Free Eleven Days by Donald Harstad Page B

Shoulder hurt, and my eyes kept changing focus when I looked back over my shoulder, focusing on the wire squares of the restraining cage. Weird, as the garage looked like it would jump toward me four or five feet each time.
    I put my jacket into the tub, to soak, and trashed the shirt. I made a sandwich and drank a Pepsi. Then snuck upstairs, trying to be quiet and to get to bed without waking Sue. Didn’t work, as I stumbled against the chest of drawers.
    “You might as well turn on the light,” came the sleepy voice from the bed.
    “Okay, but before I do, you might want to know I have a bandage on my head, and it’s not serious.”
    I turned on the light.
    “My God.”
    “It’s not serious. Just a couple of stitches.”
    “What happened?”
    I told her.
    “What did he hit you with?”
    “I don’t know. A board, or a handle, or something. Something hard, I know that,” and I grinned.
    “I’m surprised you’re home on time.”
    “Hey, Henry says I get a couple of days off …”
    “You won’t take them.”
    “Yes, I will. This time.”
    “Sure.”
    “You want to know how many stitches?”
    “No. I’m having a hard time handling this. I don’t like your work, and I don’t like what happens to you.”
    “Hey, it doesn’t happen very often. If it did, I’d quit.”
    “I don’t think you would. I think you like it.”
    And, with that, she turned over and appeared to sleep.
    Like it? Hardly. She really wanted me to be in another, more dignified line of work. Where people didn’t beat on me, and where I associated with a little better clientele. Well, in a way, I did, too. But the job was interesting most of the time, and hardly ever routine. I liked my work. Something I never thought I had to apologize for.
    Phone rang at 08:45. You can’t come to work, no reason not to call you. It was Hester, apologetic, but she wanted to come by to talk to me.
    I put the coffeepot on, took off the bandage, as it was giving me a headache, and washed my hair. Shaved. Tried everything I could to wake up. After the second cup of coffee, I was getting mad at Hester for being late. If they’re going to bother you, at least be on time.
    She arrived about 09:30. Bearing gifts in the form of a thick envelope of developed photographs of the Herkaman crime scene, and my photos of the McGuire scene. With a note from Lamar, wondering if I could label them while I was off.
    “I think I can get these done in the next day or so.”
    “Good. How’s your head?”
    “Still there.”
    “I’d like to talk to you about last night.”
    “Want a cup of coffee?”
    We spent about an hour going over the events of the early morning hours, with her taping everything. I had already said it all in my report, and she seemed disappointed that we were uncovering nothing new in the interview.
    By the time we were finished, I was beginning to wake up.
    “Autopsy reports back yet?”
    “Oh, yeah, they were relayed up this morning. Got ’em in the car.”
    They were quite interesting.
    In the first place, the times of death placed the sequence as follows:
    1. William Sirken at approximately 10:30 P.M .
    2. Francis McGuire at approximately midnight.
    3. Unknown (possibly Peggy Keller) at about 1:00 A.M .
    4. Phyllis Herkaman at about 5:00 A.M .
    The causes of death were equally interesting.
    1. William Sirken, hemorrhaged, due to severing of the inferior vesicle artery and the anterior trunk of the right common iliac artery, caused by an apparent stab wound.
    2. Francis McGuire, death by asphyxiation, larynx crushed and hyoid broken.
    3. Unknown (possibly Peggy Keller), death by asphyxiation due to ligature around her neck.
    4. Phyllis Herkaman, hemorrhaged to death, due to puncture of the left common iliac artery and vein, the superior mesenteric artery, the abdominal aorta, and the inferior vena cava.
    McGuire was the only surprise.
    Removal of McGuire’s hand apparently occurred postmortem and explained the lack of blood, at least to