seem to result in death. Ruby Emerald is on the list. But it looks like you’ve got our man. So who is
he?”
She looked over her shoulder at the man called J. R. Jones, who was crying again. One of the male cops was trying to take
a statement from him and getting nowhere.
“Says he’s in love with her. Says she was leaving him,” the cop explained.
“Same ole, same ole,” BB said, shaking his head. “Hard-hearted woman be the death of a softhearted man.”
“BB, it’s not the man who just got shot here,” I pointed out.
Then to the woman cop I said, “Would you radio Detective Rathbone that I’ll meet him at the station? He’ll want Dr. Bouchie
and me there for the interrogation, I’m sure.”
I wasn’t sure, but I was curious.
After calling Roxie at Auntie’s from a pay phone, I dropped BB off at his shop and headed for police headquarters. He’d had
enough of police stations, he said. On the phone Rox had confirmed what I suspected to be the usual reason for surgical scars
along ventral scalp hairlines. Rathbone was already at police headquarters when I arrived.
“This is not our man,” he said, ushering me to an interrogation room where J. R. Jones was drinking coffee from a foam cup
in the company of three detectives.
“I keep telling you I don’t know anything about swords of heaven,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There was a smell in the room, metallic and musty at the same time. I’d noticed it before in the past. In prisons. Alleys
where drunks sleep in cardboard boxes. Nursing homes where nobody ever visits. The smell of despair. It was drifting from
J. R. Jones.
“This is Dr. Blue McCarron,” Rathbone introduced me. “She’s working with us on the Sword of Heaven situation.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said again. “Just leave me alone. I don’t care what you do to me. My life is over.
Just leave me alone.”
Up close I could see that his gray hair was heavily moussed and that contact lenses accounted for the startling blue of his
eyes. His jawline showed no jowls or neck paunch above the starched white of his collar, but the hand holding the coffee cup
was speckled with liver spots. J. R. Jones was a lot older than he looked.
“You must have been worried last night when Ruby was in the hospital,” I said. “If you’re not Sword, then you wouldn’t have
known what happened to her.”
“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “She was so sick, her heart pounding like a little animal’s. Like a bird. I’d kill anybody
who hurt her.”
Jones wasn’t a big man, but he took up a lot of space. Some people are like that, like what’s inside them spills over the
boundaries of their bodies. People who know too much are often like that. And people who feel too much. I pegged Jones for
category two.
“She’s a beautiful woman,” I went on. “And a charismatic messenger.”
Rathbone was watching me, signaling the other cops with an imperceptible shake of the head to stay out of it and let me run
with this.
“She’s an angel, and anyone who would harm her should be put to death,” Jones said with feeling. He seemed to have forgotten
that he’d just shot the aforementioned angel with a .22 handgun.
“Have you been married before?” I asked softly, as if speaking of the dead.
“Thirty-five years. My wife, Crystal … the boys … well, the boys were grown when I left, when I first met Ruby and knew I
loved her. She came to Indianapolis—Indianapolis, Indiana— did a revival. That’s where we lived … I lived. I fell for her.
She’s so beautiful. I’ve been with her for six years now. I wanted to marry her as soon as Crystal gave me the divorce. But
Ruby wouldn’t, and then someone else … I’m sure there’s someone else. She was dumping me. Today was going to be my last day
introducing her, and I thought maybe, you know, I could just die up there onstage. I had
he?”
She looked over her shoulder at the man called J. R. Jones, who was crying again. One of the male cops was trying to take
a statement from him and getting nowhere.
“Says he’s in love with her. Says she was leaving him,” the cop explained.
“Same ole, same ole,” BB said, shaking his head. “Hard-hearted woman be the death of a softhearted man.”
“BB, it’s not the man who just got shot here,” I pointed out.
Then to the woman cop I said, “Would you radio Detective Rathbone that I’ll meet him at the station? He’ll want Dr. Bouchie
and me there for the interrogation, I’m sure.”
I wasn’t sure, but I was curious.
After calling Roxie at Auntie’s from a pay phone, I dropped BB off at his shop and headed for police headquarters. He’d had
enough of police stations, he said. On the phone Rox had confirmed what I suspected to be the usual reason for surgical scars
along ventral scalp hairlines. Rathbone was already at police headquarters when I arrived.
“This is not our man,” he said, ushering me to an interrogation room where J. R. Jones was drinking coffee from a foam cup
in the company of three detectives.
“I keep telling you I don’t know anything about swords of heaven,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There was a smell in the room, metallic and musty at the same time. I’d noticed it before in the past. In prisons. Alleys
where drunks sleep in cardboard boxes. Nursing homes where nobody ever visits. The smell of despair. It was drifting from
J. R. Jones.
“This is Dr. Blue McCarron,” Rathbone introduced me. “She’s working with us on the Sword of Heaven situation.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said again. “Just leave me alone. I don’t care what you do to me. My life is over.
Just leave me alone.”
Up close I could see that his gray hair was heavily moussed and that contact lenses accounted for the startling blue of his
eyes. His jawline showed no jowls or neck paunch above the starched white of his collar, but the hand holding the coffee cup
was speckled with liver spots. J. R. Jones was a lot older than he looked.
“You must have been worried last night when Ruby was in the hospital,” I said. “If you’re not Sword, then you wouldn’t have
known what happened to her.”
“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “She was so sick, her heart pounding like a little animal’s. Like a bird. I’d kill anybody
who hurt her.”
Jones wasn’t a big man, but he took up a lot of space. Some people are like that, like what’s inside them spills over the
boundaries of their bodies. People who know too much are often like that. And people who feel too much. I pegged Jones for
category two.
“She’s a beautiful woman,” I went on. “And a charismatic messenger.”
Rathbone was watching me, signaling the other cops with an imperceptible shake of the head to stay out of it and let me run
with this.
“She’s an angel, and anyone who would harm her should be put to death,” Jones said with feeling. He seemed to have forgotten
that he’d just shot the aforementioned angel with a .22 handgun.
“Have you been married before?” I asked softly, as if speaking of the dead.
“Thirty-five years. My wife, Crystal … the boys … well, the boys were grown when I left, when I first met Ruby and knew I
loved her. She came to Indianapolis—Indianapolis, Indiana— did a revival. That’s where we lived … I lived. I fell for her.
She’s so beautiful. I’ve been with her for six years now. I wanted to marry her as soon as Crystal gave me the divorce. But
Ruby wouldn’t, and then someone else … I’m sure there’s someone else. She was dumping me. Today was going to be my last day
introducing her, and I thought maybe, you know, I could just die up there onstage. I had
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