No Such Thing as a Lost Cause

by Shelly Fredman

  Nurse Dunham wasn’t there. However, I did run across a brash, young orderly in the elevator on the way back downstairs. His hair was black and massively curly. He bobbed his head and eyed me with unreserved glee. “Hey, aren’t you—”

  Oh, great. Here we go again. “Yes,” I huffed with all the impatience I could muster. “I am the one who shot Mario Lewis. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I killed him, so let’s not go around spreading rumors. Okay?”

  “O-kaaay. I was going to say, aren’t you the girl who played the alien in last week’s episode of Star Fleet 2110. But this is cool too.” He leaned into me with a conspiratorial whisper. “Y’know, I was here the night Lewis went Code Blue.”

  “Really. So, Mohindar,” I smiled, reading from the plastic name plate attached to his scrubs. “Let’s talk.”

  We got off at the next floor, and I followed my new best friend down the hall. He paused in front of a corner room at the far end of the corridor, adjacent to a utility closet.

  “This was Lewis’ room,” Mohindar announced with the jaunty air of a Disneyland tour guide. “Admin tried to isolate him as much as possible because it freaked out the other patients seeing the guard at his door.” Mohindar shrugged. “I don’t know what people were so upset about. I mean it’s not like he was going anywhere.”

  We rounded the corner and ran smack into a large area sectioned off with sandwich board caution signs and bright yellow tape. Tiles were piled high next to a gaping hole. Construction workers cruised the hallway wearing hospital-assigned guest badges pinned to their shirts.

  “What’s all this?” I yelled over the din of machinery.

  “They’re renovating the wing. They had to combine two units because of all the construction, so it’s been pretty crazy.” Mohindar slumped against a wall. “It’s hard enough keeping track of the doctors and nurses I already work with, and now we’ve got all this new staff here. Between you and me, this job is getting to be too much. I’m thinking of quitting and going to work for my brother-in-law. He has a dry cleaner’s in Hatboro.”

  A thought started percolating in my brain. With all this chaos, it would be fairly easy to get to Lewis without being noticed. The regular staff wouldn’t necessarily keep track of contract construction workers and, add to that, unfamiliar doctors and nurses from another unit…I cut my eyes to the blue plastic tarps that were strewn all over the floor. They provided ample space for someone to hide.

  “Mohindar, how long has the renovation been going on up on this floor?”

  “Let’s see, about a month now.”

  Which meant Lewis was there during the construction.

  “Listen, do you remember anything in particular about the night Lewis died?”

  Mohindar crammed a wad of gum the size a fist into his mouth and started chewing vigorously. After a minute he blew a large bubble and said, “Yeah.”

  I waited but he didn’t elaborate. “So, what happened?” I prompted.

  “It was around 10:30 p.m. when the electricity cut out.”

  “It cut out?”

  “Oh, yeah. It happens all the time. And for some reason, the back up generators didn’t kick in. The construction has really messed with the electrical wiring. Sometimes the lights go out, or alarms go off for no reason. We’ve even lost power to monitors. Y’know, stuff like that.”

  “So what happened that night?”

  “Some people got stuck in the elevator. The maintenance crew was working on another problem, so one of the nurses called to the cop that was stationed outside of Lewis’ room, and he went to check it out. He couldn’t have been gone for more than ten minutes or so, but when he got back, Lewis was gone.”

  So that’s what Giancola was trying so hard not to tell me. Lewis died while the cop was off helping the people stuck in the elevator. Did the electricity go off by accident, or did someone cut the power in order to create a diversion? No wonder the authorities deemed his death suspicious.

  I resisted the urge to call Vince, figuring he’d be more inclined to lecture me than provide me with a detailed report. I guess some people just have a hard time sharing.

  *****

  After dinner I settled down in front of the TV to watch The Antiques Road Show, (because my mom was sure those hideously ugly ceramic lamps with the cherubs on them that my grandmother bought at Lit Brothers a million years ago and now reside in my basement, under the wine making kit—another sure-fire money maker—are “worth their weight in gold now”) and shared a turkey pot pie with the dog, when John called.

  “Hey, Sunshine, you busy tonight?”

  “Why? What’s up?” The last time I blindly confessed to having no social life I ended up babysitting for Bobby’s little girl while he went out on a date.

  “It’s prime rib night at Henry’s Bar and Grill, and I’ve got a two-for-one coupon. Do you want to go?”

  “Why aren’t you taking Garrett?”

  “I miss you.”

  “Garrett busy?”

  “God, you’re so cynical. Can’t a guy take his best friend to dinner?”

  Okay, now I felt bad. He was probably just trying to make it up to me for not including me in Garrett’s little soiree. I can’t say that I blamed him. John’s boyfriends love me, and sometimes John can feel a little left out. Well, I’d just have to show him there’s nothing to worry about.

  “I already ate, but how about you and Garrett and I go to dinner next Friday?”

  “Next Friday?” he repeated. “The three of us?”

  “Yeah. And listen, John, no matter how great Garrett and I hit it off, nobody could ever take your place. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Um, Bran?”

  “Uh huh?” Only I wasn’t really listening. Adrian had swiped the turkey pot pie and was trotting off toward the kitchen. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you guys next Friday.”

  Ten minutes later John called back.

  “Hey, John.”

  “It’s one meal.”

  “Okay, okay, if it means that much to you, we can go out tonight too. Who am I to say no to free food?”

  “C’mon, don’t be like that…”

  “What are you talking about? I just said I’d go.”

  “I’m trying, I really am,” replied a new voice, “but, frankly, I find her insufferable.”

  “Yo,” I said, a little louder. “Who’s insufferable?”

  “You’re not being fair, Garrett.”

  Garrett? Oops. John must’ve butt-dialed me by accident. Sounds like he and Garrett are having a fight. I should really hang up…

  “I know she’s your best friend, John, but—”

  Best friend? Hey! That little twerp is talking about me. I held my breath and pressed my ear to the receiver.

  “Look, Garrett, Brandy may appear a little…self involved at times, but once you get to know her—well, she’ll still seem self involved, but—”

  But that’s part of her charm…I mean my charm. Jeez, John, tell him.

  I’m sure he did, too, only at that point the call disconnected, so I didn’t get to hear him say it.

  I called Franny. “Am I self involved?”

  “Can I call you back?” she whispered. “The baby finally fell asleep, and Eddie and I are—y’know, taking advantage of a little alone time.”

  “Yeah, sure. But just tell me if you think I’m self involved. I overheard John talking to Garrett and—”

  “You’re not self involved. I’m hanging up now.”

  “But why would he say that? I mean, really. That makes no sense at all, Fran…Fran? Unhh!

  *****

  I knew it was stupid the minute I turned left instead of right. The right turn would have taken me home. The left took me through Mario Lewis’s old stomping grounds. I knew it and yet I kept on going because I just couldn’t leave it alone.

  The entire week had passed without incident. No phone calls from Lewis’s disgruntled family threatening to kill me in my sleep. No emails from
outraged do-gooders who’d caught the video circulating around the Internet of what appeared to be me shooting a defenseless Mario and punching him in the nuts for no apparent reason, (the part where he’d shot the cop, conveniently, having been edited out). And, best of all, not a peep from Mario’s posse. So why, in the immortal words of Bubbie Heiki, was I “borrowing trouble?” The truth is I had no friggin’ idea.

  I guess I was looking for exoneration. The reports on Lewis’ death came back, and as it turns out, shooting someone in the thigh can be fatal. Who knew? Seems the blood vessels in the thigh are huge. The break in his bone could have caused fatty deposits to loosen and go into the blood stream, which might have caused a pulmonary embolism.

  Might have. The initial findings were “inconclusive,” Vince had informed me, after reading the report. And that, apparently, was about as much closure as his death warranted.

  “But what about the guard leaving his post? Someone could have slipped in and killed Lewis while he was gone. And, by the way, how come you didn’t tell me about that?”

  “Let me remind you of something, Alexander. You’re not a cop. I’m not required to tell you. In fact, I’m required by law not to. Look, the autopsy may have been inconclusive, but as far as the police are concerned, Lewis died of natural causes. What the cop did was unprofessional, and he’s been disciplined, but it didn’t change the course of history.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight. It’s possible that he didn’t die from the gunshot wound, but, for the sake of convenience they’re just going to say he did. So much for justice for all.”

  Vince muttered something under his breath that sounded like God help me.

  “Brandy, will you get off your high horse? The authorities did their job. Look,” he said, his voice softening, “I know you feel bad, and I’m sorry for that, but I can’t continue this investigation just to assuage your guilt.”

  “Well, I just think it’s weird, is all.”

  “Oh, Jesus, what now?”

  “Vince, the fact is Lewis was recovering nicely. By all accounts he was expected to be released soon. But you know as well as I do there were a whole bunch of people who wished he’d never survived. Animal Rights’ activists had been outside the hospital for days, chanting ‘Death to Lewis.’ Plus, emotions run high any time a cop gets hurt in the line of duty. Maybe some nut couldn’t stand the thought of Lewis shooting Wolinski and decided to return the favor out of some kind of misguided vigilante justice. Not to mention Lewis was a gang member with a history of violent crimes. Any number of people probably wanted him dead.”

  Vince chewed on his lower lip, blowing a soft puff of air out of the side of his mouth. “Okay, okay, I get your point. Look, the truth is nobody gives a crap about this piece of shit cop-killer. And if I could’ve dumped his dead ass in the Delaware River, I would have done it without a backwards glance. But we did everything by the book, and there just wasn’t enough evidence to indicate there had been foul play.”

  Great. Only he didn’t have to live with the guilt. Well, if there was a chance that someone else was responsible for Lewis’ demise, I owed it to myself and to his family to check it out.

  According to public records, Lewis lived on a side street in the heart of Junk Town, a section of Erie Avenue famous for heroin trafficking and gang related homicides. The streets were surprisingly empty. I guess all the killers and drug dealers were on a dinner break or something. I passed an array of row homes, duplexes and federally funded apartment buildings in various stages of decay, and turned right on a filth encrusted street named Garland.

  Even the air smelled different here. Like garbage. Hot, rotting garbage.

  I checked the address and squeezed into the one available spot across from an ugly, faded, brown duplex. Bags of trash, filled to overflowing, sat on a tiny, lopsided porch. The foundation had eroded eaten away by time and termites. There were bars on the windows and door.

  Next door to the Lewis house stood a big wooden fence topped with barbed wire. Hidden from view, a couple of dogs snarled, making deep, rumbling noises that sounded suspiciously like, “Yum, lunch!” If their intent was to scare the crap out of me, mission accomplished.

  Someone had hauled an old floral couch out onto the sidewalk. A toddler in a diaper and dirty tee shirt straddled the back, riding it like a hobby horse. He looked dangerously close to toppling onto the hard pavement, so I opened the car door and crossed over to the other side of the street.

  Fixing round, wide eyes on me he looked up and smiled; a smile so full of innocence, trust and delight it made my heart hurt. And in that moment, I knew why I was there. Because Mario Lewis hadn’t started out his life as a monster.

  A little girl, no more than six or seven, came out of the house and dragged the baby off the back of the couch. She stared at me with the same round, wide eyes.

  “Is he your brother?” I asked.

  The screen door opened again, and a woman in her early twenties walked out. Her hair was stuck out at strange angles, like she’d slept on it funny, and her eyes were puffy and red, as if she’d been crying.

  I got a sudden, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Did those kids belong to Mario? Was the crying woman Mario’s wife, his girlfriend, his sister? Was she mourning his loss? Well, tough. I’d been seconds away from dying at the hands of that creep, and if I hadn’t stopped him, my family, my friends would be the ones in mourning.

  I refuse to feel sorry for them. I refuse. I repeated it to myself like a mantra.

  The woman glared at me and started down the sidewalk. The little girl met her halfway, instinctively ducking as the woman reached out and slapped her on the side of the head. A quick assessment of the situation told me she was a little on the crazy side. I scooted back across the street and headed for my car.

  A middle-aged woman had come out of her home and was hosing down her sidewalk. She watched with guarded interest as the younger woman came up behind me and grabbed hold of my tee shirt, jerking me backward. I could feel the material give way as I spun out of her grasp.

  She stood there, eyeballing me. “Why you messin’ with my kids?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You from DHS, ain’t you? Well, you ain’t gettin’ my kids. Their daddy’s gone, and they’s all I got.”

  “Look, I’m not here to take your kids away—”

  “Then you must be a damn reporter,” she muttered. “You people hounding me all hours of the day and night. Wantin’ to know things that ain’t your business. Get the fuck outta here.”

  My thoughts exactly. I started to back away, happy to leave in one piece, when she made a sudden leap to the rage of recognition.

  “Hey, you the bitch that shot my Mario.”

  Without warning she lunged for me. I dodged, and she ended up doing a face plant onto the hood of my car. I ripped open the door, but she had already peeled herself off and charged after me again.

  This time she went for the throat. My hand shot up between her arms and I popped her in the nose. She let go of my neck, and clawed at my face with strong, bony fingers. Luckily, she was a nail biter, so they didn’t do much damage. Unfortunately, her fist did.

  “Ow!” I cried, landing on my butt on the pavement.

  “Roger! We got trouble.” The lady with the hose shouted. “Come out here and bring Junior!”

  “Forget Junior,” I howled. “Call 911.”

  Two beefy men appeared, just as Mario’s lady friend jumped on top of me and pounded my head into the ground. The older woman turned the hose on us, attempting to shock us into civility, or at least stop making a mess on her sidewalk. Junior grabbed Mario’s girlfriend, and pulled her arms her arms across her chest, like a straight jacket.

  “Calm down, Sherese.”

  Sherese kicked and cursed at him, but it seemed more obligatory than anything else. All the fight had gone out of her.

  “We’re not done, bitch,” she spat, as Junior guided her across the street and back into her ho
use.

  My head ached, and I felt a little trickle of blood on my right temple. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, doing a quick assessment of my teeth. They all seemed to be intact.

  Roger offered a hand to me and I took it gratefully and struggled to my feet. I was dripping wet, and my face was beginning to swell like a hot air balloon.

  “You’re bleeding,” Roger observed. “Come on into the house and my wife will fix you right up.”

  I shot a quick glance at Mario’s place and shook my head. “I really appreciate what you did for me, but I think I’d just better go.”

  Roger’s wife threw a supporting arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry about her, honey. She’s probably passed out on the couch by now. I’m Candice. Let’s get some ice on your cheek. You don’t look so good.”

  Their house was worn but spotless. Pictures of children and grandchildren graced every available bit of space.

  “That’s our grandbaby, Kendra,” Roger explained, pointing to a photo of a beautiful, young woman in a cap and gown. “She just graduated school this year. She’s going to be an R.N, like her grandma.”

  Candice emerged from the kitchen with a bag of ice and some homemade chocolate chip cookies. She followed my gaze to her granddaughter’s photo.

  “That girl was raised right here in this house,” she stated with pride. Thrusting her chin toward Mario’s, she didn’t bother to hide the contempt that crept into her voice. “There are a lot of decent people in this neighborhood. It’s trash like them that ruins it for the rest of us. Tell me, is what she said true? Are you that reporter gal who shot Lewis?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “You did the world a favor, far as I’m concerned,” Roger stated flatly. “Course, not everybody sees it this way.” He gave his head a rueful shake. “For the life of me, I can’t understand it. Folks like him bring drugs and violence into our neighborhood and half the town treats him like some kind of damn folk hero.”

  Candice took my swollen face in her hand, inspecting the damage. “No offense, honey, but it wasn’t too smart coming here.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s a real problem of mine. Not thinking things through, and all that. I’m working on it.”