Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,84
it to camouflage the license plate. Two letters—RK—was all I could decipher before the Jeep spun out of the shell parking lot onto West Gulf Drive, then was gone.
I got to my feet, momentarily heartened when a Sanibel squad car braked out front, lights flashing. Before I could get the officer’s attention, though, he accelerated to the West Wind and turned. Seconds later, another blue-and-white followed, then a big diesel EMS vehicle. It confirmed what I had suspected: Kerry Brett or his partner Moonley had called for backup. But why the ambulance?
—
I PICKED UP the bamboo shaft and rushed back to the West Wind. Beneath a covered walkway, next to a coin laundry, I scooped ice into a bag and held it in my throbbing hand as I jogged past the pool, relieved the area hadn’t been emptied by some bloody clash nearby. Then stopped among sea oats on the path to the beach.
No . . . not a bloody scene, but damn ugly. Beyond a gaggle of tourists who’d gathered to watch, I could see Tomlinson standing at a distance as my friends Kerry and Moonley were joined by uniformed cops who came on a run to form a restraining semicircle around Dean Arturo.
They, too, maintained a guarded distance. It was because of Arturo’s behavior and the mad dog look on his face. He was handcuffed and shirtless on his knees, the Gulf of Mexico behind him, but continued to fight by lunging and gnashing his teeth . . . then spearing his legs at anyone who got close enough. My first reaction was pity. A strapping big man with a healthy body who’d been felled by an accident and a brain injury—it could happen to anyone. Could alter the behavior of the most stable among us.
But then Deano’s threats, which reached the ear as a sustained flow of profanity, began to register, and my pity was replaced by a clinical interest. Soon, that changed to disgust. Brain pathology might exacerbate anger, but it is not the source of hatred. Dean Arturo’s contempt for people originated from within, the plane crash had only released his hatred into the world. The man raged, spittle flying, in barbed sentences that were vicious, vile, full of self-pity, but he crafted his insults with purpose, methodically targeting the physical flaws of his enemies.
“Hillbilly genetics from a used rubber!” Deano screamed at a woman cop, then ridiculed her teeth, her body, her “white trash” income, then her chances of happiness, before aiming his venom at a new target. The woman bore it stoically, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, but I noticed when she touched a hand to her mouth, took a slow, involuntary step back, then folded her arms as a shield against another attack.
Something else: the scar I’d noticed on Deano’s forehead was only the first inch of a injury that dented his skull like a walnut. His long hair, molded in place by a ponytail, had hidden it that morning on my dock. Not now as he thrashed around on his knees, flinging himself at anyone who came too close.
Pity. Once again, that dominated my perception—or clouded it. After watching for another minute, though, I was done wondering about it and went to fetch Tomlinson. “Let’s go before he spots us,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
An actress friend once described Tomlinson’s eyes as “pools of lechery and wisdom,” but only his scars were showing when he turned to me and said, “He’s possessed by demons. There’s a decent man in there somewhere, but handcuffs aren’t the way to set him free.”
“Yeah?” I responded, “His partner just tried to knock my head off with this.” I tapped the bamboo shaft in the sand. “The best way to deal with the homicidal crazies, I suppose, is stay out of their way and hope they kill someone else, huh?”
Tomlinson winced, but it was because Arturo was now screaming, “You’re all fakes, you’re clowns!” which touched a chord in him, apparently. “Doc,” he said, “I’ve been in that guy’s shoes, man. Handcuffs just press the Crazy button. Jail and shock treatments don’t help, either.”
When he has downed enough rum and is in an autumnal mood, he sometimes talks about the shock treatments prescribed during his college years to jolt him out of a sustained depression that (I suspect) put him at risk of suicide. This was the first time, though, he had alluded to being handcuffed and the center of a similar demeaning insanity.