“So you choked a guy until he passed out. I don’t understand why the D.A. investigated you, especially since you were sixteen.”
“Because I almost killed the guy. When I choked him, I crushed his hyoid bone. The sharp ends lacerated his larynx. When the ambulance got there, he was barely breathing, and they had to do a tracheotomy on him to allow him to breathe. He probably would have died if the EMTs had not arrived when they did.”
Ellie said, “But it wouldn’t have been your fault. You were only sixteen, and he was a big man.”
“Everybody involved seemed to agree with you. Even the law was on my side. Plus what jury would convict a sixteen-year-old who defended a woman against a drunken psychopath with a knife. My lawyer’s words not mine. He is the one that trained me to tell that story with little emotion. I was sixteen and naïve and very passionate about what I had done. Hell, who are we kidding; I was glad I had kicked his ass. Talking about it makes me want to go and do it again for old times’ sake. Well, my attorney didn’t want me to appear overzealous in ‘attacking’ the guy. And he was right; I needed to be matter-of-fact, even morose if I could. I could not handle faking being morose since I was glad I stopped him; however, I could be ‘flat’ as you called it.”
“Holy cow, that is one heck of a story. L.T., I can tell you don’t like talking about your past, or your family; I’m not sure why. I guess you will tell me when the time is right, like today. Regardless, I’m glad you told me this story; it partially explains why you were so unemotional when you described what happened earlier today. But why did you seem so reluctant to tell me?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly.”
“Because I thought you might see the true me and not like what you saw.”
Ellie said, “What is the true you that you don’t want me to see?”
“Ellie, I know I did the right thing today, and I would do it again the same way.”
“I can see that about you, L.T.”
“Yes, but do you realize what that really says about me?”
Ellie fixed her gaze on me, studying me intently. However, she remained quiet. Soon her studying gaze transformed into a questioning look.
“I’m saying that I’m not a nice, kindly, benign sort of guy. I am saying I would do it again the same way even if I knew in advance that Tom Harty would end up in a coma. It’s my way.”
CHAPTER 5
Conversation was minimal as I drove Ellie back to her car. She did not appear mad, merely pensive, thus crushing any chance of the nightcap she had alluded to earlier. And who could blame her? She just learned that her boyfriend of the last year was not what he seemed. My niceness was an illusion.
A gnawing pit was growing in my stomach as I contemplated how she might ultimately react to the realization. It was an unfamiliar feeling. I found it unsettling. It was not until I pulled into the television station parking lot that I discovered the cause of the feeling. Fear.
No wonder I didn’t recognize the feeling. The last time I had felt fear was ten years ago in a jungle in Cambodia, and I didn’t have time to reflect then, so there had been no gnawing pit in my stomach.
So this is what nerves feel like. I don’t like it.
Adding to the problem was the realization that eventually Ellie was going to ask more questions, which was probably going to cause the unsettling feeling to return. I found myself getting angry at Tom Harty for putting me in this situation; however, anger was an improvement. It was an emotion that I was completely familiar with, one that I knew how to manage, how to manipulate to my advantage.
The gnawing pit was subsiding.
The familiar calm of anger had returned by the time we stopped in the parking lot. I joyfully walked her to her car. Then the unexpected happened. Ellie gave me the most tender, most sentimental kiss I had ever received, said good night, and left. If I lived to be a thousand, I would never forget that kiss.
The gnawing pit was returning; however, this time I had no idea why.
Insomnia was an unwelcome visitor that night as I contemplated my discussion with Ellie. She asked a valid question about my time spent in the Navy, and I purposefully avoided it. I was not lying when I told her that most of my naval career was classified; however, I was avoiding her questions for personal reasons, not professional reasons, which felt like lying. I wondered how long, or how much, I could avoid telling her.
I knew some Vets who simply told people they did not want to talk about it, plain and simple. I was not sure that approach would be sufficient with Ellie. Besides, if we continued to date, if I wanted a future with her, then it seemed that I would need to tell her sooner or later. I shuddered at that prospect, especially when I contemplated where the conversation would ultimately lead. I was not sure I was ready for that.
Regardless, the story I told her instead was truthful. It even seemed more applicable to her question. Like today, I had encountered someone intent on harming someone else, and I had been forced to intervene. No way around it either time. I was there. It was my responsibility. To run away would have been wrong. And running away to get help would have been foolish. In both instances, timing was everything. I had to take care of it myself then and there.
There it was, plain and simple. At sixteen, I had almost killed someone. With my bare hands. It made me sound barbaric if you said it that way: I almost killed someone with my bare hands. And here I was 17 years later, and I had done it again.
However, I felt no remorse in either situation. People say that bad things sometimes happen to good people. Well, sometimes bad things happen to bad people as well.
Telling Ellie about the altercation with the man in the parking lot got me to thinking about my parents. They had been wonderful back when I was sixteen. My father kept telling me not to worry. He would take care of everything. My mother had been even more supportive, continuously telling me how proud she was of me. She had been my real rock, always assuring me that I had done the right thing.
I only heard my parents argue once while growing up, and it was during that time. Their voices floated into my room from their bedroom. Dad was worried. He loved me, no doubt. However, he wished I had never got involved. My father, my enormous, powerful father, a man who had 70 pounds on me, said he would have gone for help. It was safer that way he argued. The woman was a stranger he argued. My mother passionately voiced her disagreement with my father. She eventually yelled at my father, “What if the woman had not been a stranger? What if it had been your mom, or your sister?” and stormed out of the room. She slept on the couch that night.
At times like that, I missed her.
***
The next day, on less than three hours of sleep, I reported to work at 7:00 a.m. exactly as I told Dr. Lowe I would. Several doctors and nurses stopped by to give me support or tell me what a great thing I had done, but otherwise, it was a normal day. Doctors and nurses in a hospital witness death and injury more often than most, so the overall response was more muted than it would have been in a normal setting.
The next couple of days were business as usual. Dr. Lowe did not visit, and I received no memos advising me to report for meetings with hospital administrators or lawyers. No visit from Sgt. Walters either. Or Nicole Cassano. She did call the hospital a couple of times but was unable to get through to me. I thanked the hospital staff for that.
I didn’t even see Ellie. A major thunderstorm came through on Wednesday evening. She was at the station nearly around the clock reporting on the weather and a tornado that touched down 30 miles outside of Memphis.
I did get a visit from Dr. Witmer. She was thankful and apologetic. She too had been visited by Dr. Lowe and presumed he was causing trouble for me. In the end, I was impressed with her understated awareness of her situation. I concluded that Dr. Witmer was made of some pretty sturdy stock.
Tom Harty remained unresponsive.
***
Friday morning the unmistakable sound of glass breaking emanated from
my open bedroom window waking me from a peaceful slumber. The source of the sound was not obvious. It sounded like a large plate of glass. Perhaps store front glass. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I walked over to the window. None of the store fronts on the other side of the street had any obvious broken glass. I took a quick look around the apartment. All my windows were intact. Daddyo’s music had large store front windows with thousands of dollars worth of music equipment small enough to carry away. However, I heard nothing from downstairs, and there were not any individuals running from the store with loot in hand.
Donning some pants, I found myself hoping it was someone else’s problem. It had been only three days since the problem at the hospital, and I did not want another source of irritation. I exited my front door and looked to my left. Daddyo’s was locked up safe and sound, no broken glass to be found. The lawyer’s office was a different story. Mr. Deland’s large plate glass window, the one with the name of his firm stenciled on it, was broken. Shards of glass were everywhere. A brick sat in the middle of the office floor.
Well, damn.
I did not want to be late for work again, although once again I had a good reason, so I quickly went back upstairs and made three calls. One to John Deland, who was in the shower. I left a message with his wife for him to hurry over. Another to Dan James, my favorite building contractor, telling him I needed my window fixed as soon as possible. The third call was to the police station; I wanted them to send over Sgt. Walters.
I was dressed for work by the time the sergeant arrived. He was alone. “I received an unexpected delivery this morning, Sergeant,” I said pointing to the brick through the broken window. “Looks like it came via air mail.”
“Nice to see you have a sense of humor about things, Dr. McCain, although that was a little lame.”
“Yeah, but it was just sitting there, waiting to be said, and remembering your penchant for bad jokes, I didn’t want you to beat me to it.”
“Okay, you got me on that one. Is this your office?”
“No, an attorney rents it.”
“Shouldn’t he be calling it in then?
“I own the building.”
“Okay, ER doc dabbling in real estate. You just out checking on your investment at six in the morning?”
“No, I live upstairs. I heard the glass break a little after 5:30 and came down to find this?”
“Alright, I’m caught up. You need a report for your insurance. Makes sense, but why ask for me personally? Do you think this is related to the situation at the hospital in any way?”
“I’m not sure, Sergeant. Although the attorney doesn’t handle any criminal law, he’s still an attorney. He’s bound to have upset somebody. Remember what Shakespeare said, ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ Maybe it was aimed at him.”
The lawyer joke got a chuckle from Sgt. Walters, but, let’s face it; even bad lawyer jokes get a chuckle.
“Plus, I have an unlisted number, and I use a P.O Box. In fact, Dr. L.T. McCain doesn’t have an official address. I own a corporation that owns the building, and I’m squatting upstairs while I decide how I might develop it.”
“Meaning you should be extremely hard for the average person to find.”
“Exactly.”
Sgt. Walters said, “Yet, I’m hearing a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence.”
“But three days ago Nicole Cassano did a live report standing almost right where you’re standing. I was upstairs and could hear her mention my name in the report. I didn’t see the report on the TV; however, I am assuming that someone could have recognized this building from the TV. Maybe Daddyo’s sign was in the shot.”
“Except why throw the brick through the attorney’s window then? You said yourself that the average person wouldn’t know this was your building.”
“Good point. Unless the person throwing the brick is totally weak and can’t throw it that high, which angered him so much he felt he had to break something, and he had a perfectly good brick, so he settled on the attorney’s window instead. A lawyer would make a good consolation prize.”
He was studying me hard. “I can’t tell if you are serious or not.”
“You don’t like my theory. It sounded good to me. I guess you are leaning more towards this being aimed at the attorney then?”
Sgt. Walters smiled at my facetiousness. “Actually, I’m leaning more towards this being simple random vandalism, but let me play devil’s advocate for a second. Maybe you were the target. Maybe you are not as hard to find as you think. It took a reporter only a few hours to find where you live.”
“That’s because she works with my girlfriend and Cassano tricked her into mentioning where I live.”
“Okay, I’m leaning more towards it being random again. So, your girlfriend works at the station with Miss Cassano?”
“Yeah, I’m seeing Ellie Carmichael.”
“Now I’m leaning towards you being the target again. You are dating Ellie Carmichael. That alone would garner you a few thousand men in the city that don’t like you. I think envy is one of the seven deadly sins.”
I said, “And you scoffed at my idea of a complete weakling that just couldn’t throw a brick that high.”
After some small talk about my relationship with Ellie, I turned the conversation to Tom Harty. I discovered that Walters was aware that Tom Harty was still in a coma, even after the surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. The police had not left a guard, but he was currently handcuffed to his bed in case he did awaken. In addition to the charges related to the situation at the hospital, he was also facing domestic violence charges at home and child abuse allegations.
Sgt. Walters smiled at me, a knowing type of smile, and told me to go ahead and ask him what was on my mind. I feigned confusion at his response, but he did not believe me, telling me it was obvious that I was wondering if anyone had changed their mind on charging me.
“Well…are they?” I asked.
“No, Doc. Ferguson hasn’t got you approved for that medal yet, but truth be told, you are seen as kind of a hero down at the station. You needn’t worry.”
“Thanks, Sgt. Walters. I don’t worry about working officers; I had some experience with law enforcement while in the military. I worry more about politically influenced people, like an ambitious district attorney, or some stupid desk lieutenant.”
“You’re good. Even our lieutenants aren’t that stupid. Trust me.”
Our conversation was cut short as John Deland arrived. It took only a minute to explain the brick. He asked if we had any theories.
Sgt. Walters replied, “We were hoping you had some. Anyone come to mind?”
John’s eyes darted up and to the right, “No,” he replied.
I asked, “So no ideas, no disgruntled clients, or anyone whose butt you kicked in divorce court?”
His eyes darted right again, “No, I cannot think of anyone.”
Sgt. Walters got some basic contact information before asking John to check if he saw anything missing. John looked relieved to no longer be talking to Sgt. Walters and walked into his office, his feet crunching on the broken glass. The police response went as I expected. No investigation. They would file a report. It’s what I would have done for an isolated incident of vandalism.
John was still searching through his office when Sgt. Walters stepped through the broken window to seemingly ask him one last question. I thanked Sgt. Walters and started to head back upstairs to finish getting ready for work. My hand was on my front door when I heard a loud proclamation coming from inside John’s office.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Sgt. Walters was standing in the middle of the room surrounded by broken glass holding the brick. “I hate to admit it, Doc, but your theory on the weakling is sounding a little better. The thrower left you a note.”
***
You WILL Pay.
Those three words were hand-written in large, bold letters on a piece of notebook paper that was attached to t
he brick Sgt. Walters was holding carefully by the corners. The author used a black marker pen in a simple blocky font.
The cryptic message removed any doubt that the brick was intentional, yet it did not definitively identify the intended recipient. Either way, Sgt. Walters decided he was going to investigate a little further, taking the note and the brick downtown as evidence.
The rest of the day was uneventful. The only highlights were diagnosing a small boy with appendicitis, sewing up a man’s hand, and packing a bloody nose that would not stop. After several attempts to stop the bleeding, I decided that the man needed to see an ear, nose, and throat doctor. After placing topical anesthesia in the nose, silver nitrate would be applied to the source of the bleeding with a Q-tip like applicator. The resulting chemical burn would trigger a scar tissue formation to help prevent future bleeding from that site. Altogether, a simple procedure.
The man looked a little worried when I volunteered to personally escort him to Dr. Trueblood’s office, the ENT that shared a waiting room with Dr. Witmer. I assured him I was heading that way anyway.
It was my first return to that part of the hospital since the altercation with Tom Harty. The young, blonde receptionist was at the front desk helping someone. Nonetheless, she spotted me. She smiled awkwardly, hesitantly, and then waved. It was all the thanks I wanted; I enjoyed the affirmation that everything was normal again. I liked normal.
When I got home, I noticed the window had been repaired. It looked great. Dan left an invoice, and John left a note telling me to have a good time on my date with Ellie that night.
***
If Shakespeare was right and “brevity is the soul of wit,” then the kiss that Ellie gave me on our last dinner date had spoken volumes. It was not the fleeting kiss of passionate infatuation; those are too easy to come by and are easily forgotten. Instead, the kiss was a powerful reminder that although neither of us had mentioned the L-word before, the feeling was there, palpable at times; it seemed to have become the elephant in the room.
To say I was a novice at expressing my feelings would have been an understatement of nearly epic proportions. Truthfully, I actually had no idea what the hell I was doing. It made sense that Ellie would want to hear me express my feelings; God knows she deserved it. The words even existed in my brain. I could see them. I just could not make my mouth form the words. Secretly, I wished, I hoped, I prayed, she would say them first.
Memphis Legend Page 6