the pier.

Don’t mess up my crime scene.

Kit kept walking, not bothering to look back. Along the way, she sketched the scene, noting yellow evidence markers by faint footprints indicating the maker walked off the pier. On the far right side at the end of the pier, six yellow evidence markers surrounded a three-foot square area of a dark stain. It began about four feet from the end of the pier. A smear of blood extended from the large stain, continuing to the edge. Peering over the edge into the dark and murky water then to the left where the fishermen sat, Kit realized why they didn’t spot the body immediately.

I hope you didn’t mess this scene up. Shepard moved up next to her.

Ignoring his comment, Kit related her theory. The killer and the vic arrived in the killer’s vehicle. The vic was brought out here and killed right there. She pointed at the bloodstain. Hair and fibers found on the end of that board showed that the body was rolled or thrown off the pier. The killer then left.

Maybe the vic was fishing when he was killed. Why the hell else would he be out here before dawn?

There’s no sign of a third fishing pole or third tackle box.

Shepard panned the area. You’re pretty observant for an Indian.

Being a Native American had nothing to do with observation.

Whatever. He wagged a finger in her face. Don’t ever ask a witness questions when I’m asking them stuff. Second, don’t go roaming around a crime scene. You’ll screw it up.

I didn’t mess up the crime scene. Forensics had everything marked and photographed.

Whatever. Just remember who’s the lead detective in this case. He tapped his chest with his thumb. I call the shots, and I decide who does what.

Understood. Lead jerk fits you better.

When the crime scene technicians started packing their gear, Shepard said, We’re interviewing those two fishermen at the office for their statements. I’ll do one. You take the black male. Think you can handle that?

Kit ignored the question. Sounds good.

* * *

A mile down the road, Shepard glanced at her while she made notes in her book. As Indians go, she isn’t bad-looking. Looks a helluva lot younger than twenty-three. Wouldn’t mind tagging some of that, he thought, eyeing Kit’s profile.

So tell me, what tribe are you from?

She kept making notes in her book. Like I said, Comanche Nation.

Where are they? Oklahoma? Arizona?

Oklahoma.

"Your dad, what’s his name? Crazy Bear? Sitting Horse?

Kit snorted, casting an angry glance at him. Sidney Hanover.

Doesn’t sound very Indian.

Because he isn’t. My mother is, and it’s Native American, not Indian.

Shepard went silent for a long minute then, like he had an epiphany, said, You’re adopted.

Wow, nothing gets by you, does it? she snarked. Now, back to the homicide. Do you think it was gang-related?

He parked the car in a slot reserved for detectives. Facing her, he sneered, You see any gang signs?

No.

Bingo. He crawled out and headed for the building. As they crossed the parking lot, Shepard told her, I’ll take interview room one. You take whatever’s available.

CHAPTER THREE

Saturday 3:10 PM

Kit covered all the bases with her witness but came away with nothing she and Shepard didn’t already know from the scene. After the witness interviews, Shepard left, driving south on Henderson Street.

Where are we going? Kit asked.

I want to find out what the ME can tell me about my vic. If it’s what I’m thinking, I know a guy who’d be good for this. Name’s Frank Coffey.

Kit turned to him, intent on correcting his comment about my vic but decided to let it ride. Instead, she memorialized his comment in her notebook.

Further down the road, he told her, "Wait in the car while I go inside.

No, I’m not waiting in the car.

Suit yourself. From what my witness put in his statement, the vic’s face won’t be a pretty sight.

Don’t worry about me. I can handle it. She believed it too. After knowing what she did to that robbery suspect, Kit doubted anything could faze her.

Whatever. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Shepard made the turns onto Rosedale, then Main. Pulling into the parking lot, he said, Last chance, Pocahontas.

Kit started to warn him but didn’t say a word. It would only encourage him. She walked to the entrance. After identifying themselves, they were directed to the assistant ME assigned to the case.

Been a while, Shepard, Dr. Miller said. How’s life treating you?

Same old, same old.

Who’s your sidekick?

Poca . . . uh, Detective Kit Hanover. She’s a newbie.

Aha. A new cherry to bust. Dr. Miller grinned at Shepard, then smiled at Kit. "Since you’re new,