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I saw the whole thing but, of course, the police ignored me.
Mrs. Christensen in the next apartment told them she heard nothing unusual before or after the power went off in the building. The other tenants said they were in the dark, too.
And my mother was shopping at Hemingway's Groceteria when he came to repair our electric range.
Now the ambulance guys have Mr. Gaskin's body on a stretcher and they bump against my chair in the hallway on their way out. His right hand jostles loose and brushes my leg, releasing an acrid odor like singeing feathers off a chicken carcass. His fingertips are blackened and one, sliced clean to the bone, seems to point at me in accusation.
Then the uniformed policemen leave and my mother wheels me to my room where I'm soon joined by two guys in rumpled suits. The tired one with the sagging, grey skin approaches me. He's older and fatter than his partner and he smells of tobacco and something worse when he leans across me to snap off my radio, a scratched-up Philco Dynatune, the five-tube model. Doesn't seem to care that I'm listening to Vic Copps's sports report. Now he's on one knee beside my wheelchair, breathing hard, his shirt collar wet with sweat, and he pokes his face so close to mine that he's out of focus. I blink and try to close off my nose.
"How you doin', bud? You OK in there?" Like he's examining my eyes for cataracts.
I try to nod, but my head drops to my chest and he can't see my face.
"Jeez, that's scary.” He's speaking to his partner behind him, I guess.
I get my head up and see he's glancing over his shoulder at the young guy, who's shuffling his feet and edging toward the door. Then his pocky face is back in mine.
"Your mother says you can't talk, stuck in that chair full-time. But I bet you saw something, didn't you?" He swivels his noggin again. "Hey, Rookie, think we should take this guy in for questioning?"
"C'mon, Sarge," the young cop says, "Let's get outta here."
"Well, I dunno." He's in my face again. "For all we know, he might've seen the building manager, whatsis name, Gaskin, fixin' the kitchen stove when he fried himself. Imagine, damn fool workin' on a 220-volt line with the power on." He sighs and rolls his shoulders. "But so what? If this guy can't talk and he looks ... like this, what the hell?"
I blink and make my grunting sounds, my head lolling like it's not
quite attached. This always happens when I try to speak. And it usually backs people off right away. They're repulsed. They don't want to be near someone who looks out of control. As though it might be contagious. And sure enough, he yelps and stumbles back on his rump in his haste to avoid ... whatever this thing is in the wheelchair. Sweat drenches his tomato face like dew and he grabs for his partner. "Gimme a hand here, Rookie. Hear that moanin'? Guy scared the shit outta me. Think he does that on purpose?"
It's all his partner can do to haul him to his feet; they clutch
off-balance and with hesitation, as though embarrassed to be seen touching each other, as if I care. Rookie says, "Let's get back to the mother, Sarge. He's getting too excited."
But now she's at the doorway, ebony eyes flashing from one cop to the other and back to me. "What's the trouble, Officers? Thought I heard some noise in here."
"Sorry, Missus," says the fat cop. "I just tripped on the carpet
there. We'll have that coffee you offered and be on our way."
They squeeze past her, avoiding her glare and she continues to study me, asking me with her eyes if I'm OK. I have a special movement with two fingers for yes and no and a few other things, so I signal toward the radio and she turns it back on before she leaves.
The sports report hasn't finished but I'm not listening now. My mind overflows with Gaskin's leering image, his relentless pursuit of my mother, his threats to have me sent to a special hospital, his sharp intake of breath as I'm able to maneuvre the handle of my wheelchair hard against the main switch of our apartment's electrical panel outside the kitchen.
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