Head Wounds

by Dennis Palumbo

  Predictably, Harry didn’t take kindly to this. He grabbed Noah’s thick forearm, pinning it to the counter. With his other hand, he pointed at Noah’s broad, bearded face.

  “Listen, dirtbag, I’m only here ’cause the Doc invited me. And I was stupid enough to come. So if ya don’t mind, I’ll be leavin’ this floatin’ toilet ASAP. Fuck you very much.”

  With a final angry squeeze, he released his grip on Noah, and then made a show of adjusting his tie. Noah, rubbing his forearm, merely grumbled something unintelligible.

  “Whoa.” I spread my hands. “Let’s try this again, okay? You guys don’t know each other well enough for this crap. Harry, chill out. And for Christ’s sake, Noah, give the anti-authority bullshit a rest. It’s getting old.”

  He scowled at me, but then nodded. Meanwhile, Polk was calming himself with some heavily labored big breaths.

  “Now,” I said again, “Sergeant Harry Polk, meet Noah Frye.”

  Grudgingly, the two big men shook hands across the bar counter. Then Polk and I took stools and ordered a couple draft Rolling Rocks. Wiping his hands on his dingy apron, Noah began pulling the taps.

  While he did so, Polk watched him with obvious distaste.

  Despite Noah’s unruly, sweat-matted hair and ill-fitting overalls, he was clearly practiced as a bartender. His movements surprisingly adroit for a big man. Though nothing could disguise the intense, melancholic tinge in his eyes. Nor the telltale glint of madness behind them.

  Noah Frye was a paranoid schizophrenic. We’d met when he was a patient and I a clinical intern at a private psychiatric clinic. A talented jazz pianist, he’d been tormented most of his adult life by persecutory hallucinations and delusions. But soon he was released from care and I left the clinic to go into private practice. Now, years later, we were friends.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t his only one. With the support of his long-suffering girlfriend, Charlene, who helped run the bar and lived with him in the rooms behind, Noah managed to get through most days pretty much unscarred. Of course, the psychotropic meds prescribed by his longtime shrink—and our mutual friend, Nancy Mendors—did much of the heavy lifting, sanity-wise.

  “Here ya are, gentlemen.” Noah put down two foaming mugs in front of Polk and myself. None too gently, either.

  Then, with a final skeptical glance in my direction, he scuttled down to the customers at the other end of the bar. There were only a few late drinkers left before final call.

  I took a pull from my beer and glanced around the room. It had been past midnight when Polk and I took his car down here to Second Avenue, to a converted coal barge called, appropriately enough, Noah’s Ark. Moored at the Monongahela River’s edge, the bar’s interior gave no doubt as to its original purpose. Though boasting a dais for nightly jazz and new leather booths lining the walls, the spacious room still retained the old vessel’s hanging tarpaper ceiling, opened portholes, and pungent river smell. What Noah blithely called its “nautical motif.”

  I nudged Polk, who’d already drained his glass.

  “What do you think of the place?”

  He wiped his mouth with a bar napkin. “Not much. Now when are ya gonna tell me why we’re here?”

  In answer, I gestured to Noah to bring us another couple beers. Then I led Polk over to one of the empty booths. The resident band having packed up, and with the kitchen closed for the night, we practically had the floor to ourselves.

  I let Polk make it halfway through his second beer before putting down my own glass and meeting his rheumy gaze.

  “Here’s the thing, Harry. I need to ask you some questions about my wife’s death. About what happened to Barbara.”

  Polk slowly lowered his glass. Considered me carefully.

  “That was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Doc?”

  “Nearly twelve years. We were mugged down at the Point. Both of us got shot. As you know, Barbara died. For some unknown reason, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, but I also know how it messed you up. I read the papers. And people talk.”

  Then his voice grew surprisingly soft. “Look, Doc…maybe it’d be better if you left it alone. Better for you, I mean.”

  “I appreciate that, Harry. But I may have some new information about the case. What I’m saying is, maybe it wasn’t just a mugging. Barbara might’ve been murdered.”

  “Where’d ya come up with that idea?”

  “No need to get into that right now. I just wanted to ask you about the case. What you might remember about it.”

  Polk massaged his chin. “Not much. I hadn’t made sergeant yet. It wasn’t even my case. But I knew the cops who worked it.”

  So did I. “Biggs and Stanton. They interviewed me in the hospital about a month after it happened. Once I was out of ICU.” A pause. “I just wanted your take on them.”

  “Good guys, both of ’em. Veteran detectives. Closed a lotta cases. If there was anythin’ hinky about the muggin’, they woulda pursued it. Believe me.”

  “You ever see their files on the case?”

  “Why would I? Hell, you sayin’ you’ve seen ’em?”

  I debated my answer for a long moment. Then nodded.

  Polk’s brow darkened. “How the hell—? Wait a minute! Were the case files part o’ that stupid dossier you wanted? From that dead guy’s office?”

  I nodded again. I’d promised Polk a steak dinner in exchange for getting his junior partner to retrieve a copy of the dossier. Which is how I’d ended up with it.

  Polk frowned. “I thought the dossier was just about you.”

  “It is. Which includes my marriage, and what happened to my wife. The investigation into her death.”

  “So all of a sudden, you’re a cold case detective? What is it with ya, anyway? Hell, even Angie Villanova thinks you’re some kinda lunatic. And she’s your damn cousin.”

  “Third cousin, once removed. Anyway—”

  “Fuck it, I’m outta here.” He half-rose from his seat.

  “Harry, wait. Please. Listen, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. To me. I have to know what happened that night. What really happened. Surely you can understand that?”

  Polk blew air out of his cheeks.

  “Well?” I met his dour gaze. “You going to help me or not?”

  With a resigned shake of his head, Polk slumped back down in his seat.

  “Christ, I oughtta have my head examined.”

  I smiled. “I can refer you to some good people.”

  “Yeah, right.” He finished the rest of his beer. “Now, about Biggs and Stanton. What do ya wanna know?”

  “Everything you do,” I said.

  l l l l l

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t much.

  Polk’s recollection about the investigation itself was pretty vague. However, despite the years since, he distinctly recalled the two detectives.

  Ervin Biggs was black, college-educated, and a stickler for procedure. This didn’t surprise me. Reading his notes on my wife’s case in the dossier, I’d been struck by his neat, deliberate cursive. As well as his attention to detail.

  “What about Biggs’ partner?”

  “Arthur Stanton. Artie. Divorced, I think. Or maybe not. Who the fuck cares?” Polk looked longingly at his empty glass.

  “Anything else?”

  “Did I mention he was the white one?” A sardonic smile.

  “Very helpful. I met him, remember? Both of them.”

  Polk grunted. “Maybe it’s this damn cold, but my mouth’s kinda dry. Just sayin’.”

  I glanced up, hoping to catch Noah’s eye over at the bar, but spotted Charlene instead. She was stacking dirty dishes onto a standing tray near the kitchen doors. Buxom and wide-hipped, her hair a tangle of red curls, she was both warm-hearted and razor-sharp. Which made her perfect for Noah.

  I
called her over and introduced her to Polk. Then I asked her for two more beers.

  “By the way,” I said, “how’s Skip?”

  Skip Hines, her brother, was a returned vet who’d lost a leg in the Afghan desert. We’d met a couple weeks before.

  Charlene’s round face darkened. “Still drinking, still living in that shitty motel. Still looking for work. But I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

  It was clear she didn’t want to say more, especially in front of a stranger. Instead, she offered a brisk, unconvincing smile and went off to get our drinks. It couldn’t be easy, I thought, keeping an eye on both Noah and her alcoholic brother.

  I brought my attention back to Polk. “About Artie Stanton. I assume he’s retired by now, too?”

  “Not long after Biggs did. Took early pension.”

  “He say why?”

  A shrug. “Probably couldn’t deal with the bullshit anymore. Or maybe he got restless, wanted a change. Like his partner.”

  I nodded. “You might be right. When Stanton and Biggs questioned me after the mugging, he seemed impatient. Dis-tracted.”

  Again, this was perhaps reflected in his interview notes I’d been reading—hastily scribbled half-sentences, errors crossed out and written over. I’m no handwriting expert, but it looked like the work of a man who’d rather be doing something else.

  Charlene had returned with two draft Rolling Rocks. She’d barely turned to go when Polk took a long, greedy pull from his mug.

  I glanced at my watch. Noah would be closing up any minute now. Polk must have realized the same thing, finishing his beer in two long swallows. I reached for my own foaming mug, then paused. Left it untouched. I’d had enough alcohol for one night.

  “Look, Harry, I appreciate your talking with me about all this. It may turn out to be nothing, but…”

  “Ya want my advice, Doc? Leave it alone. Dredgin’ up that old shit again, all those memories…And for what? So that the whole thing makes some kinda sense?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Then you’re dumber than I thought you were.” His boozy gaze held mine. “Let me tell ya somethin’, Danny. Nothin’ in this fucked-up world makes any sense. If you ain’t learned that by now, you ain’t learned nothin’.”

  He got awkwardly to his feet. “Now where’s the little boy’s room in this godawful place?”

  Chapter Seven

  Not surprisingly, it turned out that Harry Polk was a big fan of conservative talk radio. As he drove us up from the river, he found the station and dialed up the volume. The show’s bellicose host was in full outrage mode, decrying the evils of evolution, immigration, and gun control. The usual knee-jerk litany of liberal horrors.

  I groaned. “Jesus, Harry, give me a break.”

  “My car, my rules.”

  It was nearing three in the morning by the time Polk dropped me at my place. The street was silent, looking and feeling deserted. As were the houses, feeble porch lights the only indication of any life within. Overhead, obscuring the spring moon, a shroud of dark clouds promised more rain.

  I stood for a long moment outside my door, chilled, though not from the cold. It was something else. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. A prickling at the back of my neck. I did my best to shake it off and put the key in the lock.

  Once inside, I got undressed and hit the sack. And stared at the ceiling. For almost an hour. Fatigued, but wired. My mind a jumble of chaotic images from the long night’s events.

  So sleep was out.

  Instead, I went out to the front room, reached for the dossier and found my customary seat on the couch. Though I knew it was probably pointless, talking with Polk about the two detectives who’d worked the case prompted me to once more read their interview notes.

  Between Biggs and Stanton, they’d talked to about a dozen people who’d been in or outside the restaurant when it happened. I gave the now-familiar list a cursory look: Hector Ruiz, who ran the parking kiosk, and his valets, Ed Hunter, Jack Ketch, and Sal Tulio. To this day I can recall them hustling nonstop in their red toreador jackets, either driving off to park the diners’ cars in a nearby lot or speedily retrieving them.

  Unfortunately, none of the valets could provide much information, though Hector was only a dozen feet away when it happened. All he saw was a guy in a hoodie approaching Barbara and myself. There was a brief struggle, he reported, followed by gunshots. Then the mugger ran off.

  I flipped over some more pages. Stanton had interviewed most of the staff inside the restaurant, including our waiter, Tony Vaccaro, who said Barbara and I had “seemed like nice people.” His only gripe was the meager size of his tip.

  I glanced up from the dossier, smiling. Tony was right. We were still a young couple at the time. Each of us early in our careers. And each with student loans to pay off.

  Then there were the two elderly people waiting for their car to be brought around. A Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby, standing to one side of the front entrance as Barbara and I exited. The very next moment, my wife and I were attacked.

  According to Biggs’ notes, both husband and wife were visibly distraught giving their statements, horrified by what had happened a mere yard or two away from them. But, as with Ruiz, neither could offer anything of real use. Only the sound of gunfire and the vague impression of a blurred figure running off into the night.

  I let out a sigh and turned to the last page. Included in the case summary from the following day was a report from two paid informers Stanton often used to keep him abreast of any word on the street. Apparently, nobody knew anything about a mugging at the Point. Nobody was bragging about it, or flashing extra cash. Or scoring more dope than usual.

  I tossed the dossier aside. As frustrated as I was, it seemed clear that Biggs and Stanton had done a pretty thorough job working the case. If there was some oversight, or even malfeasance, I sure as hell didn’t see it.

  Still, sleep seemed impossible. So I pulled on some sweats and headed down to the makeshift gym in my basement. Just some free weights and a bench, sandwiched between old storage boxes and yard tools. But it suited me. For the next half hour, I worked the heavy bag that hung from a ceiling beam. Grateful for the rhythmic bellows of my lungs, the sweat drenching my face and bare chest. The burn in my arms.

  I’d done some amateur boxing when I was young. Golden Gloves, Pan Am Games. Maybe it was those old instincts that made me react when Barbara and I had been mugged. That made me think I should’ve been able to take the bastard. Save her.

  I pushed the thought from my mind. Old stuff. Punishing, self-recriminating voices I told myself I’d long since banished from my psyche. And I had. Until that damn dossier…

  Gasping, I stopped and looked at the cracked, grimy training tape wrapped around my knuckles. Felt the aching throb in my fists. Slowly let my breathing return to normal.

  Upstairs, I showered, dressed in new sweats and a tee-shirt, and went to bed. Even as I began to doze, my mind raced. Before going to work in the morning, I’d have to call about getting the window fixed, plus find out when the CSU techs would be showing up to dig the bullet out of my wall.

  Then, on literally no sleep, I faced a day full of therapy patients. A day whose beginning was only two hours away.

  l l l l l

  Just before dawn, I took an unaccustomed third mug of coffee into the front room, sank into my sofa, and put on the TV news. After some routinely disheartening reports about armed conflicts half a world away, the anchor cut to video shot at the County Courthouse just a couple hours before.

  I sat up straight. The footage showed a thin, balding man in an expensive suit walking Eddie Burke out the front door. As the anchor explained, the man was Burke’s attorney, having just bailed his client out of jail. The lawyer also maintained that Burke had been incapacitated by alcohol the night before, and that he hadn’t meant to
hurt anyone. Merely scare the woman he believed was cheating on him.

  The sun hadn’t yet risen when the video was shot, so the two men’s faces were visible only in the glare of the camera lights. Features starkly white against the darkness. Still, now that he’d sobered up, I could see the deep anger burning in the former athlete’s eyes. As well as his offended, arrogant stride. A number of on-scene reporters, mikes upraised, jostled for position to get a quote from Burke, but he brushed them aside.

  Then the show cut back to the live broadcast, where the anchor reported that the DA’s office was still considering whether or not to bring more serious charges against Burke.

  I clicked off the screen. At least the report hadn’t disclosed that Burke had shot out my window. It made a nice change not to be mentioned on the news for once. Which also meant not having to hear from various friends and colleagues chiding me about it.

  After draining my coffee, I shaved, dressed for work, and made my calls. By the time I headed out the front door, another shower had started—an unseasonably cold downpour, slanted by a brisk wind. Bundling my raincoat tighter, I stepped out into it.

  And froze where I stood.

  Instinctively, I’d glanced across the street at Joy Steadman’s house. The porch light was still on, her Jaguar parked out front.

  But something was wrong.

  Even through the blur of early dawn, the black-woven curtain of rain, I could see that her front door was ajar.

  Until a sudden wind gust swept the street, pushed the door fully open. Sent it swinging in eerie silence against the muted roar of the storm. Banging freely against the house.

  I started running.

  l l l l l

  The interior of Joy’s house was unlit, hushed, the only sound coming from outside. The still-banging door, the torrent of rain. I could feel the moisture dampening the back of my coat as I stood in the threshold.