by Mike Monson
“Detective Fagan,” Mavis said. She sat down next to him on the bed. “Miranda has been in some trouble, mostly due to her relationship with her mother and father. She’s doing real well now and I can assure you she is not on drugs. Not at all. Isn’t that right dear?”
“Drugs are lame,” Miranda said. “Duh.”
Fagan looked down at Mavis’ cleavage. As he stood up, he blocked the others’ view of Mavis and ran his right hand across both her breasts, and gave her right nipple a little squeeze. Mavis made a small squeaky noise and smiled.
“Plant,” Fagan said. “Call into the station and put an APB out on Dunn and his vehicle. And mention he might be with Logan Swift.” He looked at Miranda. “I got a feeling he and this Miranda know something about what happened last night.”
TWENTY-TWO
When they were nearly to Riverbank and both sides of the road had turned from car dealers and fast food restaurants to vineyards and almond orchards, Logan lightly jabbed Paul with the shotgun barrel and told him to pull over into one of the orchards on the right.
“No way,” Paul said.
“Just make a right and go in between the rows, Uncle Paul.
Paul looked.
“But there’s no room.”
Logan cocked the triggers on the double-barreled gun.
“I promise you there is room. Do it now.”
Paul put on the brakes and turned. He tried to aim between the rows and not hit a tree.
“What the fuck?” Paul said. Low branches hit the windshield and the side of the truck. He had to roll up his window to keep from getting struck by a piece of almond tree. After about a hundred feet Logan told him to stop. Dust and dirt flew and the truck’s metal shrieked from scraping branches. His stomach and chest struck the steering wheel and he had to put his hand out on the dash to avoid hitting his head on the windshield. This caused his back to spasm.
“Shit,” he said. “My back! God damn it.”
“Sorry, Uncle Paul,” Logan said. He put the shotgun on the seat to his right and reached out his left hand and put it on the small of Paul’s back, on the left side. “Is this where it hurts?” Logan kneaded the spot.
“Yes,” Paul said. He was creeped out by what Logan was doing, but it felt pretty good.
“Is that better?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
“What are we doing? We can’t just sit here.”
“Sure we can, I’ve hid out in these orchards all the time since I was little. You just got to watch out for dogs.”
“Oh god,” Paul said. He looked. “I don’t see any.”
“Don’t worry, if one was nearby you’d hear it.”
“So what are we doing?”
“You really do need to chill, man. We’re waiting for Randa to call. It’s all cool.”
Paul leaned forward to let Logan really dig into his back. He moaned.
“I have some medicine that might help,” Logan said.
“Thank, God.”
Logan stopped rubbing Paul and dug into a Gold’s Gym duffel on the floor. He reached into a black plastic bag and took out a small paper sack and out of the sack he pulled a small clear plastic bag containing thick off-white colored powder. He took his Karambit out of a pants pocket.
“What the fuck is that?” Paul said.
“Oh, this? This is some of that good shit. Real good shit, amen.”
“What do you mean? What is it? Is it heroin? Fuck.”
“That it is, Uncle Paul. Best shit I ever took. Wait … that didn’t come out right.”
Logan pulled out a fancy wood container, the size of a large box of wooden matches. He pulled out a spoon, a needle, and a lighter.
“Don’t you have anything else? Like some Vicodin or Oxys?”
Logan looked at Paul and smirked.
“No man, that’s high school shit. Junior high school shit. This is the real deal man. Beats fucking Robitussin.” He grinned at Paul.
Paul looked at the drugs and the equipment. He pictured Logan reaching out and tying off his right bicep while holding the syringe in his teeth, then jabbing the needle into a vein inside his elbow. He saw blood go up into the syringe as Logan pushed in the plunger. Then Logan pulled out the needle, loosened the band, and rubbed his lower back again while they waited for the heroin to hit. He imagined the euphoria and the release, followed by a rapid-fire montage of images of him knocking knocking knocking on Logan’s door, looking sick and pathetic, with an empty wallet in his hand.
“No, I can’t go there man,” Paul said. “My life is fucked up enough.”
Plus he had a lot of shit to figure out. Like, who killed his wife? He noticed that since that morning he’d started thinking of Tina as his wife again.
Logan put his face very close to Paul’s. He stared into his eyes like he was searching for something.
“Okay,” he said. “Suit yourself.” Logan fixed his own shot. He took his knife and dipped it into the bag for some of the powder. When he dropped the baggie back into the duffel bag, Paul saw what looked like about a dozen brick-sized black bags of what he assumed was more heroin.
“Jesus, dude,” Paul said. “How much shit you got there?”
Paul smiled. Big. “A lot man, it’s what I call a shit load of shit.”
“What are you, rich? Or a dealer now? How come you got so much?”
“Let’s just say I was in the right place at the right time.”
“Where did it all come from, Logan?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“What? Did you steal it?”
“I said I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t tell anyone, or can’t tell me?”
Logan pondered this. He looked confused.
“Just don’t ask, okay?”
Paul nodded and watched as the young man, with no apparent embarrassment, unzipped his zipper, lifted up his butt, and pulled down his cargo shorts to just above his knee. He wore no underwear. He shoved the needle into a spot on his inner left thigh just to the right of his testicle, plunged, pulled out the syringe, slumped backwards. He didn’t pull his shorts back up. His balls were huge. So big they almost made his ample penis look small.
Paul watched as Logan’s eyes closed and he fell onto his left side, seemingly unconscious. Paul had to grab and move his head to keep it from landing in his lap. Logan’s hips pushed the shotgun to the floor.
“Logan?” Paul nudged Logan’s shoulder. Nothing. He breathed deep and hard so Paul figured it wasn’t an OD. But he really didn’t know anything about it. He’d never been around heroin before.
Paul waited a minute and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Still no messages. Jeez, you’d think someone would call to express condolences about Tina dying. She was his wife for six years after all. He thought he’d been running out of friends lately.
He clicked on ModBee.com. There was a new headline over the Tina/Mark murder article: “Estranged Spouse of Woman Shotgun Victim Prime Suspect.”
He forgot about his back, about Logan, about the shotgun on the floor as he read the updated article.
Jorge Rincon, the business partner of the man found shot dead early this morning along with his female companion, said today that Modesto resident Paul Dunn is now considered the chief suspect in the double murder by the Modesto Police Department. Dunn is the estranged spouse of victim Tina Dunn, the woman who had been living in the North Modesto home with the other victim, Mark Pisko.
“It was well known that Mr. Dunn was angry that his wife had left him for my partner,” Rincon said. “In fact, both Tina Dunn and Mark had taken out a restraining order against the man after he made threats on their lives.”
Rincon added that Dunn had large credit card debts and his house had recently been foreclosed. “It is my understanding since the divorce was not yet final that Dunn stood to collect a large life insurance policy and his wife’s pension upon her death.”
Tina Dunn was a 20-year employee of the Stani
slaus County Clerk’s Office. The total amount of her life insurance policy and pension is not known at this time.
So far, the Modesto Police Department has not confirmed Rincon’s claims, though they admitted Dunn is a “person of interest” in the case.
“At this time,” said MPD Homicide Detective John Fagan, “we do not know Paul Dunn’s whereabouts and there is currently an all-points bulletin out on him and his vehicle.”
Fagan had no comment on Rincon’s further claim that the police knew that Dunn was in possession of the murder weapon.
“The location of the murder weapon is not something we wish to disclose at this time,” Fagan said.
The rest of the article was just a rehash of the information contained in the report from earlier that morning. Paul scrolled through and saw that they’d added an old photo of Pisko from his Fresno State days. He was glad to see there was no picture of him.
At the bottom, there were forty new comments from readers.
The first one from Jill Manakee, who Paul remembered as a co-worker of Tina’s from the county clerk’s office:
Our sweet Tina, taken too soon. RIP.
The next several were similar—posts from friends and co-workers. Paul knew all of them and he teared up remembering the beginnings of their marriage, the good times, when he went to parties and other events with some of the posters. Then, there was one from Tina’s sister, Megan:
Our family is devastated by this news. Tina was such a beautiful person and a wonderful sister. She was my guiding light, my rock. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.
This was strange to Paul since Megan barely spoke to Tina the entire time he’d known both. She came without her husband and children to their wedding reception (they’d eloped to Tahoe since it was Paul’s third marriage and Tina’s fourth) but didn’t bring a gift and left before they cut the cake. It broke Tina’s heart when she looked up from the cake-cutting and didn’t see Megan, and she cried half the night when she and Paul should’ve been celebrating. It all had something to do with an argument years before over some jewelry and clothes left by their dead grandmother. Paul could never understand the details.
Right after this comment, Megan added another:
I told her not to marry that SOB Paul Dunn. I’m not surprised at all that he killed Tina. I hope they find that bastard soon.
Then, in a reply to Megan’s post, Megan’s aunt Shirley added this:
We all knew Paul was some kind of loser. I heard he owed $100,000 on his MasterCard and his Visa cards and that he never paid a dime of their mortgage. Tina supported his ass while he got his teacher credential and he only lasted like three months when he finally got a teaching job. I hope he gets the needle.
Paul quickly signed on using his Facebook account and posted a reply to Shirley’s reply.
Funny Shirley that you don’t seem to remember that I worked part time jobs 25 to 35 hours a week the entire time I was getting my credential at night, except for when I had to do my student teacher hours, and I worked weekends. And Megan, WTF? Tina was your ‘rock?’ What a bunch of total BS.
Paul scrolled down and kept reading. There were posts from strangers condemning Paul and hoping he was found soon and punished. There were more comments from people who knew Tina. There were three or four from friends or people claiming to be close to Pisko. Paul was not popular. Again, he wondered where his friends might be. He tried to think of some and no names came up. Except one, and he really wasn’t a friend. Not exactly.
Paul looked over at Logan. His breathing had gotten shallow, but his color looked all right. He put his phone in his pocket. He opened the door of the truck as quietly as possible and, wincing from the pain, got out. He walked around the front and opened the passenger door. Logan didn’t stir. He reached in and took Logan’s backpack. He put it on Logan’s lap. He opened up the bag and exposed all the bricks of heroin. He grabbed his phone and took video of Logan and the pack. He shot close-ups of Logan’s face and of the bricks and the shotgun. After several minutes, he stopped filming, looked at the footage, and made sure it was saved. He looked at the shotgun and at Logan one last time before gently closing the door. Walked away as quietly as possible and limped toward the road as fast as he could.
The one person he thought he could still count on lived less than a mile away.
TWENTY-THREE
After searching Paul’s room, Fagan had Mavis and Miranda come out to the porch with him and officer Plant. On his way from the hallway to the front door, he smelled marijuana and looked over at the bong sitting out on the coffee table. He looked at Mavis and grinned. She looked away.
“Where do you think your son could be?” Fagan said. He sat down in an old couch located to the left of the door. He took out his notebook and a pencil.
“I really have no idea.”
“What about friends, relatives?”
“Dude doesn’t have friends anymore,” Miranda said.
“Really? Why is that?”
“A lot of them moved away I guess, and I think people are just sick of his shit, right Mom?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Miranda,” Mavis said. “Paul has always been very well liked.” She sat down next to Fagan.
Miranda laughed. “Okay … if you say so.”
“So, no friends then?” Fagan said. “What about his kids, girlfriends, that sort of person?”
“Maybe,” Mavis said. “It’s hard to say, really.”
“You two are not helpful,” Fagan said. “Let’s try to go through this step by step.”
Miranda looked at her phone. “Can I go inside? Like, do you really need me?”
“Detective?” Mavis said.
“I’m just his niece, right?” Miranda said. “Why do I need to be involved in all this?”
“Sure, I guess, but don’t leave. Got it?”
“Duh, where am I going to go without a car or license?”
Fagan pulled a card from his shirt pocket. “Here, take this just in case you think of something important, it has my cell number.”
Miranda took the card and went into the house. Fagan looked over at Plant.
“Why don’t you take off? We got the bulletin out on Mr. Dunn. I’ll add whatever I find out here when I’m finished with Mavis.”
Plant looked at Fagan and grinned before going out to his cruiser. Mavis leaned in to the detective.
“I need a drink,” Mavis said. She stood up. “Would you like something?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.
“We’ll I’m having vodka,” Mavis said. She stared down at him and lightly licked her lips.
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“Aren’t you supposed to say something like, ‘no ma’am, I can’t, I’m on duty?’”
“Fuck that,” he said. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and leaned back. “Make it a double.”
“Well, well,” Mavis said. “Coming right up.”
Fagan watched her as she walked into the house. While he waited, he took out his phone and found the photo of Paul Dunn he took that morning. He stared at it hard until Mavis came back. She carried a bottle of Smirnoff, a green Tupperware bowl full of ice, and two glasses. She sat, and put everything on the porch floor in front of them. She filled both glasses with ice and handed one to Fagan.
“One double vodka coming right up,” she said. She unscrewed the cap of the Smirnoff and filled his glass, then her own. They touched glasses and each took a sip. Mavis put her drink down. She took off her jacket and put it on the seat beside her. She rolled up her sleeves. She looked down at her chest, at the top of her silk blouse. She pulled it open as far as she could. She reached behind her back, lifted her long blonde hair up off of her shoulders, then dropped it so it all fell behind the couch. She leaned back, resting her bare neck on the top of the couch. She crossed her legs.
“What do you need to know, Detective?”
Fagan stared at her. He leaned forward
, perhaps to kiss her or touch her breasts, but he stopped.
“I need to know everything I can about your son so I can find him and keep him safe.”
“Could you hand me my drink?”
Fagan gave her the glass. She took a long swallow.
“You don’t think he did it, do you?”
Fagan thought about his answer. He really shouldn’t say anything to this woman, but, wow, she was so hot.
“No. But it doesn’t look good for him at this stage in the investigation. The DA wants him brought in. I also think he might be in danger from whoever did do it.” He put his right hand between her legs, on the inside of her right thigh. He ran his nails upward and stopped when he got to the bottom of her skirt.
“Well,” Mavis said. She spread her legs slightly. “Like me, he was born in Nacogdoches, in East Texas.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Paul had a hard time walking through the orchard. His ribs ached, and his swelling nose, cheeks, and eyes stung from the blows of the homophobic Christians. His groin hurt so much that when he stopped to pee he pulled his pants down all the way to get a good look. He wasn’t surprised to see that his testicles were swollen and bruised. The pain reminded him of his vasectomy, when he learned to his great dismay that almost any movement in the body involves the use of some muscle near the nuts.
One good thing, his back loosened up and stopped spasming after about ten minutes, and he could stand somewhat straight.
A short walk up the road was a house Paul new very well. Part of an olive farm, it was large and luxurious, custom-built to the owners’ exacting and tasteful instructions. The two residents were retired, and Paul hoped they were home, rather than on one of their nearly constant world-wide trips.