AHMM, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I have to give the local police credit. Within two minutes of Davy's call, I heard the wail of approaching sirens. The sniper must have heard them too. I counted to twenty—time enough for him to make his getaway—then rose on unsteady legs. Nobody shot me. I scanned the distant trees before motioning Davy and Bobby up.

  "Tell the ambulance driver where we are,” I ordered Bobby. He took off running.

  Davy continued talking on his cell phone, telling the police what was going on. He looked stunned. No help there.

  I rolled Mitch onto his back and brushed dirt from his cheeks and forehead.

  "Hey?” I asked. “Mitch? Can you hear me?"

  His eyes opened. They had a glassy sheen, but focused on my face. Then he began to cough, and from deep in his chest came a liquid gurgle. That couldn't be good.

  "Hang on,” I said. I squeezed his limp hand. “You're going to be okay."

  He turned his head slightly. His blood-flecked lips moved.

  "Tell...” he breathed.

  I bent close.

  "Fifi ... Dows...” His voice trailed off.

  "Mitch?” I slapped his cheeks gently, but he had passed out.

  Tell Fifi Dows? Who was she? And tell her what?

  The back door of the house banged open, and Missy stepped out with a phone to her ear. From her expression, she hadn't heard a thing. She probably had their vet on the line.

  She looked from the dead horse to me to Mitch. Then she dropped the phone and screamed.

  * * * *

  Things got weird after that. An ambulance ... police cars ... flashing lights ... Missy sobbing...

  My eyesight narrowed into a kind of tunnel vision. I moved through an unreal haze as bits of conversation, out-of-focus faces, and pulsing red and white lights all jumbled together. A steady thrumming, like rain on a metal roof, filled my ears. I might have been a passenger in someone else's body.

  Panic attack. As though in a dream, part of me diagnosed the problem with clinical precision. It had happened too many times before to count. But not this bad. Not in a long, long time. Not since New York.

  A woman shoved a microphone into my face. I mumbled answers.

  No, I don't know who fired the shots.

  No, I don't know anything about Mitch Goldsmith.

  No, I don't own Bailey's Final Call.

  At one point a young-faced officer with a shaved head and Marine Corps tattoos on his forearms sat with me on the rear bumper of an ambulance. Someone had draped a blanket around my shoulders. I clutched my cane to my chest. I wanted to close my eyes and shut down, but people kept talking and talking and nudging me to respond.

  "You did good,” the officer said, patting my shoulder. “Don't worry, Pete, we'll get to the bottom of everything."

  "No,” I said numbly. “No, you won't."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "It was a very professional job."

  * * * *

  The next thing I knew, I lay in the back seat of Davy's BMW. Night had fallen. Through the open roof, I stared up at an illuminated blue and yellow Best Western motel sign.

  Davy must have registered us. He half carried, half dragged me into a room. I crawled into a queen-sized bed, pulled the covers over myself, and passed out.

  * * * *

  Sometime later, a door squeaked open and hot morning sunlight splashed across my face. I crawled out of my mental hole. Sitting up, I shaded my eyes with a trembling hand and squinted into brightness.

  Davy stood silhouetted in the doorway. He hefted a pair of plastic grocery bags onto the round table by the window before turning in my direction.

  "Feeling better?"

  "No.” I managed to sit up.

  "You're talking. That's good. You're pretty freaky when you go non-verbal."

  "I need a drink."

  "Here.” He rummaged around in one of the grocery bags, then tossed a can of Diet Dr Pepper onto the bed beside me.

  I stared at it. “You have a cruel sense of humor."

  "There's ice in the bucket by the sink. Glasses too. Drink up."

  "I want whiskey."

  "You're on the clock, Pit. No alcohol."

  "I said I'd look at Bailey. He's dead. Take me home."

  "We aren't leaving. I want to know who killed my horse."

  "Only twenty percent yours.” I paused. “What about Mitch? Is he okay?"

  "No.” His frown deepened. “The bullet nicked his heart, poor guy. He didn't make it to the hospital."

  I flashed back to the farm. The crack of the rifle. The way Mitch fell. Something faintly wrong tickled at the back of my mind, but I couldn't quite place it. Later, maybe.

  I said, “And what about Bailey?"

  "Focus, Pit. I already told you he's dead."

  "But was he shot?"

  He blinked. “Uh, I never thought to ask. I just assumed, since Mitch..."

  "Find out. I'm betting he wasn't."

  "Why?"

  "I only heard one shot."

  In my head, I ran through our visit from the moment our car pulled into the driveway. I hadn't heard anything unusual before Mitch rounded the corner of the house. Nor had the sniper tried to shoot anyone after Mitch. Could Mitch have been his only target?

  Davy said, “We have to stop at the police station this morning. They want us to sign the statements we made yesterday. They'll know what killed Bailey."

  "Okay.” A statement? What had I said?

  He returned to his shopping bags. “Here. You'll want this too."

  He tossed a bottle of generic aspirin next to the Diet Dr Pepper. At last, something useful. While I fumbled with the shrink-wrap, he pulled out mouthwash, toothpaste and toothbrushes, deodorant, packages of generic white underwear, soy protein bars, a couple of cheap-looking gray T-shirts, and a copy of the Bucks County Gazette.

  "I'll take the paper,” I said.

  "Here.” He handed it over.

  Bailey had made the front page. horse farm sniper strikes! screamed a huge headline. The picture showed Mitch holding Bailey by his halter. Unfortunately, the article offered the barest of facts, but little interested me beyond the fairly impressive list of races Bailey had won.

  I flipped through the rest of the Gazette, ignoring articles like “Severe Drought Warnings Bring Water Restrictions,” “Police Corruption Alleged,” and “Arsonist Sought in Bar Blaze” as irrelevant. The obituaries made no mention of Mitch Goldsmith, either. We'd have to pick up the next edition. I wanted to know more about Mitch, a lot more.

  At last I lowered the paper. “What next?"

  "There's an outlet village down the road,” Davy said, “but it's not open yet. We can get clean clothes later. In the meantime...” He tossed me one of the gray T-shirts. It said new hope, pennsylvania in neon green letters.

  Great. We'd look like tourists.

  * * * *

  We reached the police station two hours later. Davy pulled into a spot next to the same bright red Sebring convertible I'd seen at Mitch's place. “hrskyd” read the license plate. “Horse kid"? Probably Mitch's car. Missy must be here.

  Davy strolled inside, introduced himself at the front window, and asked for Detective Nunes. I tried to remember Nunes, but drew a blank.

  "She's with someone,” the officer behind the window replied. His name tag said l. weinstein. He pointed with his pen toward a line of gray plastic chairs. “Take a seat. I'll call you when she's free."

  "Thanks.” Davy led the way.

  A kid slouched in one of the chairs, head down, watching music videos on an iPod. When he raised his head, I recognized Mitch's son, Bobby.

  "Hi,” he said, voice flat. He pulled out his earbuds.

  Davy gave a “Yo” and a nod.

  "Hi.” I motioned Davy toward the far end of the line of chairs. He played along and went off by himself. “Do you remember me?” I asked Bobby. “Peter Geller."

  "Sure."

  "I'm sorry about what happened.” I settled onto the chair next to
him. My hands had begun to tremble, not nerves, but a deep, dull pain. I needed a drink to steady myself.

  "Thanks. What happened to you?"

  "Got run over by a New York taxi. Years ago."

  "No, I meant yesterday."

  He must have seen me shutting down. “A panic attack. I get them when I'm stressed out.” I shrugged, cleared my throat. “Anyway, have they arrested anyone yet?"

  "No. They keep saying the investigation is ongoing."

  "How is your mother?"

  "At my aunt's house. She's not taking it very well."

  I made sympathetic noises.

  "How about Fifi?"

  He blinked. “Who?"

  "I thought you might know her.” It had been worth a try. Tell Fifi Dows. First, I had to find her.

  I went on, “What about Bailey. Do you know what happened to him?"

  Bobby shrugged, face tightening. “He died."

  "Shot?"

  "No. At least, I don't think so. I didn't see any blood."

  "Did he stumble? What happened?"

  "I was walking him back to the ring, and all of a sudden he jerked the reins out of my hands. Instead of running, though, he went down on his knees, then his side. He tried to get up, but couldn't."

  "Did you hear anything?"

  A blank look. “Like what?"

  "A shot? I heard one when your father was hit."

  "No.” He looked at his feet. “I didn't hear anything but Bailey."

  "Bailey?"

  "He was crying—the way horses do when they're hurt. You know?"

  "Yes.” I could imagine it.

  The inner door opened and a stern-faced policewoman stepped out. She wore a navy skirt and a pale blue blouse with a name tag like the officer at the reception window.

  "That's for me,” Bobby said, rising.

  He jogged forward, accepted some papers from the woman, and said something too low for me to overhear. Then he hurried out to the parking lot.

  "Well?” Davy asked, moving over to join me. “Learn anything?"

  "Not really. He didn't even know whether Bailey had been shot. You'll probably need a necropsy."

  "Huh? A what?"

  "A necropsy. Most people use the term autopsy when they actually mean necropsy."

  "An autopsy—necropsy—on a horse?"

  "Sure. Any large veterinary facility should be able to do it. Or maybe the cops will. Who knows, it might be natural causes. Wouldn't that be amusing?"

  Officer Weinstein leaned out from his window. “Detective Nunes will see you now,” he said.

  * * * *

  Nunes turned out to be a pleasant Hispanic woman, short and compact, with straight black hair and large, almond-colored eyes. A plainclothes officer, she wore a tan skirt with matching jacket over a white cotton blouse. Rather than heels, she had brown running shoes. Absently, I noted a pale line circling the ring finger of her left hand. A wedding band had been removed recently.

  "Thanks for stopping in. You look better this morning, Mr. Geller."

  I said, “I ... don't handle stress well."

  "You did a pretty good job yesterday. You're quite the local hero. Channel 6 and Channel 10 both ran stories on you last night."

  I blinked. “I was on TV?"

  "Six o'clock and eleven o'clock broadcasts."

  "Slow news day,” I muttered.

  "Are you kidding? When a handicapped local man saves two people from a sniper, that's big stuff in Philly. They ran an interview with Mr. Hunt. He told how you single-handedly dragged Bobby Goldsmith and him to cover behind the dead horse, then risked your life to try to save the boy's stepfather. It doesn't get much better than that."

  I gave Davy an I'll-kill-you-later look. The last thing I wanted was to be featured on television. On two channels, yet.

  "Uh ... I don't remember much,” I said. “It happened so fast, it's a blur."

  "Your modesty is refreshing, Mr. Geller. This way."

  Turning, she led us through a large, high-ceilinged room full of tiny desks. A few uniformed police officers sat filling out paperwork, typing at computers, or talking on phones.

  She said, “I need you to read over your statements, then sign them. That's all for today."

  Her desk sat in the far corner of the room. Davy and I slid into a pair of white plastic chairs like the ones in the waiting area. A wooden stand in the shape of a pink poodle held business cards. I picked one up: Detective F. Nunes, Buckston Police, with address, phone number, and extension.

  I put the card back, then stretched out my legs. My hands shook like palsy. I pressed my palms hard against my thighs. Tremens, hold the delirium. It would pass in a few minutes.

  Nunes picked up clipboards with statements already typed out and handed one to each of us. In sixty-five words, mine told how Mitch Goldsmith got shot. It ended with Davy dialing 911.

  "There's one detail I left out,” I said. I repeated Mitch's last words.

  "Tell Fifi Dows?” From her tone, I thought she recognized the name.

  "Mitch was whispering. I could barely hear him. I might be mistaken on the name, though. Is Fifi a real person?"

  "I don't know."

  I leaned forward, gauging her reactions. “How about a Fifi? Do you know someone in the area named Fifi?"

  "Let me do a quick Internet search.” Nunes turned to her computer, and I watched her fingers glide across the keyboard. She read something off the monitor, typed again. I leaned to one side, but couldn't see the screen. Finally she shook her head.

  "Afraid not, Mr. Geller. There's nobody named Fifi or F. Dows living in Buckston—or in any nearby town."

  I had the distinct impression she was leaving something out. She hadn't given a direct answer when I'd asked if she knew anyone named Fifi.

  "You do know a Fifi, though,” I prodded.

  An odd and somewhat hostile expression flashed across her face. Just as fast, she squelched it. I glanced at Davy. Had he noticed?

  The detective snapped, “I already looked."

  "Pit,” Davy said in a warning tone, “don't be rude."

  "Sorry, Detective.” I leaned back, smiling an apology I didn't mean. “I wasn't trying to offend. I haven't had my meds—I didn't think we'd be here this long."

  "Mr. Geller,” she said, voice hard, “I am busy. If your statement is correct, please sign it. You too, Mr. Hunt."

  I noted that she didn't ask me to add Fifi Dows to my statement. Shrugging a little, I signed and returned the clipboard. Not my problem.

  "Any news about the sniper?” Davy asked. He scrawled his signature with a John Hancock flourish.

  "We're following a few leads.” Nunes forced a smile as though happy to steer our discussion to safe ground again. Then she pushed her chair back and stood. “Thank you for your help. If we need anything more, someone will be in touch."

  I struggled to my feet. “Thanks."

  Davy started for the door. I took a step, then paused.

  "About the horse...” I said. “Bailey's Final Call? Was he shot too?"

  "We had a vet examine him this morning. It appears to have been natural causes. Dr. Rothman said...” She rummaged around on her desk and located a yellow paper. “Death due to heart failure. Apparently, it happens with racehorses more often than people realize."

  "Thanks.” I turned toward the door, paused again. “Is there going to be an autopsy?"

  "It's routine in a murder investigation."

  "I meant on the horse."

  She shrugged. “He wasn't shot, so it will be up to you or your insurance company."

  "Bailey's death seems like an odd coincidence to me. Would anyone here mind if Davy had one performed?"

  "As the owner, that's certainly his right. I can't imagine anyone would object.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction. Was I stepping on official toes? “I'll check with the officer in charge and let you know if there's a problem."

  "This isn't your case?"

  "I'm working on it, but Captain Dob
bs is lead investigator. Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?"

  I gave her Davy's cell phone number.

  * * * *

  "Are we done here?” I asked Davy in the parking lot. “The vet said natural causes. I want to go home."

  "You win.” He shrugged. “The police can find Mitch's killer. Who knows, maybe he was borrowing money from loan sharks and didn't pay up fast enough."

  "Maybe.” But what self-respecting loan shark would be named Fifi?

  As I settled into the car seat, my brain wouldn't quit. I couldn't stop reviewing everything Nunes had told us. And I kept coming back to her reaction when I mentioned Fifi Dows.

  Her first name began with F. It couldn't be that simple, could it?

  "What's wrong?” Davy asked.

  "Give me your phone. I want to try something."

  He surrendered his cell phone. I flipped it open and, from memory, dialed the number on Nunes's business card.

  A male voice answered, “Buckston Police Department."

  "Is Fifi there?” I asked.

  "Hang on."

  A few clicks. Then I heard the someone pick up. “Officer Nunes."

  I deepened my voice an octave. “Sorry, wrong number.” Snapping the phone shut, I told Davy what had happened.

  "Detective Nunes is Fifi?” he said. “No way!"

  "Probably a nickname. If the officer on duty knew, it can't be much of a secret. No wonder she didn't add it to my official statement."

  I could see him trying to connect the dots in his mind. “How would she know Mitch Goldsmith...?"

  "Tell Fifi what? What does ‘Dows’ mean?"

  "Got me."

  I chewed my lip. Perhaps “Dows” hadn't been a last name. Part of another word?

  Davy pulled out of Visitors’ Parking. I watched the passenger-side mirror as a white Mustang trailed us onto Route 202. The driver, a stocky man with a military-style crewcut and sunglasses, did not look familiar. Nor did the empty license plate holder help—unfortunately, Pennsylvania didn't require front tags.

  I said, “I think we're being followed."

  Moving only his eyes, Davy glanced at the rearview mirror.

  "White car?” he asked.

  "Yes."

  He floored the accelerator and made a sharp left turn across oncoming traffic. A truck's horn blared. I heard the squeal of brakes, but no crash followed. Davy shifted gears and sped up a twisty two-lane road, making a series of random turns. He didn't slow until we cruised down a tree-lined country lane with farms to either side.