Emergency vehicles were back on Forest Street, this time between Reynolds’ property and the Jensen’s. Four townie black and whites, a rescue truck from the Norwich Fire Department, and a coroner van. Not as many as Curtis was expecting, but happy either way, as he was initially reluctant to report the incident trying to avoid a spectacle. He stood in the middle of his backyard, Amy beside, watching two men from the coroner’s office clad head to toe in black with matching rubber gloves carry a gurney with a black body bag from the woods, shortcutting it alongside his house. Two officers were by the river inside a forty-foot-roped-off area of police caution tape wrapping up their investigating at the river’s edge.

Sergeant Rick and another offer, much younger, by comparison, walked from the woods up to the Reynolds.’

“I apologize. Normally, we’d have the state police here as well, but there’s a large pile-up on 395 by the casino exit involving a jack-knifed tracker trailer—a bunch of cars on fire. Its chaos. Just about every available emergency vehicle is over that way, helping out. Casino can’t have their traffic diverted too long, know what I’m sayin’?” Sergeant Rick displayed a brief glimmer of a smirk. “How you two holding up?”

“We’re okay. Do you happen to know who that poor man is?” Amy said, arms folded in a baggy hooded sweatshirt that looked as if it may have belonged to Curtis. Her eyes squinted at the officers as the sun, shifting from canary yellow to a shade of dandelion gold, began its methodical descent behind Hock Island.

“Whelp,” Rick took a deep breath. “Now, we didn’t happen to find any identification on the remains or in the surrounding area, at least as of yet. It’s, uh—it’s quite a mess back there.” Sergeant Rick’s face twisted as it did upon first seeing it. “But by the looks of it, I’m almost certain it’s Ronny Haverhill. Lives a few streets over, over on Grant Ct.

“Ronny-Ronny-Ronny—why does that name sound so familiar?” Amy stiffened up, stunned by the name, although not able to place a face to it.

Curtis, just staring at his wife, eyebrows raised, lit a cigarette.

“Uhh, his wife Cindi—her and her family own Crazy Al’s Liquors over off Main Street. She reported him missing just this morning, actually. Said he left yesterday morning after a heated argument and hadn’t heard from him since. Do either of you know him or the family?”

“I don’t, but I remember Cindi from the package store.[1] I mean, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in there.” Knowing it had probably been only a few month months—if that—Amy didn’t want to attach a time frame in front of Curtis, ashamed of how many times she’d actually been over the last year. “Cindi seemed sweet, though. She and her father were always really nice when I was in there.”

The sergeant and the other officer turned to Curtis.

Evidently, Amy had forgotten the significance of the name, but Curtis knew instantly. In actuality, he’d just about forgotten himself till he heard the name. Not only had Curtis at one time worked at the liquor store briefly, he did some electrical work in the massive walk-in beer cooler two years earlier, and instead of being paid the two grand he was owed, was given three-hundred in cash and a case of white wine, as an “I.O.U.” Ronald’s father-in-law gave him a substantial amount of money and tasked him with hiring out for the job, but Ronnie, knowing he’d get Curtis for a fraction of the price, pocketed the remainder, which seemed a better option.

“Uh, yeah, I remember them from the store, too, but I haven’t seen either of them in—years.” He wasn’t exactly lying.

“Sergeant, what could have possibly done that to that man?” Amy twitched. Mild chills at the thought.

“Oh, hard to say, really. There’s a chance he could’ve fallen overboard—cut up by the outboard motor. With the storm coming in, it’s not uncommon to see a shark make its way up the river. Wouldn’t be the first attack Connecticut’s seen in as many years. Unfortunately, though, by the looks of it, the animals have already gotten to it. It’s going to be tough to discern anything, to say the least. Won’t really know much, ‘til the state police can get a watercraft out and tow in his boat. The way things are looking, who knows when that’ll be.” Sergeant Rick removed his Stetson hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a white cloth napkin—“World’s Greatest Dad” embroidered along the perimeter. His constricting uniform, too tight for his bulking, unstructured frame and visibly wet under the pits, seemed to rustle, chafing with each movement, the sweat gradually expanding to either side of his chest.

“Before we head out, I’ll need a brief statement. Now, you’ll have to excuse me, Curtis, for asking, but if I don’t ask now, someone else is liable to eventually come around asking questions. At least I can get something on paper.”

The young officer stood, expressionless, hat low to his brow line, staring at Curtis with a pen and pad.

“I know you just got back into town yesterday morning. I saw you pull in with your—as you say—damaged truck from work vandals. Is there anyone that could verify your whereabouts Monday morning between eight and nine a.m.?”

“I was driving home from New Hampshire. So no.” Curtis, taken aback by the question.

“And how bout the night before, Sunday, between nine and ten p.m.?”

Curtis, flushed, instantly fuming, looked at the Sergeant.

“Yeah, my co-worker Miguel.” Curtis, disconcerted, flicked his cigarette and walked away. At first, he didn’t know where he was, but as he thought about it, he did recall grabbing pizza in the mall food court with Miguel before their eleven p.m. shift.

Curtis immediately regretted his decision to call the police, knowing he was better off minding his own business. So far, by this point in his life, it had only proven true. He figured the buzzards and whatever else was out there would have taken care of the remains over a few days, anyway. It was far enough away that the smell wouldn’t have even reached the house. With the storm coming in, the river might flood in, consuming it and everything in its path, thereupon dragging it downstream to wash up someplace else. And Miguel, a man with a record almost as long as his winded conversations, now his only alibi. Oh, totally believable.

It then came to him; he spent most of the night installing cable in the stock room with no camera or evidence at all of his evening shift. The ones that were there were black and white—grainy at best. Should I just go sit in the fucking squad car now, or wait for a warrant? He smirked at the thought as he walked up the back steps and through the sliding door.

Sergeant Rick wasn’t quite finished, but from Curtis’s reaction, it would have to wait. Amy watched her husband enter the house, slamming the slider closed.

“Sergeant, you really don’t suspect my husband had anything to do with any of this, do you?” she said with an incredulous smirk.

“Just doing my due diligence, Ma’am. I do apologize.”

“What about the Jensen’s next door—are you going to question them?” Amy, irritated.

“We did. Or, at least tried to. The place is vacant.”

Amy shot the sergeant a puzzling glance, now trying to recall the last time she’d actually seen them, herself.

The sergeant returned the Stetson to his matted head. “After I leave here, I’m going to have to break the news to his wife, then have to question her as well. Not much looking forward to that, I can assure you, but it does go with the territory.”

Amy stood, arms still folded, staring off at the house, wondering where her husband stormed off to.

“But between you and me, I can count on two hands how many times myself or another officer has been called over to the Haverhill residence from a neighbor complaining of a domestic dispute. You just can’t rule anything out these days, you know?” He tried to offer a morsel of solace, feeling guilty—though not thoroughly convinced—from his perceived accusation. “Damn shame either way. That’s a helluva thing to happen to a man.” The sergeant shook his head in disgust.

“This is all so crazy!” Amy snapped back. “First Frank and Estelle, now this!” She took a beat, trying to regain composure. “God only knows what happened at their place.” Her eyes began to well, nose running as she snuffled. She turned toward the river, embarrassed by her emotional reaction. “You wouldn’t have happened to have heard anything on how Mrs. Cavanaugh is doing, would you? I feel bad. I haven’t been by to check up on her since she went in.”

“Still haven’t been able to get a statement from Mrs. Cavanaugh, unfortunately. She fell into cardiac arrest shortly after she was admitted. She coded several times. Now they have her heavily sedated hooked up to the ventilator while they wait for the heart to recover.”

“I still can’t believe any of this is happening,” Amy smirked awkwardly, gently shaking her head. “What do you think will happen?” She wiped her eyes and turned to the sergeant.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh? To be honest, it doesn’t look promising. Not in my experiences anyway.” The sergeant knew it was his queue to exit, seeing Mrs. Reynolds in her distressed state. He had a long day ahead of him and another woman with whom to break the terrible news. “We’re going to get out of your hair now, Mrs. Reynolds. If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.” The sergeant tipped his hat.

Walking to the car, the sergeant turned to the officer. “Boy, what-a-week it’s been. And to think it’s only Tuesday.”

[1] A package store is where liquor and beer is sold in Connecticut.

Next Chapter: CH. TEN - THE ARGUMENT