Free Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright Page B

dollar earned by a man, such as inadequate day care for children, such as sexual discrimination, harassment and abuse. None of them addressed the problem of a man with a neat little hole in his forehead not six blocks away. I pushed that last image out of my brain and concentrated on the women, wondering why they seemed so much more attractive than the women with whom I’d gone to college.
    I gave it forty-five minutes; then I left the grill and made my way to the library, surprised and pleased by the number of students who actually sat reading within its silent walls. I found a spot near a window that looked out over Cleveland Avenue and watched for the cops. I gave it three hours and two chapters of the text. I could have read more but I was too busy glancing at the door and jumping at every noise. Finally, I took a deep breath, tossed the bag over my shoulder, tucked the book under my arm and strolled back to my car, walking several blocks out of my way to avoid going near Thoreau’s house.

SEVEN

    F OR A LONG TIME I could not drive the streets of St. Paul without a heaviness in my stomach. They all seemed to lead to landmarks of death. “Hey, that building over there, that’s where we found Harley who had his penis cut off and stuffed into his mouth by his homosexual lover, and that park we just passed, Sally was found raped and murdered over there, right under the monkey bars …”
    That changed during the years after I left the department; gradually time had removed the stink of death from my clothes, my hair, my nostrils, my brain. The faces of the killers, the dealers, the pimps, the pros, the gang-bangers and their victims, all those wonderful people who filled my life with such happy memories, faded like the World Series ticket stubs I thought might be a collector’s item someday.
    Then I killed four men and it all came back. The cops, the county attorney and a review board called it self-defense and I wasn’t about to argue with them. But I haven’t had more than a few consecutive nights of uninterrupted sleep since.
    And I stopped carrying a gun, vowing that I would never kill another human being again.
    â€œGoddamn it!” I screamed at the traffic on Rice Street. I did not want to deal with this. I was tired of taking dead people home with me. I preferred the simple life now, a life apart from the suffering of others. Chasing credit card thieves suited me fine. Sifting for secrets in someone’s trash, conducting surveillance on suspected embezzlers, running skip traces with my computer—that’s what I wanted to do.
    Only, Death seems to follow me. And try as I might, I cannot shake him.
    I parked directly in front of C. C. Monroe’s campaign headquarters and walked inside, making as much noise as possible. Marion Senske didn’t want anyone to know I was working for her? Well, screw that! Unfortunately, only one person seemed interested in my act—the receptionist. Everyone else was talking earnestly in small groups of three or four. The receptionist said Ms. Senske was expecting me, please have a seat; Representative Monroe and Ms. Senske were in conference and would see me presently.
    I glanced toward the office in back. The door was slightly ajar and I could see a sliver of light.
    The telephone rang and the young woman answered it, making notes on a pink message pad as she spoke. When she had finished with the first caller, the phone rang again and then a third time. She asked the second caller, “Could you hold, please?” and switched to the third line before the second caller could reply. I slipped away and headed toward the office. As I approached, I heard voices. They belonged to C. C. Monroe and Marion Senske. The two of them spoke as if no one in the world could hear them. I paused outside and listened.
    â€œLook at your clothes! How dare you wear clothes like that?” Marion wanted to know.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with my