“I found two pair of pink, silk underwear Monday morning. One pair was in the mouth of our dog, Simba. The other pair was in his travel bag. Along with another cell phone in his briefcase that I was unaware he had. It buzzed with the alert that a message was waiting to be viewed and I looked to see what it was. It was a picture of a woman’s torso wearing the same type of underwear. I also found a receipt for Friday night at The Duchess. Although it wasn’t possible to make out the identity of the woman in the text, I recognized the incoming telephone number as that of a co-worker of mine, Serena Rowland. How’s that?”
He was too busy taking notes to come back with a tart reply to my sarcasm. “What time was this?”
“About six forty-five a.m. We were getting ready for work.”
“Did you confront Mr. Dickinson?”
“Yes. I yelled for him to come downstairs and then I showed him what I found.”
“Did he deny the affair?”
“He did not. Caved like a kid caught red-handed stealing candy.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, there was a lot of yelling, mostly from me, and a lot of pleading and crying, mostly from him. I told him I wanted him out of the house before I got home from work. He begged me to stay home and talk things through, although I think he was more worried that I was going to go to work and kick Serena’s ass. I believe, at one point, I mentioned something along those lines.”
“So, you threatened to harm Ms. Rowland?” I saw the glint of interest behind his beady eyes.
“I was angry, Mr. LaFont. Hurt and in pain. I lashed out at my husband. Who wouldn’t when they just found out that their spouse of twenty plus years was having an affair? I didn’t threaten her life. I believe my exact words were, ‘If you call that bitch and warn her I plan on having her fired today, I’ll kick both of your asses.’”
Mr. LaFont leaned back in his chair and chewed on the tip of his pen, eyeing me. I could see the wheels spinning as he internally navigated what question would be next. He was trying to unnerve me by making me wait, but I’d seen Roger perform the same mental jousting with clients and kept my cool—and my silence.
It was two minutes before he spoke. “Before your little tete-a-tete with Mr. Dickinson Monday, when was the last time you spoke with him?”
“Friday morning before nine.”
“And what was the extent of the conversation?”
“Mundane, household things, you know. We were both going out of town for the weekend, so making sure we each had everything we needed packed, household items unplugged. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, you mentioned earlier that you were gone for the weekend with a friend. Can you prove that?”
He thinks I’m involved! Typical.
“My friend Regina paid for our hotel room, but I bought dinner and paid for our massages at the spa, so yes. Plus, we stopped at Fred’s Stop-n-Go on Highway 70 to pick up dog food on our way back. I have that receipt as well.”
“Your friend’s last name, and the name of hotel, please?”
“Pearson. Regina Pearson. Mountain Top Retreat at Lake Ouachita.”
“When did you leave for this trip and when did you arrive back home?”
“Regina picked me up around eight thirty Friday morning and dropped me off close to ten on Sunday night.”
“Was Mr. Dickinson still at home when you left or had he already left?”
“He was still there.”
“Was Mr. Dickinson home when you arrived back?”
“Yes, he was sleeping already though so we didn’t talk. I finished some laundry and went to bed around midnight.”
“Interesting. You didn’t wake him up to let him know you were home?”
Steady. Don’t show your frustration.
“No, I did not. I let him sleep. I figured the conference I assumed he’d attended was exhausting, as they usually are, so I let him rest.”
“So, the next morning you found out about the affair and confronted him. Did you discuss at all the fact that Ms. Rowland was dead?”
“I didn’t know she was until I arrived at work later, so no.”
“Did Mr. Dickinson say or give any indication that you can recall that perhaps you missed at the time of the argument, which would lead you to believe he knew about her passing?”
“No.”
“Did he admit to being with her at the hotel?”
“Yes. Although during our argument that morning, the particulars weren’t mentioned. Once he admitted to the affair, things became quite heated and I left for work.”
“So, you never noticed anything during the conversation, no mannerisms or facial expressions that would indicate he was hiding something else?”
“No, nothing.”
“All right. Let me recap here. You both left town on Friday. You for a weekend vacation with a friend and Mr. Dickinson purportedly left for a conference, but was actually with Ms. Rowland at The Duchess. You arrived back home late Sunday night. On Monday morning, you find out he has been having an affair with Ms. Rowland and a heated conversation ensues. Nothing came up during the confrontation about the fact that Ms. Rowland was already dead and then you left for work. When did you find out about Ms. Rowland?”
“Good summation. Let’s see, I left the house late, around eight forty-five. I think I made it to work close to nine. I went in to talk to Roger about the situation, to tell him what was going on. I requested that the firm let Serena go, considering the circumstances. That’s when Roger told me.”
“Your story is that you were unaware of Ms. Rowland’s demise until that point, correct?”
“It’s not a story, Mr. LaFont. It’s the truth.”
“One person’s truth may be another’s lie, Mrs. Dickinson.”
That’s enough.
“Look, Mr. LaFont. I didn’t come here to be grilled like I’m on trial. My husband is the one sitting in jail, not me. I came here for some answers to this whole nightmare. I could have gone to the police to find all this out, but I didn’t. I came to you, the man who is supposed to be defending him. Let me make a few things very clear. I didn’t know about the affair until four days ago. I did not kill that girl and don’t appreciate your veiled insinuations that I did. I want to believe my husband didn’t do it, but honestly, I don’t know what to think anymore. I thought my visit with him today might help to clear things up for me, but it only made things worse. When I looked into the eyes of the man I have spent almost half my life with, heard his words, I wanted to believe him. But that is an emotional response. I’m here now because I want to know—I want to see—exactly what evidence is against him. Then I can make a decision based upon facts and not wants or wishes.”
Raw and exposed, like I was naked in the middle of a room full of perverts, was how I felt. Mr. LaFont’s gaze was piercing. Dirty. Like he had some sort of x-ray vision into my heart. I sensed him crawling under my skin, burrowing his way through my thoughts as he watched me intently. I knew his type well enough to realize that he wasn’t going to offer anything up without prodding, so I took the reins.
“Jack told me Serena was pregnant. Did the autopsy report concur?”
He waited for what seemed like an eternity before he answered, “Yes.”
Arrow one launched. Target hit.
“Do you have a copy of the autopsy report?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it please?”
“Mrs. Dickinson, autopsy reports are technical and require—”
“Mr. LaFont, you seem to have forgotten where I work. I’ve read plenty during my employment with Mr. Stanek. I understand the technical jargon.”
“As you wish,” he said, then opened the thick file and flipped through the pages until he found it. He shoved the report over to me.
The report noted all the bruises and markings on Serena’s upper body, arrows indicating specific places of damage. I scanned further down and my stomach knot
ted up as I read her injuries. A broken nose. Her right cheekbone shattered. Four teeth knocked out. Evidence of recent sexual activity, but rape not suspected. Pregnancy noted, the baby at close to twelve weeks. Time of death around eleven o’clock a.m. on Saturday morning. Cause of death was listed as asphyxiation due to strangulation.
This was a vicious attack by someone consumed by rage. Jack…no way. He just isn’t the type.
I reached the last page of the report, felt the photos underneath and knew I couldn’t handle looking at them. Reading about Serena’s violent death was enough. I closed the file and pushed it back over to Mr. LaFont.
“Well…your thoughts?”
I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice steady. “My husband is simply not capable of the violence inflicted on Serena. A monster did this, and that monster is not my Jack.”
“So, you are saying that Mr. Dickinson has never displayed any violence toward you, or others?”
“No, never. Even during arguments over the years he never really yelled. The only time I ever saw him really angry was—” I stopped, wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut.
“When, Mrs. Dickinson?”
Too late now.
“Monday morning. I couldn’t shut the alarm clock off. It was stuck and when Jack tried, he couldn’t either. He…he flung it against the wall and it broke.”
No longer looking at me, Mr. LaFont concentrated on scribbling notes on his pad. “Was this before or after you found out about the affair?”
“Before.”
“And before then, your recollection is that he hadn’t acted aggressively in the past?”
“That’s right.”
“But he was angry that morning before you spoke to him about the affair, correct?”
Damn! Should have kept your mouth shut.
“Yes.”
“Why do you think he was so angry, Mrs. Dickinson?”
I let out an exasperated huff. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Jack.”
Mr. LaFont looked up from the paper. “Mr. Dickinson already related this story to me. Complete with the details of the broken alarm clock. According to him, he was struggling with the fact that he had to tell you about the affair…and the pregnancy.”
Ouch. Another direct hit. Time to shift gears again.
“You said you have surveillance video from the hotel. I would like to watch it, please.”
Mr. LaFont gave a curt nod of his head and retrieved the CD. He inserted it, fired the big screen television up, and walked back over to his seat with the remote control before pressing play. My pulse quickened as the screen lit up.
The footage was fairly clear. The camera faced the elevator, and three rooms on each side of the hallway could be seen. According to the time stamp, Serena exited the elevator at eleven fifteen, right after check-in. She went into the first room on the left, alone. Then the images sped up as time whizzed by on the screen. Out of my peripheral vision I could see Mr. LaFont pushing the button to fast forward. At seven thirty that night, Jack exited the elevator and knocked on the same door. His gate was unsteady, his jeans and shirt disheveled, his travel bag on his shoulder and briefcase firmly in hand. A piece of my heart died when the door opened and a scantily clad Serena lunged out of the doorway and greeted him with a kiss he hungrily returned. They disappeared inside.
Arrow number two, dead center.
The tape sped up again to the next morning. Just as Jack said, the door opened at ten fifteen on Saturday morning and he sprinted out of the room to the elevator, Serena right behind him. It was clear that she was yelling at him and when Jack retreated to the elevator and the doors closed, she flipped him off, stormed back inside the room and slammed the door.
The tape kept rolling. When I realized Mr. LaFont wasn’t going to stop it, I knew what was coming next would destroy my world.
At ten thirty, the elevator doors opened and out walked Jack, minus his bag and briefcase, plus his favorite Chicago Cubs ball cap. He was wearing black gloves. At least it looked like Jack. The hat was pulled down over his face and he almost seemed aware of the video camera’s location because he kept his head low, the brim covering his features. In three long strides he was back at the door and knocking. Serena opened it, looking surprised to see him back. She didn’t move to let him inside, so he landed a punch dead center on her nose. She crumpled and he shoved her inside, flinging the door shut behind him. Less than ten minutes later, he exited the room and took the stairs rather than the elevator.
Arrow number three—right in the heart.
With a quick flick of his hand, Mr. LaFont stopped the playback. Too numb to formulate even one word, I sat like a stone and stared at the blank screen, feeling shattered.
I was married to the monster. Dear God…
“There is one more piece of evidence we received just yesterday from the prosecuting attorney. Here,” Mr. LaFont said, sliding over a glossy eight-by-ten picture. “The investigators went to the lingerie shop at Park Hill Plaza. One of the employees snapped the picture on her cell phone. Thought she could use it to convince her boyfriend that men really did come into the store to buy sexy gifts for their women.”
I swallowed hard and looked down. The room began to darken as the walls of what sanity I had left closed in, crushing me like a bug under a heavy shoe. The Chicago Cubs hat. The dark, curly hair. A pair of pink, silk panties in one hand while the other reached for a bin that held countless others. I didn’t need to see the face to know that I was staring at Jack while he purchased the underwear I found at the house. Underwear identical to the pair used to strangle poor Serena.
“Mrs. Dickinson…”
I knew what the little twerp was going to ask me. Holding up my hand to stop him, I nodded my head yes, then bolted out of my seat to the door, Mr. LaFont’s words falling on deaf ears.
Arrow number four—I’m dead.
My car was still in its spot in the parking deck. Though it had sat under the cover of the concrete roof the last four days, the air inside was stifling. It took five minutes for the air conditioner to cool the black leather enough so I could breathe. After running through the building and out to the parking deck like a crazy woman, my chest was heaving.
My tires squalled as I rounded each level, and I zoomed up I-40 like a bat out of hell. The pace made my frantic drive to work on Monday look like a toddler had been behind the wheel. With no clue where I was going and not caring, I let my body take over and steer me in whatever direction it decided to go.
Somehow, about forty minutes later, I snapped out of my numbed state and realized I was pulling into the parking lot of Pinnacle Mountain State Park. It was quite odd, since I had been traveling in the opposite direction earlier and didn’t remember turning around. Thankfully, the parking lot was almost empty, which meant the climb to the top of the peak wouldn’t be crowded with people.
I shut the engine off and stared at the sign that said East Summit Trail. God, how many times in my youth had I trekked the two mile trail up to the summit? I hadn’t been here in years. The last time I hiked the rugged trail was on my thirty-fifth birthday, then two weeks later, I’d torn my ACL while playing tennis. After two surgeries, I had feared reinjuring my knee and given up hiking.
I glanced down at my phone, seeing all the missed calls, text messages, and voicemail alerts. It was just a piece of plastic with metal guts, but it sure could bring a lot of heartache and pain. As I exited the car, I threw it on the passenger seat next to my purse and locked the door.
I attacked the trail like a woman possessed, the rocks digging into my feet through the thin soles of Regina’s shoes. Overgrown tree limbs yanked and pulled at my hair and skin. The afternoon gnats and mosquitoes buzzed around me. Sweat dripped from my hairline into my eyes.
I ignored it all. The pain in my feet I welcomed. The insect stings to my body and the burning in my lungs as I gulped in the humid air with each footfall, I relished. The stitch
in my side, the shooting daggers behind my knee—I used it all as a mental blanket. I embraced anything that would blot out the agony inside my heart and stifle the gut-wrenching truth that my life would never be the same.
Run, Mel. To the top. It all can end at the top. Don’t stop, just run.
Twice I lost my footing and nearly fell down the steep cliff. I stopped at the second near miss when I heard strange laughter in front of me. If other hikers were headed my way, I needed to shift direction before they saw me and decided to be friendly and offer idle banter to a fellow hiker. I was in no mood to talk to anyone in a civil tone, much less a complete stranger.
Then, to my surprise, I realized the maniacal laughter came from me.
Oh, God, I am losing it.
I picked up the pace and raced to the peak. The sun was starting its slow descent in the west and casting vibrant shades of orange and red across the jagged slopes. The clouds above me looked like carnival cotton candy. It was beautiful. Somehow being on top of the summit and staring down at the world made me feel closer to God.
So, I let Him have it as I collapsed in a drenched pile on a boulder, my words screaming inside my head.
I know You told Job not to question You because Your ways are not ours. You see everything, know everything: past, present and future. Our little human brains can’t fathom the realm You reside in nor how You think. I get that. But I’m human, Lord. I don’t understand why You put me on this earth. To experience this? All this sorrow, heartache, pain. What doesn’t kill me is supposed to make me stronger, right?
Well, wrong. I’m not strong. I’m weak. Tormented. Broken beyond repair. If I had the strength right at the moment, I’d go ahead and continue this conversation face to face. Jump right off the edge and be done with it.
Why? You placed Jack in my life as my partner, my husband. I knew that the moment we met. I’ve been a devoted wife my entire marriage and for what? This is what I had to look forward to? Spending the rest of my days here alone as the wife of a man behind bars for killing his lover?
I don’t understand. You denied me the ability to conceive, yet Jack fathered a child with another. It’s all too much to comprehend. I can’t deal with this. Can’t live with all this agony. Please, God, if You ever loved me, make the pain stop.
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