She looked out the small window with a view of Jefferson when she asked, an interrogation technique, perhaps? Or was she honestly bored with me?
I shook my head. “Nothing. He had on a mask. He smashed me on the head right away, after that, everything was kind of dark.”
“Rough size?”
“Probably around six feet or an inch or two over it. Solid, but not a huge guy.”
She nodded, not bothering to write any of it down. This was all off the record.
“It changes things doesn’t it?”
“Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”
Her phone rang and she looked at me. Meeting over.
“So I’m going to keep working on it, okay?”
She went back to her desk and reached for the phone. Ordinarily a sister might suggest that her brother be careful, or offer words of encouragement.
Ellen shrugged her shoulders.
“Do what you gotta do,” she said.
Twelve
The Rockne residence is a brick colonial on Balfour Road in the Park. When we bought it four years ago, it was a fixer-upper in the classic sense. Bad carpet, a grungy kitchen, horrid paint colors and pink tile. It took a few years for us to fix it up, but we got it done. Of course, the marriage almost went with it, but we got it done.
My wife’s name is Anna. Imagine the stereotypical Italian beauty, and you’ve got my wife. Big, dark eyes, black hair, full features and a temper that could roast meat. She’s tough, sensitive, argumentative, emotional, loving, giving, quick to anger, slow to forgive, frugal with compliments and sometimes she’s just downright nasty. Naturally I love her like the fool I am and wouldn’t have her any other way. I tell her I love her more times than she tells me. That’s how we are. But she’s tougher than I am, so there you go. We have two girls, Isabel and Nina. Isabel’s seven, Nina’s five. They both look just like their Mom, thank God, and naturally, I worship them like the miracles they are.
I parked the Taurus in the garage and went inside. Instantly, I wished I hadn’t. I could never have an affair because my wife knows exactly what’s going on with me in an instant. Because as best as I’d tried to keep my hand hidden from her, Anna spun me around and held my bandage up to the light.
She was definitely not happy. And when she’s not happy, no one else in the family is, either. It’s a scientific impossibility.
“The doctor said it was one of the worst paper cuts he’s ever seen,” I said.
“A paper cut?” Anna said, repeating my lame improv. The girls were in bed. I was starting to laugh at my wife’s expression, but she was clearly failing to find any humor in the situation.
“Yeah, it was that heavy construction paper. You know...”
“John…”
“…the kind you used to use in school with all the colors? It’s so thick! It’s practically a Bowie Knife. You could cut a T-Bone—”
Anna glared at me and I stopped talking. There was no getting around it. I was going to have to tell the truth.
“Okay, I was in a bit of a…tussle.”
“A tussle?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of a cross between a tumble and a wrestle. A tussle. From the Latin word tussilius. Meaning to—”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
She tapped her feet and drummed her fingers. She’s very coordinated.
“A tussle with who?” she said.
“Some guy.”
“Some guy as in some guy you don’t know? Or some guy as in some guy you didn’t get a good look at.”
“I would say the latter.”
“And how did your hand get hurt?”
“Well, we were—”
“Tussling.”
“Right. And a woodworking machine got turned on and we crashed into it and it went right between my fingers. A freak shop accident. Happens all the time. You ever have a shop teacher? Ever notice how they all have part of a finger missing? In high school my shop teacher was the baseball coach and one time we asked when practice was and he held up three fingers but one of the fingers was half-gone so somebody yelled out ‘2:45?’”
I chuckled but as Anna wasn’t laughing, I quickly stopped.
By now, we were in the living room. Anna sat on the couch propped her feet up on the ottoman, grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest. I gave her a brief overview of the case.
“Did you talk to your sister?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And?”
“She said I should do what I gotta do.”
This brought an eye roll.
“Look, it was a freak accident,” I said. “I’m sure it had very little to do with the