Witness

by Denise Gwen

  “Is that what you needed to tell the officer, honey,” Sophia said, “because—”

  “No, wait,” Brittany said impatiently. “I’m not finished.”

  Kathryn gazed at the girl.

  “When I walked back into the kitchen that afternoon—today, earlier today,” she added in a voice of wonder, “I remember smelling the tomato basil soup, but when I looked for it in the fridge—I just knew my mother would’ve made enough for me, and I was looking for it in a Tupperware container in the fridge, but when I didn’t see any, I was a little upset, because I know—I knew, my mother, and she’d never forget to leave some for me in the fridge, and I was disappointed, and then I looked at the sink, and it struck me as just wrong, somehow.”

  “What did you see?” Kathryn asked.

  “The saucepan she liked to make soup in was rinsed and washed out and stacked upside down on the drying rack, and so was the wooden spoon she used to stir, and so was the little ceramic dish that she liked to use to catch spills from the stove when she cooked.”

  Sophia added, “The ceramic dish holds the wooden spoon when it’s resting on the stove and makes clean-up easier.”

  As if I need this shit explained to me.

  Kathryn smiled patiently.

  “Yes,” Brittany said. “My mom had rinsed out all the things she’d used to make the soup, but there was no leftover soup for me, and it wasn’t like my mother to rinse things out like that.”

  At Kathryn’s blank look, Brittany said, “My mother would’ve let the saucepan soak in the sink for a little while, with hot water and soap in it, but she wouldn’t have left it in the sink, or even on the drying rack. She would’ve put everything in the dishwasher. She didn’t like to see things sitting around on the counters.”

  “Not even things meant to dry on a dishrack?” Kathryn asked.

  “Not even things meant to dry on a dishrack.”

  “And that struck you as odd, didn’t it?” Kathryn asked.

  “Yes,” Brittany said. “It did.”

  42

  Monday, March 11, 4:10 p.m.

  Kathryn sat at her desk, reading a report from Children’s Protective Services, when the intercom squawked.

  She pushed the button. “McGlone here.”

  “Hey, kid,” Margie said. “You need to hear this.”

  “Oh yeah?” Kathryn asked absently, her thoughts still focused on the report. Her first day back on the job, and already she had to tackle a tough decision. Did she believe CPS had enough evidence to file a neglect charge against these parents who were, borderline mentally disabled, yet providing their best for their two kids? So focused on the report, and what she planned to do, at first, she didn’t notice the tension in Margie’s voice.

  “Yeah,” Margie said. “We just got a call from dispatch at command central, a 911 call.”

  Something in her voice . . .

  Kathryn set the report to one side.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” she asked. “Isn’t that pretty standard protocol for a 911 call?”

  When Margie said nothing, at first, Kathryn thought the line had cut out, but then Margie said, “You don’t understand, Kathryn. It’s a reported suicide . . . at 2354 Wells Falls Lane.”

  Kathryn took a moment to absorb this. “Um, that address sounds familiar. Why does it sound familiar to me?”

  “Because it’s where Sheriff Randalls lives.”

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God, so Mrs. Randalls is dead?”

  “That’s what they’re saying.”

  “Oh, dear.” Kathryn sat there in an agony of indecision. “Oh well, what do I do?”

  “You’re the duty officer, Kathryn.”

  “Oh, yes, I know, but . . . don’t we have a conflict of interest? Shouldn’t I hand this off to the Shelbyville Police Department?”

  “Yes,” Margie said uncertainly. “I suppose so.”

  Kathryn grew more certain with every passing moment. This was important; critical. She’d been gone for six weeks, and it felt so good to be back, but perhaps even better than that, it felt good to do her job. She’d been born to be a police officer. This was her calling. But still, she needed to be assured of what she sensed was the right thing to do.

  “We need to bring in the Shelbyville Police Department, right?”

  “I’ll call them,” Margie said, “but if I were you . . . I’d still show up at the scene, just to make sure everything’s handled . . . properly.”

  “I hear you, Margie.”

  Margie clicked off and Kathryn pulled off her eyeglasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Holy mother of Jesus.

  What were the odds? What were the freaking odds? Her first day back at work following a psychiatric hospitalization, and her first call as duty officer is to the death scene of the Sheriff’s wife?

  Her heart uneasy, she stood up, strapped on her gun belt, and headed for her patrol car.

  A few minutes later.

  Kathryn got lost and finally had to type in the Sheriff’s address on Google Maps before she finally found the Wells Falls Subdivision. She followed the stream of traffic of official-looking cars and ambulances and police cars, until she saw a row of cars parked along a sidewalk. She checked the coordinates; she was, roughly, still four blocks away from the house, but figured this was the closest she was going to get, stopped behind the last parked car, killed the engine, and climbed out of her cruiser. Strolled up the street and stopped in front of 2354 Wells Falls Lane, fisted her hands on her hips and studied the scene before her. A firetruck occupied most of the driveway; a few Rowan County Deputy Sheriff cruisers were parked, one on the driveway next to the firetruck, another one in the grass, but she did not see a single Shelbyville Police Department cruiser.

  Hmm, that’s strange.

  Lots of investigation-type people milled around on the grass, apparently waiting to be told what to do, and nobody had on protective gear; no white jumpsuits, no booties on their feet, no gloves for taking down evidence.

  Why was everyone behaving as if this was a suicide, and not a homicide?

  A whoosh of air to her left and she jumped as a Rowan County cruiser slipped past her and she bit back a retort of rage. How dare this deputy sheriff just slide past her as she stood here on the grass? What if she’d taken a step to the left, she’d have been hit by the car. Rage surged through her and she was ready to give the deputy sheriff a good tongue-lashing, when the cruiser stopped, and Rob Billings opened the driver’s side door and got out and glared at her. “Kathryn, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same thing of you, Rob. I’m the duty officer.”

  He snorted with disgust. “Whatever, Kathryn.”

  “Why isn’t everyone suited up to take down evidence?”

  He scoffed. “At a suicide scene?”

  “How do you know that?” she asked, but even as she spoke these words, Deputy Lauder stepped out of the house onto the front stoop and gestured for the investigators. “Okay, you guys. Come on in.”

  So, Lauder had already been inside the house, no doubt, inspecting the body, perhaps even touching it, and otherwise contaminating the scene.

  “Wait,” she cried out. “Stop.”

  Deputy Lauder looked up, did a double take of displeasure at the sight of her. He’d recommended that Sheriff Randalls fire her, six weeks earlier. The County didn’t need a crazy-assed woman deputy sheriff on the payroll—his words—and they’d all be better off without her.

  But Sheriff Randalls had approved the request for a medical leave of absence. She didn’t know why he’d approved it, but he had, and now here she was, at the scene of his wife’s apparent suicide.

  Was she going to be a good girl, and go along with the guys? Or was she going to do her fucking job?

  “When’d you break free of the loony bin, McGlone,” Lauder said.

  A few of the crime scene techs glanced at her, exchanged looks with one another, and snickered.
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  “As of seven o’clock this morning,” she said evenly, “and thank you for asking. Why aren’t all these techs wearing protective gear?”

  Nobody answered.

  It’s like I don’t even exist.

  “Come on,” Lauder said. “Let’s get going.”

  As a few techs stepped forward, a surge of rage rippled through her. “God-dammit. Stop right now and put on your protective gear.”

  The techs stopped, turned, and gazed at her.

  “Haven’t any of you assholes ever watched CSI? Don’t you people know the first thing about collecting evidence at a crime scene?”

  One man at the front of the group glanced at Lauder.

  Lauder looked at Billings.

  Billings stuffed his hands into his pockets, spat ruminatively into the grass, then looked up at Lauder and nodded.

  “Okay, guys,” Lauder said. “You heard the man. Put on your protective gear.”

  As easy as that.

  All it needed was a man to say it was okay, and it was okay.

  “Although if McGlone gets it into her fool head to think I killed this lady, then we’re gonna need to have a serious chat.”

  Seething with resentment, she forced herself to keep her mouth shut. She’d won. She’d been forced to do the screaming, hysterical woman act—and everyone back at the station would talk later about how McGlone ‘lost her shit again,’ and take informal polls to guess how soon she’d be sent packing, for good this time—but at least she’d won.

  She’d relish this tiny victory, all by her lonesome, as the techs walked back to the van and handed out white protective gear and booties and gloves.

  “After all,” Lauder said, strolling over to Billings’s side and jerking his chin at her, “if we’re gonna waste county dollars, let’s do it right, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Billings said, giving her a sly, sidelong glance.

  “I give her a week,” Lauder said, sotto voce.

  “Yeah.”

  Her cheeks flaring with shame, she walked over to the van and requested a white protective suit, booties and gloves.

  The guy handing out supplies cocked his head at her with surprise. “You really gonna go in there?”

  “Bet your ass.”

  A few minutes later.

  When Randy walked back into the central command center, at first it did not occur to him to understand why all the women staff were standing around Margie’s desk, weeping. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  And then he remembered.

  Whoa, I couldn’t have handled that more perfectly if I’d tried.

  Margie stood up from behind her desk, tears in her eyes, and walked toward him. “Sheriff, I’m so sorry.”

  He stood there, stock-still, hoping that his silence represented shock, and all the women turned to face him, smiling at them through their tears, as they dabbed their eyes.

  “Your daughter Brittany called 911. She found her mother—Miranda—dead.”

  “What?” he said, and again, he was deeply pleased at how well he was playing this. He oughta get an Academy Award.

  Margie embraced him and he wrapped his arms around her, still feigning shock. It was an easy emotion, Miranda always accused him of being as emotional as a brick wall. Even as he accepted the condolences of the women, he basked in the adulation.

  Margie threw her arms around his waist and sobbed into his chest as the rest of the staff approached him, some warily, some crying, others fighting back tears. Rob Billings stood to one side, looking uncomfortable, and Randy wondered what thoughts darted through Rob’s mind as he gazed at the scene before him.

  Randy blinked back the tears in his eyes as he accepted the protestations of grief. Yep, sure enough, the tears were coming. Hot damn. He could manufacture tears with the best of them. Margie wept on his shoulder.

  Rob pushed off from the wall. “Boss, I better head down to the suicide scene, see what’s going on.”

  Yes, thank you, Rob, for calling it a suicide.

  “Yes,” Randy rasped hoarsely. “That’s a good idea.”

  Margie pulled out of his arms, her brow furrowed. “Sheriff, I hope this is okay with you, but I went ahead and called the Shelbyville Police Department to investigate.” She looked up worriedly at him and he pushed back a wave of resentment and forced himself to smile down at her.

  God-damn, this fucking bitch, always taking the lead when it’s not called for.

  It was his province to make the call, not some lowly clerk, and a woman besides, but he forced a smile. “That’s a wise idea, Margie. Thank you.”

  The look of relief sweeping across her face confirmed his belief that she’d secretly suspected him of killing Miranda; but when he readily agreed to call in the Shelbyville Police Department, he looked like a properly bereaved husband. By making all the proper arrangements, and by not trying to prevent an investigation, he was doing everything right, and everyone would agree that this was indeed a suicide committed by a desperate and unhappy woman.

  A sudden thought struck him. “Where’s Kathryn?”

  “Oh,” she said, and the color drained from her face. “She’s the duty officer today, so she drove on down to the scene.”

  He said nothing, but she must’ve seen something in his eyes, for she flinched. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I thought she oughta head down there, supervise, you know?”

  He looked around the room, searching for Rob, but he’d already left.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff.”

  “I’m gonna go to my office for a little while.”

  “Okay, Sheriff.”

  He accepted a few more expressions of sympathy, hugs, tears, and after finally extricating himself, walked down the hallway to his office and closed the door. Reached into a drawer at the bottom of his desk and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He needed a drink. If ever a person needed a drink at this moment, it was him. He un-stoppered the bottle, poured it into a glass, knocked it back, then called Rob on the secret cell phone.

  A few minutes later.

  Rob quickly left the scene with Randy and all the women hovering around him, jumped into his patrol cruiser, and drove down to the Wells Falls Subdivision, his mind and his heart warring with emotion. He thought back to earlier in the morning when he gave Randy the zip drive with the 911 call on it. He winced with guilt, for, at the time he made the zip drive, he’d also done something he’d never done before in his dealings with the Sheriff.

  He’d made a duplicate zip drive and tucked it away in his safety deposit box at the Old National Bank in downtown Shelbyville.

  He’d never engaged in such a precaution before in his life, and he didn’t know what’d propelled him to do it today, but something had compelled him to do it, and because he’d learned—the hard way—to trust his instinct, so he followed the tiny voice in his head that told him to make a copy and hide it, for just in case.

  What the fuck’s up with the Sheriff?

  This was not like the Randy Randalls he first knew, twenty years earlier, when, at the age of twelve, he escaped to the sanctuary of the Sheriff’s home and found a man who stood up for him, cared for him, and protected him from his father’s alcoholic and violent ways.

  He’d come to look upon Randy Randalls as a father, and it’d been the primary reason why he joined the Rowan County Sheriff’s Office, when he could’ve joined the Marines.

  But now, with all this business about Miranda . . . he thought he’d been doing Randy a favor by giving him the zip drive, and it troubled him to realize that when he gave Randy the zip drive, Miranda was probably already dead.

  And that gave him pause.

  His cell phone chirped, the secret one.

  He clicked it on. “Yeah, Boss?”

  “Keep an eye on McGlone, will ya? She’s on her way down there.”

  “How come?”

  “Margie sent her, the crazy bitch.”

  Which woman was the crazy bitch, he wondered? But then he realized, it didn’t matter.
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  They were all crazy bitches.

  “Got it, Chief,” and he clicked off.

  A few minutes later.

  He meant to call Josie next, but she beat him to the punch. He finally got to punch in Josie’s number. She must’ve been waiting for him to call, hanging around the phone and such, because she picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Now I can. I’m in my office, alone.

  “I saw it on the news, Randy.”

  A silence followed, and Randy let the unspoken words fill the space between them. He didn’t know what she expected him to say.

  “Randy,” she said, her voice ragged, “I’m so sorry. I know you were two were having problems, but still . . . to have her do something like this.”

  Christ, you’re a stupid bitch.

  “I know,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  “I-I-I just can’t believe it.”

  Okay, so, for the time being, he was safe; she wasn’t gonna insist on a confession. Who knew, it might work to his advantage for her to worry, at the back of her mind, whether he’d really killed Miranda. He wanted her frightened enough to think he could murder a difficult wife. After all, she planned on becoming difficult wife number three—she’d certainly hinted enough about it to him—and this business with Miranda was probably giving her a moment, hell, at least, a few seconds’ worth of concern and worry. He preferred it when his women didn’t know where they stood with him; it kept them on their toes. He’d divorced the first wife, killed the second—and he had a funny feeling, when all the dust settled and they cleared him of her death, it’d end up being a whole lot cheaper than divorcing her—who was she to think he might not do the same to wife number three if she started getting uppity and ornery?

  He knew she was thinking all these thoughts during this pregnant pause.

  “All the same,” he said nonchalantly, “it’s a terrible shock.”

  Well, gosh-darn Gomer, that turned out to be the right thing to say, for she started snuffling and weeping and making all the kinds of noises a woman makes when she starts crying in earnest. “Oh, Randy, Randy, Randy, oh, I’m sure it’s a terrible shock, honey. Oh, I understand completely, oh, how, I mean, well, you know, she was your wife, you know?”