M Sellars - Harm none

“Now, it all starts out when our asshole gets himself a crush on a young lady who, shall we say, attends the same church. Let’s call this young lady, Ariel, just for the sake of argument. Now, Ariel doesn’t like Mister Asshole the same way he likes her, you see… Just a second… You had a crush on a young lady named Ariel, didn’t you? What a coincidence.”

“I didn’t kill Ariel,” R.J. insisted, raising his voice. “How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t kill anyone?”

Ben paused and engaged himself in a tremulous staring contest with R.J. When the young man finally shifted his gaze downward, Ben looked quietly from Deckert’s face to mine. I managed to find a small bit of solace in the fact that my friend’s expression showed me without a doubt that he wasn’t enjoying what he was doing to the young man.

“Let’s skip the rest of the story,” Ben finally said. “How about if we get back to a few questions.” He pulled out his small notebook again and began leafing through it, eventually stopping at a page and tucking the others back. “So, are you familiar with a Miz Ellen Gray?”

R. J. bolted upward from the chair, his red-rimmed eyes widened and wild. I could physically see his muscles tense throughout his body as he fought to bring himself under control.

“Why are you asking about her?” he demanded. “What happened?”

Deckert rested his hands on R.J.’s shoulders once again and gently but firmly guided him back to his seat.

“Tell me!” he appealed.

“She was the girlfriend you were trying to protect, wasn’t she?” I broke my self-imposed silence, as the reason for his feelings of guilt became instantly clear. “You two were having an affair, weren’t you?”

He never answered me. I could feel his anguish and confusion as he silently held his head in his hands. If it wasn’t obvious to Ben and Deckert, it was at the very least obvious to me. R.J. was not the killer. Of this, I was completely sure.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” R.J. finally asked, lifting his head slowly. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Ellen Gray had been the third victim, but the tone of his voice told me that he had already figured that out. I could only look away as he stared sullenly into space.

“Now I want a lawyer,” he stated flatly.

The solemn atmosphere of the room was disturbed suddenly as a key audibly turned in a lock, and the heavy steel door was pushed open, revealing the hardened face of the guard.

“Detective Storm,” he stated with businesslike brevity. “Phone call.”

Ben excused himself and left the room. Detective Deckert and I remained behind, locked in with a stubbornly silent R.J. His gaze remained fixed upon an invisible spot on the wall behind me. Deckert and I simply stared at one another.

Only a few brief moments passed before Ben returned to the interview room. His jaw was set grimly, and his eyes held more than just slight concern.

“Carl,” he addressed Deckert. “Can you see that our friend here gets his phone call? I’ve got somethin’ ta’ take care of.”

“Sure,” Deckert replied coming instantly more alert. “Is everything okay?”

“I’ll let ya’ know,” Ben told him, then turned his attention to me. “C’mon, Rowan, I need you ta’ come with me.”

I was perplexed at first, then morbidly hopeful as the thought that another murder might have occurred crossed my mind. I disdained the concept of such a thing happening, but it would go a long way in clearing R.J. of the crimes.

“What’s up,” I asked as Ben and I hurried up the hallway. “Has there been another murder?”

“No,” he replied as he signed us out and slipped his weapon back into its holster. “Not another murder.”

“Then what?” I pressed. “What was that call about?”

“Let’s just get goin’,” he ordered, grabbing my shoulder and nudging me forward.

“What the hell?!” I exclaimed. “What’s going on Ben?”

He let out a heavy breath, and his hand shot up to smooth his hair back and then came to rest massaging his neck.

“That call was Allison,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” I urged, instantly feeling concern for him and his family. “Is everything okay? Is the little guy all right?”

“They’re fine,” he answered without concern. “They’re just fine.”

“Then what’s going on?” I demanded.

“Allison’s on duty today,” he finally told me. “She called because an ambulance just brought Felicity in to the E.R. at her hospital.”

I never knew that Ben had an actual siren in his van, that is, until now. He had wasted no time, quickly attaching his red magnetic bubble light to the roof of the vehicle and plugging it into the cigarette lighter as we flew from the parking lot. Soon, we were careening down the highway, siren screaming from behind the grill. Ben pushed the van to its limit, as if the sooner we arrived at the hospital, the quicker we could make everything better. As if simply by being there, we could magically prevent whatever had happened, even after the fact.

“What did Allison say?” I appealed still struggling with my safety belt.

“Just that an ambulance came in, and Felicity was in it,” he answered, still keeping his attention on the road.

“Did she have any idea what was wrong with her?” The metal finger on the seatbelt finally slipped in with a satisfying click.

“No,” he replied as he hooked the van around the slower traffic. “You sons-of-bitches! Can’t you hear the siren!” he screamed at the other drivers and then turned back to me. “No, she didn’t. She said she was conscious when they brought her in though.”

The pains in my stomach were growing more intense with each passing moment. I began to realize that it wasn’t R.J. that I was feeling empathy for. It was my wife.

“She was fine when I left her,” I volunteered. “Just a little morning sickness. Hell, I’ve only been gone for a couple of hours. What could have happened?”

“I dunno,” Ben offered, “but like I said, Allison told me she was awake when they brought her in, so that’s a good sign at least.”

“It has to be something to do with the baby,” I asserted.

“You don’t know that. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“No. It’s not.” I held fast as another burst of pain shot through my abdomen. “I’ve been having pains in my stomach for about an hour now.”

“So?”

“So, it’s called empathy,” I told him. “At first I thought I was getting it from R.J. because he was nervous and all that, but now I know better. I’m feeling Felicity’s pain.”

“Like some kinda psychic thing or somethin’?” Ben half asked, half remarked. “Jeezus, you guys are unbelievable.”

The siren continued warbling loudly as he quickly cranked the steering wheel to the right, sending us into the cloverleaf from Interstate 64 to exit onto Kingshighway. The hospital was within sight now, only the sluggish traffic barring our way. Ben drove the van halfway up onto the inside shoulder in order to skirt around the cars that were slowly moving out of our way, and the engine groaned in protest at the abuse it was taking. The vehicle buffeted wildly and rocked on worn suspension when the tires finally leapt from the curb and once again contacted level pavement. Moments later, we broke through the lethargic traffic, and Ben propelled us forward without heed to the signal lights and signs.

We quickly traveled the two short blocks running alongside the hospital, whereupon we hooked right, sliding at first then accelerating out of the turn. At the end of the short sprint, Ben jammed on the brakes, forcing the Chevy to screech to a halt before the entrance to the emergency room.