to your arrest.”
“ What’s to write? A hit and run driver ran down my best friend. I went berserk and attacked the doctor that was probably trying to save his life.”
“ Probably?” Turnbull’s eyes turned to slits.
“ Was trying to save his life.” Jim flipped through the blank pages of the legal tablet, picked up the pencil, fiddled with it for a second, dropped it on the tablet.
“ Write it down.”
“ Why?” Jim met Turnbull’s slitted gaze.
“ You’d be surprised what comes to people when they put their thoughts onto paper. You might have seen something that caused you to act the way you did. Something that might have justified your actions. Something we can use to get you out of here.”
“ I saw and old, beat up gray, 1980 Buick Regal, balding tires, chrome rims, tinted windows, driver’s window down, dented front fender, strike and kill David Askew. Although the driver’s window was halfway down, I didn’t get a look at the driver. I remember the vehicle because I’ve always had a teenage-like interest in cars. I notice cars like horny men notice beautiful women. Not that I don’t notice beautiful women. I don’t think I’ll remember much more if I write it down.”
“ Humor me.”
“ No.”
“ I’m trying to help you.”
“ I’m sorry, you’re right.” Jim picked up the pencil. “Fortunately I’m left handed.”
“ Fortunately,” Turnbull echoed.
Jim bent over the paper, tried to put his thoughts in order, but before he had a chance there was a light knock on the door.
“ Can I come in?” a tall man, with a body builder’s shape trying to bust out of a yellow sport coat said. Jim couldn’t believe how ridiculous the man looked with his shoulder length, surfer-blond hair and paisley tie. The man had a nose three times too big for his face.
“ That’s the driver!” Donna thought.
“ Are you sure?” Jim thought.
“ You notice cars, I notice people.”
“ Are you sure?” Jim repeated his thought.
“ Look at him! How many people look like that? Of course I’m sure!”
The big man moved past Jim, picked up the empty chair and took it to the other side of the table, where he took a seat next to Jeff Turnbull.
“ Hi, I’m Richard Monroe, I’m going to help get you out of here,” the bodybuilder said.
“ Help kill you is more like what he really means,” Donna thought.
“ You can’t be sure,” Jim thought back, but he felt her conviction. He believed her.
“ You better do something, or the only place you’ll be going is the morgue. Yell, scream your head off!”
“ No.” Jim picked up the pencil, flipped open the legal pad as if he were going to write something.
“ What did you say your name was?” Jim asked, making conversation, hoping to distract the big man.
“ Richard Monroe.”
“ You’re an attorney also?”
“ Yes sir, work for Cobb and Cobb, just like Mr. Turnbill.”
“ Turnbull, the man’s name is Turnbull, not Turnbill,” Donna screamed the thought.
“ I know.” Jim repositioned the pencil in his left hand with the eraser against the heel of the palm and the pointed end sticking out between the two middle fingers. Then he balled his hand into a fist with the sharpened pencil sticking out like a deadly spike. He took a deep breath, held it, then jacked his arm forward, driving the pencil into the big man’s left eye and on up into his brain.
Death was instantaneous.
“ What the-” Turnbull screamed, but Jim cut it short by bringing his right forearm down on the left side of Turnbull’s head, striking the temple with the hard cast. Turnbull fell forward. Dead.
Though it had been almost forty years since he had killed, he’d killed a lot back then. Apparently he still remembered how. He stood and backed away. The two men were slumped down, heads on the table. The big one oozed blood out of his eye. The thick red liquid didn’t quite cover the orange eraser. A grotesque sight. Turnbull looked like he was peacefully asleep.
“ Are they dead?”
“ Big nose certainly is.”
“ How about the other one?”
Jim bent, touched two fingers of his left hand to Turnbull’s neck, on the carotid artery.
“ Dead,” he thought.
“ Shoot through!” Donna thought.
“ I don’t understand?”
“ Shoot through, before you get caught.”
“ I don’t understand the expression.”
“ It means, ‘Get the hell out of here. Take off!’”
“ And go where? There’s a policeman on the other side of the door.”
“ I forgot. Say, how come he didn’t come in when that weasel screamed?”
“ Good question.”
“ Better check.”
“ Yeah.” He grabbed the doorknob with a shaky left hand. His sweaty palm slid over it without opening the door. It had been a long time since he had sweat fear. He gripped the knob harder and turned it. The latch clicked and echoed throughout the room, causing the fine hair on the back of his hands and neck to tingle out a warning. He felt sweat under his arms as he swung the door open and poked his head into the hall.
The policeman was sitting back in his chair. He looked like he was asleep. Jim stepped into the hall and for a second time, in less than five minutes, he pressed the index and middle finger of his left hand against a carotid artery in a vain search for a sign of life. He found none.
“ Dead,” he thought.
“ Now what?” Donna asked.
“ Don’t know,” Jim thought back. But he knew he was going to have to do something, and quickly, so he grabbed the back of the chair with his good left hand, wrapped his bad right arm around the front of the dead police officer and dragged him into the small room.
He started back for the door, then stopped. Where could he go? Once the bodies were discovered, they would go to both his house and his condo. He put his hands into his pockets. No wallet, no money, no credit cards, they took them away when they booked him. He could hardly go to the officer on duty and ask for his property back.
He turned to the dead men.
“ You’re not going to search the bodies?”
“ Got any better ideas?”
“ No.”
In the inside jacket pocket of the dead Turnbull he found a wallet which held just under six hundred dollars, a driver’s license along with several credit cards, all in the name of Patrick Langley. He also found five business cards in the name of Jeff Turnbull, Attorney at Law.
He took the money, credit cards and driver’s license, leaving only the phony business cards. Any time the police spent trying to worry over who Turnbull really was, was time not spent trying to catch and crucify Jim Monday.
Next he opened Big Nose’s sportcoat and fished inside for a wallet. There was none. Great, he thought, one of those who keeps it in his pants. He lifted the coat off the dead man’s buttocks and smiled as he saw the telltale bulge in the left hip pocket. This man wasn’t used to wearing a suit. He slid his fingers into the pocket, pulled out the wallet.
Pay dirt, three thousand dollars in hundreds, plus another hundred in twenties. Thirty one hundred dollars. No credit cards. No driver’s license, only a business card in the name Richard Monroe, Attorney at Law. A false name
