“Freddy was the one who hit you on the head?”
“Well, it wasn’t the tooth fairy.”
“But why? When?”
“We got into an argument about the dresser I gave to Amato last week. Freddy wanted to sell it for cash, eh? Like always.”
“When? When did he hit you?”
“Why is that so important? What counts is that he did it.” I realized that Spit probably didn’t know about John Travers’s body, or if he did, he was playing innocent.
“So why are the cops coming to interview you?” I said.
“Don’t be foolish, girl. You know as well as I do that Travers’s dead body was in the wood hole. That’s why you’re asking me all these questions.”
“Yeah, Spit. I know because I found him. But how do you know? You were out cold, and you said you only came to last night.”
Spit spat. The glob hit the bedpan, four feet away and made a satisfying little “ping” when it landed.
“Small town hospital,” Spit said. “Everybody knows. Got it from Pat, the nurse, who got it from Mack, the ambulance attendant.”
“Oh. So you think Freddy did it? Killed John Travers?”
“Don’t know about that. I was drinking with him in his hut from seven until nigh on midnight—the quart I got from Amato for the dresser. Freddy’s usually a good drinking buddy, but Sunday night he was acting funny, and the wine made him crazy.”
“So he hit you? Were you fighting, like, duking it out?”
“Nope. I turned my back on him after he called me a sneaking weasel and next thing I know, I’m here.”
“But you were found in your hearse, Spit.”
“I know that,” he said. “He must have dragged me there after he done it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Probably thought he’d killed me. Put me there so he wouldn’t be blamed, then took off. But after I tell the cops, he’ll be blamed, all right.”
“You said something about ghosts, Spit. On Sunday night. Before Freddy hit you?”
“That’s the part the cops won’t believe. They’ll say it was DTs, like they always do.”
“What part won’t they believe?”
A flicker of fear passed across Spit’s face, and he shut his eyes for a moment. “Could have been DTs, I guess,” he said. “Could have been a dream. But I know a ghost when I see one.”
“Where? When?”
“Sometime, girl. Somewhere. I was in that other place you go when you’ve been hit on the head after a jar of Amato’s Triple X. One second I’m floating there with my head in a leghold trap and the next second I’m awake in my car and Travers is sitting next to me, real as you are.”
“Alive?”
Spit shuddered. “Nope. He was covered in blood, his chest wide open like a butchered pig.” I fought down nausea as the image of Travers’s fly-covered body—the thing I had seen yesterday—came swimming back to me.
“But he was talking to me, see?” Spit said. “He was saying ’baby, baby, baby’ over and over, looking straight at me. Then I blacked out again.”
The hairs on my arms stood straight up on end.
“Geez, Spit. That’s awful.”
“You’re telling me.”
“You think the ghost was trying to tell you something?”
“Maybe. Don’t know what, though. Could have been the words to a rock-and-roll song. Ghosts don’t always talk sense.”
“You’re the expert.”
“Wish I wasn’t. Anyway, the cops won’t take any notice of an old drunk like me. I may not even bother telling them. But I am gonna charge Freddy. Maybe the District will give me his weekend shift while he’s in jail, eh?”
“Maybe. So he just whacked you over the head, then panicked and left, you figure?”
“I figure. Bastard.”
“And he whacked you sometime after midnight.”
“That’s right.”
I had to find out when John was shot, that was for certain. If he was killed after midnight, that made Freddy a prime suspect. I would have to talk to Freddy, too.
Just then, the door to Spit’s room opened and Becker and Morrison walked in. They were not overjoyed to see me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Becker said, striding towards me.
“There’s no need to say that every time we meet, Detective,” I said. “I’m visiting a sick friend. What does it look like?”
“It looks like interfering in police business,” Becker said.
Morrison moved in, too. “I thought I told you not to get involved,” the big cop said.
“I’m not…” I began, but Becker had grabbed my upper arm and was ushering me out of the room. When we got into the hallway, I shook him off.
“There’s no need for that, Detective,” I said. “I’ll come quietly.”
Now, I will admit this to you in private. When Becker took my arm, all sorts of lewd fantasy thoughts flashed across my mental movie screen. These thoughts had to do with handcuffs, uniforms and mildly kinky role-playing games. I don’t know where they came from and I was so shocked by my unconscious mind that I lost control for a second. When I said “I’ll come quietly,” I immediately recognized the double-entendre, and the Aunt Susan eyebrow came up, I swear, of its own accord.
That would have been okay, I could have handled that and talked myself through it later over a joint at the cabin. The problem was that Becker’s eyebrow went up as well, and a tiny, red-hot jolt passed between us that was pure, unadulterated sex. If I had been a Victorian maiden, I would have swooned.
“Quietly? I doubt it,” Becker said. Lord help us. “What were you talking to Morton about?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s all of my business. Look, I know you want to clear your friend, who, incidentally, we have not been able to track down yet, but we will. I know you have an interest in this case, but you’re getting in the way.”
“How so?”
He sighed. “You know damn well. Interrogating witnesses before we get a chance to see them. You did it with Francy Travers, now with Morton. It’s got to stop. For one thing, it’s dangerous. Someone has been killed, unless you’ve forgotten, and if you happen to figure this mess out before we do, you could end up in the dump yourself. You ever think of that?”
“Which would leave you with another juicy murder to solve. Give you a chance to get promoted,” I said.
“That isn’t even slightly funny. You’re playing in a game you don’t know anything about, Polly. I don’t want to find you dead somewhere. I really don’t.”
“Me neither.”
“Well then, stop this. It’s making life difficult for me, and you’re putting yourself in danger, butting in.”
“If I don’t butt in, Mark, I’m afraid a mistake will be made, that’s all.”
“We’re professionals. You’re not.”