Ken Douglas - Gecko

And it would also be the nuthouse if he went around saying his wife’s lover was trying to kill him. He was sure of what he had seen in Kohler’s eyes, but it was possible for the doctor to hate him and not want him dead. He made a giant leap based on nothing more than his own feelings for the man. Maybe Kohler was innocent.

Even the rifle shot through the back window of the police car could be explained. Plenty of people hate the police. It could have been a drug dealer or someone high on drugs, who saw a squad car and took a shot at it for kicks, or maybe Washington or Walker had enemies, maybe somebody they once arrested. The rifle shot couldn’t have been for him. He was being paranoid.

But paranoid or not, David was dead and he was in jail, charged with assault and battery. How stupid, letting his emotions control him like that. Kohler was probably going to sue and he would have to pay, whatever the amount. The last thing he wanted to do was to go into court against Julia’s lover. No matter how much he despised the man, he still loved her. If they wanted more money because he attacked the son of a bitch, he would just pay it.

“ That’s dumb,” Donna thought.

“ It’s how I feel. If she wants money, she can have it. I can make more.”

“ I don’t know much about your situation, but from what I just picked up, it looks to me like your wife and her lover are playing you for a fool.”

“ That may be, but I just want it over. I want to get on with my life.”

“ Jim Monday.”

Jim started at the sound of his name, looked up and saw a uniformed officer and a young man in his late twenties or early thirties, dressed in an expensive suit, caring a black leather briefcase that matched his shoes.

“ I’m Monday,” Jim said.

“ I’m your attorney,” the man said as the officer was unlocking the cage. “We need to talk.” There was something about him Jim didn’t like.

“ My lawyer was killed about eight hours ago.”

“ All I know is that our firm got a call about you, then I was told to come down here and bail you out.”

“ Who hired you?”

“ I don’t know, but when old Mr. Cobb tells me to jump, I jump.”

“ What about the assault and battery business?”

“ Dr. Kohler isn’t interested in pressing charges, but there’s a small matter of getting the city to go along. You did assault a respected member of the community in front of dozens of witnesses, including, may I add, two police officers. If the city wants to go to the wall on this, we could have problems.”

“ So where do we go from here?”

“ It’ll take them about an hour to process your bail, meanwhile I’d like to talk to you, in private,” he said, indicating the man on the other bench with his eyes. “The city of Long Beach has been kind enough to furnish us a private room.”

“ Okay, let’s go.” Jim left the cell, following the uniformed officer and the young attorney out of the lock up area, through another set of doors, up a flight of stairs and down a well lit corridor.

“ You can talk in here.” The officer stopped before an oak door. He poked his head into the room, then added, “Wait a sec.” He went inside, came back with a chair, set in next to the door. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

The young lawyer motioned with an arm extended, Sir Galahad style, for Jim to enter. He did and the attorney followed, closing the door after himself.

“ It’s not much,” the lawyer said.

Jim nodded.

The room was furnished with a folding table in the center, the kind usually found in campaign headquarters or at rummage sales. Around the table were three chairs, government chairs, bureaucratic chairs, one on the side closest to the door, facing the window and two opposite, facing the door. The lawyer laid his briefcase on the table.

“ Looks like one of those interrogation rooms you see on TV,” Jim said.

“ Not quite, but close. They use these for what we’re doing, attorney and client chats.”

“ And interrogation,” Jim said.

“ Maybe.” The lawyer held out his right hand. “My name is Jeff Turnbull. I’m going to try and get you out of this mess.”

Jim shook Turnbull’s right hand with his left, while holding up his right, letting the lawyer see the cast.

“ Police do that?” Turnbull asked.

“ I deserved it.”

“ Let me be the judge of that.” Turnbull took the chair closest to the door. Jim sat, facing the door, with his back to the window. “I have here,” Turnbull went on, opening his briefcase, “a legal pad and a pencil.” He lay a yellow legal sized tablet in front of Jim, handed him a pencil.

“ What am I supposed to do with this.

“ I’d like you to make a quick outline of what happened on Second Street this morning and the events that led to your arrest.”

“ What’s to write? A hit and run driver ran down my best friend. I went berserk and attacked the doctor that was probably trying to save his life.”

“ Probably?” Turnbull’s eyes turned to slits.

“ Was trying to save his life.” Jim flipped through the blank pages of the legal tablet, picked up the pencil, fiddled with it for a second, dropped it on the tablet.

“ Write it down.”

“ Why?” Jim met Turnbull’s slitted gaze.

“ You’d be surprised what comes to people when they put their thoughts onto paper. You might have seen something that caused you to act the way you did. Something that might have justified your actions. Something we can use to get you out of here.”

“ I saw and old, beat up gray, 1980 Buick Regal, balding tires, chrome rims, tinted windows, driver’s window down, dented front fender, strike and kill David Askew. Although the driver’s window was halfway down, I didn’t get a look at the driver. I remember the vehicle because I’ve always had a teenage-like interest in cars. I notice cars like horny men notice beautiful women. Not that I don’t notice beautiful women. I don’t think I’ll remember much more if I write it down.”

“ Humor me.”

“ No.”

“ I’m trying to help you.”

“ I’m sorry, you’re right.” Jim picked up the pencil. “Fortunately I’m left handed.”

“ Fortunately,” Turnbull echoed.

Jim bent over the paper, tried to put his thoughts in order, but before he had a chance there was a light knock on the door.

“ Can I come in?” a tall man, with a body builder’s shape trying to bust out of a yellow sport coat said. Jim couldn’t believe how ridiculous the man looked with his shoulder length, surfer-blond hair and paisley tie. The man had a nose three times too big for his face.

“ That’s the driver!” Donna thought.

“ Are you sure?” Jim thought.

“ You notice cars, I notice people.”

“ Are you sure?” Jim repeated his thought.

“ Look at him! How many people look like that? Of course I’m sure!”

The big man moved past Jim, picked up the empty chair and took it to the other side of the table, where he took a seat next to Jeff Turnbull.

“ Hi, I’m Richard Monroe, I’m going to help get you out of here,” the bodybuilder said.

“ Help kill you is more like what he really means,” Donna thought.

“ You can’t be sure,” Jim thought back, but he felt her conviction. He believed her.

“ You better do something, or the only place you’ll be going is the morgue. Yell, scream your head off!”

“ No.” Jim picked up the pencil, flipped open the legal pad as if he were going to write something.

“ What did you say your name was?” Jim asked, making conversation, hoping to distract the big man.

“ Richard Monroe.”

“ You’re an attorney also?”

“ Yes sir, work for Cobb and Cobb, just like Mr. Turnbill.”