Trial by Fire

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Brenda’s fingers twitched again inside her palm. Bringing the woman’s hand to her chest, Stella held it there a few moments and then placed it back under the covers, before rushing out to tell the Andersons the good news.

  The units were assembled at the base of the hill leading up to Clem Cataloni’s house. Stella was waiting inside a squad car while Sergeant Phil McDonald finished instructing his men. It was five twenty-five and the sun was still high in the sky, but the searing heat of the past week had finally lifted and a gentle breeze brushed across Stella’s face. Dressed in their riot gear, the black-garbed police officers appeared out of place under the pale blue sky. “Looks like an invasion,” she said when McDonald walked over to speak to her.

  “I hear you want to go in with us,” the sergeant said, speaking to her through the window. McDonald had wheat-colored hair, a rugged face, and the coldest blue eyes Stella had ever seen. At forty-nine, he was six feet three and built like a linebacker, his body as fit as a man of thirty. We cleared it with Fitzgerald,” Stella said. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Yeah, he told me,” McDonald said, the muscles in his body tensing. “I’d like to have a few minutes alone with him, though,” he added. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  The sergeant’s animosity hit Stella right between the eyes. Was McDonald one of her uncle’s co-conspirators? She pulled her head back from the window, a jolt of fear darting up her spine. For a long time, McDonald continued to glare at her, then he finally turned and headed up the winding driveway.

  The young officer Stella was riding with started the car, taking up a position behind the sergeant. One by one, the other men followed suit, lining up their squad cars and inching along as the sergeant led the procession on foot. Throughout her tenure as a prosecutor, Stella had gone out on dozens of big busts. There was always an excited buzz in the air, and the officers would joke and posture. Glancing out the back window of the police car at the string of cars and the somber-faced men inside, she knew there would be no jokes and laughter tonight.

  Once the sergeant had reached the front of the house, several officers exited their units and joined him on the front porch. McDonald stepped forward, and rang the bell. After three or four minutes, Sarah Cataloni appeared, and a few moments later, the men pushed their way through the doorway. “Let’s go,” Stella said, reaching for the door handle.

  The young officer threw his arms across Stella’s chest, pinning her in the seat. “Stay put,” he shouted. “Sergeant McDonald wants to talk to Captain Cataloni first. He gave me specific orders. I’m not supposed to let you go inside until he gives me a signal.”

  Stella was furious. Fitzgerald had made a mistake sending the Houston P.D. out to arrest one of their own. Were they going to allow her uncle to slip out the back door? Clem had ample funds. He could flee the country. “Get your hands off me,” Stella snarled. “You have no right to do this to me. Fitzgerald said—”

  “I’m sorry,” the officer said. “I can’t let you go.”

  Stella tried to pry his arm off, but the man was too strong. She began to panic, certain something sinister was unfolding, and determined to stop it. With one hand on the door, she sank her teeth into the officer’s arm. The second he yelped and jerked away, Stella leaped out the passenger door and sprinted toward the front of the house.

  The front door was standing open. The living room was empty, but Stella could hear men’s voices coming from the back of the house. She headed down the hall and came to the door to her uncle’s study. Clem Cataloni was seated behind his desk, listening as the sergeant read off the charges from the arrest warrant.

  Stella pushed her way inside the room, shoving several officers out of her way.

  When her uncle saw her, the strained look on his face turned to rage. “You,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at her. “You just couldn’t leave me alone, could you? You killed my brother and now you’re trying to destroy me.”

  “You destroyed yourself,” Stella said, her lip curling. “I hope you like small places, because you’ll probably never see the outside of a prison cell again.” She sucked in a breath. “My father was on to you, wasn’t he?” she shouted. “He knew all about your little pension scam. That’s why you had to get rid of him.” Whipping her hair back from her face, she said, “That’s why I look like this. I’ll look like this until I die, thanks to you. But at least I survived, huh? Mom and Dad weren’t that lucky.”

  “You’re a lying whore,” Cataloni snarled. “You disgust me.”

  “Pilgrim confessed,” Stella spat. “The jig is up. You can call me names all you want. It won’t get you out of this mess.”

  “That’s enough,” McDonald growled, stepping in front of Stella. His uniform was damp with perspiration, and a look of hatred shot from his eyes. Stella recoiled, fearful the man was going to strike her. “You had your say,” he spat. “Now leave us alone, and let us do our jobs.”

  Stella moved backward one step at a time, never taking her eyes off the sergeant. McDonald shook his head, made a little smacking noise with his mouth, and then turned back to Clem Cataloni. “I’m sorry, Captain, but we’ve got to take you in now,” he said. “There’s no use making it any worse than it is, sir.”

  A group of officers approached her uncle, and in the small room, Stella was suddenly surrounded by a sea of blue suits. Someone yelled, “Watch out. He has a gun.”

  A single shot rang out, and everyone panicked. Stella found herself crushed on the floor under several officers. Feet pounded all around her. Voices were screaming and barking orders. Someone crushed Stella’s hand beneath his heel. “Fuck,” she said, shaking her fingers once the man moved away. Pushing herself up on her hands and knees, she began crawling across the room. She touched something sticky and wet on the floor.

  “He’s gone,” a deep voice said. “Get these men out of here. We need some air. Peters, get an ambulance and medical examiner en route.”

  Stella managed to get to her feet. Her hands were covered with blood and a gray mushy substance that resembled oatmeal. When she saw the top of her uncle’s head, she realized the gray matter on her hands was brain tissue. Clementine Cataloni was still seated behind his desk, but the top of his head was completely gone. Loose flaps of skin obscured his face. One hand was resting on the desk, the skin splattered with blood. The other hand was dangling over the side of the armrest, the gun resting beneath it on the floor.

  “Swallowed his gun,” Sergeant McDonald said, looking over at Stella and then back to what was left of her uncle. “Are you satisfied now?” he said, his chest heaving. Exploding, the sergeant reached out and grabbed Stella’s blouse near the collar, lifting her off her feet. “I guess the thought of jail wasn’t that appealing, huh?” he said. “He was my son’s godfather. You want to come to my house and tell my son that his godfather blew his frigging head off?”

  An officer came up behind the sergeant and touched his arm. “Let her go, Sarge,” he said. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Get the fuck away,” McDonald shouted, unable to calm down. “All Clem was trying to do was help our guys cut through the red tape and get what they deserved. Because of this fucking bitch, he’s dead.”

  Stella’s blouse was so tight around her neck that she felt as if she was strangling. Gasping for air, she kicked out and managed to connect with the sergeant’s knee, causing him to release her. She fell to the floor, landing on her seat in a puddle of blood.

  Stella felt her stomach turning over and over like a beach ball. Wiping her hands back and forth on her pants, she had to struggle to keep from vomiting. “He didn’t have to kill himself,” she muttered under her breath. “It wasn’t my fault. Please, believe me, I—”

  The other officers were watching and listening. One man’s eyes were glistening with tears, and he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. A long silence ensued. The only sound in the room was the ping, ping, ping of her uncle’s blood as it dripped off the corner of the desk
and splashed onto the wood flooring.

  Stella saw another officer unholster his gun, and she quickly scrambled to her feet, knowing a threat when she saw one. “My aunt,” she said. “Where’s my aunt?”

  “In the bedroom,” the man with the handkerchief said, tilting his head toward the back of the house.

  “Does she know?” Stella asked.

  “She knows,” he said.

  Stella found Sarah Cataloni face down on the bed, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Walking over, Stella softly touched the back of her neck. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Sarah,” she said. “Is there anything I can do? Anyone I can call for you? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  “Get out of my house,” the woman cried, lifting her head off the pillow. “I refused to believe Clem when he told me you were responsible for your parents’ deaths, but I know now he was right. What’s wrong with you? Why are you such a twisted, ugly person? Your parents were good people. They tried to give you a nice home.”

  “I loved my parents,” Stella said. “And whether you believe it or not, I had nothing whatsoever to do with their deaths. Uncle Clem killed them. He killed them to cover up his illegal activities.”

  “That’s a lie,” she said, sniffling. “Clem’s a great man. Everyone worships him. He’s never broken the law in his life.”

  “You have to believe what you have to believe,” Stella said, realizing that it had been a mistake to try to comfort her after they had been estranged for so long. “If you ever want to know the truth, though,” she added, handing her a card, “all you have to do is call.”

  After leaving her uncle’s house, Stella went to the hotel to shower and change clothes, and then headed to Methodist Hospital to check on Brenda Anderson. Her condition had improved somewhat, and Stella was pleased. She was semicomatose, but was now able to communicate by squeezing people’s hands. Her parents had worked out a system where she would tighten the muscles in her right hand for an affirmative response, and do the same with her left hand for a negative.

  “She looks better today,” Stella said. “Her color has improved. She’s isn’t as pale.”

  “Go on,” her mother urged, giving Stella a little push to get her to move closer to Brenda’s bed. “Try to talk to her. She can hear you, but she can’t speak. But she will,” she added, “it’s just going to take her some time.” She bent down in her daughter’s face. “You have a visitor, sugar. Don’t you want to talk to her? Come on, wake up for your momma. Be a good girl, Brenda. I know you can do it if you try.”

  “Brenda,” Stella said, “my uncle committed suicide. It’s over. As soon as you’re better, we’re going to celebrate.” Lifting the woman’s hand, she added, “Do you understand? It’s finally over. I can go back to my life. You’re the one who made it possible.”

  Brenda’s lips moved, but no sound came out. A few seconds later, she opened her eyes.

  “Praise the Lord,” Eleanor Anderson said, rushing back to her daughter’s bedside, her husband right behind her. “Thank you, Jesus,” she continued, looking up at the ceiling. “My baby is back.”

  Brenda looked up at Stella’s face. “What did I do?” she said weakly. “I heard you talking.”

  “Not much,” Stella said, feeling her heart soar, “you just saved my life.” She leaned down and kissed Brenda’s cheek. “My uncle shot you, Brenda,” she told her. “He meant to shoot me, but you stepped in front of me. He’s dead. He blew his head off.”

  Brenda’s mother cared only about her daughter’s recovery. “How do you feel?” her mother said, stroking Brenda’s forehead. “I knew you’d come back to us. I knew God wouldn’t let a wonderful person like you die.”

  “How’re you doing, pumpkin?” her father said in his soft voice, stroking her arm. “Can I get you anything? Something to eat, a drink maybe.”

  Brenda grimaced, moving her hand over her stomach. ‘Til get the nurse,” Stella said. “She’s in pain.”

  “Don’t go,” Brenda said. “What did you find out about the Zippo lighter?”

  Stella laughed. “Always the investigator, huh?”

  “Damn right,” she said, managing a small smile.

  “I don’t think it really matters anymore.”

  “Okay,” Brenda said. “Then get me a shot or something. I hurt like a bitch.” She touched the bandages on her stomach, but this time her grimace was not from pain. “I’ll never be able to wear a bikini again. All those damn situps were for nothing.”

  Not wanting to spend the night alone, Stella showed up on Mario’s doorstep. “What are you doing here?” he said, moving back as she stepped through the doorway.

  “Can I stay with you?” Stella asked. “Uncle Clem killed himself tonight. I was there.”

  Mario was speechless.

  “I always suspected it was Dad who set the fire,” she told him, once they had taken seats in the living room and Stella had filled him in on all the facts. Mario had insisted Stella drink a glass of wine to relax her, and she gulped it down in a few swallows.

  “You never told me that,” Mario said. Seeing Stella’s wineglass was empty> he reached over and filled it up again.

  “The look on his face that night, and the way he was holding the ax over his head,” she said. “I was certain he was trying to kill me. You have no idea how relieved I am to know my fears weren’t true.”

  The two lapsed into silence. “Do you remember the time Clem pulled a shotgun on me?” Mario said. “Danny was still living with them at the time, and he was always getting into fights. One nighty the police brought him home in a squad car, and Uncle Clem went ballistic. That’s when I had to get out of there. I thought Clem got carried away with me that night because of all the problems they were having with Danny. I never suspected he had anything to do with the fire. In retrospect, I guess holding a shotgun on your nephew is pretty radical.”

  Her uncle and aunt had been childless, and Stella had forgotten about the foster child they had taken in not long before the fire. Although she had only seen the boy on one occasion when they went to her uncle’s house for Sunday dinner, she remembered Danny as a big, strapping sixteen-year-old, a troubled young man who never smiled. “They should have never taken in a foster child that old,” Stella said. “I’m surprised Clem ever agreed to do it. He should have known it would never work out. Aunt Sarah must have pushed him into it. When a child is that old, their personality has already been formed.” Stella drained the last of her wine, then set her glass on the end table. “What ever happened to Danny?”

  “Who knows?” Mario shrugged. “He’s probably in jail somewhere.” Something came to mind and he added, “A box came today. I don’t know what it is, but the return address is from the Houston D.A.‘s office. It was addressed to some lab, so I just assumed it was for you. Do you want me to get it? It can’t be anything significant. It’s about the size of a ring box.”

  “No,” Stella said, her voice weary and strained. “I know what it is, but I’m not in the mood to deal with it tonight. Just hold on to it for me.”

  Stella went into the kitchen to use Mario’s phone. She filled Sam in on what had transpired. “It was awful, Sam. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know,” Stella said. “I’ll probably have to spend all day tomorrow at the police station giving them my statement. They’re going to want to document everything, and I need to find out where Brenda put all the paperwork she collected on the pension scam.”

  “Why don’t I come down on Friday?” Sam said. “That will give you all day tomorrow and the next day to conclude your business with the police and the court. I think I’ll bring Adam along, if that’s all right. We’ll all stay in a hotel, make it like a mini-vacation.”

  Stella rubbed her eyes. “I’m so tired right now,” she told him, “I might need more than a mini-vacation, Sam.” His mention of her business with the court finally struck home. “I want to pay you back,”
she said. “As soon as they officially drop the charges, they have to refund the bail money.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Stella,” Sam said. “I’m not coming to get my money back. I want to see you, spend the weekend with you and Adam. I thought we’d go to a ball game at the Astrodome. Adam has been begging me for years to take him to an Astros game.”

  “Sure,” Stella said. “Did you ever talk to Brad, by the way?”

  “Not in person,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you he stood me up?”

  “Yes,” Stella said, “but weren’t you supposed to see him yesterday?”

  “According to his secretary,” he said, “he was called away on urgent business. My guess is he took his girlfriend to Vegas or something. But look, Stella, he called me and I made a pretty good pitch over the phone. I told him you were going to get off, that you had evidence that would prove your innocence.” Sam paused. “Will they drop the charges now on the fire?”

  “I’m almost certain they will,” she said. “Even though I won’t need the money for an attorney, Sam, I’m really anxious for the divorce to be final. How did he sound when you talked to him? Was he agreeable to the terms I suggested?”

  “I worked him hard,” he answered. “I think he’s weakening. Probably by next week we should be able to strike a deal with him.” He paused and his voice dropped to a low murmur. “I want you to be free too, Stella.”

  “I miss you terribly,” she said.

  “Not as much as I miss you,” he answered.

  “I haven’t been sleeping, Stella. I’ve been too worried about you.”

  “You don’t have to worry anymore, Sam,” Stella reassured him. “Seeing my uncle blow his head off wasn’t a pretty sight, but Tm relieved that it’s finally over.”

  “Until Friday then,” Sam said.