It Takes An Artist

by Edward Kendrick

  Quint nodded and left. The next item on his agenda was to find out more about Mr Pierce. No matter what Trevor Eldridge might believe, someone out there obviously didn't think Mr Pierce was a good man. The question was, who and why.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Trev opened his eyes when he heard someone say his name. He thought it had to be Detective Hawk, back to ask more questions. Instead it was Doctor Kendall, which he supposed made more sense.

  "Going to check me over again?" Trev asked, eyeing the good-looking, dark-haired man standing over him.

  "Nope. According to the monitors, you're doing just fine. I had the nurse reduce the morphine dosage. I want you off of it and on regular pain medication as soon as possible."

  "And lose the money the hospital makes on the morphine?" Trev asked sarcastically.

  Doctor Kendall wagged an admonishing finger. "Take it down a notch. I told you. You'll probably be able to get financial assistance with your bills if you qualify."

  "I'd better." Trev took a deep breath. "Sorry, but believe me. On what I make as a waiter, I'm probably well below poverty level. And now with John…" Trev sighed deeply. "With John dead, I'll be out of a place to stay as well. I know that sounds callous, but…we were splitting the rent thirty-seventy and trust me, I wasn't paying the seventy."

  "It's not callous. It's facing reality. What about your artwork? Don't you make anything from that?"

  "I haven't found a gallery to handle me yet. I've had a couple that say they're interested, but that's about the size of it. First things first, though. I need to find a really cheap place to stay, especially since I doubt I'll be able to work for a while."

  "You should be okay to go looking in a week, as long as you're careful. When you're released, I'll give you a prescription for antibiotics and pain meds, plus dressing supplies. How much longer do you have on the lease at the apartment?"

  "Until the end of the month, but I'm not sure I can go back there."

  "You think they'll cancel it?" Doctor Kendall asked, flipping the chair by the bed around and sitting, his arms crossed over the back.

  "No. I mean…I don't know. It's more like, how can I stay there after what happened, Doc?"

  "Call me Zack, Trev. And I see your point. That would be hard to deal with."

  Trev nodded. "I can't figure out which would be worse—knowing he was killed there or wondering if the men who did it might figure they have to deal with me if the cops don't arrest me for his murder."

  "Are they likely to?"

  "Arrest me? I don't think so, unless Detective Hawk was flat out lying to me for some reason. He said all the evidence pointed to it's being a set-up."

  "Why? Okay, dumb question. I'm sure you have no idea."

  "Not a clue." Trev frowned as he looked at Zach. Then something occurred to him. "Do you usually sit with your patients like this? I thought doctors spent all their time treating us, not discussing…things that have nothing to do with what's wrong."

  "I'm off duty."

  "Then why aren't you at home or the local bar? Wherever doctors go to decompress."

  "I don't generally drink. Home is just a place I go to sleep. And to be truthful, I find this whole thing with you interesting. I know you didn't shoot yourself. I suspect that's what the police were thinking at first—that you killed your friend then tried to make it look like it was self-defense."

  Trev nodded. "How did you figure I didn't shoot myself?"

  "You're right-handed. The wound's in your right shoulder. It would have been awkward to hold the gun and pull the trigger, unless the muzzle was directly against your shoulder and it wasn't, from the lack of starring or an abrasion ring."

  "Umm, okay. If you say so."

  "I do. I took some classes in forensic pathology when I first started college, and that's one thing we learned to look for."

  "Why? I mean, why forensic pathology?"

  "It interests me. It always has. It was a tossup between that or medicine. Becoming a doctor won out. I finished my residency last year, got my MD and was put on staff here. Sometime in the future, I'll go back to school for my pathologist degree. If I ever find the time," he added ruefully.

  "So if you're an MD, you're what? Thirty or so?"

  "Thirty-one."

  There was a rap on the door then Detective Hawk came in. "Is it okay for me to talk to him, Doctor Kendall?"

  "It is." Zach stood, relinquishing the chair to the detective, but he didn't leave the room.

  After Detective Hawk sat, he took out his notebook and a pen, then said, "Trev, do you mind if I use your first name?"

  "No, sir."

  "Good, and you can call me Quint." When Trev nodded, Quint said, "I need to know more about Mr Pierce—who his friends were, how he spent his free time. Anything you can tell me that might explain why someone wanted him dead."

  "I didn't know most of his friends, and to be honest, that surprised me. I knew he had them, because he'd go off to meet them. When I asked—soon after I moved here—if I could come along, he said I'd probably just be bored with the conversations. That wasn't like him, but I figured maybe they were people from the ad agency."

  "Not like him meaning, when you were friends before he came out here, the two of you hung around together?"

  "All the time. Both of us liked to go to clubs. Before you ask, we'd go to ones that catered to straights and gays." Trev chuckled. "It was a tossup which one of us would pick up someone first, if that's why we were there. Usually, though, we just went out to relax and meet friends—ones we both knew."

  "So his unwillingness to do that with you after you moved in struck you as strange?" Quint said.

  "Yeah, I guess."

  "Had other things changed with him?"

  "He was…less open, like he was weighing every word before he spoke. He'd never been a chatterbox, but since I moved here? Well, like I just said, he seemed to think before he said something. Oh, not when it came to the usual stuff, but about work or where he was going or what he'd done to keep busy before I moved in."

  "So you had the feeling he might be hiding something?"

  Trev nodded. "I finally decided he had a girlfriend but she was married. I kidded him about that one time, and he got real defensive. Said there was no way he'd get involved with a married woman. But…" Trev spread his hands.

  "Okay. Anything else?"

  "The whole work thing. Before, when we were living back east, he'd run ideas past me for ads he was working on. He said he liked my take on them from the artistic standpoint. About a week after I arrived here and settled in, I suddenly realized he was never on his computer looking at the ads he was creating, the way he used to be, back in Cleveland. When I asked, he said he did enough of that at the agency, and he didn't feel like bringing work home with him."

  "It sounds like he changed a lot in the nine months between his coming out here and you joining him."

  "Yeah, I guess he did. Though I never really put it all together like this until now. When we were together at the apartment, just relaxing, eating, or what have you, he was still the same John I grew up with."

  "As long as you didn't pry into his personal business."

  "Yes."

  "Now, about the attack," Quint said. "I want you to tell me exactly how it went down, step by step."

  "I already did that," Trev protested.

  "Please do it again. You've had time to think about it more, at least subconsciously, even if you're avoiding consciously doing it."

  For some reason he couldn't explain, Trev looked over at Zack. He was leaning against the wall by the door, obviously listening to the conversation. Zack nodded and smiled encouragingly. "Just take it slow," he said.

  Quint glanced over—seeming momentarily surprised Zack was still in the room. Returning his attention to Trev, he said, "What were the two of you doing just before they came in?"

  "John was watching…some comedy on TV. I was sort of watching too, while I was sketching out an idea I'd had for a
new mobile. We were on either end of the sofa."

  "All right. Then?"

  "There was a bang on the door. Loud. My first thought was that our neighbor would be calling the manager about the noise. She's older and did that once when I had my music turned up too high. Luckily, we're at the end of the hall so she was the only one close to us." Trev bit his lip. "Then the door burst open."

  "From the evidence," Quint told him, "the bang you heard was one of them kicking just below the door handle."

  "I…guess? Anyway, they came in. They had guns. I was closest to them." Trev closed his eyes, trying to picture it. "The one guy said the thing about the big man. I… Damn!" Trev snapped his eyes open, looking at the detective. "They shot John. I turned to look at him." He shivered. "I couldn't believe it had happened. Then something hit me on the head." He touched the spot, wincing, because it was definitely tender. "That was the last I remember. Not being shot…but being hit." He frowned, looking at Zack again. "Why didn't I remember that the first time I told the story?"

  Zack replied, "I suspect because it all happened so fast. Your mind processed the major details—the men breaking in, them shooting your friend, what the one man said. Those were the important points. The rest came later."

  "I remembered what they were wearing and told him." Trev nodded toward Quint.

  "You have an artist's eye for that kind of detail."

  Trev smiled a bit smugly at the detective. "See, that's what I said when you asked."

  Quint chuckled. "You did. Now I need more. I need you to try to remember their faces."

  "They looked angry. Well, not angry really. Aggressive. Hostile. The bigger man"—Trev paused, trying to picture him—"I couldn't see his hair, because of the beanie. He had dark eyebrows, thin lips, a…a thin nose but with a small bend, like it had been broken sometime."

  "Excellent," Quint said, taking notes. "If you couldn't see his hair, I suspect it's either short or he had it tucked up. What about the other man?"

  "I didn't really get much of a good look at him. He was off to the side, almost behind me. Other than his hoodie and the fact that he was shorter, that's about it. No…wait! He had blond hair. Probably long, because I caught a glimpse of it here"—Trev tapped the side of his neck—"poking out of the hood. And maybe blue eyes."

  "Anything about their builds, other than their heights?"

  "The taller man… It's hard to tell since he was wearing a heavy jacket, but I got the impression he was bulked out. Broad shoulders."

  "You're doing very well, Trev."

  "Thank you. Now, I have a question for you, Detect—I mean, Quint." Again Trev glanced at Zack before continuing. "They're going to release me in the morning. If I want to, can I go back to the apartment?"

  "Yes. I will warn you. It hasn't been cleaned since the shooting and the CSI team going over it."

  Trev shivered. "So his blood…"

  "I'm afraid so. I'll give you the name of a company that specializes in crime scene cleanup." Quint wrote down the name and number after checking his cell phone, and he handed it to Trev.

  "Thanks." Trev put it on the nightstand then asked, "What if they, the men who shot us and whoever sent them… What if they find out you haven't arrested me for John's murder?"

  "With your permission, I'd like to make certain they do find out. I want to let the reporters know, as an update on the murder, that you were a person of interest who was questioned and released, since we have reason to believe you didn't shoot Mr Pierce."

  Trev hissed in a breath, panic washing through him. "That would make me a sitting duck."

  "Yes, it would, which is why I need your permission to do it. So far, all the news outlets know is that Mr Pierce was murdered and his roommate—you, but not your name—was shot, with the veiled implication that your wound might have been self-inflicted and that you're under police guard here at the hospital until you recuperate."

  "That's still setting him up," Zack said tightly. "Why isn't he in the security area here? He would be if he were a suspect."

  "That's my fault, and I'll admit it. When I checked the first time, he was still in the ER and unconscious, with the officers who came with the EMTs standing by. Then, after the CSI team had gone over the apartment and examined the gun, it became obvious that it was planted and Trev was a victim, not the perp. At that point I alerted hospital security that he could be moved to a private room and that they weren't to allow anyone into it, other than me and hospital personnel."

  "Haven't watched many movies, have you, detective?" Zack said scathingly. "The bad guys always find a way in."

  "That's movies, Doc." Quint turned back to Trev. "If you give me permission to do this, you'll be guarded twenty-four-seven for the next week—here and wherever you go when you leave."

  "May I think about it?" Trev asked.

  "Of course. Just be aware that it's possible they already know that you aren't being held in the security ward. If they do, it's already tipped them off that you're not a suspect in Mr Pierce's murder."

  "Oh great." Trev shook his head. "What I don't get is why they wanted to frame me. They had to know I'd tell you what really happened."

  "If they'd been smarter about the fingerprints, we wouldn't have believed you. They should have wrapped your hand around the gun, finger on the trigger, then fired it. The extra bullet, wherever it ended up, would have been put down to yours or Mr Pierce's bad aim. Of course by the time the ER doctors were finished with you, there was no chance we'd be able to test your hands for gunshot residue, but the prints would have been smudged, not perfect. There was some residue on your clothing, of course, but that would have happened, no matter who fired the gun. And, by implication, that was supposed to have been you."

  "So I could have been chained to a bed in the prison ward instead of being here."

  "You would have been, had things been different."

  Zack stepped forward to join Quint by the bed, saying, "All this doesn't explain why they didn't just kill both of them. They could have shot Mr Pierce, then Trev, making it look like a murder-suicide."

  "I've been wondering about that too," Quint replied. "Trev, you're certain there's no one you know who might be referred to as the big man, either as a description or a nickname?"

  "Not that I can think of. Not here, not back when we were in Cleveland, presuming this goes back that far. And John never called anyone that. However, it is a fairly nondescript nickname, if you think about it. A lot of men could be described as big."

  "I suspect," Quint countered, "it has to do with his status, not his size."

  "In other words," Zack retorted with a small grin, "you won't be looking for a Sydney Greenstreet clone."

  "Probably not, but we won't know until after we catch the men who invaded Trev's apartment."

  "That won't happen unless I'm willing to let you make it known that I'm no longer a suspect in the murder." Trev puffed out a dismayed breath. "I guess if that's what it takes, then I don't have much choice."

  "You always have a choice," Zack said quietly. "It comes down to making the one that's best for you."

  "No," Trev replied, shooting a disappointed look at him. "It comes down to what's right for everyone. If these men go free, what's to say they won't do this again to someone else? So"—he sat up straight, looking at Quint—"I'll do it. Or let you do it, I guess."

  Quint smiled, replying, "Thanks. I'll get moving on it immediately, so it hits the evening news and the Post in the morning." With a quick nod to Zack, Quint left the room.

  Trev glowered at Zack, wanting to tell him he thought he was an ass for what he'd said. Zack beat him to it, but not the way Trev expected.

  "You're pissed that I suggested you should think of yourself in making your choice. Right?"

  "Yeah. That made me sound like I should be a selfish…ass."

  Zack smiled. "I know. But it pushed you into making the right decision. You were still wavering, and I figured you just needed a shove, because in here"
—Zack tapped Trev's temple—"you knew what needed to be done, but here"—he tapped Trev's chest—"you were afraid of what would happen if you did."

  "I still am. I'm not really cut out to be the hero. I just want to get back to my own life, but it won't happen until this is over, and I know it."

  "He'll make sure you're well-guarded," Zack said, spinning the chair around again then sitting.

  Trev looked at him, one eyebrow cocked. "Do you always sit like that? It must make eating out interesting."

  Zack laughed. "No. I only do it when I'm with…friends I need to talk to."

  "You think I'm your friend?" Trev asked in surprise.

  Shrugging, Zack replied, "I think you're more than just a patient, at this point. Does acquaintance work for you?"

  "Yeah, sure. I guess." Trev leaned back against the pillows, his free arm behind his head, frowning at the IV. "When can I get rid of this?"

  "How does right now suit you?" Getting up again, Zack swung the table around and had Trev rest his hand on it before telling him he'd be right back. When he returned, he was putting on a pair of latex gloves and carrying a small, red container that he set on the table. Then he carefully removed the tape holding the catheter in place. After that was finished, he put a cotton pad over the insertion site and gently pulled the catheter out before taping down the pad. "Voila, you're free. Don't move your hand yet." He inspected the catheter, nodded, then dropped it in what he told Trev when he asked was a "sharp's container". Lastly, he removed the pad, checked the site and pronounced it infection free.

  "That's good to know. I don't want to be laid up for another week while you deal with my infected hand."

  Zack chuckled. "That rarely happens, especially since you're on antibiotics for your shoulder wound."

  "Good. So, I can get out of here tomorrow morning?"

  "Unless you have a relapse, and I don't see that happening."

  "'Out of the frying pan into the fire.' One of Mom's favorite sayings when I was a kid. Probably still is, as far as that goes."

  "Been a while since you've seen her?" Zack asked, retaking his seat.