The Man At My Back Door Asked For An Honest Witness

I didn't open the door until Lenora told me officers were coming.

Curtis waited on the step with his hands where my rear camera could see them. When the patrol car arrived, he sat down hard, as if his knees had finally been given leave.

“I don't have a weapon,” he said. “I have keys.”

An officer told him to keep his hands still.

Lenora arrived with a federal investigator named Ellis. The insurance claims and the burned commercial buildings had brought his office into the case.

They spoke to Curtis separately. I waited beside my bench. Nobody offered him a deal in exchange for a good story.

When an officer came for evidence bags, I saw Curtis crying through the office window.

I looked away.

Later, Lenora told me only what I needed to know.

“He surrendered a key ring and asked for a lawyer. There will be another interview with counsel.”

“Is he safe?”

“He's with officers.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“It's what I can promise.”

Ellis took my statement about the arrival. He copied my camera file with my permission and recorded how it was made and stored. My shop had never held so many people who cared about the minute hand on a clock.

At half past eleven, I made tea for Lenora while Ellis finished outside.

“He picked my door,” I said.

“You made him sign a receipt. You didn't shout at him.”

“A low standard for trust.”

“Sometimes people need a low step.”

She looked tired. There was a small dent on her finger where a ring had once rested. I had noticed it before and felt rude for noticing again.

“I like when you stay after the questions,” I said.

She set down her mug.

I wished I could reach across the bench and take the words back.

“I like staying,” she said. “That's why I have to be careful.”

“Because I'm a witness.”

“Yes. And because this matters.”

I nodded.

“Ellis will handle your further witness interviews,” she said. “I'll tell my supervisor about this conversation. I'm still responsible for fire work. We need to leave anything personal until the case is finished.”

“I can wait.”

“Don't promise me your life on a hard night, Ronan.”

“Dinner, then. When it's allowed to be dinner.”

Her smile came slowly.

“Ask me then.”

The next week, Owen's wife came to my shop. Her name was Ruth. She carried a grocery envelope full of his papers.

Lenora had arranged for an investigator to collect them there because Ruth had asked me to explain the door.

I showed her a spare push bar on my demonstration frame. She pressed it with two fingers. The latch drew back.

“No key needed inside,” I said.

“He knew that?”

“He used that kind of door every shift.”

She pressed the bar again.

“He asked for an extra forty dollars for those counts,” she said. “He hated having to ask twice.”

“Did they pay him?”

“No. They told him he ought to be grateful for the shift.”

“They said he must have locked himself in.”

“The lock couldn't do that to him.”

I didn't tell her how smoke or fire might have stopped him. That wasn't my trade, and she hadn't asked.

She took a folded page from the envelope and handed it directly to the investigator. Owen had brought home a copy of a stock sheet because his pay depended on counting after-hours loads.

Ruth said he had complained about being asked to count empty spaces as full.

“I thought it was just one more bad job,” she said.

I knew what she meant. Silas built whole fences out of things people thought were just one more bad job.

With Ruth's consent, the investigator packaged the sheet and took her account of where she'd found it. I stayed at the demonstration frame, hands in my pockets.

Her paper was hers to explain.

Before leaving, she looked at my canceled appointment board.

“He's doing it to you, too.”

“I'm still here.”

“Owen was still there. That was his trouble.”

I had no useful answer.

Ellen called two days later. The examiner had found signs that my signature image had been placed on all three certificates. Through the civil case, Silas had been ordered to produce the source files.

His attorney now wanted to dismiss his suit.

“Can he just walk away?” I asked.

“He can ask. We can address your costs and the false filings.”

An hour later, Ellis called. A judge had approved search warrants based on several pieces of evidence, including records beyond mine.

“Stay away from Gant's yards,” he said.

From my shop window, I could see red brake lights gathering down by the river.

Then the first unmarked car turned through Silas's gate.