Read Online A Dime a Dozen by Mindy Starns Clark - Free Book Online
Authors: Mindy Starns Clark
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amount of blood that surrounded him, he had been here for a while, though back here in the dark it had taken this long for someone to spot him.
“Sir!” barked the officer as he knelt down, one hand on the man’s shoulder. “Help is on the way. Can you tell me who did this to you?”
The man tried to speak, but only gurgles came from his throat.
“Who did this to you, sir?” the officer demanded.
The man gasped and whispered one word.
“What?” the cop said, leaning closer. “Jim? Jim’s? Jim’s what?”
The man tried to speak again, but blood bubbled over his lips and down his chin, and his head fell back with one last spasm.
Then he was still.
The cop grabbed the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse while we all held our collective breaths.
“He’s dead,” the cop pronounced finally, setting the lifeless limb back on the ground even as the siren from the approaching ambulance could be heard in the distance. Two of the women started crying, and the men shuffled and coughed and looked everywhere but at the man on the ground in front of them. I had seen dead bodies before—including that of my own husband, whom I cradled in my arms moments after his death—but standing there I realized that this was the first time I had actually witnessed someone in the act of dying, someone making the shift from “living” to “dead.”
It was a bit of a shock.
“Who is he?” someone asked, and I was surprised to see that no one in the small crowd seemed to know.
“Maybe he’s with the band,” Dean said.
“No, they’re all loaded up and gone,” a man in an orange safety vest replied.
“Did anyone see him earlier?” the cop asked. “Maybe in the parking lot or at the concert?”
Everyone shook their heads, mute, as if stunned by what we had all just witnessed. Looking around, I was glad to find that the migrant woman, Luisa, was herding her children away from the scene. I wondered how much the kids had seen, particularly the little girl, and my heart went out to them. Death was hard enough for adults; it didn’t need to be witnessed by children.
The next hour was a blur of more police cars, tons of cops, and lots of official business. Since the man I had seen running earlier might be pertinent here, I was forced to wait around and periodically answer the same questions over and over again. While Dean and Natalie talked to the police and helped Luisa with the children, I sat on the bench where I had sat earlier, listening to all that was being said around me. I learned that the victim had no ID on his person and that there were no unclaimed vehicles remaining in the parking lot. None of the police recognized the corpse, and for a small town that was saying a lot. Obviously, the dead man hadn’t been a citizen of Greenbriar or any of the neighboring environs.
The detective in charge of the case was a woman in her fifties with waist-length straight black hair that she wore pulled into a ponytail. She had the high cheekbones and smooth skin of an American Indian, and eventually she introduced herself to me as June Sweetwater.
At her request we drove to the Webbers’ house, where she had me recreate my encounter with the man in the woods. Though neither she nor her men could find footprints or any other evidence that someone had been there, she seemed to feel that the person had been running away from the church and toward the new neighborhood that backed up to the woods from the other side. As I listened, she spoke into her radio and dispatched a few units to comb the streets there and canvass the houses, despite the late hour.
I was finally freed from police questioning with the promise that I would remain local and available to the investigation for the next few days, should the need arise. I agreed, feeling regretful that even if they were able to round up some suspects, my encounter had been too dark and too brief to allow me to be able to pick out from a police lineup the man I had seen.
As I
“Sir!” barked the officer as he knelt down, one hand on the man’s shoulder. “Help is on the way. Can you tell me who did this to you?”
The man tried to speak, but only gurgles came from his throat.
“Who did this to you, sir?” the officer demanded.
The man gasped and whispered one word.
“What?” the cop said, leaning closer. “Jim? Jim’s? Jim’s what?”
The man tried to speak again, but blood bubbled over his lips and down his chin, and his head fell back with one last spasm.
Then he was still.
The cop grabbed the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse while we all held our collective breaths.
“He’s dead,” the cop pronounced finally, setting the lifeless limb back on the ground even as the siren from the approaching ambulance could be heard in the distance. Two of the women started crying, and the men shuffled and coughed and looked everywhere but at the man on the ground in front of them. I had seen dead bodies before—including that of my own husband, whom I cradled in my arms moments after his death—but standing there I realized that this was the first time I had actually witnessed someone in the act of dying, someone making the shift from “living” to “dead.”
It was a bit of a shock.
“Who is he?” someone asked, and I was surprised to see that no one in the small crowd seemed to know.
“Maybe he’s with the band,” Dean said.
“No, they’re all loaded up and gone,” a man in an orange safety vest replied.
“Did anyone see him earlier?” the cop asked. “Maybe in the parking lot or at the concert?”
Everyone shook their heads, mute, as if stunned by what we had all just witnessed. Looking around, I was glad to find that the migrant woman, Luisa, was herding her children away from the scene. I wondered how much the kids had seen, particularly the little girl, and my heart went out to them. Death was hard enough for adults; it didn’t need to be witnessed by children.
The next hour was a blur of more police cars, tons of cops, and lots of official business. Since the man I had seen running earlier might be pertinent here, I was forced to wait around and periodically answer the same questions over and over again. While Dean and Natalie talked to the police and helped Luisa with the children, I sat on the bench where I had sat earlier, listening to all that was being said around me. I learned that the victim had no ID on his person and that there were no unclaimed vehicles remaining in the parking lot. None of the police recognized the corpse, and for a small town that was saying a lot. Obviously, the dead man hadn’t been a citizen of Greenbriar or any of the neighboring environs.
The detective in charge of the case was a woman in her fifties with waist-length straight black hair that she wore pulled into a ponytail. She had the high cheekbones and smooth skin of an American Indian, and eventually she introduced herself to me as June Sweetwater.
At her request we drove to the Webbers’ house, where she had me recreate my encounter with the man in the woods. Though neither she nor her men could find footprints or any other evidence that someone had been there, she seemed to feel that the person had been running away from the church and toward the new neighborhood that backed up to the woods from the other side. As I listened, she spoke into her radio and dispatched a few units to comb the streets there and canvass the houses, despite the late hour.
I was finally freed from police questioning with the promise that I would remain local and available to the investigation for the next few days, should the need arise. I agreed, feeling regretful that even if they were able to round up some suspects, my encounter had been too dark and too brief to allow me to be able to pick out from a police lineup the man I had seen.
As I
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