Dead Wood

by Dan Ames

  I sang, “You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away, know when to run . . .”

  The doctor gave a surprised look and then peeked out of the room toward the lobby.

  “Hey,” I said, “Are we done here?”

  * * *

  •

  * * *

  Clarence and I walked out to my car in the Bon Secour Hospital parking lot. My hand had a small bandage, but unfortunately not so small that I’d be able to get it past my wife without her noticing. That would be another tussle where I’d end up on the losing end.

  I insisted on driving—no way was I going to let a minor woodworking accident turn me into an invalid. After we got in and I pulled out onto Jefferson, I thought for a moment before speaking. With my hand bleeding so badly, Clarence and I hadn’t really had a chance to talk about what happened. Now that I was okay, I needed to hear his side of it.

  “So tell me what you saw,” I said.

  “At first, nothing,” he said. “I was fiddling with the radio a lot, trying to find some decent music, but all I kept getting was this synthesized Britney Spears kind of shit. Then I realized I wasn’t listening to the radio but one of your CDs.”

  I could feel his eyes on me, and I visibly squirmed. “I was just making sure it was acceptable for my daughters.” God, I hated being busted.

  Clarence ignored me and said, “So I finally found a decent country station and laid back and closed my eyes, thought about Jesse.”

  “Which explains why you didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “And then, I don’t know why, but I sat up and looked over, and I thought I saw some shadows moving inside. I mean, it was hard to tell. But even so, it seemed like there were two shadows.”

  “So you came to investigate.”

  “I turned off the radio and heard a saw. And I thought, what the fuck is he doing? Building a coffee table in the dark? And it kind of pissed me off, that you would feel like you could just turn on one of Jesse’s saws. Those things are personal to a craftsman.”

  “So you . . .”

  “So I walked in, thinking you had bumped up against one of the machines and probably couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Hey, no offense, but you don’t seem like the handy type.”

  I let that one go and said, “So you turned on the light.”

  “And the guy was already through the window because I guess he heard me come in through the door. I didn’t see anything but blue jeans, a leather jacket, and a ski mask.”

  I nodded and waited.

  “I would have called the cops right away, but I figured we weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. I didn’t want to get either one of us in trouble.”

  He had a funny look on his face, and I knew what was coming next before he even said it.

  “It was Hornsby. I know it was him.”

  “But you didn’t get a good look,” I said.

  “It was him. I’ve met him. Same build. Same movement.”

  “Was he wearing a ski mask the last time you saw him?”

  Clarence didn’t say anything to that, but I knew he would claim it was Hornsby. My attacker could have been a black Parisian midget and Clarence would have somehow argued it was Hornsby.

  We rode in silence as I drove toward Clarence’s house. I wanted to believe him, but Jesus Christ . . . I practically get my hand turned into a dovetail joint and Clarence had no idea anything was going on? Pretty convenient that he had his eyes closed and the radio on. See no evil, hear no evil. I imagined a scenario in which Clarence made a call to someone to come and rough me up. But that was paranoia. Why would he do that? Why would he hire me and then have someone turn me into the classic shop teacher with a missing digit or two?

  “What now?” Clarence said.

  I pulled into his driveway to let him out.

  “Well,” I said, “a crime was committed, and I guess I have to report it to the police.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I talk to Nevada Hornsby.”

  * * *

  •

  * * *

  There are three main roads from Detroit that cross the Alter Road border into Grosse Pointe. They are Jefferson, Kercheval, and Mack. There used to be a rumor that at those three main intersections, a Grosse Pointe cop car could always be found, idling, waiting for any Detroiter, most likely with dark skin, to come across the line. At which point, the Grosse Pointe cops would spring into action.

  If it ever was true, it certainly wasn’t any longer. However, the Grosse Pointe police station, for the part of Grosse Pointe known as the Park, is located just off of Alter Road on Jefferson, one of the main intersections between the two disparate communities. Certainly, a Detroiter would think twice about ambling across the city line on a path that would take him or her directly in front of the cop shop.

  I’m sure the location of police headquarters is just a coincidence. Honestly.

  Like just about everything else in Grosse Pointe, police headquarters were very clean. The building itself was made of brick that fit nicely into the surrounding architectural style. Inside, the carpet was immaculate, modern desks free of clutter, and a squad room that smelled more like a bank than a home to cops.

  Every time I came back, which was quite often, I couldn’t help but think of my first day on the force so many years ago. The offices had changed a little, new carpet and paint, different desks, the layout of offices and cubicles had all been changed. But it was the same place. It wasn’t as terrifying to me now as it had been back then, when I was a rookie, fresh from the Michigan Police Academy on his first assignment. Back then, I was sweating beneath the dark-blue uniform, my palms slick with nervousness as I shook hands with my new coworkers. My brothers in blue.

  It’s funny, in retrospect . . . how, when you’re nervous, you tell yourself that you’re making too big a deal out of whatever’s causing your anxiety. You imagine a worst-case scenario and then imagine that it will never get that bad.

  It’s funny and it’s not. Because looking back, I had no idea just how right my fears would turn out to be. And in fact, I hadn’t been exaggerating. The truth was, at the time, I was grossly underestimating just how fucked up everything would become. I had low-balled it in a way I never could have conceived.

  Now, I walked to the front desk and saw Suzy Wilkins, the receptionist. She was in her mid-forties, a clear, strong face with hair that was shot through with gray. But the steel in her eyes had a way of discouraging any bullshit. Always a good trait in a police department receptionist.

  “The Chief in?” I asked.

  She nodded, the telephone headset emitting the sound of someone on the other end of the line. She fingered the buzzer beneath the top of her desk, and a deep buzzing sounded as the main door into the squad room unlatched. I walked through the metal reinforced doorway and down the hall. There were framed pictures of the department’s officers on the walls, most with commendations for public service, a few for awards. The Chief was pictured in many of the stories and articles, a look of proud stoicism that I knew very well. The Chief hadn’t been the chief when I started on the force. That happened a few years after the murder of a certain young man.

  I passed a couple of patrol cops in the hallway. We nodded our hellos. It was always a tad awkward. I used to be one of them, but not anymore. They all knew me, knew my story—the most important element being the fact that I had left the force in disgrace. Something they were embarrassed about, and really didn’t want to be associated with. Hey, who could blame them? Certainly not me.

  I got to the end of the hallway, in the southwest corner of the building, to the Chief’s office. I peeked in, saw Grosse Pointe’s top cop talking on the phone. The office was big and well ordered. A large oak desk sat along the far wall. A bookshelf ran below the windows facing Jefferson Avenue. Two visitor’s chairs faced the desk. On the wall b
ehind the desk were pictures of the Chief winning awards, honors, even a few marksmanship awards. There was also a picture of the family on a low shelf. Nice family. The happy husband and wife, two sons and, the youngest, a daughter. They were three, five, and seven. All spaced sequentially, all products of planned passion. The Chief never did anything half-assed or unorganized. And that applied to procreating.

  I sat in one of the chairs and watched the Chief talk on the phone. The voice was always cool and authoritative. Clipped words with precise questions. I had no idea if the conversation was with a convicted felon turned informant, or one of the kids. You could never tell.

  Our eyes met, but as usual, the Chief was wearing a game face. No emotions conveyed, not even a recognition of my presence. It’s how it worked in the big office. No quarter offered, none given.

  Finally the Chief put down the phone and looked at me.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Does something have to be up for me to drop by?”

  “Yes. Now what is it? I’m busy.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Frankly, I didn’t care that she was chief of police.

  She was still my big sister.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Jesse Barre,” I said.

  “What happened to your hand?” my sister said. Her name was Ellen and she didn’t really care about my hand. As police chief, she probably felt like she had to ask. Trust me on this one.

  Ellen gave me a bored look that said she knew I was bullshitting her but didn’t care enough to pursue it. She was smaller than me but still tall at five foot ten. Dark hair, blue-green eyes. A nice smile she trotted out once a year, maybe.

  “Jesse Barre,” I repeated.

  “What about her?” My sister looked at me, and I knew the expression well. Had seen it in the mirror many times. After all, we looked a lot alike. The only difference was that she was a few years older. A little bit tougher. And a whole lot meaner.

  “Was it just a smash-and-grab gone wrong?”

  She held out her hands. “Does the phrase ‘under investigation’ mean anything to you?” My sister wore her I-don’t-give-a-shit look that I’d seen many times.

  “Yes it does,” I said. “It means you didn’t answer the question.”

  Ellen had been made chief of police nearly five years ago. The youngest chief in Grosse Pointe’s history. It seemed to surprise everyone but her. And me. She’d managed it well, even with the embarrassment her little brother had brought to the department. In fact, sometimes I believed that my catastrophe, such as it was, had prodded her to work harder and do better. In the end though, it didn’t matter. The truth was Ellen was a great cop. Unquestionably the best cop Grosse Pointe had ever had. She alone had earned the top job. And no one questioned that.

  “Who’s asking?”

  I took her question as a good sign. If it was a hot case and progress was being made, she probably would have already shown me the door. My sister doesn’t fuck around. So I took the fact that I was still sitting across from her as permission to plow ahead.

  “Her father. He wants me to look into it. Figures there’s more to it than a burglary gone wrong.”

  “And his evidence?”

  “He loved his daughter. Thinks she was talented. Thinks there’s more to the story. Said something about her boyfriend.”

  Ellen nodded. “Nevada Hornsby. Runs a lumber salvage business in St. Clair Shores. Has an airtight alibi.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is none of your fucking business.”

  “Come on, Ellen. It’s not like you’re letting out the secret to making a dirty bomb. Tell me what his fricking alibi is.”

  Her phone rang, and she punched it, not gently, sending the caller either into voicemail or, more likely, oblivion.

  “He was visiting his sick mother in a nursing home,” she said. “Half a dozen witnesses.”

  I nodded. Night-duty nurses. Other patients. Sounded like a good alibi.

  “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” my sister said to me.

  “Ellen, I’m not here to figure out who killed her. I just want to know if there’s going to be a problem with me taking the case.”

  “What’s the deal with your hand?”

  “I told you, a paring accident. A kiwi got away from me.”

  She stood and walked around to the front of the desk. The leather from her gun belt squeaked. She leaned up against the front edge of the rough-hewn wood desk.

  “Are you planning on doing anything illegal?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to call me with anything you find before you call the father?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked me over.

  “Kiwi, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “So it jumped right off the cutting board and slapped you around?”

  I pretended to be confused.

  “I can see the marks on your face from here, you idiot,” she said, “and I can tell by the way you’re sitting you’ve got a couple of sore ribs.”

  Why do I ever try to lie to her in the first place? So I told her what had happened.

  “Jesus Christ, John. You come in to ask me if it’s okay to take the case and you already did.”

  “I still asked.”

  She rolled her eyes and said, “The old man gave you the keys, so no breaking-and-entering. Tampering with a crime scene, however—”

  “There wasn’t any tape on the apartment.”

  “And didn’t you learn any self-defense moves at the academy?”

  “It wasn’t a fair fight, Ellen. He got me from behind, and from then on, I was just a fucking punching bag. Until he tried to saw my hand in half . . . that was enough to clear the cobwebs out.”

  “So other than an obvious interest in carpentry techniques, what do you know about this guy?” She looked out the small window with a view of Jefferson when she asked—an interrogation technique perhaps? Or was she honestly bored with me?

  I shook my head. “Nothing. He had on a mask. He smashed me on the head right away, and after that, everything was kind of dark.”

  “Rough size?”

  “Probably around six feet or an inch or two over it. Solid, but not a huge guy.”

  She nodded, not bothering to write any of it down. This was all off the record.

  “It changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

  Her phone rang, and she looked at me. Meeting over.

  “So I’m going to keep working on it, okay?”

  She went back to her desk and reached for the phone. Ordinarily a sister might suggest that her brother be careful or offer words of encouragement.

  Ellen shrugged her shoulders.

  “Do what you gotta do,” she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Rockne residence is a brick colonial on Balfour Road in the Park. When we bought it four years ago, it was a fixer-upper in the classic sense. Bad carpet, a grungy kitchen, horrid paint colors, and pink tile. It took a few years for us to fix it up, but we got it done. Of course, the marriage almost went with it, but we got it done.

  My wife’s name is Anna. Imagine the stereotypical Italian beauty, and you’ve got my wife. Big dark eyes, black hair, full features, and a temper that could roast meat. She’s tough, sensitive, argumentative, emotional, loving, giving, quick to anger, slow to forgive, frugal with compliments, and sometimes she’s just downright nasty. Naturally I love her like the fool I am and wouldn’t have her any other way. I tell her I love her more times than she tells me. That’s how we are. But she’s tougher than I am, so there you go. We have two girls, Isabel and Nina. Isabel’s five, Nina’s three. They both look just like their Mom, thank God, and naturally I worship them like the miracles they are.

  I parked the Taurus in the garage and went inside. Instantly, I wished I hadn’t. I could never have an af
fair because my wife knows exactly what’s going on with me in an instant. Because as best as I’d tried to keep my hand hidden from her, Anna spun me around and held my bandage up to the light.

  She was definitely not happy. And when she’s not happy, no one else in the family is either. It’s a scientific impossibility.

  “The doctor said it was one of the worst paper cuts he’s ever seen,” I said.

  “A paper cut?” Anna said, repeating my lame improv. The girls were in bed. I was starting to laugh at my wife’s expression, but she was clearly failing to find any humor in the situation.

  “Yeah, it was that heavy construction paper. You know . . .”

  “John . . .”

  “. . . the kind you used in school with all the colors? It’s so thick! It’s practically a Bowie knife. You could cut a T-bone—”

  Anna glared at me and I stopped talking. There was no getting around it. I was going to have to tell the truth.

  “Okay, I was in a bit of a . . . tussle.”

  “A tussle?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a cross between a tumble and a wrestle. A tussle. From the Latin word tussilius. Meaning to—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay.”

  She tapped her feet and drummed her fingers. She was very coordinated.

  “A tussle with who?” she said.

  “Some guy.”

  “Some guy as in some guy you don’t know? Or some guy as in some guy you didn’t get a good look at?”

  “I would say the latter.”

  “And how did your hand get hurt?”

  “Well, we were—”

  “Tussling.”

  “Right. And a woodworking machine got turned on, and we crashed into it, and it went right between my fingers. A freak shop accident. Happens all the time. You ever have a shop teacher? Ever notice how they all have part of a finger missing? In high school my shop teacher was the baseball coach, and one time we asked when practice was, and he held up three fingers but one of the fingers was half gone, so somebody yelled out ‘two forty-five?’”