not.”
What else could I say?
thought Otis.
If I had thought there was a chance Pete was going to kill himself, I would have done something to stop it, I would have gone after him, I would have talked him out of it. Certainly not
—
that’s my answer, the only possible answer
.
“One interesting thing about how he did it,” said the detective. “He didn’t open his mouth and stick the barrel in. He fired it right through his lips, which appeared to be closed tight. Tore them to shreds.”
At that moment Otis noticed a trumpet lying on an end table next to Elkhart. “Where did that come from?” Otis asked.
“It was on the car seat with the notes. Mrs. Wetmore said she’d never seen it. We’re still piecing it together, but it looks like Mr. Wetmore went from your office building to Wellington’s music store and bought this trumpet. A while later, he went to theparking lot of the coliseum. His wife said he always kept the Beretta in his car. That’s all I know.”
Two more familiar faces were next to Otis. They were those of Bob Gidney and Russ Tonganoxie, the good man and the asshole, respectively, of the world-famous Ashland Clinic. Otis turned toward them as the detective stepped away.
“Pete was a patient of yours, I take it?” Otis said to Tonganoxie, still dressed as if he were a slovenly graduate student. The only addition was a dark green warm-up jacket with the word JEEP over the breast pocket.
“I’m not permitted to discuss such things,” said Tonganoxie, “and you know that.”
“I guess you told Pete the same thing you told me: People in the insurance business were bloodsucking vultures who should feel guilty. Good work, Doctor.”
Bob Gidney said, “This is no time to talk about anything like that, Otis. Was Pete the colleague you called me about—the cussing one?”
“I’m not permitted to discuss such things, either,” said Otis.
“The immediate problem for all of us—me, you, Otis,” said Tonganoxie, “is June Wetmore.”
The room went suddenly silent. June Wetmore came in with the Reverend Joshua Garnett, a dull, grinning man about Otis’s age.
Otis turned toward June, and their eyes met and locked. She came right toward him, her face ablaze.
“Get out of my house!” she screamed at Otis. “You drove Pete to this! You took everything out of him, you treated him like dirt!”
Shit. I treated him like shit. Not dirt
, Otis thought.
Otis said nothing to her or to anyone else as he backed out ofthe room and left the house. Sally joined him in the front seat of the Explorer.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” she said, taking Otis’s right hand in both of hers. “She’s just upset—understandably. Bob assures me she’ll be sorry when she realizes how awful and unfair she was to you.”
Otis said, “Pete left me a note. I’ve got it here in my pocket. I haven’t read it yet.”
Sally released his hand. He took out the envelope, opened it, and pulled out a folded piece of notepaper. It was a KCF&C memo sheet with Pete’s name printed on the top in small letters.
PETER L. WETMORE, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT.
There were only four hand-printed sentences on the sheet. Otis recognized Pete’s handwriting.
Otis—
I bought a trumpet and tried to play it. But the good lips were gone. It was too late.
Sing, Otis, sing.
Pete
RUSS TONGANOXIE DEFINITELY did not want to be alone with Bob Gidney right now. But they had raced from the clinic to the Wetmores’ in Tonganoxie’s Jeep Wrangler, and there was no way to avoid driving back together.
He decided on a preemptive strike. “No, I didn’t think Pete Wetmore was suicidal,” Tonganoxie said after several moments of silence. “If I had, I would have taken direct action.”
“Hey, Russ, nobody’s immune from this. A patient walks out of a routine therapy session after talking about his mother andshoots up a post office with a machine gun. That kind of thing happens to all of us.”
Well, fine
, thought
What else could I say?
thought Otis.
If I had thought there was a chance Pete was going to kill himself, I would have done something to stop it, I would have gone after him, I would have talked him out of it. Certainly not
—
that’s my answer, the only possible answer
.
“One interesting thing about how he did it,” said the detective. “He didn’t open his mouth and stick the barrel in. He fired it right through his lips, which appeared to be closed tight. Tore them to shreds.”
At that moment Otis noticed a trumpet lying on an end table next to Elkhart. “Where did that come from?” Otis asked.
“It was on the car seat with the notes. Mrs. Wetmore said she’d never seen it. We’re still piecing it together, but it looks like Mr. Wetmore went from your office building to Wellington’s music store and bought this trumpet. A while later, he went to theparking lot of the coliseum. His wife said he always kept the Beretta in his car. That’s all I know.”
Two more familiar faces were next to Otis. They were those of Bob Gidney and Russ Tonganoxie, the good man and the asshole, respectively, of the world-famous Ashland Clinic. Otis turned toward them as the detective stepped away.
“Pete was a patient of yours, I take it?” Otis said to Tonganoxie, still dressed as if he were a slovenly graduate student. The only addition was a dark green warm-up jacket with the word JEEP over the breast pocket.
“I’m not permitted to discuss such things,” said Tonganoxie, “and you know that.”
“I guess you told Pete the same thing you told me: People in the insurance business were bloodsucking vultures who should feel guilty. Good work, Doctor.”
Bob Gidney said, “This is no time to talk about anything like that, Otis. Was Pete the colleague you called me about—the cussing one?”
“I’m not permitted to discuss such things, either,” said Otis.
“The immediate problem for all of us—me, you, Otis,” said Tonganoxie, “is June Wetmore.”
The room went suddenly silent. June Wetmore came in with the Reverend Joshua Garnett, a dull, grinning man about Otis’s age.
Otis turned toward June, and their eyes met and locked. She came right toward him, her face ablaze.
“Get out of my house!” she screamed at Otis. “You drove Pete to this! You took everything out of him, you treated him like dirt!”
Shit. I treated him like shit. Not dirt
, Otis thought.
Otis said nothing to her or to anyone else as he backed out ofthe room and left the house. Sally joined him in the front seat of the Explorer.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” she said, taking Otis’s right hand in both of hers. “She’s just upset—understandably. Bob assures me she’ll be sorry when she realizes how awful and unfair she was to you.”
Otis said, “Pete left me a note. I’ve got it here in my pocket. I haven’t read it yet.”
Sally released his hand. He took out the envelope, opened it, and pulled out a folded piece of notepaper. It was a KCF&C memo sheet with Pete’s name printed on the top in small letters.
PETER L. WETMORE, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT.
There were only four hand-printed sentences on the sheet. Otis recognized Pete’s handwriting.
Otis—
I bought a trumpet and tried to play it. But the good lips were gone. It was too late.
Sing, Otis, sing.
Pete
RUSS TONGANOXIE DEFINITELY did not want to be alone with Bob Gidney right now. But they had raced from the clinic to the Wetmores’ in Tonganoxie’s Jeep Wrangler, and there was no way to avoid driving back together.
He decided on a preemptive strike. “No, I didn’t think Pete Wetmore was suicidal,” Tonganoxie said after several moments of silence. “If I had, I would have taken direct action.”
“Hey, Russ, nobody’s immune from this. A patient walks out of a routine therapy session after talking about his mother andshoots up a post office with a machine gun. That kind of thing happens to all of us.”
Well, fine
, thought
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