“Yeah, a good one too. He was just down the street from his residence speaking with one of his neighbors, guy named Wimberley about replacing their driveway.”
“Has he been notified yet?”
“Yep. He’s here now,” Miles said, then pointed to the back of the EMS van. “Getting his vitals checked by the EMS guys. He’s wrecked, man.”
“Alright, go on.”
Miles took his notebook out, flipped through a few pages for a second, then continued. “Victim pulls up, parks along the curb, over there, then goes inside, sits down to have a cup of joe and do her paperwork. Guy that waited on her says she was here for about twenty, twenty-five minutes tops, drank her coffee while working on her paper, then gathers her shit, pays her bill and leaves. Waiter says he was putting her money in the register as she walked out. Says he saw her get hit. Said the impact of the round lifted her up and sent her flying backwards. Didn’t hear a thing. He said it was like watching a movie scene with the sound turned off or something.”
“Okay, keep him here. I’m going to want to talk to him.”
“You got it, Jonesy.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“Nope. At least not yet.”
“All right. Keep the uniforms talking to people. Let’s go speak to the husband.”
Tom Rhodes sat in the back of the EMS unit on one of the side benches, his forearms resting across his thighs, his head down, hangdog. I nodded at the paramedics and asked them to give us a few minutes. They climbed out and Ron Miles and I sat on the opposite bench across from Rhodes. Miles spoke first. “Mr. Rhodes, this is Detective Jones. He’d like to speak with you for a moment, ask a few questions if you’re up for it.”
Tom Rhodes did not look up for it, I thought, but the loved ones of the victims rarely do. “Mr. Rhodes, as Detective Miles just said, I’m Detective Virgil Jones. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I know you’re going to think the timing is lousy, but the sooner we can get the information we need, the better our chances are of catching who ever did this.”
Tom Rhodes looked up at us, at me, and shook his head. “You don’t look like a cop. You damn sure don’t look like a detective.”
I gave him a sympathetic grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Sometimes that’s the whole point though. Not to look like a cop.”
“I guess. I really wouldn’t know.”
“I understand you’re a retired fireman?”
“That’s right.”
“I want you to know that I have a tremendous amount of respect for guys like you and what you do.”
He nodded, looked at nothing. “It’s been my experience that people who make that kind of statement are people who have had a traumatic experience with fire.”
“You’re absolutely right. I was just a child, but it changed me. Tell you the truth, I always sort of thought I might end up in your line of work.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Aw, you know, my dad was a cop. Marion County Sherriff until he retired.”
He seemed to process this information for a minute. “Jones. You said your name was Jones? Is Mason Jones your old man?”
“That’s right. Did you know him?”
“No, not really. Just enough to recognize him if we were on scene together. Hey, always voted for him though.”
“I’m sure he appreciated that, sir. Listen, I’ve got some questions, but tell me about your day so far, with your wife.”
He put a little gravel in his voice. “Well it’s been just fucking splendid, Detective.” Then he caught himself and raised a hand in apology.
“What I mean, Mr. Rhodes-“
“Call me Tom, okay.”
“Okay. What I mean, Tom, is could you tell me about your day with your wife up to the point she left for work?”
He shook his head and chewed the bottom of his lip. “There’s nothing to tell. It was a normal day. We got up, had breakfast and went about our day. Then a little later, hell just a little while ago, she left for work. I know she likes to stop off here for coffee before getting to it. I think it helps her-or helped her I guess I should say-to clear her head, know what I mean?”
“I think I do. Anything out of the ordinary, today in particular?”
“No, nothing.”
“Was she acting strange, like maybe something was bothering her?”
“No, absolutely not. If anything it was the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it was me. I was the one who was acting strange. Well, hell, that’s not right. I wasn’t acting strange. I was sort of pissed off if you want to know the truth of it.”
“Pissed off how? Why? Were you two arguing?”
“No. Probably would have turned into one though. If she hadn’t left for work, I mean. It’s been a bit of a sore spot lately, ever since I retired. I’m stuck at home with nothing to do except busy work, while she’s out doing real work. We’d talked about retiring together, you know? Maybe do a little traveling, but that never worked out.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Well, I guess because she just couldn’t give it up. Her work, I mean.”
“And she was a Hospice nurse?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. So you two had an argument right before she left?”
“That’s not what I said, Detective. You’re putting words into my mouth. I said it probably would have turned into one. An argument.”
I looked at the bandage on his hand. “What happened to your hand, Mr. Rhodes?”
“I scraped the ever lasting shit out of my knuckles pulling weeds from the driveway cracks. That’s what I was doing when she left.”
“What about her patients, Tom?”
“What about them?”
“She was in a difficult line of work,” I said. “She cares for people at a time when there’s nothing left for them to do but try and die with a little dignity.”
“Sounds like you’ve had some experience with that too, detective.”
He was right. I did have some experience with that. Very personal experience.
“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, Detective, whenever it may have been. But to tell you the truth, I never knew much about her patients.”
“Why’s that?”
“Aw, it was those damn hippo laws.”
“You mean HIPPA,” Miles added. “With an a at the end.”
Rhodes waved his hand. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever. Rhonda took her job very seriously. She never spoke about individual patients with anything more than very vague generalities. And even then, never by name. And if I’m being honest with you, and I am by the way, I didn’t want to hear it. The whole fucking thing depressed the ever lasting shit out of me. I guess that says something about me, huh?”
“Is there any chance, Tom, that this could be one of her patient’s family members? Someone mad at Rhonda because their loved one died?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t sound right to me. Doesn’t feel right. Everyone I’ve ever talked with think these people, these Hospice workers walk on water, you know? I guess it could be possible, hell, anything’s possible, right? But I don’t think so.”
I scratched the back of my head, and thought, what the hell. “Where do you bank, Tom?”
“Firefighter’s Credit Union. Why?”
