Third Degree (2 page)

I’m going to have much bigger problems than wearing a bathing suit to a pool party, I thought, as I touched the welt growing under my eye. I struggled to my feet with a little help from Greg, who was wearing a T-shirt that said
DON’T NEED A PERMIT FOR THESE GUNS
with arrows pointing to either arm. Greg is big, but he’s not fit, and despite the pain I was in, I was feeling a little punchy. I burst out laughing, which turned to crying in mere seconds.

“Dude,” he said, taking my elbow. “Come inside. I’ve already called the police.” He took in the two men and shook his head sadly. Jesus, Greg’s homeboy, would not be pleased. The two men were still rolling around on the sidewalk, and nobody was trying to intervene now that they were out of Greg’s shop; the crowd obviously ascribed to the “don’t get involved” line of reasoning or else they just enjoyed watching a good donnybrook. I heard sirens as the police raced down Main Street and pulled to a stop in front of the store. The two men separated and I recognized one of the fighters: George Miller, the head of the Department of Public Works, who stood against the plate-glass window of Beans, Beans, panting heavily and pointing at the other man. The only reason I knew George was that I handed him a fat envelope of cash every year for his crew because, God knows, they had taken many a garbage collection from outside my house that wasn’t really on the Monday “approved” garbage list. Like a sleeper sofa. And a few paint cans that weren’t exactly clean. And more dog waste disguised as regular garbage than I could tally. I loved those guys and felt compelled to show my love once a year. I didn’t recognize the other guy and couldn’t imagine what had brought him to blows with the head of the DPW.

A group of people who had been in the coffee shop had come out onto the street and were clustered a few feet away, mumbling quietly about what had happened. A couple of other patrons were still inside the store, their noses pressed up against the other side of the glass window. Miller said nothing because he couldn’t catch his breath. He bent over at the waist and put his hands on his knees.

The other man, the one without the shoe and the tan that stopped at his ankle, rested against a parking meter. “You’ll be sorry, Miller,” he said, much too calmly for someone who had just engaged in such strenuous fisticuffs. He was in his mid-forties, with a crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses that sat askew on his face. Unlike Miller, who was a rough-hewn kind of guy with a ruddy complexion, he didn’t seem like the type who engaged in these kinds of shenanigans on any kind of regular basis. Having seen Miller around town, dealing with the townsfolk and his crew with a demeanor that could only be described as “impatient,” I was not entirely surprised to see him as one half of the brawling duo. The other guy, however, seemed like he would be more comfortable at the local country club—the one that cost a quarter of a million dollars just to
apply
to—than rolling around Main Street with the head of the DPW.

Two policemen approached the men. Greg knew both of them. “Hi, Larry. Joe,” he said, his meaty hand still gripping my elbow. “I’ll be inside. These two are up to their usual b.s., but this time, they’ve hurt someone else,” he said, pointing to me. I’m hurt? I thought. That wasn’t good news. I kind of suspected it but I didn’t like getting confirmation from an outside source.

Larry, I presumed, motioned to me. “Do we need an ambulance, Greg?”

“Oh, good God, no!” I said, more forcefully than I intended. Larry gave me a curious look. The last thing I needed was to be taken away by ambulance. I’m kind of famous around these parts, and not for anything good, so I just wanted to go home and put a package of frozen peas to my face and forget that I’d ever ventured into town that morning.

“You might want to get that looked at,” Larry said, hitching up his pants while studying my face. He turned to George Miller, who was fidgeting by the window and looking as if he were considering taking flight. “You’re not going anywhere, George, so stay put,” he said. Larry pointed at my face. “You know, you really might want to get that looked at,” he repeated.

I didn’t know what “that” was and I was afraid to find out. I put my fingers gingerly to the place next to my nose and felt a lump. However, when I pulled them away, there was no blood and I took that as a good sign.

Greg spoke up. “I’ll be inside when you want to talk to me.” He let go of my elbow and untied Trixie from the parking meter. “Under these circumstances, Trixie can come inside. It’s hot. She probably needs some water.” Joe made a grunt of protest at the dog being inside a food establishment but Greg shot him a look. “You take care of these morons, Joe, and I’ll take care of Alison.”

We made our way into the shop and the crowd of gawkers parted to let us pass. Greg asked anyone who was just rubbernecking to take it outside as he was going to close up shop to straighten what had been upended in the fight. I took in the usually tidy space: two tables were turned over, as were a few chairs. The fighters had also broken the glass that fronted the muffin case. I took Trixie’s leash from Greg and walked her around the damage and to the back of the coffee shop, where everything was just as it should be, tables and chairs completely upright with a few empty coffee cups left behind.

Greg tossed me a cold, wet rag from behind the counter. “Here. Put this on your eye.”

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“You have a welt. I saw the whole thing. If you hadn’t turned around to talk to Trixie, you would’ve lost an eye.”

Jeez. Life with an eye patch. Or a glass eye. I had never considered that. “Thanks, Greg,” I said, holding up the wet rag. It wasn’t the cleanest first aid I had ever seen and it smelled like coffee, but beggars can’t be choosers. I put it on the welt and immediately felt better. “What’s going on with those two idiots?” I asked, hooking a thumb toward the sidewalk.

Greg grabbed a broom from behind the counter and began sweeping up the glass in front of the muffin case. “Miller has a real problem with Wilmott.”

“Wilmott?”

“The guy without the shoe.”

“Oh,” I said, and pulled Trixie closer to me as Greg bent down to pick up a few shards of glass from the floor. I now knew exactly who he was talking about. Carter Wilmott was from an old village family, independently wealthy, and considered himself something of a whistle-blower when it came to the village. I had never met him so hadn’t realized it was him. But my assessment of the ankle tan was correct; the Wilmotts kept a large sailboat in the marina next to the train station and were known for being avid sailors. Carter had a lot of time on his hands, what with the independently wealthy part, so he spent his days posting on a blog dedicated to the village and its goings-on. The blog was called “Our Village Matters” and he was merciless in his criticism of local politicians, national figures (particularly Republican ones), and apparently, the DPW. I had been living on campus during the last few weeks of the spring semester, and reading the blog—a guilty pleasure—was one of the ways I kept up on what was happening in the village. Apparently, I had missed the DPW screed. But knowing Wilmott’s MO, I am sure it was yellow journalism at best. I think I even remember a sarcastic post about Greg and his novelty T-shirts; it was a wonder Greg still let him come into Beans, Beans. Then again, Greg was a peace-loving man and I could see him forgiving Wilmott his rants.

Greg finished cleaning up the glass and brought Trixie a bowl of ice-cold water, just as he had promised. She dove in as if she had been in the desert and lapped up the water, spilling most of it over the sides with her enthusiastic slurping. He pulled up a chair. “Let me see,” he said, and held out his hand.

I handed him the towel. “I should go check this out in the bathroom,” I said and got up.

Greg gave me a look that indicated that might not be such a good idea. But what was I going to do? Walk around avoiding mirrors? No time like the present. I went back to the unisex bathroom and turned on the forty-watt bare bulb that hung over the toilet and took a good look at myself in the ancient mirror.

“That’ll leave a mark,” I said to myself and the red welt on my face. I washed up and dried my face on some scratchy paper towels and returned to the coffee shop, where Greg was continuing to clean up the debris that was littered around the front counter. I offered to give him a hand but he declined.

“The place will be fine once I get it cleaned up,” he said. The bell on the door jingled and we turned to find Carter Wilmott making his way back into the shop. Greg shook his head. “You know what, Wilmott? You’re not welcome here anymore. You are banned from Beans, Beans,” he said, albeit in the kindest way one could communicate another’s persona non grata status.

Wilmott swayed a bit on his feet, and grabbed his throat. He looked at me and I could see a thick sheen of sweat on his brow. “I just wanted to say …” he started, but began coughing violently. Even Greg, who was as mad as I had ever seen him, stopped what he was doing and leaned across the counter.

“Do you need some water, Carter?” Greg asked.

Before Wilmott could answer, George Miller burst through the door of the shop, his feet falling heavily on the broken glass, making a noise not unlike my cereal makes when I pour in the milk. Miller drew a fist back, and with a forceful roundhouse punch, landed a blow to Wilmott’s head. I cried out just as the police followed Miller inside.

Wilmott went to his knees. I got up from my seat, in that weird position of feeling as if I should do something yet not knowing what that might be. I took one step toward Wilmott as Greg made his way from around the counter, moving faster than I was.

Wilmott rocked from one side to the other, and caught my eye once more. “… to say that I am sorry,” he said, and fell facefirst into the pile of dirt and glass that Greg had swept into a tidy mound. I made a tiny sound while Trixie moved behind the counter, terrified of what had just transpired.

Greg knelt beside Wilmott, Larry the cop doing the same. The other cop grabbed Miller in a chokehold, using his free hand to handcuff him. Greg moved to the side, worriedly knitting his hands together in front of the counter, while Larry the cop expertly flipped Carter’s body over and began CPR. He pounded on the man’s chest, sweat beginning to roll down his cheeks. He continued for two or three minutes and then checked Wilmott’s neck for a pulse.

He rocked back on his heels, his face a mask of sadness and incomprehension. For some reason, he looked at me and said, “He’s dead.”

“… blunt force trauma to the head.”

The group—comprised of me, Greg, a bunch of cops, and a couple of crime scene technicians—let out a collective sigh, all relieved that the question had been answered even if we had all come to the same conclusion long ago. It was almost as if the ME were a magician and we were waiting for the “reveal,” the suspense was so great. I thought it was a bit unorthodox for the county medical examiner to determine cause of death without an examination, but McVeigh struck me as an inordinately unorthodox kind of guy.

Larry the cop whispered to me, “They call him ‘Mac the knife,’ you know.”

Of course they do, I thought.

It was close to two o’clock, the time that Crawford and I were to leave for the family gathering. I checked the clock on the wall behind the counter nervously, knowing that I had just gotten involved in something that wasn’t going to end any time soon. Instead of having a problem like what bathing suit to wear, I now had the problem of appearing to stand up the entire Crawford clan, swimmers all. I also had the problem of being one of two witnesses who had seen a man clock a guy in the head, presumably causing his death. George Miller was long gone, having been put in handcuffs and transported off to the police station. There was no doubt in my mind as to what had happened, nor for any of the other witnesses, including Greg and the officers who had responded. He was protesting his innocence vehemently, but we had all seen and heard the ruckus and knew the outcome. Carter Wilmott was dead after having been punched in the head by George Miller. Case closed.

The ME sat down at the table across from me and pulled out a notepad. “Once more,” he said, adding, “with feeling.”

In spite of myself and the situation, I laughed. Ever since he had arrived, the mood had lightened considerably, despite the fact that we were all still in the presence of a dead body. He kindly positioned himself so that I couldn’t see Carter’s body or the assistant ME and his associates roll the body into a black zippered bag, which they placed on top of the gurney. I knew what they were doing, but Mac’s bald pate obstructed my view.

“What would you like to know?” I asked.

“Just the facts, ma’am.” He laughed. “I’ve been dying to say that.”

I went over everything that I had seen. Again. I’ve learned that that’s the way these things go.

“So you saw Mr. Miller punch Mr. Wilmott, our deceased, in the head?”

I nodded.

Mac regarded me, his kindly hound-dog face telegraphing his discomfort with my having witnessed what was probably a murder. “Not exactly how you thought your day would turn out, huh?” He leaned over to pet Trixie. “Nice dog. I used to have a beagle. Horrible animal, but great pet. Ate everything in sight but would go to the mat for me and my wife.”

“What was her name?”

“My wife or the dog?”

“Both,” I said, laughing again.

“Wife is Marie but I call her ‘Reezie.’ Dog was Daisy.” He pulled a card from his lab coat pocket. “Here’s my card. If you need anything, or want to add anything else, please feel free to call me.” He turned around, and confident that the gurney was gone, stood. “You’ll probably have to go to the police station. You know that, right?”

“I figured as much.”

“You have someone to pick you up afterward?”

I didn’t know if he was just concerned or offering his services. “I’ll probably call a friend.”

He nodded solemnly. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight. This was a terrible thing that you saw.”

I blinked back tears. It was. So how come everyone was walking around the coffee shop as if it were a regular morning and business as usual? One cop was even eating a muffin that had survived the wreckage and another had whipped a latte for himself. Why was the medical examiner—the person with the most experience dealing with death and dead bodies and who should have been the most inured to the whole thing—the most sensitive one in the bunch?

Before I had a chance to dissolve into a tear-filled puddle, the door to Beans, Beans opened and an attractive woman in a crisp white blouse and expensive tailored jeans walked in, her eyes covered by giant black sunglasses, the kind Max refers to as “Jackie O’s.” She stepped in and spoke to one of the uniformed officer’s, careful not to step on any of the broken glass that littered the coffee shop floor. From the murmurings of the officers around me, I gathered that she was Lydia Wilmott, Carter’s wife, and that she had come to see his body before it was carted off to the ME’s office.

Greg gave me a meaningful look. “You know who that is, right?” he whispered from his perch on the counter, hooking a thumb in Lydia’s direction.

“I can venture a guess,” I whispered back.

Lydia stood over the gurney where Carter’s body lay, and bent over slightly, giving all of us a nice shot of milky white breast encapsulated in white lace. I looked away discreetly, as did Mac, the only gentleman in the room, it seemed. He unzipped the body bag a few inches and pulled it aside. Though an unorthodox viewing and identification at best, I guessed that everyone figured that now was as good a time as any.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s him.”

It seemed curious to me that she was alone but it appeared that was the case; I didn’t see anyone else around who was a civilian. She asked one of the detectives in the shop if she could have Carter’s personal effects. A whispered exchange took place, but by the looks of it the detective was not supposed to give her Carter’s possessions. He finally relented and gave her his car keys. I heard him say that there was no use in the police taking the car but they would need everything else for the time being.

Greg slid off the countertop and pulled out a chair beside me to get a better look at the action. He leaned in close, his “guns” resting on the table. “She gives them about twenty grand a year for their annual fund drive, so I’m not surprised that they’ll do exactly what she says.”

“Why do they need to take all of his stuff, though?” I whispered back.

“Don’t you watch
CSI
?” Greg asked rhetorically.

I don’t. I watch cooking shows and the shows where they kidnap people and make them throw out their wardrobes. Oh, and CNN. That’s it. And
Brady Bunch
repeats. But no
CSI
.
CSI
is definitely out. If I want to see a close-up of someone’s esophagus with something foreign stuck in it—also known as “cause of death”—I’ll just look in my dog’s mouth.

Lydia spent a few more minutes talking with the rest of the police officers and crime scene officials, remarkably composed for someone whose husband was wrapped up like a mummy in a plastic bag on the floor. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and started down the street, presumably to find Carter’s car. I wasn’t sure how she was going to get it home given that she had arrived alone, but it seemed important to her that she drive it home herself and nobody involved was giving her any grief about that.

Mac and his staff finished up. He started for the door, but before leaving for good, he turned back around and gave me a little wave. He and the rest of the ME staff boarded a windowless white van and headed back to the office, Carter’s bagged-up body in tow. I stood and tried to find the detective in charge to learn what my next steps in this process would be. I found Larry, one of the original cops on the scene, and touched his arm to get his attention. But before I could get the words out of my mouth, I was interrupted by a loud explosion somewhere outside of the restaurant. The remaining windows shook with the force, but didn’t break. Larry grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground, where I lay, facedown, for a few seconds, waiting for a second explosion that never came.

Greg let out his fortieth or so “Dudes!” of the day. Seemed that that was his go-to expletive in tense situations.

Once it seemed clear that the blast was a one-time event, Larry rushed outside to join his colleagues who had congregated on the street. Curiosity got the best of me and I followed them. Something had indeed exploded and it was Carter’s car, which by the looks of its flaming remains had been a very expensive Mercedes-Benz.

Most of the inferno generated from under the hood. The blast had dislodged a parking meter from its home on the sidewalk and the front paned-glass window of the local gift shop was broken. Passersby seemed dazed but unhurt, surprisingly, with the exception of one lady who had a gash over her right eye that was bleeding profusely. One uniformed officer radioed for an ambulance as well as the fire department to respond. Traffic was snarled on the usually busy main thoroughfare and another officer went to dislodge the bottleneck.

My eyes were fixed on Lydia Wilmott, a good twenty feet from the car, a few feet from me, Carter’s key fob jingling in her shaking hands, her arm still extended, her finger still on the unlock button.

She turned and looked at me, the closest person to her. “That was a close call,” she said.

And with that, she fainted.