Dead Man's Song

(5)



When the door opened, Crow expected it to be Terry Wolfe, but it was Saul Weinstock. The doctor wasn’t smiling, which was rare for him, and his face showed the same haggard look everyone involved in the Ruger affair seemed to be wearing. A team moroseness tinted by extreme exhaustion. He held a clipboard in one hand and had a folded newspaper under his arm. Tow-Truck Eddie looked up from his reading as Weinstock slouched in.



“Can I have a couple of minutes, Eddie?”



Using a finger to bookmark his place in Revelations, the officer stood, towering head and shoulders above Weinstock, and left without a word. When the door was closed, Weinstock dragged the guest chair nearer the bed and sprawled in it, looking over his shoulder at the closed door. “He’s an odd duck,” he observed.



Crow grunted agreement. “Always has been.”



“Ever have a real conversation with him?”



“I don’t know if anyone has. Maybe God. He was on the cops full time when I was, but aside from work-related stuff I doubt we ever said ten words to one another. No, that’s a lie. He once asked me if I’d accepted Jesus as my personal savior.”



Weinstock looked amused. His features were a dead ringer for Hal Linden in his Barney Miller days, a show that Crow remembered watching and Weinstock didn’t. “What’d you tell him?”



“Told him I’d think about it, and left it there. He never asked again.”



“I’m shocked. I can’t imagine you missing the chance for a smartass comment.”



“Uh, Saul, have you looked at the size of that sumbitch? He could bench-press Iowa. Guess he never asked you about JC?”



Saul snorted. “Haven’t you heard? We Jews are all going to hell. We have a special section, a gated community. Right next door to the Buddhists, the Hindus, and the pro-choice lobby. It’ll be a party town.” He glanced back at the closed door. “Seriously, though, that guy spooks me a little. I’ve never met anyone with less of a sense of….” He groped for the word.



“Humor?”



“No. Humanity, I guess. It’s just hard to believe that he does ordinary things like watch MTV, eat Fruit Loops, or fart.”



“I’ve done all three at the same time.”



“You, Crow, are all too human. Granted, you have a supernatural tendency to be a pain in the ass, but you’re human enough. Which reminds me, say ahhhh.”



Crow opened his mouth and Weinstock set the newspaper down and leaned forward with a tongue depressor and a penlight, flicked the light back and inside Crow’s mouth, sniffed once, and sat back, tossing the depressor into the trash can. “Looks like the ladies’ sewing circle threw a kegger in your mouth.”



“Gee, doc, everything you says just paints a picture.”



“How do you feel? How’re the aches and pains? Any double vision? Blood in your urine? Pins and needles anywhere?”



“Nope. Just your garden-variety every-molecule-in-my-body-hurts kind of pain. Just what you’d expect after getting the shit kicked out of you—twice—and getting shot. Twice.”



Weinstock rolled his eyes. “Don’t even start with that ‘getting shot’ bullshit. Both slugs barely grazed you.”



“That’s as may be, but as far as the shit-kicking went—”



“That I’ll grant you.” He reached over and picked up Crow’s bandaged wrist, gently probing it with his fingertips. “This hurt?”



“Only when some ham-fisted quack is poking it.”



Weinstock set it down. “I saw the X-rays before I came in. Nothing broken, but you have a lot of pretty serious bruising. Be careful, ’cause the first time you even tap that thing against something you’re going to cry like a five-year-old girl.”



“Excuse me? But I never cry like anything less than a ten-year-old.”



They grinned at each other, comfortable with the banter, each knowing that it was a splendid way of not really talking about last night even though it was right there in each other’s eyes. Crow said, “How’s Val?”



“Still sleeping, thank God. On top of what she must be feeling about her dad, that eye socket is going to hurt like a son of a bitch. A migraine is not out of the question. Better to keep her under as long as we can. The MRI can wait until this afternoon, if she’s up to it, or tomorrow.”



Crow nodded. “Thanks.”



Weinstock slapped Crow’s thigh. “You’re going to have to be her support, buddy-boy, because she’s going to have to deal with a lot of pretty hard stuff over the next couple of days. Henry’s funeral arrangements, for one, and running the farm. The house is probably a wreck, what with the mess Ruger made and then a zillion cops tramping through it. Anything you can do to get some of this taken care of so she doesn’t have to will lighten her load.”



Crow nodded. “I called Diego, the farm foreman. Asked him to see to the house and the farm. He’s a stand-up guy, been with Henry forever. You’ve met him.”



“Yep.” Weinstock frowned. “We all know Val’s tough as nails, but nobody’s invulnerable and you have to remember that if she has a strong support system then it’ll be easier for her to remember her strength, you dig?”



Crow cocked his head and studied the doctor. “It’s strange,” he said, “but everyone keeps saying you’re a heartless bastard. I think they may be wrong.”



Weinstock ignored that and picked up the newspaper he’d been carrying, the Crestville Observer. “You see this yet? You’re famous.” He spread it out and Crow glanced at the headlines: MONSTERS IN SPOOKTOWN: MANHUNT ENDS IN SHOOTINGS, DEATH. The article ran through the events at the farm and highlighted Crow’s fight with an “unnamed assailant,” then chucked in a lot of backstory about Crow’s better days as a Pine Deep cop. It was lurid stuff, poorly written and overly dramatic.



Crow made a rude noise and pushed it away. “Typical. Long on hysteria, short on details.”



“Well,” Weinstock said, “there’s still a manhunt going on. Can’t expect them to give away too much info. Crooks read papers, too.”



“No self-respecting crook would read the Observer.”



“Good point.”



“I notice, though, that there’s nothing about the Cape May Killer.”



Weinstock shook his head. “I think there’s about fifteen people in the whole town who know about that, most of them cops, and none of them better talk to the press. Gus would have their balls.”



“The hell with Gus—that guy Ferro’d have their balls. He’s a lot scarier than Gus.”



“Yeah, he can be intense. Do him some good to smile once in a while.” He looked at his watch. “Better get my ass in gear. I got to do the autopsy on your sparring partner.”



Crow felt the skin on the back of his neck contract like wet leather left out in the sun. “You’re going to do an autopsy on Ruger?”



“Yep. Want me to save you a souvenir? His heart’s probably small enough and hard enough to make a good watch fob.” Weinstock’s grin turned into a frown. “Crow…you just went about four shades of green. Sorry,” Weinstock said, patting Crow’s knee. “Guess it’s too soon to make those kind of jokes.”



“Just a bit.”



Weinstock cleared his throat and looked at his watch. “Anything I can get you? Something you want brought in?”



“Yeah, how about wheeling Val into see me…or cutting me loose so I can visit her.”



Weinstock sucked his teeth. “If you behave, I’ll have an orderly wheel you down to her room later so you can sit with her. She’s sleeping now, but as the day wears on she’s going to need you there.”



“I know,” Crow said. “Thanks. You know I proposed, right?”



“You told me about twenty times.” Weinstock said, thinking that Val would be very lucky if all the physical and emotional trauma she’d undergone in the last forty-eight hours didn’t cause her to miscarry. He was pretty sure Crow didn’t yet know that Val was pregnant.



Crow asked about Connie and Mark, Val’s brother and sister-in-law. Weinstock looked dubious. “She’s pretty rocky, though physically she’s okay. The shrinks are with her now, and will be seeing her off and on all day. I’d rather keep her, and Mark, a couple more days. We had some difficulties with Mark’s avulsed teeth, but we were able to clean the sockets and reseat both teeth. They’re ligated to the adjoining teeth, and he’ll have to be careful for a couple of months. He’s on antibiotics and will need root canal to restore the blood supply, but we can get that done, either here or he can see his oral surgeon, though he’ll want to check in with an endodontist fairly soon as well. That’s all fairly routine. Our residents reseat teeth after every hockey game at the college and twice on Friday nights after the bars let out. Psychologically, though, he might be as shaky as Connie, and the next few days are going to be very tough for them, which is why I’d rather have them here. He has very real grief to deal with, but he also has Connie to attend to. She was very nearly raped, as you know, and neither of them is coping with that very well. They’re both acting as if she was raped, and Mark’s withdrawn from her a bit. Doesn’t say much to her, doesn’t even ask about her. Connie is even worse, and without Mark’s support….”



“Yeah,” Crow said softly, “Mark’s not Henry.” Which said it all.



“Few people are. I’m not a big believer in hell, as you know, but I think Ruger should burn for killing Henry.” His cell phone rang and he plucked it out of the pocket of his white lab coat, flipped it open, and said, “Weinstock. Yeah, Bob, what is it?” He listened for over a minute without saying anything, but as Crow watched the doctor’s face aged ten years and turned gray. Finally he said, “Okay. Thanks.” He sighed heavily and laid the cell phone in his lap.