A Good Kill (A P.T. Marsh Novel, Band 3) - Hardcover

McMahon, John

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593328361 ISBN 13: 9780593328361

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2021

Inhaltsangabe

An electrifying mystery featuring a troubled small-town police detective faced with three interwoven crimes that reveal sinister secrets about his community--and the deaths of his family, by the Edgar Award-and Thriller Award- short-listed author whose novels have been described by the New York Times Book Review as "pretty much perfect."

In the years since the mysterious deaths of his wife and child, P.T. Marsh, a police detective in the small Georgia town of Mason Falls, has faced demons--both professional and personal. But when he is called to the scene of a school shooting, the professional and personal become intertwined, and he suspects that whoever is behind the crime may be connected to his own family tragedy.

As Marsh and his partner Remy investigate the shooting, they discover that it is far from straightforward, and their search for answers leads them to a conspiracy at the highest levels of local government--including within the police force. The stakes in the case become increasingly high, culminating in a showdown that has Marsh questioning everything he knows, and wondering if some secrets are better left undiscovered.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

John McMahon is the author of The Good Detective and The Evil Men Do. In his role as an ad agency creative director, he has won a Gold Clio for his work with Fiat, and he's written a Superbowl spot for Alfa Romeo. He currently lives in Southern California with his family and two rescue animals.

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1
 
In times of reflection, I find that my chosen profession isn’t one that I’d recommend to others. Homicide is a lonely division in a police department, filled with a particular type of person – as comfortable with the dead as with the living – and often able to suppress their emotions in ways that cannot be healthy.

My partner Remy Morgan had arrived at Falls Magnet Middle School about twenty minutes before me and was hunkered down behind one of six patrol cars that littered the school’s front lawn.

I grabbed a Remington 870P from a patrolman and ran in a crouched position, the shotgun clasped under my right arm. Dropped behind the black-and-white where Remy was.

“One gunman,” my partner said, catching me up. “Three students and two teachers hostage. One of the teachers is injured. A shot to the gut is what we hear.”

I borrowed Remy’s binoculars, placing the Bushnell L-Series to my face.

“The hostages are in the art room, P.T.,” she said. “Back of the building. Far right. All the rest of the staff and students are accounted for. Fifty-nine adults. Three hundred and ninety-four kids.”

I scanned the school grounds. To the right of the main building was a rectangular sports field, currently dressed for football and not a soul on it. To the left was a concrete area with two deserted basketball courts and a cluster of orange metal lunch tables.

Backpacks and cans of pop lay abandoned on the ground in the lunch area. Even further left was the new library, no longer under construction, but not yet open. A vinyl banner was strung across the front, announcing the date of an upcoming ribbon-cutting.

“There’s something else,” Remy said. “Avis Senza may be one of the three girls inside.”

I pulled the binoculars down and made eye contact with my partner.

Avis Senza was a budding thirteen-year-old artist who attended the magnet school. She was also the daughter of our boss, Police Chief Dana Senza.

“Bullshit,” I said. But Remy’s face was dead serious.

My partner wore gray Kevlar over a white blouse and tan pants. The outfit contrasted with her dark brown skin.

“Vest,” she said to me, tapping at her own protection.

I grabbed mine. Pulled the straps tight around my chest.

My name is P.T. Marsh, and Mason Falls, Georgia is my town. Lately we top out at around 140,000 souls. So we’re not so big that there’s more than two Walmarts in town. Then again, we’re not so tiny that it won’t make national news when a school shooting happens.

“The first report came in at 1:57,” Remy said. “A student saw a man in the art room with a gun. The kid did a one-eighty. Pulled the fire alarm and hightailed it.”

From there, whispers and texts moved through the school faster than summer lightning. Soon, four hundred kids were racing across the parking lot.

Kids streamed into the nearby forest, Remy explained. Flooded into adjoining neighborhoods.
I turned and reexamined the campus.

Falls Magnet Middle School was only two years old, built on land that locals once called The Sullivan Farm. When I was a kid, I’d ridden my ten-speed here with friends – a six-foot-long frog gig duct-taped to the handle-bars of my bike, the metal pole of the tool sticking up into the air.

Where the main building stood was once a pond that overflowed from Cleric River. Back when I was ten, you could catch two silver perch and a bullfrog here on a good Saturday.

I leaned on the butt of the Remington. “You got an I.D. on the weapon, Rem’? So we know what we’re up against?”

Remy turned to a patrolman, crouched just the other side of her. My partner had the sharp cheekbones of a fashion model and her long hair was flat-ironed and cut at an angle at her shoulder. She could be intimidating.

“The students who ran out of the school,” she said to the rookie. “You got ’em in a safe area in the parking lot?”

“Maybe half of them, Detective Morgan,” he said. “We’ve been releasing them to parents.”
“Find me the boy who saw the gun,” Remy said.

The patrolman took off, sprinting out of the area in a crouched position.

In the distance a hundred feet behind us, a white pop-up tent had been erected by patrol. A planning area. Further back, in the visitor’s parking lot, a CNN van was unloading camera equipment, an unfortunate circumstance of being ninety minutes from Atlanta. There was always a CNN van on some highway nearby.

I tapped at the bullhorn by Remy’s side, and she explained how she’d tried to make contact with the gunman before I’d arrived.

“Patrol also called the cell numbers of both teachers held in the school,” she said. “No answer.”
“And Chief Senza?”

“He’s probably twenty minutes out,” Remy said. “Protocol is clear, though, P.T. Talk the shooter down. Make sure no one else gets injured or worse.”

I took this in, realizing the extra sensitivity with the Chief’s daughter in play. Still, I’d overseen last year’s active shooter training, so I knew the statistics better than anyone else in the department. In seventy percent of these scenarios, the ordeal ends only when the gunman is confronted or killed by police or himself.

“You remember a DARE talk we did here last year?” I asked.

Remy shook her head. We’d been partners for a year and a half. Slightly less if you counted a time this summer when she took a three-month shift working in County. 

“The kids weren’t paying attention,” I reminded her. “So the teacher decided to take the class outside?”

“Yeah.” Remy nodded. A look of familiarity came to her face.

I motioned over the top of the one-story brick building where the shooter was. “Those pine trees to the right curve around back. There’s a maintenance shed, tucked under a hedge of Ironwood.”
“What are you thinking?” my partner asked.

“I’m gonna circle back there,” I said. “See if I can get a different angle on this guy. Maybe climb up on the roof of that shed.”

I grabbed the Remington. 

“You got your walkie?” Remy asked.

I looked down. It was clipped to my belt. “And my cell in case you want to stay off the radio.”
“If you get the shot-” Remy said.

“I thought we were trying to talk him down.”

“We are,” she said. “But if conditions change and you get a good look-”

Remy hesitated, her eyes searching me. “Do you want me to go instead?” she asked.

I took off without answering, making a bee-line back toward the police tent. When I was almost there, I ducked left into the forested area that ran between the school and State Route 903.

Four months ago, I’d had a guy in the sights of my gun. A killer who’d taken out a dozen innocents. I’d pulled the trigger and missed him. Then missed again. If my partner hadn’t been there, I’d be dead now. Hence her question.

I dodged around thick rows of sugar maple, the silver gray bark of the trees five or six feet from each other. Above me, their green and brown flowers hung in clusters.

In the world of policing against an active shooter, there’s pre-1999 and post. 

Before the ’99 shooting at Columbine, the response...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2021
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593328361
• ISBN 13: 9780593328361
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 384
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: G.P. Putnam's Sons; https://www.penguin.com/putnam/; ; 1745 BROADWAY Attn: Madison Forsander; NEW YORK; NY; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar