C Is for Corpse

self-loathing.
    "So. That's how I spent my summer vacation. How about you?"
    "You're convinced it was a murder attempt? Why couldn't it have been some prankster or a drunk?"
    He thought for a moment. "I knew the car. At least I think I did. Obviously, I don't anymore, but it seems like... at the time, I recognized the vehicle."
    "But not the driver?"
    He shook his head. "Couldn't tell you now. Maybe I knew then, maybe not."
    "Male? Female?" I asked.
    "Nuh-un. That's gone, too."
    "How do you know Rick wasn't meant to be the victim instead of you?"
    He pushed his plate away and signaled for coffee. He was struggling. "I knew something. Something had happened and I figured it out. I remember that much. I can even remember knowing I was in trouble. I was scared. I just don't remember why."
    "What about Rick? Was he part of it?"
    "I don't think it had anything to do with him. I couldn't swear to it, but I'm almost positive."
    "What about your destination that night? Does that tie in somehow?"
    Bobby glanced up. The waitress was standing at his elbow with a coffeepot. He waited until she'd poured coffee for both of us. She departed and he smiled uneasily. "I don't know who my enemies are, you know? I don't know if people around me know this 'thing' I've forgotten about. I don't want anyone to overhear what I say... just in case. I know I'm paranoid, but I can't help it."
    His gaze followed the waitress as she moved back toward the kitchen. She put the coffeepot back on the unit and picked up an order at the window, glancing back at him. She was young and she seemed to know we were talking about her. Bobby dabbed at his chin again as an afterthought. "We were on our way up to Stage Coach Tavern. There's usually a bluegrass band up there and Rick and I wanted to hear them." He shrugged. "There might have been more to it, but I don't think so."
    "What was going on in your life at that point?"
    "I'd just graduated from UC Santa Teresa. I had this part-time job at St. Terry's, waiting to hear if I was accepted for med school."
    Santa Teresa Hospital had been called St. Terry's ever since I could remember. "Wasn't it late in the year for that? I thought med-school candidates applied during the winter and got replies back by spring."
    "Well, actually I had applied and didn't get in, so I was trying again."
    "What kind of work were you doing at St. Terry's?"
    "I was a 'floater,' really. I did all kinds of things. For a while, I worked Admissions, typing up papers before patients came in. I'd call and get preliminary data, insurance coverage, stuff like that. Then for a while, I worked in Medical Records filing charts until I got bored. Last job I had was clerk-typist in Pathology. Worked for Dr. Fraker He was neat. He let me do lab tests sometimes. You know, just simple stuff"
    "It doesn't sound like hazardous work," I said. "What about the university? Could the jeopardy you were in be traced back to the school somehow? Faculty? Studies?
    Some kind of extracurricular activity you'd been involved in?"
    He was shaking his head, apparently drawing a blank. "I don't see how. I'd been out since June. Accident was November."
    "But your feeling is that you were the only one who knew this piece of information, whatever it was."
    His gaze traveled around the cafe and then came back to me. "I guess, Me and whoever tried to kill me to shut me up."
    I sat and stared at him for a while, trying to get a fix on the situation. I stirred what was probably raw milk into my coffee. Health-food enthusiasts like eating microbes and things like that. "Do you have any sense at all of how long you'd known this thing? Because I'm wondering... if it was potentially so dangerous... why you didn't spill the beans right away."
    He was looking at me with interest. "Like what? To the cops or something like that?"
    "Sure. If you stumbled across a theft of some kind, or you found out someone was a Russian spy..." I was rattling off possibilities as they occurred to me. "Or you uncovered a plot to assassinate the President..."
    "Why wouldn't I have picked up the first telephone I came to and called for help?"
    "Right."
    He was quiet. "Maybe I did that. Maybe... shit, Kinsey, I don't know. You don't know how frustrated I get. Early on, those first two, three months in the hospital, all I could think about was the pain. It took everything I had to stay alive. I didn't think about the accident at all. But little by little, as I got better, I started going back to it,