Authors: Timothy Allan Pipes
“Officer Peidmont?”
He looked up at her and was surprised to see a look of concern.
“Are you all right? You look a little...pale.”
He realized with a start that sweat now covered his hands, neck and face.
“Uh...yeah, I’ve...told only one other person about this.” He cleared his throat too loudly.
“You don’t have to go on, Detective.”
He cleared his throat, “No, I’m fine, really. There’s not much more anyway.” She nodded at him, a little uncertainly.
He looked down, centering himself to reveal what had never made it into the papers and had caused Linda to leave. “It was in the kitchen,” he said. “That it all went to hell...”
A sharp pain to his chest prodded the breath from his lungs. He looked up to see Linda holding a steak knife in front of him, a mixture of rage and fathomless pain in her eyes. The blade’s cold steel tip pressed into his bare chest, just barely puncturing his skin. He concentrated on his breathing as his wife continued to scream. The knife sliced through several layers of skin, causing him to groan, and bleed.
He felt a single drop of blood trickle down his stomach, then another. Real fear now swept over him as he saw in Linda’s eyes a heightened sense of abandon; something he’d seen in too many criminals.
“Linda, please!” He tried to keep his voice steady. “I’ll explain where I’ve been, but I can’t think with that knife poking me.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Her maniacal laughter dashed his hopes. “Don’t try that boyish look on me.” Her tone was all wrong, almost sing-song like. “I know what you’ve been doing, out screwing another woman?
HAVENT YOU
?
” This last question was all scream and the knife edged closer to his chest once again.
“Please, Linda,” Oliver groaned. “I went down to Carmel beach for a jog and just lost track of time.”
“For
two
goddamn hours, Oliver! You’ve been sitting in the sand for two fucking hours!” She poked him for emphasis and her voice grew dangerously quiet. “Do you
really
think I’m that stupid?”
More than anything at right that moment, he wished his wife
were
that stupid. But in their eight years of marriage, she’d proven to be sharp and at times, paranoid as hell about their relationship. As a result, he knew that Linda was far more likely to believe a guy-oriented lie than the boring truth.
“Okay, okay, you caught me.” He lifted both hands in surrender. “A couple of us guys went down to Doc Rickets. John Collinson and...”
“
YOU
LIAR
!” She screamed. Her hands began to tremble and the knife nicked him again and again. “I called there
THREE
times, you piece of shit. Each time you were nowhere to be found, even when I said it was an emergency.” Then, as if a light had switched off, her hands stopped trembling, “Don’t lie to me again, Ollie. Tell me where you were...
and
who with
.”
His mind raced, understanding now that she was only waiting for her worst fears to be confirmed before embedding the seven-inch blade into his chest. He thought of the best way to disarm a knife-wielding attacker, desperately trying to recall the tactics of his police academy training. Most were useless when you were unarmed, out of uniform and dressed only in sweat pants.
“If you’ll...”
“Linda, will you listen...” Another jab to his chest and he stepped back and she followed, keeping him within knife reach. He thought about the scene and how it would appear; a woman dressed in her best holding a knife to a man wearing only sweats.
“
WHO WERE YOU WITH
?” she screamed, becoming more shrill by the second. "
TELL ME NOW! TELL ME!!
”
He winced as each outburst prodded the knife deeper, his chest now marked with small gouges. He flirted with the idea of making somebody up; tried to think of somebody who wouldn’t suffer the wrath of his poor choice.
“
TELL ME, OLIVER! TELL ME
!’
TELL ME! TELLLL MEEEE
!” Her screams became more mantra than question and in horror, he watched Linda snap mentally as she pulled the knife back above her head and without thinking, used the only weapons available. As the blade arced toward him, his fists shot out toward her chest and sent her tumbling backward. The blade slipped from Linda’s grip as she fell toward the table behind her and though he reached for the knife, it eluded his grasp and followed her to the floor.
“LINDA!” He shouted.
Barely missing the table’s edge, Linda's head came down solidly onto one of its thin metal legs. The tumbling knife cut her stockings and brushed her bare thigh before coming to rest against her still form.
He dropped down beside her.
“Linda?
"
he cried out. "Linda? Are you okay?”
She blinked up at him once, then again and he laughed, relieved that she was all right, “You got crazy there for a minute.” She blinked again, this time more slowly, but still without making a sound. “Linda?”
Her eyes rolled upward until only the whites showed and seconds later, she began convulsing the way he’d seen a young epileptic do only weeks before.
“
LINDA
!
Oh my God!
”
He ran for the portable phone and dialed 911, torn at leaving her side. He knew however, that she might die right on their kitchen floor if medical help didn't arrive
very
soon. He ran back, dropped beside her, then pulled her onto his lap as the emergency operator came on, Linda's body convulsing in his arms.
“Please state the nature of your emergency and your address.”
“My wife’s gone into convulsions, " he said, desperately, marveling at the lady's calm. "I need an ambulance at 822 Franklin in Monterey!”
He heard his address typed into the computer.
“Okay sir, stay calm. Help is on the way. What do you believe caused the convulsions?"
“She, I, I knocked her down and she fell onto a table leg.” Immediately he regretted such an admission but was distracted by the sound of pages being rifled through.
“All right, sir, stay calm. Do you know CPR?”
“Yes, yes, I’m a police officer in PG.” His heart was pounding now as he tried to hold Linda still, afraid she might injure herself.
“Okay, officer, you’re doing great. An ambulance has been dispatched and they’re about three miles away and should arrive in less than four minutes.”
“Hurry!
Please
, you’ve got to
hurry
!”
He knew his voice sounded wildly desperate, like all the recordings he’d heard on television and in real life. Linda had stopped convulsing and now lay deathly still and somehow, this seemed worse. He leaned forward to listen for her breathing and realized with horror that she wasn’t. Gently laying her down, he quickly got to his knees to listen for her heart beat. When he heard a faint thumping he began giving mouth-to-mouth.
Though it was only minutes which passed before paramedics stormed into his house and took over, it seemed to Oliver that he had kneeled over his wife for hours. Several times he had nearly gagged at the bile which had come up during her convulsions and it was a long time before it's foul taste was completely washed away.
“I don’t understand.”
Oliver opened his eyes, then quickly shut them as the mid afternoon sunlight imprinted swirling colors onto his eyelids. Using his fingers to rub the afflicted areas, he blinked several times until his vision was largely clear of them.
“What,” he asked as the last of the swirls faded away. “Do you not understand?”
“What don’t I...?” Exasperation fought with amazement, the two playing back and forth across her face until the former won out. “Why...all of this. The paper said
nothing
about your wife assaulting you.”
“Mrs. McKenny,” he said, trying not to sound obvious, “the paper didn’t mention it because their sources didn’t know it.”
He watched her eyes narrow and it was his turn to become exasperated. “Mrs. McKenny, no one knew about it until weeks after my trial ended and only then did I tell my closest friend. I couldn’t take the chance of Linda being charged.”
Lifting her outstretched legs off the couch and to the floor, she turned and settled her back slowly against the soft leather. Oliver saw he was losing her. He sat, rose from the couch and deciding on a different tack, turned toward Mrs. McKenny.
“I understand you were a professional cheerleader, Mrs. McKenny,” he said offhandedly.
“Why...yes, yes I was. For the Chicago Bears,” she said, her eyes wistful, then cleared at the apparent change of subject, then went on.
“For three and a half years, until I met Collin during a playoff game. The Bears lost that day, but we got married six months later and I thought I’d won a true prize.” The cynicism in her voice abruptly turned hard. “Most people have no idea how hard it is out there on the side lines, to make it look so easy and effortless, like we did.” Then after a moment she met his eyes, “Why do you ask, Detective?”
“Did you all get along?” he asked, ignoring her question. “The cheerleaders, I mean?”
Her sudden bark-like laugh surprised him.
“Hah! Are you kidding; piranha treat their meals better. All us girls watched our backs every hour of the day or we were gone from the squad.”
“Why do you think cops are any different?” He asked.
She opened her mouth while folding a leg beneath her, then closed it again until after a few seconds she mustered a reply.
“Because...they’re
cops
, I suppose.”
“Cops wanting a promotion can act like one of your old squad-mates, especially in a small town with a limited number of detective positions.” He watched her make the connection and only when understanding softened her face did he pick up the thread once again.
“His name was Larry Caulkins and he’d taken the detective examination six years straight. He was a good cop and in any profession, there is the underdog that wins the hearts of their coworkers. It also happened to be my first year to take the exams after transferring into the area a year earlier, and apparently I lacked the good manners to score lower than Caulkins. It was like a funeral the day I made detective, with few people other than myself and Chief Williams seeming pleased.”
"For Caulkins, failing to make detective a seventh time caused his occasional drinking to escalate and eventually, broke up his marriage. His brother-in-law tried to keep his drinking under control but Caulkins wrecked a squad car down by Lover’s Point and was given the option to quit or be fired. Last I heard he lived in San Jose somewhere, working as a security guard and been on the wagon close to a year.
"That should have been the end of it and despite some initial attitude from Larry’s friends, I thought it was. Larry himself held no grudge against me, never has. But Jack Sullivan, the District Attorney was not only Larry’s brother-in-law, he was like a big brother and a best friend; introducing him to his sister, getting him into the Police Academy and pushing him year after year to try for detective.
"I even heard he was being groomed for the Chief’s job, but that all went down the toilet when he started drinking hard. I admit relief was mostly what I felt once he quit and perhaps naively hoped to put it all behind me.
"It started small, as most things like that do; a speeding ticket I received while off duty turned into a scathing reprimand from a normally even-tempered Judge, along with a three hundred and fifty dollar fine. Minor cases I brought to the District Attorney’s office seemed to get bungled or stalled for months on end.
"Nothing was ever said or done directly by Sullivan or his office, and yet the effect began to add up. My first year job review as detective was less than spectacular and I was working sixty hours a week. It was a new job for me, so I redoubled my efforts with little improvement. If not for Linda helping me to step back from it all, I probably would have gone down trying.
"It was a rare Saturday off and after listening to me rant about my job review for an hour, Linda pulled out a yellow pad and started asking me questions: ‘Why did the judge lower the bail on this suspect and why was that rape case delayed for three months? How did the evidence from that drug case get misplaced on the opening day of the trial and what was the reason given when it was found.’
"I admit I thought the county DAs office was a pretty sloppy operation, mostly because I thought all the department’s cases were being handled like mine. It didn’t occur to me that someone was sabotaging
my
efforts, I just wasn’t that paranoid.
"Linda finished her many questions and after I made a few calls regarding jurisdiction and local influence, a pattern emerged with Sullivan at the spidery center.
Then
I got paranoid! Especially when I couldn’t prove any of it since legitimate errors are made on cases. Like you, I could only watch my back every hour of every day.
"I documented every aspect of each case I handled and pestered the DA’s office as to what pieces of evidence were needed and when. This helped to a degree but if I slacked off even a bit, the errors picked up immediately. And always Sullivan did nothing overt enough to prove, and it remained that way until Linda was injured and I was arrested for attempted murder.
"Documentation couldn’t help me there,” he said, rising from the couch and walked the few paces to the front window. Pushing the drapes aside, he looked out on the impeccable gardening and the money it spoke of. His unmarked police cruiser sat on the street as he’d left it over an hour before, looking shabby so close to the new Jeep in the driveway or even the sky blue Mercedes across the street. Far older, in fact, than its two years. That’s what fog every afternoon will do he thought, and wondered what the couple from his lunch hour had thought of
his
car.
He let the curtain fall, sending the room and his dazzled eyes into a draconian kind of darkness. The lamp beside Mrs. McKenny flicked on after a moment, allowing him to maneuver back to the couch and see the perplexed look on her face. Leaning over the armrest slightly she folded both legs to the side and, pulling them beneath her, settled upright once again.
“You’ll find I have a particular dislike of repeating myself...officer Piedmont, but once again, I don’t understand. In light of what you’ve told me, why were you charged with attempted murder and, not to sound cold, what evidence was there to back up such a charge?”
He smiled at her and laughed, regretting it immediately as her face became a full-blown scowl.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. McKenny,” he said, trying to look contrite. “I was laughing at your dislike, not your very good question. At the risk of carrying an analogy too far, what was the most effective weapon used by the cheerleaders you mentioned?”
“Rumor,” she replied without hesitation. “You can’t disprove them and hell, half the time you’re not sure who’s spreading them and...”
“And after awhile,” he broke in, looking straight at her, “it doesn’t matter because they take on a life of their own.” Oliver glanced at his watch; suddenly aware he’d been out of radio contact with PG base for almost an hour.
“I need to call in to my office, Mrs. McKenny, if that’s all right?” He scooted to the couch’s edge. She seemed to hear him only after a few seconds passed, then jumped up, embarrassed.
“Umm...sure, I'll just get us something to drink.” Pulling her shorts with a quick little tug, she walked down the hall toward what appeared to be the kitchen.
“Yeah Tom, everything’s fine. Just having a heart to heart with Mrs. McKenny.” He could hear her puttering around the in kitchen, the way everyone did it seemed and a moment later, heard the high pitched whistle of escaping steam along with an accompanying gurgle.
“Yeah, Yeah. I Should be back into the station in half an hour or so...Yeah... sure, ok...see you then."
He ended the call and returned his cell to its leather pouch on his belt, then stood waiting for her to return. When she did not, he walked toward the kitchen and the clinking of china. Turning a corner, he found a steaming espresso being held out to him.
“I’m afraid I should have offered this when you first came in, Detective Peidmont, I...” She seemed about to go on, but nothing followed. Her face was a mixture of embarrassment and searching.
“Three cups of coffee during lunch would have nixed that, Mrs. McKenny,” he lied, accepting the small demitasse cup.
“Please call me Jenny,” her eyes finally met his.
Her request was genuine, he saw and taking a sip of the steaming black liquid, he broke another one of his personal rules.
“Oliver,” he said extending one hand while balancing his cup and saucer with the other. He found her hand surprisingly cool as they exchanged a polite little handshake.
She sat down on the opposite side of the small kitchen island, pulling out an unseen stool and motioned for him to do the same. She waited till he was settled before speaking.
“So why were you charged with attempted murder?”
“I wasn’t initially,” he said, setting down his cup. “Though the paper made it sound like I was. Actually, a suspect can be detained for up to forty-eight hours under suspicious circumstances. Since I actually lived in Monterey, Sullivan looked for anything he could to hold me and when he found out about the 911 call, he had reasonable cause. When Linda failed to regain consciousness and slipped into a coma later the next day, Sullivan had the perfect opportunity for the pay back he’d wanted all along. It wasn’t hard to justify, what with my fingerprints on the knife, Linda sprawled on the floor with a serious head injury and a ‘gash’ on her leg.
“Such a story is a windfall to the local papers,” he said after taking a sip of his espresso, placing his cup on the beautiful blue-grey tile set into the island tabletop.
"I became the Crime Of The Summer and lurid details were served up daily. The fact that men cut themselves worse while shaving or that it
was I who called 911 simply didn’t stay in the paper long.
"Only after Linda pulled out of her coma eleven days later and what should have been a two week investigation was dragged out for three months, did such trivialities become relevant once again. I was cleared of all charges and eventually put back on duty, but there’s nothing like three months of sensational headlines to make a lasting impression.” He lifted the small cup to his lips, drained it and rose.
She took his cup and placed it along with hers in the sink and then led him to the entrance. She halted before the heavy oak doors and stared momentarily at the tile beneath her before finally looking back up.
“I’ll go ahead and press charges against my husband,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. Burning like twin candles before him, her eyes closed for a few seconds and when they reopened, two smoky beaten-down coals stared at him. “If you think it’ll do any good.”
“If you don’t, he’ll just do it to the next Mrs. McKenny.” He waited as she took this in and finally she reached for the door and pulled it open.
“I’ll come to the station tomorrow morning, if that works with your schedule?”
“Works just fine,” he said with a smile and stepping out, turned back and extended his hand.
Perhaps in Los Angeles or even San Jose, a car’s engine pushed to the limit is a common distraction, but the outraged whine behind Oliver sent all his internal alarms off the scale.
Releasing her hand, he craned his neck in time to see the sky blue Mercedes skid to a halt behind his cruiser as a burst of gunfire splintered the doorframe beside him. Two other bullets smacked mid-center into his Kevlar vest, their impact sending the two of them toppling onto the tiled entrance.