on plastic gloves. Blue and white lights flashed from the rooftops of emergency vehicles, causing a strobe effect that made everyone’s movements look stiff and artificial. The distorted blare of cranked up two-way radios and small clumps of startled and curious neighbors completed the familiar scene.
Jackie and I sat on the tailgate of her pickup truck while a young lady cop took our statements. Jackie went first so she could essentially frame my story for me. Everything she said was true, and plausible, without saying anything we wouldn’t want on the record. It was an impressive performance.
We were almost finished when Sullivan pulled up in his cruiser.
“Hi, Joe,” said the lady cop.
“Hi, Liz. Just dropping by. I know this guy,” he pointed at me.
“Hi, Joe,” I said. “This is Attorney Jackie Swaitkowski.”
“Already got a lawyer?”
Jackie almost leaped off the tailgate in her haste to clarify.
“No, no, no. We came together on another matter. Officer Grady has all the information.”
Liz Grady jotted down a few more items then handed her casebook to Sullivan. He read it carefully while we sat there and waited. When he was done he tapped the palm of his hand with the book.
“So, Sam, you think it was suicide?”
“Doesn’t look like anything else to me, but I’m no expert.”
“I mean, you might have a reason to know it’s suicide.”
“Not for sure, but it’s a pretty safe bet.”
“Good. Thanks.”
He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Hey, Sam, did I tell you I got that thing you were asking about?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I do. It’s in my cruiser. Wanna take a look? Don’t go anywhere,” he said to Jackie. “We’ll be right back.”
Jackie looked at me as if to say, which turnip truck do you think I just fell out of. Officer Grady went off to handle more official business.
“What the fuck,” said Sullivan when we got to his car.
“It’s bad,” I said.
“So it’s not a suicide.”
“It’s definitely a suicide. That’s what’s bad.”
“We should investigate.”
“Absolutely.”
“So you’re not sure.”
“I’m sure, but you want confirmation from the medical examiner.”
“So what’s so bad?”
“Hornsby’d rather kill himself than talk to me.”
Sullivan spun half around on his heel.
“Jesus Christ, what are you saying?”
“You said you’d give me a couple weeks. It’s only been a couple days.”
“That was before the dead body.”
I had trouble arguing with that.
“I called you right away.”
He jerked his head at Jackie Swaitkowski.
“What’s with the mouthpiece?” he asked.
“She used to work for Hornsby. I thought if she was with me he might open up. That’s all.”
“I got to know what’s going on.”
“Okay, forget the two weeks. A couple more days is all I need.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know. I’m working on it.”
“What’s ‘it’?” he almost shouted at me.
“Two more days.”
Sullivan nervously tucked in his shirt and ran both hands through his hair. Trying to get at least something in his life in proper order.
“I’m out of my fuckin’ mind.”
Jackie was a little frosty when we got back to her.
“He didn’t want to talk in front of Liz.”
“Right.”
She was mad at me, but she looked impossibly great sitting there on the tailgate of her beat up old truck. In the midst of all the tensed-up cops and radio noise and otherworldly flashing lights, I had a clear vision of Jackie Swaitkowski, perennially in a state of man trouble. Dead husbands, bad boyfriends, married guys, an endless trail of disappointments, betrayals and thwarted expectations. The good guys will be inadequate, the bad boys destructive, the right ones taken. It won’t be her fault. She’ll just always be too good-looking, or not good-looking enough, too smart, too lazy or too strange.
“Listen, Joe. It seems to me you ought to take a look in that house before anything’s disturbed. Especially since the back door is unlocked.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Jackie.
“If you’re concerned about it, Hornsby’s lawyer here can go with you. Tag along.”
“I don’t need that,” said Sullivan.
“No, I think you do. I think you want to ask her to come with you. And while you’re checking around, Jackie can make sure all his files and office stuff are where they ought to be. In case there’s a question later on.”
“You have
“You need to do it pretty soon.”
Jackie stuck her nose right up to my face. So close I could see she was turning red. She still looked good.
“Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Then you can tell me,” Sullivan said to Jackie.
“I could tell you, but then you couldn’t do it,” I said to Jackie. “You know what I need.”
The two of them just stood there and looked at me for a painfully long time. Painful for me, anyway. I could feel all the muscles in my neck and back tighten up and that familiar sensation of a knife being thrust into my right eye. Just like being back at work. The ravages of wanting.
“Please,” I said to both of them.
They still didn’t budge.
“Well, shit,” said Sullivan, finally, “if you’re gonna use the magic word,” and walked off toward the house.
Jackie started to follow him, shaking her head.
“Be careful,” I said.
She turned around and walked backwards as she spoke.
“You should get out of here. We’ll meet later.”
“I’ll call in a few hours.”
She walked a few more steps, then turned around again, pointing her finger at me.
“You’re gonna owe me for the rest of your life.”
I knew she’d do it, though I felt bad about messing with her principles. When I was her age I always let principle overpower common sense. It’s what you do when you’re young and dumb. Before all the consequences of bitter experience pile up. And you become like Milton Hornsby, unable to outpace the hurts, sins and miscalculations you’ve let loose on the world, until they literally hound you to death—calling, writing, leaving messages on your answering machine.
There was some sort of big celebration going on at the Polish church, so the parking lot at the Senior Center
