by Meg Lelvis
Donald’s head jerked sideways. He rubbed his hands together. Kept rubbing. “Yeah. Back in grade school.”
Jack sat in a chair across from the sofa. “Do you remember Father Daniel McGarvey?”
Donald’s right eye twitched. “Ah, I’m not sure. I dunno.” Pause. “Don’t think so.” His eyes darted to the floor, then the wall.
Jack studied the man. “I see. Don’t remember Daniel McGarvey? Maybe the kids called him Father Dan?”
Donald sprang up. His hands flew to his throat. “No.” Voice pitched higher. “No. I told you I don’t remember the son of a bitch. I don’t remember.”
Sherk stood and touched the man’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Donald. We don’t want to upset you. Please sit back down.”
“I’m not upset.” Loud, then softer. “I’m not upset.”
“Would you like some water?” Sherk asked.
Donald stared at him. “Water? Ah, yeah. I’ll get it.”
Sherk followed Donald into the drab kitchen and watched him take a glass from a cabinet and fill it with tap water. The sink and counters were free of clutter with no unwashed dishes in sight. Fridge and oven shiny, gold colored.
“Why do you want to know these things?” Donald asked on their way back to the living room.
“There may be a connection between the priest and a case we’re working on,” Sherk answered as he and Donald returned to the couch.
Donald gulped his water. “Well, I don’t know anything about that.”
“About what?” Jack shifted closer.
Donald’s eye twitched again. “About anything. Any case you have. I mean any crime that, ah, happened.” He squeezed his glass with both hands.
“You’re saying you know nothing about any crime? And what crime is that?” Jack saw the guy withering.
“No crime.”
“No crime,” Jack repeated.
“Stop it.” Donald’s voice rising. “You’re messing with me. Messing with my head.” He set his glass on an end table with a thud. “You’re trying to—trying to— “
Sherk nudged toward the man. “Trying to what, Donald?” Voice soft, soothing. “What are we trying to do?”
“You’re—you’re—I dunno!” he yelled and leapt from the sofa. He covered his ears with his hands and paced back and forth. “You—you have to leave. Just go. Go! Now!”
. . . . .
Donald Sowder heard himself yell. “Leave. Get out!” Why wouldn’t the buzzing stop? He paced faster. The high pitched buzzing in his head, relentless. “Stop. Stop.” He was slipping down the hole. Same as before. Years ago. First the panic attacks. Thought he was better.
Now the cop’s gentle voice. “Donald, please sit down. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Uncovering his ears, Donald stared at the cop who wore glasses, tall, thin, blond. Bet women called him handsome. He sank into the sofa, avoided looking at the other cop. Shifting against the armrest, Donald’s hand shook as he touched his glasses, swiped at his brow.
“You okay, Sowder?” the other cop asked as he fiddled with his phone.
“Yeah. Don’t feel good. Like I said, I’m sick.” Donald glanced at the cop, whose black hair was sprinkled with gray. Why were his eyes piercing through Donald’s brain? Wait a minute. He’d seen this guy before.
“Do I know you?” Donald asked. “Think I’ve seen you somewhere.”
The nice cop chuckled. “Detective Bailey gets that a lot. People think he’s Liam Neeson’s doppelganger.”
“Huh?” Donald paused. Frowned. “Maybe that’s it. But—” He was still puzzled. Where?
“Bailey, you said? That’s your name?”
“Yeah. Why?” Bailey put his phone away.
Donald shrugged. Something niggled at him. “No reason.” He stared at Bailey, confused.
The blond cop said, “Now, Donald, before we leave, there’s one more— “
“The funeral!” Donald jumped up, covered his ears again. Stared at Bailey, who looked surprised. “You. You were at the funeral. I saw you. I saw you.” Careful, the voice said. Careful.
Bailey rose from the chair and stood in front of Donald. “Whose funeral, Sowder? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t pretend. You know. Her funeral. Hers!” he yelled.
“Ah. You mean Sister Anne Celeste.” Bailey squinted. “Yes, I knew her. Paid my respects.”
The cop had a sly look on his face. Donald felt a surge of heat. Hot coals again. Buzzing in his head. “Oh sure. You think you can trick me? I’m not that dumb. You think I don’t know why cops go to funerals?” His voice rose. “Do you?”
“You tell us, Donald,” the blond cop said. “Why do we go to funerals?”
“To—to see if you can catch. Catch— “Careful.
“Catch who?” Bailey asked. His voice lower now. “Who do we want to catch?”
Donald took several deep breaths. He felt calm again. Smart. “I’m not saying any more. I know my rights. No more talking unless I’m under arrest and have a lawyer.” He sat again.
Bailey looked at the other cop. “Bet he watches Law and Order.”
Careful. Careful. “Oh, you think that’s funny? You guys are the stupid ones for— “
“We’re sorry, Donald. We don’t want to disrespect you,” the blond cop said. Did he give Bailey a dirty look? “You knew Sister Anne Celeste from your student days?”
“Huh?” Think. Think. Do they know what he did to Sister?
“Yes, you attended her funeral. So she taught you at Nativity in grade school?” The nice cop smiled. A likable guy.
Very likable, trustworthy this blond cop. Soothing, like, like. No. No. Not like he was. The devil in sheep’s clothing he was. But the other cop. Bailey. Villain. He must know something. Knows about Sister and how he—. Oh God, the buzzing, Louder. LOUDER. “Make it stop.” Did he just yell that?
He felt a hand touch his arm. Blond cop bending over him. “Make what stop, Donald? Tell us. We’ll help you.”
Donald wriggled away. Jumped up. Paced. He sensed the cops looking at each other, maybe debating what to do. He was unraveling. Like ten years ago. Why did he skip his meds the last few months?
He heard a faraway voice. “Donald, why don’t you come with us. We’ll take you to a doctor who can help.”
“No! No!” Did he yell again? He knew what they were doing. Tricking him. What do they really know? Poe’s long-ago story penetrated his brain. Nervous, not crazy. The cop, the villains suspected him of the murders. Not the third one. Just two. They’re making a joke of me.
Then Donald heard it. Thump. Thump. All their hearts. The nun. The guy. They were here. Careful. Careful.
Someone took his arm. “Let’s get a jacket for you. We’ll get help, Donald.”
He yanked his arm away. Shrieked. “You hear it don’t you?” Thump. Thump.
“It’s okay, Donald.”
Sweat poured down his face. He threw his glasses on the end table. His eyes rolled back like a wild horse trying to break out of its harness. The villains know. They know. They hear. The thumping.
Donald let out a scream. “Villains! Pretend no more. Tear up the floor. I admit the deed. I admit it. But not all three. Not all three. Bastard copied me, he copied me!”
Drenched, shaky, he sank onto the sofa and rocked back and forth in a fetal position.
Chapter 32
Jack stared at Donald, then turned to Sherk. “What the hell does that mean? Villains, tearing up the floor? Guy’s a wack job.”
Sherk placed a h
and on Donald’s shoulder. “He’s referring to “The Tell-Tale Heart”. Poe. At the end, the narrator hears the beating of the heart of the old man that— “
“Yeah, whatever. Guy needs a straight jacket.” Jack and Sherk gazed at Donald, who continued to rock, moaning softly.
Jack fished out his phone. “Called it in before. What’s taking so long?”
Donald stopped rocking and looked up. He eyeballed Sherk. “Didn’t do three. Just two. Just two. Prick copied me. Wait till I get him. Nobody copies me.”
Sherk knelt on the floor next to Donald. Clear who the good cop was. “Donald, it’s okay. Tell me about what two you did. What do you mean?” Sherk’s voice calm, low.
Donald’s eyes darted to the ceiling. “Why do you think I did three? Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. The devil in sheep’s clothes will burn in eternal damnation for the sins of— “
Wailing sirens interrupted his words. Donald sprang from the chair. “They’re coming to get me. I tell you, I didn’t do all three— “
Donald darted for the hallway and reached the bedroom when Sherk grabbed onto the man’s shoulders. “Donald, turn around. Look at me. No one will hurt— “
“No. No.” Donald tried to squirm from Sherk’s grasp. “No.” He looked wildly about the ceiling and walls. “Take thy beak from out my heart— “. He eyed Jack, who stood behind Sherk.
Sherk’s voice calm. “Donald, we’ll leave in a minute. Help is here— “
“Take thy form from off my door— “
“Come on, dude. Let’s go,” Jack said as he helped Sherk guide Donald to the living room. Two EMT’s knocked on the door and walked in. They wore black pants and shirts with paramedic logo patches on the sleeves.
“Got a live one,” the taller guy said.
Donald yelled, “Thy form from off my door— “
“Haven’t heard that one,” the other man said as he walked toward Donald and Sherk.
“Thy beak from out my heart.” Donald sobbing.
The man patted Donald’s upper arm. “It’ll be okay, Buddy. Let’s just— “
“Take thy beak from— “
“Yeah, I know,” the man continued. He nodded to the other guy, who approached with handcuffs. Surprisingly, Donald did not resist when they quickly cuffed his wrists together in front. He gazed at his hands as if he understood rules must be followed.
. . . . .
Oh god, I can’t stand the buzzing. Make it stop. And the raven. The raven claws hurt my back. I can feel them. Can’t be. They’ll take me away. Put me in a straightjacket like the cop said. Shouldn’t have taken all the leftover pills. I knew they’d come get me. Nervous. Not insane. Just nervous like the storyteller. Like him. Not crazy.
“Take thy damn beak.” Why is the room turning black? The black circle, the rim’s fading in. Blacker and blacker. My legs turning to jello. No! Don’t wanna faint.
. . . . .
Each EMT guy took one of Donald’s arms and walked with him toward the door. “You got his ID?” one man asked, glancing at the detectives.
“Yeah.” Jack handed him a wallet. “Just spotted it by his phone on the end table.”
“Nevermore. Lenore. Nevermore take thy beak— “Donald’s shoulders slumped, his head downward. “Take thy beak—” He whispered.
“Hey, it’s okay, Buddy. On our way,” the tall man said. He looked at Sherk. “Meet you at Mercy?”
“Yeah,” Sherk said. “Want me to ride along?”
“Nah, he’ll be okay. Winding down.”
Donald’s eyes rolled around in their sockets. “Oh god. Why hast thou forsaken me?”
The men shook their heads, looked at Sherk, and guided Donald through the door, holding onto his upper arms. Donald offered no resistance. “Forsaken me. Forsaken me.”
Jack returned from the bedroom. “Found his keys. We gotta lock the door. One of ‘em should work.”
After a few seconds of trial and error, Jack found the right key and locked the door behind them.
Several people stood in the hallway near their apartments. “What’s going on?” a young Latino man asked.
“I knew there was something about that guy,” the frowsy lady said. “What happened to him? He’s gay, ain’t he? What did he do?”
“Everything’s fine now,” Sherk told the group. “Go back inside. Have a good night.”
“Yeah, right. We can have a good night after that?” the lady rasped, and closed her door.
When they reached the elevator, Jack punched the button. Why were elevators so damn slow? Taking forever. Finally, the light flashed and pinged, the doors opened. Had a feeling this would be a long night.
. . . . .
Half an hour later the two men hung out on the second floor of Mercy Hospital waiting for Donald Sowder’s exam to be over. “Want more coffee?” Sherk asked.
Jack glanced at his empty Styrofoam cup. “Nah, what I need is a shot of James.”
“Maybe we’ll get the tox screen results tonight,” Sherk said. “I don’t think he was drunk, but may have ingested some meds.”
“Wonder how long he’s been wacko.” Jack tossed his cup in a trash can. “All that yakking about taking beaks from hearts and floor boards. And then the Bible stuff.”
“Yes, Donald went way off the rails. Apparently obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe. He quoted both the ‘Tell-Tale Heart’ and ‘The Raven’. He obviously couldn’t be in that state most of the time, otherwise he couldn’t hold a job.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “Should be done by now. What’s the hold up?” He walked to the nurse’s station where a young black woman sat writing on a chart.
“Excuse me, do you know how long Donald Sowder will be with the doctor?”
The lady looked up. “No, Sir, but it shouldn’t be too much longer.” She smiled.
Jack wondered why he bothered. Always the same answer.
After ten minutes a thirty-something Indian man in a white lab coat walked toward Jack and Sherk, sitting in chairs near the nurse’s station. “Detectives?”
The men introduced themselves to Dr. Nadeem Sodhi, who took a chair beside Jack. “We can talk here,” the doc said. “No one around this time of night.”
Sherk pulled out his notebook. “How is Donald, Dr. Sodhi?”
The doctor straightened the stethoscope around his neck. “He’s calmed down. We gave him an injection of Haloperidol, and tested for drug and alcohol ingestion. He wasn’t inebriated. Blood alcohol level was in the normal range. Tox results won’t be in until tomorrow. We’re keeping him overnight for observation. He became more lucid as the drug took effect.”
“Can you tell us what he said?” Jack asked.
“He was incoherent the first few minutes. Babbling about evil deeds, some of it sounded literary, like fragments of quotations.”
Sherk nodded. “Can we talk to him after awhile?”
The doc shook his head. “I’m afraid not. You can come back in the morning. He’ll likely be assigned to a psychiatrist for a full workup. I’m the internist on call tonight.”
Jack stood. “They got the insurance info from his wallet?”
“Yes.” Dr. Sodhi rose from his chair. “His contact information was a father and sister. A social worker tried to reach them. Don’t know if she was able to.”
“We’d like to talk to her,” Jack said. “She still around?”
“Not sure. You can check with the nurse,” Sodhi said. “By the way, his DNA was sent to the lab. You can check in a few days.” He glanced at his phone. “Excuse me. I’m needed in the ER.”
After learning there was no contact with Donald Sowder’s family, Jack and Sherk made their way out the hospital and rode to the station to retrieve their cars.
“Whew,” Sherk sighed. “A long night. See you bright and early in the morning, Jack.”
“Yeah, can’t wait,” Jack mumbled as he parked the cruiser and climbed out.
A chill nipped the night air as they walked to their cars. Jack noticed the silence. No people, no traffic. Just Sherk and he driving their separate ways into the darkness.
. . . . .
When Jack arrived home, he opened the kitchen door and got a smell of a suspicious, ammonia odor. He glanced around the floor and spotted a puddle of dog pee by the entry to the living room just as Boone trotted in.
“What did you do Buddy?” The dog gave Jack a mournful gaze. “Sorry. I know I was late. Won’t happen again. Come on, let’s go out.”
Jack watched as the big dog scampered out the back and peed under an ash tree. The porch light cast shadows in the still blackness. Eerily quiet.
“Time for a beer,” Jack said to Boone as they walked into the kitchen. “But first things first.” He grabbed several paper towels and got busy.
He hadn’t eaten since the chicken sandwich at the airport. Seemed like a day ago.
After opening a bottle of Sam Adams, he grabbed a bag of Doritos and plopped into his recliner. He noticed his landline answering machine blinking. Who could that be? Probably Ma. He pressed the button and listened.
“Hi Jack. It’s Molly.” His eyebrows rose. “Just want to see if you’d like to meet this week. I kinda left things hanging, so thought we could talk. See you. ‘Bye.”
“What the hell? Thought she gave me the old heave-ho.” Boone stared at him with round, searching eyes.
“Too late to call now.” He ruffled the dog’s soft fur. “I’ll never understand broads.”
Chapter 33
Jack tossed and turned during the night, disturbing dreams penetrating his sleep. Images of Ireland, Karen and Elizabeth running in slow motion through green meadows with grazing sheep. Then blasts, turbulent colors of orange, red, deafening. A priest and Maureen sitting on a gold throne. “Holy Mary, mother of God. Pray for us sinners— “