The Nose Knows (17 page)

As soon as she got off the phone, Jacob, bless his heart, offered to drive Mom to the precinct so she wouldn’t have to go alone.

Mom said she’d be fine. She told him she already knew some of the officers from all the times she been to the police station years ago when the man had held her hostage. She said she might be there for hours and it would be more helpful if he’d make sure I got taken out and the boys got their dinner.

Bobby chimed in, “Yeah, and would you please make it snappy. I’m starving. Miss Spunky here refused to share one tidbit of her steak. The little piggy kept every smidgen to herself.”

This time, I head-butted him. “Hey, just because you can’t beg your way out of a paper bag, Bobby, doesn’t mean I have to share my winnings with you!”

Jacob ignored us both. “Sure I can feed them. Just show me what they eat and whatever else I need to know, and we’ll be fine. I’ll take Spunky out and make sure the house is locked before I leave. If you want, I’ll call your cell phone, after I drop Quincy back home, and see if you want me to meet you downtown.”

The smile on Mom’s face was sincere. “Thanks, Jacob. I really appreciate your help, but here’s no need for you to call. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And don’t bother with the dishes; I’ll take care of them later.”

I followed Mom into the bedroom. She called the police station. While she changed her clothes, she spoke to the police office on the speakerphone. She identified herself as Joyce’s doctor and that she needed to see her right away. The police office said they allowed prisoners to see their lawyers and their doctors. She should just stop at the front desk when she arrived.

Mom packed her tape recorder, a bottle of aspirin, an extra sweater, a handful of protein bars, and several bottles of water into her carryall. It looked like she was prepared to be away for a while.

After Mom left, Jacob fed the boys while Quincy and I compared notes in the backyard. He and I agreed that the evening had gone well. He thought the boys were great, even though they were cats. His exact words were, “They can’t help it that they’re not dogs.” He had been smart enough to keep that opinion to himself until we were alone.

When we came back inside all the boys were busy grooming themselves. They looked very content. Apparently, they’d all gotten extra portions. Like me, they’d learned Jacob was a soft touch for a sweet face and a pleading look. However, Jacob was still not heading home. He proceeded to wash every dish, put them away, and he even cleaned the grill! I wonder if this man knew his work was worth more than a dozen roses.

Days later, Quincy told me Jacob had been worried about Mom going to the jail by herself. He hadn’t said a word to Mom or us, but of course, he’d told his friend Quincy. Apparently, his motivation for cleaning everything in sight was not entirely unselfish. He wanted to keep busy. He told Quincy he knew Mom wouldn’t have liked it if he’d insisted on accompanying her to the police station. Even though he believed she could handle herself, he believed if a man was with her, things could’ve gone better. It was a good thing that Jacob, like his dog, knew when to keep his opinion to himself.

Jacob left the porch light on for Mom and the TV and a light on inside for us. After Quincy and Jacob left, we sat around congratulating each other on how well Operation Steak and Potatoes had worked out. All the boys liked Quincy and thought he was a fine gentleman—for a dog. We were all relieved to now know Jacob was a true critter lover and not dog-limited. It was icing on the cake that he also was an easy mark for our begging. After we had covered all the details, the younger boys settled in for the night while Fearless and I shared the window seat. He and I had been together long enough to know neither one of us would sleep very much until Mom was safely back home.

“You know Spunk, I’d have felt a—
breath—
whole lot better if Mom had let Jacob take her to the police station.—At least then we’d know he was with her. I know she’ll be fine—but still. . . .”

Men! Guess it doesn’t matter what their species is, they all think alike.

M
om was gone all night. Fearless and I slept in shifts to make sure we didn’t miss anything. I was the one on duty when Mom finally pulled into the driveway as the sun was coming up. I curtailed my usual robust greeting. Instead, I sat on my rump and wagged. Mom didn’t seem up to a full glee-filled welcome. Besides, I was weary.

She looked exhausted, but she still had enough energy to smile from ear to ear when she turned on the kitchen light and saw all the dishes washed and put away.

“Hi there, my sweet baby girl. I’m sorry I’m so late. Look at that, Jacob did all the dishes. He gets extra points for that one, right, Spunk?”

What did I tell you? Worth more than roses.

She took me out for a quick pit stop. Once we were back in the kitchen she leaned against the counter and said, “I’m so grateful Jacob did the dishes. It would’ve been a real bummer to come home and have to face a full sink. Oh, Spunk, I’m so tired, too tired to sleep. Moreover, Martha Bittner is scheduled to come on line at eight a.m. If I lie down now I’ll never be able to get up in time. I might as well just stay up.”

After a few moments of staring off into space she said, “Yup, I’m going to start a pot of coffee, get out of these clothes, take a long hot shower, and put on the most comfortable pair of sweat pants I own. I then might as well use the time to transcribe my notes from last night. Hey, sweet girl, you look mighty tired yourself. Why don’t you go and get some sleep? I know you didn’t sleep well with me gone. But I’m home now, so you go on and lie down.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. I’d be fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I knew it would be one of those deep sleeps. The kind where I’m told my paws jerk like I’m running in place. Of course my paws are moving; how else could I chase that rabbit? Mom has said I make noises when I sleep that deep; sometimes a growl, or a muffled bark. I guess those sounds worry her because she inevitably asks, “Spunky, what’s wrong?”

That wakes me up, and once again, the silly rabbit escapes.

But now, Mom was headed into the shower, so today there’d be no interruptions. I might just catch that little sucker. . . . Wait, what the heck was that? Who was Mom talking to now?

It was Mom’s voice, but I realized I was hearing it on the tape recorder. Mom was at the kitchen table already. I must’ve really zonked out. I didn’t hear a thing. Mom had showered, changed, and had poured herself a big mug of fresh coffee. She was listening to her notes from last night. The boys were already within earshot. I took my place under the table.

“At nine-ten p.m. last night I was notified by my answering service that Joyce Capello had called and left the message that she’d killed her husband, Hank Capello. She’d been arrested and was being held at the Fifty-Third Precinct. She requested that I come to the jail as soon as possible. I phoned and spoke to Sergeant Martin, the desk sergeant on duty. I informed him who I was and he said I could see Joyce. I left my house and arrived at the front desk at ten-o-five p.m. I was escorted to a visiting room to wait for Joyce. At ten twenty-five p.m. Joyce was escorted into the room; she was handcuffed and dressed in an orange jail-jumpsuit. She told me her bloody clothing had been confiscated as evidence. I asked Joyce if she knew where she was.

“‘The Fifty-Third Precinct.’

“‘Do you know who I am?’

“‘You’re Doctor Hannah.’

“‘Have you talked to a lawyer yet?’

“‘No. I want to talk to you.’

“‘All right, first let me say a few things for the record . . . Joyce, for the record, I’m acting in my capacity as your therapist and therefore whatever is said will fall under therapist-client privilege of confidentiality. But Joyce, I’m informing you that this privilege can be cancelled if you tell me of your intention to harm yourself or another person or if you intend to commit a criminal act. I’m then required by law to inform the authorities. Joyce, I will now ask you several questions to ascertain your current level of awareness and competency.’”

We heard Mom ask about twenty different questions as to time, place, date, etc.

The tape recording continued.

Mom said, “At this time, my conclusion is that Joyce Capello is oriented as to time and place. However, her affect is flat. She repeatedly looks past my face and her eye contact is diminishing. She appears pale and frail. Her skin is cool to the touch but not cold or clammy, and her pupils are equal and reactive. I believe she’s showing signs of shock. She does know who I am and that I’m her therapist. . . .”

“‘Dr. Hannah, I want to tell you what happened.’

“‘Joyce, I’m not an attorney. I’m advising you to speak to an attorney first and let him be your primary source of counsel at this time. Then you and I can talk after that.’

“‘No, I don’t want to talk to any more strangers. Just you. Let me tell you what happened.’

“‘Okay, Joyce, but I again remind you, the tape recorder is running. Go ahead, tell me what happened last night.’”

It was then that Joyce’s voice changed. The rhythm of her voice slowed. Within two sentences it had turned into a monotone. She began to sound detached from her own voice.

“‘I was at my apartment. I’d just gotten home from work. I was unpacking my groceries. Just milk, eggs, that kind of stuff. The doorbell rang and I looked through the peephole. It was Hank. He must’ve followed me home from work. I stayed quiet. I hoped he’d just go away. But he kept talking. He said, “I know you’re in there Joy-cee. I saw you come in. Come on, open up. I just want to talk to you.” He sounded like he’d been drinking. I wanted him to go. But he wouldn’t; he kept on talking. “Come on sweetie, just a few minutes, I just want to talk to you for a minute. I promise I’ll be good. You know how much I need you. I can’t make it without you, baby. I just need to see your face and then I’ll be fine. Come on, darling, just open the door a crack. You can keep the chain on.” He kept talking. Going on and on. Then he started getting louder and louder. I got scared the neighbors would call the cops. If the cops came, it’d hurt my chances to get my kids back. I had to shut him up. So I opened the door, just a crack. I left the chain on. He kept talking. He said he couldn’t get a good look at me through such a small crack. He got louder and louder. I heard a neighbor’s door open. I didn’t want them calling the cops. So I undid the chain. He pushed his way into my apartment faster than greased lightning. He shut the door behind him and locked it. Right then I thought—he’s going to kill me. There was no more sweet talk, he was the old Hank. Cursing and swearing. He started punching me.’”

Mom interrupted and asked, “‘Joyce, if he punched you, how come there are no bruises on your face?’

“‘Hank learned a long time ago if he punches my gut or my kidneys the bruises don’t show. His next punch rammed me into the kitchen counter and I sank to the floor. Then he pulled out his gun. At first he just waved it in my face; he’s done that before. The gun didn’t scare me. But his eyes sure did. There were pure cold-hearted evil. I knew this time he wanted me dead. There really wasn’t much time to think about it. I reached for the top of the counter and pulled myself up. I saw the knife. I picked it up. I swung around. I guess I swung one arm out and knocked away the gun. I don’t know. But I know I stabbed him. I stabbed him hard.’”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “‘I stabbed him. I stabbed him. I stab. . . .’

“‘Joyce, look at me. Look at me, Joyce. Joyce, stop talking and look at me.’”

We heard Mom trying to get Joyce to stop, but she didn’t. She kept mumbling the same words over and over, “‘I stabbed him. I stabbed him. . . .’

“‘Damn it, Joyce, look at me!’”

We heard the sound of the tape recorder being clicked off.

It clicked on again and Mom’s voice began.

“It is now one-thirty a.m. As Joyce spoke and told me what had happened, I saw her go deeper and deeper into a detached state. Not yet a coma. She’s still able to walk. However she stopped responding to any of my questions. I had the guard alert the MD on call. He met me at the jail and examined Joyce. He gave her a mild sedative and ordered twenty-four-hour monitoring. I then spoke to the detective assigned to the case. He told me Joyce had stabbed Hank fifteen times. The arresting officer and the emergency room doctor will verify the bruising on Joyce’s lower back, which in all likelihood occurred when she was slammed into the kitchen counter. At the emergency room, Joyce was alert, oriented, and with no evidence of internal injuries, so the hospital released her into police custody. Two neighbors are willing to testify that Hank was yelling and cursing. They heard him through the walls. The detective told me Hank had been arrested three times before for physically abusing Joyce. Off the record, the detective said that he thought it was a case of self defense, but due to the number of times Joyce had stabbed Hank they had to arrest her. He said it was now up to the District Attorney whether or not to proceed to a trial for murder or if he’d let her plead to justifiable manslaughter. Joyce goes to night court in about an hour. After a few phone calls I located an attorney who agreed to take the case on an emergency basis. He’ll be here for her arraignment. He asked that I remain in case the judge has any questions. After listening to my account of the case, he said he’d plan to enter a plea of not guilty and request that she be held over for psychiatric evaluation. I’m headed to the courthouse now.”