Figure Eight

by Jeff Nania

  Tanya looked at me with sympathetic eyes wearing an old WPPA t-shirt. Her face was smudged by dirt from the mess I’d left. When she spoke, it was from the collective heart of those assembled.

  “John, we’re your friends and we’re here to help you. You need to know that. You can count on us. We’ll help you get through this. You have to help us help you,” Tanya pleaded.

  It was all too much for my booze-soaked brain to take in. Who was this guy they were talking to? It could not possibly be John Cabrelli, decorated police veteran. It must be someone else.

  I can’t tell you what happened, how they got through to me, but they did. I knew I was in trouble. I knew I needed someone. I needed help. As long as I live, I will never be able to thank those people—they saved my life. They treated me with respect. They never left me alone. They listened. They helped. They held me. I went from a complete menace to crying like a baby. Each day I got better.

  Laura deposited checks that had come in the mail for unused vacation time and my final paycheck. She paid my past due mortgage, phone bill, and other bills.

  She met with the pension folks and told me that I had enough years of service to qualify for a small but decent pension. She filled out the paperwork, and all I had to do was sign.

  I started taking a walk every morning, then every evening. Always someone with me and always someone there for me. It took two days to compensate for every one day I had spent holed up. I slept a lot less for two reasons: I felt better when I was awake, and sleep brought me the face of Angelina Gonzalez, smiling, dying.

  I got stronger. Laura signed me up at a health club, and I started to spend each morning there, pushing myself, purging the pain. Tanya got me going on the basics of weightlifting, and I began to feel strong again. J.J. and I just sat and visited. We never seemed to run out of things to talk about. It seemed like forever, but one morning I woke up and it was spring. I was looking forward to the day ahead, something I can’t explain to someone who hasn’t been there. I walked out to my car and found myself whistling “Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows.” What an idiot.

  5

  Cabrelli

  Life was getting better, the house was back in order, and my dear friendship with booze and the “shop by phone” grocery service had been terminated. I did laundry, worked out, and even started reading. I was ready to move to the next level in my life. I knew I had to find a job. My pension checks were covering the basics, but I needed to supplement my income.

  Laura the lawyer had become Laura, my perky, pretty, very sexy companion. I am not suggesting that our relationship was anything other than platonic; it wasn’t. It doesn’t mean that I wasn’t thinking along those lines; I was. She and I went out to dinner at least once a week and sometimes worked out together. We got along great.

  One night I was grilling steaks for us, and I told her I was going to start looking for a job. We talked about what I might be interested in, and I showed her an ad for an insurance investigator. Laura to the rescue. She had been thinking about putting on a full-time investigator, someone to do fact checking on cases and looking into various matters she was working on. She would love it if I would consider taking the job. I didn’t even ask the pay before I said yes. I couldn’t wait to get back to work.

  My days were great, and my nights were getting better. Weekly, I attended a group therapy session that Cops Helping Cops put on. Cops all working on things, all trying to fight demons. I found myself saying things that I didn’t even know I thought. It was cleansing. Mostly it helped me realize that while John Cabrelli wasn’t perfect, he had some redeeming features.

  Laura and I made a great team. We worked very hard and won most of our cases, mostly because before we really jumped in with both feet, I would launch our own investigation. I knew we needed to know everything we could before some opposing lawyer pointed it out to us in front of a judge. Good cases got our best efforts, while bad cases got sent down the road.

  We spent a lot of time together mostly as good friends, but we were consummate professionals when necessary. I enjoyed her company, and I could tell she enjoyed mine. Occasionally, I began to struggle with not fixating on how attractive she was.

  Business at the firm picked up. We had a very difficult case against an insurance company that claimed that the insured’s policy had expired before the aforementioned insured spent an afternoon at the bar and on the way home crossed over the center line and hit our client head on. The insurance company pushed very hard for an early court date, which means one of two things. Either it was going to be a slam dunk for them, or there was something out there they didn’t want us to find. We went with the second assumption. We subpoenaed the financial records of their client.

  To make a long story short, we found a check that had been written and sent to the insurance company. The insurance company was in the process of dropping this guy because of his driving record. There was a 30-day grace period attached to the policy. The check had been received and cashed by the insurance company on the second to last day before the expiration of the grace period. That was exactly 24 hours before the guy had crashed into our client and three days before the company notified him by registered mail of the termination of his policy. We called them, they settled, case closed. My lovely Laura cut me a bonus check for my stellar investigative work.

  She announced her intentions to trade in her snappy little car for a new model. I bought it from her. On my days off I took to driving fast on the back roads of Wisconsin. I had scored a retirement ID that served me well with those conscientious souls that chose to interrupt my forays with radar units and speed laws.

  My road trips were fun, but I thought they would be perfect if this beautiful lawyer I knew was sitting beside me.

  My social life, my life actually, all centered around Laura and work. We spent many evenings together, mostly business but lots of laughs too. I didn’t know much about her personal life. It was actually something we hadn’t discussed. I had tried to bring it up casually but hadn’t made any progress. I knew there were a couple of other professional women that she hung out with, and they played tennis once a week in warm weather. Mostly, I figured that since she was my social life, I was kind of hers. I was also convinced that she was growing more and more interested in me, which is understandable because I had turned on the old Cabrelli charm. I knew she was single. She was very pretty, smart, and we got along well. She had on numerous occasions suggested that I start dating. Her words, “You need to get a social life, John.”

  An opportunity then presented itself. A case we were working was hitting full speed. We needed to travel up to Green Bay, set up camp, and get to work. I started devising a plan.

  I got on the Internet and located a very nice resort hotel on the shores of Green Bay. I told Laura that it was the perfect place to stay, centrally located, with in-house restaurants and gym. She never gave it a second thought, and we booked two rooms. The fix was in. It would be the perfect opportunity for me to broach the subject of Laura and John on weekend road trips.

  I picked her up in my new car. I have never been known as a GQ dresser, but I had gone to a local clothing store and the salesgirl had successfully matched some new duds. I was dressed in the style known as business casual and had treated myself to a pair of handmade Italian loafers, deep brown and as soft as could be. I was in good shape and thought I was looking pretty good. Laura looked beautiful. Her brunette hair was down on her shoulders. Her typical business wear had been replaced by a pair of not too tight fitting jeans and a lightweight fleece. I was certain that I saw a new spark of interest in her green eyes.

  She put her case and luggage in the trunk and got in. “John, you look very nice. New clothes?”

  “No, I bought these a while ago and forgot about them. I just decided to break them out.”

  “Well, you look very handsome.” My plan was working.

  As we pulled away, I popped in a CD of Sinatra love songs. The plot thickened.

&nbs
p; The trip up was fun; we talked and laughed. She told me that she had sold me this car too cheap. I told her that she was lucky to find a sucker willing to take it off her hands. It was a nice day. On the way, I bought her lunch at a cute little place.

  It was going well. Cabrelli was pulling out all the stops.

  We drove into Green Bay and went right to the courthouse for a meeting. About two hours later we headed to our hotel. There were things we needed to prepare for the morning, so we agreed to get room service and have a working supper. I offered to host the event in my room, and she agreed.

  I was like a schoolboy. I called room service and tried to communicate my special dinner requests. I left nothing to chance and went down and talked to the hostess myself. A hefty tip ensured my every wish would be honored.

  Two hours later, Laura called to say she would be over in twenty minutes. I told her that I needed a little more time. I alerted the kitchen of my guest’s imminent arrival.

  Room service could not have cut it any closer. They wheeled in the dinner, set the table, and arranged the grossly overpriced bouquet of flowers. Five minutes later, Laura knocked on the door. I let her in, and I could see by the look on her face that you could have knocked her over with a feather.

  “Oh my God, John. This is beautiful! What is the occasion?”

  “No occasion. I just thought we should have a nice dinner to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

  I had safely returned to the status of occasional light drinker, enjoying a glass of wine now and again. For the occasion, I had ordered a bottle of her favorite: a cabernet from Washington State. God, I was smooth.

  She sat down. I poured her a glass and one for myself. It was perfect; we smiled and talked, and I could feel something in the air. The dinner was excellent, but I have got to admit that I didn’t have much of an appetite. After dinner, I poured the rest of the wine. It was time. Decorated former police officer and now ace investigator John Cabrelli was ready.

  “Laura, I have something to tell you, and I am plenty nervous, so please just hear me out.”

  At that moment, she got it. Her mouth opened slightly, and she stared at me.

  I took her hand and looked into her eyes. Nothing could stop me now.

  “Laura, you’ve been such a big part of my life. I don’t think I would be here today if not for you. Not just your skills as a lawyer but as my friend, my shoulder, the one thing I could count on no matter what. What I’m trying to say is.…”

  “No, John, stop,” she said in a soft voice.

  “I’m not stopping. Hear me out, then we’ll talk. I want nothing more in the world than for you and I to become something more than business associates and friends.”

  I was moving forward, and I thought it was going well. As I said the words, I realized that she had become more to me than even I recognized. I looked at her and said something I never intended.

  “I am hopelessly in love with you. Please give us a chance.”

  I waited and saw a tear roll down her pretty cheek. I knew it was a tear of joy, a tear of love. I had just told her what she had wanted to say herself.

  She held my hand tightly.

  “Oh John, you sweet man. I have never met anyone like you. You are truly a wonderful person. I care for you very deeply, but there is something I have to tell you.”

  “But” is not good. There should be no buts. She was to fall into my arms, and we were going to make love for hours and hold each other all night.

  “John, I really don’t know how to say this other than to say it. You are a great guy, and some woman will be lucky to have you. That woman will not be me. You are not my type. I am not interested in having a personal relationship, with a man.”

  What did that mean? Had she been hurt badly? Had some guy dumped her? The bastard. I would kick his ass. Here he was raining on my parade.

  “I promise I will never hurt you. I will treat you like you deserve. Please give me a chance,” I pleaded.

  “You don’t understand, I am already in a relationship. I have started seeing someone. John, her name is Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth! I was stunned, for a second, then it hit me. There is a danger that all good investigators must avoid.

  It involves the obvious suspect, the one you pursue because everything points to them. You spend all your time and energy trying to button up the case and put the guy away. Then you sit down to catch up on some calls and paperwork, there are five phone messages from the same person.

  You return the call and a nun from a local church says that the guy you are looking at so hard cannot be guilty because he was volunteering at the church when the crime occurred, just like he did every week. She also mentions that she saw a person similar in appearance walk past the parish office a duck down an alley at about the same time. Then you look over everything again the information you should have been paying attention to sprouts like mushrooms.

  With lovely Laura I had a severe case of tunnel vision. I charged forward, ignoring all cues. Combine that with a healthy dose of male density when it comes to women, and well, John Cabrelli strikes out.

  6

  Hospital

  One may have thought that Attila the Hun was assaulting John Cabrelli’s hospital room. It wasn’t Attila himself, but it was certainly one of his descendants in the person of Nurse B. Holterman.

  “What is going on here?” she demanded.

  “Mr. Cabrelli is in no condition for this type of taxing behavior. It is after visiting hours, and you (pointing her finger like a pistol at Presser) will leave immediately.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been listening to John at his request. I wasn’t trying to cause a problem. He called ME! I’m just trying—”

  Nurse Holterman cut him off at the knees. “You will leave right now, this minute. Out!”

  Nurse Holterman didn’t threaten to call security; she didn’t need to. Unless they sent up a complete tactical unit, no one in security was more formidable.

  Bill Presser could not gather his papers and recorder fast enough. As he was leaving, the nurse stuck a syringe into John’s IV and filled him full of pain meds. The teen doctor walked in a few minutes later, and John tried to protest, however, his ability to form sentences was rapidly diminishing.

  “Doc, I need to talk to this guy. Please let him talk to me. He needs to finish. I need him to …” were John’s last words as he drifted off to the land of LaLa.

  The doctor and nurse examined John’s wounds and dressings. They poked and prodded and measured and made notes on his chart. The doctor told the nurse that he wanted an x-ray first thing in the morning to determine the current position of the remaining bullet and any fragments. Something would have to be done soon, although everyone knew a successful surgery would require not only the most skilled hands, but also some divine intervention. John wasn’t certain whether he deserved that type of intervention but hoped maybe his good points outweighed the bad.

  When the doctor and nurse left the room, Bill Presser met them in the hallway.

  “Doctor, could I have a moment please?” he asked.

  “Yes, but just a moment. I have many other patients to see,” replied the doctor curtly.

  “I want you to know that it is not my intention to cause John any further complications. He requested me, and I’m trying to respond to that request. I am not an unsympathetic person, and it’s clear he’s in a fair amount of pain. However, after spending this time with him, it’s also clear that this is what he desperately wants to do. This is his story, and he needs to tell it. From what he has told me, this may be the last request of a dying man. I have committed to honoring that request. Whether he thinks so or not, he’s a real hero and has earned this right,” Presser pleaded.

  “Mr. Presser, my responsibility is to keep John Cabrelli alive. That includes making certain that he does nothing to jeopardize his care. I don’t care about his hero status. I don’t care about his story. I care about keeping him alive and healing him. T
hat’s it. To that end, I will allow no visitation from anyone, period.”

  End of discussion. The doctor walked away. Nurse Holterman fixed Bill with a chilling look, but ended with an almost imperceptible nod of her head before she walked off.

  That night was a bad night for John. His temperature increased, reaching a point that a night nurse was covering him with cool packs trying to bring it down. At three in the morning the doctor on call was dispatched to his room. The increased temperature along with significant abdominal tenderness was a clear sign of some type of infection, possibly bullet damage missed during the initial emergency surgery. Doses of IV antibiotics were increased. For what seemed like the millionth time in his life, John Cabrelli was in big trouble.

  Due to the heavy doses of pain drugs, John was only somewhat aware of what was going on. He dreamed not of Angelina Gonzalez but of a cabin on a small lake. He was sitting on the porch sorting out his fishing tackle box. Sunset was approaching and the air had turned cool, then cold, and John began to shiver. He couldn’t get warm no matter how hard he tried. He just couldn’t get warm.

  Morning for John came at around 2:00 p.m. A new doctor had now joined the team. They were gently trying to wake him, and he was coming to, fuzzy, but awake. There was a lot going on.

  “Mr. Cabrelli, my name is Dr. Árnason. I am a surgeon from U.W. Hospital in Madison. I would like to talk about your condition. Do you feel up to that now?”

  “Go ahead, Doc. I think this is about as good as I get right now.”

  “We feel that you are suffering from a severe internal infection. At this point your body has not yet begun to launch its own immune response to fight this infection. Your weakened state will further compromise that. We are administering heavy doses of antibiotics with little result. In my opinion, and it is shared by my colleagues here, we need to go back in and try to determine the source of the infection, and we will remove the remaining bullet in the same procedure.”