"You sound like you know what you're talking about."
She picked up her pack of cigarettes, changed her mind, and put them back down. “Ask what you want to."
"You log incoming calls, don't you?"
"We jot down whatever name the callers choose to give us and a few notes about them in case they hang up and then call back later. As for 911, we can't do that at all. If word got out that suicide-prevention hotlines were turning over information to the police, no one would ever call again."
"Do you record the conversations?"
She gave me a wary smile. “Without the caller's permission that would be illegal, wouldn't it?"
I smiled right back at her. “But you do it anyway."
She picked up her cigarettes again. “Just to protect ourselves in case of a lawsuit, to prove that while maybe our volunteer didn't do any good, at least he didn't do any harm."
"So if I wanted to listen to the tape?"
This time her smile was playful and flirtatious and made her seem at least ten years younger. “You'd have to ask nicely."
* * * *
I waited in a narrow, mildewed cubicle in the back of the building and flipped through a coffee-stained spiral notebook that served as the Better Way Foundation's phone log while Sandy went to search for the tape. Lea had called at nine-thirty on the evening of her death and used her real name, maybe because she'd wanted to be stopped or maybe because she was past caring. Sandy shrugged apologetically when she set the kind of full-sized portable cassette recorder in front of me that I hadn't seen since 1985 and then bent to plug in a clunky AC adapter.
"We survive on donations and since antidepressants hit the market, nobody donates money to a suicide hotline anymore. They just assume that everyone can pop a pill and be all right,” she said. “We buy most of our equipment from yard sales or scavenge it from garbage dumps."
I tapped the log. “It says Freddy took the call, but then there's a slash and an S."
She nodded and lit a fresh Virginia Slim. “Most of the people who volunteer here aren't professionals. They mean well and their hearts are in the right place but they're a long way from being experts. Freddy's a retired car salesman who started working here after his granddaughter overdosed. Sometimes when a caller seems serious, and the volunteer is inexperienced, I take over."
"You talked to Lea?"
"For nearly an hour."
"How did she sound?"
"Sad,” she said, gesturing towards the tape recorder. “But you can hear for yourself."
Lea's voice was a surprise. It was husky, whiskey-rough, sexy but with an undertone of defeat and exhaustion. She was tired, she said, tired of pretending to be something she wasn't, tired of hurting people, tired of promising herself that she could change and then doing the same things she'd been doing since she was fourteen, tired of letting the world and herself down. Sandy tried to reassure her, listened patiently to Lea's litany of complaints, and gently pointed out other options, steps Lea could take to make herself and her life better. Then, thirty or forty minutes into the tape, there was a pop and Lea's voice was replaced by tape hiss.
"Oh hell,” Sandy said. “Let me see the log.” She rifled through the notebook and then squinted in the dim fluorescent light. “That was the night the power went out. MLGW claimed it was our problem not theirs, and refused to come out unless we paid a hundred-and-fifty-dollar service call."
"You don't have a backup generator?"
She pitched the notebook on the table. “Are you kidding? We can't even afford batteries for the damn tape recorders. I'm sorry."
"It probably wouldn't have helped much anyway."
"So what now?"
"Good question."
She gave me a smile that was almost girlish. “I've got an idea. Let me buy you a drink."
* * * *
One drink became two and two became four. I'd never been fond of chain restaurants or lounges, but I'd also never been one to argue with convenience or a free drink so I sat in a leather booth at an Applebee's and drank oversized mugs of draft beer without complaining. Sandy ordered martinis and drank them like she knew what she was doing. After a little while I gave up on pumping her for information about Lea. She'd told me all she could and nothing she said contradicted the fact that Lea had been home alone, despondent, drunk, and had decided to jump.
"I lost her, Charlie,” Sandy said. “I tried, God knows I did, but I can't hold on to them all."
There didn't seem to be anything else to say about Lea Washburn's suicide so we moved on to the typical chatter of almost-strangers sharing a drink. She asked about my work and whether I liked it. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. She asked about my marriages.
She picked up her martini, swirled the last of her drink around the glass. “Let me guess. Your ex-wives didn't like being married to a cop."
"They didn't like being married to me,” I said. “The cop thing I'm not so sure about."
When she ran out of questions, it was my turn. She'd been married once. Her husband had died in a car wreck. She'd had boyfriends since but didn't believe she'd ever marry again. She lived in a small apartment in Midtown with a Siamese cat named King Edward. Her work took up most of her time even if it didn't pay all of her bills.
"Doesn't it get depressing?” I asked, my own tongue loosened a little from the beer. “Talking to all of those sad, hopeless people day after day, I mean."
She drained her martini and motioned to a perky young waitress for another round. “Only when I lose them,” she said.
I didn't know what to say to that so I didn't say anything, just hurried to finish my beer before a fresh one came, and waited for Sandy to go on. She didn't, at least not until after the waitress had taken our empties and then brought back our drinks. Then Sandy swirled her martini, took a quick sip, picked up a toothpick loaded with olives, and dropped it back into her glass.
"You know how cancer runs in families? In mine, it's suicide. My mother, my brother, my daughter. It's a mental illness, you know? I'm not sure what the psychiatrists say these days, but it is.” She downed a hefty swallow of her martini and then licked the moisture from her lips. “Suicidal people are manipulative and controlling. They can't help themselves, but that doesn't change what they are. Maybe I've been doing this for too long. I mean, you're not supposed to judge the people you're trying to save.” She lifted her martini glass. “So there's my half-drunk confession for the evening. I sometimes resent the people I've dedicated my life to helping.” She smiled around the rim of her glass. “What about you?"
"I resent a lot of people,” I said.
She laughed and shook her head. “No, no. Let's hear a confession from you. Fair's fair, after all."
I looked around at the ferns, the Eating Good in the Neighborhood signs, the Happy Hour crowd of car salesmen and young lawyers. “I really, really hate this bar."
She touched the back of my hand with her fingertips. “Well then, let's get out of here."
* * * *
I drove her to work the next morning. We'd locked her car and left it in the Applebee's parking lot when she'd stumbled on her way out of the bar. Then we'd stopped at a Discount Liquors for a bottle of gin and a six-pack of tonic. We made it halfway through the bottle before we made it to her bed. I'd awoken at four in the morning, naked, shivering, hung over, sneezing from the cat hair under my nose. I thought about slipping away, maybe leaving a note to say goodbye. I didn't, not because I'm Prince Charming but because I figured the least I could do was stick around to give her a ride back to her car. But she'd wanted to go to work instead and assured me that she'd walk over at lunchtime to pick up her car and maybe drown her hangover with a Bloody Mary. I parked in front of the Better Way Foundation and wondered if I should offer to walk her in or kiss her goodbye or do something foolish like send her flowers when I got back to my office.
"So,” she said, smiling. “This is the part where I say call me and you promise you will."
"Sure,” I said.
<
br /> She winked, touched my cheek with her fingertip. “How about this? I'll just say thank you for last night. It was nice not to be alone. Call if you want. If you don't, that's okay too."
She kissed my cheek, opened the door, and stepped out into the cold. I watched until she walked through the door, thinking that she looked old and worn in the morning light. But that was okay. I didn't have the illusion that I looked any better. When she closed the door behind her, I reached to put my car in gear and happened to glance out my window. A chubby, round-faced man wearing a blue parka and green boots stood beside a rusted-out Oldsmobile, his lips lipstick red from the cold, his blue eyes narrow and angry beneath horn-rimmed glasses. I shrugged off his glare, put the car in Reverse, then changed my mind and jammed it back into Park.
"What do you want?” he asked as I approached him.
I held up a hand to show my good intentions. “Nothing much. You were staring awfully hard at the lady."
"She's a friend of mine,” he said. “I ... I work here.” He gave me a petulant glare that made things a little clearer. “I just didn't know she had a new boyfriend."
"Oh,” I said, smothering my smile. “I'm not a boyfriend."
He shrugged as if it was none of his business but couldn't help but look pleased. The idea of Sandy as heartbreaker or the object of an elderly man's crush struck me as funny, but I didn't laugh.
"I'm sorry,” he said. “I was just curious."
"It's good you look after your friends.” I offered him my hand; he seemed reluctant but he took it. “Charlie Raines."
"Freddy McFarland."
"You answered the call from Lea Washburn,” I said.
"Who?"
"Suicide victim. A week or so ago. A student at the University of Memphis. You took the call and then Sandy took over from you."
He frowned again. “Who are you?"
"Sandy's friend.” I pulled my ID from my pocket. “And a private investigator working for Lea Washburn's mother."
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his face suddenly pinched and wary. “You should speak with Sandy then."
"I have,” I said. “But you answered the call. I was hoping you might remember what she said to you, maybe if you heard any other voices in her room?"
He puffed his cheeks, glanced at the building and then back at me. “Lea Washburn,” he said. “Yeah, I remember her on account of Sandy took the call from me. She's done that a couple of times, like she doesn't trust that I know what I'm doing.” He shrugged and gave me a nervous smile. “Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Sandy just does it because she cares so much, you know? She wants to save everybody.” He shook his head again and sighed. “Which means, of course, she loses more than the rest of us and it's hard on her. I've seen how she suffers. Sometimes I'd like to...” He let his words trail off.
"You'd like to what, Freddy?"
"Knock some sense into people. Stop them from hurting her the way they do."
His eyes watered, maybe from the cold, maybe from something else. He looked close to bolting so I decided not to push him. At least not yet.
"You didn't hear anyone in the background when Lea called? A male voice maybe?” I asked.
"Just the girl. She said she was serious this time and I knew she was."
"Okay,” I said and then his words registered. “This time?"
"She'd called a couple of times before, I think."
"You took the calls?"
"Yeah, but this time she sounded serious.” He glanced at the building and then shook his head. “Look, I've probably said enough. Sandy did the best she could with that girl, worked her heart out. Christ, she must have been on the phone two or three hours before things went bad.” He leveled a stubby finger at me. “So if you're sniffing around for a lawsuit, I can tell you right now you're on the wrong trail."
Then he huffed, grunted, and waddled towards the Better Way Foundation's front door. I thought about following, but I wasn't sure why. Something seemed wrong about him, but what? And what did it matter? I couldn't quite imagine Freddy McFarland slipping away to murder Lea Washburn before she ... did what? Killed herself and caused Sandy McAllister more pain? That made a lot of sense. Still, Sandy had said she'd spoken to Lea for an hour and Freddy said two or three. But so what? People lose track of time, and in their business it had to be hard to admit failure. When I fail, a bail skip runs loose a few days, maybe deals a few more ounces of weed. When these people failed, someone died. That couldn't be easy to live with. God knew it was a job I couldn't and wouldn't do.
* * * *
Two nights later I was still looking for answers and still certain that I wasn't going to find them when I drove by Lea's building and spotted the light in her apartment. I told myself the apartment might have been rented, and almost kept going but then I hit the brake, pulled into the parking lot, and dug through my glove compartment for a Memphis PD badge that I'd stolen from a civic fund-raiser nearly a decade before.
I made it upstairs without having to flash my badge or confront Mrs. Reynolds. The door to Lea's apartment was unlocked so I stepped inside and prayed I didn't blunder upon a frightened woman spending her first night in her new apartment. But the apartment was as barren as it had been on the day I visited. There was a light on in the bathroom so I headed that way and then stopped when I saw a broad-shouldered young man in sweatpants and a hoodie pull a plastic bag from the toilet tank.
"I need to ask you a couple of questions."
He spun, stared at me with wide, deer-in-the-road eyes, and then reached behind him. I knew what was coming, imagined myself pulling my gun from my jacket and barking something calm and commanding. But I'd barely gotten my hands on the butt of my gun when he hit me with the tank lid. My hands went to my temple, and my knees buckled. I was on all fours, trying to pull myself up, defenseless as he lifted the lid again and pulled it back over his shoulders. I shut my eyes, waited for him to hit me. Then he dropped the lid, fell back onto the rim of the tub, and put his hands to his eyes. I realized I wasn't dead when I heard him weeping.
"I killed her,” Ryan Beatty said. “God help me. I killed Lea."
* * * *
Two hours later we sat in an IHOP and shared a carafe of coffee. Ryan was down to the occasional snivel now. I had a headache. Even worse, I was more certain than ever that Ryan Beatty was only guilty of being a few watts short of bright and of loving Lea Washburn too much for his own good.
"You didn't kill her,” I said, angrily.
"I broke up with her. Two days before ... before she jumped, I told her we were through."
I refilled my cup with coffee I didn't need or want. “Why?"
"I caught her in bed with this guy who works at the health food store on campus."
"So you shouldn't have broken up with her?"
"I don't know."
"You did what any guy would do.” I lit a cigarette despite the sign that said this was a Smoke Free Environment. “How many times had you broken up with her before? After catching her with another guy, I mean?"
"Four. No, five if you count that weirdo chick that lives across the hall."
I swallowed hard, raised an eyebrow. “The graduate student?"
"She's majoring in Lezzie if you ask me."
"But you always came back to Lea.” I ignored an angry glare from an overweight woman at the next table. “Was she stupid?"
"Lea was the smartest person I ever knew."
"Then she knew you'd take her back. You didn't kill her."
As much as I wanted to believe that he had murdered Lea, it wasn't true. The kid could have killed me when I was on my knees, but he couldn't do it and he seemed genuinely heartbroken over Lea.
"Why did you hit me?"
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a plastic baggie that held a half-dozen medicine vials. “I thought you were after these."
"Drugs?"
"Growth hormones. Muscle builders like you wouldn't believe."
"You deal s
teroids."
His face and ears reddened but he shrugged. “You know how much I get paid for bouncing? I got to eat."
I paid for his coffee and sent him on his way. Then I emptied the carafe into my cup, waved away the waitress's offer for a refill or a menu, and spent a minute spinning a fantasy about the English grad student next door. Maybe she'd killed Lea in a fit of jealousy? She was a spurned lover who'd taken her revenge. But it didn't hold water. The girl said she hadn't been home and since she was the nearest neighbor, the cops would have checked her story. I was out of suspects and options.
I picked up my check and left a three-dollar tip. Then I headed for the Refugee Lounge.
* * * *
I'd finished two beers and a shot of bourbon before Cheryl managed to get a break. When she did she headed my way.
"So?” she asked.
"Let me buy you a drink and I'll tell you what I know."
She climbed onto the stool and met my eyes. I tried not to wince but didn't quite succeed. Her face was puffy, her eyes bloodshot. She looked as if she'd had her last good night's sleep about the time they were counting hanging chads in south Florida.
When I finished lying, she snubbed her cigarette into a tin ashtray, took a deep breath, and let it out with a shudder. “That's it."
"That's it."
She blew her bangs from her eyes. “A frigging chemical imbalance?"
"That's what the M.E. told me off the record. A biological problem. Maybe her period came early and made it worse or maybe it was related to her diet, but that's what he thinks. A chemical imbalance led her to do what she did. Listen, he's the best doctor I know of in the South, and he said she might have been feeling fine and then her chemicals bottomed out. She couldn't control what she did. He said it was more common than you think."
I held my breath, told myself I was an idiot and this was the silliest lie anyone had told since Bill Clinton claimed he hadn't had sex with that woman, Monica Lewinsky. But I had hope, hope that her desire to believe would stop her from asking questions and would blot out her judgment. Everyone says they want the truth, but no one does, not really, not when the truth is as ugly as it usually is.
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