S’Phear is waiting for me in IM.

S’Phearhead: Have you seen the news Huckleberry?

Oh shit, I think, grimacing and glancing at the television.

H_Cooper_Finn: Oh no. I’m not going to like this, am I?

He doesn’t respond right away and I see from the time stamp the IM has been
on the screen for at least twenty minutes. The remote control for the
television is missing in action, so I squat in front of it and flip through
all thirteen grainy channels seeing nothing other than every infomercial
known to humankind none of which S’Phear can possibly call news, although
the newest home gym equipment by Jake looks intriguing.

I’m keying in an AP wire search for San Francisco when my computer chimes,
indicating a new IM. I toggle screens and read:

S’Phearhead: Hey. Sorry. You still there?

H_Cooper_Finn: Yeah. What news? Tell me it’s good.

S’Phearhead: Wish I could. You sitting down?

H_Cooper_Finn: Oh fuck. Yeah. Go.

S’Phearhead: Alphonso Dominguez is dead.

I look up at the chest of drawers blinking, tired brain cells scrambling to
fit this new piece in. I hold the cold bottle of beer up to my forehead
and roll it from side to side, frowning, wondering what all I have missed
and failed to do and what I should have seen coming that I haven’t besides
this.

H_Cooper_Finn: How?

S’Phearhead: They’re calling it suicide.

H_Cooper_Finn: Oh fuck. Let me guess: he hung himself in his cell.

S’Phearhead: Ker-ching!

“Oh shit,” I sigh. God, not even any imagination! Poor stupid-ass
dumb-fuck kid.

H_Cooper_Finn: And can I know this yet or not? Meaning, can I phone up
McCafferty and make sure she stays on top of it & finds out who’s handling
the investigation?

S’Phearhead: Not yet. I don’t think the press even has it yet.

Part of me wants to ask how he knows, but it’s better that I don’t. He may
be hacked into the SFPD jail in-house system for all I know, or he might be
hacked into some AP on line service, he might be sorting through the
Chronicle that won’t get put out until day after tomorrow.

S’Phearhead: And there’s more.

H_Cooper_Finn: Oh goody. Hit me baby, one more time.

S’Phearhead: This is what I was originally going to tell you before the news on AD popped up. This is on AP already…Sylvie Chandler checked herself out of Rehab six hours ago.

H_Cooper_Finn: No shit? Any details?

S’Phearhead: Clinic files state she was picked up by a private car and signed out by a family member, but there’s no signature on record.

I put my head back against the wall and think furiously, trying to decide
what this means and if it’s something that can throw our plans off course.

H_Cooper_Finn: What time was Dominguez’s suicide?

S’Phearhead: Body found two hours ago. Estimated time of death two to three hours before that.

My curiosity gets the better of me and I type out, What, are you looking at
the coroner’s report???

S’Phearhead: Yes, actually. Want a copy?

I can’t type it fast enough.

H_Cooper_Finn: Yes. I want it and I want anything else you can get
too~~ The schedule for that section, who was working, who made the rounds,
if they were the usual time, who found him, who was called in for medical,
who transported the body, everything.

I’ve not even finished typing when my mail program chimes.

S’Phearhead: Want me to tell you what you’ve forgotten?

H_Cooper_Finn: PLEASE.

S’Phearhead: The tape, Huck. Is the tape safe & have you considered that
might have been what AD was sent after?

Oh shit. I reflexively glance at the phone and then at my watch and see
it’s not a decent hour to call of course, not McCafferty, not Weaver either.

H_Cooper_Finn: But armed?

S’Phearhead: Well, I don’t think this guy was exactly brilliant. Maybe he was going to have some fun with you and then force you into handing over the tape. He probably didn’t anticipate Dr. Weaver being such a feisty little cripple.

I have to sit back and take a deep breath to calm myself, the last line
angers me so much. I wait for thirty seconds and then type out a level:

Don’t ever call her that again.

The cursor blinks a slow count of twenty while I blink back what feels
suspiciously like furious tears and try to ignore the ache in the back of
my throat. He must know he has crossed a line because the next thing he
types is an apology.

S’Phearhead: I’m sorry.

H_Cooper_Finn: She saved my life. In more ways than one. She’s the least
crippled fucking person I know.

S’Phearhead: Huck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.

H_Cooper_Finn: You shouldn’t have said it period.

S’Phearhead: Agreed. Absolutely. I’m sorry. Here, I’ll rip out some chest hairs and do penance.

I wipe at my nose, my hand shaking.

H_Cooper_Finn: Asshole.

S’Phearhead: From my asshole? God, you’re sadistic. But okay… Hold on~~ OWWW!

I’m giggling even though I still feel a sort of subdued and muted anger.

S’Phearhead: Forgive me?

H_Cooper_Finn: Yeah. Don’t do it again.

S’Phearhead: I won’t.

I clear my throat hard and scrub at my face, resting my fingers on my
closed eyes for a moment, then type:

It’s okay. I need to get some sleep, dude.

S’Phearhead: Okay. I’m going to take a nap myself then & I’ll be here when you wake up.

I’m about to log off without saying anything else but stop, eyes filling
back up with tears.

H_Cooper_Finn: S’Phear, have I told you how much I appreciate all this?

S’Phearhead: It’s okay, Huck. It’s not about that. You don’t have to say it.

H_Cooper_Finn: Shut the fuck up & let me tell you this, alright? Thank
you. I appreciate it. Very much.

The cursor blinks off and on and I’ve decided he’s not going to respond and
have slid down on my side and laid my head on my arm, hand resting lightly
on the butt of the SIG when the IM chimes a final time.

S’Phearhead: I know. Sleep tight.


END OF FIFTY ONE