Her hearing not as keen as in her youth, Agnes Blakewood strained to hear through the apartment wall what the two male voices were arguing about next door.
She could only make out a word or two when she heard the loud noise. The bang startled not only her, but her mangy cat Horace.
12:11a.m. the dusty round-faced clock on the wall displayed as she took note.
Going into her eighty-ninth year, she was a widow for more than twenty of those years. She and her companion Horace were still clinging to life, such as it was.
Agnes sat motionless, not sure what had happened. She didn’t care for the young man in the adjacent apartment; it was the downstairs, corner unit, number twelve. He treated cats badly, and to her, that was a sin. Finally making her way over to the window, she peeked out, but couldn’t see anything from her angle.
The apartment stairs were located directly in front of the building. Straining her weak eyes, she now spied someone standing on the stairs, about a third of the way up; he was looking toward her neighbor’s door.
Slowly the figure descended and emerged into the soft glow of the only street lamp near their complex. It was Ryan Wily, the young college student who lived directly above unit twelve. Agnes took an instant liking to Ryan when he helped her with her groceries one late afternoon a few months back.
She went and cracked her door open a few inches, and Ryan was now standing only a couple of feet away, staring intensely at apartment twelve’s door, which was ajar. His attention now turned to the light coming from Agnes’ doorway.
Squinting, he made out her small frame peering at him in the darkness. “Mrs. Blakewood, are you all right?” He spoke louder than normal due to her hearing impairment.
Agnes pushed the door wide and ventured out. “Ronny, what was that loud noise?”
Ryan didn’t mind that she sometimes called him by the wrong name. Overlooking it mainly because of her age, and he didn’t have the heart to correct her.
“I think it came from apartment twelve,” he stated pointing toward the door.
“Well young man, the Christian thing to do is knock and make sure the man is okay, even if he is a jerk,” she said in her straightforward manner.
Leaning forward, Ryan pressed the door buzzer and held it for several seconds before releasing it. “I didn’t hear anything, I think it’s broken.”
Agnes pulled her nightgown tighter around her narrow shoulders to ward off the night air. “Never mind the fancy buzzer, just knock on the damn door. Horace is waiting for his treat,” she said in her sassy tone.
Complying, several hard knocks were applied, yet no response came forth. He now peered through the half-opened door.
“Well, what do you see?” she asked impatiently.
“I can see a man’s leg,” he said as he turned to face her.
Agnes took Ryan by the arm and pulled him from the doorway. She pushed the door open herself, she observed the half-naked body of her neighbor lying face up on the living room floor. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.
Agnes moved in for a closer examination, at which time she spotted the hole in his chest, near his heart. A thin line of blood had trailed toward his neck.
“Better call the police; this man has kicked the bucket for sure,” she said with no sympathy in her voice.
Ryan stood frozen, unable to take his youthful eyes from the ghastly sight.
Agnes turned from the body, and seeing his facial expression, waved her petite hand in front of his face to break his trance.
Startled, he stepped back a bit, but Agnes seized his wrist and shook it. “Pay attention Robby! Go call the police right now! You hear me, boy?!”
“Ah, yes…call the police…ah…yes, right now…I’ll go call them,” he mumbled as he finally took off up the stairs heading for his phone.
The neighborhood was usually quiet. There had never been such excitement in this area of the city in over thirty years.
Ryan headed straight for his phone, whose headset was designed in the shape of a football. For a college student, his apartment was the typical mess; beer cans and empty pizza containers thrown everywhere, piles of unwashed clothes lying in small mounds, bugs galore all over the dirty dishes in the sink. Dialing 911 into the phone he noticed sweat had formed on his brow.
Agnes glanced up at the digital clock resting on the counter-top in the kitchen; time was 12:38 a.m. It seemed longer, but even now she could make out the approaching sirens.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the female voice asked.
“I…I…think he’s…shot, he’s…got a hole…in…in…his…” Ryan stammered in his out-of-breath and frightened voice.
“Just relax son,” the calm female voice said. “Now take a deep breath, and tell me your name?”
Ryan filled his lungs with air, and then choked, coughing out the old air, while gasping to take in fresh air.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, listening to his episode on the other end of the line.
Ryan regained control. “I’m sorry…”
“Everything will be fine. My screen shows you’re calling from 2218 Park St, apartment twenty-four. Would that be correct?”
Ryan coughed a few more times, and then cleared his throat. “Yes…that’s my apartment.”
“And what is your name?” she continued.
His mind went blank as he stood staring out through his open door.
“Sir, I need your name?!” she hollered into the phone.
“Ryan…ah, Ryan Wily…I’m sorry,” he said snapping out of his daze.
“All right Ryan, just relax for a moment. When you’re ready, please tell me who has been shot?”
“The guy in apartment twelve; he’s just inside his door.”
“Okay, do you know who shot him?”
“No, I heard a loud noise, and I went down to check on Mrs. Blakewood, and his door was partially open. I saw him lying on his back. Mrs. Blakewood told me to call you guys,” he rattled on.
“Who is Mrs. Blakewood?” the dispatcher asked.
“She lives downstairs next to apartment twelve.”
“Okay Ryan, I have units responding. Can you tell if the man is still alive?”
“I think he’s dead; his eyes are open, but he’s not moving…maybe he’s still alive…I’m not sure…he might…” Ryan couldn’t think straight anymore, the shock had brought on confusion.
“All right, just relax. Do you know the man’s name?”
“Yes, it’s James Butler, I think.”
“Okay then, just go wait for the officers to arrive, and don’t touch anything inside apartment twelve, understand?” she asked still typing on her emergency screen.
“Yes,” he said hanging up and proceeding down to meet the officers.
Agnes could now see the flashing lights turning onto Park Street. She turned just as Ryan was descending the stairs. “I’m going to tend to Horace. If the police need anything, just tell them to knock.”
Ryan stood, hands in his pockets, nervously awaiting their arrival.
“Ray, did you hear what I just said?!” she raised her voice.
“Yes Mrs. Blakewood, I’m sorry. If the police need to see you, just have them knock,” he recited.
The first to arrive were Officers Brenda Dearborn and her rookie partner Jamale Johnson, from the Hot Springs City Police Department. Behind them was Sergeant Harold O’Leary from the sheriff’s office. Fire rescue Unit 319 and Ambulance Unit 73 arrived within seconds of the others.
Officers Dearborn and Johnson entered first to establish all was safe for the paramedics’ entry. Sergeant O’Leary came in next, followed by the others.
“He’s as dead as they come,” O’Leary said, leaning over the body as he observed the entry wound to James Butler’s chest.
After the paramedics verified for themselves, they agreed it was now a job for the coroner’s office. They packed their gear and departed.
“Radio in and tell dispatch we’ll need homicide and the coroner’s office notified,” Officer Dearborn instructed her rookie partner.
“Just hold up there, missy,” O’Leary stated as he placed his hands on his rotund hips. “You’re out of your jurisdiction; this is the county’s homicide, not the cities.”
“Well, rookie, maybe not, but you don’t know a damn thing about where the boundary line starts and ends. It ends at Park Street for the city limit,” O’Leary said, trying to stare her down.
“Back off fat man!” Dearborn commanded in her stern voice.
“Hey, we’re all on the same side, right?” Officer Johnson interjected as he stood closer to his training partner to show support.
“You better listen to your boy, missy, before you get in over your head.”
“Boy! Who you callin’ boy?” Dearborn demanded. “And don’t call me ‘missy’ again, understand?” She was riled up now, and ready for a fight.
“Now you know what I meant when I said boy, and it has nothin’ to do with color, and callin’ you missy ain’t no put-down neither. So let’s simmer down a bit; all it takes is one call and we can clear this all up,” he said with a slight grin on his face. “Now, do you really want me to call and wake up your chief at this time of night?”
Brenda Dearborn looked over at her partner, and then back at Sergeant O’Leary. He had called her bluff, and she knew it. Not completely sure as to which department had jurisdiction, she figured she could con O’Leary. She gambled and lost, so it was time to retreat.
O’Leary assumed command of the crime scene and radioed his dispatcher to send out the forensics team, coroner’s crew, and the homicide squad. Most of those called out at this time of night would surely be asleep. The first person didn’t arrive on the scene for nearly an hour.
Jake Elderman and his assistant Ed Gorman of the county morgue came first. They approached the open door and were met by O’Leary who was just inside, smoking a fat cigar.
“Who’s that with you, Jake?” O’Leary asked, squinting as he peered into the darkness.
“That’s Ed Gorman, you remember him from your daughter’s wedding last month, don’t you?”
“Oh, now I can place him, sure, he was an usher if I recall correctly.”
“That was me, all right,” Ed said smiling.
“What? Forensics ain’t here yet? Those guys are a bunch of lazy shits. If I had a dime for every time I beat them to a crime scene, I could be sittin’ in my condo in Miami about now,” he said as he slapped O’Leary on the shoulder, while wearing a big grin on his rather thin face.
Meanwhile, several deputies had cordoned off the crime scene area around the apartment building.
Lieutenant George Milhouse pulled up. The place took on the appearance of an active beehive, he thought as he approached Sergeant O’Leary.
“So, Harold, tell me what you think you’re doing?” he said anxiously as he flashed a cross look.
O’Leary took note of his superior’s facial expression and his tone of voice, trying to discern his true demeanor, which he failed to do.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, George,” he said, still trying to figure out if he was serious or just fooling around.
“Harold, I was told that you threatened the Hot Springs city officers. Would that be a true statement?” He glared at his old friend.
“Who told you that?” O’Leary asked rather sheepishly.
“Never you mind who told me, just answer the damn question!” the lieutenant shot back, clearly agitated now.
“Well, not in so many words, but I held my ground,” he said, almost sounding apologetic. “Why, what’s the problem?”
Lieutenant Milhouse rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air. “Why don’t you ever listen to what is said in roll-call? Not once, not twice, but three different times it was announced that the city boundary line now extended to include Park Street. You’re out of our jurisdiction. The county prosecutor can’t touch this case. Son-of-a-bitch! How many times am I going to have to cover your ignorant ass? Shit!” The lieutenant’s face was blushing red as he stood shaking his head in disbelief.
“Sorry,” was all O’Leary could bring himself to say in his most pitiful-sounding voice. Staring at the pavement like a small child who had just been scolded by an angry parent.
“Sorry my ass! I’m not about to make the call. You’re going to call the Hot Springs police station and apologize for the mix-up. Then you’re going to gather all the crime scene evidence and personally hand it over to their detectives when they arrive. You understand me?” he got right up into O’Leary’s face. “Look at me! Did you hear what I just said?”
O’Leary moved back a half-step and looked at his old friend. He knew he had pushed him too far this time. “Lieutenant, I’m very sorry I put you in this kind of position. I will apologize and straighten this mess out right now, sir.”
“You’re damn right you will,” he said as he turned and headed for his cruiser. The lieutenant’s tires squealed and smoked as he sped away.
Sergeant O’Leary tried to relax and regain his composure as he started directing everyone to stop what they were doing. Once he had all the evidence he told the others to go on home, he listened as Ed and Jake from the county morgue whined and complained as they left. Now it was time to make the call to the Hot Springs station and apologize for the misunderstanding. It would be one of the hardest calls he ever had to make.