Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 56

News of the tragedy spread quickly the next morning, first along the Promenade and then throughout the city.

Yellow crime tape marked the spot of Theo’s death.

That short section of sidewalk attracted the grief-stricken, the angry, the curious, and the incredulous throughout the day following the assault.

Looking back, it seems odd that crime-scene tape was placed there. The assailants had committed their violence in the median, nowhere close to the sidewalk where Theo fell. There was no forensic evidence to be gathered from the patch of concrete, other than the corpse of the old man. In fact, the tape seemed less to identify a crime scene than a shrine, less to isolate a place of past violence than to hallow the site of a good soul’s lingering presence.

Cards, notes, and bouquets of flowers soon began to multiply in tribute to “the saint of the Promenade.”

Patrons of the Chalice — it was not far from the perimeter of tape — hesitated as they entered the shop, some to ask “What happened there?”, others to shake their heads because they knew.

The day following the attack was unbefittingly beautiful. Bluebird skies and placid breezes seemed ill-suited to the storm of emotion that settled over Broadway. It was equally incongruous that so private a man would die in such a public, scandalous way. After all that he had done to maintain anonymity, to be unnoticed, and to live outside the public view, one might rightly question heaven for allowing him to be a front-page item in the local newspaper. How impolite that one like Theo be reduced to gossip fodder.

As to the incident itself, the authorities reached the simple, reasonable conclusion that Theo had simply fallen over the balcony rail, the eighteen-inches-too-low rail, about which Mr. Ponder had given warning when discussing their rental agreement a year earlier. From the ground, looking up, it was not hard to imagine what had happened: Theo standing at the rail, bending at the waist, leaning forward — too much so — to make some sense of what was happening at the Fedder, lifting his hands in shock at what he saw, losing his balance, and plummeting to the pavement below.

When police had arrived, Simone was dazed and traumatized but responsive to their questions. Ellen, bleeding profusely, was disoriented, and moaning incoherently to herself. She was barely conscious and fully unaware of what had happened to Theo. Neither she nor Simone could give the police a full name of the deceased man on the sidewalk.

“His name is Theo,” Simone told them. “That’s all I know. His name is Theo. Theo. Theo.”

Weeping. Gasping.

“Oh, Theo. His name is Theo.”

When paramedics arrived and began tending to Simone’s injuries, he mentioned in a moment of relative calm that James Ponder was Theo’s friend and advisor. With that, a middle-of-the-night call was made to the consultant’s home. He arrived at Ponder House within minutes, identified the body, spoke with investigators, and began the long and unpleasant process of telling the world that Theo was dead.

It was a long night.

Mr. Ponder’s first call was to Asher.

Then to Mrs. Gidley, who received the news in stunned silence as the composed and unflappable James Ponder gave way to tears — as foreign to him as smiles had been to her before Theo entered their lives .

He called Simone’s parents from the lobby of their hotel and had them driven to the hospital.

He called Tony.

Then Derrick.

And then, Shep and Addie.

And Kendrick.

He returned to Ponder House and placed calls to New York.

The first hints of daybreak were on the horizon as he drove home to change clothes and prepare for the sad, busy days ahead.

An investigation of the crime and a hunt for the assailants was begun immediately. Absence of witnesses or cameras, the darkness of the hour, and the suddenness of the incident made law enforcement skeptical of success.

The Eye of God, only feet away from the brutal attack, had, of course, seen it all.