Fall from Grace (14 page)

The knee left and I was able to take deeper breaths again, although each one was punctuated with a sharp pain. I made no move to crawl away, because I knew it was over. He had to get his final shots in. A few seconds later, a boot connected with my right thigh and then another shot between the legs. Pain detonated in my groin, and surged and shuddered through my body like the eruption of a volcano against a peaceful and unsuspecting countryside. I retched several times before my stomach emptied itself of its contents. I faded in and out of the dark and light.

17

There was tapping, like a bird on a window. And there was a voice, distant, as if someone was talking to himself in the apartment next door. I first thought I was back at my place, sleeping in my bed. It was spring, the birds picking at the anthill that encircled the house and the students upstairs worried about upcoming exams. But then the sounds rose in volume until the tapping became a slap of a hand on glass and the voice was a polite demand.

“Are you okay, sir? Are you okay?”

The vision of my tiny yet warm place disappeared and as I woke, the memories of the attack flew back, along with reminders of pain in all the parts of my body. My head spun and my stomach protested, retching, but with nothing there, it became just a series of painful spasms. It lasted either a week or only a few seconds, and in that time, I realized that I was no longer on hard cold concrete but on something softer.

Like a drunk coming off a bender, I opened and closed my eyes several times, shaking my head to clear the haze that had settled over me. The tactic worked a little bit, and in the clouded clarity of the moment, I realized that somehow, after the light and dark after the attack, I had managed to get into my car. Or maybe some kind Samaritan had helped me up off the ground and deposited me in it.

I liked the idea of that; the concept of a kind passerby, maybe a witness to the attack, coming to my aid and giving refuge out of the cold air. But then I quickly dismissed the vision. I wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods, and though the people who lived here were no more good or evil than those who lived in other places, there was more of a sense of desperation here. No one would probably do me more harm but if anybody did anything to help, they would make a call instead of actually coming over.

I had somehow managed to climb into my car on my own, my body instinctively knowing that an unconscious person in a car garners more respect that an unconscious person lying on the sidewalk.

It took barely a second for me to go through all those thoughts in my head, and a second later, I turned to see who was calling me. The act of just turning my head made the world spin again but I shut my eyes for a second, held the stomach under control, and then took another look. It was a cop, a young cop by the looks of it because his uniform didn’t seem to fit right. And now that I was moving, albeit slowly, the sense of urgency had faded from his voice.

“Sir? Are you okay, sir? Do you need any assistance? Would you like me to call you an ambulance?”

I must have looked pretty bad if an ambulance was being offered, but that was the last thing I wanted. Calling an ambulance would force me to make a trip to a hospital to get my injuries assessed, and I didn’t want to delay getting back to the office.

With Jackie’s comments, I had all that I needed to write the story about Grace, her life and what people thought about her, and I wanted to get that into the paper as soon as possible.

I also wanted to check into the information about a yellow pickup and about more prostitutes being murdered. I probably had nothing but I needed to keep the positive momentum of my career going.

I shook my head, believing that I wasn’t as bad off as I really was. “I’m okay, I’m okay. I don’t need an ambulance.” That’s what I meant to say but it probably came out muddled and slurred because he offered the ambulance again. “Are you sure? To be honest, sir, I don’t think you are thinking clearly. I should call you an ambulance.”

I did not want an ambulance, and to make my point clearly, I decided to step out of the car and tell the nice constable in person. That would show him. I sat up and pulled on the handle to open the back door, but even those simple tasks brought waves of pain, nausea, and more flashes of light into black and back again. I fell against the open door and would have cracked my head on the cement if not for the quickness of the young constable. He dropped to one knee and, as if I was a little baby falling out of the crib, caught my head in one hand and the back of my neck in the other. He then slowly lowered me to the ground, supporting my head and neck all the way. After he set me down and ensured I was still alive and okay to be released for a second, he made the call.

*   *   *

A doctor shone several lights in my eyes, bright painful stabs of pain followed, and then he wrote a few comments on a chart. “Can you hear me”—he looked at the chart—“Mr. Desroches?” He pronounced the name incorrectly, saying the
s
and using three syllables instead of two.

I nodded, but that wasn’t enough.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Desroches, but I need an audible response. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you,” I said, not being able to resist being a smart-ass. “Can you hear me?”

The doctor smiled. “That’s good, Mr. Desroches. A sense of humor is a good thing, considering what you’ve been through. I understand the police will be wanting to talk to you, but I just wanted to make sure you are aware of your situation before you undertake any strenuous activity. Do you understand?”

I nodded, but then a second later, I remembered I was supposed to speak. “I understand, but I have to get back to work.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Desroches. When I said
strenuous activity
I was talking about things like talking, working, stuff like that. What is it that you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

It took me a second to remember, and in that second I also realized that there was more to this question than just the question itself. “You’re testing me, aren’t you? Testing my memory.”

“Very good, Mr. Desroches. Your cognitive abilities are pretty good, unless you were a leading expert in quantum physics or one of the great thinkers of our time, in which case I’d say your cognitive abilities have diminished. But I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“You’re a funny and strange man, Doctor…” I left the sentence hanging in a question so he would tell me his name.

“Reese. Dr. Reese. And I’m sorry if my humor offends in some way but I find it helps in these sorts of interviews.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dr. Reese. I could use a little levity at the moment.”

“That would be an understatement, I believe,” he said, his voice turning serious. “But please, could you answer the question?”

“What question?” I said, but when Reese moved to write something on the chart, I jumped in. “Sorry, I was only kidding. I remember the question. You wanted to know what I did for a living.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” he said, and wrote something on the chart anyway.

“I’m a journalist. And I’d like to get back at it as soon as possible.”

He nodded and chuckled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Desroches, but that probably falls into a category of strenuous activity.”

“But I am talking to you, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. But as you are probably starting to notice, your breathing is getting a bit labored and you’re having a little trouble staying in focus.” He was right. Just talking to him was wearing me out and I wanted to sleep. “But that’s to be expected from someone who has suffered the injuries you have suffered. Based on the X-rays and the CT scans, I’m glad to see that your injuries, no doubt difficult for yourself to deal with at the moment, are relatively minor and will heal quite quickly, if, that is, you don’t overtax yourself.”

I heard and understood most of what he said but I had no idea what he was talking about when he said the words
X-rays
and
CT scans.
When had those occurred? And what about the ambulance ride? When had that happened?

Dr. Reese was still talking, saying something about a concussion, lacerations, and bruising, but then he reminded me that if I took things easy, I would be relatively okay. “But no more bumps on the head, okay, Mr. Desroches?”

I managed a nod, or at least I thought I managed a nod. The lights came back, first in one eye then the other. From a well I heard the good doctor’s voice calling me. “Mr. Desroches? Mr. Desroches? Are you still there?”

I shut my eyes, shook my head, and I climbed out of the well. At least for a few more seconds. “The name is Desroches, Dr. Reese. De-Rossch. The
s
’s at the front and end are silent and it’s only two syllables.”

Reese nodded and wrote something down on his chart. “Good. Very good, Mr. Desroches,” he said, pronouncing the name as if it was his own. “That’s a good start but don’t push it. I’m going to let the good constable speak to you but not for long, okay?”

I nodded. Or at least I thought I did. Whatever, the cop came over and spoke with me.

*   *   *

“So you never saw your attacker?” the constable asked again, writing in his notebook.

I shook my head. “He came at me from behind. I never saw him.” In my head, I added, When he attacked me, because I was quite sure who had attacked me.

“And you say you have no idea why this attack occurred.”

“I’m guessing I was mugged. That’s what I thought was happening.”

“But you still have your wallet? And your car keys? And if I might add, your car,” the constable said without sarcasm. “I’m sorry to say that in most muggings, something is stolen, and in this case, nothing was.”

I shook my head. “I had some cash in one of my jacket pockets. And an iPod,” I added, lying. “I think he took that.”

The constable nodded, again writing in his notebook. “There was no cash on your person, save for a few dollars in your wallet.”

“There you go, then. I guess he did take something.”

“So do you recall that he did take the cash out of your pocket?”

I shut my eyes and waited for a wave of nausea to pass. These episodes were starting to be annoying but at least they were getting shorter in duration and less intense. “I’m sorry, I don’t really recall anything like that. After he bashed my head into the side of my car, it all is a bit fuzzy.”

“I’m sorry to be bothering you, Mr. Desroches,” he said in all sincerity, pronouncing my name clearly, “but we’ve found that if we take too long in questioning victims of crimes, especially violent ones like the one that occurred to you, we lose many of the details.”

“I know. You’re only doing your job. And I would like to help.” But only to a point, I added in my head. “It’s just that I’m finding it difficult to concentrate. I really didn’t see my attacker.”

“That’s okay. Now if you don’t mind, this won’t be much longer, but could you please tell me again why were you in that neighborhood at the time? To be honest, it’s not a good place for someone of your, how should I put it, demographic, to be.”

Tell you again? I thought. I’ve told you this story before? I must have been hit really hard because I had no memory of any previous conversation with this guy save for the time when he was tapping on my window. But I didn’t want him or anyone else to know that, because then I’d be forced to spend more time in this place and I wanted to get back to the office and write my story as quickly as possible. “I was on a story. I was interviewing someone for a story.”

“Yes. A prostitute named Jackie,” he said, looking over his notes. “Unusual subject for a news story, don’t you think?” Translated, that meant, Are you sure you weren’t there for her other services?

I shook my head. “Not really. I’m writing a story on the death of another prostitute and Jackie was her friend. I was getting what we call background information about the other girl’s life. Trying to fill the holes in a person’s life and story. You probably understand?”

Whether he did or not, he nodded just the same. “And you don’t recall an address for this Jackie individual?”

“I do, Constable, but I’m sorry if I won’t share it with you. She was a source for a story, a difficult source if you understand my meaning, and I would rather that she not be set upon by a number of constables like yourself. Nothing personal, but that would make things even more difficult if I had to approach her again. As a source.”

“I understand that, but as you probably know, the person who assaulted you was probably someone she knows. Probably her pimp who
(a)
was upset that you used up much of his employee’s time without compensating her or
(b)
set upon you because she made the suggestion to him that you might be a good mark.”

I liked the fact that he was assuming it was her pimp that attacked me. It took the blame away from me and from the fact that I was a john or that I had impersonated a police officer. And it explained my reluctance in revealing Jackie’s address. I went along with it. “If that was her pimp, then I’m guessing that the answer is
(c),
all of the above.”

The look of disappointment on the constable’s face was obvious. To him, here was a victim of a beating, a beating that landed said victim in the hospital, and even though the victim was quite aware of who may have been behind said beating, he was unwilling to cooperate with the proper authorities in order to bring to justice those who were responsible for his injuries. “In all honesty, Mr. Desroches, it would make things much easier and simpler if you just cooperated fully with the Edmonton Police Service. You are the victim of a crime and it behooves you to help us to find those responsible.”