Free Hybrid by Brian O'Grady Page A

Taurus parked and idling at the curb just as Phil reached George. Phil bent over his neighbor as the Taurus pulled into the unplowed street. George was dead, his eyes squeezed closed, his face contorted in a mask of pain and horror. Phil reached to check for a pulse, but the blue, livid face told him he wouldn’t find one. He checked anyway. Nothing. He started CPR with no real hope, and after five minutes, gave up. He sat down next to George, breathing hard from the exertion and the pressure of what would have to come next. Patsy was inside, lost in the bliss of a deteriorating brain. Someone would have to explain to her that George, her husband of sixty-four years, would not be coming back inside to make her breakfast ever again. Unfortunately, she had enough of herself remaining to understand what that meant.
    Two hours later, Phil was doing his best to console Patsy Van Der, while the police ran tape all around her front yard. Initially, there had been a considerable amount of resistance from the officers who responded to Phil’s call. George Van Der had obviously died of a heart attack, that was plain to all who had responded, and the opening of a murder investigation based on a neighbor’s report of a man standing over the body was a waste of their precious time—at least, until they found out that the neighbor was the coroner. At that point, the not-so-well-disguised grumbling focused on Phil and his eccentricities. Reluctantly, they sealed off the crime scene and began to process it. They worked slowly, waiting for the detective in charge to arrive and convince Rucker that this was a misapplication of their already strained resources. Phil was uninterested in their problems. He sat with Patsy, waiting for her son to arrive so he could finally get to work.
    “I don’t think I have enough eggs for all these nice people, Phil. Would you mind running down to the store and getting a dozen more?” Patsy asked. She had retreated into her mind, refusing to believe that George was gone.
    “Why don’t we wait for Patrick to get here,” Phil answered, relieved for the moment that she had stopped asking about George. Dementia was easier to deal with than grief.
    A large black man opened the front door and stomped snow off his shoes. The officer at the door immediately straightened, accepted the man’s wet overcoat, and directed him to the couch. The sudden flurry of activity caught Patsy’s attention, and she watched as he approached.
    “Are you with the police, young man?” she asked in a soft, grandmotherly voice.
    “Yes, ma’am, I am. I am Detective Rodney Patton. I’m here to find out what happened to your husband.”
    Phil stiffened, waiting for Patsy to break down again. As far as he was concerned, Patsy was in a good place—cooperative and unaware.
    “I appreciate that, Detective,” she said sadly. She was lucid again, and Phil desperately wished that her son Patrick would get there.
    “Can I ask you if your husband had any medical conditions, heart disease, blood pressure problems, anything?” He had the well-practiced voice of a veteran cop, and he directed all his attention to Patsy, but it was clear that he was also talking to Phil.
    “He had a heart attack about twenty years ago, but he’d been fine since. His blood sugar was a little elevated, but he didn’t have to take any medications for it.” She sounded like the Patsy Phil had grown up with.
    “I don’t mean to leave you alone, so I’m going to ask this officer to stay with you until your son arrives.” Patton motioned the uniformed policeman to sit next to Patsy. “In the meantime, I need to borrow Dr. Rucker.” He spoke directly to Patsy, not even acknowledging Phil.
    “Oh, you mean Phillip,” she exclaimed with a bright smile. Her mind had gone away again.
    “Yes, I need Phillip for a moment,” he stressed the name, but the insult was lost on Phil.
    “Go with this nice young man, dear, and when you’re finished, don’t