he got downstairs there were four or five different ways out of the house. Which way he went is anyone’s guess.”
“So you didn’t chase him?”
“No, I got up and ran into the bathroom. There was blood everywhere.” Steele’s speech halted abruptly, and then began again, slow, as if wallowing in a heavy, viscous pool of memory. “Ah, goddamn, I mean it was a mess. My feet slipped on blood as I ran in. I could see Sharon in the tub. She was moving, trying to keep herself afloat in the water.” He stopped. My eyes glanced down at Steele’s arms and hands as they unconsciously mimicked his dying wife’s slow and feeble treading motions. Then he wiped the corners of his eyes and looked up at the high windows again. The bleak light coming through gave no hint of the gorgeous day outside.
“I could hear her choking on the water. I cradled her head and tried to talk to her, but she couldn’t answer me. Then there was a noise behind me. I let go of her and jumped up. It was Shawn asking what was going on. I yelled at him to get out of there but he just started crying. I ran over and shut the door, then I realized that Sharon was back in the water again. I ran back and pulled her up so she could breathe and then I unstopped the drain so the water could run out. I had no idea how bad she was hurt, I mean there was blood everywhere . . . ”
His voice trailed off and we sat in silence once again. I was unsure what to do. I felt like reaching out and touching Steele, but I didn’t.
“Then Shawn opened the door again. He was crying. So I picked him up and took him downstairs to the family room and locked him in there with the TV on.” Steele shook his head and seemed to be looking at something far away. “When I went back upstairs, Sharon wasn’t moving at all. I don’t know how long it took before I realized I hadn’t called 911. It finally occurred to me and I ran back downstairs and dialed. I just started shouting into the phone.”
“Now, you gave the 911 operator the wrong address, you had the numbers in the wrong order.”
“Ah, shit, man — that goddamned prosecutor made a big deal out of that. For Christ’s sake, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Besides, that’s bullshit anyway, 911 knows where you’re calling from when they answer the phone. That was bullshit what the prosecutor told the jury. They knew where I was. I mean, 911’s set up so you can dial the phone when you’re dying and they’ll know where to come find you.” Steele’s anger was palpable and instantaneous.
“Did you explain that to the jury?” Reilly pushed the subject, and Steele exhaled in defeat.
“I tried to, but nobody believed me. The 911 operator testified and my lawyer, that rotten son of a bitch, never asked her that question.”
“You mean Garrett Andersen?”
“That motherfucker. If I was ever going to kill someone, he’d be the first guy.” Steele’s eyes had gone cold. His vernacular had slowly fallen off into the crusty and colorful talk of a prison yard. A dozen years there had transformed him, as it would anyone.
“Why’d you call 911 from downstairs?”
“We didn’t have a phone upstairs. I didn’t like having one in the bedroom. I always figured I should have some place where I could get away from the phone. I mean, I had a cellular if I really needed to talk upstairs. But it never occurred to me to use my cell phone. Anyway, I called 911 from the regular phone. I was yelling for them to come and help. Somewhere in the conversation the idea comes up that I should take Sharon out of the tub; I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me before. So I set the phone down and ran back upstairs. I pulled her out of the tub and laid her on the floor. I think she was already dead. I got some towels and tried to wrap her up to keep her warm. She wasn’t breathing, at least I don’t think she was. I ran back to the phone and yelled for them to hurry the hell up. I ran out onto the lawn to see if I could hear sirens or anything.”