Sissy

by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  "Yes, really." Marianne squeezed Susie's hand and smiled a confident smile. "Rodney's doctor, Warner, has agreed to take you as a patient, and Dr. Switzer is making the referral. As soon as that's done, we'll schedule an ambulance to transport you."

  "Oh! Hahhhhh-peeee." Susie's smile was broad and it was the first time I'd seen her dimples since the shooting.

  "The two of you will be good medicine for each other. And you'll like Dr. Warner." Marianne grinned, and I stared at her intently, trying to read whether there was something beneath those words. Susie must have sensed it too.

  "You? Like Warrrrr-ner?" Susie laughed.

  "Don't jump to conclusions." Marianne laughed too, but I could tell Susie had struck a chord. "He's a good neurosurgeon and seems genuinely interested in Rodney."

  "Heeee? Likes. You?" Susie started to laugh, which made Marianne laugh. None of us had been very happy since we'd walked out of the church on Susie's wedding day almost two weeks before, so it was quite a relief to laugh like sisters and feel a bit lighthearted.

  Then I thought: If Susie, Marianne, Rodney, and Lilly are all going to be in New Orleans, it falls to me to find out who did this, and bring them to justice. Me, twenty-five-year-old Sissy Burton.

  Chapter Three

  ***

  New Orleans

  MARIANNE TOOK A week off from work and rode in the back of the ambulance with Susie, which was a smart move because the trip was grueling and painful for her. Mari had to sedate Susie about thirty minutes outside of Jean Ville. I followed the ambulance with our luggage and more things for Lilly, since she'd hadn't packed much when she'd gone to New Orleans the week before.

  Susie was admitted to the step-down unit at Ochsner, where patients went directly from ICU before they were transferred to a medical floor. Dr. Warner said he wanted to assess her and monitor her brain function and nervous system.

  Warner was a good-looking guy—tall, well-built, masculine, and with a hint of mischievousness about him. I watched the way he looked at Marianne and how he found reasons to ask her to go out to the hall with him to discuss things. I tried to read Marianne's reaction to the handsome doctor, but it was difficult. I don't think she knew how to act. She'd never been attracted to a man, but it seemed to me this one had her attention.

  It was a slow, grueling pace for Susie because she was eager to see Rodney, but Warner had other plans. Lilly stayed with Susie whenever the nurses allowed, and with Rodney for ten minutes every two hours, as per the ICU rules. Marianne kept reminding Susie to be patient, but she wanted to see her husband in person.

  I got to see Rodney twice during the two days I was in New Orleans. He didn't respond to me, but I sat near his bed and talked to him as though he understood everything I said. I told him he was right about Warren. That I would get the creep out of my life. I told him I was going to make sure we got justice for what happened to him. I thanked him for saving Susie's life, because I was sure that he'd either seen something or had a premonition, and that's why he'd wrapped his body around her—to protect her, taking both bullets himself.

  I loved my brother-in-law and wanted him to recover fully. He'd made me feel important and taught me to look at myself in a way I'd never done. The way he treated me encouraged me to be a better person, and that new, better person was determined to find out who did this to him.

  A couple of days after arriving at Ochsner, Dr. Warner moved Susie to a room on the brain injury floor, called Neurology.

  Warner agreed that Susie could visit Rodney once she was able to sit up in a wheelchair and be transported to his room in ICU. Lilly told Susie about every inch of progress Rodney made. Lilly would climb into bed with Susie and turn on the television that was mounted near the ceiling. I'd sit in the chair in the corner of the room, and we'd all laugh at cartoons as though we were three-year-olds.

  Susie worked hard with the team of physical, speech, and occupational therapists who taught her how to hold her head up when she sat on the side of the bed or in the chair in her room; but her neck would give way to the weight and the excruciating pain that she never complained about. Dr. Warner suggested a soft neck brace, which helped, but she said she wouldn't let Rodney see her in it because he would worry that she might not be recovering.

  "Look, Suse. I need to get back home." I sat beside her bed.

  "Why? I neeeee you." Her lips turned downward, and her brow crinkled.

  "I feel like it's up to me to find out who did this." I watched her as she closed her eyes for a few seconds, and when she reopened them, there was a look of rage in them. I'd never seen Susie angry and, at first, I feared it was directed at me.

  "Yes! Pleeeeese. Fiiine them."

  I took a deep breath, more like a sigh of relief, and said, "I don't have any clues yet, but James said he'd help me. And Dr. Switzer, too. I need to go back to follow up."

  "Oh kaay." She seemed angry and edgy. "Fiiine whoooo shu Rod." She took a deep breath as though the anger and sentences took all of her energy.

  "Don't worry about it. I'll find them." I squeezed her hand and she closed her eyes. "You worry about getting better so you can see your husband. Let me do the sleuthing!"

  She opened her eyes and grinned at me. I winked at her and remembered how I had felt when I was seven or eight and saw her get into a car with a boy I now know was Rodney. They were in Dr. Switzer's driveway, and my dad was standing near the street, yelling at Rodney. My mother was holding onto me because I wanted to run across the street and ask Susie to take me with her. Instead, she slammed her door and Rodney got in the car and drove off. I didn't see her again for three years, and I hated her for leaving me.

  She came home a few times, once when Catfish died, then again when I was a teenager. I went to New York with Marianne twice after Josh died. That's when I saw Susie as a vulnerable person, not the princess who had everything, lived in a fancy city, and forgot that she had a younger sister. That was when I realized she had not lived the fairy tale I'd invented. That was when I forgave her, even though she never knew I harbored all that resentment for almost twenty years.

  *

  Around noon on Monday, I found Dr. Switzer walking through the parking lot from his office to the hospital. I was perplexed about how to stir up the local politicians to open a case on the shooting, and Dr. Switzer had told me he would talk to Reggie Borders.

  "Hi. Hey, Doc. Wait up!" I ran across the pavement and tried to get Dr. Switzer's attention before he went through the back door that could only be unlocked with a code.

  "Hi, Sissy." He turned around and stopped with his hand on the door's silver handle. "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm looking for you, actually. Got a sec?" I was a little out of breath and looked up at the reflection of sunlight that bounced off his glasses. I couldn't see his expression because of the glare. "Could we get a cup of coffee?"

  "Follow me. We'll go to the doctors' lounge." He punched some numbers into the code box and I watched: 4863. I thought about how to memorize the code, in case I should ever need to sneak in the back door of the hospital. I told myself that it was 1984, so the first two numbers, 48, were the reverse of 84. The number 63 was easy. I was born in 1960. All I had to do was remember what it was like to be three years old when, on my birthday, Mama had a bakery make me a Tinker Bell cake. Easy-peasy: 48-63.

  I followed Dr. David into the hallway, past the nurses’ station, and through a wooden door just before Administration. There was no one in the room. A coffee maker was set on a counter with a tray of sandwiches covered in plastic wrap next to it. There was a large, clear plastic bowl filled with soft drinks and crushed ice and a stack of plastic glasses and paper coffee cups next to that. Napkins and plastic forks were in the corner.

  "Want a sandwich? I'm having one." He got a clear plastic plate near the flatware and piled several sandwich halves on it. "Help yourself."

  I took a Sprite from the bowl, put some ice in one of the plastic glasses, an
d sat across from Dr. David.

  "I spent the last few days in New Orleans." I took a swig of my Sprite. "Susie was moved to neurology. She's doing remarkably well."

  "Yes, I talked to Dr. Warner. He calls me almost every day." He took a couple large bites of his sandwich and drank about half his Coke.

  "So I guess you know Rodney is still in ICU." I wrapped both my hands around the can of Sprite and bent forward towards the table a little.

  "Yes. Not out of the woods." He finished off his first sandwich and started on the second one.

  "I want to talk to you about the shooting." I stared at him, but he was busy with his sandwich.

  "Oh, yes. I said I would talk to Borders. It slipped my mind." He gulped the rest of his Coke and got up to get another one.

  "I went to see Mr. Borders. He brushed me off. Told me to see the sheriff." I told Dr. David about the dead ends I hit at the sheriff and police departments. He sat down and opened his Coke and stared at me.

  "Surely there's a police report. The city cops were at the church. I know they talked to people." He sat back in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  "That's what I thought, but I'm getting the runaround." I watched him fold his arms across his chest and close his eyes as though deep in thought. He pushed his chair away from the table, the sound of the legs scraping on the linoleum floor startled me and I stood up.

  "Come with me." He headed out the door, and I had a difficult time keeping up with his long strides as he marched past Administration and out the front door of the hospital. My short legs had to run to keep up as I attempted to count the cracks in the sidewalk, a habit I couldn't break any more than I could quit biting my nails. My purse strap slipped from my shoulder, and I almost dragged it along the pavement as we crossed the street thirty-one sidewalk cracks later. Dr. David turned left and marched two blocks on another sidewalk, twenty-two cracks, to the courthouse, which stood on a full square block of grass and pavement in the middle of town.

  *

  We climbed two flights of concrete steps on the outside of the building, ten in the first flight, ten in the next, with a landing between that took seven extra steps. The four-story parish building looked like most small-town courthouses built in the 1920s.

  We entered double glass doors that led into the second floor of the building and walked on tiled floors that smelled of Clorox and disinfectant. That gave me a peaceful feeling, like maybe I wouldn't have to wash my hands every five minutes if the place was clean.

  Dr. Switzer seemed to know exactly where he was going as he turned and started up an internal flight of stairs, ten up, then a landing, another ten, and we were on the third floor facing a huge door with a sign above it that said, "Courtroom of Judge Edward DeYoung."

  Switzer opened the door and stuck his head in, then he closed it and started down the hallway that was really a balcony overlooking the floor below. At the first door on the right, he pressed a black button, and a few seconds later there was a clicking sound. He opened the door and held it for me to enter ahead of him.

  A pretty lady, about forty years old, sat behind a desk with headphones in her ears. She pulled them out and stood up.

  "Dr. Switzer. What a pleasant surprise." She walked around the desk and hugged him. "The Judge will be happy to see you. Let me tell him you're here."

  The door to an inner office opened, and a big man with sandy hair turning grey around the temples came out with his hand extended.

  "David. This is a nice surprise. To what do I owe the honor of you coming all the way up here?" He shook hands with Switzer and grabbed the doctor's elbow with his other hand.

  "Ed, I need to talk to you about something." Dr. David smiled at the Judge, who wore a shirt and tie and black slacks, no robe. He turned and led us through the door. Inside his office was a hall tree with two black judges' robes hanging on coat hangers. He had a large desk with a tall, leather chair behind it facing the door we'd entered. In front of the desk were two shorter leather chairs. He pointed to them.

  "This is Abigail Burton. The senator's youngest daughter." Dr. David turned towards me, and the judge extended his hand to shake mine.

  "Most people call me Sissy. Nice to meet you, Judge." I shook his hand and smiled my most charming smile.

  "So, Miss Burton. I take it your sister is the one who…" He didn't complete his sentence, but I knew what he meant.

  "Yes, Your Honor. She married Rodney Thibault, who was shot when they walked out of the church." I looked him dead in the eye. He dropped my hand and walked behind his desk.

  "Have a seat." He sat in his tall chair, folded his hands together on his desk, and leaned forward.

  "Look, Ed." Switzer didn't waste time. He propped one leg across the other, sat back in his chair, and stared at the judge. "Sissy has been to see Borders. She's been to the sheriff's department and the city police. They all say there's no police report."

  "Did the police show up at the scene?" The judge looked at Switzer then at me.

  "There were three city police units there, along with two ambulances and the fire truck." I sat on the edge of my seat and looked from the judge to the doctor.

  "Were you there, David?" Judge DeYoung looked at Dr. Switzer.

  "Yes. I didn't see what happened. I rushed out of church to help Thibault. He was shot twice. One bullet went through his arm, exited, reentered under his shoulder blade, and lodged near his lung. The other bullet entered the side of his head above his right ear."

  "What did you see, Miss Burton?" The Judge looked at me. His glare was intense, and I could almost see the wheels turning inside.

  "I heard the shots and saw a blue truck take off, spewing gravel and tar from its tires." I didn't want to say much. Both men seemed like no-nonsense types who would be put off by a girl rambling on about helping her sister and all the blood, and Lilly screaming.

  The judge picked up his phone.

  "Lydia. Get Chief Marchand on the phone for me." He turned and looked at me. "What was the date?"

  "June thirtieth."

  "June thirtieth, Lydia. Thanks." Judge DeYoung kept his stare on me. "What have you been told, so far?"

  I explained that I had spoken to Mr. Reggie, although I didn't reveal my relationship with the Borders, or say that I went to his house on a Sunday afternoon.

  "He told me it was up to the sheriff." I paused because I didn't want to ramble.

  "Did you see Sheriff Desiré?"

  "No, sir. The receptionist said he was busy and gave me a bunch of papers to fill out. She said I needed to file a claim. I told her it wasn't a claim, it was a crime. She told me she didn't have a police report."

  "Did you talk to the mayor or the chief of police?"

  "No, sir. I went to the police department and got the same thing. The receptionist said there was no police report."

  Judge DeYoung turned towards Dr. Switzer. "What do you think is going on, David?"

  "I think a black man was shot by some vigilantes who think they are above the law. That's what I think." Switzer's face was red, his arms folded across his chest. "It seems as though no one feels it's important, but someone knows something. They just aren't sharing the information."

  I thought about that. Why would anyone want to hide a crime by a couple of vigilantes?

  "I don't put up with that kind of behavior. This is the 1980s, not the 1880s." His phone buzzed, and he picked it up. "Yes. Thanks. Put him through.

  "Winn. What do you have on the Thibault shooting?" He listened for a few seconds. "Have you opened an investigation?" There was another pause. "Well, get on it and keep me posted on what you find." He hung up.

  "The police chief says he doesn't think there's an investigation, but I figure he'll get one started pretty soon." DeYoung stood up, which was our cue to leave. I stood too, and Dr. Switzer slowly rose from his chair.

  "Look, David, I'll let you know what I find out. Thanks for coming up here
with this." He came around the desk and squeezed my shoulder. "I hope your sister and her husband survive this. Give Lydia a phone number where I can reach you."

  "Thank you, Judge. Thank you very much." I stuttered and felt flushed.

  "Please give my best to your dad. I hear he's not well. And let me know how things go with your sister and Mr. Thibault."

  "Her name is Susie. Susanna. His name is Rodney. He's Ray Thibault's son." I had to bend my head back to look at him because he was very tall and was standing close to me.

  "I know Ray. Good man. I get my gas as his station. And I know Jeffrey, too. He's been in my courtroom, a good lawyer. I didn't know Ray had two boys."

  "Yes, sir. Rodney was in the army for ten years. He was a JAG officer, a major. He's a really good guy." I knew I was prejudiced when it came to Rodney, but I was telling the truth.

  "Hmm. I didn't realize it was Ray's boy. Another lawyer, huh? JAG? Major? Impressive." Judge DeYoung opened the door to his secretary's office, and I walked through it. He and Dr. David said a few words to each other, and the doctor and I left. We didn't say much as we walked back to the hospital, but when we sat back down at the table where Dr. Switzer's uneaten sandwiches and Coke remained as though he'd never left, he looked at me with a serious expression.

  "If you are going to pursue this thing, you need to be careful." He picked up his Coke, and I noticed the condensation ring it left on the table. "If there is a cover-up, it's by powerful people who won't take kindly to someone snooping around."

  "I'm not afraid of powerful people," I emphasized the word ‘powerful.’

  "You should be." He put his Coke down and leaned forward. His expression was fatherly, kind. "Be careful, Sissy."

  Chapter Four

  ***

  Small Steps

  SUSIE HAD BEEN on the neurology floor for a week when she could finally hold her head up on her own, although not for long. She wore the neck brace when Marianne rolled her down the hall in a wheelchair, onto the elevators, to ICU. I walked alongside, and Susie took the brace off her neck and handed it to me just before we all entered Rodney's room.