Uniformly Dead

by Greta McKennan

  I didn’t mean to take the bridge, but a city bus cut me off and left me no choice. I hauled the wheel to the right and sped out onto the span. Steel trusses flashed past the car. A steady stream of late night traffic, led by an enormous eighteen-wheeler, flowed toward me. I waved my arm frantically out the window, trying to hail the driver, when Jim rocketed up from behind.

  He rammed my car again, sending me into a wild skid. I screamed as my car slid past the semi and came to rest on the shoulder pointed in the wrong direction. The semi braked and swerved wildly. I flung my body over McCarthy’s in a desperate attempt to shield him from the impact. The semi sheered around in a huge circle, missing us by inches. The rear of the truck smashed head-on into Jim’s car with killing force. The Jaguar flew into the air, flipping over the low guardrail on the far end of the bridge. The battered car hung on the stone parapet for the briefest instant, then plunged into the dark depths of the river.

  I watched in silence, too stunned to even cry out. Jim was gone. Dimly I heard a crash, as another car collided with the semi, now blocking the entire bridge.

  McCarthy stirred beside me. “Daria, you were magnificent,” he whispered. “You missed everything on the road!”

  “Sean!” I scrambled to put some pressure on his leg to try to stop the bleeding. “Are you gonna be okay?” I pushed aside the image of Jim’s Jaguar tumbling off the parapet and into the river, and focused on McCarthy. Jim was gone. Surprisingly, his death made me sad. A single tear slid down my cheek, as screaming sirens announced the arrival of emergency vehicles.

  McCarthy gripped my hand while the paramedics stanched the bleeding. “They had to slice my thumbnail to get it out,” he whispered to me.

  “What? The spaghetti? They did not! You’re making this whole thing up.”

  “How could I make up something like that?” He held up his right thumb. Through smears of blood, I could barely see a ridged line running down his thumbnail. It could have been made by a doctor removing a dried-up bit of spaghetti. “It wasn’t number one on the list of most embarrassing conditions, but it made the top ten.” He closed his eyes. “Never underestimate the danger of spaghetti.”

  I laughed with tears running down my face.

  The attendants lifted McCarthy onto a stretcher to load him into the ambulance. “He won’t bleed to death,” a kind paramedic with green horn-rimmed glasses assured me. “Give him a few pints of blood and he’ll be as good as new.”

  I waved to McCarthy. “I’ll check on you. You’re gonna be okay.”

  He flashed me a feeble thumbs up, and then he was gone.

  About a hundred police cars converged on the bridge, sirens flashing to light up the night. Cops swirled around me, shining powerful flashlights into the dark waters of the Schuylkill, checking other cars for casualties, pulling bystanders aside for questioning. I stood alone in the midst of this frenetic activity, shivering, until the truck driver took me in charge. He snagged a blanket and threw it over my shoulders. He led me over to his battered truck, and sat me down on the step. Rummaging in the cab, he pulled out a small flask and offered it to me.

  “Yukon Jack,” he said. “It’ll stop that shivering.”

  I drank gratefully, choking as the alcohol burned through my chest.

  “Daria Dembrowski,” a familiar voice drawled. “I thought you didn’t drive. Guess I can see why.”

  It was Officer Carson. I was so happy to see someone I knew that I almost hugged him. “McCarthy was wounded, so I had to,” I babbled. “Jim was trying to kill us. He’s the murderer, Officer Carson—he has the jewels in a blue duffel like the one in Pete’s closet. It wasn’t McCarthy after all.” I burst into tears.

  Officer Carson looked down at me with an inscrutable expression on his face. Then he squatted down to peer into my eyes. “Anyone give you a field sobriety test?”

  “I’m not drunk,” I protested. “I had some Yukon Jack, but that was after the collision. The truck driver gave it to me.” I pictured myself in the dreaded orange jumpsuit, keeping Pete company in jail for drunk driving. Then I relaxed at the sight of Carson’s face. His eyes crinkled up ever so slightly at the corners, as if he were trying out a smile. He was messing with me.

  “So this is about Gregory’s murder?” He whipped out the familiar notebook. It took me a few seconds to remember that Gregory was Colonel Windstrom’s real name.

  I took a deep breath, and rattled off the whole story. “It was all because of the stolen doll, Angeline. Emmett knew that she had diamonds and jewels in her head from the Civil War. He got somebody to steal Angeline from the museum so he could get the jewels, then he hid the doll in a blue duffel bag in Pete’s closet to frame him for the theft. Colonel Windstrom saw the loot in the isolation tent, and he got murdered. Chris couldn’t have done it, because the same person killed Emmett for trying to blackmail his partner into handing over his share of the treasure. I knew Jim was the killer when I saw the blue duffel bag in his tent, because it matched the one in Pete’s closet. When you fish Jim’s car out of the river, you’ll find the diamonds and jewels in the duffel bag.” I paused to take a breath. “Will that be enough to get Chris and Pete out of jail?”

  Carson shut his notebook and gave me an appraising look. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I did hug him then. He peeled me off with some embarrassment. “You won’t be charged with reckless driving,” he said in a formal tone. “Numerous witnesses saw Laker ramming your car. He bears full responsibility for the collision. Luckily, no one was injured, aside from Laker himself.” He gazed at me sternly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And now, how are you getting home? I trust you’re not driving after the Yukon Jack.”

  “No,” I whispered, overwhelmed. “I don’t know—I guess I’ll call a cab?”

  Officer Carson took my arm. He led me to his cruiser and deposited me in the back seat. “They’ll all think I’m taking you in for negligent driving.”

  I didn’t care. I leaned my head back on the seat and closed my eyes. It was over.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We arrived at the hospital just after two in the morning. Carson walked me past the security guards, cutting through red tape by the power of his uniform.

  “Sean McCarthy? He’s still in surgery,” the night nurse informed us with a yawn. “Check back in the morning.”

  How long did it take to remove a bullet, even if it was a Civil War musket ball? “Is he gonna be okay?” I whispered. “It’s been so long—were there complications with the surgery?”

  The nurse scrutinized my face and reached out to pat my hand. “Sure, honey, he’ll be fine. They had to stabilize him with blood transfusions before they could take out the bullet. He spent the whole time joking with the nurses. Turned a few heads, I’d say.” She reached for an untidy pile of file folders. “He’ll get the best care of anyone in the hospital—the nurses are already fighting over who gets to cover his room. Don’t you worry about him.”

  I thanked her and turned to Carson.

  “You’ll find your way home okay?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I’ll get Aileen to come pick me up. Thank you for everything.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  I was dozing on an angular chair in the waiting room when I heard the swish of leather and rattle of chains. Nothing subtle about Aileen, ever.

  “Daria! What the hell—you’re covered in blood!

  “It’s McCarthy’s,” I said. “He saved my life. Jim’s the murderer, but he’s dead.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t help it.

  Aileen kneeled next to me and gripped my shoulders, scanning me for injuries. Finding none, she released me. “Come on.” She took my hand and pulled me up. We walked to the elevator.

  Aileen’s beat-up red Ford was parked in front of a fire hydrant outside the hospital. She shoved over a pile of papers and fast-food wrappers so I could squeeze into the passenger seat.
“Get in and talk,” she commanded.

  It took almost the entire trip home for me to get to the end of my night’s adventures.

  “So you knew for sure it was McCarthy, when it was Laker all along?” Aileen shook her head and frowned. “How could you be so stupid?”

  “I know.” I pushed aside a memory of the anguish in McCarthy’s eyes when he looked at me and knew I’d landed on him as the murderer. “I just hope he’ll forgive me.”

  “So then he finds you and you shoot him with my pepper spray?” Aileen said.

  I sighed. “Yeah, plus I slashed his arm with a bayonet, and then he took a bullet for me, and then I wrecked his car in a high-speed chase.”

  Aileen slammed on the brakes, zipping into a parking spot along the curb in front of our house. “A high-speed car chase? You? That’d be something to see!”

  * * *

  When I stopped by the next day to check on McCarthy, I was surprised to find that they were already discharging him. Thirteen stitches in his arm and seven staples in his leg, and he was good to go. I bet the nurses were disappointed.

  I met him at the nurses’ station. A lump rose in my throat. Last I’d seen him, he was covered in blood, white as a ghost, giving me a weak thumbs-up as he was hoisted into the ambulance. Today his face was a little pale and he leaned on a pair of crutches, but he greeted me with a huge grin.

  “Daria!” He held out his arms, and I ran into them without thinking.

  “Sean, I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whispered. “If you hadn’t shown up, back at the camp, Jim would have killed me.”

  He held me tight. “If you hadn’t stuck with me, Laker would have killed me. I’d say we’re even.” He pushed me off to arm’s length and looked me in the eye. “Except for the pepper spray. You owe me for the pepper spray.”

  I laughed. “I am sorry, Sean, really I am. What do I owe you?”

  He cocked his head. “Hmm. A repeat visit to the arboretum, perhaps? Another antebellum waltz? But we’ll have to wait until I’m off these crutches. Nuts!” His eyes twinkled. “I’d settle for a kiss.”

  “If you’re settling, forget it.” I pushed him away.

  He laughed and took my hands. “So I get to squirt you with pepper spray?”

  “Aileen’s fresh out. I guess we’ll have to go with the kiss.” I lifted my face to his, and he kissed me gently, his hands caressing my hair.

  “You can shoot me with pepper spray anytime,” McCarthy whispered.

  “I’ll pass.” I smiled. “There must be an easier way.”

  He kissed me again, lightly, and let me go.

  * * *

  Officer Carson called me that afternoon, asking me to come down to the jail to go over the evidence in Pete’s case. I hung up the phone and looked anxiously at Aileen. “Carson wants to talk to me about Pete. It sounds like he’s not going to let him go right away. Could you drive me, or should I take the bus?”

  “I’ll take you.” Aileen jumped up from her chair. “I’ve got a few things to say to that cop myself.” Dressed in a scarlet corset cinched tightly around a sleeveless black leotard, and leopard print leggings, she looked more like a hooker in custody than someone who could reasonably negotiate Pete’s release from jail. Still, I was glad for her fearless presence.

  Officer Carson met us at the desk. He ushered us past the frisking station with a stern glance at the attendant, saying, “These folks are with me.” He led us down a sterile hallway to a small conference room furnished with nothing more than a long black metal table and several white wooden chairs. A burly cop whose nametag identified him as Richmond entered the room, ushering in his prisoner. Poor Pete—he looked awful. At least they’d let him wear real clothes, not the hated orange jumpsuit, and his hands were free. The swelling in his face had subsided somewhat, and his bruises had faded to a pale shade of fuchsia. But his eyes swam with fatigue, and I knew he hadn’t slept since the cage door had clanged shut on him. I bit my lip as tears pricked my eyes. I opened my mouth to greet him, but Aileen beat me to it.

  “How goes it, Moron? These frigging cops treating you right, or do we need to charge them with police brutality?”

  Pete held out his arms to gather the two of us in. I didn’t bother to ask if touching was allowed—I hugged him tightly.

  Officer Carson stood by the door, having dismissed Richmond with a curt nod. He folded his arms across his chest and watched us wordlessly as the seconds ticked by. His silence was starting to make me nervous.

  Officer Richmond returned, followed by Chris with Marsha tucked under his arm like she’d finally arrived at the place where she belonged.

  Chris wore street clothes: baggy jeans and the muscle shirt of his construction calling. A twinkle in his eye persisted despite his days in jail. I wondered what pranks he had pulled on his fellow inmates over the past few days. Leave it to Chris to find the fun in any experience, even jail.

  He waved gaily to me, then grasped Richmond’s hand. Pumping energetically, he said, “Thanks for everything. The ceremony’s at First Presbyterian Church, at two o’clock on Saturday. It’ll be awesome—I hope you’ll come.”

  Marsha squeezed Chris’s arm. She raised adoring eyes to her husband-to-be, and then turned her gaze to the cop. “We’d be honored if you could come. Really.”

  With a sidelong glance at Carson, Officer Richmond broke into a genuine smile. “Can I bring my wife?”

  “You bet,” Chris said, his words nearly drowned out by a snort from Aileen.

  “Could we get on with this?” she demanded.

  Once again Carson dismissed Officer Richmond. He indicated the metal table. “Shall we?” He sat down and slapped a folder onto the table in front of him.

  I sank down into a chair, feeling like I was facing my four-hundred-pound elementary school principal with her wooden paddle. Aileen scowled at my side, and Pete clenched his jaw, tense and wary. Marsha held Chris’s hand under the table.

  Carson addressed his next remarks to me. “You know most of what’s in here. Jim Laker died after crashing into the Schuylkill River, following a high-speed chase and the gunshot wounding of photographer Sean McCarthy. Thankfully no one was killed except Laker himself. When his car was pulled from the river, it contained a small blue duffel bag filled with Civil War era diamonds, gold filigree brooches, and pearl necklaces worth in excess of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This duffel bag appeared to be the match of the one confiscated from Pete Dembrowski’s bedroom closet, which contained the stolen doll, Angeline.” He raised his eyes to study my face. “Circumstantial evidence, which points to Laker’s participation in the doll theft.”

  I bit my lip, hoping there was more. There was.

  “According to your testimony and that provided by Torey Brand, Steven Gregory, known to the reenactors as Colonel Windstrom, witnessed someone with the diamonds and jewels at the reenactors’ camp, and was subsequently killed. We found Chris Porter at the scene with his hands on the murder weapon, and detained him.”

  “But I didn’t do it.” Chris sounded like a man resigned to repeating the truth as many times as it might take to get his point across. Marsha twined his arm in hers, glaring across the table at Carson.

  Carson ignored them. “What you may not know is that this murder was witnessed by another victim, Emmett McDowell.”

  Pete stiffened beside me, his eyes fixed on Carson’s face.

  Carson turned a page in his folder, studying the evidence it held. Then he raised his eyes to mine, and incredibly, he smiled. “McDowell was a writer, a particularly narcissistic writer who viewed his world solely in terms of its impact on himself.”

  I gasped, remembering the display of Civil War diaries at the Tremington. “He kept a diary.”

  “He kept a diary,” echoed Carson. “A number of diaries, to be exact, were recovered from his home. We found one in particular to be most interesting—a very detailed, damning diary. In it he recorded his rese
arch into family lore about jewels in connection with Angeline, and his frustration when the doll was bequeathed to his cousin Stella, who adhered to their grandmother’s insistence that the doll not be altered in any way.”

  I sucked in my breath, and Carson stopped in his tracks. “Did you have something to add, Ms. Dembrowski?”

  I gulped and pulled the pack of Emmett’s papers out of my shoulder bag. “I found these papers in Emmett’s car. They tell about Angeline and the jewels.” I pushed the packet across the table. In a small voice I added, “I know I should have given these to you before.”

  Carson studied my face as he slowly picked up the papers. He turned them over one by one, frowning through the silence. What exactly does it mean to obstruct a police investigation? I didn’t really think Carson would go there, but . . .

  Finally Carson laid down Emmett’s papers and fixed me with his gaze. “May I continue? In his diary, legally obtained by means of a search warrant, McDowell detailed his success in recruiting Jim Laker to steal the doll while he turned off the lights to cover the theft.” Carson shifted his gaze to Pete. “In numerous places, he waxed eloquent on his glee at the chance to pin this crime on his least-favorite person, quote, that idiot Dembrowski, end quote. Sounds like he put the idea into Laker’s head that you were tailor-made to take the fall for them. So far, so good. But then Steven Gregory observed the two of them in the isolation tent, extracting the jewels from the doll’s head, and tried out a spot of blackmail. When Gregory was murdered, McDowell knew that he was in way over his head. He recorded his dismay when he realized that Laker had killed Gregory, and he went on to write of his fear for his own safety.” Carson paused, his eyes on the single spaced pages before him. “Unfortunately for McDowell, he chose not to go to the police with his evidence against Laker, fearing that he would implicate himself in the theft of the doll and the jewels. He was content to let Chris Porter take the heat for Gregory’s murder, despite describing Porter as a quote, fun guy who doesn’t deserve what’s coming to him, end quote.” Carson closed his folder with a snap. “This is not circumstantial evidence. It would stand up in any court of law to exonerate Porter of Gregory’s murder, and Dembrowski of any involvement in the doll theft, as well as the murders of both Gregory and McDowell.” He stood up and extended a hand to Chris. “You’re a free man.”