Witness to Death

by Dave White

  John closed his eyes.

  “So,” the cop said. “Why’d you kill those people?”

  “Kill those—No, that wasn’t me. That was Frank.”

  The cop pulled out a chair, put his coffee and notebook down on the table, and then sat, wrists resting against the corner of the table. He breathed through his nose hard, as if John was frustrating him already. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pen, uncapped it.

  “All right. I’ll play. Who’s Frank?”

  “He’s my… well, I guess he’s a friend. I was following him tonight, I thought he was cheating on his girlfriend.”

  The cop scribbled on the paper, and John could tell he wasn’t actually writing anything. Just like a student who was trying to look like he was working.

  “Frank Carnathan,” John said, exhaling the words as if he’d just been running. He then shouted out Frank’s address.

  Now the cop actually started to write.

  “How do you know this Frank Carnathan? You said he’s a friend?”

  John took a deep breath. The cop was actually listening.

  “He’s my friend’s—my ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend. I saw him sitting with some girl at a Starbucks a few days ago. He’s weird, I don’t trust him. So tonight, after my own girlfriend broke up with me and I decided. . .”

  The cop looked up. “Your girlfriend broke up with you tonight?”

  Did she? Why did he keep saying she did?

  “Yeah, what does that have to do with anything?”

  Come on, John thought. Let me tell you about the trail of bodies Frank left around tonight. The ones I can’t get out of my head. Every time I picture them I want to throw-up.

  “Are you okay with the break-up? Did it surprise you? Did it piss you off?”

  John’s mouth tasted sour and dry again. It seemed like the saliva on his tongue was drying up or creeping back down his throat. He felt as if his body was imploding.

  He knew where the cop was taking him with these questions.

  “No! I didn’t kill them. They were going to kill Frank and me. They were going to shoot us. Frank just took them out. He told me, it was us or them. He shot them. He shot them!”

  John’s hands flexed into fists and pulled against the chains of the cuffs. The metal dug into his wrists sending electric charges up his arms. He pressed his feet flat into the floor. The chair squeaked back a few inches on the ground.

  The cop leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  “Easy, buddy. Easy,” the cop said.

  “I’m not lying to you,” John said. He was out of breath. “I didn’t kill anyone. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I could be dead right now.”

  “You said they had guns, these guys. There weren’t any guns found at the scene. Nothing. Just the bullets in their chests.”

  John saw them again. Saw the fire exploding from their hands. Saw their own bodies explode in red. He swallowed hard.

  “How can you think I did it? What’s going on here? I’m just a teacher. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have followed Frank. I should have stayed home. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t do it. The wrong place. That’s all it was. I was in the wrong place. Let me go. I’m getting a lawyer.”

  “Okay. All right.” The cops hands were held out before him now, palms out.

  “You have to help me,” John said. His ears felt warm. There was pressure at the sides of his temples.

  There was a knock on the door behind them. The cop got up and walked over to the door. John tried to breathe through his nose.

  Don’t pass out.

  When the cop opened the door, a man handed him a piece of paper. The cop read it and then looked up at John.

  The cop put his hands on his hips and twisted his neck as if he was cracking it.

  “Tell me what happened tonight.”

  “I did.”

  The cop slammed his hands down on the table and leaned across it. Some coffee spilled over the top of his cup.

  “Tell me.”

  John took a deep breath. The right to remain silent. That’s all he had left. He’d said too much already.

  “I—”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to wait for my lawyer.”

  The cop stood up and picked up the coffee and notebook. He guzzled the coffee, then said, “Fine.”

  ****

  Two hours had passed and still no Michelle. No lawyer. John had already counted the tiles on the floor—trying to do anything to occupy his mind. He was also pretty sure the odor in his cell wasn’t shit. That didn’t solve the problem of what it was.

  Distraction didn’t help. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. There weren’t any guns at the crime scene? He saw them. He kept seeing them in his head. Every time he saw them, he’d come close to losing it again.

  He sat on the cot and brought his knees up to his chest. The burning in his wrists from when they’d taken off the cuffs had finally faded. What was he involved in? He couldn’t get the blood out of his brain. Just like the water. The last time—the only time—he’d ever seen someone die before tonight, the only image he’d remember was water.

  ****

  They were at their aunt’s in Freehold, Mom and Dad with their wine and beer. Uncle Roger was behind the grill. Smoke twirled into the sky. True to form, Uncle Roger had found sausage no one had ever heard of. When they were driving down the Parkway, Mom and Dad were promising hot dogs and hamburgers. Uncle Roger was always trying to be original.

  That didn’t really matter to John. The sun was beating down, making the concrete hot to the touch of his foot. The pool was warm for once. Hannah was pushing down her swimmies, trying to get them off. John sat on the steps filling his plastic water gun. He heard the thump of one of the plastic swimmies hitting the ground behind him. Hannah always managed to free herself of them.

  “Keep those on,” he mumbled, knowing Mom or Dad would yell. The last thing he wanted was them coming over here. Once this gun was filled he was going to sneak over and spray them all.

  He heard the other swimmie hit the ground too. His sister exhaled just like that guy in that movie the other day. The one who got out of prison. He wanted to see more of that movie, but Dad had flipped it off.

  The splash sounded like a slap against the water. Like when he was on the tube before and let his arm slam down on the water.

  He watched the last bubbles pop out of the open end of the gun. He capped it and held it up. The sun reflected off the green plastic. He squeezed the trigger and watched the water squirt up into the air like his doctor watched the medicine come out of a needle. He was about to stand up and begin his assault when he realized there wasn’t anymore splashing.

  John turned to see Hannah sinking in the shallow end. Her eyes were squeezed shut and bubbles drifted from her nose like out of the end of his water pistol. She flailed and John waited for her to start swimming to the surface. Her arms reached out ahead of her and then gave in to the pressures of the water. Hannah sank some more.

  “Stop playing, Hannah,” he said. He remembered Mom saying that if Hannah ever fell to get her right away.

  He should say something. Hannah’s mouth opened and a stream of bubbles came out. She was trying to breathe.

  “Dad?” John turned toward the party. The music was playing off the radio and no one reacted at first. “Dad!”

  His father looked up and John said, “Hannah’s trying to breathe underwater.”

  The beer bottle shattered against the hot concrete. His dad dove into the deep end, pumped his arms, muscles straining against his skin. He glided into the shallow end. Pulled Hannah out of the water. Mom screamed. Hannah’s face had turned blue. Dad started to kiss Hannah’s mouth.

  “Hannah!” his dad yelled. “Hannah, wake up!”

  “Oh my God,” Mom said, though it was a whisper.

  Uncle Roger said he was going to call 911.

  Hannah never moved.

  And all J
ohn could do was watch.

  ****

  One of the cops opened his cell and waved him toward the door.

  John stood.

  “Come on,” he said. “You have a visitor.”

  Finally. John followed the cop, who led him to the same bare room with nothing but a table and two metal folding chairs. The light was a faded yellow and gave him a headache. He squinted and sat in one of the chairs. The cop stepped out of the room and closed the door. John heard the lock click.

  More waiting.

  This time only five minutes passed. The lock clicked again, and John looked up. The door swung open and a woman stood in the doorway. John squinted a little more.

  Ashley McDonald entered the room and sat in the chair across from him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  John pushed the chair back. His chest tightened and his vision went hazy. He blinked to clear it.

  Ashley sat down across from him, folded her hands in front of her, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, he saw the glint of the pale light from the fluorescents above them. He remembered waking up next to her one morning, as rain pounded the sidewalk outside. They stayed in bed the whole morning holding each other.

  Now John wasn’t sure if he wanted to hold her or punch her.

  Over her shoulder, through a window in the door, John could see a uniformed officer watching them.

  “John,” she said. Another breath. “John, we have to get you out of here.”

  “Get me out of here? How did you even know I was here? I didn’t call you.”

  “I told them I was your lawyer. I made a fake business card on a computer at an overnight Kinko’s. Odds are they won’t believe it for long. They’re probably looking up my info right now.”

  “What? Why would you—”

  “Shut up,” she said. “You’re in trouble, and I think I’m in trouble.”

  “Of course I’m in trouble. I’m in jail.” As his muscles bunched together, John felt as if someone was pulling a string taut behind his neck. “Wait, what do you mean you’re in trouble?”

  “Work.”

  “Work. Work? You’re a receptionist. And your boss is not a slavedriver. You and I both know…”

  John shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for this. It was ridiculous.

  “I watched five men die tonight!”

  Ashley looked up at him and squinted as if he just told her he peed himself.

  “Would you shut up,” she said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  The cop standing at the door must have heard them. John saw him reach to his shoulder and say something into a radio. Ashley started fiddling in her purse and came out with a glass soda bottle. Looked like Sprite.

  “Stop! “ John said. “We’re not going any where. Let the police sort this out.”

  “John. Someone is trying to kill me. And I think they want to kill you too.”

  John froze, half out of his seat, his legs still touching the chair.

  Before he could say anything else, Ashley unscrewed the cap. John could smell turpentine. She poured some of it on a handkerchief and stuffed it in the bottle.

  As the cop watched the window, his eyes widened. John saw the knob turn and the door start to open.

  “Get ready to run,” Ashley said.

  She pulled a cigarette lighter from her purse and lit the handkerchief, whirled and threw the bottle at the door. Before the bottle hit, John saw the cop fall away from the door, covering his face with his forearms. The bottle hit, cracked and there was a loud whooshing sound.

  John squinted at the brightness of the explosion. His face got hot immediately, and he felt sweat at the edge of his hairline. His hands started shaking again. Ashley grabbed him by the wrist and pulled.

  He saw the cop rolling on the floor. His sleeve was on fire.

  “Come on!” she screamed, then dragged him through the door.

  Alarms and bells rang and the sprinklers went off in the hall. The water was freezing. As it washed down John’s face, he could taste it mixing with the salt of his sweat.

  Police were yelling for everyone to get out of the building. Some of the fire had spread to a nearby desk filled with papers, and across the carpet on the floor.

  Two male cops and a woman in cuffs ran, splashing up puddles, screaming and bumping into each other. Ashley grabbed John’s wrist tight and pulled. They stepped in between an older couple. The smoke was thick like black coffee, and filled John’s nostrils. He coughed hard and tried to breathe. His chest was on fire, and he wasn’t getting much air. He and Ashley crouched lower, where the air was a bit cleaner.

  Some cops were acting like third base coaches, trying to wave everyone toward the door. Smoke billowed around their arms, but otherwise it was hard to see them.

  No one stopped them.

  By the time they reached the winter air, its chill quickly crusted the freezing water on their clothes. Ashley’s hair was matted to the sides of her face. Deftly, she pulled it back into a ponytail. She took John by the arm again and pointed toward the far corner of the building.

  “I’m parked over there,” she said.

  Ashley started to drag him in that direction, but John didn’t walk with her.

  “I’ll be a fugitive.”

  “You’ll be better off on the street than in a police station. Follow me.”

  John blinked, still not sure what was happening.

  “Let’s go!”

  He went with Ashley, pushing through the crowd of onlookers. Sirens rang off in the distance, fire trucks speeding toward them. John tugged his arms against the handcuffs, but there was no give. He had no idea how he was going to get them off.

  The crowd started to thin as they got closer to her car. Ashley ignored cops, ignored pedestrians, and ignored the chaos around them. She did what she always did, looked like she belonged.

  Until they were about ten feet from the car.

  It started as a low rumble, and John felt the ground shake beneath him. The rumble became an explosion, and the front glass doors of the police station erupted in a flash of light. The crowd turned their heads to look, and Ashley stopped for moment. Then she took John by the arm again and ran to the car. No one followed, they were busy heading back toward the burning building.

  Once in the passenger seat, John looked at Ashley.

  “You knew that explosion was coming?”

  She shook her head. “Must have been a spark near some gas or something.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said, and drove off heading toward the Turnpike.

  Michelle Sandler pulled off the Turnpike, made a few turns, came up behind the station, and saw the roadblock. Maybe, she thought, the police station was always blocked off like this. When she went to DC with Frank a few months ago, there were roadblocks around all the important buildings.

  She turned right, away from the police station, found a parking spot. Before she could walk over to the station, she had to get her purse out of the trunk. It was hidden under Burt, the health teacher’s replica skeleton. She always kept her purse in the trunk, in case someone tried to mug her. And once she agreed to repair Burt’s broken rib over vacation, Michelle had an even better hiding spot for her valuables.

  Not that any of that mattered anymore.

  She slung the purse over her shoulder and replaced Burt. When she turned to start walking, she smelled the smoke in the air. It was sharp and acidic. She kept walking and heard the sirens. As she rounded the corner, she saw the crowds a block away. And she saw the front of the station was in flames. Firefighers were spraying water at black holes that used to be windows. The cops had set up a barrier and were herding civilians behind it.

  One police officer was standing by himself closer to the building, where Michelle was. Despite the cold, he had his hat off and was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Soot caked his face.

  Digging the bottle of water she always kept with her
out of her wallet, she approached him.

  “Here,” she said, holding out the bottle. “Are you all right?”

  The cop took it, smiled, and then took a long pull. When he finished, he said, “Thanks.”