Читать книгу Do We Not Bleed? - Daniel Taylor - Страница 10

This is what everyone feared but no one would speak. It was the worst possible for Abby and her family, of course, but it was also extremely bad news for Cassandra Pettigrew and New Directions. We live in an age dominated by lawyers, commentators, activists, gossipmongers, frightened politicians, and perpetually offended people. All of them need to feed, and this promised to be a feast.

Suddenly no one cares about ableism or inappropriate touching. Some head for the marsh, others for the parking lot. I start looking for my Specials, knowing that a couple will want to lead the charge to the marsh and others will be frozen in place.

I’ve gotten everyone together except Billy when Bo Springer rushes up to me. He’s hyperventilating and looks like he’s about to cry.

“Get your residents to the group home. I’m calling a code four. We’re going into lockdown mode. Cassie is upset big time. This is bad. Real bad.”

I tell him that I am, in fact, in the process of gathering my folks, but he isn’t listening.

“And whatever you do, don’t talk to the media.”

Yes, there are a few reporters around, even a television film crew or two. Special Olympics makes good filler on the six o’clock news if there aren’t enough car accidents or house fires that day. It would be an assignment for the junior varsity journalists to be sure, but now they find themselves, serendipitously, on the scene of a major story.

Sure enough, as we approach the door of the group home, a man comes up holding a pad of paper and a pen. He walks past me and up to J.P., which gives me mixed emotions, mostly positive.

“Would you be willing to answer some questions, sir?”

J.P. is his usual model of cooperation.

“Um, um, I will try my hardest.”

“Did you know the deceased?”

“Yes, I know Denise. She’s on the girl’s floor. I have her picture.”

The reporter is confused, but clearly intrigued.

“So her name is Denise?”

As he’s writing that down, I make a move to intervene, but Jimmy beats me to it.

“What’s going on? What’s the scoop? Do you know Jimmy Olsen?”

It’s clear the residents don’t quite understand what has happened. Judy is trying to piece things together.

“I . . . I heard someone say it is . . . Abby? Is she okay?”

The reporter is the source of news rather than the collector.

“If you’re talking about the young woman who they just found, no, she’s not okay. She’s dead. Do any of you know what happened to her?”

I jump in before Jimmy creates a story that he himself will believe as soon as he hears it from his own lips.

“These folks don’t know anything about what happened.”

“Well, what about you? May I ask your name?”

“My name is Kit Carson, Johnny’s brother.”

Why did I say that?

“Well, Mr. Carson, do you know anything about what happened to that woman? I’m told someone has been missing from here. Is that right?”

I am too stunned by my own stupidity to answer coherently.

“I’ve got to get these people inside.”

Luckily, most of them are already going in on their own. Only Jimmy seems to want more action. He addresses the reporter.

“Did you ever watch Columbo? He used to go like this.”

Jimmy puts the fingertips of his right hand to his temple and tries to look like he’s thinking real hard. I grab him by the arm and get him into the house. The news guy doesn’t try to follow. He knows a dead end when he sees one.

“Nice job, Mr. Carson.”

Bonita is looking at me with her hands on her hips. I pretend not to hear her and tell everyone to gather in the living room. It’s a glum group, except for Billy, who seems a stranger to emotions. I don’t know if any of them knew Abby well, but it has sunk in that she’s dead, and each in one way or another feels the loss.

“Well, I’m sorry to say that Abby has died. We are supposed to stay in the house for a while.” Of course, I’m not certain the body is Abby’s, but there are quite a number of things in life you can be sure of without being certain. We’ll know soon enough.

I try to think what Zee would do here.

“Does anyone have anything they want to say?”

Jimmy doesn’t need any prompting.

“She was a peach of a girl. We’re all going to miss her. She’s gone to a better place.”

Bonita corrects him.

“The only place she’s gone, numb nuts, is down the toilet. I need a pop.”

Judy is still processing what Jimmy has said and misses Bonita’s comforting response. But she has formulated one of her own.

“Yes, Jimmy. You are . . . are right. We are going to miss . . . I should say . . . miss her very much. I think we should pray to Jesus for our . . . our friend Abby.”

I start to nip this in the bud, but before I can suggest that each person remember Abby in his or her own way, Judy follows up thought with deed.

“Dear Jesus, son of the . . . the Most High, and of our mother, Mary. This is Judy. I am with my . . . my friends here—Ralph, Jimmy, J.P., Bonita, Billy, and my brother of mine, Jon. We are sad. We are . . . I should say . . . we are sad about Abby. Abby has died. She is in . . . in heaven now with . . . with you. Maybe you can say hello to her for us—her friends here in the Carlson Group Home, Wayzata, Min . . . Min . . . Minnesota. Tell Abby that we miss her very, very much and we hope . . . we hope that she is happy in her . . . her new place. Amen.”

This gets echoing amens all around, a da dooey from Ralph, and a low hum from Billy.

We spend the next couple of hours with our thoughts, not the kind of company that has been rewarding for me in the past. Then there’s a knock on the front door. I open it and find a tallish man in his fifties with graying hair, wearing a fedora. He flips open a badge in his hand.

“I’m Detective Strauss, Minneapolis Police Department. Are you in charge of this unit?”

What an idea. Me “in charge” of something. The phrase implies so much that is so far from my experience—competence, command, confidence, responsibility, authority. But I figure he’s using the term loosely.

“Yes, I’m on duty this afternoon.”

“And your name?”

“Jon Mote.”

His eyes narrow and he studies my face.

“How many people live here, Mr. Mote?”

“There are six residents, plus whichever staff person is on duty.”

“Are these their names?”

He shows me a list of everyone living on the New Directions campus, broken down by where they live.

“Yes, they’re all here in the living room if you want to talk with them.”

He looks over my shoulder.

“No, not today. I just came to say I will be interviewing each one in the next few days. I’ll arrange with the executive director what day that will be, and she’ll let you know. In the meantime, please avoid talking about the case among yourselves. I want each one telling their own story. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

Detective Strauss looks closely at me again.

“Sergeant Wilson at headquarters recognized your name on the staff list we got a couple days ago when the young woman went missing. He told me about you and that case with the U of M professor. He says you weren’t helpful. In fact, he said you were a pain in the ass. He says I should tell you not to try playing detective again. He was quite clear about that. So that’s what I’m telling you.”

“Message received.”

It’s not pleasant to be widely considered a pain in the ass. I mean, everybody rubs somebody the wrong way, but to have it be a consensus—“This guy’s life is best summed up as ‘a pain in the ass’”—is sort of hard to take. I know Uncle Lester thought of me that way, and more than one officer in the army, and Zillah came to that conclusion, and now it’s the semi-official position of the Minneapolis Police Department: Citizen Jon Mote—Pain in the Ass.

About the only people who have held a different view are my mom and dad—God bless their departed souls—and my Not Quite Up to Speed sister Judy. And Judy would no doubt add Jesus to my list of defenders. “Jesus, lover of my soul” we used to sing. But who believes in either Jesus or souls these days?

Frankenstein (Mary Shelley’s, not Boris Karloff’s) was a fairly sweet guy until they rejected him one too many times (evil, evil society say the Romantics, past and present). Then he decided to be exactly what everyone said he was—a monster.

I don’t have the energy for that myself. Evil on a big scale is tiring, and after a while, perhaps a bit boring too. I think I’ll just settle for being a small pain in the ass, eating of my bitter heart. I like it because it is bitter. And because it is my heart.