Sick Man

by Paul Spencer

  She stood up and banged on the door. “Hey Buchanan, we’re ready.”

  Chapter 5 – Team Talk

  Buchanan and Malone took us to an interview room on the next floor up. It was a small space, no windows, drab green paint on the walls, and a table with four utilitarian metal and plastic chairs. Casey and I sat on one side of the table, and the detectives sat on the other. Malone glared at Casey.

  “Is your client ready to tell us why he shot Aaron Jones?”

  “And you wondered why I wanted a lawyer?” I snapped.

  “Calm down,” Casey said. She didn’t acknowledge Malone. “Detective Buchanan, my client will tell you what he knows about last night, provided your questions are reasonable. The moment you or your colleague” – she poured a lot of scorn into that word – “try to fit him up for a crime he didn’t commit, this interview ends. At that point, you either charge him or we leave. And we both know you don’t have enough to charge him.”

  “Take it easy, Counselor,” Buchanan said, his hands raised defensively. “We’re not here to frame your client. Malone, you keep it shut for now.” He looked at me. “Did you shoot him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No.”

  “Tell us what happened last night.”

  I told them a brief version of the story. I kept an eye on Casey as I did, looking for cues to stop talking, but she let me tell the story.

  “You know we’ve spoken to the Holman’s bartender, right?” Buchanan said. “You know he told us that you assaulted Mr. Jones?”

  “I hit him once, guys, and not real hard. Jeremy would have told you that. He also would have told you that I got up and left right away. I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I just wanted him to shut the fuck up.”

  “Then how do you explain the patron who heard you threaten to kill Mr. Jones?”

  “Either you’re making that up or he is. It didn’t happen. I guarantee Jeremy will back me up on that. Someone’s trying to set me up.”

  “We’ve got guys out there right now, talking to a bunch of other people who were there last night. We’ll find out.”

  “Good. With the exception of your mystery witness, I’ll bet no-one heard me make any threats. And I’ll bet everyone you speak to who knew Aaron will say they’ve wanted to punch that little prick a hundred times themselves.”

  “And Mr. Jones didn’t come after you when you left?”

  “I’m guessing you’ve seen Aaron’s body. He wasn’t a big guy. He knew he wouldn’t be doing himself any favors if he got into it with me.”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you fired one?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “About five years ago. A buddy who was into target shooting took me to an indoor range off of I-5, up by Portland Meadows. I sucked.”

  Malone perked up. “You don’t need to be a marksman to shoot someone in the back of the head at point blank range.”

  “No shit, genius. I didn’t shoot Aaron. Check my hands for residue. Check my clothes.”

  “You could have worn gloves. You could have disposed of the clothes you wore.”

  “Yeah, and I could have played for the Blazers if I didn’t suck at basketball. Look, if I was going to murder somebody, I’d do a better job of it. Check my computer, check those forums I told you about.”

  “Oh, we’ll search your computer all right,” Malone said, “In fact, we’ve got a couple of uniforms tossing your place right now.”

  “I assume you have a warrant,” Casey said.

  “Of course,” Malone replied.

  “Good. I’d like to see a copy of it please.”

  “Sure. We’ll have someone send it over to your office.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Detective. I’d like to see a copy of it now. My client isn’t answering any more questions until I do.”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “If you want my client’s cooperation, you’re going to play ball.”

  Buchanan threw his hands up. “Look, Malone, just go get the warrant, would you? There’s a copy on my desk.”

  Malone looked ready to explode, but he got up and left. Buchanan looked at me.

  “Do you know why anyone would want to kill Aaron Jones?”

  “You know, I really don’t. I mean, he was a complete dick, and I meant it when I said that plenty of other people wanted to punch him, but he was harmless.”

  Malone came back in and handed a piece of paper to Casey. She looked it over and gave it back to him. “That appears to be in order.”

  “Thank you, Counselor,” Malone said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Mick, the guys should be done soon. Think they’ll find anything interesting at your place?”

  “No, not really,” I said. My life had been dull for the last couple of years, and my apartment reflected that fact. I had about an eighth of weed in the back of my freezer, but it was legal here now.

  “Is there anything else, detectives?” Casey said, her palms on the table. “Because if there isn’t, my client and I are leaving.”

  “Not so fast, Counselor,” Buchanan said. “We need Mr. Wray to write a full statement. We need to test him for gunpowder residue. When all that is done, and if we don’t find anything in his apartment, and if his computer backs up his story, he can leave. But he’s not out of the frame for this yet. He’ll need to check in with us every 24 hours.”

  I think Casey knew she had pushed Buchanan too far, because she sat back and relaxed a little. “Okay, we’ll wait,” she said. “But if you don’t charge him with anything, my client is under no obligation to check in with you. You can call me if you need to speak to him again. And you can do the residue test here and now.”

  Buchanan didn’t look happy, but he turned to Malone. “Go get a tech to come in here and swab him for powder, would you?”

  Malone left again, still scowling, and Buchanan pushed his pad and pen over to me.

  “Start writing,” he said.

  Chapter 6 – Going Home

  I began writing down what I remembered about last night. Malone came in with a lab tech when I was about halfway through. The tech swabbed my face with a small round moist towelette. His breath smelled of stale coffee. He repeated the process on my clothes and boots with another towelette, then he left, presumably to test the swabs for residue.

  With the tech gone, I started writing again. I tried to keep my statement focused and concise, so I didn’t give them anything to hang me with, but it still took five pages. I couldn’t help it. The lawyer in me made sure I got the details right.

  When I finished, Buchanan read through what I had written, then he had me sign it. I must have done a good job with the details, because he didn’t ask me any questions.

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ll be back when we have the search and swab results.”

  “Bring a copy of my client’s statement when you come back, please,” Casey said.

  Buchanan rolled his eyes. “Yes, counsellor.” The two detectives got up and left.

  “That went well,” I said.

  “You know this isn’t over, right?” Casey said. “If they don’t get a break on the case soon, they’re going to come back at you hard.”

  “I know. Hopefully they’ll catch whoever did it. Look, I really appreciate what you did for me today. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll get after those witness statements and let you know what I find.” She handed me a business card. “That’s got my cell number on it. If they do come after you again, or if anything else comes up, call me any time.”

  I put the card in my pocket. “You said you know who I am. I assume that means you know why I got disbarred. Are you sure you want me as a client?”

  “Most of my clients have done much worse things than you, Mr. Wray.” She put her pad back in her briefcase. “I’ve got another client in the ja
il upstairs. Her trial is next week, so I’m going to go spend some time with her. I’ll come back in a couple of hours in case they haven’t released you yet. If those two clowns give you any grief before then, call me.” She shook my hand and left.

  I rubbed my face. I was hung over, cold, and hungry. My situation felt like a bad joke. It was disturbing to know that Aaron had been killed, but it was even worse that the cops thought I might have done it. My head spun. I meant it when I said Aaron was harmless. I couldn’t understand how he’d got mixed up in something heavy enough to end with him being executed and dumped in a park. I knew why the cops were looking at me, but that was just bad timing. Surely they’d get some leads on whoever actually did it. Even though I was still afraid, I don’t think I really believed that I might actually go down for Aaron’s murder.

  I didn’t know what to do. Not that I had a lot of options. Stuck in a small room, no chance to leave. I could feel my heart rate rising. Christ, what a prick I must have been to my clients. Condescending, glib, no idea what they were going through. Far too late to do anything about it now, but I wish I’d taken the time to be more connected to them, instead of rushing off to the next thing. When you’ve got nothing else to do, it’s surprising how quickly you start beating up on yourself. I paced the room for a while, breathing slow and deep, trying to keep my head together.

  Buchanan and Malone came back about an hour later. They didn’t look happy.

  “I See Queen Ballbuster has left you all alone,” Buchanan said. He handed me some folded papers. “Here’s a copy of your statement. The swabs and your apartment were clean. You’re free to go, but don’t go too far.”

  “Thanks, guys,” I said, a big smile on my face. “Good to see you again.”

  I stood up and headed for the door. Malone put a hand on my chest and stopped me.

  “You know, Mick,” he said, “Your apartment wasn’t a hundred percent clean.”

  “That’s okay,” I told him, “you can keep the weed.”

  I pushed his hand away and walked out the door. Buchanan and Malone followed me back to the booking desk. They made me sign a statement saying that I was being released on my own recognizance. The statement was another boilerplate form I’d seen hundreds of times before. By signing it I swore that I would respect the law, that I wouldn’t use alcohol or drugs illegally, that I wouldn’t commit a crime, and all kinds of other redundant promises. When I asked for my stuff back, they gave me my wallet, but told me they were keeping my phone. The cop at the counter made me sign another chit.

  The mist had eased a little when I got outside, so I decided to walk up to Burnside and take a bus home, rather than spring for a cab. Besides, the walk would help clear my head. I rubbed my arms as I went. It was cold out, and I could have done with a jacket. Everyone else I saw had their hoods up and heads down. I walked north up Third Avenue. Despite the weather, I realized how much liked this end of town. They hadn’t replaced all the old buildings with cookie cutter glass and steel towers yet, so there was still some character left.

  When I reached the food carts at Stark Street, the smells hit me like a slap in the face. I hadn’t eaten anything all day. It must have been late afternoon, and my stomach was screaming at me. There were all kinds of options to choose from, but I just wanted to get out of the cold as quickly as I could, so I grabbed a slice at Give Pizza a Chance and kept walking. I really needed to eat, and the pizza was delicious. I ate it faster than I should, and burned the roof of my mouth in the process, but it was worth it.

  The rest of the walk and the bus ride home passed in a blur. I felt like a wall had slammed down between me and my old life. Nothing had prepared me for this. When my crash hit rock bottom I’d been arrested a couple of times, spent a few nights in the can. But that was small beer. Now, a guy I knew had been murdered, and the cops wanted me in jail for the rest of my life.

  I got off the bus at the same stop as the night before. I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t decided to call in at Holman’s. Surely, whoever had wanted Aaron dead would have killed him anyway. But I wouldn’t be in this much trouble. Or would I?

  Thinking about Holman’s made me realize there was something I needed to do, so I walked down there and went inside again. Thankfully, the place was almost empty. No one gave me a second glance. I had hoped that Jeremy would be there, but I didn’t see him. I knew the guy working though. He stood at the far end of the bar, polishing glasses.

  “Hey Tim,” I said. “Is Jeremy around?”

  He did a double take when he saw me. I guess he must have heard about what happened.

  “Look, I didn’t shoot Aaron, okay?”

  “No, no, no problem, Mick. I didn’t think you did.” Tim was the anti-Jeremy. Short, clean cut, given to wearing a vintage vest and pocket watch. “It’s all just a shock, you know?”

  “Believe me, I know. So is Jeremy here?”

  “No, he called this morning. He’s really upset. The cops gave him a hard time, so he’s not up to working today.”

  “Yeah, I’m not surprised. I need to talk to him, though. Do you have his number? Can I use your phone?”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Mick. He didn’t sound good this morning.”

  “Come on, Tim. I just want to see if he’s okay.”

  “Maybe you should come back tomorrow, see if he’s here.”

  “Look, you know me. I won’t do anything to upset him.”

  “All right. But I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Tim took his phone out of his pocket, danced his fingers over the screen, and handed it to me. “It’s ringing.”

  I took the phone. Tim stayed where he was, so I walked over by the pool table for some privacy. Jeremy answered on the third ring. His voice shook.

  “Tim, I told you already, I can’t work tonight.”

  “Jeremy, it’s Mick. I borrowed Tim’s phone.”

  “Oh, Mick, hi. Um, I’m really sorry, you know? About telling the police about you. Only they were really-”

  “Look, Jeremy, it’s okay. You did the right thing. They would have found out about me punching Aaron soon enough. It’s cool.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. That’s not why I called. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Well, I’m freaked out, but I guess I’ll be fine.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. And for the record, I didn’t shoot him.”

  “Oh Mick, I never thought that you did. You may be a sinner, but you aren’t that bad.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay.” I was about to hang up when something occurred to me. “Wait, there is one thing I wanted to ask you. The cops claim someone told them they heard me threaten to kill Aaron. Do you have any idea who would have said that?”

  “No. It certainly wasn’t me.”

  “Fair enough. Just thought I’d ask. Listen, if you think of anything unusual about last night, or someone who seemed out of place, let me know, okay?”

  “Of course, Mick.”

  “Thanks. See you soon.” I hung up and went back over to the bar.

  “Thanks, Tim.” I gave him his phone.

  “No worries. Hey, can I get you a drink? On the house?”

  “What for?” I was surprised. You don’t get a lot of comps at Holman’s.

  “I just figured you might need one. And besides, I’ve been wanting to punch that little prick for years.”

  “Aaron’s dead, Tim.”

  “Yeah, but he was still an asshole.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, why not? I’ll take a shot of bourbon.”

  I downed the shot and left. I lived just around the corner on Ankeny, in a fifties red brick building called The Strand. What a fucking day. Talk about turning your life upside down. Twenty four hours ago I had a weekend of rest to look forward to. Now Aaron was dead and I was a murder suspect. God knows what kind of mess the co
ps had left when they searched my place. Still, it would be good to get inside, pour myself a tall one, and hit the couch.

  Night was falling, and the old building looked foreboding against the deep grey sky. I went inside and along the narrow corridor to my apartment, unsure of what I would find. I didn’t want to open the door, but I knew it wouldn’t get any better with waiting. I turned the handle and looked inside.

  The place was messy, but it could have been worse. I didn’t have a lot of stuff, so there wasn’t much for the cops to toss around. Some papers scattered on my desk, the books pulled out of my bookcase and dumped on the floor, a few clothes tossed on my bed. Something caught my eye, and I looked down. There was a Holman’s coaster at my feet. That was strange. Someone must have pushed it under the door. I picked it up. There were two words written on the back.

  “You’re next.”

  Chapter 7 – Why Always Me?

  I stood there for a long time, looking at the coaster. My hands shook. The coaster smelled of stale beer. Then it hit me. Someone had stuck a death threat under my door, and I was standing there like an idiot thinking about the smell.

  I went inside quickly and shut the door. I swept some junk off my coffee table and put the coaster down. Who could have left it? The handwriting didn’t look familiar. Whoever had done it knew where I lived. I’m not in the phone book. They must have known I was out, too. It seemed unlikely that whoever pushed the coaster under my door would have done it if there was a chance I might be home, in case I saw it happening and caught them in the act. But still I had no idea.

  I suddenly had the sense of being very much alone, so I locked my door and set the deadbolt. I was glad I hadn’t had time to lock it in the morning. That meant the cops who came to search my place hadn’t needed to kick the door in, and a functioning lock was a good thing right now.