Gypsy Sins by John Lawrence Reynolds

Author:John Lawrence Reynolds [Reynolds, John Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781443443692
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2015-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

The day passed in a chain of short lapses into sleep interrupted by visits from the doctor and nurse team to check McGuire’s blood pressure, take his pulse and temperature, inject him with pain killer, change the IV fluid dripping into the vein on the back of his hand and ask him how he was feeling. One of the nurses offered to turn on the battered television set mounted opposite his bed but McGuire shook his head groggily.

He dreamed of watching Barbara walk naked out of the water at Ocean Beach and awoke at the sound of the door closing and a young nurse adjusting the sheets on his bed.

“Where’s the telephone?” he demanded. The enameled table next to his bed held a box of facial tissues, a reading lamp and a small calendar with the name of a local florist.

“In the hall,” the nurse said. “Two pay telephones next to the nurses’ station and one extension for incoming calls. There are none in the rooms. Sorry.” She smiled coldly. “They were in last year’s budget. Until everything came down to a choice of raises for the nurses, telephones in the patients’ rooms or redecorating the doctors’ lounge. Want to guess who won?”

Late that afternoon McGuire opened his eyes to find Morton sitting in the chair next to the bed, writing in his notebook.

“What’ve you found?” McGuire asked. His speech was slurred from the drugs.

“We got one empty shell casing, that’s it. The shooter was standing on grass and fallen leaves.” Morton shrugged. “No shoe impressions, just bent grass. Tracks lead out of the woods and back in again. Once you’re in those trees, the leaves and all, you lose it. Talked about bringing in a dog, but it’s so dry in there . . .”

“Those woods,” McGuire said. “They go down to Miner’s Lane, right? About a hundred yards down the road? Same woods?”

Morton nodded. “And all the way back to Carney Road behind you. Anyway,” he continued, “Doc Hayward looked at the file on that Sanders woman. That’s the case, all right. He wasn’t involved with it, of course. Just remembers the coroner complaining that the police weren’t convinced it was murder.”

“Now there’s a switch,” McGuire said. “Cops tend to be a hell of a lot more suspicious than doctors. What’s the name of the guy did the investigation?”

“Hindmarsh. I asked around, nobody else on the force remembers him. ’Course, the longest anybody’s been there is three years now. Had a big turnover a few years ago, two retired, one quit, another moved on to a sergeant’s job on the mainland. Found Hindmarsh’s name in our personnel files. Retired in 1980. Hayward says he was a decent cop, far as he can remember.”

Morton waited for a response from McGuire, who lay with his eyes closed. “State guys still have a guard on your door,” Morton said. “They’re gonna want to talk to you. . . .”

“Hell with ’em,” McGuire said. “Tell ’em I’ll deal with you. You give ’em whatever they need.

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