The Man on the Park Bench
Page 8
*****
Taxi driver John Zablonski stared down at the old man. Beside him were a police detective and two coroner assistants dressed in antiseptic white.
"Just like I found him," John said. "Laying here with his head busted to bits, holdin' onto that gun for dear life."
The swarthy detective looked down, a digital camera dangling from his neck. He scratched his stubble beard.
"Gorier n' hell," he said. "That there rock was the murder weapon. Look at all the hair and blood on it. Gorier n' hell."
He stood back and took several pictures.
"I don't understand about that gun, though," John said. "Looks brand spankin' new to me. But it's an old model, you can tell."
The detective worked his mouth. "Sure he didn't have it with him? How could he have gotten it, unless he brought it with him?"
"Damned if I know. But I carried him part way. I'd know if he had a rifle."
"Yeah, well—let's get him out of here. It's gettin' dark."
The detective gently pried the old man's fingers from the gun and smelled the barrel's end. "Been fired," he said, to no one in particular. He searched the area for a few more minutes and asked John more questions. The coroner's assistants rolled Nichols onto a chrome and canvas litter and carried him across the uneven field. John Zablonski and the detective followed.
John stopped and looked back, zipping up his jacket against the rising wind. "Go figure," he said, finally. He turned and followed the others.
The wind rustled the leaves, and some blew back over the gravestone. Moss formed again on the stone, and grass sprouted and grew around and over it, and died. By the time the taxi and ambulance disappeared over the hill toward town the stone was completely covered. Then the last leaf fell in place, the wind died down, and all was quiet.
Carl Nichols had made it home in time. .
The Chipmunk Sign
Farmer Ben O’Malley finally visited the ritzy sister
who’d abandoned him and their father years ago.
But he sure wasn’t expecting this.