He waved for me to sit down in front of the desk as his cell phone rang. “Lemme call you back,” he murmured to whoever was on the other end and slipped the phone into the holster on his belt.
I quickly explained about the oil change and how it proved that Angus never drove back to Jimmy’s on Saturday morning.
Ramsbottom took a long suck of his drink. “Backstead could of walked to Jimmy Kratz’s place.”
“Could have,” I said. “But why would he? Angus would have sobered up enough by then to think he could drive. He’d want to get there as fast as possible. Assuming he went there at all. Which he didn’t.”
Ramsbottom shook his head. “You can’t know the exact route Angus Backstead would of driven that day. Sorry, ma’am, but it’s not a strong enough piece of evidence.”
His cell phone rang again. “Excuse me, I have to take this call.”
Staggered by his politeness in actually excusing himself for the phone call, I got up and took a few steps away from the desk to give him some space, although in this open room no one had much privacy.
I wandered over to the pictures and awards on a wall that had been painted white at one time. One of the photos caught my eye. It was a thinner version of Ramsbottom—about the same age as the detective was now. A picture of a handsome man with his young son. This must be his father, Hank Ramsbottom. The man Angus had almost beaten to death.
Ramsbottom was talking so low I could hardly hear. He was leaning away from me, the love handles on his back spilling over the top of his pants and testing the limits of his pale blue cotton shirt.
During school-exam periods, I had perfected the art of appearing to be engrossed in the work on my desk, but could pick up on the rustle of a note being passed, or even feel a glance or words being mouthed between students.
I did it now as I studied the photos and listened to Ramsbottom’s end of the conversation. Something about a big event going down on Saturday night. It sounded like he was making sure everyone knew to show up on time, and to keep the plans top secret. Must be a drug bust or something.
Another photo showed more clearly the young detective at his high school graduation, again with his father smiling proudly next to him.
A few moments later, I sensed Ramsbottom standing behind me.
“I know that your father was the man Angus had the fight with years ago,” I said quietly, staring at the pictures.
He cleared his throat. “My dad was never quite right after that. He was what they called ‘slow’ back then. Today, we’d say ‘brain damaged.’”
I felt queasy picturing the scene as Angus had described it. The man prone on the sidewalk, unconscious, his face a hideous bloody pulp.
“Angus Backstead couldn’t remember much about that fight either. Said he saw red, and next thing he knew, he was being led away in handcuffs. I’ve read the report. It’s like he blanks out about the part where he goes apeshit.”
I remembered Angus talking about seeing red.
“My father’s symptoms didn’t show up right away.” His voice was softer now. “It started with some slurred speech, occasional blackouts. Sometimes he’d just fall asleep without warning and then he’d be fine for a while. Then he started having epileptic seizures.”
I turned to face him. “Did the brain damage from the fight cause the seizures?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “The doctors said it was hard to tell. Irregardless, a few years later he had an accident with a combine harvester. I seen it happen. I was twenty-three years old.”
Ramsbottom looked over my shoulder, gazing at the pictures on the wall. “The starter motor stuck. He got down to fix it, but he forgot to leave the stopper out.”
I swallowed. I wanted to ask him to please stop telling me the story, but my throat closed up tight.
“A seizure dropped him to the ground and that’s when the machine fired up and ran over him. Took both his legs off. I managed to pull him free. My mother called the ambulance, and they were there in a matter of minutes, but there was nothing anyone could do. He died from a massive loss of blood.”
Oh no. Not now. I could feel myself spiraling down to that dark place—full of pain, terror, and premature, senseless death.
As those familiar black wings flapped around my head and the walls wavered, I gripped Ramsbottom’s arm.
“Jeez. Are you okay, Mrs. Daly? You’re white as a ghost. Here, sit down. Put your head between your legs.”
He lowered me gently to the floor, and I sat there for a minute, head between my knees, sweating and clammy, fighting the spinning of the room.
The other cops were around me now, too. One of them handed me a triangular cone of ice water and I gratefully gulped it down. “Ma’am? Are you ill?” he asked.