And you haven’t really told me anything while telling me everything, Lane thought. “Have you got a home number I can reach you at?”
“241-1786. Need to write it down?”
“I’ll remember.” Lane smiled, stood and slipped an arm into his jacket.
“I’ve got a question,” Randy said.
“Okay.”
“How come, after you saved that cop’s life, you never got any recognition?”
“How did you know about that?” Lane concentrated on adjusting the lapels of his jacket to hide his surprise.
“It’s amazing what you can find out if you have a library card.”
“It’s a long story.” Lane looked straight back at Randy.
“I thought so.” Randy picked up the weed trimmer and moved back to the roadway. “Time to get back to work.” He put ear plugs in. Then, with one pull, the trimmer’s gas engine started.
“Never ignore the obvious,” Lane said and made for the Chev. He had another stop to make.
Lane parallel parked across the street from a brown five storey office building. This side of the street was lined with mature trees and two storey homes. It was just off 4th street where trendy coffee shops and restaurants had revitalized the neighbourhood. He realized Randy hadn’t given him any specifics but he’d given him the answer. Lane had to admit the jock was a couple of steps ahead of him. And Randy knew Lane was close to the truth. He sized me up and went straight to the heart of it all, Lane thought. This case is all about heart.
He walked into the five storey building, past the main floor pharmacy, right past the lab and up the stairway to the third floor. Halfway down the carpeted hallway, he pushed open a beige metal door with the sign Dr. Wallace and Dr. Keeler Family Practice.
The receptionist was on his left, behind a meter high wall of plastic and glass. She lifted her head, frowned and said, “Oh, it’s you.”
The tone of her voice told him he’d come at a bad time. Lane looked right to see at least ten people sitting in the waiting room.
“To see Dr. Keeler?” The receptionist tapped the side of her glasses with a pencil. Not one hair dared moved out of its appointed place.
“Please,” Lane said.
“Take a seat.” She let out a long, exasperated sigh.
Lane found a seat near the window and looked out at the trees and rooftops across the street.
“Read to me.” A big little voice said. A bright yellow book dropped into his lap.
The child standing in front of him was between three and four years of age. Her black hair was cut short. It framed brown eyes and a round face. She wore blue Oshkosh coveralls and a red T-shirt. Slapping the book with her right hand, she climbed onto the seat beside him.
Lane looked across at a woman who smiled wearily. An infant slept in her arms.
He smiled, lifted the book and began to read. After the third book, the little girl announced, “I’m Dayna.”
“I’m Lane.”
“Read another story.” Dayna scampered to a pile of books in the corner, picked three and brought them back.
“Millicent and the Wind,” he said, as she put both hands on his wrist and leaned in to study the pictures. Lane ached for the children he would never have.
“Mr. Lane?” Lane lifted his head to see, Mavis, Dr. Keeler’s nurse. Shrinking violet had never been a phrase used to describe Mavis. She was taller than he was, broader in the shoulders and as tough as any person made out of marshmallow could be. “Hurry it up detective.”
“Bye Dayna,” Lane stood, looked down.
The child looked up with a frown. “Bye.” She waved by closing and opening her fist.
“Say thank you,” Dayna’s mother said.
“But he didn’t finish all my stories!” Dayna said.
Lane followed Mavis. He felt like a car being pulled along by the draft of a semi.
“He’s not too busy just yet, so you’re lucky.” Mavis led him to the doctor’s office and swept Lane inside with the folder in her hand. “Another case?”
“That’s right.” This was a familiar routine for Mavis and Lane. He’d first seen Keeler because he was a top notch family doctor and later on to ask medial questions related to his cases. All he had to do was phone ahead and Keeler would work him in. Amateur sleuths were everywhere and this one happened to offer invaluable medical insights. “Mavis, you’re a life saver.”
“Yah right, save your charm for Arthur.” Her voice softened. “The doctor’ll be here in a minute.”
Lane sat in one of the chairs in front of the doctor’s desk. He studied the photographs on top of the pine bookshelf behind the desk. An 8 X 10 was a family shot of the doctor, his daughter, son and wife. All were taller than the doctor.
“Detective?” Keeler always used the title when it involved a case. He stood in the doorway dressed in a white smock and red golf shirt.
Lane was reminded of the face of a writer who loved ghosts and gore.
Keeler shook Lane’s hand and said, “I’ve got maybe three minutes.” He shut the door behind him before sitting down across from Lane. Keeler kept his hands on the arms of the chair while studying the detective.
Dr. Keeler always seems to enjoy this so much, Lane thought, then said, “I’m working on a case.”
“We’ve done this at least 50 times before and you always start the same way.” Keeler tapped his wristwatch with an index finger.
“How much damage can a blow to the throat cause?”
“Depends on where the blow lands, the power of it and the size of the person or persons involved.” Keeler leaned forward.
“Apparently, the attacker had a knife to the nose of an adolescent male. The attacker,” Lane deliberately used the present tense even though he was almost certain that past would have been more accurate, “weighs about 140 kilos. His age is 53. The victim is close to the same height and weighs about 85 kilos. The victim says he,” Lane curled the forefinger of his right hand over top of his index finger and jabbed both in Keeler’s direction, “struck the attacker in the throat. Apparently, the attacker fell forward on top of the victim.”
“The Swatsky Case?” Keeler said.
“You understand this is entirely confidential?”
“Of course. Go on.”
“The victim has studied karate and I suspect he’s having flashbacks about the attack. There is also evidence suggesting the attack was sexually motivated. There are indications the attacker may have committed at least one prior assault similar to this one.”
Keeler opened the collar of his golf shirt to expose his throat. He pressed his finger on the ‘V’ at the base of his neck. “Feel that?”
Lane reached under his tie, eased his fingers between two buttons and felt a soft valley of flesh in between bones.
“If the blow landed there with sufficient force, then the attacker is a dead man. Fractured trachea. About ten years ago I was working at Emergency. A car accident happened right outside the door. A passenger fractured his trachea. We were there within 30 seconds. The guy never had a chance.”
“A kid could do that?” Lane needed to be certain.
“If the blow lands in the right spot and with enough force, it’s all over,” Keeler said.
“And it’s quick?”
“Very. Is the kid strong?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s distinctly possible that the attacker is dead.”
“Thank you,” Lane reached across to shake hands. “And you understand… ”
“Very confidential, as always. One of my male patients was sexually abused by an uncle. He’s been in therapy for five years. The emotional damage can be irreparable.”