Dave Zeltserman - Small crimes

I had another question that was nagging at me. I asked him whether Charlotte had any close friends at the hospital that she might've confided in. He told me he had asked around at the time and couldn't find anyone who considered themselves more than an acquaintance of hers. And not many considered themselves that.

I stood up and thanked him for his time.

He seemed taken aback by my abruptness, but took my outstretched hand and mumbled out an apology for what happened. I then left him deep in his own thoughts.

At a subconscious level, I must've suspected something like that of Charlotte all along. I had to have. That had to have been why I came up with the plan that I did, because otherwise it would've been completely nuts. Maybe it was the way she avoided talking about Montreal, or maybe it was some look or expression of hers that I'd caught a glimpse of, or maybe it was simply the whole package, but something about her had caused that seed to be planted in my mind.

I could understand now why she had jumped to the conclusion that she did. When I had made my offhand remark about overdosing Manny, she must have panicked and thought that I had already dug around her past in Montreal and suspected what she had done. I thought about her and the repressed life that she lived. It must've been worse when she was in Montreal. I could just imagine how all that repression would weigh on her. How it would press on her chest. How tough it would be to breathe against. And how she'd find relief by unloading a morphine syringe into a patient's IV tubing.

Well, anyway, she was going to use a morphine syringe one more time.

It was only a quarter to twelve. I drove around until I found a diner, and then went inside and ordered lunch. My waitress was a cute little thing; blonde, perky, big dimples, and friendly as all hell. She had one of those smiles that made you feel good just looking at it. I kidded around with her after she brought me my food and had a feeling that if I asked her to come back to the States with me, she would've jumped in my car. In any case, the check was six bucks and I left her a ten-dollar tip.

After lunch I thought about driving around the city and seeing the sights. I thought about it, but decided to head back to Vermont. I still had plenty of things that needed to be done. When I reached the US border and the customs officer asked how my trip went, I couldn't help myself – I just showed him a big smile and told him it was the best damn trip I ever had. I was feeling too good to have said anything else. Hell, I was just about beaming. I hadn't realized before how much stress had bottled up in my neck and back and joints, but it was all gone now. I was feeling loose. Maybe a little anxious, but not much. All in all I felt good.

As I drove, at times my mind would just drift along, not aware of anything but the road and the scenery. At other times I found myself thinking about what was going to happen. Charlotte was going to shoot enough morphine into Manny's IV tubing to kill him and that would be the end of it.

When the idea had first come to me, I was concerned whether a morphine overdose could be detected by an autopsy. Now, though, thanks to the good Dr Bouchaire, I knew that it couldn't be. I knew that there was nothing to worry about. Soon Manny would be checking out and that would be that. Dan Pleasant would be off my back, Phil Coakley would be left empty handed, and Junior, well, that was still a problem. Something was going to have to be done about him. There'd have to be payback for his taking a couple of shots at me. But I knew I'd come up with something, and when it was all over, I'd move somewhere and start fresh. And then I'd start doing what I needed to for my girls.

During my ride back an idea popped into my head on how I could take care of Junior. Over the next half-hour or so, the idea gelled nicely, and the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. It would be a fitting epitaph to my life in Bradley. After a while my mind started drifting along with the scenery again. And then I just settled back into my seat and enjoyed the ride.

I was on Route Six as I entered Chesterville, and as I passed the Green Valley Motor Lodge, I saw half a dozen police cars and three sheriffs vehicles in the parking lot, all with their lights flashing. I almost stopped to see what had happened, but I knew my presence wouldn't be appreciated. Still, my palms felt itchy as I drove by.

Two miles down the road, I spotted a bar and pulled over. From the outside, the place looked like a typical small-town dive. It was four thirty and the bar was busier than it had any right to be. Inside, it looked just as divey. At that hour it should've had only a few hardcore and unrepentant drinkers scattered about. Instead it was nearly wall to wall people and there was a buzz running through the room.

I squeezed my way to the bar, got the bartender's attention, and ordered a Guinness. Next to me on my right was a stubby guy with a thick beard, wearing a Red Sox cap and a plaid hunting jacket. He was holding a pint as he talked to one of his buddies, a look of both amusement and disbelief mixed on his face. I leaned closer to eavesdrop on their conversation. They didn't seem to notice or care.

I was able to get that the stubby guy's name was Carl. I didn't catch his buddy's name.

Carl: I can't believe he didn't kill him.' Buddy: 'Shit, all he did was shoot him in the arm.' Carl: 'And that was from only five feet away. My two-year-old can shoot better than that.'

Buddy: 'He killed the girl, though.'

Carl: 'Yeah, he killed her alright. I heard they took her out in a bag. Is that what you heard too, Sam?'

An old guy with a sour face who stood next to them turned and nodded. Carl and his buddy stopped to finish their beers. They waved the bartender over for another round. I was still waiting for my Guinness.

Buddy: I wonder where he shot her?'

Carl: 'Don't know.'

Buddy: 'Did you ever see her dance?'

Carl: 'Yeah, if you could call what she did dancing. What a rotten shame. She was one of the nicer girls there. And you didn't have to tip her much to get her panties off.'

Buddy: 'I always thought Paul was nuts.'

Carl: 'Yeah, I don't know. He did catch them in bed.'

Buddy: 'So what? She was a stripper. What did he expect?'

Carl: 'Yeah, I guess. Jesus, I don't know.' He broke out laughing. 'That DA's going have a tough time showing his face around town after this.' And he kept laughing at his own joke.

I could feel my heart pounding. I tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped laughing and turned slowly to face me, bleary eyed from what must've already been several pints of beer.

'What happened here?' I asked.

He peered at me for a moment before answering. 'We had a double shooting at the motel up the street,' he said. A guy caught his stripper girlfriend in bed with the DA, Phil Coakley – you know, the guy whose face is all fucked up? He killed his girlfriend but only shot Coakley in the arm. What I hear, Coakley tackled him and knocked him out. Police have the guy now.'

"The dead girl's a stripper named Susie?'

'Yeah, Susie Baker. The guy who killed her is Paul Frechotte. You know them?'

'Sort of. Not really. Any idea how Frechotte knew they were in the motel room?'

He shook his head slowly. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me.

'You look familiar,' he said. 'Do I know you?'

While we were talking, his buddy stood behind him grinning like an idiot. At some point, I guess he recognized me. His grin disappeared and he seemed to sober up. He nudged Carl and leaned over so he could say something in his ear. I could see recognition flash in Carl's eyes. Without saying a word, the two of them moved away from me. As I looked around the bar I could see others had recognized me. They weren't staring at me outright, but I could see them sneaking glances at me. I could see other people being nudged and whispered to.