I clamp my hand over my mouth. Is that my nephew? Or did he shoot someone? I immediately grab my phone, quietly slip out of my bed, go to the bathroom, and close the door even more quietly.
My hands are shaking as I call 911.
“Emergency services.”
I whisper, “I just heard a shot outside my bedroom. My nephew and I live here, and I don’t know if he shot someone or if someone shot him.”
“Okay, where are you?” I give them my address. “I have someone dispatched. Stay on the phone with me and tell me what you hear.”
The panic is rising, and I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate. Stay focused and breathe … I try to hear anything, but I don’t have my hearing aid in, so it’s difficult.
“Ma’am, do you hear or see anything?”
“I’m in my bathroom with the door closed.”
“Okay, stay there. Police are 5 minutes out.” What is that phrase? When seconds count, the police are minutes away. Anything can happen in 5 minutes. Suddenly, I hear another thump and tell dispatch. I hear grunting and can’t tell if it’s my nephew or someone else. Are they dragging the body? Do they know I’m here? I’m starting to shake.
“Ma’am, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m just panicking. I’m an older woman and frightened for my life.”
“Okay, take some deep breaths with me. Dispatch is 3 minutes out.” She breathes in and out and instructs me to do the same. “Count to 4 in, hold for 5, then slowly breathe out for 7 seconds.” I do as instructed, which helps a little. I do it for a few minutes, and then I hear sirens. “Okay, ma’am, they are on the street. Just stay put.”
I listen and hear the sirens growing closer, and then I hear, “Oh shit," and then footsteps clomping. Shortly after, the cops burst into the house, and I hear, “Stop, hands up!”
“Ma’am, are you OK?” I forgot about the dispatcher.
“Yes, the police are here and have caught someone.”
“Okay, I’m going to get off the phone, but I have let them know you are in an upstairs master bathroom.”
“Thank you so much,” I start to cry.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you are OK. The police will be up there shortly. Take care.” Then the phone drops, and seconds later, the police open the door.
“Ma’am, are you OK?” A stocky, tall police officer of about 45 holds out my hand. His light blue eyes look kind, and coupled with his dark hair, remind me of my late husband.
“Yes, thank you.” I take his hand, and he takes me out of my room. When I pass by my nephew’s room, I see a ton of blood smeared across the room. Where is he?
“My nephew … “
“Yes, he’s talking to the police officer. It looked like someone had broken into the home, and he heard it, so grabbed his gun. When the suspect came into the room, he shot him. The man had a knife and was coming towards your nephew.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Even though I’m angry with him, I don’t want him dead. But now, I worry about the man he shot and if it’s connected to Troy’s murder.
“Is the man dead?”
“No, but he’s pretty bad. He was shot in the stomach.” By now, ambulances, fire trucks, and more police arrive at my home. “We’ll stay up here until the man is moved to the ambulance. I want to keep you anonymous.” That makes me feel a little safer, but then I remember earlier when I saw a car driving slowly, watching me, and then he parked next door and waited. What if? A new panic rises in my throat. I need to tell this police officer.
“Umm … I saw someone driving by my home earlier. He was driving slowly and staring at me as I was out front watering my plants. He parked at my neighbor’s home and stayed there for a while.”
The police officer turns to me. “Did you get a good look at him?”
I think. “Well, he had light brown hair, but I couldn’t really see his eyes very well. I did notice a scar on his face, kind of by his left ear.”
I see on his badge that he is Officer Camden. I thought I saw him with The Chief of Police, Grayson Errington when they talked to the press about Troy’s murder.
He nods and says, “That’s him.” So, he knows Troy, but he saw me. Was he going to come after me after he killed my nephew? That thought makes me shiver. “Are you OK?” He says, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“I think so. If Troy hadn’t shot him, he probably would have come for me.”
“Likely, so I’m glad your nephew stopped him.” I realize I owe my life to him. Maybe he does care for me. But why keep me here and tell me I have dementia, which I know I don’t have? Is he doing that to protect me? And why was this thug going after him? Did he know about the murder, or did he see something that night? Could it have been the one who hired him?
The questions won’t stop swirling in my mind as I sit at the police station, being interviewed by Officer Camden and Chief Grayson, who goes by Gray. I’m exhausted, and when I look at my watch, I realize it’s after midnight. My nephew is in another room, talking to investigators. I never saw him when I came in with Officer Camden. I just want to go home and sleep, but not by myself, and I have no idea when my nephew can leave.
A few hours later, we're done, and Officer Camden says, “I know you're tired, and I appreciate your report. I don’t want you to be alone tonight, so I asked Officer Lopez, a female police officer, to stay with you for a few days. She can stay on your couch, but she will be there.”
I politely thank him and wait for Officer Lopez to take me home.
A few minutes after, she walks out of Gray’s office. She stops by her desk, picks up some papers, and then walks toward me. She looks somewhat like Officer Sanchez. Her long, dark, and high ponytail swings back and forth, and her oval chocolate eyes have a kind look about them as we make eye contact. She's at least 5 inches taller than my small frame of 5’4, and she doesn't have a lick of fat on her. I can see she doesn't wear much makeup, just smoky eyeliner, pink blush, and a touch of red lipstick that looks slightly darker than her lips.
She stops in front of me. “Hi, my name is Officer Veronica Lopez." She holds out her hand, and I shake it. "Officer Camden okayed it with tThuhe Chief for me to escort you home and stay with you for a few days. I need to drop by my home and grab some things. Are you OK with that?”
“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Okay, let’s go.” I get up and watch the frenzy in the room. Computers are all on, with officers typing. A large TV in the front is on and tuned to what looks like a database of names. Maybe they’re trying to identify the one who was shot or get more information on my nephew.
I follow Officer Lopez out of the police station. It’s dark, but the full moon shone brightly, lighting our way. Even though someone was shot there, I just want to go home and sleep. I feel safe with the officer, in any case.
I stay in the police car while Officer Lopez goes into her home. About five minutes later, she returns with a bag, dropping it in the back after getting into the car.
We are silent as we drive back to my place. It’s nearly 3:00 AM, and my eyes are so heavy.
I get into my home and tell Officer Lopez I’m going to bed, but tell her she can use blankets and pillows in the hallway closet.
Tonight, I can’t even think of the day’s events. I place my glasses on the nightstand, climb into bed, and, before long, drift off.
___________________________________________________________
The next day, the sun beaming through my window, wakes me up. I look over to the clock, and it’s nearly 11:30 AM. I yawn and pick up my glasses. My mouth feels parched, and I just want some water, but I smell the unmistakable aroma of bacon. I get up and realize I’m still in the same clothes as last night. I need to take a shower.
After taking a shower, dressing, and brushing my hair, I walk out of the room and, by habit, look inside my nephew’s room. I can still see the blood, and I have to look away. I wonder if he’s still at the police station or if he was allowed to come home. He wasn’t in bed, so if he did come home, he was already up.
I walk downstairs and follow the smell into the kitchen, where I see Officer Lopez placing two plates on the table, one has three slices of bacon, two eggs, and two pieces of toast, and the other has one egg, one slice of bacon, and one piece of toast. Two glasses of orange juice are in front of the plate.
“Oh good, you’re up. I didn’t know how hungry you were, so I have two plates here, and you can choose which one you want.” I don’t realize how hungry I am until I look at the plates; however, I can’t eat the bigger amount, so I take the plate with one piece of everything and the juice.
“Thank you, you’re so kind to fix breakfast.”
“Of course. I just went to the store and picked up some food because there wasn’t much in the fridge or pantry. Have you been eating OK?” I think back on what my nephew gets at the store, which isn’t much. It seems I eat oatmeal, yogurt, maybe an orange and apple, and TV dinners. I can’t remember when he made me eggs.
“My nephew doesn’t have time to get much. This looks delicious.”
“I’m a mom to two kids and learned how to cook when I was ten. My mother worked two jobs while my father was in the military. He was gone more than a few times for a year or longer. He was in the Army and liked being at the front. After being in the military for 30 years, he was discharged after he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He’s now in a memory wing of an assisted living center in Salt Lake City.” She stops, puts some bacon in her mouth, and then utters, “Sorry, didn’t mean to spill my life story.”
“No, it’s OK. I miss just talking to people. Your father sounds like a great man.”
“He is.” Tears well up in her eyes, but she swipes them away quickly. “I miss that I can’t talk to him like I used to, and now, he doesn’t even know who I am. He’s 70, but sometimes when I see him, he looks a decade or older. That disease is so cruel.” I nod, knowing what she’s going through, as my mother had dementia and died of a major stroke five years after being diagnosed. She was 74. My father had passed away five years before her in a horrific car accident caused by a drunk driver. He was returning from Salt Lake from his job as a power plant operator of 30 years, from which he would retire the following year. He was late because of a major storm that knocked out a central power grid earlier that night.
It was nearly midnight and about 10 miles away from home when he was t-boned. The drunk ran through a red light when my father was turning left. He was tired, and I’m sure he thought turning on a yellow wouldn’t turn into tragedy.
He was in a coma for three months but sadly, never woke up. We took him off life support so he could slip away. He was 71. It devastated my mother. They were married for fifty years, he was two years older, and my mother said after his funeral, “I don’t know how to live without him. He knew how to do everything I needed. What am I going to do?” She had been diagnosed with dementia two years prior and was coping with him by her side. After his death, she went downhill. I took her in as I was the oldest of four children. My two younger brothers and sister had all moved out of Grantsville, so they couldn’t take her. We took her in until she had a major stroke. A few months later, she died.
That was twenty years ago when I was 49.
“Are you going to eat?” Officer Lopez threw me back to the present.
I look down at my plate and realize I have only eaten a bit of toast. “Oh, yes, sorry. Sometimes my mind just wanders.” I start eating.
“That I understand. Look, after breakfast, how about if we go out back and get a little sun.” She put her fork down. She was finished with all her food.
“What about my nephew? Did he come home? I didn’t see him in his room.” I turn and look out the kitchen and into the living room, wondering if he slept on the couch there since Officer Lopez apparently slept on the couch in the family room, which was on the other side of the house.
“No. I assume he stayed in a cell since he shot a man and nearly killed him. Chief will keep him there until his court date in a few days.”
“I see. What about the … blood in his room?”
“That will get cleaned up.”
“Oh, okay.”
After eating, I take the plate to the sink, and as I’m washing it, my phone buzzes. I take it out of my pocket and see the message:
OK, I’LL BITE. It came from Patrice Summers. Suddenly, it becomes real.
I just put her in danger.
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