Miles Apart But Close At Heart
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I lived on the east coast in Maine and my boyfriend which I loved very much lived in San Diego. He was a lieutenant at Camp Pendleton and he had been deployed to Iraq for four months when our relationship became strained due to his long hours of work, lack of communication with me, and an argument we had over the phone.
When I told him that I needed space so he could sort out whatever was going on inside himself, he agreed but asked if he could visit me during his leave. We made arrangements for him to stay at my home while he was visiting since I had no desire to be alone for any length of time.
His arrival was planned well in advance; however, things did not go as expected. After two days of being away from his family, he came back acting strange. It seemed like something happened overseas that caused him to come home upset.
Our arguments continued until one evening when I got fed up and said I wanted a divorce. I felt that he would never get better and that he should have stayed there where he belonged. The next day he left without saying goodbye or telling me what happened.
As soon as I found out he left, I packed up all my belongings and headed west to where my parents still lived. They were happy to see me and after some thought decided to give me their old farmhouse. My brother moved into my parent’s house because he wasn’t married yet, but he knew about our relationship.
In fact, he even helped us pick out wedding rings before my fiancé went off to war. So now I’m living on the outskirts of town with my sister-in-law who is seven years older than me. She has three children and her husband died five years ago from cancer.
I’ve always admired her strength and determination to raise these kids by herself. Now she’s doing it again by taking care of me too. She doesn’t say anything about my fiancé leaving me, but sometimes I can tell she feels bad for me.
She does her best to make sure I eat properly, help around the house and keep myself busy. Most nights when I sleep I dream of my fiancé and feel miserable because I know that nothing will ever happen between us again. I try hard to move on, but it isn’t easy.
“How are you feeling today?” Lisa asked after checking her vital signs.
“A little tired,” I answered honestly. “But overall okay.”
“That’s good news. Let’s do your bloodwork first then head downstairs to start physical therapy. If you’re not able to walk on your own by this afternoon, we’ll have to postpone it until tomorrow morning.”
When I got down to physical therapy, I saw Dr. Miller standing outside of his office talking to another doctor. I wondered why he didn’t want me to enter the building. He turned to look at me and smiled. “Come in and take a seat. I just need to finish up a few minutes of paperwork.”
After he finished filling out the forms, he closed his laptop computer and looked at me with concern. “You don’t seem like yourself, Katie. You haven’t spoken much since I last saw you.”
“What’s wrong? Did I say something to offend you?”
He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. Actually, I think you may be depressed. Is this true?”
“Yes sir… I guess I am. Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have a problem with gay people?”
His brow furrowed and he paused before answering. “It used to bother me more than it does now. What makes you ask such a thing?”
“My fiancé left me,” I replied quietly.
Dr. Miller nodded. “I understand how you must feel right now. How long ago did this happen?”
“Two weeks ago.”
The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I see.” He put his glasses back on and leaned forward. “Did you love this man very deeply?”
“Very much.”
“Why did he leave you?”
“We fought over something silly,” I replied. “And when I tried to explain what was bothering me, he refused to listen. Instead, he yelled at me and walked out of the room. That was the end of our relationship.”
“Well, I wish I could have seen him fight with you. I bet he lost every single round.” Dr. Miller chuckled.
“Are you making fun of me?” I snapped angrily.
“No! No, I’m not.” Dr. Miller laughed again. “Have you considered getting counseling?”
“Counseling?” I repeated.
“Yes. Counseling can help you work through issues and find answers to questions you might have about your past relationships and your future ones.”
“I’m afraid to open up and share my feelings with anyone else,” I admitted. “If I talk about what happened, someone will find out I’m a lesbian.”
“Katie…” His voice softened. “There is no shame in being homosexual. In fact, many famous people are known for loving women. We live in an age where it’s becoming increasingly acceptable to be gay, so don’t let society dictate how you live your life. Remember that you are entitled to happiness—whatever that means for you.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said as I stood up.
“Please don’t hesitate to call if you ever need to talk or visit one of our other clinics.” The doctor handed me a card. “Or send me a message anytime. It won’t go any further than me. Just remember to never lose hope and hold onto faith.”
“Thank you.” I placed the business card inside my purse. When I stepped out of his office, I glanced back to watch him close the door behind me.
***
On the way home from physical therapy, I stopped by the diner to grab lunch. I sat alone at a small table near the window and watched as people went by. There were four young men sitting at a booth nearby who all seemed to know each other. They were laughing loudly and drinking beer while eating greasy hamburgers.
A few tables away two older men were sharing a plate of fries and watching a baseball game on television. Another man was having dinner with a woman who had dark brown hair but couldn’t tell which side she belonged on because they both wore wedding rings.
As I ate my grilled cheese sandwich, I noticed a group of children playing together on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Two boys held hands and ran around the corner of the building chasing after three girls who giggled and shrieked.
When I finished eating, I ordered dessert from the waitress. I hadn’t eaten anything sweet in years and felt guilty ordering the pie. But it wasn’t like I would eat it myself; I’d give it to Lisa as soon as I got home.
As I waited for my order to arrive, I watched the people passing by outside the glass wall of the dining area. One man walked by holding a newspaper in his hand. He kept looking down at his paper and then peering up to scan the street.
After watching him walk away, I realized that I recognized him. He was wearing the same outfit as the day we met: a black cowboy hat, white shirt, tan pants, and boots. I thought he looked like a country singer or a rodeo star, although he didn’t carry himself like either one.
This time, he was walking quickly, probably hurrying to catch a train. Was he headed toward the train station? If so, maybe he could take me there too. I wanted to ride the train again, especially since the last time I’d been on one was so memorable.
I paid the check and left the diner without telling anyone where I was going. I crossed the busy street and made my way to the train station. On the platform, I saw several passengers waiting for the next train to arrive. None of them seemed familiar.
A conductor boarded the first car. “All aboard!” She called. “This is the afternoon express heading west to Denver.”
Just as I was about to board the second car, I heard footsteps coming closer. When I turned around, I saw a tall man in a blue suit and a bow tie. He had short blond hair and wore a smile. “Good afternoon.” The man greeted me. “I just arrived here myself.”
“You’re new here,” I observed.
“That I am.” The man smiled. “But I’ll be staying awhile.”
“How did you get this job?” I asked.
“It pays pretty well.” The man shrugged.
“Do you like working here?” I asked curiously.
“Very much.” The man grinned. “What do you think of it so far?”
“So far…?” I tried to recall everything I’d seen and done in the last twenty-four hours. “Well, nothing really.”
The man laughed. “No? Not even the scenery?”
“Oh yes,” I replied. “The view is breathtaking.”
He nodded. “Yes, very nice. You’ve come to appreciate nature more over the past few days, haven’t you?”
“Not exactly.” I shook my head. “If I’m being honest, I wish I could forget what happened today. Or rather, what happened yesterday. That’s why I came here. To forget.”
“Why would you want to forget?” The man took off his hat and scratched his head. “Don’t you realize that if you allow yourself to forget, you might lose something important?”
“Like what?” I stared at him, wondering how many times I’d have to explain what happened before he understood.
“Your memories can become your greatest treasure,” he said. “They can help you learn things about yourself and others, and provide you with a sense of direction.”
“And direction means…” I searched for the right words. “…directionless.”
The man chuckled. “We are all lost sometimes.” He leaned against the railing on the second floor. “Even the most successful people stumble once in a while. It doesn’t mean that their life has no meaning.
It only means that they need to find out what it is worth living for—that’s when they turn their lives around. And it often takes a tragedy to make them look inside themselves and see what truly matters. Only then will they discover the truth of who they really are.”
“Maybe not everyone finds it easy,” I pointed out.
The man nodded. “There’s always pain involved in learning anything worthwhile. We must all endure some sort of trial before we can grow into our true selves.”
“Can you tell me yours?” I asked. “Is it because of something terrible that happened to you?”
“Something terrible happens to us all.” The man stood straight and pulled his hat back on his head. “In fact, you may never know until after you die.”
I glanced at him skeptically. “What makes you say that?”
“Because we don’t remember the exact moment when we were born, nor the precise instant when we died. What we do know is that every person has experienced both of these events. But we also believe that those two moments occurred before we ever learned to talk.
Therefore, each of us began life as an infant but ended up dead long before becoming adults. So if death is part of the cycle of birth, then surely we should remember what happened between the two. Yet none of us can.”
His explanation startled me. Did the man mean that I wouldn’t remember dying? If so, then I’d never be able to prove whether I had. For a moment, I wondered what I would do if I couldn’t. Would I give up trying to figure out who killed me?
Would I simply accept that someone else decided what happened to me? I didn’t know. Maybe I’d try to figure out what happened anyway. But it still bothered me that there wasn’t one shred of evidence to go by. How could I possibly solve this case when I didn’t even understand what happened to me?
While I contemplated the matter, the train arrived and stopped at the station. The passengers got off and walked toward the door. A woman dressed in black appeared from the other end of the platform.
She looked down at the ticket clerk behind the counter, picked up her purse, and headed for the exit. As she passed the man next to me, she caught sight of me. She hesitated and glanced at the man beside me again. Then she smiled.
“Hello, Miss Darrow.” The woman approached me. “Are you going somewhere in particular?”
“To meet my employer,” I told her. “She runs a detective agency here in town. She hired me to investigate the murder of a young woman.”
“You’re welcome to join me.” The woman turned away and climbed aboard the train. “My name is Susan Fletcher.” She held out her hand.
I reached out and shook hers. “Miss Darrow.”
Susan Fletcher sat across the aisle from me. While I watched her, I wondered how many times I’d heard someone call me by that name since I was born. Was it a coincidence? Or was it God’s way of telling me that I belonged to another family now?
When the conductor announced that we’d soon reach Chicago, Susan Fletcher excused herself and went to the restroom. I followed her and waited outside the bathroom door. After five minutes or so, she emerged. When she noticed that I hadn’t left yet, she opened the door wider. “Would you like to use the facilities first?”
“No.” I paused. “Do you think that anyone besides myself and the victim used this restroom today?”
“That depends.” Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer. “On whether or not she washed her hands afterward.”
***
At the Chicago depot, the train rolled into a large waiting room where a crowd gathered. There was no sign of any investigation taking place. In fact, I saw no police officers anywhere. Not that it mattered.
With no witnesses willing to come forward, the sheriff would have to rely on circumstantial evidence to nail whoever did this crime. That meant that he needed to start by finding out exactly which people knew the deceased.
As we waited, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd: Tom Weston, the local newspaper reporter. He waved and called out my name. Before I could respond, the train started rolling. Weston quickly stepped into the rear car with the rest of us.
By the time we reached the city limits, I felt sick to my stomach. Why hadn’t I said goodbye to Mary Jane? Why hadn’t I made sure she understood that I cared about her?
Once inside the hotel, I found a telephone booth. Calling my office was out of the question. No doubt they already knew why I was calling home. And since I wasn’t supposed to leave the house without permission, they might assume that I’d run off. My only option was to check on the condition of the office. If there was some sort of trouble, maybe I could get help fast enough to prevent the situation from getting worse.
I dialed the number listed for my mother’s office. It rang twice and then answered.
“Hi, Mom! Can I speak to Mrs. Wright? This is Darrow. Sorry to bother you at work—”
“Darrow!” The tone in Mother’s voice startled me. “What are you doing calling home? Where are you?”
“In Chicago. At the hotel. We just arrived.”
There was silence. Finally, Mother asked, “How long will you be staying?”
“Just tonight.”
“Oh. Well…”
Her words trailed off as though she were uncertain of what to say. So much for making it sound like I was leaving permanently.
The phone clicked. I hung up. Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I can’t feel guilty anymore. I should’ve explained things better when I spoke to her earlier. But if I had, she probably wouldn’t have believed me. What could I possibly tell her to make her believe me? How do I explain that I am dead but still alive?
If only I’d known that my death would be such a shock to everyone else, I never would have gotten involved with the case. Hadn’t I seen firsthand how dangerous it could become? But I didn’t realize until too late that I’d also been playing with fire. Now I was paying the price.
Outside the window, the sky looked dark. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary Jane and the last time I saw her. I imagined her looking up at me with those big brown eyes while I told her good-bye. I’d wanted to reassure her that everything would be all right. Instead, I lied. Maybe if I’d tried harder, I could have saved her.
While I was still sitting in the telephone booth, someone knocked on the glass partition between us. When I realized who it was, I pulled away and took a step back. “Good evening, Miss Fletcher. Thank you again for helping me.”
Susan Fletcher stood behind the partition. A look of surprise registered on her face before she recovered and smiled. “Thank you for asking me along.”
She nodded toward the elevator. “Shall we?”
“Yes. Thanks.” I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The elevator stopped on the second floor and we walked down the hall. As we neared our destination, I thought that perhaps I should ask her more questions. Then again, she was obviously uncomfortable talking about the case. “Can we go downstairs now? To your room?”
“You’re welcome to join me,” she responded, sounding relieved. She led the way and we entered her suite. Once inside, she closed the door.
With nothing to occupy my thoughts, my mind drifted to Mary Jane. I pictured her standing beside the railroad tracks, watching as I got closer and closer. Did she know something I didn’t? Was she trying to warn me? Or was she simply worried about my safety?
My mind wandered further. If I hadn’t been so intent on finishing my investigation, I never would have left Mary Jane. Perhaps if I had stayed, she wouldn’t be dead today. But then again, maybe she would have died anyway. Who knows? All I do know is that I failed to protect her.
After Susan poured herself a drink, I sat on the couch and waited. There was no sign that she intended to talk any longer. After several minutes, she motioned for me to sit next to her. With one hand on mine, she leaned close to me and whispered, “Miss Wright has hired another private detective.”
“Who?”
“A man named Horace Albright.”
“So he’s not a real detective.”
“He claims to be.”
Albright was the reason I came here in the first place. I remembered reading about him in the newspapers. He was the most famous criminal lawyer in town. His client list read like an encyclopedia of notorious criminals. He represented murderers, bank robbers, arsonists—you name it, Albright had defended them. In fact, his courtroom was said to be the most popular in town.
“Does Mrs. Wright suspect anyone yet?” I asked.
“No. But Mr. Wright thinks Albright may have been hired by one of his business partners.”
“Why?”
“It seems that Mr. Wright’s partner recently died unexpectedly.”
I felt myself grow tense. Could this have anything to do with the murders? I glanced at Susan. “Has the coroner determined the cause of death yet?”
“Not yet. It will take some time.”
When I didn’t respond, Susan added, “But I don’t think it will have anything to do with the deaths.”
That was what I hoped, too. “Where does Albright live?”
“His office is located near downtown Chicago. You might try calling there tomorrow. And you’ll find out soon enough if he’s connected to the murders or not.”
Just then the telephone rang. “Excuse me just a moment,” she murmured and went into the bedroom.
“Hello?”
“Is that Susan Fletcher?”
“Yes. Is this Detective Albright?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Do you remember the newspaper article I wrote about your husband’s murder?”
“Of course. How are things going with that?”
“Well…” Her voice trailed off. “Actually… I’ve made quite a discovery.”
The line crackled and suddenly I heard a woman’s voice. “What kind of discovery?”
“Mrs. Fletcher! What are you doing on the phone?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Wright. We were just having a little chat. So how long do you plan to stay in New York?”
“As long as it takes.”
“All right. Well, I’m sure you’ll let us know when you’re coming home. Good night, Mrs. Fletcher.”
When Susan returned, she looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Mrs. Wright says she plans to remain in New York until we catch whoever killed her husband.”
“We already know who did it.”
“No, I mean the killer.”
“Mrs. Wright doesn’t know who the murderer is.”
“Then why isn’t she arresting him?”
“Because the killer has done such a thorough job covering up his crimes. The only evidence we have is the bloodstain from the kitchen. That could mean almost anyone committed the crime.”
She nodded. “Right.” She stood up. “Let me show you where the phone is.”
Susan took me back down to the lobby and showed me how to use the public phones. Then she pointed toward a small diner across the street. “There’s a restaurant called The Old Mill. They serve breakfast all day. Go over there and order yourself a meal. I can wait here for you.”
“Thank you, but I need to stretch my legs.”
“All right. Take your time. But hurry back.”
“Will do.” I thanked her and walked away from the hotel. As I headed across the busy street, I noticed a crowd gathered around the front entrance of the train station. A police car pulled up in front of the station and two uniformed officers stepped out.
One of the officers spoke briefly with the people in the crowd before leaving. When I reached the edge of the sidewalk, I turned and saw a group of men gathering around a body lying facedown on the ground. Two more policemen approached the body.
With a sigh, I started walking again. It seemed that every city I visited lately had its share of gruesome murders. Why couldn’t it stop? I stopped abruptly and stared ahead. Before I knew what I was doing, I crossed the street and hurried after the officers.
“Over here!” I cried and rushed up behind them.
One of the policemen turned around. “You!”
I recognized Officer Harris. He’d arrested me several times before. I shook my head. “This man needs help. Can you call an ambulance?”
He hesitated. “Who is he?”
“A vagrant.”
Harris sighed. “All right. Let’s see if someone knows who he is.”
Someone shouted, “Wait! This man was beaten senselessly. His name is William Rufus and he used to work here. He was attacked last night while trying to collect money from one of the merchants.”
I gasped. “William Rufus! That was me.”
“Why would he be here?” asked another policeman. “Doesn’t he usually sleep under the train tracks?”
“Maybe he came here because he thought no one would recognize him,” said another onlooker.
“Get the coroner!” shouted one officer.
Another officer bent down next to William Rufus and touched his shoulder. “Mr. Rufus, can you hear me? Are you conscious?”
Rufus groaned. “Don’t hurt me anymore… please.”
“Hold him steady,” ordered the first officer.
They rolled him onto his side so they could check for injuries. His face was badly bruised. Blood oozed from a cut above his left eye. The second officer leaned closer and gently placed his hand on Rufus’ neck.
“Looks like he suffered a broken jaw and cracked ribs. Did you hit him hard enough to cause these injuries?”
“Not hard enough.”
“Where’s his hat?”
“It fell on the other side of the street.”
“Good thing too or we might never find him,” muttered the second officer. “Can we move him now?”
“Yes.”
Both officers grabbed William Rufus by either arm and dragged him to their car. After they loaded him into the trunk, I followed them. Once inside, I watched through the rear window as they drove past the hotel.
“How long will this take?” I asked.
“At least three hours.”
“Three hours?” My stomach rumbled. How was I going to get any food during lunchtime?
The second officer glanced at me and frowned. “I don’t suppose you want us to bring you anything?”
“What kind of question is that?”
His frown deepened. “Sorry, ma’am.”
After a momentary silence, the second officer cleared his throat and said, “Well, Mrs. Wright, maybe we’ll run into each other later. We should probably split up. You go this way; we’ll go this way.”
“Sure. Thanks for helping.”
As soon as they drove off, I started walking toward The Old Mill. I wanted to eat something hot before the coroner arrived. And I needed some coffee. If nothing else, I’d drink some strong black coffee until Susan got back. I hoped the waitress remembered me well enough to remember to give me a large cup of coffee.
The End