By My Hands

by Alton Gansky

  “I find this all so hard to believe.” Judy paused, reflecting on what she had just been told. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I haven’t seen them for at least two days.”

  “Have you seen their car, or maybe lights on at night?”

  “No, I don’t think they’ve been home since yesterday morning.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I usually see Lea when she gets her newspaper.”

  “Lea?”

  “Yes. Lea Hailey, Lisa’s mother. You see, the newspaper comes about the same time every day—about 4 o’clock. I hear the paper land on our porch where the delivery boy throws it. Then I go out to get it. Lea does the same thing. I often see her picking up her paper. She always waves at me. Seems like a real nice person.”

  “Seems? Then you don’t know her very well?”

  “Only talked to her once. That was when we first moved here—about three months ago. Can I get you some coffee or a soft drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Priscilla thought for a moment. “You say the paper comes about the same time every day, yet you haven’t seen Lea pick up the paper. Have you seen anyone else pick it up?”

  “No, no one.”

  “Perhaps they’ve had the paper stopped.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I saw the paper there today and yesterday too.”

  “But, there was no paper when I was there a few moments ago.”

  “Perhaps they’ve gone on a trip and someone is picking it up for them.”

  “Perhaps.” Priscilla couldn’t say why, but something didn’t seem right. It made perfect sense for them to leave with their recently healed daughter—probably to get away from the onslaught of reporters who would descend after yesterday’s report. Or, maybe to get away from doctors who would want to run more tests. It made sense, yet Priscilla’s reporter instincts said there was a story here.

  Priscilla repeated the scene with the other neighbors, but with the same results—no one had seen or heard from the Haileys since yesterday morning, and no one knew them well enough to suggest where they might be.

  Priscilla walked back to her car and pulled away from the curb. If she hurried, she could be at the Langfords in fifteen minutes. Maybe they would have some answers to the questions that were percolating in her mind.

  Priscilla made it to the Langfords’ street in thirteen minutes. As she slowed and looked for the address, a black and white car caught her eye. On the door were painted the words, “To Protect and to Serve.” She parked behind the San Diego Police car and quickly walked up to the officer standing on the doorstep of the Langfords’ home.

  SEVEN

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 8:15 P.M.

  “I’M SORRY,” THE POLICEMAN said with polite firmness, “but this is a crime scene, and only authorized personnel are allowed in. You’ll have to remain outside the barricade.” The officer was so young that she guessed he was fresh out of the academy. The barricade he spoke of was a three-inch-wide yellow plastic ribbon with the initials SDPD printed in large, black letters. The ribbon enclosed the entire front and side yards.

  “I’m Priscilla Simms of KGOT-TV,” Priscilla said, attempting to sound authoritative. “I’m here to cover the story.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t help you.”

  “You don’t understand, I’ve just used my car phone to call for a camera crew. They’ll be here any minute. I would really appreciate some information and a chance to film inside the house.”

  “I still can’t help you, ma’am.” The young officer was resolute. Priscilla would have to take a different approach.

  “What exactly are your orders, officer?”

  “To keep individuals away who might disrupt this investigation.”

  “You may not know that that doesn’t include the press.”

  “Until I am told otherwise it does.”

  Priscilla’s anger was growing. As she considered what to do next, another officer appeared through the door. He was a short, heavy-set man with close-cropped hair.

  “Is there some problem here, Officer Gerrick?” The man directed his question to the young officer.

  “This woman has identified herself as the press. She insists on entering the building.”

  Priscilla noticed the officer had three stripes on the sleeve of his khaki-colored uniform. “Sergeant, I’m Priscilla—”

  “Simms,” interjected the officer. “I know very well who you are. I watch your show when I can.” In an easy, gallant move he gently placed his hand on her elbow and walked with her away from the house to the street.

  “Sergeant . . .” Priscilla paused to look at the name plate on his uniform. It bore the name T. Reedly. “Sergeant Reedly, I wonder if you could tell me what is going on here.”

  “Not much to tell.” His voice was pleasant, and his manner disarming. At first glance Priscilla thought he would be harsh, impatient, and gruff. Although he had the appearance of the stereotypical Marine drill sergeant, he spoke and acted like an Ivy League gentleman. “We are still conducting our investigation.”

  “Investigation of what?”

  “Those questions are best asked of the investigating detective. I’m merely the officer in charge of the scene. My job is to secure the crime scene until the detectives from the proper department can arrive.”

  “Can you tell me if the Langfords are hurt?”

  “Do you know the Langfords?” he asked glibly.

  “No, not really.”

  “Did you have some reason for meeting them today?”

  Priscilla was infuriated with herself. Without her knowing it, he had switched roles with her. She was the investigative reporter—she was supposed to be asking the questions. She had to admit that Reedly was smooth.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Priscilla said. “I’ll tell you all I know, if you will tell me what went on in that house.”

  Reedly was smiling. “How do I know that this will be an equitable trade?”

  “I’m with the press; you can trust me.”

  Reedly’s laughter could be heard three houses away. A moment later he said, “Forgive me. I’m afraid my dealings with the press have been less than pleasant. I love to read my quotes in the paper to see what I’ve said. They usually bear little resemblance to my original comments.”

  Priscilla said nothing, but stared hopefully at Reedly.

  “All right, I’ll trust you. About an hour ago we received a call from one of the neighbors. She had just returned home from work when she saw a car leaving the Langford house. According to her it left rather quickly. There were two people in the back seat. They may have been the Langfords. That, however, was not what caused her to call the police. As she drove past the house, she noticed that the front door had been left open. No one in this community would leave their house unlocked, not to mention leaving the door standing open. She became suspicious and called us.”

  Priscilla looked around the neighborhood. The houses had been built after the second world war to accommodate the returning Navy personnel who had decided to settle in San Diego. At one time it was a pleasant community, but now it had gone the way of many such neighborhoods: as the newer subdivisions were built, more affluent homeowners moved out. The families who moved in were too cash poor to maintain the houses they had rented or bought. The area was known for its ever-increasing crime rate and deteriorating property values.

  “So what’s in the house?”

  “Not much. There are signs of a struggle.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s about it. Now, it’s your turn.”

  Priscilla lived up to her promise. She told Reedly about the mysterious healings and her visit to the Haileys. She informed him that her reason for being there was to gather background material for tonight’s 11 o’clock broadcast. Now she had a little more than expected.

  “So it’s your intention to broadcast this tonight?”

  “Absolutely. Do you have a problem with
that?”

  “Not if you promise not to quote me,” he said smiling. “We have a P.R. officer for such things.”

  “I promise. How about if I refer to you as ‘an officer at the scene’?”

  “That will be fine.”

  A van with the initials KGOT-TV parked across the street just as an unmarked sedan pulled to the curb.

  “Well,” said Reedly, “it looks like it’s time for both of us to get back to work. I do have one other question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Don’t ever say that to a policeman.” Reedly laughed. “My question is, would you consider having dinner with me sometime?”

  Priscilla was taken aback. On a purely physical basis, she had no interest in Reedly. Yet, there was something about him—a charisma that attracted her. She could think of no reason to refuse, so she simply said, “I think I would like that.”

  “Wonderful.” His grin was enormous. “I’ll call you at the studio later this week.” With that he turned and walked toward the two detectives who were approaching him.

  Priscilla turned her attention to the cameraman and sound-man who asked, “Where do we set up?”

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 11:35 P.M.

  IRWIN BAKER STEPPED ONTO the news set after the 11 o’clock broadcast.

  “Priscilla, you can be a royal pain, but I’ll be the first to admit that you’re doing a superb job with this hospital story. That videotaped remote about the missing Langsfords was sheer genius. If you were a man, I’d offer you a cigar.”

  “Keep the cigar and buy me a drink instead.”

  “It’s a deal, but I’ll make mine coffee.” Irwin understood this was a purely platonic gesture on Priscilla’s part, but it was as close as he ever got to dating her. He would have to be content with this occasional gesture.

  They left the station together in Irwin’s white Mercedes 240 SL. It was not a new car, but one that Irwin had spent many hours restoring. Priscilla had been in it twice before; both times she was amazed at its immaculate condition. The floor of her car was always covered with maps and portions of newspapers she had meant to read.

  “Where to?” Irwin asked.

  “Johnny’s is close.”

  “So be it.”

  Irwin directed the car down Balboa Avenue and turned north on Genesee Avenue. Johnny’s was a small, intimate bar in East Clairemont that catered to the Yuppie crowd. It was also close to the Haileys’ house.

  “Listen,” Priscilla said, “do you have any objection to taking a little detour?”

  “Your place or mine?” Irwin asked, grinning.

  Priscilla smiled, “Neither.”

  “I thought so.” Irwin feigned hurt. “Don’t tell me, let me use my Sherlock Holmes deductive powers to determine where you want to go. You want to drive by the Haileys’ house, don’t you?”

  “An amazing deduction, Sherlock. How ever did you guess?”

  “Elementary, my dear Priscilla. A true detective must always know one’s enemies and one’s friends; and I know you.”

  “Which am I? Friend or enemy?”

  “Friend, usually.” Irwin paused for a moment. “And hopefully more someday.”

  An uneasy quiet filled the car. Priscilla had long known of Irwin’s interest in her. Unfortunately, the interest was not reciprocal. There was nothing wrong with Irwin. He was handsome enough, and he was certainly intelligent. But there had never been time in her life for Irwin, or for any man. She dated occasionally, but usually found such outings boring. Most men were intimidated by her or had ulterior motives.

  Irwin broke the silence. “What street was that on?”

  “Charger Boulevard.” She was grateful for the change in subject. “Take Clairemont Mesa Boulevard to Doliva Street. Doliva dead-ends into Charger. Turn left at the intersection. The house is about two blocks from there. It will be on our right.”

  “Got it.” Both settled back into silence.

  Since it was nearly midnight, few cars were on the road. Within ten minutes Irwin was parking in front of the Haileys’ house. “Looks like a nice place.”

  “All the lights are out.”

  “It’s nearly midnight, Priscilla. What did you expect?”

  “I was hoping they were home.”

  “How do you know they’re not?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. Their curtains aren’t drawn.”

  “So?”

  “So, do you leave your curtains open at night?”

  Irwin thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, I don’t.”

  “Very few people do. Most people like privacy at night; closing the curtains provides that. It also provides a certain psychological security.”

  “Is there no end to your talent?”

  “What’s that?” Priscilla asked.

  “What’s what?”

  “I thought I saw a light.”

  Irwin leaned over, trying to see around Priscilla and out the passenger window.

  “There it is again.”

  “You’re right. It looks like someone playing with a flashlight.”

  “They’re being burglarized.” Priscilla’s heart raced. “Get on your car phone and call the police.”

  Irwin reached down and pulled the handset of his car phone from its cradle and dialed 911. The emergency operator answered, “Operator 32.”

  “Operator, this is Irwin Baker. I’m calling from my car phone. I, believe there is a burglary in progress at—” A light came on inside the car, startling Irwin. At first he was confused why the dome light in his car would come on by itself. Then he realized that Priscilla was opening her door. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” It was too late; she had already slipped out of the car.

  Irwin was flustered. He could hear the operator calling him as he watched Priscilla approach the house in a crouched position. Irwin quickly gave the Haileys’ address and demanded that a patrol car be sent immediately. He slammed the receiver down and exited the car.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Irwin said in a hushed voice, as he crouched next to Priscilla who was now near the front window that she had peeked in earlier that day. “If the burglar doesn’t kill us, the police probably will.”

  Priscilla placed a finger to her lips motioning Irwin to be quiet. “I want to see who is in there.”

  “Did it occur to you that if you can see him, he can see you?” Irwin was furious.

  “What makes you think that the intruder is a he?”

  “Can we carry on this conversation in the car?”

  “No.”

  Priscilla slowly raised herself up enough to look through the window. A nearby streetlight dimly illumined the room. The once clean and orderly house was now a shambles. Cushions were strewn around the floor. The sofa had been turned over and its stuffing was scattered throughout the room. In a corner a dark figure with a flashlight was looking in a drawer.

  “What do you see?” Irwin asked apprehensively.

  Priscilla shook her head. Suddenly the intruder turned, his flashlight beam sweeping the room. The beam moved quickly across the walls and came to rest on the window, fully illuminating Priscilla’s face. Startled by the sudden exposure, she remained motionless.

  Irwin, seeing the light strike Priscilla’s face, reacted. “That’s it.” He grabbed Priscilla by the arm. “We’re out of here.” Before they could run, the front door opened explosively. Irwin turned at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. Standing before him was a man garbed completely in black, his face covered by a ski mask. The intruder brought up his right hand and crouched in the typical police shooting position. Instinctively, Irwin stepped between Priscilla and the assailant. Then he heard an unrecognizable noise and felt something impact his chest. The impact was followed by a burning that raged through his body. He had been shot.

  Stumbling back he felt two arms grab his shoulders. His legs felt rubbery under his weight. He wanted to do something, anything run, scream, strike back—
but he could do nothing. Blue and red lights filled the neighborhood. Irwin felt himself slowly losing consciousness. He fell backward landing on something soft. Darkness flooded his eyes. He heard a noise—no, a voice, a distant, beckoning voice.

  PRISCILLA LANDED HARD ON THE DAMP GRASS; pain raced up her leg. Everything seemed to move in slow motion; the yellow streetlights cast a surrealistic amber glow. Irwin had let out a gasp and clutched at his chest. A moment later he had fallen backward, landing on top of her. Although she heard no retort, she knew that Irwin had been shot. All that remained now was for the black-clad assailant to shoot her.

  She watched as the attacker slowly positioned himself for a clear shot at her. She struggled to get out from under Irwin’s limp body, but his dead weight was too much. Then an unexpected calm descended on her. If I am to die, then I am going to do it with dignity. She stopped struggling and looked directly into the dark eyes of the masked assassin.

  Suddenly the neighborhood was flooded with blue and red lights. A police patrol car pulled up in front of the house, its front wheels jumping the curb. The doors of the car swung open and two officers crouched behind them, police revolvers drawn.

  “Police! Don’t move!” The voice was familiar.

  The gunman lowered his weapon and appeared to resign himself to capture. Then, bolting toward the street, he raised his weapon and fired a round. The patrol car’s windshield shattered. Priscilla screamed and covered her head with her arms. The two policemen returned fire, each firing twice. All four bullets found their mark. The gunman reeled and dropped to the ground.

  Mustering all her strength, Priscilla rolled Irwin off her body and knelt beside him. In the glow of streetlights made brighter by the headlights from the police car, Priscilla could see a crimson circle emanating from Irwin’s chest.

  “Oh, Irwin, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Priscilla sobbed uncontrollably. “What have I done? What have I done?”

  Looking up from Irwin’s limp body she watched as the policemen, one with his revolver pressed against the burglar’s head, checked for other weapons and then for a pulse. She saw one officer shake his head. The black mask was dead.