"Take it easy," a lady in white said as she turned on something that elevated my bed. Beside the nurse who was busy collecting equipment, there was a man in a suit standing by the door. He gave an abbreviated wave.
"Hi," he said as he moved into the room. "Remember me?"
"Not really," I answered and found my throat didn't hurt as much this orning. It was, however, incredibly dry. "Water?" Florence Nightingale handed me an enclosed cup with a straw. I sipped.
"Detective Jackson. You bled on my tie and puked on my shoes. You're looking better."
"Here to collect damages?"
He laughed. "No; just trying to understand a few things. Can you help me out?" The nurse interrupted him with a series of questions about my well-being and left after telling me a doctor would visit and breakfast was on the way. Before I could answer Jackson, he began questioning.
"I understand the owner is in California. Anyone you know who wanted to kill him?"
For the first time since being attacked, my mind began to access what happened and try to formulate a coherent response. Yes, I thought, there were scores of people who wanted to murder Howie. Instead, I had the presence to mind to avoid answering.
"He's just a fellow worker. Look, can I explain?"
"Later. Now, just help me out and answer a few questions." Jackson looked at a piece of paper. "Econ Scrutiny, Inc. That's on Main Street, correct?"
"Yes."
"What exactly do you all do there?"
"Numbers. We collect and collate numbers that impact the economy."
"Secret numbers; like military stuff or spy stuff?"
"Just the opposite. Sheep production, mining volumes, births, crop production, weather patterns . . . it's all public information reports and numbers."
"What do you do with it . . . all these numbers?"
"Pass them along, after they're collated."
Jackson looked confused. "Why don't the guys you pass them to get them themselves?"
"We put the numbers in a certain format that makes it easier for them to analyze," I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I took another sip of water. My response must have sufficiently bored my questioner. He moved on.
Next I was shown a photograph of a chubby cheeked man about forty, with short hair and a six o'clock shadow. I didn't recognize him and so informed Jackson.
"How about you walk me through the whole business," he said. It sounded more like a demand than a request.
"Howie went to California. His mother was very ill and she recently passed away. He needed a suit for the funeral so I came by to pick it up for him. His cousin is flying out there tomorrow . . . today, and she's to take it out to him."