by Jack Kerley
“Carson? You OK?”
“I’m fine. I’ll wait here.”
Harry began waving his arms at the kid. He tapped the glass, cooed like a pigeon. I looked away, embarrassed for my partner and waiting until his initial burst of emotionalism had subsided to making kissy faces.
Norlin smiled at Harry. “Returning a nearly drowned baby to health is like a marathon,” she said. “Sometimes the runner never finishes. Little Jane pulled it off like a hundred-yard sprint. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Harry studied the kid, mumbled something, and spun away, pacing down the hall like on a personal mission. Reaching the end of the hall, he looked out the window for a few beats, still mumbling, then spun on his heel and started back. Doc Norlin’s eyes were fixed on Harry, seemingly fascinated by my outsized partner. He returned, crossed his arms, leaned against the wall.
“How about Noelle, Doc?” he said.
“Pardon me, Detective Nautilus?”
“As a name for the kid,” Harry said. “Noelle.”
“You mean like in Christmas?” the doc asked, a quizzical smile on her face.
“Like in Noah,” Harry said. “But with an elle because she’s a girl.”
“Moses would be better,” I suggested, “given the small boat on the water.”
Harry dismissed the notion. “You ever try and convert Moses into a feminine name, Carson? Moselle’s a German wine, Mosina sounds like crap, ditto for Mozette…”
Norlin said, “You worked all that out in under a minute, Detective Nautilus?”
“How about it, Doc?” Harry said. “Think it’s a keeper?”
Norlin smiled twin rows of luminous Swedish teeth at my partner. “I’ll talk to the administrator, but I doubt it’ll be a problem. If it is, I’ll take you along to help convince her.”
My partner grinned like a love-struck adolescent. He turned to the glass. “Noelle, Noelle,” he crooned.
Norlin studied Harry with curious eyes. “You seem quite concerned about the little lady, Detective.”
“I came in on a boat myself, figuratively speaking,” Harry said.
Chapter 11
Doc Norlin said we could hold the kid if we put on robes and masks. Harry looked like he’d just won the Super Lotto, and I retreated to the cafeteria until he’d had his fill. We were three steps outside the hospital when Harry’s phone rang. He studied the number, grumbled and dialed.
“‘S’up, Shanelle?” he said, listening for a moment before dropping the cell back in his pocket and giving me a look that was a silent groan. “Shanelle says she remembers something weird.”
I grinned. “Like, maybe the first twenty or so years of her life?”
We were at Shanelle’s preferred intersection in minutes. She thundered to the corner like a knock-kneed Clydesdale in heat, holding her wig tight as the clogs banged pavement.
“I remembered some weirdness, Harry, right after you left. I had to tell you.”
“Lay it on me, Shanelle.”
“It was maybe two months ago. My feets was killing me and I took a break in that little park over on Walter Street. This guy was on a bench like he was reading. But his eyes was watching everything, especially people walking by. I could see he was after something that wasn’t in his book.”
“Companionship,” I said. “At least briefly.”
“The man got up and wandered over and asked could he talk to me. Then it got strange. Not the bad kind, the question kind.”
“Question kind?” Harry asked.
“Questions like he was trying to get to know me. Weird shit about my family. What race was my mom and dad, did they come from another country? I said I hardly knew either of them, and what the fuck did it matter? He asked could he put something in my mouth.” Shanelle pursed her lips in an exaggerated kiss pucker. “I said before anything gets between these lips, hon, it pays fifty bucks.”
Harry said, “And?”
“We went to his car down the street. I stretched out on the seat and let him spend his cash.”
“He, uh, put his penis in your mouth?”
“He jabbed a Q-Tip around my tongue a couple times, pulled it out.”
Harry shot me puzzled. Turned back to Shanelle.
“What happened after that?”
“He asked did I work around there. I said, ‘Sure, come back anytime, Doc, and we’ll –’”
“Doc?” Harry said. “He was a doctor?”
“He said his name but I forgot. Martin? Matthews? Murphy? I remember his last name had a M in front. I told Dr M. to come around anytime and ask for Shanelle. He said he might, depending on how things turned out, but never did. A shame. I’da loved to see him every day, Harry.”
“Why’s that, Shanelle?”
“Fifty bucks for sucking a Q-Tip?” She gave my partner’s shoulder a poke. “Harry, you don’t even have to gargle afterwards.”
Harry sighed and pointed the car back toward the station. “What do you think that was about, Carson? The doc or whatever with Shanelle and the Q-Tip?”
“Probably some social-services type doing a health survey,” I said. “Port cities are the crossroads for a lot of things, germs included.”
“So you don’t think it’s anything?”
“I just hope the Q-Tip got burned after it was analyzed,” I said, slumping in the seat. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Beer?”
I was worn through. “I ain’t into it. I’m going home.”
Harry dropped me at my truck. I headed home, pulling into my drive as my neighbor Lucinda Best walked past, something otherworldly on a leash beside her. Miz Best is seventy years old and a volunteer at the county animal shelter. She often brought canines home to gauge their temperaments.
I’d seen some odd critters at her side, but none so odd as the apparition currently pacing her shoes. Its body was thick and heavy chested, the hair tightly grained, suggesting Lab or shepherd, but the long fluffy tail hair said collie. The legs were slender but the feet were like oven mitts. The head was square and wore basset-length ears. Its eyes were huge and bright and inquisitive. The powerful body was spotted brown and white and black, though the back legs were brindled. The creature looked like a Dr Seuss character.
The animal regarded me politely, not seeming to find my stare ill-mannered. I expect the odd beast was used to being stared at.
“Howdy, Miss Best. That’s the weirdest-looking pooch I’ve ever seen. What’s the breed?”
“I call him Mr Mix-up because he’s pure Heinz…fifty-seven varieties. I expect this doggie’s got about everything in him a doggie could have, Abyssinian to Zuchon.”
I smiled. “So he’s a mutt’s mutt.”
She tut-tutted me with disapproving eyes. “Don’t say mutt like it’s a pejorative, Carson. It’s a badge of honor.”
“Aren’t pedigrees the way to go?” My knowledge of dogs was limited to the occasional amused viewing of the Westminster Dog Show. My father was an unhappy man and dogs might have brought happiness into our home, thus they were forbidden. I once had a pet hamster for about three days, a gift from a classmate for my upcoming ninth birthday. My father found it beneath my bed and fastballed it into the dining-room wall during my birthday party.
Miss Best said, “I once heard you and Harry talking about a trip to a horse track in Kentucky, didn’t I?”
“We went to Keeneland in Lexington a couple years back.”
“What’s a thoroughbred horse do, Carson?”
“Run fast.”
“What else?”
“Uh…”
“Running fast is all they do, Carson. Besides being fragile and subject to temperamental fits and all manner of illnesses. Show dogs are beautiful, but also prone to all sorts of maladies. Mutts may look odd, but statistically are healthier, more intelligent and, if you ask me, happier.”
I looked down and couldn’t argue the point. I swear Mr Mix-up was grinning at me. Miz Best and I both turned to the sou
nd of a door slamming and saw Mrs Warnock stepping from her house down the street, a ball of yellow fluff on a glittery leash. The ball of fluff saw Mr Mix-up and exploded in a frenzy of leash-pulling and yapping. It resembled a rabid yo-yo.
“Mrs Warnock’s dog, Trixie?” Miz Best whispered. “A two-thousand-dollar blue-ribbon purebred. And it has allergies, hip problems, ear infections. You can probably detect its demeanor.”
“All too easily,” I said, waving at Mrs Warnock and stepping quickly away before the yapping ball of insecurity ran over to urinate on my shoes, something it had done twice in the past.
“Need a faithful companion, Carson?” Miz Best called to my retreating back. “I know a doggie that needs a good home.”
I smiled and waved, pretending not to hear. There was ample daylight left for a run along the strand, but my remaining energy fizzled away as I tied on my running shoes. I kicked them into the corner and made a sandwich; ate half, finding it tasteless. Clair’s voice echoed in my ears.
Are you eating, Carson?
Was I fine? Was some kind of sickness making me pale? She’d said that too: pale. Lately, though I’d awaken with a modicum of energy, it waned as the day passed. Had it always done that?
I pulled my laptop from my briefcase, leaned back on the couch, and Googled pale, lethargy, and hunger, lack.
The engine returned thousands of responses. I saw the word “cancer” in one of them and shoved the computer back into my case, trading it for the remote. I’d never been a big TV watcher, save for the occasional news update and weather info. In fact, I’d never had anything besides standard channels until last month when something in me decided to invest forty bucks a month in a dish that delivered the world to my living room.
Puffing pillows beneath my head I channel-hopped until I found a show where married couples traded spouses and families and everyone got on everyone else’s nerves until they were ready to kill each other. I’d watched it before, oddly enchanted. It was related to my work, but I didn’t have to do anything about it but laugh and drink beer until I fell asleep.
On the way to work the following morning, I stopped at a convenience store for a coffee and some aspirin to get the couch-kinks from my neck. In the checkout line I noted an example of the speed of the tabloid press, the front page of World-Week News, showing a photo of Scaler in one of his patented preaching stances, half Elvis, half auctioneer. The headline was direct:
Famous Preacher Found Dead in Church Camp; Heart Attack Suspected.
The subhead was, A Fighter for Moral Values.
It was a tabloid aimed at the political right, and in the past had championed Scaler and his denunciations of homosexuality and liberalism, as well as quoting his veiled slights to people of color. The hagiographic article lifted Scaler to angelic height, ballyhooing his enterprises and advancing a contributing cause of Scaler’s cardiac arrest as the “continued assault on the ideals of Kingdom College by the Left”.
There was a brief mention of Mrs Scaler, painting her as “a quiet and supportive housewife who often accompanies her husband on his acclaimed television show”. No mention of the good Rev’s fondness for using the missus as a punching bag, of course. I wondered how many years the abuse had been going on.
When I got to the department, Harry had checked with the hospital: Mrs Scaler was awake and stable. We’d allowed her a little time to convalesce but now needed to interview her in depth. I hoped lawyer-boy Carleton was off filing a tort or whatever.
Harry and I climbed into the Crown Vic. I took the wheel and pulled out into the streets, the sun already searing at eight thirty, haze thick in the air. When we got to the hospital, I saw a familiar face at the door of Mrs Scaler’s private room: Captain Brock Surewell, our departmental chaplain. Surewell nodded us aside and spoke in the modulated whisper that formed his duty voice.
“Mrs Scaler has her nutritionist with her, an Archibald Fossie.”
“Nutritionist?”
“I guess he’s also a personal friend.”
“How’s she taking things, Brock?” Harry asked.
“She’s devastated. But holding on. It’s the grace of God; her faith is as strong as iron. Still, go easy with her, guys.”
We entered the room slowly. Mrs Scaler was abed, looking like she was sleeping. Her face remained a mask of bandages. The room smelled of salves and disinfectants. A man sat beside her, making notes on her chart. He looked up at my approach.
“Police,” I whispered.
He nodded and pointed to the door, meaning, I’ll come to you. We stayed in the hall. Archibald Fossie looked less like a nutritionist than a retired sixties activist: slender as a rope, salt-and-pepper hair going bald up front, long behind the ears, frameless bifocals. He wore a cockeyed red bow tie against a rumpled denim shirt, suspenders holding up khaki pants. His eyes were faded blue against a tan so smooth and even it looked like a table job. He owned a deep and consoling voice, conveying a bedside manner even after leaving the bedside.
“How is she doing?” I asked after he introduced himself.
“As good as can be expected, I suppose. I’m not sure if the horror has connected yet. I’m hoping she…doesn’t feel like hurting herself.”
“She’s suicidal?”
He pushed back his hair, frowned. “Not any longer. At least, I don’t think so. There was an attempt four years back. She chased a bottle of Xanax with a pint of Southern Comfort. She was alone in the house, no one expected for hours. It was certain death.”
“What saved her, Mr Fossie?”
“She staggered drunk through the patio door. When it broke it activated the burglar alarm. The cops rushed her to the emergency room for a stomach pumping.”
“She’s improved?”
“Her faith saved her by giving her the strength to continue. But I think there’s not much left of her spirit, if you know what I mean. Do you have to question her?”
“We didn’t get to talk much yesterday. She was in pain. Do you know why, Doctor?”
“She said she fell down the stairs. Something about high heels.”
“Do you believe her?”
Fossie turned away.
“Sir?” I said.
“God help me, I don’t believe her. I think her husband beat her. I think he’s done it before. But all I ever got from Patricia was denial. She stumbled over a hose in the yard, tripped in the garage, walked into a door…Damn him.”
“You didn’t get along with Reverend Scaler?”
“He thinks of nutritionally oriented health as akin to New Age crystal therapy, or maybe even witchcraft. Since her, uh, incident, Patricia’s become very nutritionally oriented, part of a regimen I’ve designed to keep her body healthy. When the body’s in balance, the mind follows. Richard tolerated me because keeping Patricia healthy potentially helped him avoid embarrassment.”
“You don’t sound like a big fan of Richard Scaler.”
“Everything was his. His home. His cars. His ministry. His television network. God gave it to him for being Richard Scaler. Patricia was just an object to him.” He paused and blinked through his lenses. “Do you really have to talk to her today?”
“Yes. We’ll go as easy as possible.”
“Thank you.” Fossie walked down the hall toward the waiting room.
Harry leaned low. “You want to go in solo?” he asked. “You think that’s better?”
I did and entered the room, cleared my throat. Patricia Scaler’s head turned to me, eyes open, frightened. I re-introduced myself, said, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. Did the chaplain explain a few things?” I meant the grim details of Richard Scaler’s death. “Or Mr Fossie?”
She avoided my eyes. “Both men spoke of unsavory topics, while trying to be gentle. I suspect Archie – Mr Fossie – of hiding uglier aspects of my husband’s final evening. It’s his way.”
“Then you know your husband went to Camp Sonshine after he left you. He met someone who may have been there when the heart
attack occurred. Do you know who Richard might have met?”
“I have no idea. I never want to know.” She turned away, as if that would make the ugliness disappear.
“Mrs Scaler…I want to help. And I won’t go telling what you say to anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to know. They’ll keep the information tight and confined. What happened that night?”
Her eyes turned inside. The second hand swept round the clock twice before her lips moved.
“Richard was having one of his bad times.”
“Bad times?”
“The stress of his work sometimes caught up with Richard. He’d have these moments. He’d question his works, his life. The moments never lasted more than a day or two. It’s been said Mother Teresa had terrible doubt.”
“Your husband’s, uh, episodes of doubt. They were infrequent?”
“Yes. But terrible to behold and coming more often of late. It was like the Devil was spearing Richard’s soul. Richard never made sense when he was like that. One time he spent a whole night yelling about serpents, following me around like he was preaching a sermon. I hid in bed, terrified, until Richard passed out on the floor downstairs.”
“You have no children?”
“God made it impossible for me to bear children. He thinks I would be an unworthy mother.”
I nodded, unable to argue with a thought process I could not understand. I put my hand over hers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. For all that happened.”
Her other hand fell over mine as soft as a falling leaf. She started to weep. I pulled the chair as close as the bed would allow.
“We were happy once,” she said through her tears. “But for the last few years it was like we lived separate lives in the same house. The more famous and successful he became, the less I was to him. I didn’t try hard enough. It’s all…my fault. Everything.”
“It’s not your fault, Mrs Scaler. Not a bit.”
“I must have driven him to such women. Made him need such terrible things.”
“Please, Mrs Scaler, Patricia, you need to –”
