Shadow of Death

by Patricia Gussin

“Laura, you left a lot of books in the car. Don’t you need them?”

  “I’ll get them in the morning,” she blurted.

  “Why don’t you give me your keys? I’ll get them for you now.”

  “Sure, let Dad get the books. Laura, you’re bound to need them tonight, especially the class notes.”

  Reaching into her purse, Laura reluctantly retrieved her keys and handed them to Susan’s father.

  “Here they are,” Reynolds announced as he climbed back into the driver’s seat of the Pontiac. He flipped on the interior car light, then turned fully around to face Laura and hand her the books and her keys. Their faces were no more than a foot apart.

  “Laura, you have four flat tires,” he announced. “I’m not sure how this happened. It’s not likely that you simply ran over broken glass. I suspect foul play, and I don’t like it. I’m going to send a couple of uniforms over to investigate tomorrow. I don’t want you to move your car until we’ve finished investigating.”

  Laura tried not to show the fear that curdled inside her. The accusatory note. The four flat tires. What was happening? And now, the police were involved. She tried to think. Was someone out to harm her? For a split second she thought about telling Susan’s dad about the note. Would the police protect her? No, they’d arrest her, she decided. She was too far into lies and deception. She’d have to face this new threat alone.

  “It’s your safety, Laura, that’s important,” the detective was saying as he glanced at Susan beside him. “Strange situation.”

  “I need my car,” Laura said, trying to divert attention away from why someone might have done this. “Steve will have to replace the tires tomorrow.”

  “Your husband needs clearance before he touches the car. We need to consider it as evidence, are you following me?”

  “Evidence for what? Don’t you think this is just a prank?” Laura’s voice was starting to tremble as much as she was.

  “I don’t know, but I plan to check it out.”

  By the time Detective Reynolds pulled to a stop in front of the Nelson house, nearly a foot of snow had accumulated. Steve’s car was almost buried in the driveway.

  “Thanks for the ride, detective,” Laura said. “Susan, I’ll get Steve to drive us in tomorrow. He can change my tires then and we’ll be back to normal.”

  “Laura, remember what I said about the car. We need to check it out for evidence,” the detective said somewhat brusquely. “In fact, I’d like to come in and talk with your husband about it now.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Laura said as sweetly as she could manage. Steve was already upset enough about the violence in the city. Walking in with Detective Reynolds would only make things worse.

  “Come on, Dad,” Susan intervened, “it’s late. I’ve got a lot of homework. Laura can give Steve the message. She’ll explain everything, right Laura?”

  “Sure. You two go on home,” Laura urged. “I’ll talk with Steve. He’ll call you if he has any questions, detective.”

  Reynolds frowned. “Okay, girls. Guess I’m outnumbered.”

  Inside, Steve fed the baby his formula while Mikey raced around playing cars.

  “Four flat tires!” he exploded.

  “That’s not all,” Laura grimaced. “We’re not even supposed to change them until the police authorize it. Here, let me take over.” She lifted Kevin from his arms.

  Steve slumped down in his easy chair. “I’m telling you again, Laura. That goddamn school is not safe. I want you to drop out. At least until after the baby is born.”

  “Let’s not overreact, okay? Pranks like this can happen anywhere. We can put the tires on our Bank Americard. I’ll cut back on other things.” She tried to sound optimistic. “Besides, we’ll save money if you could come down tomorrow to change them yourself.”

  “Does sound like typical adolescent vandalism,” Steve stated matter-of-factly. “That parking lot needs better security. I thought they had stepped it up.”

  “Me too. So will you drive me and Susan in tomorrow?”

  He scowled. “Yeah, but I’ve really had it with you going in there everyday. You’re pregnant for God’s sake.”

  Laura breathed a sigh of relief and ignored his last comment as she walked into the kitchen to start dinner. Mikey followed, zooming around like a human race car. Instead of being amused, she was irritated. It had been a very long day.

  The next morning, Steve called the police station after taking time before work to pick up two new tires to replace the front ones. He was hoping to get the two rear flats repaired since the tires were practically brand new.

  “Mr. Nelson, about your car,” an officer stated. “There’s a problem.”

  “What’s going on?” Steve asked. He was standing at an open pay phone on the street. Though it had finally stopped snowing, the wind was brutal.

  “Well, Mr. Nelson,” the male voice responded. “Those tires are not just flat. All four were blown away with a twenty-two caliber automatic.”

  “What the hell?” Steve was incredulous. “Is this somebody’s idea of a joke?”

  “Hold on, please. Detective Reynolds wants to talk to you,” the unidentified voice announced as Steve was clicked onto hold.

  “Mr. Nelson, John Reynolds here. Remember me? I spoke with you and your wife last fall about that shooting down near the med school.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Steve responded. “Thanks for giving Laura a ride home last night. Helluva storm.”

  “My pleasure. Mr. Nelson, do you have any idea why someone would deliberately shoot out your wife’s tires?”

  “No, of course not. But with violence rampant in the city, nothing surprises me.”

  “Just a hunch, Mr. Nelson. I’m wondering if there’s some connection to that situation last fall. That’s what I’m investigating.”

  “Detective Reynolds, I need four new tires. My wife needs to drive that car home tonight. I’ll be there on my lunch hour to replace those tires.”

  “I’ll make sure my men clear your car by then, but if you or your wife come up with anything else, anything at all, I want you to call me right away, agreed?”

  “Absolutely,” Steve said, “but I can’t imagine how this could be related to that kid that was killed last fall.”

  After he hung up the phone, Reynolds gingerly fingered the strand of blonde hair he’d found on the headrest in the back seat of his city Pontiac when he’d reached back to grab his overcoat the previous evening. After pondering for some time, he sauntered up the stairs to the evidence room and checked out the Diggs box. Selecting a blonde hair from an envelope, he removed it with tweezers and placed it in another envelope he’d marked ‘A’. Into another envelope, he’d marked ‘B’, he placed the lone strand from his car. It was a little longer than the first, but to the naked eye looked otherwise identical in color and in texture. He then took both envelopes over to microscopy and with no explanation other than the request itself, asked an old and trusted colleague whether the two specimens could be from the same individual.

  After a short glance under the microscope, the criminologist nodded. “Not only could be, but highly probable, my friend.”

  Later, Reynolds returned the specimen to its original envelope but retained envelope ‘B’, otherwise unmarked, and placed it in a folder piled high with nearly illegible notes in his private drawer. He closed his eyes, any doubts he’d had drifting away. So it was Laura Nelson’s hair found on the victim. But hair was not admissible as evidence. Legally, what you could say was: This is similar to her hair. But not: This is her hair.

  Reynolds then reflected that it was possible that the victim had carried a strand on his clothing from the bedside of his brother out of the hospital after Laura had examined the comatose young man that night in September. Possible, yes, but probable? And how did any of this connect to the blown-out tires in the parking lot last night? Sit tight, he told himself. Wait for what ballistics finds on those bullets from the .22.

 
Reynolds opened his eyes then. Was Laura Nelson in danger? And what about Susan, riding in with her everyday?

  All morning Laura looked for an opportunity to destroy the cardboard note. Finally, between anatomy and biochem, she ducked into a toilet stall in the women’s restroom and shredded the note. Part she flushed, part she distributed in the various waste containers. Finally, she was satisfied that there was no trace of it left behind, and her heart quit beating so wildly. If only she could deal with the gun so effectively. Steve was back on the kick that she carry it with her again. She still kept it hidden on the top shelf of the closet in the kids’ room. Only now she kept it in a locked box.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  After a weekend at home, Stacy Jones returned reluctantly to St. Mary-of-the-Woods Academy. As soon as Sister Portia made the offer to bring her home for the weekend, Stacy had planned to beg her mother to allow her to return for good. She’d promise anything. Straight As. Home right after school. Never to go out, not even on weekends. Anything to get her out of the white girls’ prison. But she hadn’t succeeded.

  Lucy, of course, was overjoyed to see Stacy, and her little sisters were beside themselves, each one vying for her attention. What the nun had said was true. Stacy was like a celebrity. All the neighbors stopped by to say hello on Saturday. Both flattered and frightened by so much fanfare, Stacy tried to answer all their questions. What was it like going to such a snooty school? What were the other girls like? Were there other black girls? The older girls were especially interested in how she could survive in a school with no boys, but everybody became silent with awe when Stacy told them that she had a friend who knew Diana Ross.

  At bedtime, she sat down with Lucy to state her case. She tried to explain why she hated the academy. How lonely she was. How she had no friends except for Monica Williams. How she missed her old friends and family.

  “Why baby, that’s just normal.” Lucy put her arms around her daughter and gave her a loving hug. “Stacy, honey, my heart is just busting with pride. You’re going to make something of yourself. You’re so smart.” She paused. “Just think of how proud Anthony and Johnny would be of you.”

  “But Mama, you need me here, you know you do,” Stacy implored. “How can you manage alone with the girls? I know I messed up once, but I’ll never do it again. I learned my lesson. I promise, Mama, please!”

  “Not for you to worry about anymore, honey,” Lucy said as a smile played on her lips. “Your mama’s got herself a new job starting next Monday.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “Stacy, it’s a real good job. God has answered our prayers. I’m going to be an administrative assistant.”

  “A what?” Stacy’s eyes narrowed.

  “I haven’t started yet, but, no more cleaning, scrubbing, and mopping. No. This job requires skill and ability.”

  “What skill do you have, Mama? You never even graduated from high school,” Stacy challenged.

  Lucy nodded. “That’s what I told them straight off, but they asked me to take a test, and so I did. They said I did real good, and I got the job. And the great part,” Lucy continued, “is that it’s day work, baby. Do you know what that means? I can be home every night with the girls, and no more weekend work.”

  “Where’d you get this job?” Stacy demanded.

  “I’m so excited to tell you, could hardly stand it with all these people around today.” She tried to embrace her daughter again, but Stacy recoiled.

  “Mama, please.”

  “Here’s how it happened. You remember those nice Sisters that came over on Christmas Eve? The night Sister Mary Agnes brought you home?”

  “Of course I remember,” Stacy said.

  “Well, Sister Portia came back with little presents for the girls on Christmas Day when you were still sleeping and talked to me a lot about you and what was happening. I told her how smart you were and how worried I was with all this crime and the killings that’s going on. Of course, Sister Mary Agnes came too and she already knew how smart you are. That’s when we decided to try for that fine school you’re attending. To help you get in, they had to contact the Social Services Department to make arrangements. So I went down, and this social worker interviewed me so the scholarship would go through. One thing led to another, and I told him about my job and my worries, about you, about your little sisters, everything we been through with Anthony and Johnny.” Her face clouded over. “Well, that social worker started to talk to me about my schooling, what I felt about the welfare system, all the crime in the neighborhood, all the drug problems. Before long he says, ‘Mrs. Jones, you just had your job interview.’ Just like that. Then he told me there was a job opening in his department. I told you he was a social worker, didn’t I?”

  “Uh huh.” Stacy was incredulous. “So what is this job?”

  “It’s being an administrative assistant, like I said. I had to go in three separate times and talk to lots of people in the office. I didn’t know nothin’ about being an administrative assistant before, but now I have some idea.”

  “Well, I don’t. What is it?”

  “What I’m supposed to do is to take care of things for four of the social workers. I had to meet them all. Mr. Nelson was so nice. He introduced me to everybody and made me sound real good even though he knew I don’t have any decent experience. But here’s the amazing part, honey,” Lucy confided. “I’m the one who will answer all the calls when the social workers are out in the neighborhoods. I also have to fix up their schedules and make sure that the most important problems, like when people get their benefits cut off or they have no money to eat, get the most attention. I start work on Monday.”

  “Why, Mama, that sounds like a fine job!” Stacy threw her arms around Lucy and hugged her.

  “I know it. But let’s not talk about it anymore tonight. I’m not supposed to tell you this because everybody wants it to be a surprise, but there’s a party for you at St. Joseph’s tomorrow afternoon. All of your friends will be there.”

  Stacy frowned. Things were already different with her friends. She’d been away barely more than a week, but everybody was already treating her strangely. Maybe it was the new hairstyle. Monica, her friend, had helped her straighten it so her dark curls hung loose and full, long enough to pull back into a trendy ponytail. Wait until they found out that Monica knew Diana Ross.

  Stacy felt weird at the party in her honor. Maybe she didn’t fit in anymore. Maybe she didn’t fit in anywhere any more. But one thing was for sure, her girlfriends were begging her to get them into a Diana Ross concert. Smugly, she promised them that she’d try.

  When she arrived home after the party, Snake and Willie were waiting for her on the front porch steps. They were wearing armbands in protest against the war. Knowing her mother would not want them in the house, she sat with them on the porch. They talked about her brothers, and Snake and Willie swore they’d find out who’d killed Johnny.

  “Stacy, get in the house now,” Lucy Jones eventually called out the front window. “Ray and Willie, go along home and stay out of trouble.”

  “Mrs. Jones, we’re just sayin’ hello,” Snake called back. “No problem here, we got to go anyway.”

  “One more thing,” Snake whispered to Stacy. “I saw that yellow-hair doctor lady again. ’Member the one from the hospital screwin’ with Anthony? Gave the bitch a fuckin’ surprise.”

  Willie snickered as he stepped down into the street. “You show them whities, bro.”

  “What did you do?” Stacy asked, shrinking back as Snake leaned in close.

  “Shot the motherfuckin’ tires outta her car is what I did. Turns out her old man tried to screw with my mama. Teach them to fuck with me,” he nodded. “Tell you that right now.”

  Stacy’s eyes widened. “You shot the tires out? You mean you got a gun?”

  Snake stood and spun around on the step. “Keep it down, girl. That’s what I mean.”

  “You askin’ for trouble?” Stacy shook a fing
er at him. “Your mama needs you around to help with your brothers. You’re just asking for it walking around with a gun on you.”

  “Hey, whose side you on, girl? You said yourself you wanted that lady doctor to quit comin’ around and screwin’ with your bro.”

  Stacy shook her head. “I just wanted her to leave us alone is all. Haven’t we had enough trouble around here to last forever? I’ve got to go now.” She stood up.

  Snake grunted and brushed his hand across Stacy’s breasts as he passed her on his way off the steps. “Now you get in and tell your mama to get you out of that white girl school. You hear?”

  When Sister Portia drove down to the Jones home on Sunday night to take her back to the Academy, Stacy went, unable to disappoint her mother. All the way back, Sister kept talking about some old Flemish paintings at the Detroit Art Museum. Stacy was barely listening. The truth of it was, she’d already started to look forward to playing in the basketball game Wednesday night. The St. Mary’s girls had a new motto: “Sisterhood is Power,” a phrase they heard on TV while watching an antiwar demonstration in Washington, D.C. They’d taken to greeting each other with these words. They just had to beat those cocky girls at Mount Mercy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  By the middle of February, Snake’s mural had grown and changed, along with its name. He’d originally called it The Cakewalk because during slavery, that dance, with its basic strut, shoulders thrown back and head held high, had been a way blacks made fun of the high and mighty attitude of the whites. But Snake now took the painting much more seriously, and he had added more figures. At this point they not only reached for the sky, some also walked along a road that resembled railroad tracks. The painting was called The Railroad. While slavery had never existed in the state of Michigan, Detroit’s proximity to Canada had helped establish several escape routes that ultimately led thousands of slaves to freedom.

  Willie stood nearby with a small fire burning in an old trashcan to keep warm as Snake made more changes to the painting. It was a windless, frozen day.