“He’d shut down his peripheral vision under the stress of the situation so his central focus would be intense,” Gus said. “You only had a partial view of him, right? His shoulders, were they rolled in?”
“I could see his face and shoulders because his hands were clutching the railing that runs round the gallery, it’s about three feet high. His shoulders were hunched. He was medium build and had a lot of dark hair.”
“The tension of the moment could account for hunched shoulders but he may be nearsighted, that brings the shoulders forward, rounds them,” Gus said.
I nodded. I’d read the analysis Gus had made of Ronald Reagan’s vision. Before he was president, Reagan had been one of the first people in the U.S fitted with scleral contact lenses. Back then, contacts could only be worn for two hours at a time, then they had to be taken out to replenish the fluids in the lens so oxygen could reach the cornea. Easy to imagine a Hollywood director yelling, “Cut,” while Reagan took out his contacts to top up fluids.
“Yoko, never trust coincidences. Two serious accidents so close, that’s alarming. Stay alert.”
“I’m going to keep to my daily routine.” I sounded stubborn and I felt it.
“Definitely. You can’t let terrorists dictate how you live,” Gus said. “But don’t hesitate to ask for help. Call the police, they’re your best defense.”
I wasn’t going to tell Gus hell could freeze before I called Detective Riley or his strange partner, Zeissing. We were silent on the drive to the police academy and I debated with myself, rationalizing that if it was serious, the police would surface––they had after the attack on Lanny.
At the Connecticut State Police Academy, Gus was greeted by everyone we passed. He had told me ahead of time to thank the platoon commander in charge of the night tour and I did, though I didn’t feel at all grateful to be going out on DUI patrol, way too high a level of danger for my frayed nerve endings. The commander nodded pleasantly at my thanks then beckoned one of the officers over, a policewoman only an inch shorter than Gus’s six feet. She’d probably had her fill of jokes about the heavy sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose.
“Officer O’Malley, this is Dr. Kamimura.”
“Please, I’m Yoko,” I said. By now, I was almost used to the swift scanning police give you. Human x-ray. This time, the x-ray was followed by a friendly smile.
“I’m Macdara, Mac for short,” she told me.
I stifled the impulse to ask someone armed with a gun if she was ever called Big Mac and we shook hands.
Eventually, Mac and Steve Farnell, her partner, another six-footer, as pale as Mac was freckled, took us out to the parking lot. Patrol cars were lined in orderly rows. The doors of the nearest row were marked, “DUI, Driving Under the Influence, Connecticut State Police.” Gus and I were shepherded into the rear seat of one of the DUI cars.
“First time out?” Mac asked from the front and I nodded.
Three squad cars had been assigned to the shift and our car eased out of the lot, two others falling in behind us. The Connecticut countryside was tranquil under a low cloud cover. The rain had stopped or maybe it hadn’t reached this far from New York. A relaxed Gus sat next to me. I was tight with apprehension. We drove for about fifteen minutes and it was peaceful in the dark of the back roads and my tension eased somewhat. Rounding a double S bend, we pulled over onto the wide shoulder where the road straightened out, a carefully chosen location. It was a tricky turn in good weather, downright nasty if you were high on booze or drugs.
“The police can’t stop cars without due cause but at a spot like this, where it’s easy to have an accident, it saves time to have a DUI team waiting,” Gus explained.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then we heard the sound of a speeding vehicle and in the front, Mac tilted her head, listening. Gus nudged me in the ribs and my tension level soared to high. Tires protesting in a rubber scream, a vintage Mustang snarled into sight. It didn’t make the bend but slid off the road and jolted to a stop short of a massive tree trunk.
“Lucky not to hit the tree,” Steve said. “Now their luck may run out. What a surprise if the driver fails the test.”
He opened his door and got out. Mac looked back at me and winked. Gus and I watched as the Mustang’s driver, a tall young man, started to get out unsteadily, one long leg then the other emerging from the car. He stood, swaying gently but somehow keeping upright. We couldn’t hear what was being said but after a short conversation it was obvious he agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to a sobriety test. Before we left the station, the desk sergeant had warned us not to budge from the squad car unless invited to do so but we had a clear view of the testing. The driver’s head moved unsteadily as he tried to follow the penlight that Steve slowly moved from side to side in front of the driver’s eyes.
“His eye movements will be erratic,” Gus said and I nodded agreement.
Gus was one of the first to train police officers to run the test to detect the jerky eye movement––HGN or horizontal gaze nystagmus. Alcohol or any other substance that affects the nervous system results in HGN. Now the courts accept this test as probable cause of DUI but until the scientific validity of the test was established, drivers under the influence frequently got off because police had no legally acceptable, standardized field sobriety testing.
I opened my mouth to speak but stopped at the sound of an angry shout.
“No way that’s legal.” It was the driver of the Mustang yelling.
A man erupted from the passenger side of the car, shouting and tugging something out of his pocket. Safe in the patrol car I still trembled nervously. Steve reached the passenger swiftly, turning him against the car and patting him down in fluid moves. The driver lurched for Mac, who sidestepped smoothly and had his arms behind his back and cuffs closed over his wrists in seconds while the man shouted incoherently. I watched in fascination as Steve relieved the passenger of a knife and guided him to the patrol car parked behind us. Still arguing, the two were helped into the car, which left for the station.
“Mission accomplished. Now we wait for another good citizen,” Steve said as he and Mac got back into the car. I let out a long sigh and they both laughed.
“Before we had these standardized tests, it was loosey goosey,” Steve said. “Some cops threw coins on the ground and said, ‘Pick up only nickels or quarters.’ Then there was the school of thought that had a driver count backward from one hundred by threes.”
“You never know what you’ll come up against on DUI patrol,” Mac said, turning so she could see us without craning her neck. “Drunks, druggies, run-of-the-mill villains. On this duty, you’re either hooked or want to rotate off ASAP. The burnout rate’s bad but it can be addictive.” She nodded at Gus. “What do you think, Doc? How long before we have an even dozen?”
They laughed at my groan but before Gus could answer, we heard another car coming round the dangerous bend. Steve and Mac switched their attention front and the patrol car was quiet. All told, twenty cars came around the twisting turns in the time we sat there, cats at a mouse hole. Most navigated the sharp bends without problems. Four did not. By the time we’d watched those four drivers take the test, I was limp from the suspense. No one was as much trouble as the first but all would be charged DUI.
By the time we returned to the station, I was exhausted.
“Back to New York City with you,” Gus said cheerfully when he dropped me at the train station. “Will you make it to the dedication ceremony? I won’t be able to go, it’s my daughter’s birthday.”
The dedication ceremony! That’s what Dr. Forrest meant when he said he’d see Detective Riley on the weekend. In the turmoil of the last few days I’d totally forgotten about the dedication of the renovations to the Infants’ Clinic, the result of strenuous fund-raising, mostly by my boss.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Let me know when you want to come out for another DUI outing.”
<
br /> Gus laughed at the face I made.
It was after eleven when the train pulled in to Grand Central. Other than a conductor ambling across the station and two hikers with bulging backpacks sitting on the floor by the information desk, the place was deserted. My footsteps echoed as I walked to the Park Avenue exit. After sitting most of the evening full of nervous tension, I needed to stretch my legs and walk. By the time I reached my building I was more relaxed. I scanned the sidewalk, something we city dwellers do. All clear. Shouldering my way through the main door, I headed for the stairs. The door creaked as it slowly began to close behind me and I looked back to check if it was closing. It wasn’t. A man had caught the door halfway and come in. He stood in the entrance, staring at me. My neck prickled.
The damn hall light was out again and in the shadowy hall, the man was a faceless outline, gently backlit by lights from the street. A reality nightmare. The pause lengthened. A neighbor or visitor wouldn’t stand silently looking at me. I couldn’t see if this was the man who’d attacked Lanny, but if it was, he had only one reason for following me. If I ran up the stairs, he’d follow. Better to chance finding my neighbor Larissa home in her ground-floor apartment or maybe someone would come in from the street, scare the guy off. I jumped off the stairs and darted along the hall to Larissa’s door. Feet pounded behind me. Throwing myself at the door, I beat on it.
“Help. Call the police, Larissa. It’s Yoko,” I yelled.
A hand clamped across my mouth and a strong arm grabbed me around the waist, lifting me off the floor. Kicking back, I heard a grunt as my shoe connected with a shinbone. Again I kicked, forward this time, drumming both feet on the apartment door. No response. Total silence inside the apartment. Larissa must not be home otherwise she’d have called out that she’d dialed the police or that her son, the cook at KK next door, would be here in seconds with mace.
The arms round me were tight. My struggles to break free were getting me nowhere. Lashing out at his legs again, I stamped down, trying to bend over, hoping to pull him off balance. In retaliation, my head was bashed against the metal doorframe. Fireworks exploded and a warm trickle started down my neck. I was dizzily aware I was being dragged down the hall. Why was the hall getting dark? Oh, my vision’s fading.
Through drooping eyelids, I watched lazily as a match flared. A teardrop of a flame floated over me towards the trashcans the super kept lined up by the basement door. The flame flickered and hovered over a large pile of plastic bags then fell on them.
“Careful,” I wanted to say, but the word didn’t come and the plastic started to smolder. Darkness sucked me to its soft heart as acrid smoke stung my nose.
“She’s waking up. Yoko, come on.”
One by one, my eyelids came unglued. Groggily, I tried to focus on the two figures bending over me. It was Larissa and her son, Marvin, staring anxiously down. Larissa crooned soothingly as she dabbed at the side of my head. Her mouth set in a tight line as she rinsed the cloth in a bowl of water. I stared in rapt attention as the swirls of water turned pink. Was that my blood? I flinched as Larissa dabbed at me again.
“I’m cleaning your neck, you’re not bleeding there,” she said sharply. “You’ve a gash in the side of your head and I’m nowhere near that. What did you do? You let someone in? What were you thinking? A drug pusher or a mugger who hit you then started a fire? We could all be dead in our beds.” The outrage masked concern.
“Ma, let her catch her breath,” Marvin begged. “Yoko wouldn’t let anyone in. He must of pushed in and mugged her. Am I right?”
I nodded, regretting it when my head throbbed.
“Let me get my hands on him,” Marvin growled.
“Where…?” I croaked.
Larissa didn’t need prompting.
“We came in and found the hall filling up with smoke. So much for that dang smoke detector. Not a peep out of it. You were out cold by the basement door,” Larissa said. She stopped dabbing at me and took the bowl of water to the sink, rinsing the rag, wringing the water out of it in angry twists. She came and stood over me, hands on hips, frowning.
“Are you gonna tell us what happened or do we have to guess?”
“Ma,” Marvin interceded. She silenced him with a flickering roll of her eyes.
“What’ll you have, Yoko? Tea, schnapps?”
I grinned weakly. That was my Larissa. Yell at you and offer comfort, all in the same breath. I knew better than to take the schnapps. Even when I’m in good shape, it blows off the top of my head.
“Tea.”
“Schnapps would be better,” Larissa grumbled as she poured two liberal shots of the liquid explosive she recommended for every purpose. She and Marvin tossed their shots back. I sipped the tea eagerly and caught a whiff of the acrid smell plastic makes when it burns. I sniffed. Yes, the smell was coming off me.
“Eau de Trash Bag. Liz Taylor, eat your heart out,” I said.
After one astonished look, Larissa and Marvin burst out laughing and the three of us roared uncontrollably.
“That’s right, kiddo. You smell but good,” Larissa wheezed as she wiped her eyes. “You’ll need to wash your clothes twice or send them to the cleaner. You were something straight out of a movie in that smoky hallway. Blood trickling down your neck, flat on the floor like you were a dead woman. What happened?”
“I remember seeing a match, after he banged my head on your door,” I started, my voice shaky. “The man who grabbed me, he pushed his way in behind me before the door latched.”
Larissa sat down on the couch next to me, her face serious.
“I started the fight, but only after he grabbed me. I kicked him.”
This got an appreciative cackle from Larissa.
“Was he high?” Marvin asked. “Could you smell booze? Did he rob you?”
The last question took me by surprise but he had a point. Was I so fixated on trouble coming in a terrorist’s package of three that I’d overlooked robbery as a motive? Patting my pockets to see what was in them stirred up another acrid smell. I pulled out my keys, my one credit card, the SUNY ID tag and a small wad of dollar bills that added up to the same fourteen dollars I’d had after paying for the train ticket to Bridgeport. It’s rare I have a purse or even a wallet on me, I load my pockets instead.
“Yes,” I said in relief. “Got everything, I travel light. No, I didn’t smell drink and I don’t know if he was high, I didn’t have time to think, just tried to fight him off.” Then I remembered the folder I’d been carrying. “Where’s my file?”
“This it?” Marvin held up a limp beige folder, damp but intact.
Relieved, I nodded my thanks and was instantly dizzy. Then I remembered the flash drive, the one I kept exclusively to record the prototype information from Dr. Anders. Had I brought it with me or left it locked in the office file cabinet? I patted all my pockets again. No flash drive. Wait, I was sure I’d left it at the office. That made sense. I wouldn’t have time after the trip to Connecticut to go over anything on my laptop. Was that why I’d been mugged, was someone after information about the prototypes? Was I imagining it or did I have a hazy memory of hands groping in my pockets, could the mugger have been looking for my flash drive? But how would there be any connection between Lanny and the work Fred Anders was doing? Serious thinking was beyond me right then and I was easily distracted by Larissa’s next question.
“Did he try to fool with you? Was it a rapist? Did you see his face?” Larissa was blunt.
Cautiously, moving my head slowly so as not to get another jolt of pain, I looked down. My clothing hadn’t been disturbed, nothing was out of place.
“No,” I said slowly. “It wasn’t a rapist. I couldn’t see him clearly when he came in. That hall light is always on the blink. Only the other morning I saw the super change the bulbs.”
“The fixture shorts out all the time, a real fire hazard. Won’t matter how many new bulbs get put in. I told the super that last week.” Marvin shrugged.
&nb
sp; Our building, one of three on the block that the super maintained for absentee owners, was always last for repairs.
“Now the other buildings have gone condo, could be the landlord wants to squeeze us out,” Larissa said.
“Fat chance,” Marvin told his mother. “We’ll get all the tenants together, fight him all the way.”
Larissa nodded then went back to her explanation. “We were coming in and a man, not anyone who lives in the building, rushed from the back of the hall and pushed by us,” she said. “Smoke was billowing up so that got our attention. Just as well we didn’t go after him, the flames from the plastic bags were almost at the piles of newspapers. My boy grabbed the fire extinguisher and I managed to drag you in here. Marvin put out the fire. Couldn’t do a thing about the smell, though.”
“When you work in a restaurant, you know what to do,” Marvin said quietly. “Kitchen fires happen.”
Larissa was impatient to get back to the juicy details. “You sure you didn’t recognize the guy? You think it was a mugger?”
“Maybe.” I didn’t voice my fear that it might have been the man who attacked Lanny.
“Why would he start a fire?”
“Ma, you know there’s a psycho a day out there,” Marvin said. “What about when that subway booth was bombed? With the two clerks inside? What sane person would do that?”
We sat in silence, considering the trouble fueled by rage and frustration. Larissa switched directions with her questioning.
“Did you hear if they caught the man who attacked your godmother?”
“No,” I said slowly.
Eye Sleuth Page 8
