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CLEM HILLER WAS A FUNCTIONING alcoholic who held down a job at a local transmission shop. According to what I’d heard, he showed up every day and fixed cars efficiently and capably. People who only knew him between eight a.m. and six p.m. might describe him as an upstanding citizen, the salt of the earth, as they say.
After working hours was a different story. Clem’s leisure time was spent pouring alcohol into his bloodstream at a steady, some said amazing, pace. Aside from angry-looking blood vessels in his eyes and across his nose, the practice had caused no visible effect on his health so far, but his tendency to fight when drunk had gotten him banned from most bars in the area.
I waited at the employee entrance of A-1 Transmissions until Clem came out for a smoke break and asked if we could talk for a few minutes. “It’s very important,” I told him in a confidential tone.
When Clem hesitated, I wished I’d thought it through better. Men like him need a jolt of alcohol in order to deal with unexpected events, or they think they do, which adds up to the same thing. If I’d waited until evening, after he’d had a few belts, he’d have been less nervous about talking to me. The trick would have been judging the moment between not relaxed enough and too relaxed to make sense.
“The murder, right? I already told Chief Neuencamp what I saw.”
“And he says you were a great help. But I need to hear what you saw directly from you, because we have a client who believes your information could crack the case.”
Clem liked the idea of that. He took a long drag on the cigarette. The fingers of his free hand opened and closed spasmodically, and I guessed he wished he was holding that first beer of the day. “It was that Grammar Ninja, or whatever they call him.”
“You’re the only person who’s ever seen him.”
He stood a little straighter. Clem had been just a guy his whole life. Now he was the guy, the one who had information no one else did. He took a moment to savor his new role. I stood by, gazing at him admiringly.
A thought that came to mind jarred my confidence briefly: My tricks still work on older guys. Was that how it was after fifty? Was the world divided into men I could charm and those I couldn’t?
No, I told myself firmly. Charm is charm and men are men. Keep doing what you’ve always done.
Clem collected his thoughts then began the story. “At first it was just like any other night. Nothing much going on, like typical for Allport. Crap shows on the TV.” He pronounced it TEE-vee, betraying Southern influence somewhere in his background. “I decided I’d get myself a twelve-pack and sit in my car for a while. I parked on Barberton around ten. I watched the traffic go by and played some games on my phone. Things quieted down around eleven, and I musta fell asleep sometime after that. When I woke up, there was this guy with his back to me at a sign a ways down. There was a light overhead, so I could see he was doing something to it.”
“What did he look like?”
“Just kind of a black blob, really. It was pretty far away, and my eyesight ain’t so good at a distance.”
Especially after six or seven beers.
“I was trying to figure out what he was doing when he turned toward the alley, like he heard something. He walked over there, and that was the last I saw of him. It was like he disappeared.”
“Where did he go?”
“Down the alley.” Clem touched his head as if in sympathy with Steve Deline. “And now we know what he did down there.”
There was no sense arguing, but I needed to zero in on what he’d seen if possible. “Think about the person. Make a picture in your mind and describe what you see.”
Clem’s mouth twisted sideways for a moment. “He was pretty big I think, maybe six, six one. Big shoulders, long arms, and strong legs.” While I wondered how a “black blob” had become WWF wrestler John Cena, Clem nodded wisely. “If anybody could kill a guy with one swipe, that guy could.” He added one last thing in a self-righteous tone. “I walked home after that. I don’t drive when I been drinking. That’s how the chief found out I was there, because my car was still parked on the street when he came to where they found the dead guy.”
I thanked Clem for his help, and he tossed his cigarette butt into the trash and went back inside. Watching him go, I realized it’s true what they say about eye-witness testimony often being useless, especially when the witness was, as Mom would have termed it, “three sheets to the wind” at the time.
Clem’s description bore no resemblance whatsoever to Barbara Ann. She was safe if I could keep her from confessing her sins in a misguided belief it was the noble thing to do.
Before heading home I stopped at the vet’s to pick up my new dog. Dr. Camp said he seemed healthy and only a shade under weight for his age. I bought a bag of quality puppy kibble right there at her office, along with a small cage the vet tech said would give him a sense of security until he got used to my house. I also chose a leash, some chew toys, a water dish, and puppy pads. I’d forgotten how expensive a new pet can be, but that first puppy kiss when they brought him out and handed him to me was worth it.
I enjoyed the dog’s antics all the way home. He wanted to look out the car windows, but he was too short to reach them. After several failed attempts, he figured out the view was accessible from my lap. We spent the last part of the ride that way, with him barking at anything that moved: birds, other cars, pedestrians, even a few skimpy snowflakes spitting from the sky.
When I pulled into the garage, Styx burst through his doggy door like a furry firecracker and danced toward the car. A big boy who’s all bounce and happiness, Styx can be tricky to manage. For example, there’s a game he likes to play when I come home. When I try to open the car door, he jumps up and closes it. It’s harmless fun, unless I try to put a foot out before he’s done playing. Luckily, he loses interest after five or six times, and I can get out.
At the sight of the puppy, Styx stopped short. His gaze went from the stranger to me and back to the pup. Then he made a sound that was half whine, half question.
I immediately felt terrible. My poor baby thought he’d been replaced in my affections by a new dog. His heart must be breaking. “Oh, Styx!” I said, turning off the engine. “Don’t be sad!”
He put his big old face right up to the window and licked the spot where the puppy’s nose rested on the glass, once, twice, three times.
Styx wasn’t jealous. He’d concluded this new thing was a toy for him. The newest member of our family had just got his first Styx kisses.
