Wukowski took a while to reveal his real name to me. It came about as his father made the trip up this hill in mid-December while his mom labored and the radio played Good King Wenceslas. And just like that, Lena insisted that the baby boy—of course it had to be a boy because she was carrying low, feeling cold all the time, and had no morning sickness—be named Wenceslas. His father conceded as long as he could choose the baby’s middle name. And so the poor little thing’s birth certificate read Wenceslas Tadeusz Wukowski. Imagine if the song had been “We Three Kings”—he might’ve ended up being Balthazar, Melchior, or Gaspar. Horrors! As it was, he reverted to his middle name in everyday situations and went by Ted. But before he and I got, er, friendly, I’d learned to refer to him by his last name and it persisted. He’d always be Wukowski to me.
Aunt Terry waited for me at the lobby information desk, smiling and talking with the clerk on duty. She’d left the convent as a novice, sacrificing her dream of religious life to help my papa raise me after my mother died very young from the flu. Even after decades, Aunt Terry lived as if still aspiring to full status as a nun—sharing an apartment near Alverno College with two teaching sisters, wearing frumpy dark clothes and thick-soled shoes, styling her hair into a basic bowl cut, and avoiding even lipstick.
But almost years ago, she’d met a man—Fausto Pirelli—and had taken tiny teenager steps toward upgrading her look and even dating. And I dared anyone to come up with a more strained role reversal than ours when I’d had “the talk” with her about the possibility of sexual activity. I wasn’t sure if she took my advice, and I didn’t want to know. Her obvious happiness brought joy to my heart.
Aunt Terry introduced me to the woman at the desk, beaming as if I were a precious jewel.
“Oh, your aunt has told me so much about you, how strong and brave and intelligent you are,” she said. “And how proud she is of you.”
“As I am of her,” I responded, thinking how Aunt Terry’s inherent goodness made everyone better versions of themselves.
From the entry, Wukowski called hello and joined us at the desk. “Good to see you, Terry,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Thanks for being here. You’ll put Ms. Franken at ease much better than I could.”
She smiled up at him. “It’s not that hard, Ted. Just let your kind heart show through.”
His eyes widened, but he didn’t contradict her, although I could tell he struggled with any public assertion of kindness on his part. He liked to maintain a tough-guy persona, but Aunt Terry and I knew better.
Chapter 25
I am fearless because I’ve been afraid.
Unknown
Officer Opansky stood guard outside Franken’s room. “Detective Wukowski,” she intoned.
“Officer Opansky,” he responded just as solemnly. “Anything to report?”
“No, sir. Just the usual hospital personnel.” She opened a pocket notebook and handed it to him. “I’ve recorded everyone who’s gone in or out. All legit.”
“Very thorough,” he said. “The guy who did this is a nasty piece of work. Watch yourself.”
“Will do,” she replied.
“You might as well take a break while we’re here, Opansky. Be back in thirty.”
“Thank you, sir.” She nodded to me. “Ms. Bonaparte. Looking good,” she said as she ran her hands down her hips. “Too bad I can’t say the same about my uniform. I figure the designer was a guy who just got taken to the cleaners by his ex-wife. There’s one benefit though. It usually deters the idiots who think I’ll give them a pass if they come on to me.”
“Good point,” I acknowledged. “Let me introduce you to my aunt, who is a patient liaison at several hospitals, including Saint Mary’s. Teresa Bonaparte, Officer Opansky.”
“Nice to meet you,” Opansky said as she wrote in her notebook. “Back in thirty.”
Inside Franken’s room, Aunt Terry approached the bed. “Ms. Franken, I’m Teresa Bonaparte, a patient advocate here at Saint Mary’s. This gentleman is police detective Ted Wukowski, and the lady with us is helping with his investigation. She happens to be my niece, Angelina Bonaparte, a highly-respected private investigator.”
I positioned myself slightly behind Aunt Terry and Wukowski, assessing Franken. She sat propped up against several pillows, a tiny woman even by my standards. I doubted she would be five feet tall when upright, but the bedclothes swallowed her lower body. Her chin-length bob with sideswept bangs covered a great deal of her face but couldn’t disguise the bruises that stood out on her cheekbones or her swollen-shut left eye. I guessed her age at mid-to-late forties.
“Please tell me if you feel unable to talk with us, Ms. Franken,” Aunt Terry said, “but the police really need your help to find your assailant. Do you think you’re able to tell us what happened?”
As Franken gingerly reached for a cup of water, I noted her pudgy, short-fingered hand. She took a sip and spoke in a hoarse voice. “Best if we do it now, because I plan to remove myself from Milwaukee as soon as I can travel, and I won’t be back until the bastard is behind bars.”
Spunky, I thought, and not afraid to speak her mind. That would make this discussion easier.
She gestured to chairs and the ubiquitous hospital recliner. “Sit. I hate looking up at people.”
“Me too,” I told her.
She assessed me in turn. “You’ve got several inches on me, Ms. Bonaparte.”
“Please call me Angie.”
“Rebecca,” she countered. “Now, sit.”
Like well-trained puppies, we sat.
Wukowski opened the conversation. “I’d like to record this, Ms. Franken.” He removed a small device from his suit coat pocket. “Okay with you?”
“Yes, but I reserve the right to ask you to turn it off.”
“Understood.” He pressed a button and gave the usual lead-in, with names, dates, and times. Placing the recorder on the rolling table next
