Patrol Officer J. Hendricks, stocky, clean-cut, black as polished ebony.
Patrol Officer M. Minette, curvy, clean-cut, beige hair ponytailed.
Hendricks eyed the spot where Patrick Hauser had fallen. “So both of you aredoctors?” He stood just out of arm’s reach, notepad in hand. My back was to theglass wall. The diners who’d remained in the restaurant pretended not to stare.
An ambulance had come for Hauser. He’d greeted the EMTs by cursing andspitting and they’d restrained him on the gurney. Change had fallen out of hispocket. Two quarters and a penny remained on the deck.
“We’re both psychologists,” I said, “but as I said, I’ve never seen himbefore.”
“A total stranger assaulted you.”
“He was drunk. A brown Audi Quattro followed me home this afternoon. If youfind one in the parking lot, he stalked me, too.”
“All ’cause of this…” Hendricks consulted his notes, “this report you wrotehim up on.”
I retold the story, kept my sentences short and clear. Dropped Milo’s name. Again.
Hendricks said, “So you’re saying you hit him once under the nose with yourbare fist.”
“Heel of my hand.”
“That’s kind of a martial arts move.”
“It seemed the best way to handle it without inflicting serious damage.”
“That kind of blow could’ve inflicted real serious damage.”
“I was careful.”
“You a martial arts guy?”
“Not hardly.”
“A martial arts guy’s hands are like deadly weapons, Doctor.”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“Sounds like you moved pretty good.”
“It happened fast,” I said.
Scribble scribble.
I looked over at Officer Minette, listening to the busboy and writing aswell. She’d interviewed Robin, first, then the waitress. I was Hendricks’sassignment.
No handcuffs, that was a good sign.
Minette let the busboy go and came over. “Everyone seems to be telling thesame story.” The narrative she recited matched what I’d told Hendricks. Herelaxed.
“Okay, Doctor. I’m going to make a call and verify your address with DMV.That checks out, you’re free to go.”
“You might check if Hauser’s got a Quattro.”
Hendricks looked at me. “I might do that, sir.”
I searched for Robin.
Minette said, “Your lady friend went to the little girls’ room. She said thevictim called her a slut.”
“He did.”
“That must’ve been irritating.”
“He was drunk,” I said. “I didn’t take him seriously.”
“Still,” she said. “That’s pretty annoying.”
“It wasn’t until he tried to hit me that I was forced to act.”
“Loser insults your date like that, some guys would have reacted stronger.”
“I’m a man of discretion.”
She smiled. Her partner didn’t join in.
She said, “I think we’re finished here, John.”
As Robin and I walked through the restaurant, someone whispered, “That’s theguy.”
Once we got outside, I exhaled. My ribs hurt. Hauser hadn’t touched me; I’dbeen holding in air for a long time. “What a disaster.”
Robin slipped her arm around my waist.
“You need to know,” I said, “that this was a civil case, nothing to do withpolice work.” I told her about the harassment charges against Hauser, myinterview of his victims, the report I’d written.
“Why do I need to know?” she said.
“The way you feel about the ugly stuff. This was out of the blue, Robin.”
We headed for the Sevilleand I scanned the lot for the brown Audi.
There it was, parked six slots south. The red letters on the bumper sticker said,Get Therapy.
I wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Wasn’t surprised when we reached the Seville and both of myrear tires were flat. No slash marks; the valves had been opened.
Robin said, “That’s pathetic.”
