Let Go

"Jeff?' Sarah Boyd's shaky voice sounded from my cell phone. "You need to come to Brookwood Pass. There’s – a body." 

Springing from my desk, paperwork abandoned mid-signature, I motioned to the rookie, Hirsch. Then, keys in hand and phone cradled against my shoulder, I headed for the cruiser. 

I begged Sarah to stay on the line, but by the time Hirsch opened the passenger door, she was gone. 

"What's going on, Hayes?" he asked as I peeled out of the lot, siren blaring. "Did you take a 9-1-1 call on your phone?" 

"I am this woman's 9-1-1," I muttered. 

"Oh, your girlfriend?”

"A long time ago, yeah." We roared through the traffic light at the center of town. "She's with somebody else now." Two somebodies, if rumors were reliable. 

"This is the same woman who has you drop off dinner? And whose car needed a jump? Where are we going now, to get her dry cleaning?" 

I explained where we were headed, and Hirsch got quiet, abashed. "Dang," he said.

I turned the car into the empty lot behind the elementary school, parked, and we hopped out. 

At the halfway point of the overgrown Pass that led from the school into town there was Sarah, pacing, hand to her mouth, blonde hair a frantic tangle framing her face. She wore jogging clothes: leggings, sweatshirt, and sneakers. Although she looked awful, the part of my heart that belonged to her leapt in my chest. 

Supine on the edge of the trail lay the body of a man - white, middle-aged, casually dressed in khakis and a button-down, heavier than Hirsch but slim compared to me. His eyes were closed and there was blood in his hair, but I recognized him as Greg Winters, Sarah’s boyfriend. 

As soon as she saw me, Sarah launched herself against my chest, burying her face in my shoulder as she began to sob. I rubbed her back, and Hirsch knelt down to examine the body. He felt for a pulse, listened for breath sounds, then shook his head at me. Nudging Sarah, I got her to loosen her grip and step back. 

“We need to know what happened,” I said. “You found him like this?” 

She sniffed, collecting herself. “It was Hank,” she choked out. “He must have known we were out here running. I thought it was me he wanted, but he went straight for Greg.” A sob overtook her and she paused. “I hid in the trees. I thought Greg was behind me. But the next thing I knew there was a loud whack. He used a brick. When it was quiet, I came over and,” she gestured toward the lifeless body. “That’s when I called you.” 

 “Okay.” I swallowed. Despite how things had soured between us, I hated seeing her like this. 

“And where is Hank now?” 

“Gone,” Sarah said hoarsely. “I didn’t see which way.” She glanced down at Greg’s body, and fresh tears formed in her eyes. Oh, Sarah.

Hirsch?” I prompted. “Why don’t you two take a walk? I’ll secure the scene and call in a couple of the guys.” I needed a minute. Now. 

Hirsch took Sarah’s arm, and they moved off down the trail. 

It took a little while for more officers to show up, and it took a little longer than that for them to secure the area. When things were set, I went to check on Sarah. I was surprised when I found Hirsch on his own. 

"She went over there to pee," he said, pointing. 

"Sarah? Pee in the woods?" I scoffed, thinking about the time Sarah and I had tried camping. It had been such a disaster. She screamed every time a bug came near her. 

Hirsch shrugged. We stood quietly for a moment, then had to step aside as a gurney bearing the body of Greg Winters was carried slowly past us. 

Hirsch watched silently, then suddenly spoke, “Do you see his shoes?” he said. I looked where he pointed. “Didn’t she say they were going for a run?” 

I snapped to attention, then motioned for the guys to stop for a second. Lifting the sheet that covered Greg’s body, I stared down at his footwear. Flip-flops. No one went running in flip-flops. Also, Sarah never exercised outside of an air-conditioned gym. 

“Sarah!” I called, adrenalin pumping. I clambered over downed limbs and under leafy branches. I sensed Hirsch was following me, but all my energy was focused on a singular picture coming together all too clearly in my mind. 

She called me and not 9–1-1, so there’d be no record of what she said. When I prompted her, she had her story ready. It all came out so smoothly, implicating Hank so readily. The scene of the murder I’d been playing in my mind underwent a sudden seismic shift. Wielding the brick wasn’t an enraged, jealous Hank, but a cold, calculating blonde who had chosen between her two men in the most evil, violent way possible. Maybe Hank really had been here and run off, but if so, the sinking feeling in my gut told me he wouldn’t be alone for long. 

“Hirsch, you idiot!” I shouted, but I wasn’t angry with him. All he’d done was let a distraught witness take a bathroom break. I was angry with myself for being stupid enough to hold onto Sarah Boyd when I should have let her go, and to let her go - with blood on her hands, no less - when I should have slapped the cuffs on her and held on tight.