Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 14. Time to Get Serious

Thursday night I slept like a log because I was exhausted. I woke up in a terrible mood. I was stiff all over. And I was seriously angry.

The only good news was that somehow two pounds had disappeared off my weight. Apparently, being chased by homicidal maniacs on bikes, swimming a river, and walking several miles to get home was a good routine for losing weight. Maybe I could start a new weight loss program. How much, I wondered, would people pay to go through that routine? 

The previous evening Betty had extracted a full confession from me about the events of the day. “I told you that you would kill yourself on that motorized bicycle,” she scolded me.

“I didn’t kill myself. I’m still alive.”

“Pure luck!”

“The bike didn’t almost kill me. Those damn yuppies with the switchblades did.”

She grabbed me by the shoulders. “Look at me,” she said. “I want you to report all of this to the police tomorrow. Promise me.”

“Okay. No problem.”

She was dead right. Enough was enough. These guys should be tracked down and arrested. Then they should be thrown into the slammer for a very long time.

I woke wrathful and ready to take action. Broder probably would not be in his office until after eight, so I went about my usual business until then.

When I called the police station and asked for Broder, he wasn’t immediately available. Leaving a message for him that basically said I wanted to report an attempt on my life, I hoped for a quick response. And quick it was. He called me back in about five minutes. We agreed that I would come down to the station to make a statement that morning.

Since I was once again a pedestrian, it took me about 25 minutes to get there. He led me into the same interview room where he had given me the third degree. Schmidt was already there with a tape recorder. I did not know who might be watching from behind the one-way window.

After I had recounted the whole story about the attack of the bicyclists, there was a moment of silence. Then Broder asked, “And why do you think these guys would want to kill you?”

“The best theory I can come with is drugs,” stealing the idea from Betty’s cousin Andrew. “What else is worth killing people for?”

“Why would drug dealers want to kill you?” Broder was deadpan. I suspected he already knew the answer.

“On Monday, we went to the concert in the park. We were talking about the dead body you found at my place. The drug theory came up. And here is the interesting part -several people with racing bikes were sitting around us. They could have heard the whole discussion and thought I was getting too close. Maybe they wanted to shut me up before I drew attention to them.”

Broder and Schmidt exchanged glances. “Actually,” Broder said, “you might have something there. For your information, we are now operating on the theory that the hundred thousand was deposited in your account to frame you for the murder. That’s a lot of money. Nobody is going to throw away a hundred K unless a lot of money is at stake. That points to drug dealers, probably a big distribution network.”

This was great news, but I had to ask, “Why did you decide I was being framed?”

Schmidt and Broder avoided my eyes for a few seconds. Finally, Schmidt could not contain herself. “Because you have friends in high places. We were told to operate on the theory that you were a chump instead of a perp. Personally, I’m keeping an open mind on the subject. We might still tag you for that killing.”

Broder put a restraining hand on her arm. “No, no. We don’t think you had anything to do with it. You can forget about it.”

Then he got back to the attack. “Do you think you can identify the guys who attacked you?”

“I didn’t see their faces, but I saw their bikes. I might be able to recognize them. And the helmets were pretty distinctive: they had blue visors that completely covered their faces. And, of course, they had those stupid shorts on.”

Broder looked doubtful.

“Hey, I bet if you interviewed some people who were at the concert in the park you would be able to get at least one name for one of the bikers who was there. I know I would recognize some of those guys. If you had some names, you could search their homes for bicycles, shorts, helmets, switchblades, and drug paraphernalia. You might be able to build up quite a bit of evidence.”

Broder twirled his pen around for a minute. “Would you be willing to look at people in a lineup? Would you be willing to testify?”

“Damn right. I want to get these guys.”

He stared at me, dead earnest. “I have to warn you that this crowd has proven they can be dangerous. That means you have to watch yourself. I would suggest that you avoid dark alleys for a while.”

That sounded like good advice.

Trudging back home, I had a lot to think about. I was feeling very virtuous about my commitment to nail the drug ring. I was also scared from the top of my head right down to the bottoms of my feet.

When I got home, I happened to run into Skip Cavanaugh. He could see that I had a lot on my mind, so he invited me up to his place for a chat. I updated him on all the events of the last 24 hours. He didn’t look greatly surprised. “You sure are getting in deeper and deeper, aren’t you?” he said gravely. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up getting yourself killed.”

“You’re right about that. I just don’t know what else I can do at this stage.”

“Well, hang in there. Things can’t get much worse”

He was wrong about that as it turns out.