The Last Gift

I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life. “She was dead when I got here!”

But she hadn’t been. Not really. She’d been teetering on the precipice, with one foot out the door but one still shackled to this mortal coil.

I’d tried to help, really I had, but I wasn’t a doctor or a paramedic or an EMT. I hadn’t even been a Boy Scout and was never prepared for anything, especially not a dying woman in the alley behind the diner where I worked as a line cook. I’d stepped outside for a quick cigarette, still wearing my thin latex gloves smeared with waffle batter and chicken seasoning, and there she was – sprawled on the ground, her white dress smeared with dirt and god-knew-what, a red stain blossoming like a poisonous flower on her midsection.

For a moment, I’d only stared in shock, waiting for the director to yell “Cut!” or for some other end to the scene in front of me. When that didn’t happen, I lurched forward, dropping the cigarette I had yet to light. My knees went to jelly as I sank down beside her, fumbling for the cell phone in my pocket.

“Wait,” she gasped, and there was a strange rattling sound in her chest. The red pool turned into a red river. “In my purse... take it. Yours.”

Then she died, her eyes going blank and empty, the rattling sound stopping as she ceased breathing. My eyes moved to the round white beaded purse at her side, one no bigger than the palm of my hand.

I picked it up gingerly and cracked it open just enough to see some female detritus – lipstick, compact, tiny ID holder – and a ticket. I took the ticket, slid it in my own pocket, and replaced the purse. To this day, I can’t tell you why I did it. It was like something or someone else was controlling my actions as my brain struggled to process what had just happened.

I’d barely gotten the ticket in my pocket when the alley lit up with white and red and blue lights, and swarms of people came in on the run. Police officers, paramedics, what looked like some bystanders checking out the action. The police and EMTs went to the body while one of the bystanders, a tall burly guy, roughly yanked me to my feet and shook me so hard I could feel my brain bouncing against my skull.

“Did she say anything?” he demanded. “Did she tell you anything?”

There were so many people staring at me, waiting for my answer. I’m a shy person at the best of times, which is why I work back in the kitchen instead of out on the floor as a waitress. The tips may be better in the front of the house but dealing with all those strangers day in and day out would scare me silly, just like this guy did. I immediately panicked, which is why I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life. “She was dead when I got here!”

The burly man cursed colorfully but let me go.

Dazed, I stumbled backwards and leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant building. Thankfully, people seemed to lose interest in me after that. The other bystanders drifted away, but the burly man remained, talking animatedly to the police and barking out orders into a cell phone.

I found out later that he was a cop, too, one who’d been undercover, by the name of David Bradley. He had been tailing the woman in the white dress – her name was Anna Philpott – but had lost sight of her at a busy intersection when a little kid had darted out into the street after his puppy, who’d gotten off the leash. Dave had reacted instinctively and ran to snatch the kid and the pup away from a grisly death via car accident, but in the meantime he lost his quarry. He’d shoved a business card at the sobbing, grateful mother and resumed his search.

No one told me this at the time, of course. The cops took my statement but didn’t give me any details about the woman, the man, or what happened to cause her death. Some of it I got from media reports afterwards, but most of it I found out at the trial.

Anyway, Dave kept looking but had no luck finding her again. Just when he was about to give up, he heard gunshots and ran toward the sound. A security guard in front of a nearby jewelry store had tackled the gunman, and bystanders told him they’d seen the guy shoot a woman who’d fled up the street.

By the time he’d called for backup and followed the blood trail to the alley, it was too late. Anna was there, with me, and she’d already died.

Dave apologized to me later for shaking me. Anna had been his only link to the cocaine dealer he’d been building a case against for months, and with her death he immediately assumed his case was dead in the water. He’d hoped that Anna had given me a dying declaration with something he could use against Martin – the dealer – but I’d shattered his hopes when I’d blurted out my lie.

I felt bad about that, but not for long. As it turned out, the convenience store Anna had gone to had a mail drop inside. She had stayed in that store long enough to do two things – first, to drop a padded envelope addressed to Detective David Bradley, Phoenix PD, in the mail drop, and second, to buy a lottery ticket.

The envelope contained a USB thumb drive loaded with a treasure trove of incriminating documents related to Isidore Martin’s drug smuggling operation – names, dates, financial records. There was so much that Martin didn’t even stand trial, but took a plea deal instead.

The guy who actually shot Anna, a lackey of Martin’s named Arnold Tessaro, hadn’t even meant to shoot her. She’d locked eyes with him, he’d panicked, and the gun “went off in his hand.” Thanks to the security guard’s quick action, Tessaro stood trial and will spend the next fifteen to twenty years in prison.

To my great relief, I wasn’t called to testify. Lying to the cops at the crime scene was one thing; lying to a jury while under oath is another. But I was invited to watch the trial as a courtesy given my involvement in the case, and luckily enough I didn’t have to worry about getting the time off work.

The lottery ticket worth $55 million, Anna’s last gift, took care of that.