Tuesday, July 25, Noon
We settled into a booth, scanned the menu, and ordered sandwiches and coffee. Two young women were seated at the next table. The one in an Oberlin College polo shirt was complaining loudly about recent tuition increases.
Tree sighed and whispered, “How can kids afford to go to college these days? My baby just graduated from Kent State. Thank God she was on a scholarship! Hell, tuition at private schools now is damn close to my yearly salary.”
He took a sip of coffee and focused on me, bright eyes flashing from his darkly clouded face. “Okay Dick Tracy, use your scientific knowledge and logic to dazzle me with your insights. What do your highly-tuned, medical senses tell you? Time to earn your lunch.”
“I’m glad to see you’re broadening your literary interests, Tree. But if I’m not mistaken, it’s you cops who are usually called Dicks—and whenever you give me a hard time, I always think of you as one.” I chuckled, squeezed a wedge of lemon into my ice water, and got down to business. “Obviously, Miguel’s drinking in the morning is a red flag. There’s no question he’s way too fond of alcohol, though I see no indication that he’s mentally unstable.”
“It’s not morning for him, Jake. He’s a nightshift janitor at a factory in Elyria. That beer may be his usual nightcap before bed. I doubt that he worked last night, but he probably didn’t sleep much either with his son in ICU.” Tree added enough sugar to his coffee to launch an entire kindergarten into a manic frenzy. “Their place was pretty filthy. Could that cause Pablo to stop breathing?”
“Dust, mold, and bacteria can predispose to SIDS. In fact, the entire apartment is a setup for it. A teenage mother who may have drugged and drank her way through pregnancy, and a house full of second-hand toxins are right out of the textbook. The soft mattress, stuffed animals, and even the bumper padding could be factors. The lack of AC in this weather can produce hyperthermia in an infant and that can be deadly. Can’t the town help poor folks get air conditioning in the heat of summer?”
“Not in my job description, Jake. Talk with social services. I got enough on my plate.” Tree shrugged. “Sounds like the perfect project for your church.”
“Not till I get the parish finances back in the black.”
As I worked on my turkey club sandwich, I watch four twenty-somethings in a corner booth. Both of the men were hypnotized by the ESPN sports replays and the scores scrolling across the bottom of a muted television on the wall. The two young women were texting or emailing on their mobile phones. No one at the table had spoken a word since Tree and I had arrived. Justine was right. I am a geezer—and a dinosaur. Sometimes I no longer recognized the world I lived in.
Tree slathered a glob of mayonnaise on his prime rib sandwich, took a huge bite, chewed, and then said, “Man, I hate this. Every time I have a case involving a kid, I see my girls when they were young.” Another bite. “Did you notice anything that doesn’t suggest an accidental crib death prevented by alert parents?”
“Well, boys are more commonly affected, but their son’s a year old and that’s somewhat late for SIDS. And even if Tina didn’t know it’s unwise to place her baby on his belly, which she told me yesterday that she did, by twelve months the child should be able to easily roll over on his own.”
“Anything else?”
“Rolling papers and the smell of grass.”
Tree nodded. “And.”
“That stain on the living room rug. I saw you drop your keychain and check it out.”
“It was dry, most likely red wine, but Miguel has a temper. When you met the two of them, did you catch a whiff of any marital strife, or see bruising or anything that might indicate he’s a wife beater?”
“No. Just the opposite. Miguel was very protective of Tina.”
“Yeah, that’s what my detective said. Besides, it’d be really stupid not to remove or hide that much evidence on the living room carpet. I did scrape a key across it when I bent down and I’ll test it with Luminol, but I doubt that it’ll be positive for blood.”
I finished the last of my sandwich. “Sorry, Tree. That’s all I saw.”
“That’s okay.” He grabbed the bill. “Not to worry, you still get lunch. I’ll pick up the check, given your vow of poverty and all.”
We walked outside to his cruiser. Tree loosened his collar, revealing a nasty-looking scar below his ear shaped like an exclamation point and darker than his skin. It ballooned into an irregular growth at the bottom about the size of a pencil eraser.
“What’s that on your neck, Tree?”
He slid a hand over it. “Oh, this? I got slashed by barb wire when I was on the SWAT team. Long time ago. No big deal.”
“Let me see it.” I stepped closer and ran a finger across the lesion, which was raised with ill-defined margins and a crusty feel. “You should see a dermatologist and make sure that’s not skin cancer.”
“Cut it out, doc, and stop touching me in public. I got a bad-ass image to maintain.” He stepped away. “Besides, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a black dude. We don’t get sunburned. The only time I get burned is when you piss me off, like you’re doing now. It’s nothing. Get in the damn car, Jake.”
I snapped on my seatbelt and said, “That’s the problem. Everyone thinks that, even some doctors. It’s not true. African Americans do get skin cancer, not as frequently as Caucasians, but because of that misconception it’s often caught too late to cure. Heck, Bob Marley died young from melanoma. Don’t screw around with this, Tree.”
“Let it go, man. I don’t have time for this crap. Hell, they give a guy a white coat and stethoscope, and he thinks he’s Albert Frickin’ Schweitzer.” He slipped the car into gear and eased onto West Lorain. “Enough already. Time to take you back to the home for unwed fathers—Father.”