Free And Leave Her Lay Dying by John Lawrence Reynolds

“Hell, he was some guy, wasn’t he?” Innes rambled on before launching into a story about Ollie Schantz. The tale had the smooth burnish acquired from being told many times over many bowls of clams and pitchers of beer. The others chewed and sipped in silence while Innes dotted his story with laughter and obscenities, speaking of Ollie Schantz as though he were a legend from a distant era.
    The telephone was ringing when McGuire arrived at his apartment near Kenmore Square. He walked briskly to his desk at the bay window facing Commonwealth Avenue and picked up the receiver while watching Janet Parsons back her Honda into a parking space.
    The caller introduced herself as a reporter from the
Globe
. “Do you have any comment on the charges made by lawyer Rosen today?” she asked.
    McGuire told her he hadn’t seen them.
    â€œBut they were covered by all the television stations this evening,” the reporter noted. “How could you miss them?”
    â€œI was performing my duties,” McGuire said. Down in the street, Janet stepped out of her car and locked the door.
    â€œYour police duties?”
    â€œThat’s right.” Janet glanced up at his window and waved.
    â€œDid you assault Arthur Wilmer?”
    â€œI have never assaulted a prisoner in my life.” He leaned forward to watch her climb the steps into his building.
    â€œDid you plant evidence that might implicate him?”
    McGuire turned to study his apartment door, visualizing Janet ascending the staircase to his second-floor apartment. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said in a tired voice.
    â€œWould you consent to an interview tomorrow?”
    â€œOnly if you clear it with Berkeley Street first,” he replied. Promising to get back to him quickly, the reporter hung up.
    By the time McGuire had begun to make coffee, he could hear Janet tapping at his door. When he opened it she was leaning against the frame, eying him from behind lowered lids.
    â€œWhat kept you, sailor?” she smirked.
    â€œSome reporter,” he answered. He checked the hallway, then closed and bolted the door behind them. “Rosen’s press conference has stirred up—”
    The telephone rang again.
    â€œShe’s back,” McGuire shrugged. “You want to finish making the coffee while I get rid of her?”
    He strode to the ringing telephone, seized the receiver and barked his name into the mouthpiece.
    There was no voice on the other end. Instead, McGuire heard distant rock music hovering above a soft roar like running water: the background noise of a busy diner.
    Finally, a hoarse whisper: “She’s there, isn’t she?”
    â€œWho?” McGuire asked. “Who are you talking about?”
    In reply he heard the distant wail of an amplified guitar, and then another wail, closer to the telephone, this one soft and human, before the man hung up.
    McGuire replaced the receiver and turned to see Janet watching curiously from the kitchen door.
    â€œYour husband,” he said, answering her unspoken question.
    She reacted with a toss of her head. “Was he upset?”
    â€œI guess so.” McGuire sat heavily on the edge of the desk, looking at his hands. “He was crying.”
    Paul Desmond’s saxophone floated from the stereo, soaring romantically through the melody of an old and forgotten ballad. Janet leaned against McGuire on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, her hands cupping a coffee mug. Such long, slender hands. McGuire had watched those hands squeeze six shots from a Police Special .38 to score the third­highest rapid-fire score in the history of the Boston Police Department.
    â€œAnything I can do?” McGuire asked, and she shook her head sadly.
    They sat in silence as Desmond wove in and out of the melody, lighting upon it and flitting away like a hummingbird. McGuire loved jazz from the late fifties. It was a time when music fit neatly into a