The next morning when I opened my eyes, two badge-wearing detectives were in the room, each in a chair on Ben's side. I saw that he was sleeping, and wondered if I would have to introduce myself to them without the help of our slumbering mutual acquaintance.
I didn't have to wait long to find out. I was barely aware of exactly where I was when they both seemed to re-appear at the edge of my gurney.
"Miss Davis," the taller African-American one presented himself. "I'm Detective Huey, and this," he motioned toward his partner, a curly redhead with shifty eyes, "is Detective Gardino. We need to ask you a few questions about the other night."
"First," I said, in my sudden discomfort being much more vulgar that even I could imagine. "I gotta go to the can." I saw confusion in their faces. Whatever they had been told about me, rude and offensive had not been mentioned.
"Yeah, okay," offered the redhead. "Sure."
I made a move to get down, and Detective Huey put out both his hands, like he was going to catch a baby, or a football.
"Are you planning to lift me down?" I asked him. "'Cause we just met, and I don't think we're to the man-handling stage just yet." I pushed past him with as much attitude as anyone dragging an IV stand could muster and once in the lavatory I slammed the door.
I found that I did not want to answer any more questions about the other night. I knew where, and to whom they would lead.
I spent as much time as I could seated on the closed toilet seat, hoping one of them would come to the door and offer to come back later. It didn't happen, so finally I gave in--mostly from the cold--and returned to my bed. When I saw that Ben was awake--probably courtesy of my door slam--I even took their offered hands to help climb back in.
They apologized for bothering me at the hospital, but explained the urgent need to follow up on the case before the trail got too cold. They had a copy of some of the things I had told Vecchio at the Waffle Steak on Thanksgiving when he interviewed me there, and they asked to clarify one or two of the statements I had made.
Finally, when I felt sure they were just about to leave, satisfied with all I had said, Detective Gardino pulled out a mug shot.
"Is this the woman who stole your car?" he asked, trying to give the picture to me.
I kept my hands tangled up in the sheets, so he laid it on top the covers. I looked at the picture. She was there, in prison blues. I couldn't mistake either her hair or her face for anyone else's. I had to stop myself from asking if I could keep the photo.
I didn't answer him. It came to me that I was their only case. No one else, except perhaps the boy working the drive-thru at McDonald's, had seen her. Using me as her mouthpiece, even Detective Vecchio could not convincingly testify that it had been her. They had brought me a picture to identify because they couldn't be sure it was the same woman. I stole a look into each of their eyes.
He asked again.
I looked at the picture harder.
"Is this the woman or not, Miss Davis?" This time from Detective Huey, his voice deeper than Gardino's, but louder.
"I-I-no, I can't be," I stalled.
"Is or is not this woman, Victoria Metcalf, the motorist you picked up on Interstate 74, who then went on to hold you at gunpoint and commandeer your vehicle two nights ago?"
"It is not a hard question, Miss Davis. Is this her?" Huey's eyes were growing larger each time he asked the question, and with each asking, my heart beat harder against my chest. This time, I jumped at every word he said.
I opened my mouth. And Detective Vecchio swept into the room slamming the door shut behind him with a force to rival my earlier attempt.
"What do you two jokers think you're doing here?" he shouted at Huey and Gardino. "Have some respect! Does this look like a pokey room to you?" He spread his arms wide. "Do you see any criminals here?"
He turned, and without even looking at Ben pulled the privacy curtain around his bed ferociously, cutting him off (visually at least) from the rest of the room.
Both Detectives began to speak, but when Vecchio turned back toward the windows and us, his face was deep set in anger. When he saw the picture lying in my lap, I thought he might explode. His face got very red.
"Get out of here," he told them as they began to grumble. "Get out of this damn hospital room before I say another word. You got no right bringing this mess in here where a man's trying to get well. Get out or so help me I'll kick your ass all the way back to the station."
Gardino snatched the picture up off my lap, and Huey grabbed for his coat off a chair. It was obvious they were both angry with Vecchio's intrusion, but not angry enough to cross him at the moment.
Detective Vecchio followed them out of the room, and closed the door behind them as they went out into the hall. I could still hear him chewing them out, though I was unable to make out any specific words.
"Ben?" I called across the room.
"Yes," he answered.
"It was her," I confessed.
"I know," he said through the curtain separating us, his voice a monotone of sadness.
