Disorderly Conduct

by Mary Feliz

  The rest of the conversation trailed off as the boys moved toward the cars.

  Max gave Tess a quick hug, and Paolo held up his keys. “Stephen and Jason will stop by later, but they asked me to drive you to Santa Clara, using full lights and siren if needed. They’re thinking that with a police officer in tow, you’ll cut through any bureaucratic red tape as quickly as possible. We’ll go in, get it done, and get out in a flash. Let’s go.”

  Paolo turned, looking over his shoulder as if he expected us to troop behind him as ordered. His demeanor seemed rushed, impersonal, and not at all like Paolo. But then I realized…He was doing it on purpose—helping Tess by keeping her moving and preventing her from thinking too much. He’d apparently been thoroughly briefed by Jason Mueller, the current chief of the Orchard View Police Department and Paolo’s first partner on the force. A marine veteran with years of law enforcement under his duty belt, Jason knew how to care for the worried and bereaved. Stephen, Jason’s husband, had been injured in Afghanistan and now worked with human and canine survivors of America’s wars at the Veteran’s Administration in Palo Alto.

  But Tess looked hesitant to leave her home, where undoubtedly she still felt confident Patrick might walk through the door, apologizing for worrying everyone.

  “Come on, Tess.” I held her arm and pulled gently. “There won’t be room for us in here in a moment anyway. Stephen and Jason will bring Munchkin. With Mozart and Belle here, it’ll be like doggy day care. If we get a move on, we’ll beat the Sunday traffic as beachgoers get ready for work tomorrow.”

  Max followed us, blocking Tess from any means of retreat. “We’ve got our plan. First the car. Then a run for the dogs. And the boys. Then food. I’ll keep ’em moving ’til they drop. Your Teddy is in good hands.”

  Tess lifted her chin without responding, squared her shoulders, and stepped toward the door. I guessed it was the hardest move she’d ever had to make. I stayed glued to her side as we walked to the car.

  Chapter 3

  Become familiar with the emergencies most likely to threaten your area, especially if you’re new to the region. Annually, prior to the danger season, refresh your plans and your emergency supplies.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, August 6, Morning

  Our journey south on Interstate 280 to the Santa Clara County medical examiner/coroner’s office went smoothly. In my efforts to focus on anything other than the matter at hand, I noted the windborne scent of burning vegetation and blinked my stinging eyes. Looking out the car’s rear window, I could still see billows of carbon-colored smoke, but I spotted no flames rising from beyond the ridge. I tore my gaze from the scene, forcing myself to concentrate on Tess. I could help her, but the fire was beyond my control.

  Tess sat in the front seat of Paolo’s Subaru with her hands clenching and unclenching on her thighs. I suspected she’d be bruised tomorrow, with no idea how those bruises had formed.

  No one spoke. I groped for conversation topics to distract Tess from her dreadful task. I’d shoved aside piles of athletic equipment to make a spot for myself in the back seat directly behind Paolo: Swim fins and a snorkel, bike helmet and cleats, a basketball, baseball glove, and catcher’s mitt were among the items I could identify, but there were many I could not. Though I’d known Paolo now for more than a year, I was still amused and delighted by the ever-changing array of athletic gear that graced the racks atop his car: bicycle, skis, snowboard, kayak, sailboard, and once, a stainless-steel beer-brewing vat that reflected the sun so sharply I’d had to look away.

  I had just opened my mouth to ask about what looked like a neon-colored bulletproof vest stuffed under the driver’s seat when Paolo took Tess’s hand and squeezed it before restoring his two-handed grip on the steering wheel. “I want to tell you what you can expect from the medical examiner.”

  Tess shifted toward the passenger door, leaning away from Paolo. “I’ll be fine. I’m not worried. I got this. It’s not Patrick.”

  Paolo squinted and frowned. Glancing at me in the rearview mirror, he straightened his shoulders and plowed on. I was sure he’d received training and instructions on what to say to grieving families. Paolo had joined the force hoping to use his computer expertise on forensic investigations that involved little contact with the public. But in Orchard View, the police department was small. Specialties were few. Officers and detectives wore many hats.

  “Bear with me, Tess,” he told her softly, leaning into the sweeping curve that took traffic from Interstate 280 to northbound Highway 17, an old county road that traversed San Jose. “Most people are comforted knowing that it won’t be like TV crime shows. We won’t take you into the morgue. You’ll be in a small conference room. A medical examiner will come out to you with a photograph. It will be a head shot. You’ll see blue medical drapes surrounding the head. There’s no rush. You can take as long as you want with every stage of the process—”

  “Process? What process? Don’t they just pull some stranger out of a freezer drawer, I look, and then tell them it’s not him?” Tess’s voice quavered, as if she was having trouble maintaining her belief that the man in the morgue was no one she knew. She hadn’t absorbed a word of Paolo’s description of the photo-identification process.

  “To preserve evidence, we no longer ask families to come into the”—Paolo swallowed hard and appeared to be searching for an appropriate word—“doctor’s work area. Identification happens with a Polaroid photograph, or more likely these days, a digital image on a tablet.” He glanced at Tess to see if she was processing his explanation. She nodded, which he apparently took as a signal to continue. “But if you find it takes a while to gain the courage to look at the photo, that’s fine. If you have questions, it’s reasonable to ask. No one will rush you. You’ll have all the privacy you want. Maggie and I can be with you the whole time. If you want to see a grief counselor or a chaplain—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Tess snapped. Her response surprised me, because she was typically so kind to Paolo.

  I interrupted the conversation to give Tess a chance to collect herself. “Is that normal?” I asked Paolo. “Identifying a body from a photograph? On TV—”

  “It’s routine,” Paolo said. “Most of the time, we don’t even need the photo identification. We know who the deceased is because they carried identification or because loved ones, neighbors, or coworkers are already on scene.”

  “But if Tess can’t be certain from the photo?” I asked.

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Paolo said firmly, cutting off any further speculation I’d been tempted to indulge in. He pulled his Subaru into a parking space directly across from the entrance to what resembled a suburban office building. It was stucco with clean modern lines and lots of glass. Outside, a pocket-sized flower bed defied the hot, dry summer weather. Inside was a small lobby with tasteful artwork and fresh flowers. Two separate clusters of chairs were backed by a counter concealing a receptionist who stepped out to greet us as we entered.

  “Officer Bianchi,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m Claire. Thanks for coming. How was the drive?” She turned to me and to Tess, awaiting introductions, but adapted quickly when Tess stepped back.

  “I’ll take you right in. Dr. Linda Mindar will join you in a moment.”

  Claire led us to a conference room and invited us to make ourselves comfortable on a sofa and chairs. French doors opened onto a small patio with a garden, bench, and trickling waterfall. Soft new age music played as if we were awaiting spa treatments. I shuddered at my incongruous comparison. While I was sure the environment was meant to be soothing, it heightened my discomfort. I tamped down my urge to run and sat on the sofa close to Tess, taking her hand. She shook off my attempt at providing comfort and I let her. Whatever she needed.

  Dr. Mindar joined us and int
roduced herself. After glancing at me and Paolo, the medical examiner turned her attention to Tess. She pulled up a utilitarian straight chair, sat, and then scooted it forward so her knees were close to touching Tess’s. As if she were giving Tess time to digest everything that was happening, she took a few seconds to fuss over the tablet, folders, and clipboard on her lap. Leaning forward, she spoke softly, but clearly and slowly, giving us all time to absorb words no one wanted to hear.

  “First, I’ll go over a few procedures and let you know what to expect. I have some information you can take with you. I’ll give that to your friend here when we’re finished. If you have any questions, now, next week, or next year, I’m happy to answer them. All my contact information is in the folder.

  “I’m going to show you a photograph on my tablet. I’ll ask if you recognize the person. The image shows a man in his mid-40s. He has thick, dark wavy hair and tanned skin. On the left side of his face, immediately above his jawline, there is a half-inch scar that appears to be decades old.”

  Tess’s hands covered her ears. Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head slowly. I vaguely remembered an old story Max and Patrick told about Max chasing his friend straight into a shrub during a cutthroat game of tag in grade school. When Patrick emerged from the bush covered in blood, Max had been sure he’d killed his buddy and had run screaming from the scene. Patrick limped home alone and left bloody footprints between the back door and the bathroom that had terrified his mother. The incident had left a scar on the left side of Patrick’s face. Max urged him to cover it up by growing a beard. Patrick said he never would.

  Dr. Mindar continued, tugging me from the memory of friends telling ancient stories from their childhood. I licked my dry lips and smoothed wrinkles from my T-shirt, hoping that one move or the other would settle the storm in my stomach. And then I turned to Tess’s ghostly face and hard jaw. If I was suffering, what on earth could Tess be going through? I grabbed her hand for my own comfort.

  “We’ve completed our examination and will be able to release your husband to a mortuary shortly. I have some papers—”

  “It’s not Patrick. Not my husband.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” Dr. Mindar tapped the back of the tablet. “Our investigation suggests this man did not suffer. While portions of his body are badly burned, all of the fire damage happened postmortem. After his death.”

  “What happened?” I asked, forgetting that I’d told myself to keep silent and let the doctor and Tess control the information flow. “When did he die? When was he found?”

  “We’re still working on our report for the police, but my own observations are that he had a skull fracture. He may have fallen—”

  Tess interrupted. “Then it’s definitely not Patrick. He was a mountain goat. Never faltered. Never stumbled.”

  Dr. Mindar turned to Paolo, lifting her chin and her eyebrows. “That’s important for the police to know. Thank you.”

  She turned back to Tess. “Are you ready?”

  Tess pulled her hand from mine, inching it toward Dr. Mindar’s lap, which held the tablet.

  The doctor held it out with the screen facedown. “When it’s time, you can turn it over. When you don’t want to look anymore, flip the tablet over again. The screen is locked.”

  Tess opened her hands to take the tablet. I noted that it was protected by a thick rubber protective case, and I wondered how many times a family member had dropped it in their first moments of shock and despair.

  We all held our breath as Tess took the device firmly in both hands, bit her lip, and turned it over. She stared at the screen and let out a soft moan. “Oh, Patrick,” she said, touching the screen with an index finger as her shoulders curled forward and her head drooped, her long hair concealing her anguished face.

  “Is this your husband?” Dr. Mindar asked. “Patrick Teodoro Olmos?” Tess stared at the photo without speaking. She nodded, gripped her upper arms, and rocked gently. Then she flipped the tablet and let it rest in her lap facedown.

  Dr. Mindar turned to Paolo, and he said quietly, “Yes.” I guessed his role was to witness Tess’s identification.

  Dr. Mindar handed a folder to me. “If any of you have questions...”

  I shook my head. “Not right now.”

  “I understand that Mr. and Mrs. Olmos have a son,” the doctor said.

  I put my arm around Tess, and she crumpled into me, her palm flat on the tablet.

  “Yes. Teddy. He’s fourteen. He wanted to come.” I answered the question for Tess, who seemed temporarily incapable of speech.

  “It may be important to him to see his dad. To verify what’s happened. Everyone is different. You might want to discuss that with his doctor or one of the other resources...”

  “Would that happen here?”

  “At the mortuary. As soon as we know which one you’d like to use. There are several in Orchard View. They’re all good.”

  “Can that wait until tomorrow? And these papers?” I tilted my head toward the folder Dr. Mindar still held on her lap.

  Tess sat up straighter, gently shaking off my comfort. “Silverstone’s,” she said. “My family has always used Silverstone’s. For my grandparents.” She looked fragile, as if a puff of wind could blow her over, or a soft touch might shatter her.

  Dr. Mindar made a note on a yellow pad. “Everything official can wait, and the papers can be faxed, mailed, or given to the police.” She pushed back her chair, making sure she no longer blocked Tess’s path to an escape.

  “I’ll handle that,” Paolo said, standing and offering the doctor his business card.

  Tess raised her head, brushed her hair from her face, and stood, slowly, with her hand locked on my shoulder. She returned the tablet to Dr. Mindar, glancing at her, then looking away. “Thank you, Doctor. Linda. Thank you for your compassion. I need to get home to my son.”

  Tess walked to the door, fumbled to open it, and strode into the hall without looking back. Paolo and I scurried to follow. As soon as we were outside the building, Paolo clicked his key fob, unlocking the Subaru just in time for Tess to fling open the car door, collapse into the front seat, and curl herself into a ball without making a sound. I fastened her seat belt around her as best I could. On the way home, Paolo took five minutes to fill us in on everything else that various law enforcement operations had learned about what might have happened to Patrick, starting with the fact that a county parks ranger had found him around dawn on Sunday morning, though he’d died earlier. The details were sketchy. For the remainder of the forty-five-minute drive, I considered how I could help Tess and Teddy, how the reality of facing Patrick’s death would impact my children, and whether our house would escape the fire’s relentless hunger for more fuel.

  Chapter 4

  Crisis planning for pets is easy to do ahead of time, because their food is often nonperishable. You’ll need food, water, and any medications. Bring necessary leashes, crates, and comfort toys. Include documentation such as registration, vaccinations, and a photograph of you and your pet together in case you become separated. If your pet is microchipped, verify that your emergency contact information is up-to-date. If you have “Pets Inside” stickers on your doors or windows, remove them when you evacuate with your animals.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Sunday, August 6, Afternoon

  Though the sun wouldn’t set until close to eight, you wouldn’t have known it from looking at the sky. Plumes of smoke had thrown a dismal pall over the neighborhood. It matched our mood.

  But Tess had no time to notice atmospheric conditions. She approached her house slowly. I followed behind, as though she was performing a complicated gymnastics routine and I was in charge of her safety. I had her back, that was for sure, but I couldn’t fathom the reserves of strength she’d need to march inside an
d tell her only child that his father was dead.

  We walked through the side gate as usual, but Tess stopped before rounding the corner at the back of the house. “Would you wait here for a moment?” she asked, with her back toward me. “Give me a moment to find Teddy and take him somewhere quiet. Then you can come in and tell everyone else. You and Paolo.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be certain of anything ever again.”

  I gave Tess the moment she asked for and then walked into a kitchen that was silent save for the breathing of three large dogs, three enormous men, and two teenaged boys. I’d anticipated the cacophony and confusion inherent when such a group gets together. The near silence shocked me. They turned, pulling their attention away from the hallway that led to Teddy’s bedroom, where I assumed Tess was delivering the achingly dreadful news.

  Max strode forward to hug me, and we expanded our embrace immediately to include Brian and David. Their faces reflected the pain they felt for their friend, but their grief was for more than that. They’d lost the security that children feel when they believe no harm will ever befall their father. Anything that had happened to Teddy’s dad could happen to theirs. Belle used her nose as a wedge to ease her way into the center of our huddle.

  “He didn’t suffer.” I voiced the only comforting crumb of information to be found in the situation.

  “What happened?”

  “How did it happen?”

  “What was he doing up there?”

  “Why was he alone?”

  “Who found him?”

  “Where was he?”

  Everyone fired questions so quickly that I wasn’t sure who was asking what nor where I should begin. I sank into a chair at the kitchen table. Belle thrust her head into my lap under my hands, insisting that I comfort myself and her by rubbing her ears. “Can everyone take a moment to sit down?” I said.