Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

respond. “Just to be clear, I did not call your tip line.  I couldn’t. I didn’t have phone service until a few minutes ago.” I turned to TJ. “By the way, thank you for making that happen.”

TJ nodded in acknowledgment.

I directed my attention back to the young officer. “I’m curious.  What time did the anonymous call come in?”

He checked his notebook. "The log showed the call came in at 3:34 AM."

"The person who called must have been there when the boy was attacked," I said. "Nobody would have been passing by at that hour. And if the caller knew what happened, he could have called for an ambulance, don't you think?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do. I was sent to the scene before dawn. Once the sun came up, we could see everything. It was bad. Blood everywhere." He shrugged his shoulders. "It makes sense. The Kid was hit in the head more than once. Head wounds bleed like crazy, even if the attack isn't fatal. The Kid would have bled out right there under the tree if we hadn't gotten the call. Even so, the ambulance guys had a hard time getting him stabilized before they could transport him."

The officer seemed to relish the opportunity to give us a full report with more detail than we needed. The PTSD therapist had said that it was a common coping mechanism for people to do that as they processed a traumatic situation.

"Yes, blood everywhere," he continued. His eyes shifted off to the side, not seeing us but the scene. "And there were ruts. Deep ruts, like from big truck tires." He shook his head once. "Couldn't get any casts of tire treads. The place was too torn up. Drivers must have peeled outta there in a panic once they saw the Kid wasn't getting up." He glanced at the Lone Oak and shook his head again.

His description made things fall into place in my mind. "Well, that goes to show that the person who called your tip line must have been terrified. Probably had taken part in the attack in some way and felt guilty afterward. You should talk to--oh, what do they call it on the TV crime shows--yes, you should talk to the victim's associates."

“Yes, ma’am. We’re doing that,” confirmed the officer. His eyes focused on TJ. “Was he a friend of yours, sir?”

"Whoa, slow down. I've seen him hanging around the streets of St. Michaels. That's all. Talk to his associates. Believe me, he was no friend of mine." TJ leaned forward. "Still, he didn't deserve to be attacked…or killed. I feel sorry for his family."

“Yes, sir. He was only 17 years old. According to his dad, he’d had a job with an auto repair shop in Easton. He went on and on about how he loved cars and trucks and could keep anything running on the road. It’s a shame. He was getting his life straight.” The young officer got up and adjusted his belt holding pounds of gear, including his gun.

“I’ll be going.”  He dug into his shirt pocket and gave each of us a business card. “If you think of anything else, be sure to give us a call.”

“I’ll walk the officer to his car,” TJ said.

TJ was back in a moment and fell into a chair. “That was horrible. But you had a good idea of how to handle the investigation.” He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “You’re a natural at this. Are you going to write a mystery story?”

This is what it felt like to be blindsided. How did the conversation go from murder to my book?

TJ was waiting for an answer, but I was tongue-tied. Me, who had counseled distraught or irate parents, addressed PTA meetings, faced down a school principal about a budget decision. Now, my mouth wouldn't work. I was losing my grip. I couldn't dismiss this man because he was taking an interest in what I was doing. I couldn't admit that I had no ideas for my children's book. I couldn't tell him that the only writing I was doing was correspondence with a ghost.

In a panic, I said, “You can’t ask a writer about a book that’s still in development.”

TJ put his hands flat down on the tabletop and pushed himself up so that he stood his full six feet plus. “Well, if you don’t want to tell me about the book, that’s fine. When you meet with your new writing group tomorrow night, you’ll probably have to tell them something. I hope you have a good story for them.”

I groaned as I turned away so he couldn't see the wave of panic that went through me. Then I realized he was playing with me. Two could play the same game. I turned back to him. "That's right, the meeting of writers is tomorrow night. Tell you what, I'll go willingly if we can go on a field trip in the morning."

“What did you have in mind?” A trace of suspicion showed on his face.

“I’d like to take a walk. My physical therapist said exercise is good, but she suggested that I still needed someone with me, just in case.” I sighed. “It’s so awkward and frustrating to think I need a caretaker.”

“Not to worry,” TJ said. “I’d be happy to walk you around the house or down the driveway anytime.”

“Could we go to Waterwood tomorrow?”

TJ started shaking his head almost immediately. “No, no, no. I’m not taking you up to the main house. There’s no way I’m ready for visitors.”

"No, not the house," I said quickly.