Thomas Scott - Voodoo Daddy

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it was me. I was the one who was acting strange. Well, hell, that’s not right. I wasn’t acting strange. I was sort of pissed off if you want to know the truth of it.”

“Pissed off how? Why? Were you two arguing?”

“No. Probably would have turned into one though. If she hadn’t left for work, I mean. It’s been a bit of a sore spot lately, ever since I retired. I’m stuck at home with nothing to do except busy work, while she’s out doing real work. We’d talked about retiring together, you know? Maybe do a little traveling, but that never worked out.”

“Why not?” I said.

“Well, I guess because she just couldn’t give it up. Her work, I mean.”

“And she was a Hospice nurse?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. So you two had an argument right before she left?”

“That’s not what I said, Detective. You’re putting words into my mouth. I said it probably would have turned into one. An argument.”

I looked at the bandage on his hand. “What happened to your hand, Mr. Rhodes?”

“I scraped the ever lasting shit out of my knuckles pulling weeds from the driveway cracks. That’s what I was doing when she left.”

“What about her patients, Tom?”

“What about them?”

“She was in a difficult line of work,” I said. “She cares for people at a time when there’s nothing left for them to do but try and die with a little dignity.”

“Sounds like you’ve had some experience with that too, detective.”

He was right. I did have some experience with that. Very personal experience.

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, Detective, whenever it may have been. But to tell you the truth, I never knew much about her patients.”

“Why’s that?”

“Aw, it was those damn hippo laws.”

“You mean HIPPA,” Miles added. “With an a at the end.”

Rhodes waved his hand. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever. Rhonda took her job very seriously. She never spoke about individual patients with anything more than very vague generalities. And even then, never by name. And if I’m being honest with you, and I am by the way, I didn’t want to hear it. The whole fucking thing depressed the ever lasting shit out of me. I guess that says something about me, huh?”

“Is there any chance, Tom, that this could be one of her patient’s family members? Someone mad at Rhonda because their loved one died?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t sound right to me. Doesn’t feel right. Everyone I’ve ever talked with think these people, these Hospice workers walk on water, you know? I guess it could be possible, hell, anything’s possible, right? But I don’t think so.”

I scratched the back of my head, and thought, what the hell. “Where do you bank, Tom?”

“Firefighter’s Credit Union. Why?”

“What about church? Did you or your wife attend anywhere?”

“I was raised Catholic, but I let it slip. Same with Rhonda. Does that mean anything?”

I didn’t answer him and instead looked at Ron with an ‘anything else?’ look on his face. Miles shook his head. I was about to excuse himself when Tom Rhodes spoke. “She’s really gone?” he said, his voice all at once small, like a child.

“Tom, look,” said Miles. Why don’t you go on home. You’ve got a tough few days ahead of you. Gather your family around you and let them help you. You don’t want to be here right now. When they move her body, it’s, well…it’s just something you don’t want to see.”

“Where are they going to take her?”

“They’ll take her to the hospital, Tom,” I said. “There will be an autopsy, and after that they’ll send her to the funeral home of your choice. But Detective Miles is right. Go home. Let us do our job. We’ll figure this thing out.”

“All she wanted to do was help people. Why would someone do this?”

How do you answer a question like that?

I followed Miles into the coffee shop and was introduced to the waiter who served Rhonda just before she was shot.

“How about we sit down for a few minutes? I’ve got a few questions.”

“I’ve already answered just about every cop in the city, so far,” he said.

“Well, not everyone,” I said. “It looks like you were the last one to speak with her before she died. I just want to ask you a few things. Sometimes witnesses know something they don’t even think they know, and it can be something little that might not mean anything to you but can make all the difference in the world to us. Here, have a seat,” I said and pointed him to a table in the corner. No other patrons were in the cafe. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air.

After the three of us were seated Ron and I stayed quiet for a minute or two. Sometimes one of the best things you can do when you want answers from someone is to just be quiet. Sure enough, after another minute or so the waiter began to talk. “You know what’s weird?” he said. “I don’t really feel anything. I mean, I’ve known Rhonda for a long time. Well, that’s not quite right. I don’t really know her at all. What I mean is, I’ve been serving her for a long time. We’d talk, you know? Nothing substantial, not really. Just the casual ‘how you doing’ kind of chit chat bullshit that customers and waiters have. Jesus. I’ve never seen anyone get shot before. Aren’t I supposed to feel something? I feel like I should be upset. I mean more upset than I am. Is something wrong with me? Am I in shock or something? Is this what shock feels like?”

The waiter sat with his elbows on the table, the heels of his hands pressed into his forehead. His fingers worked their way into his hairline and pulled his hair back taught. It gave him a haunted, almost effeminate appearance. “You may very well be in shock,” I said. “Do you feel like you require medical attention?”

He let go of his hair and forehead. “No, no, I’m fucking good. Besides, I don’t have any insurance.”

“Just take us through it, from the time she walked in the door until you saw her get hit. Take your time. Don’t leave anything out.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the waiter said. “I mean, there just isn’t anything to say. She came in, same time as she always did, sat at the same table she always sits at, unless someone else is sitting there, except they weren’t, so she did.” He pointed to the table in the opposite corner of the establishment. “That table right there.”

“Alright, that’s good,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well, like I said, there just isn’t anything to say, really. She sat down, spread out her paperwork and started doing whatever it is she did with it. The paperwork, I mean. I asked her if she wanted her usual. She said yes, so I brought her a cup of our house blend and a muffin. The muffin was on me. It wasn’t part of her usual. I just wanted to give her a fucking muffin, you know? We made nice for a few minutes and I got back to work. Before she left I asked her if she wanted anything else. She says ‘no I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow though.’ I said something like ‘you bet’ or whatever and then she walked out and I just happened to glance up from behind the counter and I saw her flying backward through the air. She hung there for a second, hell not even that long I guess, ‘cause you know how everything seems like it’s going in slow-mo? Well, anyway she hung there for a sec in the shape of a big C, you know with her arms and legs flying forward and her body going backwards. Anyways, that’s what it looked like to me. A big C. It’s kinda ironic if you think about it, because that’s what she always called cancer. The big C. Just like that series they’ve got on Showtime. It’s called The Big C. Anyways…”