Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 4. They Take Me Downtown for the Third Degree

It was my first ever ride in a police car. I guess I should have paid more attention to such a memorable event. Wasn’t that always the way? When the really important things were happening to us, we were too caught up in the moment to appreciate just how momentous it was.

They led me into an interrogation room and told me to sit down. There was a mirror on one wall, so I knew we were being watched by a steely-eyed police Lieutenant. This person would decide whether or not to call the District Attorney. If the DA said they could make a case against me, I was toast, innocent or not.

That was when I remembered Betty. When she got back from shopping, she would wonder where I was.

“Don’t I get to make a phone call?” I sounded a bit grouchy and scared, even to myself.

Schmidt glowered at me, then said, “Yes. Use that phone in the hallway if you have the right change.”

What century was she living in? I whipped out the cell phone and called Betty, who answered right away.

“Where are you?”

This was going to be tricky. “I’m with the police detectives. They had a few more questions.”

“Are you all right?” She sounded panicked. I could not be sure she had understood what I was saying.

“I am at the police station.”

“I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.” She was wailing.

“I AM AT THE POLICE STATION COME GET ME POLICE STATION CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?”

“What?”

“POLICE STATION POLICE STATION POLICE STATION!” I was shouting to make myself heard.

Schmidt took the phone away from me. “You abusive bastard,” she said. Broder just shook his head at me. What were you supposed to do besides yell if the person couldn’t hear you?

Personally, I liked to read books that were over thirty years old. Forty or fifty years old was even better. If this book is being read by someone fifty years from now, you may not understand the importance of the cell phone in transforming human society. Almost no one had a cell phone a decade before the dead guy was found under my deck. By 9-11, when the terrorists knocked down the Twin Towers in New York City, the cell phone had become more than ubiquitous, it was a necessity. When family members were interviewed after 9-11, they invariably spoke about how frightening it was not to be able to reach their loved ones immediately. Immediately? Before cell phones there was no immediacy to telephone communications. You called the person. They were certain not to be at home. You left a message on the answering machine. If you did not hear back in a couple of days, you figured the person had heard the message but forgot to return the call. So you called again. But in the early 21st century, we were thrown into a panic if we could not communicate instantly.

It should be fairly obvious that lack of instant communications was not inherently more dangerous today than it was ten years ago. Yet in 2004 people panicked if they couldn’t speak to each other. People used cell phones to talk to each other on airplanes, in public restrooms, while shopping, and even while driving. Half the people in the country seemed to have their cell phones permanently jammed into their ears. The mystery to me was what they found to talk about all the time. The state of panic people experienced when disconnected was an artificial result of a technological change.

Do you get it? The technology made us crazy. And we did not know it was happening to us.

Where was I? Oh, the interrogation room. Schmidt sat across from me. Broder stood to one side. The lights were bright and I was stinking in my own sweat. The questions were coming rapid-fire. The chair was hard. I had to urinate, but I was not going to ask to go yet. I would try to tough it out. After all, we had only been in the room five minutes.

“How do you know Jack Wilson?”

“Never met him.” Cool under pressure, that’s me.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Didn’t kill nobody.” Started to crack at this point.

“Then how do you explain his ID being in your trash?”

“Can I go to the bathroom now?”

“NO!” Schmidt leaned across the table with a sickening smile. “Now, Mr. Schumacher, why don’t you make it easy on yourself? Just tell us what happened. Maybe this guy was a burglar. You surprised him in the house, there was a fight, you threw him off the deck, then left him there hoping no one would notice.” After she heard what she just said, she frowned. Obviously, it did not sound quite right even to Detective Schmidt.

The door opened and a guy in a nice suit stepped in. “Officer Broder” he said. “May I have a word with you?” Broder got up.

“Wait!” I was getting upset now. “You aren’t going to leave me in here alone with her, are you?”

Broder gave me a funny look.

I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp. “That’s okay. I can take it. Go ahead. Take your time.”

He left and Schmidt glowered at me. She, obviously, was uncertain about what was happening out in the hallway. Fortunately, we did not have long to wait because the suspense was killing us both.

Broder was back in five minutes and he said the magic words. “You can go now. But we may have more questions later, so don’t leave town.”

“That’s great. Where’s the men’s room?”

After taking care of the necessaries, I wandered out of the building wondering where the nearest bar might be. A car screeched to a stop right in front of me. It was Betty.

“What’s going on around here?” She was really cranked.

“Heck if I know,” was all I could think of to say.

She took me home. Fortunately, there was beer in the fridge.