Steven Womack: Dead Folks' blues

Rachel fell back against the wall, a gentle crimson foam filling her mouth.

Somebody put one of those blue chemical ice packs on my head, over the bandage the paramedics had stuck on, then lifted my right hand to hold it in place.

“Everything you’ve told us jibes with what we already figured,” Howard Spellman said. We were in the living room, feeing each other across the coffee table as I sat on the couch. “We had credit reports, the insurance policies. We knew she had the motive. We just hadn’t put it all together yet.”

“I’m afraid that I just stumbled onto it,” I said. “If she hadn’t said something about my head getting bashed in, I’d never have figured it out.”

“Well, you ever tell anybody I told you this, and I’ll break both your arms,” he said, “but that crack about your not being able to find your ass with both hands and an instruction manual.…”

“Yeah?” I twisted my head to meet his eyes. The ice pack slipped painfully.

“That was uncalled for.”

Lieutenant Howard Spellman was being halfway nice to me. Go figure. “No problem. Forget it. By the way,” I said, scooting around to face him, “how’d you guys get here, anyway?”

“Damndest thing,” he answered. “We had a call on the police band. Officer down at this address. The uniforms that pulled up heard the shot from in here. You’re lucky they didn’t blow you away.”

“Yeah, I’ve always been lucky that way.”

“Is that all you want in your statement?” he asked.

“That’s it, Lieutenant. That’s everything.”

“I’ll have this typed up. You come downtown later, review it, sign it. Okay?”

“Sure, I’ll come right down.”

“Not immediately,” a feminine voice said. I looked up. Marsha Helms was at the end of the couch. “I think he’s going to need stitches this time.”

“Great,” I said. “Another trip to the emergency room.”

Spellman stood up, walked back into the kitchen. Marsha and I were alone in Rachel’s living room now.

“You’re lucky, you know that?” she asked, matter-of-factly. “The Glock was loaded with Glasers. Hollow core round with shot suspended in liquid Teflon. Ninety-seven percent kill rate. The round doesn’t kill you, the liquid Teflon poisons you.”

I looked up at her. Her hair was pulled back professionally, cleanly, her shoulders square, her dress severe. She was a pro, doing her job. She arrived right after the police tore down the door, had done the forensics and filled out the death certificate with a coldness that was simultaneously attractive and repulsive.

“I think I’ve said this before, but you’re amazing.”

“So I’ve been told. Anyway, worked out better for the victim. She was history before she hit the floor. Went quick, no suffering. The slug-”

“Marsh, darling. I don’t want to hear it.”

She sat on the couch next to me. “So now it’s Marsh darling.”

I stared at her. “Yeah. That okay?”

She reached over, laid her hand on my forearm. Her touch was soft, sweet. “How deep were you in?”

“Deep enough,” I said. “But not enough to drown.”

I heard a ringing, but unlike the ringing that had been in my head, this sounded real. Then it stopped. A moment later, Spellman peeked around the door.

“Anybody know you’re here?”

“No, why?”

“Well, Mr. Hot Shot Private Eye, you got a phone call.”

I laid the ice pack on the coffee table. Confused, I stood up slowly, crossed the room to a cordless phone on a bookshelf. I picked it up, pulled out the antenna, flicked it on.

“Yeah?”

“It was the lawyer, wasn’t it?” The line was full of static, like a car phone.

“Lonnie,” I said. “How’d you know?”

“Hope you don’t mind my keeping an eye on you. I figured somebody better watch your scrawny ass. You didn’t seem to be doing a very good job at it.”

“So it was you who-”

“Hey, you want a cop, you either yell ‘Officer Down’ or you go to a doughnut shop.”

“You’re something else, buddy.”

“Just keep it quiet, okay? Civilians aren’t supposed to have police radios in their pickups.”

“You got it, man. Anything you say. And yes, it was the lawyer.”

“He the one that bought it? I heard over the radio you had one down.”

“No, he shot her.”

“Rough duty, man. You going to be okay?”

I looked over at Marsha. She was sitting on the couch still, looking at me intently. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just need a little time.”

“That’s one thing you’ve got,” he said. “Call me later.” There was a scratchy click as he hung up.

I hung up on my end, then looked out the front window across the wide expanse of lawn, the gathered neighbors, the driveway crowded with squad cars and paramedic vans. Beyond them, on the street, a single black pickup with tinted windows drove slowly by toward Hillsboro Road.

I felt heavy, like lead. Exhausted beyond feeling.

Marsha came up behind me, put her hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, we better get you over to General. Get you sewed up. I’ll give you a ride. You shouldn’t be driving.”

Something inside me wanted to break, but I didn’t have the energy. Numb everywhere. I walked past her, out into the hall and into the kitchen. The pictures had been taken, the sketches drawn, the preliminaries near conclusion. Rachel was on a gurney now, zipped into a bright orange body bag. Two hefty paramedics picked up the gurney and maneuvered it slowly out of the kitchen. I followed with Marsha behind me. She rubbed the tips of her fingers up and down the small of my back.

We walked out into the driveway just as a uniformed Metro shut the door to his cruiser with Walter in back. He was staring straight ahead, stone cold.

“Sad, isn’t it?” Marsha said.

“Yeah.”

“Look at it this way, though,” she said brightly. “You’ve solved your first big case.”

I looked at her. Talk about skewed perspective. “Yeah,” I said. “Nothing like getting what you want, is there?”

We walked down the driveway toward the black Porsche. The end was sticking out, and I almost laughed out loud at the DED FLKS plate.

“I’m not going to bleed all over your car, am I?”

She stopped, looked at the top of my head without having to stand on tiptoe.

“I’ve got some tissues in the car. It’s only oozing now. You’ll be okay.”

“Say,” I said, as we walked toward the car, “you ever take on live patients?”

She turned to me. “Gee, I don’t know. It’s been awhile. Maybe I’m out of practice.”

“I’m awful sore,” I said. “I could use a little TLC.”

“Well, I had a course in physical therapy back in med school. Let me do a little reviewing. Then we can talk about it later.”

“Maybe over dinner,” I suggested. “Real soon.”

“Yeah,” she said, walking straight ahead without looking atme. “I’d like that.”

“One thing, though.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know about this rigor mortis stuff.”

She stopped, looked at me funny, questioning.

“You know,” I said, “the all-over …”

Marsha went blank for a moment, then a gorgeous grin spread across her face, and I felt alive again. She broke out laughing. Heads around us turned.

“Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do about that.”

“Dr. Helms,” I said, holding the driver’s door of the Porsche open for her, “I’m in your hands.”