Chopping Spree

Barry must be dead, I thought, and fought back tears.

The department store had an eerie, darkened look. As the medics led me toward an exit, I squinted and tried to make things out. Several salespeople—at least, they looked like salespeople—sat in chairs dispersed around the floor. Each one was talking to a uniformed cop who either knelt or sat nearby, notebook in hand. Finally I spotted Julian. He was slumped in a chair in the men’s shoe department. Three cops clustered around him. All looked grim.

Then I saw Tom. A sob convulsed my body. My husband’s somber expression spoke of something else I couldn’t face.

Despair.

“Tom!” I cried. “Come with me!”

He brought a finger to his lips and shook his head.

Black spots clouded my vision as I stumbled up the ambulance steps. One medic got behind the wheel and the other insisted I lie down—but not before I’d registered a dark, seated presence behind the stretcher.

“Please,” I said as I tried to focus on the ambulance ceiling instead of my pain, “what happened to Barry?”

There was a silence. Then, “That’s what you need to tell us,” announced the man behind the stretcher.

Overhead, a light came on. A headache gripped my skull. I blinked and clung to the side of the stretcher as the ambulance began to move. I said, “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“Did you kill Barry Dean?” asked the voice.

More pain stabbed the back of my head as I jerked around. The dark presence was a bulky man in a slate- gray suit. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a ruddy face. His dark eyes locked on to mine.

“No, of course I didn’t!” I protested, astonished. “Barry was my friend. He was an old friend,” I added weakly, as black clouds again loomed behind my eyes. “And whatever happened to my Miranda rights?”

The cop wrote something in a notebook, then frowned at his pen. Finally he looked up and introduced himself. He was Detective Sawyer. “How about your assistant, Julian Teller?” Detective Sawyer asked. “Did he kill Dean?”

“Look, Detective, neither of us stabbed Barry Dean. Julian is the kindest, most helpful—”

“How does your head feel?” Detective Sawyer interrupted.

The ambulance swayed as it pelted forward. Belatedly, I registered the siren. It felt as if it, too, was right behind my eyes.

“My head hurts,” I replied. “And you’re making it worse,

Detective Sawyer. But listen… this is important….”

The ambulance slowed unexpectedly. I turned around and lifted my chin—which sent daggers slicing down my neck—and peered out at blinking sawhorses. A large yellow arrow indicated a detour around the dirt mess from the dump truck accident.

“Something important,” I tried again with the cop. The words eluded me as I twisted back to look at him. “Did you know that tonight… in Prince and Grogan? That was the second time today that somebody tried to kill Barry. Tried to hurt Barry and me. Julian was there, too—”

“When was the first time?” The detective looked bored.

“This afternoon. A truck almost mowed us down—” I said urgently. If only he understood…

“Julian Teller called in that accident,” Sawyer announced, unperturbed. “He wasn’t a victim of it.”

My hands clenched into fists. “Will you shut up? Will you let me explain?”

“When did you go into Prince and Grogan tonight?”

“Do you know who my husband is?”

“Yes indeedy. When did you enter Prince and Grogan?”

I struggled to think back. When did I enter the department store? I’d picked up Arch’s guitar at Westside Music, but that had taken longer than I’d expected.

“Oh, my God, the guitar!” I cried. “Where is it?”

“You were hit with it, Mrs. Schulz. It was badly dented, and now it’s being held by the police to be checked for prints. Please try to think when you entered the store.”

That new guitar was dented? It was being held by the police? What was I supposed to give Arch for his birthday? My head ached.

What was the detective’s question? Oh, yes, when had I entered the department store. Let’s see. After leaving the music store, I’d scuttled into P & G and made my way through the departments looking for Barry….

“I went into Prince and Grogan around five to nine, maybe a little after, I’m pretty sure—”

“And you discovered Dean when?”

Effort at thought worsened my headache. “Around nine, I guess, but—”

“Can you explain why we got a nine-one-one call, at exactly nine o’clock, with someone saying Dean was dead? Which would be just as you came into the store?”

“Nine o’clock? Well, maybe I’m wrong about those times. But you see, when I found Barry, he wasn’t dead… he was groaning. Then someone hit me, maybe because they wanted to finish Barry off—” Something was bothering me. What? I tried to review Sawyer’s last set of questions. “Am I, uh, a suspect in this, Detective? Because I sure don’t like your tone of voice. Not to mention that you seem to have forgotten my Miranda rights?”

This, too, he ignored. “Was Julian Teller with you at that time? When you entered the store?”

At five to nine? I wondered fuzzily. Why would he do that? This detective was being too damn aggressive, I thought angrily. I lay still and prayed Lord, help me. Over and over. It helped.

“Know what?” I murmured after a few minutes. “I have a head injury. And I know a bit about your line of work, Detective Sawyer. Law enforcement isn’t supposed to question someone with a fresh head injury and no hint of Miranda. So I’m just going to wait.” My head spun. I tried to clear it, but my brain was fogged in. “I’m not going to answer a single one of your questions. And since I’m not under arrest, I’m going to call my lawyer at the hospital.”

Detective Sawyer expelled breath and slapped his notebook closed. Actually, I desperately wanted to call Tom. And if he for some reason couldn’t advise me, I would have to call Marla, not a lawyer. My own lawyer was pretty good at getting The Jerk to pay child support, but that was it. Marla, on the other hand, had the inside scoop on the moneyed and powerful in Denver, and her circle of acquaintances would surely yield connections to some of Denver’s hotshot criminal defense attorneys. On the other hand, when she heard the department was trying to nail me, or Julian, or both of us, for murder, I would have to make my next call to her cardiologist.

The ambulance pulled to a stop. What had felt like an hour in the vehicle had only been a few minutes, as Southwest Hospital was near Westside Mall.

I couldn’t read the clock inside the Emergency Room, no matter how hard I tried. A headache raged in my skull like a thunderstorm, complete with flashes of lightning. How long had I been out? I did not know. What I did know was that every muscle and bone in my body cried out with pain and fatigue. I cursed my helplessness. I balked when a nurse poked, prodded, and questioned me. While waiting for the doctor, I disobeyed orders to stay put. Instead, I hobbled out to the reception area and called Tom’s cell. No answer. Fearful the nurse would come out and claim me, I put in a call to Marla.

There was no answer at her home. I tried her cellular.

“You’re not going to believe—” I began.

“Oh, yes I am!” Her dear, husky voice crackled. “I just talked to Julian. I’m on my way to the department. The sheriff’s department.”

I held the phone away from my ear. “I’m at the hospital—”

“What?” she squawked.

“I need you to help Julian—”

“What do you think I’m doing? I’ve got an associate of Steve Hulsey’s on his way to the department to meet Julian. Hulsey himself is coming to help you.”

I shuddered. “No-Holds-Barred Hulsey?” The Denver papers were invariably filled with tales of criminal