Being fingerprinted and having my mug shot taken broke up the monotony somewhat, although I was still too keyed up to sleep. Three hundred push-ups and sit-ups were not helpful either. Absent-mindedly, I started performing a series of stretches and ballet moves that my mother taught me when I wrestled in junior high and high school. Although it had been 16 years since I performed the routine, it all came back to me like it was yesterday. The extreme concentration required to maintain balance during the exercises allowed me to focus on something other than my current situation. I could feel the anger being redirected, thus preventing a mental meltdown.
“What the heck are you doing, boy,” said Officer Willis as he walked by my cell.
“Ballet.” I smiled at him while performing a difficult series of deep-knee bends.
“Whoever heard of a big guy like you doing ballet; are you funny or something?”
“I’m funny and something.”
“I meant are you some kind of queer.”
“I know what you meant, Pillsbury.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Forgot your name. It was the first thing to come to mind.”
Willis looked at me with disgust. He warned me to mind my manners and then made another comment about ballet and homosexuals.
“You know, my dad had 70 pounds on me, and he did ballet.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“He played in the NFL for 16 years. Go to the library and look up Marcus McCain; you might learn something.”
“I ain’t never heard of such a thing. How would he even learn something like that?”
“My mother taught it to him. Now if you don’t mind…”
“Sure thing. Besides, you look too damn funny for me to stick around. How in the hell did a fairy looking guy like you beat up three guys?”
“You know, Pillsbury, if you are going to ask me pointed questions like that, then you better Mirandize me first. You guys really need to brush up on your police technique around here.”
He issued some passive-aggressive mumbling under his breath as he walked away, but I didn’t care, at least he was gone. Finishing the ballet routine my mother had taught me had a calming effect on me allowing me to get some much-needed sleep despite the lumpy, smelly cot. Some people have yoga. Some have meditation. I guess I had ballet.
It was three in the morning when I woke up with a crick in my neck from sleeping on the horrific cot without a pillow. The sharp pain prevented me from turning my neck to the right. I fought three men and did not get a scratch, yet I was miserable due to a lumpy cot. Irony. There was one osteopath at the hospital, Dr. Hutchens, who still did manipulation and might be able to help me. If not, then I was going to have to find a chiropractor tomorrow.
Two nights ago at 3:00 a.m., I was asleep in my bed curled up next to Ellie. Now, I was in jail. What a turn of events. I was also no closer to finding Paul. And if John Deland did not come through with any real help soon, then I was done investigating Paul’s disappearance. I hated quitting, yet it truly seemed like I had done all I could do.
***
Sleep was slow to return, and when I awoke the crick in my neck seemed a little worse, but today was today, and yesterday was yesterday. Time for court and bail and trying to figure out my next step. I was surprised that no one had tried to wake me since my internal clock told me it was around eight in the morning. People were milling around in the office area outside. I could feel the energy somehow. Something seemed amiss. The background noise indicated a large number of people were present. I heard occasional yelling. The office seemed chaotic.
The morning was all kind of a blur. I was walked out a back door and taken to the courthouse for a bail hearing by Officer Willis, who should have been off work. That is where the first surprise of the day occurred. I suspected the judge to set bail and levy order of protection against me. Instead, after the bailiff called out the docket number, the judge dismissed the case with the prosecuting attorney in agreement, and I was told I was free to go. My jaw dropped in surprise, which was duly noted by the judge who told me that I could thank Chief Parker before he literally shooed me out of his courtroom.
My second surprise occurred outside the courtroom. One of Emmettsville’s finest was waiting for me outside. I recognized him as the officer sitting with Chief Parker at Ray’s diner yesterday. He was standing next to my car with a big friendly smile on his face holding my keys.
“Good morning, Dr. McCain. I’m Lieutenant Patrick. The Chief apologizes for not being here himself this morning, but something very important has come up. He asked me to retrieve your car for you.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The Chief wanted you to know that he talked to the prosecutor this morning and had all the charges dropped. You acted in self-defense. Charles Mann, you met him at the bar last night, saw the whole thing, and then Eric Parker gave an identical account of the story. Eric also wanted me to pass on his apologies. I can tell by the look on your face that you are confused, Doctor, but I’m telling you the truth. You are free to go. No charges will be made against you; scout’s honor. The Chief would like you to contact him tomorrow since it is possible he may need your statement when he brings charges against Eric and his friends. Unfortunately, he will be too busy to talk to you today.”
With that last sentence, I noticed a drastic change in his body language from easy-going and affable to one that was tense and worried.
“So, that’s it. Free to go. Apologies. Curbside service. This is a strange town, Lieutenant, a really strange town.”
“Please call the Chief tomorrow at your convenience. Now, if you don’t mind, I am needed elsewhere.”
That was my second surprise.
The third surprise was that no one else was there to meet me leaving the courthouse. I had asked Virgil to call Ellie and John and the hospital for me, yet neither Ellie nor John was there. Even Lloyd failed to show up.
On the way out of town, I got a glimpse of the police station. There were a dozen squad cars parked outside the station along with a black SUV with the words Tennessee Bureau of Investigation emblazoned on the side. From what I could see from the outside, the scene looked hectic. No wonder Chief Parker wanted me to wait until tomorrow to call; something bigger than dropping charges on me was going on.
I stopped at the first pay phone I could find and called Ellie at home and the office; however, she was not at either location. Virgil was not home either, and I could not reach John at the office or his home.
For the first time that morning, I thought about the hospital. How was it going to look when they found out that the reason I was not there was that I had just escaped assault and battery charges, especially on the heels of Tom Harty’s death yesterday.
Instead of driving by my apartment, I drove to the hospital and walked straight to Dr. Lowe’s office. I was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday; however, I doubted that it would make any difference in Dr. Lowe’s decision. His secretary looked at me with sympathy as I approached her desk.
“That bad, huh?” I asked.
“Dr. McCain, Dr. Lowe is not in at the moment.”
“Let me guess; he is in a meeting concerning my future in this hospital.” She tried not to frown. “It’s okay. I expected it. If it is not too much to ask, do you know whether I am fired or not?”
“Doctor, you know I cannot answer those types of questions.” Her words were saying one thing, but her eyes were saying another. She glanced at a piece of paper on her desk, then back at me, then again at the paper before saying, “I’m not sure if you know this or not, but I used to work for Dr. Witmer. I think the world of that lady. What you did for her was heroic. I just wanted you to know that. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to use the ladies room.” She stood up and tapped the same piece of paper she had glanced at earlier before excusing herself. She was heading the wrong way for the ladies room.
The paper was face down on her de
sk. I quickly picked it up and read it. It was a draft of an official letter addressed to me. The hospital was putting me on unpaid leave after careful consideration of my most recent activities. The time span was currently undetermined, but not to exceed two weeks.
I wish I could say that was my fourth surprise; however, I had to admit I had somewhat expected it. Two weeks ago I hit a man in self-defense of another doctor. Yesterday that man died. Something everyone thought would have happened sooner. Regardless, the Board of Directors had held a meeting to discuss my future with the hospital. The Board decided favorably. No probationary period. No words of warning. Just report to work tomorrow as scheduled. Only, I did not report to work as scheduled. Instead, I was late for work because I was sitting in jail facing battery charges. If I had wondered how far I could push my luck with the hospital, I guessed I had found it: don’t beat up three guys and get thrown in jail on the same day that someone else you beat up dies.
Well, shit. Hard to argue with that logic.
My fourth surprise came later. As I pulled up to my apartment, I saw Virgil’s black Maxima parked outside my building. Virgil had taken a day off from work to drive over and help me through my unusual day. That was my next surprise; no one was waiting for me in my apartment. No Virgil, no Ellie, no John. I did have another message on my answering machine from my mother, which I promptly deleted.
I realized that Virgil and Ellie were probably on their way back from Emmettsville since I was unable to reach them to save them the trip. In the meantime, a shower and change of clothes sounded appealing. I swore I could still smell that stinky cot on me. I was fresh out of the shower drying myself off when I heard loud pounding on my front door. Virgil and Ellie both had a key, so it surely was not them.
The last surprise was the worst. It was the one that changed my day from a series of pleasant or unexpected events to one that put Tuesday, August 11, 1992, on my growing list of truly bad days. In fact, the day marked a turning point in my very future in Memphis, but I did not know that then. At that time, at the exact moment I opened my front door, I knew that Paul Deland was dead.
***
John Deland was standing at my front door, eyes red and bloodshot, unshaven, wearing jeans without a belt, and a polo shirt that was only partially tucked in. He looked like hell. “They found him this morning.” It was all he needed to say. The morning was making sense. The squad cars, the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation vehicle, the commotion inside and outside the police station. Chief Parker could not see me because he was knee-deep in a homicide investigation.
Leota was sitting in the front seat of John’s car. Eyes forward. A nearly catatonic stare. I ushered John into my foyer. Told him I was sorry. I did not know what else to say. John barely heard me. He had come to see me for a reason, and hearing I’m sorry was not that reason. He pushed past me and walked up the stairs to my apartment. Finally, he focused on me. “L.T. Whatever it takes, whatever it cost, I want you to help me nail Chief Parker and his son, and whoever else had a role in his murder.”
I did not know what to say. Just a few hours ago, I had decided to cease all activity related to Paul’s disappearance. Now I was stammering in front of John in shock. “We don’t even know if they had anything to do with anything, John.”
“What’s going on here? You were all gung-ho before. What gives now?”
“Maybe this seems callous to mention at this time, but I was never gung-ho. I have helped you because you are my friend and it was the right thing to do. But now you are asking me to help you take on a police chief. I’m not ready to commit to something that big.”
“So you won’t help!”
“I am not a private investigator; I’m a doctor. This is nowhere near my level of expertise. Murder. I don’t know anything at all about investigating a murder.”
John started flailing his arms around in total exasperation. He wanted to strike someone or something. I knew that feeling. “But you were helping me before, and you had to be thinking it might turn out that way given my son’s gambling debts and all.”
I hated to admit it, but he had a good point. From the minute I first heard of the gambling debts, I had thought the worst. My inner voice had been warning me even before that. Then, I met with Eric, and I had threatened a police chief. What had changed?
The stakes had changed. That’s what the hell had changed. I was placed on unpaid leave at the hospital. Even worse, someone had killed another human being over debt. I realized I had not even asked John how much Paul owed. It might seem a trivial question to some. I mean how do you put a price on someone’s life. However, someone had put a price on Paul’s life. Knowing the price would give me some insight into the type of people I might face. Was he killed because he owed a seemingly insurmountable amount of debt? Or was the killer just crazy, or trying to make an example?
What the hell am I doing? Just tell John you’re sorry and that you can’t help him anymore.
“John, you are mad right now, and you want revenge, I got that, but I wouldn’t even know who I need to seek revenge on.”
“Then why did you beat up Eric Parker and some of his friends last night?”
“I see Virgil did get a hold of you. I didn’t beat up on anybody last night. Eric and two of his friends attacked me, and I acted in self-defense. The judge dropped the charges this morning; in fact, Chief Parker himself told the prosecutor to drop the charges.”
“You are supposed to be my friend! You must have some idea how to help.”
“I am your friend, but you have to realize this is not the usual friend request. This is not like asking someone for a ride to the airport. Besides, homicides are investigated by a team of people, you know, forensic specialists and detectives working together. I don’t know anything about forensics, nor would I have access to that type of information. I would be in over my head. I’m sorry, John.”
“I don’t want your pity!”
“John, I lost my father to a drunk driver when I was sixteen so I can empathize with your loss. This is not pity. I’m just trying to tell you that I don’t know how I could help.”
John went into a rant yelling about the whole thing being his fault. I did not even try to calm him down. I let him yell. I let him curse. I knew he would need to appear strong in front of his wife and daughter, but at that moment it would feel good to vent some of that anger.
“I’m sorry, L.T. Sorry for yelling and trying to coerce you into helping. It wasn’t fair of me to ask. It just that when I told Leota about the gambling debts and that it was only $15,000, she blamed me for Paul’s death. She didn’t say it, but I saw it in her eyes. My son has been shot in the head and killed over $15,000, and it is all my fault.”
Fifteen thousand. Not an insurmountable amount of debt. One that could have been repaid. So why kill Paul? Why ask the father for money and then kill him anyway? It made little sense; organized crime is all about the Benjamins, the mighty dollar. The shot to the head had been at close range. John said they found powder burns on Paul. Somehow, that sounded personal to me.
That still did not mean I wanted to get involved. It was not my fight. It was not my responsibility. Mom and her stupid falsified Edmund Burke quote were not going to influence me this time. I found myself getting angry at John for even asking. I was his landlord for God’s sake. Some guy he played tennis with and invited over for the occasional dinner. The nerve of him to ask.
A slight dangerous side to you.
Let’s face it; everyone sees it about you.
Ellie had said those words to me in the Thai restaurant the night I killed Tom Harty. I didn’t care how people saw me. Not this time.
I consoled John for a few minutes before reminding him of his obligations to his wife and family. Leota was waiting for him in the car. He needed to be there for her and Beth, not up here seeking revenge. Before leaving, John looked at me as if he had just added me to the list of people that had hurt Paul.
CHAPTER 17
T
he Beatles wrote a song about Mother Mary comforting them in times of trouble; the best I could come up with at the moment was LeClair’s. Other than some nasty bread and disgusting, sulfur-smelling water served in the jail last night, I had not eaten, and I did not feel like cooking. After leaving a note for Virgil, I drove over to LeClair’s, arriving about 20 minutes before he opened for lunch. The front door was still locked, so I walked around to the service entrance in the back.
LeClair noticed me shortly after entering. “Doc, you look like crap.”
My neck was still hurting, and my head was leaning to one side to alleviate the pain. Furthermore, I had not shaved. I probably did look like crap.
“Thanks for noticing. It’s all his fault,” I said pointing to Jimmy, his short-order cook, “I’m having withdrawals from his awesome burgers.”
Jimmy smiled and flipped me the bird at the same time, while LeClair motioned me in. “I’ll be with you in a second, Doc. Go on in.” Turning to his cook, he said, “You heard the man, make him a burger.”
LeClair was preparing his bar for the lunch crowd; therefore, I grabbed a tea on my way to a table. I didn’t see him until he showed up with the burger.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I figure since we’ve become the type of friends that use the back door now, then you would know to just take care of yourself, which you did,” he said pointing at my glass of tea. “But now it’s going to complicate things come tip time.”
Returning his wry smile with my own, I said, “Not really, I just won’t tip you. Get one of your waitresses to take care of me and I will buy you lunch at your own place and tip her for both of us.”
While smiling, he said, “You really that hungry, or am I fixin’ to hear another legendary story from Dr. McCain?”
“Both, my good man, both.”
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