Legally Dead by Edna Buchanan Page B

fixed, like the lost girls in New Hampshire. “You wanted by the law?”
    â€œNo.” The man reacted with umbrage at the suggestion. “I’ve never been arrested. I wish it was that simple. Then I could surrender, do time, and it would end.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Venturi couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he’d seen this man before.
    â€œWhen this gets out…” The thin voice trailed off. “A lot of people would be happy to hear I was dead,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.”
    Venturi had planned to drop the man off at a hospital emergency room without becoming involved. But if he did, what would stop the guy from boarding an elevator to the roof and jumping?
    He couldn’t let that happen after all the trouble he’d gone to to keep him alive. And he was curious.
    The man seemed lucid and was in no danger of dying, but they were both in sticky, dirty, unpleasantly wet clothes. He docked the boat, helped the man up the bank, and took him into the house instead.
    The man’s shirt and jeans were way too big, not even close to his correct size. His shoes were also too big by several sizes. Yet he did not appear to be homeless. He sounded educated, had good teeth, and seemed to be healthy.
    The man showered. He had no tattoos or old scars that Venturi could see, but scores of mosquito, spider, and red ant bites had increased his torment. Venturi gave him some of his clean clothes that were also too long and too large on the smaller man.
    Venturi checked the pockets of the man’s oversized garments, found nothing, and tossed them into the washing machine. He’d gone into the Glades to think, hoping to sort out his future. Quiet time close to nature had always comforted him. Instead, he’d encountered gunshots, blood in the water, and jeopardy.
    What the hell is this? Venturi wondered. The man could be a serial killer who couldn’t live with himself and decided to disappear, leaving his fate an unsolved mystery. Half a dozen possible scenarios crossed his mind. He wanted the real story.
    He poured the man a shot of bourbon and heated some of the bright yellow homemade chicken soup from a quart bottle Luz had sent home with him the night before. Danny swore the rich broth cured colds and hangovers faster than aspirin or Advil.
    They sat across from each other at the rough-hewn wooden table.
    â€œOkay,” Venturi said calmly, as the man scratched his multiple mosquito bites between sips of soup. “What’s up?”
    â€œI used to work for NASA,” he said, resigned. He paused as though expecting a response. When none came, he continued. “When I was four years old I told everybody I was going to be an astronaut when I grew up. By high school I knew it was impossible. I could never pass the physical—a heart murmur, allergies, and so on—so I focused on the next best thing. I studied computer sciences and electrical, mechanical, and aeronautical engineering and actually wound up working for NASA. The next best thing to that childhood dream was to support the astronauts and their missions.”
    In a sudden flash of revelation, Venturi knew exactly who the man was and where he had seen him: on television, and in newspapers and magazines.
    The man caught his look of recognition.
    â€œThat’s right.” He nodded. “It was me. I’m the one who killed the astronauts. That’s what they say. The whole world believes it. Even my wife believed it. My kids, too. I lost my job, my reputation, my family and friends.
    â€œThe press convicted me in the court of public opinion and will never stop hounding me. Ever.”
    Venturi remembered the two veteran astronauts killed in a freak accident and the man blamed and accused of trying to cover up his mistake, or worse. The two, part of the crew on a mission to the space station, died during a routine