Doctor, Darling

He had a phone call coming and he had an attorney who would have a thing or two to say about this. Conner didn’t care if they had to take it to the Supreme Court. He was going to fight this and win.

He heard a lot of people talking in the other room, but he was alone in his cell. Just him and two cots. And all those bars. He had a sudden urge to play the harmonica.

The noise from the other room increased, but no matter how he twisted and turned, he couldn’t see a damn thing. So he went to the cot on his left. Hmm. It was better than he’d expected. Firmer. A real bed, not straw matting.

He never should have come out here. He should have listened when his instincts told him to go home. But no. He had to stay for his precious antiques. Who the hell cared about antique medical equipment anyway?

The outside door opened and Conner leaped to his feet. It was the cop. The son of a—

“I brought you something to read,” he said.

“Something to read? What about my phone call? What about my rights?”

“Now don’t get yourself all worked up,” the sheriff said. “You’ll get your phone call soon enough. In the meantime, I figured you might want something to do.” He held up a small stack of paperback books.

Conner felt a headache coming on. A doozy. He put his hands to his temples and rubbed, but it was no use. “Can you give me some aspirin?” he asked.

“Got a headache, eh?” The cop slipped the books between the bars.

“Yes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He left, closing the outside door after him. No phone call. No explanations. Just old Zane Grey Westerns and Stephen King horror novels. He could write his own horror novel. He’d call it Trapped in Miller’s Landing. It would scare the bejeezus out of city dwellers everywhere.

He went back to the cot and put the books next to him. He didn’t feel like reading. Even if he had, he’d want his own book. The one sitting on the front seat of his car. What he did feel like doing was committing real crimes. Crimes that made sense. Like strangling a certain small-town sheriff. He went back to rubbing his temples, but that proved useless after a while. There wasn’t enough room to do any real pacing, so he stretched out, putting his arm over his eyes. He’d never sleep, but at least he could rest.

“DOC. HEY, DOC.”

Conner awoke with a start. He didn’t know where he was for a moment, and then he remembered.

“Doc, you awake?”

As he sat up, he realized the headache had hit full force. The pain in his temples throbbed along with his pulse. “Yes, I’m awake.”

“I’ve brought you some aspirin,” the sheriff said. “And a phone.”

“It’s about time,” Conner said. The sheriff opened the door, and Conner got up. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy,” he said, handing Conner two pills and a glass of water.

Conner looked at the man as he swallowed. He’d taken off his cap, revealing an almost totally bald head. What hairs remained were mostly gray. He was a big man, with a big belly and broad flat hands. But for some reason, he wouldn’t look Conner in the eye. Guilt, probably. He knew this whole thing was a travesty.

“You wanna make that phone call now?”

Conner nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Follow me.”

Tracy led him out of the small back room to the front of the sheriff’s office. Two desks took up most of the space, with a wide counter separating the officers from the public. A fan whirred from the corner, and Wanted posters lined the far wall. On the right were file cabinets. Three of them. They each had one drawer open, and Conner could see they were stuffed to the gills. This scam of theirs must pay off nicely for them to have so many cases.

The sheriff nodded at one of the desks, and Conner sat down. He had to call Information to get Dan’s phone number. Luck was with him, though. Dan’s phone only rang twice before he picked up.

“Leoni.”

“Dan. It’s Conner.”

“Hey, how you doin’, buddy? Long time no see.”

“This isn’t a social call. I need your help.”

“Okay, shoot,” Dan said, his voice immediately calm and businesslike.

Conner explained the situation. He left out nothing, including the bulging file cabinets. “It’s got to be a fraud,” he said softly so the sheriff couldn’t hear. “No one can go to jail for saying damn.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Dan said.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Calm down. I don’t know. Some of our little towns have some peculiar laws still on the books. I’ll have to do some research. And I won’t be able to do much of that until morning.”

“Can they keep me here? Overnight, I mean?”

“Yeah, they can. But I’ll make sure you’re out of there first thing tomorrow.”

He’d hoped for better news. Much better news. “I don’t like this, Dan.”

“I don’t, either. Just hang tough. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Conner hung up the phone, and as he stood to go back to his cell, he looked out the front window. They were lined up. Everyone. The woman in denim, the one from the bakery, the kid who’d bumped his chair at the diner. They all had their noses pressed up against the glass, staring at him as if he were a prize exhibit at the zoo. “Don’t you people get cable?” he asked.

“Come on along,” Tracy said.

As Conner turned to go back to his cell, he saw a nameplate on the sheriff’s desk. His first name was Richard. How about that? Conner had been arrested by Dick Tracy.

HE WOKE UP AT THE SOUND of jingling keys. It was almost 8:00 a.m., and he was going to have his day in court at nine. He still hadn’t heard from Dan, so Conner figured he’d ask for bail, then tell Dan to sic ’em.

“Morning, son,” Dick Tracy said as he slipped the key into his cell-door lock.

“Yeah,” Conner replied. He felt remarkably good, considering. The mattress had helped, and so had the aspirin. He’d ended up reading the Stephen King and it had kept him entertained. The biggest surprise had been the snack at ten last night. Homemade chocolate cake and ice-cold milk. It was kinda hard to stay mad at a sheriff who brought cake, but Conner had managed. No matter how nice, it was still jail.

“I went to the motel,” Tracy said. “Got some of your things. They’re in the bathroom.” He pointed down the hall. “Hurry, though. Breakfast will be here in about fifteen minutes.”

Conner didn’t thank him. He just stood up straighter as he walked down the hall. That would show him who’s who. He slammed the door shut, and it occurred to him that he was being a dope. Tracy wasn’t about to let him go because he’d refused to say thank-you. Or because he’d shut the door forcefully.

The next hour went by quickly. After he was dressed, he went back to his cell. Breakfast consisted of Belgian waffles, fresh strawberries, orange juice and excellent coffee.

Then, just five minutes before they had to leave, Dan called. Tracy took him to the phone up front.

“What did you find out?” he asked.