Shallow Waters

by Kay Jennings

  Fern, mesmerized, read that he and his partner, Sergeant Jessica Hernandez, responded to a call from the campus police of Collin College, Plano location. A party at an off-campus apartment building spilled out into the courtyard of the complex. The reporter said it had been a “welcome back to school” party. Fern thought it must have been a hot, sticky September night—another photo in the upper right of the article showed fifty or so young partygoers, all dressed in shorts and tees.

  According to the police report, Matt Horning and Jessica Hernandez never saw 19-year-old Alicia Johnson come out of the crowd behind them, and jump Matt’s back. Hernandez tried to pull Alicia off her partner, but she continued to flail and punch at both officers.

  In their testimony to the Grand Jury, all Matt and Jessica remembered was the flash of Horning’s pistol as Alicia lunged at his gun. The bullet caught her in the middle of her forehead, and she died instantly. Horning and Hernandez were suspended pending a review of the incident and the Grand Jury’s verdict.

  Whoa, thought Fern, and she clicked on the next article published ten days later, and featuring a photo of Alicia Johnson, along with photos of her parents. Alicia was the only child of Horton and Claire Johnson. The girl’s father, a distinguished African-American scholar, was also the U.S. House of Representatives’ most prominent congressman from the great state of Texas. Her mother was a U.S. Court of Appeals judge.

  Skimming through another few articles, Fern pieced together that even though several of the partygoers testified that Alicia Johnson had a knife in her hand, tried repeatedly to stab Horning and Hernandez, and was “completely coked out”, the Johnsons fought a public battle against Matt. The Dallas Morning News helped them wage the war, keeping their daughter’s death at the hands of the Plano police front and center for several weeks.

  While the Grand Jury exonerated Matt and Jessica, deciding that there was not enough probable cause to indict Detective Matthew Michael Horning in the shooting death of Alicia Johnson, and that Horning and Hernandez acted within the limits of the lethal-force law because the victim had a knife in her hand, the Johnsons didn’t let it go. They filed a civil suit against Matt.

  Fern closed her laptop and stared at herself in the mirror over her fireplace. No wonder Matt is so upset that Emily was the daughter of our mayor. Another daughter of a politician dead. Even though the circumstances were completely different, Matt’s motivation to solve this crime was abundantly clear to Fern now. And, she could only imagine the emotional pain this case was bringing to him. How unfortunate this happened on the day the poor guy arrived!

  Well, she was a crime victim’s advocate, and Matt was a victim himself in this case. She would do whatever she could to help their new police chief weather this storm, both professionally and personally.

  * * *

  Sunday, 8:00 p.m.

  “Whadda ya got, Sheriff?” Matt said into his ringing cell phone. “Did you find Fergus Dunbar?”

  “Yep, and this dude is a piece of work,” Chinook County Sheriff Earl Johnson said. “He’s a farmer, single, about 35, and appears to live alone. I caught up with him at his farm.”

  “Where is that?” Matt asked.

  “He lives north of town, off of Old Van Dorn Road close to where it meets High Creek Road. In other words, the middle of nowhere.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. Dunbar wasn’t eager to talk to me, and I didn’t find him particularly cooperative,” said Sheriff Johnson. “He’s a classic hippie left over from the 60’s. We have a lot of them around here. Shoulder-length hair that could use a shampoo, and tie-dyed tee shirt. He didn’t smell all that great either. Get the picture?” Johnson asked Matt.

  “Yes, I do have a vivid picture,” said Matt, and smiled into his phone. He recalled from yesterday’s team meeting that Sheriff Earl had a crewcut that Mike Ditka would have been proud of, and his uniform, straining to cover his belly, was starched to the max. His ruddy complexion looked like it had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Matt doubted that the sheriff had much in common with Fergus Dunbar.

  “Fergus doesn’t much care for the mayor, I’ll tell you that,” continued Johnson. “’Typical useless politician’, he called him. And he didn’t seem particularly upset when I told him about the little girl’s death. I explained that I was there investigating Emily’s death, and he said ‘shit happens’. Not exactly sympathetic. I wrote up my report and can bring it in now if you like.”

  “Yeah, I’m in my office for a little while longer, and I’d like to read it tonight. In your view, Sheriff, is Fergus Dunbar a killer?”

  “He might be. I haven’t ruled him out. He hates the mayor, doesn’t seem to place a high value on human life, and he’s likely a stoner. I’d like to see an aerial view of his farm—he’s probably growing pot along with his vegetables and chickens. And if he has a grower’s permit, I’m Lady Gaga.”

  “OK, so he’s not fond of our mayor. Just a couple more questions then I’ll let you go. Does he have an alibi for Friday night?” asked Matt.

  “He says he was home alone, chillin and watching the tube. Says he never goes out on Friday night because it’s ‘amateur hour’ in the bars. I concur with him on that front,” the sheriff added.

  “Did he talk to anyone on the phone? Send any emails? Can anyone verify he was home?”

  “He said he didn’t make or receive any phone calls, and no one stopped by. That I believe. His farm is a destination—you have to be going there on purpose, no one would just stop by. I didn’t think to ask him about sending email.” The sheriff’s voice lowered a fraction; he was clearly embarrassed to admit this last part.

  “Did you ask him about his beef with Fred Bushnell?” asked Matt.

  “Yes. Dunbar’s been agitating to get the city council to declare one week in July as “Community Supported Agriculture” week. His idea is that if people have more awareness of buying local, seasonal food from farmers—such as himself, of course—everybody will prosper. He’s essentially trying to promote his CSA business, and he got ticked off when Fred told him that the city wasn’t interested in promoting one for-profit business over another. Fergus got all riled up just talking about it to me.”

  “This doesn’t feel like a big enough issue to kill a child over to me,” Matt said. “And aren’t hippies supposed to be all about love and peace, not violence? But I will want to talk to him and check out his alibi further. It sounds like Fergus Dunbar has a motive, however weak it might be, to harm the mayor; I’d like to know for sure whether or not he had the opportunity. Let’s get a warrant tomorrow morning and go back out there and bring in his computer. That may tell us whether or not he was really at home Friday night. I’d also like to know if he had any email correspondence with the mayor.”

  “Sure thing, Chief. Dunbar was mad as hell at Fred, and if he’s a druggie, which I suspect, there’s no telling what he might do. I’ll get a warrant from Judge Hedges first thing.”

  “Good. Make sure his address is on your report. I’ll want to personally meet Mr. Dunbar. Thanks, Sheriff. Appreciate the leg work.”

  Matt made a mental note to always stay on the good side of rough, tough Earl Johnson.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sunday, 9:00 p.m.

  Matt turned off Ocean Bend Road onto what he hoped was his driveway. The mist was swirling, and it was raining so hard, for the second night in a row he wasn’t sure he was in the right place.

  He cracked open his window an inch, and heard the familiar sound of gravel crunching under his tires. Home.

  It was dark as hell, and he couldn’t see any lights on even at

  his closest neighbor, one driveway north. Matt hadn’t thought

  to turn on his porch light when he left that morning, and the darkness enveloped him.

  He grabbed his briefcase and slid it under his jacket to protect it from the rain
as he ran to his door. The rain, wetter than anything he’d ever seen or felt, appeared to be coming straight down and sideways simultaneously. The wind wailed, and blew his jacket’s hood off his head within seconds of exiting his car. Matt tried to locate the correct key on his keychain with the wicked rain pelting his face.

  “Christ Almighty!” he yelled to the wind and the rain. “Give me a fucking break, will you?”

  Wonderful. I’m here two whole days, and I’m already swearing at the weather.

  He unlocked his door, stepped into the dark warmth, and put his weight against the wind-lashed door to shut it against the elements. He felt like someone in a horror movie trying to shut the door against the Zombies. With rain dripping off his nose, and wet creeping down his neck and back, he shook out his jacket and took off his shoes in the little vestibule.

  Actually, vestibule might be too fancy a word for what was in reality a tiny enclosed porch between the front door and the living room. Matt now understood why the area had a stone floor before the oatmeal carpet of the “great” room began. He reached for the light switch, and continued dropping wet clothes.

  This was the second time today he’d been drenched to his skin. When they’d left the Bushnell residence, he, Fern, and his two colleagues had to walk down the longish driveway to reach their vehicles, and had been pummeled by the sudden deluge when the clouds burst. “We have this new invention here called an umbrella,” Fern said, “but I left mine in the trunk of my car. Brilliant.”

  She was a corker, thought Matt. Jay, Ed, Patty, and the sheriff had all been rocks, too. Frankly, he was a bit surprised that his team was as strong as they were. Their reactions, along with Bernice Ryder’s, on the fly had been exemplary. They’d all really stepped up in the face of adversity. What he would have done without them today, he had no idea. Until he got to know his own department better, it was reassuring to know he had help at the county level.

  Matt stepped around four boxes from Texas that were piled in the middle of his living room, and found a blissfully dry sweatshirt and pair of sweat pants on top of his as-yet-unpacked suitcase. It seemed like months ago that he’d planned to unpack his stuff and settle into his new home. In reality, it had only been 36 hours. The longest 36 hours of his life.

  He turned on a lamp in the living room, the one on the end table next to the sofa. Then he moved purposefully toward the fireplace. It seemed important to light a fire immediately and bring some cheerfulness to his space. The mindful act of crumpling up newspaper and piling on kindling from the bin on the hearth was restorative. He lit a match to his pyramid and watched the flames catch, squatting in front of the substantial opening. The image of Emily’s body appeared before his eyes, dancing in the blaze. He pushed it away, and headed to his kitchen.

  He opened a beer from his fridge, and drank it from the bottle. It might never have tasted better. Damn good beer in Oregon, he had to acknowledge.

  Before he’d flown from DFW yesterday morning, Matt had originally planned to cook himself a nice pot roast tonight with a salad while he unpacked and watched Sunday Night Football, but after the brutal day, that plan was dead. Instead, he reached for a loaf of bread and a can of tuna fish, along with a bag of chips. It would have to do. He’d make an effort to get to a grocery store tomorrow for some fresh food.

  Matt laid out his gourmet meal on the heavy wood coffee table in front of the fireplace, which was now really putting out the heat, and switched on his TV. He watched the late news on KVAL with an objective eye while he ate, and thought he and his colleagues had done an OK job. The camera loved Fern, he noted; she looked beautiful, and appeared poised and at ease.

  After the news, he surfed the channels—his football game had ended; Cowboys won!—finished his beer, and dried out from the fire’s warmth, not finding anything that interested him. It was no use; his brain would not veg out, even though he willed it to.

  He was struggling with whether or not he believed the mayor and his family. All were distraught, of course, but something felt off to Matt. Experience told him to look hardest at Fred—and he would continue that line of investigation—but after today’s developments, Marjorie had to be Suspect No. 1. Based on the facts he had presently, she was the only Bushnell with a motive to want Emily dead. It might turn out that Fred knew he wasn’t Emily’s father, and/or that he knew his wife was cheating on him, but Matt felt strongly that today was the first inkling Fred had about Marjorie’s boyfriend. His reaction to the news was too pure to be faked.

  In a funny way, Matt had weirder feelings about Fred’s two sons than he did about Fred himself. Both boys seemed a little peculiar, and it felt as if they were holding back in some way. He had a handle on where Gary and Jack had spent Friday night, at least on the surface. He was a little ticked off that they were unable to verify today that both boys had been where they said they were, but they would tie up that loose end tomorrow. It should be easily confirmed by witnesses at the tavern and at the cinema. And, now that the news was out, it would become easier to nail down potential witnesses.

  He hunkered down with a notebook and a second brewski in front of his fireplace, stretched his legs out and warmed his bare feet, and began to write down everything he knew so far about Emily’s murder. Thinking back to the interviews with Jack and Gary, Matt also made a list of statements the kids had made that needed following up. He did the same with Ted Frolick, although his heart wasn’t in it. He knew it defied logic, but Matt was sure that Frolick was not his killer.

  Matt occasionally thought about what kind of man he’d be when he hit his 70s, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he might be just like Ted Frolick . . . alone, daily hikes, a great reader, a quiet life. He would keep a neater front yard, for sure, and he genuinely hoped the right woman and kids would come along, but Matt knew he wouldn’t seek the big-city high life—he had already burned out on Dallas—and he didn’t feel he needed tons of money to be happy. He wanted professional success, yes, but it was more about respect than anything else. He wanted to be known for being good at his job, and he wanted a lifetime of learning. Which is, he suspected, exactly what Ted Frolick wanted. Matt liked him, and if Frolick ended up being a sicko psychopath, it would be sad.

  On every case he’d ever worked, Matt kept private notes for his own use. That kept his perspective on the investigation in focus, not swayed by anyone else’s viewpoint. By the time he finished his beer, he had a short list of the facts, along with the players so far. He had a much longer list of the unanswered questions that would have to wait until tomorrow’s light of day.

  How could this have happened the first day I’m here? Matt thought, staring into his now-roaring fire. Gusts of wind hurling down the chimney from the gale outside were making the flames dance. His big picture windows were stable, but, on occasion, the paned windows in the panel next to his front door would rattle. The little cabin felt mostly solid, though, and tonight it offered up the coziness that Matt knew it would when he’d first laid eyes on it last December.

  I just want a fresh start in a quiet place. Did I ask for a career-

  defining child-murder case? Did I?? No, I did not. But it was the cards he was dealt, so he had no choice but to fold or play his hand. And Matt Horning didn’t fold. Ever. No how. No way.

  In addition to his specific action items for tomorrow to move the case forward, he also added some logistical things to a new list: the “Things-to-do-after-I-catch-Emily’s-killer” list. The War Room set-up was working nicely as a command center, but he needed a key for the door to keep out any curious City Hall employees. And he needed Mary Lou’s assistance setting up his office and the department’s squad room in a more user-friendly, professional manner. So far, Matt only knew where these three rooms and the men’s room were located, and he didn’t have a clue where supplies, extra furniture, etc. were kept. He could operate in the short term, but to perform day-to-day operations, and to ensure tha
t his leadership and order were maintained, the police department’s digs and, he suspected, policies would need some fine-tuning. His predecessor, George, had run a loose ship.

  Matt turned out the lamp next to his sofa, and stared, in the dark, at the dying embers of his fire, listening to the wind howl around his cottage, as the rain ran in rivers down his ocean-front windows. After midnight, he walked down the short hallway to his bedroom, dropped his sweats at the foot of his bed, and climbed in.

  Laying there naked and exhausted for thirty seconds, Matt realized he hadn’t brushed his teeth. Hell with it.

  * * *

  Sunday, 10:00 p.m.

  Very dark out tonight. House is crazy. Garbage pickup yesterday right on schedule. Walking on top of truck and smelling real life.

  I told Emily the truth and she understood. Should have eaten all of her. Is she walking in the water? How can I kill myself? Death is living!

  Chapter 26

  Monday, 6:30 a.m.

  Last night’s squall had moved on, and Matt stood in front of his cottage’s big picture window looking out on a tranquil sea, clutching his coffee mug, and searching the waves for his new pet, Roger the seal. The ever-present misty fog over the water was lifting. Patches of blue sky appeared intermittently between the fast-moving downy white clouds coming in from the southwest.

  The sun was just peeking over the Twisty River Valley hills behind him, and its first hit on the water was turning yesterday’s angry, gray ocean into a placid blue. Soft, frothy waves broke gently. There was still some leftover brown foam from last night’s tempest clinging to the upper reaches of the beach, but it would soon be washed away by this morning’s friendlier breakers.

  Even though it was a harsh time of year, Matt could see signs of the spring beauty to come. His little garden enclosed within the picket fence was showing tiny white snowdrops peeking out of the mossy cover at the far end closest to the ocean. Along the south side of his fence was a stunning yellow witch hazel in all its glory, especially with this morning’s sunshine hitting it full-on.