Keepers

TWO

Cheryl and I waited. We answered questions. I was looked over by EMTs, told my story to at least four police officers, gave them my contact information, and was finally allowed to go.

Cheryl and I were climbing back into the car when I noticed the dogs were gone.

… and realized that I was still holding Magritte-Man’s bowler hat.

Replaying the almost-comic dance the old man had done in time with the bowler’s elegant pirouettes as he’d pursued it to the death, I couldn’t help but think that if he had gotten away safe and sound it would have made a funny, slightly absurd story to tell at work, or to my nephew Carson; but there are punch lines, and then there’s the punch line.

I approached one of the officers and handed him the bowler. “He was chasing this,” I said, as if it explained everything in excruciating detail.

“Hey, we were wondering what happened to that thing,” she said, taking the bowler and dropping it into a large, clear plastic bag that contained what appeared to be the contents of the old man’s impeccably tailored pockets.

“Who was he?” I asked.

The officer didn’t even make eye contact: “We can’t release that information until we’ve contacted the next of kin.”

“But I was with him when he…” My voice trailed off as I watched two men load the black-bagged body into the coroner’s wagon. “He grabbed my shirt and looked at me. He tried… tried to speak to me. I’ve got his blood on my clothes. I was the last thing he saw before he died, and you won’t even tell me his name? ”

The officer shrugged. “Policy. Sorry, sir.”

And left me there.