Repo Madness

by W. Bruce Cameron

  “I have to call Cutty. Ruddy … you’re going to need to make a statement.”

  “Okay, but not tonight,” I responded testily. “Katie’s headed to the ER. Besides, it’s the middle of the night.” I told him I would meet him wherever he wanted in the morning, the late morning, but that I’d run out of steam.

  “I can’t promise you anything. You have to understand, you’re reporting a homicide, accusing Rogan of being a serial killer, and telling me you burned him to death in Shantytown. There’s going to be an all-points on you the second I hang up with Cutty.”

  “He’s got to let us see my daughter!” Alan objected shrilly.

  “All right. I’m headed home,” I stated evenly.

  “You’re not going to the hospital?” Strickland asked skeptically.

  “Ruddy?” Alan demanded.

  “I am telling you that I am headed to my home in Kalkaska,” I replied pointedly.

  Strickland was silent a moment. “I will advise Cutty that when I asked you where you were, you told me you were headed to your place in Kalkaska,” he finally agreed dryly.

  “Thank you, Barry.”

  “You’re not going to have much time before they get there. If you’re not snoozing in your bed, they’ll widen the search pretty rapidly, and I can’t imagine the hospital won’t be the first place they check.”

  “Thank you, Barry,” I repeated.

  We hung up, and I turned off the phone even as it began ringing in my hand. “Okay, Alan,” I said grimly. “Let’s go take care of your daughter.”

  * * *

  The hospital in Charlevoix lies at one end of a neighborhood with expensive houses commanding fantastic views of Lake Michigan, and is so clean and efficient, it’s a little hard to take the place seriously. They took me seriously, though—I passed Kermit on the highway, roared up to the emergency room, my light bar flashing, and stormed into the place, ready to shove people out of the way to make room for Katie if I had to.

  The waiting room was completely empty, so I was not forced to use my bar bouncing skills to clear it. I had a doctor and an attendant lined up at the doors with a gurney when Katie arrived, though, and I needed to swallow back my reaction when she got out of the vehicle under her own power, her eyes a little unfocused as they found me. She gave me a weak wave as she lay down and was wheeled past me and through some double doors.

  “They should let us go, too,” Alan fretted. “We’re family.”

  “I think the doctors know what they’re doing and don’t want me standing there,” I replied.

  Kermit came up to me as I said this and nodded at my wisdom. “They have procedural trammels,” he noted. “Otherwise, you could present.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I replied honestly, handing him his cell phone.

  “She came awake in the car. I think she’ll have a full resumption, I really do. Her conversation held coherency.”

  “As opposed to this conversation,” Alan observed snidely. I thought, though, that he was feeling what I was feeling—relief. Whether she recovered or resumed, I thought the fact that she was confabulating with Kermit was a very good sign.

  “You want me to wait with you?” Kermit asked.

  “No, that’s okay. You can take Jake home. You should be with Becky.”

  He didn’t move, something obviously on his mind. I waited. “So, I know this is not a good time…,” he began. “I wouldn’t bring it up if it weren’t important.”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  “It’s about my uncle Milt.” Kermit fixed me with a pain-filled stare. “The autopsy came back. The police were out to see me. Detectives.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They said he had low levels of carbon dioxide in his blood. Not enough to kill him. He was way past drunk, though, so much booze in him, he was practically restive in a coma.”

  Alan murmured, “Carbon monoxide,” and I ignored him.

  “Is that what they say happened? Alcohol poisoning?”

  Kermit gravely shook his head. “No. Someone made him get drunk and then, when he was unconscious, put a plastic bag over his head until he suffocated.”

  I was thunderstruck. Kermit nodded at my expression. “Yeah. It wasn’t suicide.”

  I tried to process this. “Do the cops agree with the plastic bag theory?”

  “They found the bag, once they bothered to look for it. It was wadded up in the corner. I guess somehow they can tell it was used to kill uncle Milt. It’s been ruled a homicide.”

  “God.” I tried to shake off the feeling of unreality. “Well, you were the last one to see him that night. Did he say anything about meeting someone else?”

  “Me?” Kermit frowned blankly. “I didn’t see him that night.”

  “He said he was meeting you for drinks but not at the Black Bear,” I answered, straining to remember the conversation.

  “Why would I give business to my wife’s competitors?” he asked simply.

  Now it was my turn to look blank.

  “Either Milt lied, or Kermit’s lying,” Alan the detective chimed in. I tried to keep the irritated expression off my face. Alan wasn’t even around when this all happened.

  “Could you and Barry look into this?” Kermit asked. “The cops are going to investigate, but I’d feel better with my guys on it.”

  His guys. In that moment, I felt it: Strickland, Kermit, and I were a sort of team, weren’t we? Just not Alan. “Sure,” I agreed. “Of course. Wow. How are you doing with all of it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s pretty unreal. I’m not sure how I’m doing,” he said candidly.

  “I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t even know what to say about something like this.”

  “I feel better just knowing you and Barry are going to check into it.”

  “I have a couple of ideas how we might start,” Alan mused. I blinked once, really hard, a clear signal for him to shut his nonexistent mouth.

  “So, do you have any idea who would do this? Who might have a motive to murder your uncle?”

  “Honestly?” Kermit gave me a searching look. “Well, me, I guess. I had the most to gain.” He wore a sadly ironic smile.

  “I know you wouldn’t do it, Kermit,” I said levelly. I clenched my fist, hoping Alan would take it as a signal I didn’t want to hear any contrary theories from him. “Strickland and I will get to the bottom of it, I swear.”

  “Thanks. So, you sure you don’t want me to stay with you, keep you company?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” I said. I don’t need company; I have a voice in my head, I didn’t say.

  “Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything.”

  “He’s a good guy. You should tell him,” Alan advised me.

  I agreed. “Hey, Kermit.” He waited. I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling awkward. “You, uh, saved my life out there tonight. By bringing Jake. That was genius.”

  “That was actually contingent happenstance. Jake wanted to go for a car ride.”

  “Huh. In my experience, Jake never even wants to leave the bed.”

  “Maybe he instincted something was going on with you. Dogs are amazing that way.”

  “Maybe. Well, anyway, I’m just really grateful, Kermit. You saved Katie’s life, too.”

  “Why were you out in Shantytown anyway?”

  “Oh.” With that question, I suddenly realized how much nobody knew but me. “I’ll tell you later, Kermit.”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s it? He saves your life, and you just say you’re grateful?” Alan chided.

  I gritted my teeth. Okay, Alan. “It’s kind of not the first time you’ve done that, Kermit. Pulled my fat out of the fire, I mean.”

  My brother-in-law nodded as if this had never occurred to him. “Your fat? What Western novel did you lift that expression out of?” Alan scoffed.

  “I’m just saying, I’m glad you’re married to my sister. I’m glad you’re in my family. My brother-in-law. It means a lo
t to me.”

  “Thanks, Ruddy.”

  I did something pretty unfamiliar then: I put my arms around Kermit and gave him a hug, slapping him on the back a couple of times, hard enough to give him the Heimlich. “Take care of yourself,” I said, my voice a little hoarsened.

  Kermit gave me a smile. “Yeah, you too, Ruddy.”

  * * *

  I discovered something about hospitals—they can look completely deserted, but when you leave the lounge and head back to the examining rooms, people appear at your side to ask you if they can help you. I used my bar bouncer voice to say I needed to see Katie Lottner, and within two minutes I was speaking to her doctor—a striking African American woman, thin boned, with fine features and large dark eyes. Those eyes were warm and sympathetic as she led me over to some chairs and sat in the one next to me. I could feel Alan inside, bracing himself, but there was something so reassuring about this woman’s demeanor, the tension left me like a chill in front of a warm fire.

  “Your girlfriend has mild hypothermia, but no frostbite. The drugs in her system seem to be wearing off on their own.”

  “Actually, we’re engaged,” I corrected.

  She smiled more broadly. “Congratulations.”

  “Would you let her talk?” Alan shouted at me.

  I blinked my eyes once, hard, to get him to knock it off. The doctor watched me curiously. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, sorry,” I apologized.

  “There is no reason not to expect a full recovery. She’s been alert, but we’re letting her sleep.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  A cool expression came into her eyes. “May I ask exactly how she came to ingest Rohypnol?”

  My jaw dropped when I realized I was a suspect. Alan was sputtering indignation. Once again I found myself searching for the most economical way to relate a potentially enormous amount of information. It was fatiguing. I considered my words and had an idea. “Doctor, how long have you lived here?”

  She blinked at the change of subject. “Seven years, why?”

  “You remember Barry Strickland, then.”

  “Yes, he was the best sheriff we’ve ever had. Where are we going with this, may I ask?”

  “If I give you his number and he says it is okay, will you let me see my fiancée?”

  She looked troubled. “He’s not the sheriff anymore, Ruddy. He doesn’t really have the authority. There’s a protocol I must follow.”

  “You have procedural trammels,” I translated a bit bitterly.

  She frowned over this one.

  “There’s no way I can see her?”

  “I’m afraid we have to wait for the deputy sheriff to give the okay.”

  “Oh. So you called the sheriff?”

  “Yes, I’m required to,” she informed me without apology.

  “That’s good. That’s really good. I’m looking forward to getting this all cleared up. Say, I need to use the men’s room. Can you tell me where it is?”

  34

  I’m Supposed to Be Here

  Deputy Dumbbell was pulling into the ER parking circle just as I was getting ready to drive away. His light bar was flashing, and he was so eager to arrest and probably shoot fugitive Ruddy McCann that he nearly slid into a pole. He flung his door open and charged up the sidewalk, his hands on his belt, either to be close to his gun or to hold his pants up. He never looked in my direction to see his suspect watching him.

  “We’re going to be caught,” Alan worried.

  “No, we’re not,” I replied. At some point, it seemed, I had given up lecturing Alan on the use of the term we.

  “He’s going to talk to the doctor, who is going to tell him you’re in the restroom. When he sees you’re not in there, he’s going to come out here to radio someone, and he’ll see us.”

  “No, he’s not,” I said. I started my tow truck and drove quickly across the parking lot, easing up next to the deputy’s patrol car, which was still flashing. I yanked the lever, and the T bar slid out, repo quiet, and within seconds I had the car’s front wheels off the ground. Whistling, I dove out of the cab, set the safety chains, and jumped back in. I eased away, moving silently on the snowy street. The storm had let up, though it looked like we’d gotten another inch since I’d been out at Shantytown.

  “You are stealing a police vehicle,” Alan marveled. “This is insane.”

  “You think this is insane? I know this guy with a dead Realtor in his head.” I went straight down the street, still within sight of the hospital, and lowered Timms’s car back down next to a fire hydrant. Maybe he’d get a ticket.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Alan demanded.

  “Buying us a little time.”

  “You’re going back to jail over this.”

  “Really? What do you want to bet that when Deputy Dumbbell comes out and sees his car parked a hundred yards down the road, he’s going to be too embarrassed to tell Grant Porterfield what happened?” I drove quickly but cautiously, heading away from downtown Charlevoix.

  I spent the night at Katie’s house—when you live in East Jordan, you don’t think to lock your doors, so I opened the front door and walked right in. I thought I would lie sleeplessly for hours, but as soon as the faint but familiar smell of her perfume on the pillow hit me, I blinked out.

  * * *

  It was nearly noon when I jerked awake. Alan was still snoozing. Cursing over the lateness of the hour, I showered and made myself as presentable as I could, then drove up M-66 to the Charlevoix Area Hospital.

  I breezed past reception with an it’s-okay-I’m-supposed-to-be-here wave, which didn’t fool the woman who called, “Sir?” after me. I paused, though, when I saw Barry Strickland leafing through a magazine in the waiting room. I decided to duck in to talk to him first.

  “Ruddy.” He stood and shook my hand in his iron grip. “Quite a night.”

  “For both of us,” I agreed. I searched my mind for Alan—still asleep.

  “They found the victim out on the ice. The Humvee was there, too, tires melted, burned all to hell.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head. “No sign of Rogan.”

  “Damn.”

  “Cutty wants to investigate your theory before jumping to conclusions, but Hughes wants to call it a serial killer immediately and hold a press conference. The Feds will probably take over, so the only way for the D.A. to get any glory is to talk to the media right away. The two of them are in with Miss Lottner now.”

  “And you’re out here?”

  He shrugged. “Official business. I’m not an official.”

  “Well, you should be. Sheriff.”

  He regarded me steadily. “We’ll see.”

  I liked that. “I’m going to go visit my fiancée.”

  He shook his head. “Not a good idea, Ruddy. The D.A. is pretty sure you’ve committed a crime or two. He also told me he received a call from your psychiatrist.”

  “Schaumburg,” I supplied with a sinking feeling.

  “Right. Hughes feels you didn’t give him the whole story when you had him write the court on your behalf.”

  “I am so, so worried about the D.A.’s feelings.”

  He smiled at that one. “If it helps, Cutty thinks you’re a hero.”

  “She said that?”

  “Not in those words, no.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m going to go see Katie, and I really don’t care what the D.A. or Cutty has to say about it.”

  He looked troubled. “Cutty’s all right. She’s a good officer.”

  “I’ll go easy on her,” I promised, which made us both smile. Cutty did not need anyone going easy on her for any reason. I paused before leaving. “Hey, is there something between you two? You and Cutty, I mean.”

  He gave a start, looking, what, embarrassed? Guilty? “No, of course not,” he denied a bit strongly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I thought I sensed something. Like, a connection,” I responded smoothly. Rud
dy McCann, the meddler.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “From both of us? Or just me?” he asked.

  I’d gotten to bingo. “Well, I’ve seen the way she looks at you sometimes.”

  He looked floored at this, so I left the room, grinning.

  I knocked once on Katie’s door and pushed it open. The D.A. and Cutty jerked around, startled, but my focus was on my fiancée, who looked wan but clear-eyed.

  “Ruddy,” she greeted softly. I went to her bedside and gave her a we’re-in-public kiss, and as I drew back, I felt her father waking up.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” D.A. Darrell said angrily.

  “Where have you been, Ruddy? My men have been looking for you,” Cutty asked with controlled frustration.

  “I spent the night at Katie’s house. I was too tired to drive to Kalkaska,” I replied honestly. “Then”—I turned to Katie to apologize—“I overslept. I’m sorry. I woke up and came straight here. Barry Strickland filled me in on what happened on the ice, and told me Rogan is still at large.” There, now Alan was up to speed.

  “Rogan got away?” he gasped.

  “So, how are you feeling, honey?” I asked gently.

  “I have maybe the worst headache of my life, but otherwise I’m really fine. I’d like to go home, but the doctors want to keep me a little longer.”

  “Plus, we have more questions. For both of you,” D.A. Darrell added aggressively.

  “You need to leave,” I said to him—a sentence I’d spoken, with exactly the same inflection, to angry drunks countless times.

  The D.A. scowled. “Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who needs the headache,” I countered.

  “Ruddy,” Alan warned.

  “I love it when men fight over me,” Katie observed lightly.

  “We do need to speak to you,” Cutty told me.

  “And I’m happy to do that after I’ve had a few minutes alone with her,” I responded, pointing to Katie.

  “I got a call from Dr. Schaumburg. Your psychiatrist. He says you’re delusional, that you’re a danger to yourself and others.” D.A. Darrell sneered.

  “Yeah, well, that still doesn’t mean I need medication,” I replied.