by Maris Soule
If only. Life was full of those moments.
Emotionally drained, I thought back on the years Brenda and I worked at Quick Sums. She wasn’t the best accountant they’d hired, but she was steadfast and reliable. As far as I could recall, Brenda never missed a day of work. The same couldn’t have been said about me. I was always having to take time off when my mother had one of her spells. More than once Brenda covered for me, finished projects so I didn’t miss deadlines. She even sat with me in the hospital waiting room the night we thought Grandma had had a heart attack. It was Brenda’s optimism that kept me from falling apart. “That lady’s too damn stubborn to have a heart attack,” Brenda had insisted, and she’d been right. “Muscle spasms,” the doctor had said. “She needs to slow down, relax a little, and stop smoking.”
Grandma hasn’t stopped smoking, but Brenda helped Grandma find a way to slow down and relax. It was Brenda’s suggestion that led Grandma to the schizophrenia caregivers’ support group. Grandma calls that group a lifesaver.
“Please, don’t let it be you, Brenda,” I said and closed the newspaper’s online article about the hit-and-run. When Wade returned, I would ask him to find out the identity of the woman who was killed. The Kalamazoo Sheriff’s Department and Kalamazoo Public Safety were separate entities, but they did have a good working relationship and often shared information. If the victim was Brenda, what I’d heard in the bathroom might be important.
That decision made, I decided I’d better get back to work. Since leaving my job at Quick Sums, the P.J. Benson L.L.C. was doing fairly well; however, that would change if I didn’t keep my clients happy.
I’d barely started inserting figures in my computerized tax program when Jason and Baraka came back downstairs. “She gone?” Jason asked.
“She’s gone.” I glanced at the clock and realized it was nearly noon. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
I turned on the television before going into the kitchen to heat some chicken noodle soup and fix sliced turkey sandwiches for both of us. I hoped the noon news might give the name of the hit-and-run victim, but if the police knew the woman’s name, they weren’t releasing it. After lunch, I let Baraka out and told Jason, “I’ll give you a quarter if you’ll pick up the twigs and branches that blew into the yard yesterday.”
Jason looked out the door and then back at me. “Dad always gives me a dollar to clean the lawn.”
“Okay, a dollar.” I knew I was being manipulated; however, I needed time to work. “But that yard better be clean.”
“Sure sure.” He grinned and grabbed his jacket and gloves.
As I finished Lucy Applegate’s tax return, I occasionally checked on Jason and my dog. Watching the two made me laugh. Every time Jason added a branch to his pile, Baraka would grab it and run. Then Jason would run after Baraka, and the game was on.
I’d just clicked “Print” for the copy I would show Lucy when my cell phone chimed. I hoped it was Wade calling so I could ask him to see if they’d identified the hit-and-run victim, but the number showed it was Ken.
“You need to turn yourself in,” I said before he spoke a word.
“And I love you, too.”
“They’re looking for you. The longer you wait, the—” I stopped myself. I was starting to sound like Wade. “What happened yesterday?”
“I screwed up, that’s what happened.” Ken half laughed. “Jerry showed up a couple weeks ago, said he’d found a job but was low on cash and needed a place to stay until he had enough money to rent something. He swore he was off drugs, that what happened to us last summer had made him turn his life around. He and I have been buds for years. I wanted to believe him, so I told him he could stay at the trailer until he found something better. Yesterday morning, just as I was getting ready to leave for a meeting in Zenith, he called me. He was rambling, said we’d be rich, that I needed to come to the trailer and see what he had.”
“What did he find?”
“He wouldn’t say over the phone. He was singing some song and slurring words. I figured he was either drunk or back on drugs. Last summer, when he was playing in the bars, he sometimes stayed up all night drinking.”
I could hear Ken’s sigh through the phone. “When I got to the trailer, I could tell Jerry wasn’t simply drunk. He was pacing the floor, rambling. He kept telling me how hot it was, but he had all the windows open and it wasn’t hot in the trailer, just the opposite. I saw some pills on the counter and asked him what he’d taken and how many. He just rambled on.
“I should have called 9-1-1 right then, but you know how gossip spreads in Zenith. I was afraid if word got out that I had a druggy living in my trailer, I’d lose my job with the village, that no one would hire me to work on their computers. I thought I could get him to the hospital, and no one would know.”
He paused, but I could hear him breathing. Shaky breaths. “Ken?” I said, not sure what to say or ask.
Finally, he continued, his words slow and measured. “I told Jerry we needed to leave, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. Said he wanted to show me what he’d found. He wouldn’t budge when I tried to get him to the door. And then he started stripping off his clothes, ranting about how hot it was. I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t. And then, he collapsed. Fell on the floor half-naked. I thought he was dead.”
“So that’s when you used the NARCAN spray? Wade said there was an empty container by the body.”
“Yes. And within a few seconds Jer seemed to be back to his normal self. I was thanking my lucky stars that I’d had that one dose of naloxone and that we’d had a demonstration at one of the village meetings on how to use it. We were each given one four-ounce spray bottle, and told, if we were smart, we should have several on hand. Well, I wasn’t smart. That was all I had, and, when Jerry started convulsing again—”
I finished for him. “You finally called 9-1-1.”
“Yes, and they were there in seconds.”
The trailer park was close to the fire station, so that made sense. “But you weren’t there. You didn’t stay with him.” That was what I couldn’t understand. “If he was your friend, why didn’t you stay with him?”
“I panicked,” Ken confessed. “I lucked out last summer when Jer and I were arrested. I was given probation and had to attend some classes on drug addiction, but that was it. If I was connected with this . . . If the Village Council found out I was . . . That he . . .” Ken’s voice sounded shaky, and I realized he was crying. “I should have stayed, P.J. He was my friend. I should have stayed with him.”
Before I could think of how to respond, he went on.
“But what could I have done if I’d stayed? I had hoped the paramedics would be able to revive him, but I didn’t want to be there if they couldn’t.”
“You need to turn yourself in, Ken. You’re wanted as a person of interest.”
“I know. I know.” He sniffed and hiccupped.
“Where are you now?”
“Down the road from your place. I thought if Wade was home, I’d turn myself into him.”
“I’m not sure where he is,” I said. “What you need to do is go to the Kalamazoo County Sheriff’s Office.” I didn’t want him coming to the house. “Do you know where it is?”
“Uh huh,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have let him stay in the trailer. When he took off last summer, I swore I would not get involved with him again. Since we were kids, he’s gotten me into trouble. He plays the ‘Poor me’ card and I fall for it. I shouldn’t have let him stay in the trailer.”
He was right, but I didn’t say so. “Why do you even have a trailer in that park? I thought you lived in Kalamazoo?”
“I do. I have an apartment just a short way from my shop. I bought the trailer as a fixer-upper to resell. I stay in it the nights I have to attend Village meetings or work late at the Village office.”
His answer sounded reasonable, and I wanted to believe his being involved with Jerry’s drug use
and death was purely circumstantial, but Wade has told me not to believe what anyone involved with drugs says. Ken might be my favorite computer guru, but he was no choir boy. Wade had said they found a paper bag in the trailer with Ken’s name written on the outside. A bag filled with an unknown white power.
“What was in the paper bag?” I asked.
“What paper bag?”
“The brown paper bag. The one with your name on it.”
“I didn’t see a bag with my name on it.”
“Wade said it was filled with a powder. A white powder.”
“Heroin?” He sounded surprised. “If it is, it’s not mine. I don’t do that stuff. Never have. Honest, I don’t know anything about a paper bag.”
Was he telling me the truth?
I wasn’t sure.
“You need to turn yourself in, Ken,” I repeated, unwilling to get involved in his situation.
Chapter Nine
That evening, I was debating what to fix for dinner, and if it would be a meal for two or three, when Wade arrived home. “Your buddy showed up at the station,” he said the moment he removed his jacket. “Told me you talked him into it. So, you called him?”
“No, he called me. This afternoon. Is he under arrest?”
“Not at the moment. We could have arrested him for harboring a known criminal, but he swore he didn’t know a warrant was still out for Herman’s arrest, and he insisted the counterfeit pills we found on Herman weren’t his. He said he didn’t know Herman was doing drugs. Seems he didn’t know a lot of things about his friend.”
“Being friends doesn’t mean you know everything about each other. I think he wanted to trust Jerry, was giving him the benefit of the doubt. Ken said they’d been friends for a long time.”
The look Wade gave me said I was too gullible. And maybe I am. “Ken’s a nice guy,” I argued. “Helpful. He doesn’t know much about me, but he’s helped me a couple times.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because you’re adorable. And your buddy’s not off the hook. We’re still waiting to hear what that white powder is.”
“He said he didn’t know what it was.”
“Uh-huh. And you believed him?”
I was about to tell him where he could take his sarcasm when Jason came bounding down the stairs from his bedroom.
“Daddy, P.J. had to pay me a dollar.” He raced to his father’s side, Baraka right behind. “I cleaned up all the twigs and branches that blew off the trees. And Baraka helped.”
Jason patted Baraka’s head, and I smiled, remembering how my dog had helped.
“You made P.J. pay you?” Wade said, scowling at his son. “I thought we agreed you would help around the house.”
“Yeah, but this was outside.” Jason looked at me for confirmation.
“He did a good job, Wade. I was glad to pay him. But what about your room, Jason? Did you get that cleaned up?”
“Ah, well, sorta.” He backed away from us, avoiding eye contact.
“Upstairs and get that room clean,” Wade ordered with a wave of his hand.
I’d wanted Jason upstairs for a reason. I needed to talk to Wade uninterrupted. As he headed toward the refrigerator, I said, “I have a favor to ask. Could you find out the name of the woman killed in a hit-and-run yesterday? The one that happened in Kalamazoo in front of the church I was at.”
Wade paused, hand on the door handle. “Why? Did you see it happen?”
“No, but I think I know the woman, and if it is her, I talked with her not long before she died.”
“And?”
“And she sounded like she was in trouble. Her life had been threatened.”
“She told you that?”
“Not directly. I overheard her talking to someone on the phone.” I held up my hands to stop his questions. “Wade, just find out who was killed. Okay? I’m hoping it wasn’t her.” I prayed it wasn’t. “While you do that, I’ll start dinner, and then I’ll tell you everything I overheard.”
I sensed he was about to say something more, but he didn’t. Instead he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. I waited, watching him as he flipped off the bottle cap and took a long draught. I know he doesn’t like me getting involved in police matters. He’s told me that often enough. And I certainly did not plan on getting involved. Having our baby is my priority; however, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t relay what I’d heard Brenda say yesterday.
Wade kept looking at me, but I didn’t say anything. I’d asked. Now it was up to him.
Finally, he set the bottle of beer down on the table and pulled out his cell phone. The moment I heard him ask for Detective Ferrell, I knew he’d called Kalamazoo’s Public Safety’s number. I’d met Detective Ferrell last summer when I brought an elderly woman with dementia to the police station.
I held my breath as Wade questioned Ferrell about the hit-and-run. I didn’t want the victim to be Brenda, yet deep down I was sure it was. I felt the baby kick and had a feeling I was relaying my tension to her. Relax, I told myself. Breathe. But as I watched Wade wander over to the buffet and grab the pen and pad of paper I kept there, breathing became difficult. He continually said, “Uh-huh.” I wanted words. Finally, he started writing, and I moved to his side. Seeing Brenda’s name brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Wade must have sensed my distress. He put down the pen and slipped an arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer.
He finally thanked Detective Ferrell and hung up.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
Our baby gave a kick, or maybe a punch, that Wade must have felt. He put a hand on my abdomen. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
It did, but I was more concerned about what Wade had discovered. “Let me sit down,” I said and moved over to the nearest chair. “I think she’ll calm down.”
“You’re not ready to, ah . . .?”
“No, not yet.” At least I hoped not. I wasn’t ready. I pointed toward the notepad. “Brenda is the woman I talked to.”
As I summarized what I’d heard, Wade sat near me, and made notes. Occasionally he asked a question: Was I sure that was what she said? Did she mention a name?
“No name,” I told him. “Just that she’d been at her computer looking at pictures she’d taken when her boss came up behind her and saw what she was doing.” Saying that triggered a thought. “Hey, you can find out where she works, and that will tell us—”
“Us, P.J.?” Wade sat back and looked at me. “There is no us. We are not getting involved,” he said firmly. “You are not getting involved.”
“I know, I know,” I said, “I’m not going to, but Detective Ferrell needs to know what Brenda said. Right?”
“Did she tell you what the pictures showed?”
“Not exactly. Just that they showed hidden compartments and origins of shipments. That information must have been important because she said her boss threatened her and came after her.”
“You said she was going to meet the person she was talking to at the brewery, that this person had promised to take care of her. Did she say how?”
I shook my head. “No, but she said she didn’t have any family.” I knew that. “And she wanted to be put somewhere where they—whoever ‘they’ were—couldn’t find her.”
“You’re thinking witness protection?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What I do know is Brenda sounded scared. She said, ‘These people don’t play around.’ She was afraid for her life.”
Wade said nothing for a second, then asked, “Did she ask you for help?”
“No.” I sighed. “But I don’t think she realized her life was in immediate danger. I think she thought this person she was talking to would take care of her.”
“You do know that this sounds like something out of a spy movie.”
“Maybe so, but this is real. Brenda’s dead.”
Wade shook his head. “Detective Ferrell thinks she was simply crossing that street at the wrong time. He said they’ve
had several close calls in that area. Rear-enders. Parked cars being hit. Kids speeding. Most are DUIs.”
“The paper said she was on the sidewalk when she was hit, and the car drove right into her.”
“Run down by someone who saw her go into the church and waited around for her to come back outside?” The lift of Wade’s eyebrows said he wasn’t buying that idea. “Doesn’t that church have a back entrance as well as a front entrance? If this driver was specifically targeting your friend, how would he know which door she would exit from? If she thought she was being followed, to evade being seen, she might have gone in the front and out the back.”
“I think she parked in front of the church. Where did they find her car?”
“I don’t know. Ferrell didn’t say.”
“She was going to meet the person on the phone at the microbrewery just down the street,” I said, but I could tell from Wade’s look that he didn’t understand. “She probably parked her car there. The person following her might have seen it and—”
“That’s a Black neighborhood,” Wade said, as if that made a difference.
“And Brenda’s Black. Didn’t Ferrell mention that?”
“No he didn’t, but I think you’re trying to make this into something it isn’t. The ‘might have’ is that someone who’d had too much beer got into his car, took off at a fast speed, went onto the sidewalk, and hit your friend. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,”
“No!” I insisted, irritated with his simplistic explanation. “Don’t you understand? She was afraid this would happen.”
Wade said nothing for a moment, probably waiting for me to calm down. That, or he was trying to think of what to say that wouldn’t make me angry, angrier than I was already. Finally, he asked, “Did you know her well?”
“Yes. I won’t say we were best friends—” A best friend wouldn’t ignore her buddy for over a year, would know where her friend was working and if she was in trouble. “—but we were close. She helped me when Grandma Carter had her pseudo heart attack. Helped me at work. Helped me . . .” A lump filled my throat, and I couldn’t go on. “I should have helped her.”
