It might have been his baseball cap and casual wear “disguise,” but Sheriff Dash looked more at home in my dusty red truck than I’d have ever imagined. He wasn’t fidgety. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t much of anything, really.
There had to be a reason why the self-proclaimed “best detective in all of D.C.” would take a job in a one-horse town like Second Springs, even if it was a sheriff’s position.
Now wasn’t the time to think about that. I had an entirely different set of questions that needed answers; answers that only Ralph could provide.
Of course, getting him to provide them was going to be the difficult part.
I surprised myself when I spoke first. I just couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“Do you like it here?” I asked, clutching the wheel as I sped over a particularly rough pothole in the road.
“Here on the highway?” he asked, without looking over.
“Here in Second Springs. Or there in Second Springs, rather,” I clarified, realizing we were no longer in the small town where I had, much like Will Smith, spent most of my days.
“That’s an odd question,” he answered.
“Is it?” I asked, my eyes darting over to him. “It seemed like a perfectly mundane thing to me.”
“For a regular person, sure,” he answered. “But you’re not a regular person, are you, Ms. Redoux? You’re a detective. And here you are asking me how I like the town I’ve found myself in. You might as well be talking to me about the weather.”
“Well, maybe I just won’t talk to you at all,” I said, clutching at the steering wheel and actively stopping myself from rolling my eyes. This guy had some nerve.
Sheriff Dash chuckled loudly. “Don’t be like that. I’m just teasing you. Second Springs is a fine place. It’s a little quiet, but the people are amazing, and it’s the perfect place to raise a family."
“Oh,” I said, straightening a little. “I didn’t realize you were in a position to think about that kind of thing.” The temperature of my cheeks rose a few excited degrees, which was ridiculous.
“I’m not,” he answered. “Not anymore, anyway.” He shook his head. “My wife was gunned down outside of our apartment building a few years back. I didn’t think too highly of the city after that. My boss back in D.C. suggested I take a job with less penchant for stress, and he knew the mayor here.” He shrugged. “So here I am.”
“Investigating a murder,” I said softly. “So much for low stress.”
“It’s funny how life works out, isn’t it? This is exactly the kind of place Marie wanted to move to after we got married. She begged me to put in for a transfer, but I just kept telling her I needed to be where the action was.” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize what was important back then.”
“I’m sorry,” I answered, fighting the urge to pat his hand. I knew what he was saying, about not knowing what was important until it was too late. Suddenly, all the similarities I had with him fell short of this one. We had both lost a lot, and we were both trying to live with that.
“Look at that. You’re a better detective than I thought,” he grinned.
“No,” I answered. “I wasn’t trying to--”
“I know that,” he said. “Just like I know that you’ve had your share of losses, too. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you about them. I think that’s why we get along so well because we have the important things in common.”
“We get along well?” I balked. “That’s news to me. I thought our entire relationship was arguing, backbiting comments, and you pretending to be serious when you threaten to throw me in jail.”
“Oh, I am serious,” he smiled. “I was definitely considering throwing you in jail. Still am, if I'm being completely honest.” He slid further into his seat. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like you, though.”
15
Hamilton Medical Center was much bigger than anything we were used to in Second Springs; where the clinic and Dr. Thompkins took care of everything from a case of the flu to a broken ankle. But for things like what had just happened to Ralph, it seemed even the hospital in Clear Lake wasn’t prepared.
That said a lot about what the severity of his injuries must have been.
I pulled into the (three story!) parking structure, circling my way up before I found a spot halfway up the second floor.
When Sheriff Dash and I got out of the truck, wiping embarrassing bits of excess dust off us, Mayor McConnell hopped out of the back, too.
“Uh, I’m not sure that’s going to work, Mayor McConnell,” I said, looking awkwardly over at Sheriff Dash. “I don’t think they’re going to allow us to go inside with a dog.”
Mayor McConnell cocked his head and looked at me as if to say “so what?”
“Well,” I cleared my throat. “You are a dog.”
He huffed, shaking his head and continuing past me toward the hospital.
“Hey!” I said, circling in front of him. “I’m serious. We’ve got work to do here. Now I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to stay put.”
He stared at me again and, if his silence had words, they would have been “What do you think I’m here for, then?”
“Is that right?” I asked, reacting to his stare. “I couldn’t get you off the floor when Patrick died, and suddenly you want to be the New Age Scooby Doo? I don’t think so.”
His silent stare continued.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Why don’t you make a couple of laps around the perimeter and see if you can spot anything out of the ordinary?”
Mayor McConnell nodded and trotted off, paws clicking loudly against the concrete.
“Seriously?” Sheriff Dash asked, looking from me to the dog and back again. “What if he just wanders away?”
“Oh, he won’t,” I waved it off, starting toward the hospital. “He’s just a showoff. The truth of the matter is that, for all his bluster, I’m beginning to think he’s really just a softie.” I chuckled. “He’s even afraid of the dark.”
“Just like his namesake, then,” Sheriff Dash answered, keeping pace with me with his hands in his pockets.
“What?” I asked, looking over at him.
“I assumed you named him after Mayor Colin McConnell, the 19th-century politician,” he said, keeping pace with me as we exited the parking structure and headed toward the main building.
“Um, sure,” I answered. “Though I’m surprised you knew that.”
Mostly because even I didn’t know that.
“Well, I’ve always had an interest in the great crimes of history. It’s what stoked me into the police force in the first place. I doesn’t get much darker than Colin McConnell, does it?”
My eyes darted back and forth, and I narrowed them. “Oh, definitely not. It’s so epic,” I lied. “Especially that other part. You know, that part.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not a clue,” I admitted. “He’s a secondhand dog. He had the name when I got him.”
“Well, his previous owner must have been of a macabre sort,” Sheriff Dash answered. “Colin McConnell was Betsy Ewing’s fourth husband.”
“Okay…” I said.
“Betsy Ewing, the Black Widow of the South,” he said, as though the knowledge was as common as beginning a Kardashian’s name with the letter K. “She married seven men in all before they caught her. She’d poison them and then collect the insurance money, but that wasn’t the worst part. The drugs she’d give them were intense sedatives.”
“Oh no!” I said as the pieces clicked together in my mind.
“Which means--”
“He was buried alive,” I finished, picturing the dog and now understanding just why he had been so afraid of the dark.
“More than likely,” Sheriff Dash answered. “That’s the urban legend, though it’s a shame there’s no way to know for sure.”
“Right,” I answered uncomfortably.
We pushed into the hospital, where Sheriff Dash flashed
his badge, and we were directed to the 7th floor.
“The trauma unit,” a pudgy nurse with a helmet of tight blond curls and a bad attitude barked at us through a mouthful of Cheetos.
“Thanks,” Sheriff Dash said drolly as we headed toward the elevator.
As the doors opened, we were met with a pair of uniformed officers who stood outside the room where I had to imagine Ralph was staying.
“That’s close enough, dudes,” the younger of the officers said, walking toward us with his hand stretched in the shape of a stop sign. “I’m afraid you guys are going to have to take the long way around if you need to get by.” He leaned in. “I’m not supposed to say anything, but there’s a dangerous criminal in the next room.”
“How prudent of you,” Sheriff Dash said. “I know who the criminal is. I called in about him.” I swear his chest puffed up as he once again flashed his badge and said the next part. “I’m the sheriff of Second Springs.”
The young officer looked him up and down. “Seriously? You guys must be super casual down there,” he added, pointing at Darrin’s undercover attire. “Are you guys, like, hiring or anything? Cause I’m kinda sick of having to wear a belt.”
I stifled a chuckle.
“Don’t ask him for a job, Charlie. I doubt he’s hiring.” A familiar voice sounded from behind him. I looked to find Harvey standing behind him, a bag of caramel creams opened in his hands.
Charlie looked back at Sheriff Dash with a face like he had just been tricked into drinking bad milk. “Figures.” And then he trotted off back to his position by the room.
“Harvey,” I said, beating back a little internal warmth as I watched him munch on the caramel creams. He had loved those stupid things since we were both knee-high to a grasshopper.
Some things never change.
“Hey there, Rita.” He smiled, but it was a formal smile, and I had to remind myself he didn’t know me, at least not this me.
“Former deputy,” Sheriff Dash said, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m surprised to see you here.” He tipped his cap. “Seeing as how you had absolutely no reason to come.”
Another ping of guilt erupted in my chest. I was responsible for this.
Harvey gulped, fumbling with the caramel creams bag as he tried to set it down.
“Um, ye-yes sir,” he stammered. “You see, the thing is, sir … what you need to understand. See, I was … and then--”
“Spit it out, Harvey,” Sheriff Dash barked.
“I want my job back,” he answered in a near panic. “I mean I’d like my job back. That is, if you think you might reconsider firing me.” He steadied his stance and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. “I know I messed things up, but I just figured if I came here and showed you how good a police officer I could be, that you might-you know…”
“Let me get this straight,” Sheriff Dash started. “In order to prove to me you’re a good officer who I should bring back onto my force, you decided to jump onto the front lines of an ongoing investigation?”
Harvey gulped again. “That’s about the long and short of it, sir. Yes.”
Sheriff Dash stared at him for a long time. “Well, I do like the initiative.”
Wow, I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe Darrin wasn’t as heartless and self- centered as I thought.
“So what do you have?”
“Excuse me?” Harvey asked with wide eyes.
“You say you’re a good officer and you beat us here by at least twenty minutes. Tell me what you have so far. Have you talked to the suspect yet?”
“Well, no,” Harvey answered, looking nervously to the floor. “They’re preparing him for surgery, and they said only family members were allowed to see him. But, um,” he started stammering again.
“What is it, Harvey?” Sheriff Dash asked.
“Does this guy have a connection with Patrick at all?”
“Why would you ask that?” I asked, moving forward with narrowed eyes.
“Well,” he gulped again. “It’s probably nothing, but Patrick’s last name was O’Brian, and when the doctors brought this guy in here, they said his name was Ralph Johns.”
“I’m not following you,” I admitted, glaring at Harvey.
“Well, like I said, it might not mean anything, but they’re not real names.”
“What?” Sheriff Dash balked.
“I mean-yes, they are real names, but I doubt that they’re their real names.” Harvey shuffled his feet. “They’re both aliases of Plastic Man. You know, the comic book character.”
“They changed their names,” I said, looking over at Sheriff Dash. “Why would they change their names?”
He looked over at the room. “We’ll just have to hope he pulls through surgery so that we can question him.”
“No,” I shook my head, putting the pieces of the puzzle together mentally. “I’ve got this.”
I stepped out into the middle of the floor and started sobbing. Okay, so it wasn’t real sobbing, but you don’t get to play Molly the Milk Maid in the 3rd-grade rendition of Cow Daze without having some serious acting chops.
“I want to see my husband!” I wailed.
The look on Sheriff Dash’s face was priceless, a sort of impressed bewilderment.
“What are you talking about?” The young officer moved toward me.
“I want to see my husband!”
The older officer came up now, followed by a few doctors and nurses. I was really into it, and the residents of Hamilton Medical were taking notice.
“He said I couldn’t see my husband!” I cried, pointing to the young guy. “He said I couldn’t!”
“I didn’t … I-I don’t even know who your husband is,” he stuttered.
“He said it!” I sobbed. “He said I couldn’t see Ralph,” I cleared my throat. “You know, Ralph Johns; in that room right behind you.” I threw my hand to my forehead, really selling it. Mrs. Dimarco would be so proud. “I told him I had rights!”
The older officer was dumbstruck. “I … Of course you do,” he said, looking over at one of the doctors.
“It’ll have to be quick, but okay,” the doctor conceded.
“He also said he didn’t want to wear a belt!” I added.
“Not cool,” the young officer said.
“Ma’am,” the older officer said. “You can see your husband. Just please stop crying.”
The waterworks stopped immediately as I dropped the act. “M’kay,” I said lightly. “Just let me get my purse.”
I trotted over to Sheriff Dash, grabbing my purse from the place on the floor where I left it.
“You’re welcome,” I winked at him.
He tried to hide it, but I could tell he was grinning.
Moving past the doctors, nurses, and officers, I strode into Ralph’s room, closing the door behind me.
He lay on the hospital bed, hooked up to machines. His eyes barely opened as he looked over at me. He was in bad shape, but even though it made me more than a little uncomfortable, I was going to get to the bottom of this.
“Hey, Ralph,” I said, sitting down on the chair beside him. “I hate to say this, but I think it’s time you start answering some questions.”
16
I gave the man on the bed a once over. He was in bad shape, cut, bruised, and swollen in almost every area. This crash didn’t do him any favors, and I’d bet my seemingly endless string of floral print dresses that it wasn’t an accident. Someone was after him, the same person responsible for killing Patrick. I needed to find out who, just as I needed to find out what connection all of this shared with the murder of Mrs. Hoover two years ago.
Also, there was my own murder to think about.
I would have to question him to get that done, and at a time when the last thing this guy needed to think about was answering questions.
“Ralph, like I said, I need to ask you some questions. I’d really appreciate if you’d answer them.” I knew without a shadow of a doubt this g
uy’s name wasn’t really Ralph Johns. That, along with the name Patrick O’Brian, were identities of the comic book character Plastic Man. Harvey told me that, and a quick Google session on my cell phone as I sat here confirmed it. But I didn’t know what else to call him. Maybe I should start with that.
“Will you tell me your name, Ralph? Your real name?”
He blinked hard, staying still and silent.
Why do guys always have to be so stubborn?
“Ralph, look at yourself,” I said, shaking my head. “Look at what you’ve come to. You’re lying in a hospital bed about to go into surgery. You’re in a strange town, with no one who cares about you within shouting distance, and you’re the prime suspect in the murder of someone who my gut tells me you’d have never wanted to see harmed.”
Ralph blinked back tears. I was onto something, but he still wasn’t talking.
I decided to go about this a different way.
“Was it the brakes?” I asked, leaning forward. He looked over at me. “Did someone cut the brake lines? That’s how I’d have done it if I wanted to kill you, that is.” I put my hand on his. He tried to move it, but he was so weak. “Not that I would ever want to kill you, Ralph. I’m with the police. Well, I’m loosely with the police, but more than that, I want to see justice for Patrick. And I certainly wouldn’t want to see you go down for it.” I leaned in even further. “We both know you’d have never killed your brother.”
Ralph’s eyes went wide, and he tried to pull away from me, weakly mouthing the word, “How?”
“You both came from Philadelphia, you named yourselves after a pretty obscure comic book guy, and the texts you sent to his secret phone have a real sense of worry about them,” I said. “I was juggling between brothers and childhood friends, but your bushy eyebrows answered that question as soon as I got a good look at you. You and Patrick didn’t share much physically, but you both have those.” I pursed my lips. “I’m really sorry for your loss. He seemed like a good guy.”
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