Shred of Evidence

“I’ll do anything for you,” he said over the phone.

“You really don’t want to clean my basement, Bradley,” I said. Our first date he insisted I call him Bradley. ”Bradley Humphries,” he’d said, ”not Brad.”

I’d gone out with him once nearly two months ago, then again three weeks later. Certainly not often enough to engender that kind of response to a simple statement that I had to do something about my basement. My daughter had moved out a week ago, and it was a mess.

“I’ll be over bright and early Friday morning to start cleaning that basement.”

“Would you break some legs if I asked you to?” I joked.

“Whatever you want.”

“Well, there’s this dentist….”

“Is that tooth still bothering you?”

Last time we’d been out I’d told him about the problems I was having with a new dentist I was trying. I was having a crown made, and the temporary had come loose and been re-cemented twice when I’d last talked to him.

“It came loose again yesterday,” I told him. “My gums are taking a beating—they haven’t healed since the first time he put his tools in my mouth.”

“What’s his name?”

“George Holloway.”

“And where’s his office located?”

“You need some dental work done?”

Bradley was silent for a second, then said, “That’s right. I have a hell of a toothache.”

I gave him the address.

* * *

That was Monday. I didn’t think much about it for several days. In fact, I didn’t think about it at all until I read the story in the newspaper Wednesday evening. I was scanning the headlines in the local section, and there it was.

According to the police report, Dr. Holloway stayed late the night before, to accommodate a new patient. The man on the phone had complained to the receptionist that he had a bad toothache. The receptionist went home before the patient arrived, and shortly after 9:00 p.m. Dr. Holloway called 911. He was taken to the hospital with two broken legs.

I sat stunned after reading the story. Bradley, I thought. Bradley had broken Dr. Holloway’s legs. He’d said he would, and he did it. And I had told him to do it.

I was frightened. It had been a joke. I didn’t want him to break my dentist’s legs. What else had I told him to do?

I thought back over the two dates we’d had, over our half dozen or so phone calls. During any of those conversations, on phone or in person, had I said something in jest or not that he might feel compelled to act on?

Of course, in jest, I thought. I would never want harm to come to another. I might have wished someone would break Dr. Holloway’s legs, but deep down I’d never actually wanted it to happen. Not really.

Suddenly, I remembered our first date. I’d told Bradley about the dog next door. A young couple had moved in two weeks before, and their miniature Fox Terrier was having a hard time adjusting to the neighborhood. For such a small animal, he was extremely loud. It was a continuous yapping bark.

Three days after that date, the barking stopped. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but two days later Bradley asked me during a phone call if I was still having trouble with the noise.

Could it have been him? Was Bradley somehow responsible for the sudden silence next door?

No, I thought, he can’t be.

Yet, what did I actually know about him? I knew I liked him, a lot. Since my divorce nineteen years ago, I’d attracted the loners and losers. Bradley didn’t seem to be either.

On our first date he told me he’d just moved from Las Vegas. Never married, no kids he was aware of. He said he was a pharmaceutical representative, responsible for a territory from New Mexico north to Montana, and everything west. Headquarters was back east—Boston or New York, I couldn’t remember which.

And that was it.

Physically, he was a large man. Six-four or five and better than two hundred pounds. He was probably between forty-five and fifty, and had just a touch of distinguished gray at the temples. His features were ruggedly good looking, and he carried himself like a man who could handle any situation he encountered—even the most physical. Particularly the most physical. The term Bradley Fighting Vehicle came to mind.

But was he capable of performing those acts for which I was beginning to believe him responsible? I simply didn’t know.

* * *

The following morning I went next door with a plate of cookies to visit my new neighbors. Gloria McDonald was home alone; her husband, John, was at work. She was in her early twenties and nearly eight months pregnant. We sat in the kitchen—unpacked boxes still filled the living room—and drank instant coffee with the cookies.John had been transferred from Provo, Utah to open and manage a large Wal-Mart store here in town. I was the first neighbor to visit.

“I thought you had a dog,” I finally got around to asking, midway through my second cup of coffee.

Gloria became suddenly very quiet. When she did answer, it was in a soft, sad tone.

“We did. He’s gone.”

My heart sank to the region of my stomach. “Gone? You mean dead?”

She shook her head. “I hope he just ran away. We haven’t seen him for almost two months.”

Dead, I thought.

* * *

I went home and huddled in the basement—a basement that still hadn’t been cleaned. A basement Bradley Humphries had said he would be over Friday morning to clean.Fear coursed through my veins. What if Bradley had broken Dr. Holloway’s legs? What if he had killed that dog?

What if, I thought, he’s a Mafia hit man?

That was ridiculous. What would a Mafia assassin be doing here, in this town.

But, of course, organized crime is everywhere. He had to be somewhere, and he had moved here from Las Vegas.

And he was coming to my house tomorrow morning, to clean the basement.

I had to call him. I had to stop him from coming. I didn’t know who or what he was, but I didn’t want him to come to my house to clean the basement.

I found my cell phone, dialed Bradley’s number.

He answered on the third ring. I could hardly hear his “Hello,” over a continuous yapping bark.

“What’s that noise?” I asked.

“My new dog,” Bradley nearly yelled into the phone.

I almost didn’t ask, but I had to: “What kind of dog?”

“A miniature Fox Terrier.”

“You’re coming over tomorrow morning, right?” I asked.

“I’ll be there bright and early,” he said.

“Fine,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll see you then.” I clicked off.

I smiled and told myself Bradley was worth the chance. He probably wasn’t a Mafia assassin, but he might be. He might have committed all sorts of dastardly deeds. He might even have broken Dr. Holloway’s legs.

But at least he wasn’t totally bad; he liked dogs.