Road to rouen, p.13
Road to Rouen, page 13
Good for him, I thought to myself. “It's Roy. Got a minute?” Back came such a swift gush of words I couldn't understand any of them. “Slow down. Say that again.”
I could hear him catch his breath. “Gotta talk to you. A lot going on.”
“Like what?”
“Chicago police want to question you. You were involved in a shooting at that detective agency?”
That one took me back. “Not involved. Just around. How'd you know?”
“They got your name out of the appointment book. You were the last one in there. They saw a Rouen contact number and called the police here looking for you. Then the police called me.”
“What do they want?”
“Police here just said for questioning.”
That made sense. I was surprised I hadn't thought that might happen. I wondered for an instant if the lapse was the scotch.
“What else?”
“I've got a name and number for you to call.”
He gave me a sergeant's name and the number. I wrote it down on a match book.
“Thanks,” I said, still thinking about the Chicago cops.
“Hold on, there's more.”
“Okay.”
“Rittberger here says he wants to talk to you after you talk to the police up there.”
“Why?”
“Don't know. But he wants you back here for that.”
“What's the matter? The Buick won't start?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Okay. A woman called for you. Judy Mancini. She said it was important. Wants you to call her. So who is she?”
“A friend. Did she say anything happened?” Now I was worried.
“No. Just said to call.”
“You're sure.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“The insurance policy didn't come today. Should be here tomorrow.”
“What about your motions?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that. Nothing yet. It's taking way too long. Something's going on. I was over there today and couldn't get an answer. Nobody's going to be around tomorrow. It's Friday.”
“Great.” I wondered if they’d ever heard of justice being swift.
“Where are you?”
“Chicago.”
“But I mean where? I may need to get hold of you.”
I ignored that for the moment. “Did you check out the Dodge?”
“Yes. The wheel had all the lugs. Tight too.”
That was expected. These guys weren't dumb.
“Got a question and I need a straight answer.”
He heard my tone change. “What?”
“Have you been talking to Charlie Fowler?”
“What do you mean?” He sounded defensive. At least that's what I thought I heard.
“I mean have you had any conversations with Charlie about what's been going on?” I could hear him hesitate. “Because if I don't hear the truth we're done.”
“He's called a couple times.”
“Why?”
“He said he's worried about you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Just that you were in trouble. You were in Chicago looking for answers. You were fine.”
I cursed to myself. “Be specific. What did you say?”
“Just that. I didn't tell him about the gas cans or the life insurance policy. Nothing like that.”
“Did you mention the detective agency?”
“No. I don't think so.”
“Be positive.”
“No.”
“You must have talked about something else.”
“He asked about the motions we filed.”
“How did he know about that?”
“I don't know.”
“What did you say?”
“We were waiting on them.”
I stopped and tried to think. He sounded like he was being straight. But who knew? “Why the hell did you even talk to him?” I could feel my anxiety turning to anger.
“He referred me. He's your brother-in-law.” He was starting to whine.
“Look, he calls you again you tell him your client asked you not to discuss anything. And I mean anything. Got that?” By this time I sounded pissed. Probably because I was.
“Yes.”
“All right. I gotta go.”
“How do I get you?”
“I'll call you.”
I hung up and sat in the phone booth stewing. I lit a cigarette. I looked at my watch. Three thirty. Judy was still at work. I thought I should try to get the Chicago cop thing over with. I looked at the matchbook and dialed the number.
“Homicide. Donatelli.”
“Sergeant, my name is Roy Cutter. I understand you want to talk to me.”
“Detective,” he corrected me.
“Sorry.”
“Where are you? When can you come in?”
“Chicago. Where are you?”
“South State Street Station.”
“I can be there in an hour.” I don't know why I gave myself so much time. Maybe I was avoiding. Maybe I just needed a drink first.
“Good. Come up to the second floor and ask for me.”
“Will do.”
We hung up. I'd lost my appetite.
***
I hated chemistry, and I wasn’t crazy about the old lady who taught it. I'd managed to skip the class as a junior but now as a senior I was stuck with it. Because of all that hatred and because I was intent on goofing off my senior year I came to first semester exams carrying a solid D minus. That didn't bother me at all except I could find myself ineligible for baseball in the spring if I couldn't keep a passing grade.
As a senior in a junior class you were allowed to pick your lab partner and your seat. I chose the seat closest to the door. Which happened to be right in front of the teacher’s desk. For my lab partner I chose John Paulson, the smartest kid in the class. He was also the son of the guy who owned the factory I'd worked in that summer. We'd gotten to be pals of a sort.
I hatched the plot. I think John went along with it because it was so ingenious and more of a challenge than the test was going to be for him.
Test day came and John and I were sitting at our lab desks separated by a sink right smack in front of the teacher. There were only four chemical equations or something like that to work out. I had not even a hint of how to do them. John was fast and worked. I pretended to work. About halfway through the test I raised my hand and asked the teacher if I could borrow John's slide rule. She smiled and nodded. Bingo.
John had a slide rule with a blank back. But now it had the answers thanks to John. I worked diligently on my test paper figuring out all kinds of things with that slide rule. I tried one of the equations on my own once I got the hang of it just so we wouldn't turn in identical papers.
I'll never forget the look on her face when she gave me back the test with a big red “A-” on top. It was a little smile that said she knew. I gave her smile back that said I knew she knew. But she never said anything. And I played baseball in the spring. And that taught me that sometimes you can get away with it.
***
After the phone calls, I went back up to my room. I had to ditch the pistol if I was going to be hanging around a police station. I stuck it in the gym bag under some papers and stray underwear and then put it on the top shelf in the closet.
I'd brought ice back with me and made myself a drink. I lit up and thought about how I was going to handle this.
I wasn't comfortable blabbing the whole story to any cop. Hadn't Harris said they couldn't be sure somebody in there wasn't watching? No, I would stick to the basics. My late wife had hired them and left a balance due. I was there to settle the account. But after discussing the situation with Harris we had agreed the balance would be forgiven. I had to say that because they weren't going to find any receipt or evidence of payment. End of story. Simple.
I decided to hang out in the room until four. Maybe I could catch Judy just getting home from work and find out what was going on. I waited until five after. It wasn't like I had to punch a clock at the cop station. She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“It's Roy.”
“Roy! Thank God. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Fine. Are you all right? What's going on?”
“Nobody's been back looking for you. But I needed to know you were all right.”
“It's okay. I'm working on it. I'll be back in Rouen soon.” As I said that I remembered Rittberger wanted me.
“When you come I have something for you.”
“What?”
“I was talking to Dr. Northrup about your wife and how you were having trouble finding out what the cause of death was and how the police were keeping everything to themselves.”
“And?”
“And, well, he said some things about the police and how they were treating the case. I could tell he was upset. Then he took me back to his office and he unlocked his file cabinet and let me make a copy of his report.”
“What report?”
“Your wife's autopsy.”
“You have the autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
“Dr. Northrup said I couldn't look at it. That would be unethical. But I was to give it to you. He said you'd get it eventually anyway.”
I didn't know what to say. “That was good of you, of Dr. Northrup.”
“Roy, there's something funny going on. The questions you were asking me, they're things Dr. Northrup talked about. I'm worried sick. Where are you?”
“I'm all right. Trust me. This will all work out. I've got to go now and talk to some people. I'll try to call you back later. But don't worry. Okay?”
“When are you coming back?”
“Day or two. I'll let you know.”
“Okay. What should I do?”
“Stay calm. It's all right. I'll try to call you later, okay?”
“Okay.”
We hung up. I didn't like that she was so worried. It wasn't her problem. It shouldn't be her problem. It had crossed my mind to have her take the autopsy report to Marty. But I still didn't trust him.
I looked at my watch. Quarter after. I needed to get moving. I gathered my cigarettes and lighter and took a look around the room. Once down on the sidewalk I walked to the curb and started hailing a cab. The Alhambra had no doorman.
Soon enough one came along. On the ride to the station I rehearsed my story and considered questions I maybe hadn't thought of. I decided if the questions tried to lead me away from my story I would just play dumb. That should be easy.
The cab was southbound on South State, so the driver let me off at the curb across the street from the station. I paid him and got out and then waited for traffic to cross. It was the middle of the block so it would take a second. There was a break in the traffic, and I started across thinking about what I wanted to do after I was done with the cops.
That’s the last thing I remember.
(back to top)
Chapter Twenty
There were clowns at the wedding. I don't like clowns. I don't find them particularly amusing. I really couldn't understand what they were doing there. But they were all over the place.
One of them looked like he was molesting Connie's sister with one arm around her shoulder and a gigantic red gloved hand pawing at the bodice of her low cut dress that barely covered her nipples. But she was giggling with her head thrown back as she sat on a white folding chair with her knees spread apart and one hand drooped down below the seat pinching a champagne glass by the stem. Then Charlie came over laughing and pulled the hem of her dress up to show the clown she wasn't wearing anything underneath. I wanted to go over and say something but I felt like it was a family matter, so I left it alone.
Which I guessed was the right thing to do because I saw Carl and Arlene sitting at the next table watching what was going on and smiling and pointing. Carl started shouting encouragement to the clown telling him to get his other hand busy.
Then one of the clowns came up to me and in a creepy falsetto whispered that the bride wanted to see me privately in another room because she was having trouble getting into her dress. I thought that pretty stupid because Connie was only going to wear a little black sheath dress she'd worn a hundred times before. But I went to the room because I wanted to help and I was getting impatient waiting for the ceremony. I saw her as soon as I opened the door. She was lying naked on a table with her legs spread wide in the air and her breasts quivering back and forth as some clown with his pants dropped around his ankles pumped her ferociously.
She seemed to be enjoying it a lot, moaning and crying out the way she liked to do, so I closed the door. But I worried that if they were going to keep at it or if she wanted to entertain other clowns the guests were going to start leaving before the ceremony started. I decided I needed a drink while I waited. I circled the tent over and over again, but I couldn't find the bar. Then I noticed two clowns following me around tiptoeing in their big shoes in that dopey exaggerated way that clowns have of doing everything. So I turned around and pulled the .45 from my belt and blasted them until the blood ran all over their makeup.
***
You don't come to all at once. The awareness kind of seeps into your brain in little flecks that flutter in and out so by the time you forget you were thinking about one thing another thing floats in for you to think about. So it was I thought about, in no particular order, the white ceiling, the bright light, the pain in my side, the beeping noise, the pain in my arm, the smell of bleach, the pain in my head and the itch on my nose I couldn't reach.
It was when all those thoughts began to string together I realized there were faces looking down at me. I could see their mouths moving, but there was no sound. Then there was no thought.
***
The scariest thing about finally waking up wasn't that I couldn't be sure I could feel my legs. It was the handcuffs that attached my wrists to the railings on either side of the bed. I could hear the beeping in the background get faster as I started to panic a little. I tried to call out, but all that came out was just some weak croaking noise. But that was enough because it brought a concerned looking nurse over who looked at me and then went away and came back with a cold wet washcloth she put on my forehead.
Then a young guy in a white coat with a name tag that said Dr. something appeared and looked down at me and then reached at my face and pulled my eyelids up one at a time and peered down like he was looking for something. I tried to shake my head, but it hurt too much to do that so I just kind of gave him the raspberries blubbering through my lips. He took a stethoscope from around his neck and stuck the ends in his ears and listened to my chest. Then he turned and said something to the nurse. They both went away. She came back with a needle and stuck it into the tube that was attached to my arm. And that was the last I remembered for a while.
When I woke up again I remembered about the handcuffs so I told myself to just stay calm. I had to talk to somebody. It was time to find out what the hell was going on. I lay there a while taking inventory. I could bend my knees a little and wiggle my toes. That was good. I could see my right arm looked as normal as it could with the needle and the tube stuck in it. The left arm had a bandage around the wrist that had forced them to put the handcuff halfway up my forearm. That was all I could see and feel.
It seemed like a long time, but eventually a nurse came over and looked at me.
I tried to say “What happened?” But it just came out as a whispered grunt. It made my side hurt. She looked at me quizzically, so I tried again. This time it sounded more or less like what I wanted to say.
“You were in an accident,” she said. “You were hit by a car.”
I was going to try to make a joke and ask her if the car was all right, but instead I just croaked the word, “Water.”
“Just a minute,” she said and then she disappeared. She came back with a little paper cup with one of those bendy straws sticking out of it. She reached down and cranked the bed up, so I was sort of half sitting. Then she held the straw up to my lips so I could take a sip. It tasted like plastic, but my mouth was so dry it was still pretty good.
When I was done I kind of shook my arms and rattled the cuffs and asked, “Why?”
“You're under arrest.”
“What for?”
She made a stern face. “Killing people.”
I was still woozy enough I wasn't sure I heard what she said. I must have given her some kind of look or something because then she said, “Now that you're awake somebody will be coming in to talk to you.”
I suddenly had a thought. “What day is it?” I asked.
“Sunday.” Then, maybe because she was angry about working it, she added, “Mother's Day.”
I thought it was Thursday the last I knew. I started to hope this was all a bad dream. The nurse went away and left me propped up a little. I could see I was surrounded by white curtained screens. They apparently didn't want me seeing anybody or maybe anybody seeing me. With all that visual stimulation it wasn't long before I dozed off.
I don't know how long it was, but a hand on my shoulder woke me up. It was the nurse. “Detective Donatelli is here to see you,” she said.
I looked over to the other side of the bed and there he was – a stocky, swarthy guy with one of those hairlines that comes down to a point right between the eyebrows.
“You able to talk?” he asked.
I really didn't feel like talking, but I had to find out what was going on. I nodded a “yes.”
“Where were you between three and five o'clock on the eighth?”
That was too complicated a question. “What was the eighth?”
“Wednesday.”
I thought for a long time. “In a bar.”
“Where?”
“A couple blocks off West Randolph.”
“Which one?”
“I dunno.”
He held up a little leather notebook and wrote something in it. “Why were you at the Randolph Detective Agency?”
He didn't have the name right, but I wasn't going to correct him. “My late wife had a past due balance. I was going to settle up.” That took a lot of effort to say.
