by Tom Wallace
“Am I to be the back channel?”
“Unless you wouldn’t feel comfortable in that role.”
“I have no problem doing it,” I said. “I’ll contact Mark later this afternoon and let him know you are willing to help.”
“Great,” Greg said, standing. “It’s past noon. I’m starved, so let’s go find some nourishment. We can talk about your friend while we eat. Does that sound like a plan?”
Neither Angel nor I objected. Seconds later we were out the door.
Twenty-five
“Who do you think murdered Dorsey McElwain, Dad?” Angel asked. We were in the Mexican restaurant near Best Western. “I can tell you who my prime suspect is…Perry Jackson.”
“That’s because you detest the man,” I said.
“You’re telling me you don’t think he’s involved?”
“Maybe he is, but let’s get the evidence that proves it before we put the noose around his neck.”
Greg laughed, said, “Having evidence to bolster your case is always a good idea, Angel. Your father—”
“My father should introduce me as Samantha, my real name,” Angel interrupted.
“Oops, sorry about that, Samantha,” Greg said. Then to me: “About the Florida thing you mentioned yesterday, I phoned Juan Perez, the Miami SAC, and asked him if he would look into the incident. But I’d completely forgotten that Juan’s first assignment as a young agent was in the Miami office. He didn’t work the Barker case, but he remembers it quite well.”
“And what did he tell you?” I asked.
“Because the yacht was completely destroyed by the explosion and fire, no evidence survived that would lead investigators to conclude if what happened was an accident or a homicide. But based on the amount of money he walked away with …”
“Wait a minute,” Angel interrupted. “Who are you talking about?”
“Russell Barker,” I said.
“That sick, perverted bastard? Why …”
I held up my hand to cut her off. Then I nodded at Greg to continue.
“As I was saying, Russell walked away with a mountain of money… upwards of forty-million bucks…which sent up a red flag for the investigators. However, with no way to prove a homicide had been committed, no charges were ever filed. Another factor worked to Russell’s advantage… his son perished in the explosion. And the way Juan remembers it, Russell was pretty torn up by the death of his son. The investigators just couldn’t convince themselves he would kill his own child.”
“Unless Russell wasn’t aware that the boy was on the yacht at the time,” I pointed out.
“That’s definitely a real possibility,” Greg conceded, adding, “I guess we have to chalk it up as a mystery that will never be solved.”
Angel plucked a chip from a basket sitting on the table, dipped it into a bowl of salsa, and took a bite. “Why are you discussing Russell Barker, Dad?” she said, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “I thought we were here to talk about Rabbit.”
Greg responded to her question before I did. “The answer to that is simple, Samantha,” he said. “Your father is certain Russell was involved in these murders. Am I right, Nick?”
“Murders? I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m reasonably certain he was involved in Sharon Anderson homicide.”
“What about this latest homicide? Was Russell also in on the murder of Dorsey McElwain?”
“If what I believe is close to the truth, I’d have to say yes.”
“The floor is all yours, Nick. Lay out your version of the truth.”
“Heather Anderson told me Sharon spent quite a bit of time at the Barkers’ house, ostensibly to do Dottie’s hair. But after what we learned about the Barkers’ sexual proclivities, I believe… ”
“Whoa, Nick, let me stop you right there,” Greg said. “Sexual proclivities? Details, please.”
“Apparently, the Barkers tend to have a very liberated view of the marriage contract,” I said. “That’s especially true of Dottie, who has shared her bed with numerous partners of both sexes. Word is, she has a strong preference for threesomes. Russell often joins in, other times he’s a spectator. His greatest joy comes from watching his wife with two women. And every encounter, whether he is involved or not, is recorded.”
“Salacious, I grant you, but how do you go from threesomes to murder?” Greg asked.
“What if those trips Sharon Anderson made to the Barker house were to take part in the sexual escapades rather than to labor over Dottie’s hair? According to Heather, Sharon was madly in love with someone at the time of her death. What if Russell was that someone? What if?”
“Jesus Christ, Nick, you’re killing me with what-ifs,” Greg said. “If you hope to persuade me you have to give me more than pure speculation.”
“It is speculation, Greg, I’ll admit that. But let me finish before you dismiss what I’m saying. Will you grant me that favor?”
“Okay, request granted. Keep going.”
“Sharon spends so much time at the Barkers’ house that she eventually develops strong feelings for Russell. They carry on for a few months…it’s outside-the-marriage fun for him, but not for her. As for Dottie, she couldn’t care less. She’s off having her own fun. Anyway, Sharon is madly in love with Russell, wants him all to herself and begins nagging him to dump Dottie and marry her. At some point, Sharon becomes overly possessive and begins to lay down ultimatums. Maybe she threatens to go public with the sexual stuff unless Russell marries her. Or she wants more money. But Russell isn’t about to capitulate to her demands. And he’s damn sure not going to allow Sharon to go public with what goes on inside the Barker house. Suddenly she has become a threat, not merely a sexual plaything. She has to be done away with.”
“So Russell kills her? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, he hires someone to do the dirty work.”
“Let me take a wild stab at who that someone is. Dorsey McElwain, right?”
“Dorsey for sure, perhaps with assistance from Perry Jackson.”
“I can see why those movie people want you as a writer, Nick,” Greg said. “That’s some tale you’re spinning. I’ll give you credit for that.”
“What part do you see as being so outlandish?” I asked.
“Quite frankly, Nick, most of it, I’m sorry to say. You start with Russell, then you bring in Dorsey McElwain, and for the final cherry on top of the plot, you include Perry Jackson. That’s a wild conspiracy you’ve got working. About the only person missing from the group is Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“Make a joke, Greg, but Dorsey McElwain is dead. That’s not funny. One conspirator has been permanently shut up. Do you really believe his death is a coincidence? I don’t. He was a threat to Russell. Therefore, he had to be eliminated.”
“A minute ago you claimed Russell wouldn’t get his hands dirty by committing murder. Now, all of a sudden, he’s willing to dirty his hands? Come on, Nick. You can’t have it both ways.”
“Russell hired someone to kill Dorsey, just like he hired someone to kill Sharon Anderson,” I said.
“Who? Perry Jackson? If that’s so, how long will it be before Perry is murdered? And who is going to eliminate him? If my calculation is correct, once Perry is gone, Russell has officially run out of local henchmen to do his dirty work. He’d have to go out and hire a new crew of killers, wouldn’t he?”
I remained silent, sensing Greg wasn’t quite finished with his lecture. I was right.
“You want to know the gaping hole I find with your wild theory, Nick?” Greg continued. “Dottie Barker. What role does she play in any of this? Do you expect me to believe all these homicides are occurring and she’s clueless? Well, I don’t. I’m not buying her innocence. And here’s one of your what-ifs that you conveniently overlooked. What if Sharon was madly in love with Dottie and not with Russell? That theory is as plausible as the one you laid out. Maybe Dottie is the mastermind behind these homicides.”
“Dottie Barker snapped Dorsey
McElwain’s neck like a twig? That’s what you want me to believe? Really? Now who’s being outlandish?”
“Who’s to say she didn’t hire it done? She has access to Russell’s money.”
“A clever diversion, Greg,” I said. “But you’re way off base. Russell is behind the murders.”
“Okay, Nick, you’ve solved two murders, Sharon’s and McElwain’s. But what about the one in the middle, the one that brought you here in the first place? The Luke Felton murder? Haven’t you maintained all along that these homicides are linked in some way? Where’s the link? What’s the link? Who’s the link?”
“Dorsey McElwain. Solve his murder and you’ll see that I’m right. That’s why it’s imperative that you handle the investigation.”
“Which I can’t do unless my assistance is requested.” Greg looked at Angel and said, “What’s your opinion on all this, Samantha?”
“I don’t know if Dorsey was the link or not, but the timing of his death so soon after speaking with me is more than a little suspicious,” Angel said. “His death needs to be thoroughly investigated.”
At that moment Greg’s cell phone chirped. He picked it up, checked the Caller ID, frowned, looked across the table at me, and whispered, “Talk about serendipitous.”
Before I could ask Greg what the hell he meant, he put the phone to his ear and spoke. Hearing his first words told me all I needed to know.
“Yes, Mark, it’s good to hear from you,” Greg said. “In fact, I have heard about it. Yes, it is sad. Sure, I’d be more than happy to help in any way I can. Really? You don’t see my involvement as possibly starting a turf war? Actually, I’m in town now. I’m with Nick Gabriel and his daughter at the Mexican restaurant near the Best Western. West Second Street? I’m sure Nick knows where that is. We can be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. Okay, Mark, I’ll meet you there.”
“Mark Robinson, I presume,” I said, as Greg put his phone away.
Greg nodded. “He wants me to take complete charge of the investigation. Naturally, Jimmy Martin is less than thrilled, but Mark isn’t concerned about Jimmy’s hurt feelings. He said Jimmy is good at handling routine matters, but a homicide investigation is out of his league.”
“That’s a good call by Mark,” I said.
“Do you know where West Second Street is?”
“Of course.”
“Did I lie, or can we make it in fifteen or twenty minutes?”
“We can be there in ten if we leave now.”
“Then let us tarry no longer.” Greg stood. “Let me pay the bill and then we’ll be on our way.”
~ * ~
We made it to West Second Street is under ten minutes. West Second, a short street located between Reservoir and Center Street, was currently the epicenter of more activity than neighbors had probably ever witnessed in the past. There were several police cruisers, a sheriff’s vehicle, two sedans, and a fire truck parked on the street in front of the house. Yellow tape, ubiquitous at every crime scene, was wrapped around the small front yard, put there to cordon off the house from inquisitive rubberneckers. Two uniformed officers stood on the front porch, while Jimmy Martin’s diminutive Deputy Hall closely monitored the scene for anyone who looked like he might be planning to sprint past the yellow tape.
Dorsey’s house of residence, fourth on the right if you turned left off Reservoir onto West Second, appeared to be a typical three-bedroom, two-bath wooden structure. There was a front yard and a back yard, both small, and a porch. The house itself needed work. Back when it was first built, the house had probably been one of the nicest homes on the block. But that wasn’t the case anymore, and it hadn’t been for years. The passage of time and long-term neglect rendered it one step above a true eyesore.
Greg and I exited the car and headed toward the house. Angel stayed behind, hopping up on the hood of the car to get a better look at what was taking place across the street.
Greg badged Deputy Hall, who immediately lifted the tape for the FBI agent to enter. But Hall didn’t feel compelled to be so accommodating to a writer, and it was only after Greg ordered him to grant my entrance that Hall reluctantly raised the tape.
I followed Greg onto the porch and into the house. I’m no cop but even I was quick to realize that too many people were milling around in what was obviously a crime scene. Most of them would have to go. Jimmy Martin and Perry Jackson were standing against the wall, while Mark Robinson, the county attorney, stood behind the sofa, where, I presume, Dorsey had been sitting when he took his final breath. His body had been removed, but the way Mark was inspecting the area left little doubt that Dorsey had died sitting there.
Greg acknowledged Jimmy and Perry with a nod, then went over and shook hands with Mark. I planted myself against the wall opposite Jimmy and Perry, both of whom glared at me with disdain in their eyes.
“With the exception of Mark, Jimmy, and Perry, I want everyone else out of here,” Greg announced. “I have put in a call to my forensics team. They should be arriving within two hours. It would be nice if they could work a relatively undisturbed crime scene, which won’t be the case if all you folks continue strolling around like you’re visiting a museum. Try not to touch anything on your way out. Thanks.”
Greg hadn’t mentioned my name when ordering people to leave, but I stayed put just the same. There was no way I was leaving unless directly ordered by Greg to do so. Call me nosey, but I wanted to know what was going on. This was research, remember?
Greg continued to confer with Mark, then motioned for Jimmy and Perry to join them. Once they did, the foursome went on a recon mission through the house. I toyed with the idea of tagging along with them, but decided that probably wasn’t the wise thing to do. No sense unnecessarily pressing my luck.
Instead, I went over to a wooden table that had stacks of CDs piled on top of it. Curious, I began browsing through them. The vast majority were music recordings, heavy on Country and Western, while a few cowboy movies were included. Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary for a guy Dorsey’s age. However, there was one that did catch my attention. It was the only one not in a case. But the main reason it drew my interest was because the word “Personal” was written on it in red ink.
When Greg and his gang came back into the room, I went over and handed the CD to him. “This might be interesting,” I said.
Greg went to the TV, studied the equipment until he had it figured out, turned on the TV, put the CD in, and pressed the Play button.
The TV screen sprang to life, first with nothing but snow and the familiar low buzzing sound that normally comes when your cable has been disconnected. I feared I had given Greg a dud. But I was wrong. Seconds later, a picture, bright and in full color filled the screen, and the movie began. The stars were two women and a lone male, all completely nude, and judging from the moaning and groaning on the soundtrack, each one was clearly enjoying what they were doing. The trio was arranged in a circle, their contorted bodies a miracle of flexibility, which reminded me of a serpent eating its own tail.
“Did you know Dorsey was involved in this, Perry?” Greg asked.
“No, I didn’t,” Perry answered. “I’m as shocked as you are.”
“How about you, Jimmy?”
“Hell, no.”
“You’re both sure about that?” Greg said. “Now is the time to come clean if you did know.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Perry said, taking a step closer to Greg. “I hope for your sake that’s not the case.”
“Did either of you ever participate?”
“In that sick, twisted shit? No way.” Perry turned to Mark. “You want to put this guy in charge, Mark, that’s your call. But he’d better start directing his stupid questions to someone other than me. For his own good.”
“My job is to find answers, Perry, not to worry about pissing you off,” Greg said, forcefully. “I’ll ask you or anyone else one hundred fucking questions if I think they’ll help me find the answers. As for my own good
, you let me worry about that.”
The atmosphere had suddenly become tense and highly volatile. There was a moment when I really thought Greg and Perry were going to clash. Mark must have sensed the same thing, because he eased in between Greg and Perry, both of whom dwarfed him in height and weight. I’m not sure Mark could have done much had the two men decided to tangle. And I’m even less sure whose side Jimmy would be on.
I ended the silence and softened the tension by posing a question. “I recognize Dorsey, but who are the two women?” I asked.
“Dottie Barker and Sharon Anderson,” Mark replied.
Greg looked at me, smiled, and said, “Your theory might not be so outlandish after all, Nick.”
I didn’t respond, but inwardly I was beaming.
“Jimmy, I’m leaving to speak with the Barkers,” Greg said. “You are more than welcome to come along. This is also your investigation. I have no desire to cut you out.”
“What about Perry?” Jimmy inquired.
“Perry has no role in this investigation. He can’t come with us.”
“I’ll pass,” Jimmy said, answering my silent question about whose side he would be on.
“Suit yourself, Jimmy. I will fill you in if I learn anything important at the Barker house.”
“You are wasting your time,” Perry noted. “Russell’s not the talkative type.”
“Then I’ll have to win him over with my charming personality,” Greg said, turning to Mark. “Leave one officer posted at the door with orders to let no one in until the forensics team arrives.”
“You got it, Greg. And let me know how things go with Russell and Dottie.”
Greg and I left the house, ducked under the crime scene tape, and met Angel at the car. She noticed the CD in Greg’s hand, but waited until we were in the car before inquiring about it.
“Are we listening to music or watching a movie?” Angel asked, only half-kidding.
“You don’t want to know,” I said. “Anyway, you’re too young to watch it.”
“It’s that bad, huh? Who’s in it? Anyone I know? Wait…that was Dorsey’s house, wasn’t it? Yeah, it was. Is he the star? He is, isn’t he?”