Chapter Thirteen - A new side of Detective Hearns

Chapter Thirteen

A good detective is always inconspicuous.

In her twenties, Lori had imagined herself in the passenger seat of a sleek undercover cab car beside a Mel Gibson look-alike in need of a shave and a life. Partners in crime, they’d speed on and off highways, the police car bouncing and smoking over curbs. Finally, they’d capture the criminal and push him into the car with trash talk and weapons.

Then she learned the grim truth.

Being a detective can mean no more than being a high paid snoop. Stuck in that thought, she rolls a wide vertical strip of paint, canary yellow, along the far wall of HealthSouth’s Rehabilitation Center. Her curly blonde bangs fall over her eyes every so often. She blows them off, wishing she had chosen a more tapered wig.

Roth’s physical therapist, a feisty middle-ager named Donna, reveals her experience in the fastidious manner by which she unlatches a variety of patient supports—leg braces, rubber bands, and hand grasps—while educating an avid trainee.

“How are we feeling today, Mr. Roth?” Donna asks.

Leaning back in a durable medical chair, he taps his shoulder and answers, “Shurts.”

“Your shoulder still hurts? That’s a good sign. You’re probably getting some feeling back on that side of your body.” Gently, she massages his calf muscle, gently bending his leg at the knee. “How’s that leg feeling?”

Lori climbs down the ladder and dunks the roller into the paint tray, her interest to the conversation veiled by her fine portrayal of The Painter. She smirks in spite of herself. Playing the role of ‘someone else’ is strangely gratifying.

“O-oh-kay. B-but—” Frustrated in himself, he nods the thought away.

The trainee chimes in. “Just take it slow, Mr. Roth.”

“Mr. Roth has been dealing with many issues this week,” Donna jumps in, allowing her trainee only a fraction of control during their session. “Now, let’s see what we can do about these fingers.”

Julie whispers, “I heard a rumor about what happened with that—”

Donna cuts her off mid-sentence. “We’re not going to discuss that here, okay Julie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Julie says, covering her mouth in embarrassment.

Agitated, Roth shifts in his chair, determined to speak his mind. Lori removes a thin brush from her apron and listens.

“I...I – haf – tow –fashch-whut-I…” he taps his chest awkwardly, “whut – I…”

“Hey? What did we talk about in staying relaxed, Mister Mister? Remember our goal? My job is to help you to be as independent and productive as possible. You will face your personal problems, Mr. Roth, after we meet our…”

“Gols,” he finishes.

Interrupted again by the control freak, Lori thinks. Why can’t this woman simply let the man spit out what he wants to say?

It takes an additional few hours to finish painting the room, the last of which offers her nothing in terms of information. The therapists finish their session while Lori, ironically, gains insight on what people mean when they say painting is therapeutic. There’s something extremely satisfying about swashing fresh paint over a wall and erasing the old color, like kicking a bad habit and starting anew. She feels a shot of desire to quit smoking as she surveys her work. Canary yellow is much fresher than the original beige, a dog-hair brown.

She shuts the door. Perhaps in her next life, she’ll be a non-smoking painter.
* * *

Her engine fires up violently as she lights up, the cigarette dangling at her lips while she shifts into park. A temperamental foreigner, the Saab has never liked winter. Like a child waking up on the wrong side of the bed, it requires ample time to warm up and function. She blasts on the heat, leans back, and enjoys her smoke, a mild buzz soothing her addiction while, oddly enough, her mind feels cleared. She ponders her next move.

In exchange for a generous round of cash, in the confines of his high school classroom, she will offer Doug Davis an update. The students will be long gone by four-thirty and he agreed to pay for a half-hour.

Typically, she only bills by the hour but had made a concession for Doug due to his terrific circumstances.

Who could blame him for his frustration with a police station that’s more backed up than McKenzie’s constipation issues? And besides, Serena isn’t exactly coping well. Together, she and Doug had agreed to the guidelines of her contract, signing off with a common goal in mind: to speed up the process of convicting a sick man.

Detective Hearns is officially—and privately—hired to serve the needs of her new client, Doug Davis. Securing a new client, as always, brings forth a wave of adrenaline. There’s nothing sweeter than bringing down a loser while chewing away at her sorry financial debt, one accrued by her own reckless taste in things she can’t afford. Over the weekend, she brought home a brand new pewter lamp, satin pillows for her bed’s headboard, and, probably the most frivolous of all, a fancy wind chime for her deck.

Her mom swears that she’s filling a void in not having a man but Lori doesn’t buy into the psycho-babble for a second, balking back with the motto inscribed on her refrigerator magnet: a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle. No one ends up staying together anymore and, if they do, they’re miserable. It’s a shame women haven’t learned to play the odds more often, she thinks. There’s less than a fifty percent chance that one will remain married and, at age thirty-three, she’s seen enough dim-witted friends whom embody the statistic.

Her Saab settling to a low roar, she shifts into reverse, backs out, and makes a sharp and speedy turn out of the parking lot. Three miles down the road, she makes a full five second stop at Highland Ave, despite the fact that she has enough connections to not pay a ticket for the remainder of her living years.

Stricken by the memory of a young bicyclist killed by the driver’s negligence at a stop sign last year, she hasn’t missed one since witnessing the crime scene. The dead girl’s expression has never left her—the deranged haunt in green eyes that watched her life’s ending, only seconds before it took place.

The driver was charged with vehicular homicide, the girl’s parents with the challenge of making it through each day for the rest of their lives. Doug and Serena were granted a second chance and Lori will be damned if she can’t find a way to vindicate the couple and help penalize Roth.

This rehab thing is getting old and it’s high time that the District Attorney gets things in motion. One way or the other, she’ll make it happen and, as usual, it has come down to the other. She’ll be on Karuso’s back faster than he can say arraignment.

Her mind and car in the fast line, she cuts her commute time to Massachusetts by forty-five minutes, arriving in Shrewsbury earlier than expected. She stops for gas, a few coffees, a newspaper, and bathroom run, where she changes out of painter’s clothes and into professional attire—a fitted navy skirt, ivory blouse, and heels. On the way out, she turns a few heads, heads that hadn’t noticed her on the way in, heads that wallow in her confidence and shapely calves.

She sets her items down on the counter as a long-haired adolescent sheepishly studies the cash register while speaking. “Uh…you have to swipe your credit card at the pump.”

Sharply, she responds, “You mean to tell me that there is no plausible way for you to activate the credit card machine from here?”

“Uh…there’s a sign at the pump that says to pay first.”

“I see. However, since I need to pay for coffee and newspaper right here and now, I’d prefer not to be inconvenienced by a second trip in. I’m on the job and my time is valuable, Sir,” she continues, flaunting her badge while flapping open her wallet. “If you’re unsure of how to make this happen, I can certainly help you figure it out.”

The young man flicks his hair to one side and proceeds to make the concession. He has neither the energy nor demeanor to fight back. “You’re all set.”

Without a thank you, she struts out, pumps gas, and shoots over to the school.

The building is magnificent, more like a museum than a school. The windows are shiny, dark and modern, the parking lot spacious. She chooses a far spot to the left, glides in, and checks her watch. Perfect timing. It’s four twenty-five, right on time.

Doug had instructed her to go in the set of the doors which will be propped open due to an after school activity. That way, she won’t have to check in at the office and reveal her life story to the nosy secretary.

She finds the location immediately, quickens her pace, and struts in as though she’s a veteran teacher.

A sharp left, long hallway, double set of stairs, and search for room two-hundred six takes her to his room.

Doug Davis is leaning over notes, chewing on a thumbnail when she saunters through, leaving the door open.

“Hey, you made it.” He gets up and approaches her with a handshake and wide smile. “Welcome to freshmen English.”

The walls are covered in large book cover posters, apparently featuring books read during the school year. Kidney shaped tables, laptop computers, and an LCD screen reflect a sign of the times. Clearly, Doug Davis is a progressive English teacher.

“How much dough is all of this costing the town?” She continues to look around, picking up knick-knacks, reading student work on display. “Nice place.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he says back, his eyes following her scan. “The town just passed a major override about five years ago. It’s all about keeping up these days.” He lifts a wooden counter school from the corner of the room and places it on the opposite side of his desk.

“You’re not giving me the naughty chair, are you?” she asks, bent over a football player bobblehead, poking its helmet so that the athlete shakes nervously.

“Nah,” he laughs, “we actually use this during presentations…helps the kids to feel more relaxed. Kind of like your pal, Brady,” he says, alluding to the figurine.

She smiles while approaching the stool. “I think Brady may need a mild sedative for his shakes.”

Hoisting herself up on the stool, she crosses her legs, the rose tattoo at her ankle seeming foolish suddenly. She is impressed by Doug Davis. Modest and casual, he does not take himself too seriously. She imagines that his students adore him.

“How long have you been teaching?”

“Actually,” he says, finishing a swallow of bottled water, “I’ve only been teaching for three years. I went the business route through college, and six years thereafter…”

“Hmm…” she says, studying him. “So what made you switch to education?”

“He chuckles and squeezes his chin, as though aware of his own shortcomings. “Guess it took me ten years to realize that working to make other people rich isn’t much fun.” He is wearing a white oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair, short on the sides, high on the top, is unkempt yet alluring.

She rests her chin in her hand. “But how about making yourself rich? Your family?”

“Money’s overrated,” he says, leaning back in his chair, playing with a ruler.

She switches the cross of her legs. “Sure does come in handy, though, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose.” He flicks a glance out the window. “But it’s not the most important thing.”

“True,” she agrees. “Bet I can guess what the most important thing in your life is, Doug….”

“I’m sure you can,” he says. “And I’m sure you also know that I’ll do whatever it takes to protect it.” He leans into the edge of his desk,
crosses his hands. “Tell me about your visit with Roth.”

“Peculiar.”

“How so?”

“He’s a stroke victim, Doug, and by default of that, he’s a changed man.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re about to play the sympathy card, Lori.”

“Not in the least, Doug. I’m telling you this because it’s important for you to know that when dealing with a criminal, we need to sink into his head in order to beat him….and, believe me, I want to beat him. Together, we will beat him,” she finishes, matter-of-factly.

“So, what do you mean about him being a changed man?”

“When you lose your speech, what do you think the first thing you want to do is?”

“Talk.”

“That’s right. And because he can barely talk, I can guarantee you that his defense attorney is going to use his handicap to his advantage. He’s going to try and persuade the jury to feel bad for a well intentioned man who made a horrible mistake and has already been punished through the accident and stroke. He’ll fumble with the right way to say he’s sorry. I’ve seen it happen.”

“What? That’s sick, Lori! His injuries have nothing to do with the crime committed!”

“Welcome to the world of law, my friend. It’s called innocent until proven guilty and even when you’re guilty, a good defense attorney knows just how to play the right card and make you seem innocent.”

He sighs vehemently. “So what’s our next move, Lori?”

“Our next move is to stay focused. I’ll be in touch with the D.A. this week to let him know that Roth is, indeed, fit for trial. Spontaneous recovery accounts for most of what a stroke victim will bounce back from. Don’t get me wrong, rehabilitation is important, but this man is certainly not at a stage where he can’t endure a damn trial for a felony that he alone committed.”

“And you’ll keep me posted every step of the way, correct?”

“Correct. How is Serena?”

“She’s…she’s okay…I mean, I think she’s going to be alright. It’s hard, you know. Mothers have a unique bond with their kids, and the incident has taken its toll on her.” He looks her straight in the eye as he says this, an honest man, impervious to what others may think of his wife. He respects her feelings, it seems, and the quality is as attractive as it is limited in a male psyche.

He goes on, “I think it’s best if we keep her away from all of this crap. I’ve just been telling her that you’re giving me daily updates on the legal happenings, no need for her to know anything more than that. I think the news about Roth’s defense attorney catering to the handicap is just too much information, in her state of mind, at least.”

“I agree,” she says, her voice taking on a higher pitch than expected..."and where is Josh’s head in all of this?”

“He’s been amazing, Lori…so resilient.” His blue eyes seem on the verge of tears before they settle on hers. “It’s tough to be a good parent.”

The deformed bicycle is a pile of cheap metal and wrongs. The girl’s head is twisted awkwardly and the blood along her hairline is a cruel and passionate reminder of the danger in biking without a helmet. Her father wears the inhuman expression of terror, his mouth hung open, his eyes pleading for mercy. Take me away, he says to Lori. Bring me to my daughter.

She shudders to the memory, hears herself say, “I’ve seen pain in my life, Doug…I promise to make this one right.”

They lock eyes for a moment in time that tells the truth. Doug believes her, and for the first time in her life, she feels frightened. There’s something remarkable about this man.

Something she can’t quite put her finger on.