Comfort Me

by Debbie Viguié

  She realized that wasn’t the most generous of thoughts. Then again, he had rubbed her the wrong way from the start. She sighed. It was going to be a long few weeks.

  ~

  The hospital finally loomed in sight. Mark was already undoing his seatbelt when Jeremiah slid into a parking spot close to the emergency room. Mark was out of the car and running inside in the blink of an eye.

  He ran up to the admittance nurse. “Liam O’Neill, how is he?” he gasped out.

  Before the nurse could answer a small voice behind him said, “We don’t know yet.”

  He spun around and saw Rebecca standing there, eyes red and puffy from crying. He took a step toward her. “What happened?”

  At that moment Jeremiah arrived. Mark looked at him. “Jeremiah, this is Rebecca. Rebecca, Jeremiah.”

  Jeremiah nodded and Mark turned back to Rebecca.

  “Liam called me at the shop to tell me that he was running a couple of minutes late but that he was bringing me a surprise. I waited and then I finally called him back and it just rang. I started to get a bad feeling and I walked outside toward where he usually parks. I found him, on the ground.”

  Her breath caught a bit in her throat. She balled her hands into fists and continued. “He had been beaten badly. He was unconscious. I called 911 and they let me ride over in the ambulance with him.”

  She was holding herself very rigidly. He suspected it was to keep herself from collapsing. Rebecca was tough. She’d served time in the military, doing two tours in Afghanistan. She also had her share of scars from that, mostly on the inside from what he could tell.

  “Was there anything at the scene that would indicate who did this?” Mark asked.

  She shook her head. “Not that I could see.”

  “We need to get a team over there to check it out,” he said, feeling edgy. “It’s a crime scene. There might be something that could tell us what happened.”

  “There was blood, although it might have all been Liam’s,” Rebecca said, turning paler.

  Liam was a big guy, a strong guy. It was hard to imagine he’d gone down without a fight. He needed to call in and get a forensics team over there before the scene was completely compromised. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at it, his mind whirring. He tried to tell himself to make the call, but it was like his fingers wouldn’t obey him. And over and over in his mind he kept thinking I’m going to lose another partner.

  “Stop it!” he rebuked himself out loud, startling all of them. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Suddenly a door opened and a doctor came striding through, face grim. Mark blanched. Liam hadn’t been here very long. The news couldn’t be good.

  “You’re here with Liam, the man who was beaten?” he asked.

  They all nodded and the doctor ushered them over to a corner away from everyone else. Also not a good sign. Mark felt his chest tighten as he waited the next words with dread.

  “I’ll get right to it. He has internal bleeding. We’re prepping him for surgery right now so we can go in and get it stopped. Beyond that we’re looking at several broken ribs, his left arm is fractured, and he has a concussion in addition to all the cuts and bruises.”

  “Was there any blood or bruising on his knuckles?” Mark asked.

  The doctor shook his head. “It looks like he didn’t get in a single blow against whoever attacked him.”

  Mark blinked, trying to take that in. “So, someone took him by surprise.”

  The doctor shrugged. “That would be my best guess.”

  “When will you know if he’s going to be alright?” Jeremiah interjected.

  The doctor shook his head. “We should know more after the surgery.”

  “Thank you,” Jeremiah said.

  The doctor nodded then turned and left. The three of them stood there, staring at each other. Mark’s phone rang and he looked down at it. It was the precinct calling.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “Detective, what is your ETA at the crime scene?” a woman asked in clipped tones.

  “Where Liam was attacked?” he asked, head still fuzzy.

  There was a pause. “No, at the homicide, 32 Foster St. near Lexington. Officers on scene have been expecting you.”

  Mark blinked. That’s where he and Liam were supposed to be. “Sorry, I...we have a situation. Liam was attacked, assailant unknown. He is in emergency and going into surgery,” he said. “I just got to the hospital.”

  There was another pause on the other line. “Hold for a moment, please,” she said, voice softer.

  Mark held on, staring at the door where the doctor had disappeared as if somehow he would come running back through saying it was all a mistake and Liam was just fine, no surgery required.

  “Detective?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry. We have no one else.”

  “Okay,” Mark said, running his hand through his hair. “I’ll head over there. We need a forensics team to the site of the attack on Liam, though.”

  “Where was that?” she asked.

  “One second.”

  He handed the phone to Rebecca who told the dispatcher exactly how far from her shop she had found Liam. When she was finished she handed the phone back to Mark.

  “I’m sorry, Detective,” the woman told him before hanging up.

  Mark pocketed his phone and looked at Jeremiah and Rebecca. “I have to go,” he said, the words heavy on his tongue.

  “That’s okay. I’m sure he’s going to be in there a while,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ll make sure and stop by the scene after I take care of this other, to see that the techs are doing what they can.”

  Rebecca nodded then suddenly winced.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I just realized that I left my shop unlocked. I never went back after I found him. I used his phone to call 911. I wasn’t opening for another hour so the closed sign is in the window, but I still don’t like leaving it unlocked.”

  “I’ll swing by and lock up for you,” Mark said.

  “Thank you. The keys are in my purse which is behind the counter,” she said, face twisted up.

  He nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Meantime, call me if you hear...ugh.”

  “What?” Jeremiah asked.

  “I don’t have a cellphone,” Rebecca said. “And after I called the ambulance I put Liam’s back in his jacket pocket. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sure there’s a payphone or the nurse will let me call.”

  “Hold that thought,” Jeremiah said.

  He turned and quickly left, heading toward the parking lot.

  “Where’s he going?” Rebecca asked.

  “Danged if I know,” Mark said. “I hope he’s not leaving. He’s my ride.”

  Jeremiah reappeared less than a minute later. He walked up and put a phone in Rebecca’s hand.

  “It’s prepaid. I put Mark’s number in there and mine,” he said. “Call the moment you hear anything.”

  “Thanks, I will,” she promised, closing her hand tight around the phone.

  “Do you need anything?” Mark asked, still feeling lost.

  “No, just go and take care of what you need to. And thanks for locking up the shop.”

  He nodded and then headed for the parking lot, Jeremiah beside him. As soon as they were inside the rabbi’s car Mark turned to him. “Did you just give her a burner phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many of those do you have?”

  “A few, where I can get to them,” Jeremiah said.

  “How long has that been going on?” Mark asked.

  Jeremiah gave him a look, the kind of look that said stop-asking-questions. The rabbi sighed, though, and put the car in reverse. “I’ve always had one. Since July I’ve had...more.”

  “Good to know,” Mark said, at a loss for what else to answer.

  “Where are we going?”
/>
  “I’ve got to get my car so I can get to work.”

  “No, your car is in the shop. Traci’s car is in the synagogue parking lot where it’s staying until you’re ready to go home. What’s the address of the crime scene?”

  “It won’t look good, me getting a civilian to drive me to a crime scene,” Mark groused.

  “Would you rather show up in the Ponymobile?”

  “You’re right. Take me to 32 Foster Street near Lexington.”

  “I’ll drop you off and then I’ll head to Rebecca’s shop and take care of things there.”

  Mark started to bristle. It was his partner’s girlfriend, his responsibility. Then he rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He was tired. It was logical. That way they didn’t leave Rebecca’s shop vulnerable longer than necessary. Plus the rabbi could make sure that the crime scene guys arrived in a timely fashion.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “That’s what family is for,” Jeremiah said, his voice kinder than Mark had ever heard it.

  He held back a sob. It had only been a few months since he told Jeremiah he was like a brother to him. He had never really expected to hear the other man parrot it back to him. Given how tired and upset he was it was a welcome reminder that no matter what he wasn’t alone. He had Traci. He had Jeremiah and Cindy.

  “How is Cindy doing?” he asked.

  Jeremiah grunted. “I hate her working temp jobs.”

  “Okay. Does she hate her working temp jobs?”

  “Yeah, but she’s trying to put on a brave face.”

  “That was a helluva thing she did quitting her job that way because the pastor was opposed to your relationship.”

  “Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

  “Why, I might have to investigate the pastor’s murder otherwise?” Mark joked.

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth he was horrified. That wasn’t funny. He glanced quickly at Jeremiah who was staring fixedly at the road ahead. The rabbi’s hands were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that Mark couldn’t help but think he was symbolically trying to crush the life out of it.

  “I can’t just kill everyone who pisses me off,” Jeremiah said.

  A shiver ran up Mark’s spine. It didn’t sound like a matter-of-fact statement so much as a mantra the other man was repeating to convince himself of that.

  “No, you can’t.” He winced again. That had come out more forcefully than it should have. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Jeremiah said.

  For that Mark was immensely grateful. He would never want to be on the receiving end of fault when it came to Jeremiah.

  “Do you know where Rebecca’s tea shop is? Tea Thyme?” he asked, hurriedly changing the subject.

  “Yes. It’s not that far from where I’m dropping you off.”

  “Okay, good,” Mark said, turning to stare out the window.

  Silence fell and that was worse because he was left alone with his own thoughts which were all dark and turbulent.

  “You’re not going to lose him,” Jeremiah spoke up suddenly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Liam. He’s strong. He comes from a tough family. He’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so. How do you know that about his family?” Mark asked.

  “The stories he chooses not to tell just as much as the ones he does tell,” Jeremiah said.

  He pulled over to the curb. “We’re here,” he said.

  Mark turned forward and saw the yellow police tape three houses up and the uniformed officers walking around. He sighed. Death. It was inescapable. “Here we go again.”

  He got out of the car and Jeremiah drove off. Mark took a moment, trying to compose himself. There was no telling who he was going to encounter on scene and he had to be professional and stay alert to whatever he uncovered.

  He took a step forward just as a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air.

  4

  Mark raced forward just in time to see officer Taylor holding back a young woman at the front door. She was fighting him, clearly trying to get inside.

  “Miss! Please calm down!” Taylor was begging. “You don’t want to go in there.”

  “My parents are in there!” she wailed. “What’s happening?”

  “There’s been an...accident,” he said hesitantly.

  She stopped struggling. “What kind of accident?”

  Taylor let go of her. Before Mark could shout a warning she’d leaped past the startled man. They both ran in after her. She stopped short just inside the kitchen and screamed again.

  A man and a woman’s bodies were on the ground, their heads smashed in. Next to them, sitting, cradling a blood covered baseball bat and rocking back and forth was a teenage boy with pale skin and a shock of dark hair. He was moaning to himself.

  “What did you do?” the young woman asked, clearly addressing the boy. “What did you do?” she shouted when he didn’t answer her.

  He didn’t look up, just kept cradling the bat and rocking.

  “He’s been like that since we got here,” Taylor said softly.

  Mark put a hand on her shoulder. “Miss, I need you to come in the other room with me.”

  She went. The shock was beginning to set in and she was easy to lead to the living room where she collapsed onto a chair as though her legs couldn’t hold her up any more.

  Mark crouched down next to her. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Ruth,” she said numbly.

  “Okay, Ruth. I’m Detective Walters. Were those your parents in there?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. Is the boy your brother?”

  She nodded again.

  “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Casey, you know, like the poem, Casey at the Bat.” A shudder passed over her and tears began to slide down her cheeks. She sobbed and dropped her head down. “Is he going to be okay?” she asked.

  Mark licked his lips. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to the officers already on scene before him but things looked bad. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with him?” he asked gently.

  “Casey...Casey is...he’s developmentally delayed. He’s also autistic.”

  “Okay, do you know the name of any of his doctors?” Mark asked. The sooner they got a medical professional out there to help, ideally one that Casey already knew and vice versa, the better it was going to be for everyone.

  “Yes.”

  She lapsed into sobs and Mark put his hand on her shoulder, letting her cry for about half a minute before he tried again.

  “Ruth, can you please give me the name of his doctor?”

  Taylor came into the room, looking even more upset than Ruth did. The man was pale and shaking slightly. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Mark wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but he already had his hands full with Ruth.

  “Dr. Milner,” she finally got out.

  Mark nodded to Taylor. “Get him down here,” he said quietly.

  The other officer pulled out his phone and left the room. Mark got up, found a bathroom, and grabbed a handful of tissues. He returned and handed them to Ruth who took them gratefully.

  “Ruth, I know this is hard, but I need to ask you some more questions,” Mark said.

  She blew her nose on one of the tissues and then nodded.

  “When you came in the kitchen, you asked Casey what he’d done. What did you mean by that?”

  “I-I,” she stammered, turning bright red. “I don’t know.”

  She clearly didn’t want to tell him that her initial thought was that her brother had killed their parents.

  “Has Casey ever been...violent?”

  “Sometimes, I guess. He can throw tantrums, particularly when things aren’t going his way.”

  “How do things not go his way?”

  “It’s mostly stuff related to...I mean, he gets upset when his sched
ule gets thrown off. He needs things to be predictable.”

  “And when they’re not, does he get upset?”

  She nodded.

  He changed tactics. “Is that Casey’s bat?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Casey doesn’t have a baseball bat. There’s only one baseball bat in the house and it belongs to our parents.”

  “So, that’s their bat?” he prodded.

  “I don’t see how it could be. They keep it in a display case in the dining room.”

  “Can you show me?”

  She hesitated. “It’s on the other side of the kitchen.”

  “That’s okay. You just sit here and I’m going to go check on it. I’ll be right back.”

  Mark walked back to the kitchen. He gave Casey a wide berth and headed into the dining room. Once there he stopped and looked around. There was a lot of baseball themed artwork on the walls. The parents must have been real enthusiasts. A china cabinet held some figures and a couple of balls on display instead of the usual dishes.

  He froze as his eyes passed over it to a hutch on the far side of the room. There was what looked like a stand that could hold a baseball bat in the horizontal position. It was sitting amidst the shattered remains of a glass case. He stepped forward carefully. Ruth had been right about the display case, but wrong about the bat still being in it.

  Above the case on the wall was a picture and a letter with a seal of authenticity. He perused it and then whistled low.

  “Did you say something, Detective?” one of the officers asked, peering into the room.

  “Come take a look at this,” he said.

  The other man walked over and Mark indicated the letter. “I think the murder weapon may be even more significant than we thought.”

  “How so?”

  “There was a baseball bat in this case before someone smashed it. According to this letter, it was incredibly valuable. It was signed by Babe Ruth.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Wow. Make sure they dust all this for prints. I want to be sure we know who smashed the case,” Mark said.

  He made his way back into the living room and sat down across from Ruth.