Chad is not a pedophile, abuser, or rapist. He’s an asshole who cheats on his taxes, his clients, and his partners. And now he’s an asshole who has made my wife feel unsafe. Is that enough to warrant his death? I lower my binoculars to my lap. I shouldn’t have to wait for him to hurt her in order to act. That seems nonsensical.
Angel’s ringtone buzzes, momentarily distracting me.
“Darling?”
“I hope I didn’t bother you. I was just going to leave a voice message.”
“Not a bother.”
“Mom called and she’s complaining that she hasn’t seen us in a week. Do you mind if we go over there tonight for dinner? She’s making your favorite–pot roast and garlic mashed potatoes.”
“What time?”
“Is six too early?”
“Perfect. I’ll stop and get a bottle of the merlot she likes.”
“Thank you. And don’t work too hard today.”
“I won’t.”
It’s mid-morning and I’ve done nothing but shadow Chad. He’s boring. When he is not playing solitaire on his computer, flirting with his secretary who isn’t interested, or accepting a blowjob from a client who washed her mouth out with Coke after the encounter and spit into the bushes outside his building, he is sleeping. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. Can I take his life? Will the world be imbalanced if I don’t? How can I be true to my vows to Angel and allow him to continue to breathe? She doesn’t want to admit it, but he frightens her. That isn’t allowed. Not while I’m here. Is there something I can do short of killing him? A simple beating perhaps? I cheer up at the prospect. I could disfigure him and every time he looked in the mirror he would have a reminder of what happens if he disrespects Angel. As I mull over that idea, I make a few notes in my notepad and tuck it away. I need to get back to the morgue and supervise an autopsy of a young man who may or may not have taken his own life. That’s more important than Chad at the moment.
It’s nearly five when I sign off on the report. The young man had died of natural causes. His family would find some sort of peace from this, I think. I have just enough time to shower and then pick up the wine for Linda, Angel’s mother. The older woman greets me at the door with a huge smile and hug.
“Lucas. You’re here. Bill, your son is here.” She gestures for me to hurry inside.
The scent of the roasted meat and roasted garlic fills my head. “It smells delicious, Linda.”
“Well, it’s done.” She pats my back and relieves me of the wine. “Go in and sit with Bill. He’s watching the news and needs someone to listen to him argue with the anchors since Angel and I refuse to.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bill hates politics and reporters but is addicted to both. The news is always on in the Peterson household and it’s always loud.
“Can you believe this shit?” Bill says when I step into the den. “The shit that they’re allowed to say on the air is incredible. Do they fact check anymore? Do they know what a fact is? If these two were in my class, I’d have failed them.”
Bill is a retired science teacher. That’s where he met Linda, the school receptionist. When he tells the story of how they fell in love, it always starts with Linda dropping a stapler on his foot. Linda says she threw it at him for being a jerk. We all know whose version is accurate.
“Who’d you cut up today?”
“The Benson boy.”
“That’s some sad news. I had his cousin in my biology class. He was dumber than the notebooks he never wrote in.”
“Did he drop your class to graduate?”
“I passed him because no matter how many times he sat in my class, he wasn’t ever going to get it.”
Hearing that Bill bent the rules and passed kids who shouldn’t have been passed surprises me. Bill reads me accurately. He mutes the television and leans over the arm of his chair. “I know you’re a by the book kind of guy, Lucas, and I like that about you. I didn’t think there would be anyone good enough for Angel.”
“I’m not,” I inform him.
“‘Course you’re not. No one is but you’re good enough. You’re steady and trustworthy and you probably would’ve made the Benson boy sit in your class a hundred times if that’s what it took for him to get his grade up, but not everything’s black and white. The Benson kid had two younger siblings and a deadbeat father. He needed to be out of school and making money. Things like Mendel and his peas and his model theories in genetics isn’t going to help him put food on the table. He works out at the washing machine plant welding tubs and making fifty grand a year. Passing him out of biology wasn’t for me; it was for him. Sometimes you do things that aren’t quite right because it helps someone else out. You know what I mean.”