What Happened To Flynn

by Pat Muir

  “She’s working on a patient right at the moment,” said the receptionist. “Could you wait until she’s finished?”

  “No, we can’t wait,” I said. “If you don’t bring her to the front desk, then we will go in and fetch her.”

  The receptionist looked shocked. She stood up and disappeared into the interior of the dental practice. I could hear her talking to somebody. Two minutes later, she returned with a light-skinned Afro-American woman in her mid-twenties. Terry had not been exaggerating when he’d said she was beautiful. A woman sixty-eight inches tall, wearing a yellow top over black pants and displaying a very feminine figure, presented herself. I envied her regular features, smooth oval face, and short, wavy hair, unlike my crinkled curly mass. We identified ourselves as detectives from San Diego.

  “Alisha Johnson,” I said firmly, “You are under arrest for murder.”

  Alisha looked horrified, as did the receptionist. “What murder?” she blurted.

  “The murder of Arthur Flynn at the Russian River fishing camp.”

  Alisha, clearly shaken, sat down on a customer bench, where shook her head and stated angrily, “I’ve murdered nobody. I don’t know who you’re talking about… I’m not saying any more without my attorney present.”

  Steve put handcuffs on her, and we put her in the back seat of my car. We then drove to Bill Dollar’s auto garage, the patrol car and forensics van following us. The garage was actually one of several adjacent units specializing in auto essentials—engine, transmission, brakes, electrical, air conditioning, alignment, and body work, all with a single management office for customer service. We went to the management office and were escorted to the engine bay, where a strongly built, six-foot-tall black man was working under an elevated car.

  “William Dollar,” I said to the man.

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “I am Detective Notfarg, and I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Arthur Flynn.”

  Dollar stared at me, disbelief in his eyes. His shock turned to anger, and he yelled, “You guys are crazy! This is a goddamned trumped-up charge because you’ve nothing better to do.” I motioned Steve to put handcuffs on the man, but Dollar stepped away, yelling, “You fuckers are just out to get me! I’ve murdered nobody, and I don’t know who this damned Flynn person is.”

  “Mr. Dollar, surely you don’t want to be charged with resisting arrest as well?” I said. The accompanying deputy in uniform stepped forward, and Dollar fully realized his presence. “Let me wipe the oil off my hands first and make a phone call,” he said more calmly.

  “No phone calls,” said Steve and I simultaneously. Dollar ignored us and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket right after wiping his hands. The deputy and Steve grappled with him, removed the phone, and handcuffed him.

  “You bastards!” yelled Dollar. “You won’t even let me call my lawyer.”

  “You’ll have an opportunity to call an attorney at the sheriff’s station,” I told him.

  As we walked him to Steve’s car, he saw Alisha in my car, and he yelled to her, “Geez, baby, I’m sorry about this! I’ll get it straightened out.”

  I directed Danny Chu towards Dollar’s nearby unlocked van. At the Carson office, I had them kept apart as they were fingerprinted and then placed in separate questioning rooms. I logged the forensic bag containing the cash into the sheriff’s evidence room, as well as Dollar’s cell phone. We decided to start our questioning with Alisha, clearly the more tractable of the two. I tried to make her feel at ease with us before giving her a Miranda warning and turning on the voice recorder. Alisha, clearly frightened, declined to open up and said she wanted to talk to a lawyer before speaking to us. We brought a phone to her and she promptly called her mother, explained where she was, and asked for help in getting an attorney. Steve and I turned our attention to Bill Dollar in the other questioning room. His posture and demeanor indicated he would never be comfortable with us, so we Mirandized him immediately and began questioning him with the voice recorder on. He declined to say anything without a lawyer present. We brought a phone to him also, and he made a call. I pointed out that if he had nothing to hide, he had nothing to worry about and it would facilitate his departure if he answered our questions. Dollar refused to talk.

  Steve and I took off for lunch after leaving my phone number with the Carson office sergeant. We found a Soup Plantation restaurant nearby that conveniently let me serve myself a low-calorie salad. I don’t like to eat a heavy lunch, since it makes me sleepy in the afternoon and adds to my already overweight body. Steve, on the other hand, being a man and being ten years younger than I, had no such qualms and came to the table with a heaped plate. I brought him up to date on the case, which I had been working on alone up to that point.

  “I heard you tell Sergeant Thompson quite vigorously that it wasn’t your turn for this missing person case two months ago,” remarked Steve, grinning.

  I grinned back. “You’re right. I did. I didn’t expect it to turn out this way,” I responded. “I’m going to appreciate your help interviewing Bill Dollar. He is a good suspect, given his belligerence and finding cash in his safe that’s about the same amount Flynn was carrying. Dollar is muscular, probably weighs about two hundred and ten pounds, and could easily overcome the smaller Flynn.”

  Steve commented, “But overpowering Flynn in the night would cause a racket that neighbors would hear unless he clubbed him.”

  “The trouble is we didn’t find blood inside the tent or on any of the contents, including the sleeping bag and the cot. So, the clubbing theory is questionable,” I said.

  “Perhaps he was lured out,” offered Steve. “Alisha is a really good-looking gal.”

  “Maybe. We’ll have to see what we can get out of them when we question them.”

  Our conversation drifted to the personal. Steve told me he had graduated from the University of Colorado with a degree in political science. He’d then joined the navy and had served for eight years, rising to the rank of lieutenant. Part of his service had been in San Diego, where he’d come to love its climate and amenities. He’d resolved to work there after finishing his military service. He had trained at the San Diego Regional Law Enforcement Academy, as had I, and served with the San Diego police department before joining the county sheriff’s department. He had become a detective three years ago and had been elevated into the homicide section a year ago. This was fast promotion and reflected recognition of his talents. Steve asked me about myself, and I gave him my background. Steve impressed me as a hardworking, ambitious man who would rise far in the sheriff’s office in his career. He would also be easy to work with, unlike others in the department who had never been able to fully overcome innate prejudices against females or Afro-Americans.

  “I was delighted to be assigned the Chinese student murder case,” Steve added. “It was a feather in my cap that I was able to solve it quickly. I know you got the drudge work of interviewing potential witnesses, but I was very grateful you were there to help me. I have very much appreciated your looking over my shoulder in this detail… Let’s hope that this case will go as well as the Chinese student one.”

  I said that would be nice but doubted the case would move quickly.

  Danny Chu called in the early afternoon to say he had conducted tests for blood inside and outside of Dollar’s van and found nothing. The fishing rods and reels he’d found in the van were modestly priced brands, not Flynn’s expensive ones. He had taken fingerprints inside the van and would check if any of them were Flynn’s after he had returned to San Diego. By 3:30 p.m., we had not heard about an attorney for our two suspects, so I told Steve to take off to visit his parents. At six p.m., a Mr. Moorish called me saying he would be the attorney representing Ms. Johnson and Mr. Dollar and would be at the Carson sheriff’s station next day at nine o’clock. I told him we would be there to brief him, so he could talk to his clients before we interviewed them in his presence. I let Steve know. I found a room at a
motel in nearby Lakewood and, after dinner, watched the movie The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a fantasy of a man who lived life backwards—from old to young. It made me wish I’d had the wisdom of my experience when I was young.

  At the sheriff’s station the next day, Roger Moorish turned out to be a white man in his fifties with a very professional manner. I gave him a quick summary of the case. Moorish made notes and said he would confer with his clients. Half an hour later, he came from the questioning rooms and told us his clients were innocent of the murder charges and would cooperate fully with us.

  Again, we decided to question Alisha first. I asked her if she or Bill Dollar had approached Arthur Flynn that Sunday night.

  “I never saw him,” she replied. “I was at the park community center most of that Sunday, and Bill picked me up from there when it was dark. I only saw the man’s pitched tent when we returned.”

  “So, Bill could have gone into Flynn’s tent before he picked you up?” I suggested.

  “You will have to ask Mr. Dollar that question,” interrupted Moorish. “Ms. Johnson is not going to speculate.”

  “Did you drive Mr. Flynn’s Camry away from the park?” I asked.

  “I certainly did not,” replied Alisha emphatically. “The guy’s car was gone by Monday morning.”

  “But you weren’t in the van when Bill drove out on Tuesday,” I asked.

  “I certainly was in the van. I was lying down in the back since I was feeling so crappy.”

  “Can anyone verify you were at the park on the Monday or the Tuesday?”

  “I saw lots of people at the center and the cafeteria. I am sure there’s someone who will remember me.”

  “Did you talk to any of them?”

  “Nobody in particular. I wasn’t feeling very well, and I wanted to stay in an air-conditioned place instead of out in the open or in the van.” Alisha paused before adding, “I couldn’t have driven off in the guy’s car, since Bill and I stopped off in Oakland to see my mother when we drove home on Tuesday.”

  I asked for the name, address, and phone number of her mother before continuing. “Where did Bill get the money that’s in your safe?”

  “The safe’s not mine. Bill installed it. He puts money in there he gets from auto repairs he does on the side. He’s saving for a new van.”

  “Did you know the money in the safe matched the amount the murdered man had and was in the same currency denomination?”

  Alisha looked horrified by the question and took her time to reply. “Bill didn’t murder anybody,” she said emphatically. “He couldn’t have done anything like that without my knowing about it… I don’t know what Bill has in the safe. I don’t know its combination, so I never go in there. I don’t ask Bill. He pays his share of the rent and grocery money, and he takes good care of me.” Her reply reminded me of the problem black women in her age bracket have with finding a reliable mate who has not been in jail and has a steady, decent-paying job. I asked Alisha to give us a description of what she was wearing on both those days and a description of some of the people she claimed had seen her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Right after the interview, I phoned Alisha’s mother, telling her I was a San Diego detective investigating a murder. I also told her I was recording our conversation before asking, “When did you last see your daughter?” making Mrs. Johnson come up with the date and time.

  “I saw her when she returned from that camping expedition with Bill.”

  “What day and time was that?”

  “I don’t remember the day. She came in for a late breakfast.”

  “She...? Was she by herself?

  “Yes. She knows I don’t like her boyfriend and don’t want him in my home. And now she’s going to have a baby with him.”

  “So, where was he?’

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  We returned to question Alisha once more. “Your mother says that only you visited her that day. Where was Bill?”

  “He dropped me off and went to a restaurant for breakfast. He doesn’t like my mother.”

  “So, you or he could have been driving Flynn’s Camry without your mother knowing?” interjected Steve.

  “You don’t have to respond to that,” said Moorish, but Alisha responded anyway.

  “Bill dropped me off in his van and picked me up an hour or so later.”

  I called Alisha’s mother once more and asked her, “Did you see the vehicle Alisha came in?”

  “No.”

  “When Bill picked up Alisha later that day, what vehicle was he driving?”

  “It was a white van.”

  I told Mrs. Johnson she might be interviewed later in person.

  “The alibi is hokey,” said Steve. “Alisha could have picked up Flynn’s car on the Tuesday and left it around the corner when she stopped off to see her mother.”

  I agreed. “Let’s see what we get out of her boyfriend,” I said as we went to interview Bill Dollar. We faced a very angry man in that second questioning room, a man who had not listened to his attorney, who would have surely told him not to volunteer anything and respond only to the questions asked.

  “I’m going to sue you SOBs for arresting me,” he growled as we sat down. “You’ve no right to search my home and steal my money.”

  “We had a search warrant, as your attorney knows,” I replied before asking him, “What did you do with the fishing rods you stole from Mr. Flynn’s tent?”

  “I didn’t steal them. The guy had abandoned them.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  Dollar replied he had sold them on Craigslist. I asked for and received details of the buyer and the transaction. “Did you enter Flynn’s tent in the night and kill him?”

  “I didn’t touch the man. His car was gone by Monday morning, and he didn’t come back for his stuff.”

  Steve, playing hardball, interposed: “We found blood in the tent and matching stains in your van. We believe you killed him and had Alisha drive his car to Compton.”

  Dollar yelled, “That’s bullshit, you fucking liars! I never touched the man. Alisha was with me every day until we left on Tuesday. Besides, we saw her mother in Oakland on the way home… I also made a pit stop at the gas station on Highway 5…near Cactus Creek, I think it was. They probably have cameras that’ll show we were there, since we used the washroom and bought hamburgers.”

  “We’ll look into it… Did you pay there with a charge card or with cash?’

  “I always pay gas stations in cash. It’s cheaper.”

  I paused before changing the subject. “Where did you get the money in your safe?”

  “I fucking earned it. I repair cars on the side. And I damn well want my money back when I get out of here.”

  “And you get paid only in hundred-dollar bills?” I asked, my voice expressing disbelief.

  Dollar hesitated. “I make change for guys who pay me that way. I don’t ask them questions.”

  “You’ll need to give us the names of some of those guys and the amount they paid you to confirm the source of the money.”

  Dollar looked at his attorney, who did not respond.

  We got nothing useful further from Dollar, so we terminated the interview and had him taken back to jail.

  Roger Moorish asked us, “Is it true you found blood in Mr. Dollar’s van?”

  “No,” I replied. “We examined it yesterday and found nothing except your client’s fishing rods.”

  “I thought it to be a trick question.” He took a deep breath. “I think I can get Mr. Dollar to give us some of the names of his customers. I suspect some of them use their vehicles for illegal activities. That would explain his reluctance to speak on the matter.”

  I thanked him and told him we hadn’t found anybody at the site who saw Johnson on the campgrounds that Monday or Tuesday.

  Moorish responded, “Monday is irrelevant since Ms. Johnson could not have had time to drive the car to Compton and return to visi
t her mother in Oakland three hundred miles to the north.”

  “Perhaps,” I replied, “but you know we view alibis from close relatives with suspicion… Johnson could have been offsite with Flynn’s car on Monday and still visited her mother the next day.”

  “Detective, no jury would believe Ms. Johnson drove the Camry with the dead man inside it and parked it around the corner when she visited her mother.”

  “Weird things like that do happen,” said Steve.

  Moorish stared at us at length before saying, this time in a very firm manner, “You haven’t tried hard enough to find people at the campsite who can confirm Ms. Johnson’s presence on both days. I understand there are closed-circuit television cameras at the site. Surely, you would have looked at these and confirmed Ms. Johnson being there on those days.”

  “The camp CCTV records were purged before we could examine them,” I replied.

  Moorish stroked his chin. “You are really suggesting Mr. Flynn’s body was left overnight somewhere and put in his trunk and transported away on Tuesday. That’s a very far-fetched theory. The smell from the decaying dead body would have been readily noticed.”

  “The smell from Flynn’s dead body could very well escape notice in the sealed trunk of his car for a period up to thirty hours, especially if it had been placed in a sealed body bag.”

  “You are stretching to charge Mr. Dollar and Ms. Johnson here,” said Moorish. “You are doing this only because Mr. Dollar took the abandoned fishing rods from the missing man’s tent and because you found money in Mr. Dollar’s safe that roughly matches in quantity and quality what the dead man was carrying.”

  I ignored the truth of this statement. “And also because your clients live near where Flynn’s car was found, at a very substantial distance from the fishing camp.”