Denny's Tenny-Personal Narrative

Denny felt like saying, ‘Heey, I don’t know a thing!’ But what could he do? He had to answer something. “Well, I don’t really know much of anything.”
“Fair enough. Fair enough. Now to be clear. I am asking you about your ex-wife’s murder. You do understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, I have to ask this too. Dennis, did you murder your ex-wife?”
Denny could feel his face flushing. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
The detective nodded. “Is there anyone you suspect killed her?”
Denny had to think about that. Powell was such a sleazy sex addict. Who knew what kind of bondage & submission trash he might’ve done with her. But God, he needed to be careful. “No. No one.”
“Who would you say had the best opportunity to kill her?”
“God, I don’t
know.” He rubbed his neck. “I knew she was sleeping with one of the other firemen.”
“And who is that?”
“A guy named Frank Powell.” As soon as he said the name he regretted it. It felt like he was selling Powell out. Powell might be sleazy but in a fire he had your back like nobody else.
“A friend of yours?” the detective asked as he wrote.
Denny shook his head. “Hardly.” Again, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
Washington paused. “Was there a problem between you two?”
“No.”
“None at all? Words exchanged?”
“Nothing beyond what happens when a bunch of firemen live together in the same cramped place.”
“Okay.” The detective turned a page of the notebook. “And how about you, were you still having sexual relations with Rashida?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“No, I haven’t for years.”
“Dennis, what do you think should be done to the person who murdered her?”
“I think he ought to be shot.” God, he was starting to feel out of control.
“Can you think of a reason why a person might name you as a potential suspect?”
Denny wanted to bail so bad. He knew he could ask for a lawyer and that would stop the questions. But how would that look at this point? And what was up with all these accusative questions? What happened to ‘I can go over the physical evidence with you, that sort of thing.’? “I can’t think of any, no.”
“Not that several of Rashida’s relatives saw you violent with her?”
Denny shook his head. That was a lie. No one saw him violent with her. It was just the one time he threw the remote and nobody saw that. “No one ever saw me violent with her. If they said that they’re lying.”
“But you were violent with her?”
“I told you before. We had our spats now and then. And just the one time, I threw a TV remote near her—and missed intentionally.” Denny pulled his hand around his shirt collar. He could feel the sweat on his neck. He wanted to unbutton the collar in the worst way but thought of the scratches and so left it buttoned.
“So you were out drinking, your inhibitions were down, you went to Rashida’s and you two got into a fight?”
Whoa! Denny felt like he was on the witness stand. “Absolutely not.”
“You were angry. She was sleeping with the sleazy fireman. You went over there to talk and things got out of hand?”
“I didn’t go there.”
“Let me ask you this, then. Have you ever thought about murdering her?”
“No,” he said in a complaining tone.
“And last night...” Washington glanced at his notebook and then looked directly at Denny. “...last night around eleven p.m. you were exactly where?”
“I told you—I was out at the bars with the guys from the firehouse.”
“And they can corroborate that?”
Denny nodded but corroborate smacked so much of legal-ese, of interrogating a suspect, he almost fainted.
“Dennis.” The detective flipped the notebook shut and stood. “Give me just a minute, would you?” Not waiting for an answer, he rose and walked out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
The door being shut practically felt like prison bars slamming. What a nightmare this was turning out to be. Yes, Denny wanted to help find Rashida’s killer, but he never should’ve talked to Washington. He should’ve gone straight to a lawyer. But what lawyer, with what money? Was he going to be arrested? Have the cuffs slapped on him? It had happened to him before, sitting in the back of a squad car after his DUI. But this was murder. And Washington had led him to believe this would a breeze. No, he’d set him up. His questions started coming back to Denny. ‘Have you ever thought about murdering your wife?’ ‘And they can corroborate that?’ And ‘Did you murder your her?’
After five minutes that seemed like an hour, the detective cruised back into the room. “Dennis, that covers everything I wanted to ask you. Thanks for coming in.” He put out his hand and Denny reluctantly shook it. “Now just as a formality I’d like you to sign this statement.” He produced a clipboard.
Denny took the clipboard. What could he do? “All right,” he said, looking it over. It was only three paragraphs. “But there’s so little here. So much more was said.”
Washington nodded. “They’re the relevant facts.”
‘Relevant to what?’ he wanted to say, but he skimmed what was there and signed.
The detective took the clipboard back. “You can find your way out?”
“Yeah.” Denny headed into the hallway.
“Just one thing,” the detective called after him. “If I need to talk to you again, you’d be willing to come in, wouldn’t you?”
Denny could feel his heart constrict. He felt like throwing up but nodded. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “No problem.”

*

At least there was the outside air. Denny burst through the police station doors and inhaled a lungful. He hadn’t appreciated outside air as much as he should have, he told himself after the frenzied interview with the police detective. And he couldn’t help but think that he’d screwed up. All those questions. And Washington had led him to believe it would be so easy! And why did Denny have to mention Powell? Powell was no doubt sleazy, but other than that, he was a stand-up guy, a solid fireman and certainly no murderer. Oh God, there were so many open-ended questions and only one sure thing—he needed some alcohol.
And not just a couple of beers.
He popped into a bar down the street from the police station and bought a pint of whiskey. He frowned. What about all his ‘I’ll never drink again’ resolutions of just a few hours ago? The blood on his pillow, his sheets. The scratches, the bump on his head. God, Rashida being murdered. Yeah, what was he thinking? He couldn’t get drunk again, but at this point, there was only one chance to bail on the booze. His AA sponsor. George S.
He had George’s number in his phone still. The biggest part of him—the part of him that wanted to get drunk—didn’t want to call in the worst way, but calling was the right thing to do. But the bottle of whiskey in his coat pocket was also calling, claiming it was the right thing to do. He started the car. Yeah, the bottle was waiting for him. Promising peace. Promising relief. Killing his mind. He pulled back onto Grand Avenue and nabbed his phone. He toggled to ‘George S.’ and hit the ‘call’ button. If George answered, it was destiny that he shouldn’t drink. If he didn’t, it was party time.
It was only four-thirty but already getting dark. Chicago winters always wore everybody’s nerves thin. Sunlight and Vitamin D deficiency and no lack of depression. The phone rang five times. He wasn’t leaving a message. He went to hit the end button and heard a
voice.
“Denny? Is that you?”
Denny sighed. The bottle would’ve been so easy. And guaranteed relief. Guaranteed. But George’s voice, like it always did, was already somehow beginning to calm him. “Yeah, it’s me, George.” He put the phone to his ear.
“I’m so glad you called. I was just having some ‘stinking thinking.’ You’re a godsend.”
Unbelievable, Denny thought. ‘Stinking thinking’ was AA-speak for wanting to get drunk. Now could Denny’s call actually be helping George stay sober? The world was just about impossible to figure. “It’s good to hear your voice, George.”
“Well, what are you doing right now? I know I could sure use a meeting. The Serenity Club has a meeting at five. You want to meet me there?”
With every word George spoke a calmness increased in Denny’s heart. George was good. AA was good. Oh, it was hokey, sure, but there were good people there helping each other. “Thanks George. I’ll be there.” He hung up the phone and pitched the whiskey bottle out the window.
*

Denny’s sponsor, George S. (no one went by last names in the AA program), was older. Sixties. A retired insurance agent. Not the sales kind, the actuarial type. George was physically frail but had a rock-solid mind. He lived with his even-older aunt. He was smart but not stuck-up about it, gentle but tough. And he’d saved Denny’s butt on more than one occasion. It would be hard facing people at the Serenity Club, though. Denny felt more than a little guilty, as he’d come to meetings drunk, laughed too loud, mocked the comments. But these AA people were amazing. They’d never once told him to leave or given him the cold shoulder. Despite everything he’d done, every time he’d come back they’d welcomed him. Yeah, these people were either saints or they were crazy. Maybe a little of both.
Even so, he kept thinking of ways of bailing on the meeting. The meetings were the same old stuff every time with all the slogans. ‘Keep the plug in the jug.’ ‘One day at a time.’ ‘Let go and let God.’ Stupid stuff for sure, but the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that that stupid stuff was the only way he’d managed to stay sober. After the bar fight fiasco he’d gone six months without a drink before falling off the wagon. And yeah, it was only because of AA.
Screw it. He’d told George he’d go so he’d go. It would be a respite of sanity in the craziness his life had become, and it would be damn good to see George. He found a spot on the tightly parked street, walked over and headed up the club’s steep stairs, the club sitting atop a beauty shop. He could smell traces of hairspray as he climbed. His hangover was nearly gone—the shock of dealing with Detective Washington sobering him up—and he knew coffee was always in abundant supply at the club. And free.
He opened the door. The big room had yellow paneled walls, two ceiling fans, neither on, six tables—really plastic patio furniture—and chairs and then there were the posters on the walls. The ‘Twelve Steps’ and ‘Twelve Traditions’ posters were set solemnly on the back wall like Biblical scrolls. In between them hung the AA logo, a powder-blue glowing neon circle with a triangle in it. Each tip of the triangle stood for something—Denny couldn’t remember what.
The faithful were already gathered for the meeting, some of the people acknowledging him with nods. Denny scanned the group for George. There, at a far table, he was waving. A smile grew onto Denny’s face as he headed there.
“Come on, come on, sit down right here, young Dennis.” George pulled out a chair. Denny sat and George patted him on the back. He squeezed his shoulder. It all felt so genuine, Denny thought. And so good—he wasn’t alone anymore.
“I’m sorry for not calling more, Denny,” George said with a frown. “But, well, my aunt hasn’t been well, and I’ve had kind of a health situation of my own to deal with.”