Walking with Spike

While Spike sniffed out the good spots, I pondered my chances of getting lain when we got home. Since her promotion, Sally’s libido had plunged towards the negative integers. I hauled Spike away from a tree, and we resumed our regular route through Riley Park.

One, two,    three thunder cracks shattered my carnal thoughts.

Spike barked twice —  legs stiff and ears cocked.

I froze.

Kids? Firecrackers? Hell no. Those were shots.

Slap, slap, slap. 

Running feet pounded towards us.

  Panicked, I scanned my surroundings—no place to hide.

A shadow veered into the bushes.

Spike erupted in a salvo of sharp barks as the danger moved away.

 The crunch, crunch, crunch of fleeing feet faded towards the east end of the park.

Spike wagged his tail, proud of his ability to protect his human.

Do I run for the police or investigate? What if someone is dying and I could save them? Was that the assailant running away?

I shortened Spike’s leash and dragged him forward. All his muscles on alert, nose twitching.

 We inched around the curve in the path.

Under a street lamp,  a body sprawled across a park bench. 

Spike growled in the back of his throat.

 As I approached the body,  the odor of fresh shit assailed my nose, and the coppery aroma of spilled blood floated in the air. As a former medic in Vietnam, I knew those smells meant death.

She was, or had been,  a middle-aged woman, about forty, wearing yellow jogging pants, a Baltimore Orioles hoodie, and pink Adidas. The right side of her head was splattered over the bench in a fan pattern, and the two bloody bullet holes in her back eliminated suicide as the cause of death.

I yanked Spike back from the body, and we ran to the north park entrance, where there was a payphone. While fumbling in my pocket for coins, I remembered that emergency calls were free.

“911. What is your emergency?”

I huffed. “Dead body, woman, Riley Park.”

“What is your name?”

“John Newland.”

“How do you know she is dead? Did you check for vitals?”

I sputtered. “I’m an ex-medic. I know dead.”

The operator paused. “Okay, Mr. Newland, remain where you are. Police are on their way.”

Blue and red flashing lights shattered the night five minutes later as a patrol car screeched to a stop in front of the park entrance. Two uniformed cops jumped out and marched towards me.

The biggest cop barked. “You the guy who called?”

“Yeah.”

“You reported a body?”

I pointed down the path. “Two hundred yards that way, dead woman slumped over the first park bench.”

He drew his pistol and pointed his finger at me. “You stay here.” 

They jogged down the path.

I walked to a nearby bus stop and sat on the bench to get out of the way of the inevitable horde of cops and crime scene technicians about to descend on the park. Spike shook from doggie confusion, and I lifted him onto my lap. When the cops returned a few minutes later,  they found me on the bench, cuddling Spike.

Their guns holstered, they glared at me as if they’d caught me molesting a child.

The big cop advanced towards me. “Show me your ID.”

Spike barked in my defense.

I put Spike on the ground, fished my wallet out of my back pocket, and handed it to the cop.

He growled. “Take out the ID.”

I fumbled my driver’s license from the plastic sleeve and handed it to him. He copied my information into a black notebook while his partner stood to the side, hand resting on the butt of his pistol. 

The big cop handed me my license and put his notebook into the top left pocket of his uniform shirt.

Why haven’t I heard an ambulance or seen the coroner?

The cop’s cold eyes bored into mine. “Mr. Newland, do you realize that it is a criminal offense to make a prank call to 911 and file a false police report?”

What the hell is this guy talking about? “I saw a woman dead on the bench.”

The cops exchanged a glance. “We didn’t find a body, sir.”

He leaned towards me, his nose in my face. “Have you been drinking, sir?”

I shook my head. But it will be the first thing I’ll do when I get home.

The cop waved his finger in my face. “I have your contact information, and if you do this again, I’ll throw your ass in jail. Understand?”

Spike cowered at my feet.

I nodded and picked up Spike.

The cops got back into their cruiser and peeled away, leaving two black scorch marks on the pavement and the aroma of burnt rubber behind them. What the hell?

Spike squirmed in my arms, and we headed home along the path past the bench. There was no bleeding corpse, no bloodstains, and no evidence that a murder had taken place.  Am I crazy? Is this delayed PTSD?  Did I dream this? I need a drink.

After two stiff Irish Whiskeys, I trundled off to bed, no wiser but more relaxed. With faint hope, I stoked Sally’s shoulder.

She fluffed her pillow and said, “Not tonight, John.”

Months passed, and the incident faded. Spike and I took another route for his evening sniff and poop. Sally and I expected our first child.

Two weeks after baby Troy joined our family, and as we struggled with the chaos of new parents, the phone rang.

When I picked up the phone, a familiar voice said. “Mr. Newland, this is Detective Anthony. You may remember me from the park incident last year.”

Why is he calling? Troy needs a change. “Hello Detective, how may I help you?”

He cleared his throat. “Have you read the paper or seen the news?”

What was he getting at? The fog of parenthood dulled my spidey senses. “No.”

“Page two of the Calgary Herald has an article you’ll be interested in. Strange world. Good night, Mr. Newland.”

The dial tone buzzed in my ear. As I placed the receiver back in its cradle, my son reminded me it was changing time. 

While Troy and his mom napped on the couch, I fetched the paper and turned to page two.

Woman murdered in Riley Park.

This evening the police found the body of Delores Finestein slumped over a park bench, with three bullets in her head. The police quickly apprehended her estranged husband, Robert Finestein, by following his tracks through the woods to a neighborhood pub where he celebrated his recent divorce.

I laid the paper aside, got a doggie cookie for Spike, and a large whiskey for me.

                                                              End