Denton - 01 - Dead Folks' Blues by Steven Womack Page B

meto find out what was going on. Arrange to pay off the guy quietly.”
    “You believe that?” Spellman asked. “A top gun surgeon, med school faculty, into some street bookies?”
    “I’ve seen weirder.” And so had he.
    Spellman leaned back in his chair. “Why’d she come to you? You just opened shop. You’re not even in the yellow pages yet. How’d she find you?”
    Again, I found myself hesitating. I knew that without realizing it, I’d compromised myself by taking the case in the first place. I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but I did have sense enough to recognize that the worst reflex would be trying to shuck and jive my way out of this.
    “Rachel and I were involved in college. Pretty seriously. Then along came this guy Fletcher, and the next thing I know, I’m looking at the world from inside the dumper. She and Fletcher got married, moved away to New York. I moved back here. Then Rachel and Conrad came back when he got his appointment at the hospital. I didn’t see them socially. She saw my byline in the newspaper. When she got in trouble, she tracked me down.”
    Spellman made a few notes, then reached up and stroked the rough side of his cheek. “So this guy Fletcher stole your girlfriend. Years later, the lady comes to you for help. Little more than twenty-four hours later, he’s on his way to Forensics.” He paused again, stared right through me. “Interesting,” he observed.
    My attitude problem erupted suddenly. “Oh, Jesus, Spellman, use your brain. Who’d be stupid enough to kill somebody, then get caught in the same room with the still-fresh corpse? What, you think I wasted Fletcher, then slammed my own head into the wall to cover it?”
    Spellman snapped the notebook shut. “Actually, we already checked that out. Doctor says it would have been tough for you to give yourself that kind of injury, and there was nothing in the room that would have made it any easier for you.”
    I shifted in the seat and must have put my weight downthe wrong way; this jolt went through my bum ankle, all the way up my leg, and into my rump. The back of my neck was stiffening up. I rotated my head and felt the bones grind and snap together like steel marbles in a box. What minuscule help that spray-on crap had given my pate was long gone. What a night.
    “You’re serious, aren’t you? You think I murdered him?”
    Spellman shook his head, held a palm out in front of him. “Whoa, fellow, I didn’t say that. We just need everybody’s story, that’s all. We don’t even know what killed him yet. That’s going to have to wait for the medical examiner. The rest of it’s just routine. But you’ve got to admit,” he continued, “this all looks pretty flaky. What if the coroner comes back with a finding that Fletcher was, say, smothered with a pillow? And you the only one in the room.”
    “But I wasn’t the only one in the room! Whoever dropped that dump truck on my head was in there, too!”
    “But you didn’t get a look at whoever it was. Nobody else saw anybody leave that room. Everybody else on the floor can account for his whereabouts the whole evening. So what happened to
this
person?”
    I looked at him as coldly as I could muster. “My guess is that since he murdered Conrad Fletcher, he probably got the hell out of there.”
    I stood up. It came off as a gesture of defiance, but it was mostly that my legs were cramping. Either way, I didn’t care anymore.
    “I’ve answered about as many questions as I feel like answering tonight,” I said. “If it’s okay with you gents, I’m going to call a buddy for a ride back to my car.”
    “We’re through, anyway,” Spellman said. “I can have a uniform drive you back.”
    “No, thanks,” I said. “I think I need a return to civilian life.”
        “No problem, fella,” Walter cracked as we walked out the front door of the police station. His BMW was parked on the street, in a spot on the James Robertson Parkway