Desert Remains

by Steven Cooper

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I only know what she told me.”

  “Did she ever mention violence in the marriage?” Mills asks.

  Marcy Stone peels with laughter. “You’re like the tenth person who’s asked me that this morning. Everyone suspects violence,” she says with a mock shudder.

  Mills decides he’s not fond of Marcy Stone. He looks at her squarely. “Under the circumstance, I’d think you’d understand why.”

  She raises her eyebrows impetuously. “Yeah, I suppose, but that would make it so easy, right? He beats her, she walks out, and he kills her. I don’t think this is one of your Lifetime movies, if you know what I mean. He never hurt her . . . as far as I know. I think she would have told me. Bobby is actually kind of meek.”

  Mills nods pensively. “Do you have any cords or rope in the house?”

  “I suppose,” Marcy Stone replies. “I mean, I’ve got extension cords, for sure. Maybe some rope in the garage.”

  “Okay, Ms. Stone. Thanks for your time,” Mills says. “Make sure if we call you for any follow-up, you get back to us promptly.”

  She nods. “No problem.”

  “And your house is a crime scene. My guys aren’t leaving anytime soon,” he tells her. “You better make arrangements to stay elsewhere.”

  She coughs and says, “So I’ve been told.”

  “We can get you assistance if you need it.”

  She doesn’t say anything, nor does she move when Mills gets to his feet. She limply shakes his hand and stares into some kind of endless void.

  Out front, Myers wanders off, takes notes about the house, while Mills gets with a few of the crime scene technicians. They tell him that they’ve picked up fibers from the bedroom floor but most are too fine to analyze with just a visual. “Here,” one of the investigators says, handing a plastic bag to Mills, “this is the best sample we have, the closest we’ve seen to rope.”

  Mills examines it through the plastic. He toys with it in his hands. “Yeah, looks like rope to me. Has Chase seen it?”

  “Yep.”

  “The marks on her neck seem more consistent with a cord,” he tells the tech, giving him the bag.

  “I would agree, but we’ll get back to you on that.”

  Mills nods and steps over to a Glendale detective who’s leaning against a cruiser. “Hey, Marco, what’s doing?”

  “Mills. You slumming today?”

  “When I saw you I knew I was scraping at the bottom, man.”

  They shake.

  “Look,” Mills says, “I want to go talk to the victim’s husband. Have any of your guys gone to notify?”

  “No,” the detective says. “We were told to wait. Looks like you guys are taking jurisdiction.”

  “Don’t make it sound like we’re stealing your dessert.”

  “You can have it, Mills. I’ll release my guys now. Not sure you’re going to shake the sheriff as easily.”

  “Sheriff?”

  The Glendale cop points.

  Mills turns and sees the sheriff ’s car parked down the street at the opening of the cul-de-sac, almost out of sight. “What the fuck?” he says.

  “He’s been here for at least a half hour.”

  “Doing what?”

  The guy shrugs. “I don’t know. Some reporters showed up, and he answered some questions.”

  Mills feels his face turn red. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No, dude, relax. That’s why he’s parked down there. He’s stopping the media so they can’t get into the neighborhood. You think that’s a bad thing?”

  Alex Mills has the sheriff in his crosshairs. He doesn’t turn back to the Glendale cop. He says, “Thanks. I’m sure once we get all the paperwork in order you guys can scatter.”

  “It’s all in order, Alex,” the cop says. “The fat one’s been out here taking in all the work we did for you guys.”

  “Myers?”

  “Yeah, him. The roly-poly one.”

  He takes one look back at the cop. “Be nice, Marco. And trust me, man, my department is doing its share here.” Then he slips away in the direction of the waiting sheriff.

  It’s the same old Clayman Tarpo from the fiery press conferences, the defiant interviews, the front-page photos (above the fold), the bulbous swagger, the central casting, red-meat-and-potato-chomping-salads-are-for-sissies sheriff of Maricopa County. His arteries are clogged, but his conscience is clear. Tarpo is the silhouette of a motel sign somewhere on the road between here and Yuma.

  “Sheriff, thanks for the help,” Mills says. “But I got everyone in place. So you can take off if you’d like.”

  “Someone’s got to talk to the press,” Tarpo says with a puff of disgust. Clayman Tarpo is as blustery as an August monsoon. He snickers and snarls and looks down at Mills even though Mills is a good inch taller. Tarpo accomplishes the condescension by addressing the detective at chest level.

  “Well, I’ll let my sergeant determine that.”

  Tarpo folds his hands across his chest. “Will you now?”

  “Yes,” Mills says, his eyes meeting the sheriff ’s, lingering there until the sheriff blinks. “This is not your case. Not your jurisdiction. Now, why don’t you tell me now what you told those reporters?”

  Tarpo laughs. “Ah, no harm done, my friend. The same disinformation they come to expect from me.”

  “And bravado, no doubt.”

  “That too,” the sheriff says. “I gave no details. No names. No theories. Though I did say the crime scene reminded me of the murders in the caves.”

  “You did say that?”

  “Was that wrong?”

  Mills wipes his brow. “Of course it was wrong. I thought you offered no theories.”

  The sheriff puts a hand on Mills’s shoulder. “My boy, there’s a difference between a theory and a description. You do understand that, don’t you? And the description was very, very vague. A comparison, that’s all. Of course the reporters wanted to know what the crime scenes had in common, but I just said, heck no, that information ain’t coming from me.”

  Tarpo smiles as if he just came all over his pillow.

  “No more talking to the press. That decision will come from my department,” Mills tells him.

  “Hey! Why all the attitude? Haven’t I been generous lending my deputies to your trail patrols?”

  “Yeah, generous. Thanks,” Mills says before turning back to the house.

  “Hey, Detective,” the sheriff calls after him. “How’s your kid?”

  Mills keeps marching forward. “Trevor is fine.”

  “Sure hope you get him out of this mess. There’s a program called DARE, you know.”

  Mills doesn’t flinch. “Go stick a cactus up your fat ass,” he mutters under his breath.

  He meets up with Chase and Myers in front of the house. Myers’s shirt is stained with sweat. Beads of it are running down his face. “Morty, you need to get in shape, man,” Mills tells him. “You’ve got water?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going with Chase to go look for the husband. You stay here ’til things are wrapped up.” Then he tosses Myers his keys. “Take my car back when you’re done.”

  18

  They find Bobby Willis’s townhouse in a well-groomed subdivision just adjacent to the Biltmore. The neighborhood is a curvy one, with lush desert vegetation protecting most of the homes from passing eyes. “What makes you think a man will be home in the middle of the workday?” Chase asks the detective.

  “Unemployed,” Mills answers.

  “Potentially explains the rage.”

  “Potentially,” Mills says.

  Small boulders, in hues of rust and gold, line a path that leads to the front door.

  Mills knocks. He hears footsteps. Someone is on the other side of the door. Mills can feel a presence there, a person spying through the peephole. He hears the person breathing. “Hello, Mr. Willis,” he calls.

  “Who is it?” a man calls back.


  “Phoenix Police,” Mills replies.

  The door opens slowly. “Police?” says a man in drawstring pants, looking up, assessing his visitors.

  “Mr. Bobby Willis?” Mills asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Alex Mills. This is Detective Chase. May we come in?”

  “What’s this about?” Willis is unshaven, short, and stocky. He’s wearing a clean T-shirt.

  “Your wife.”

  Willis’s eyes pop wide. “Andy? Is she okay?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” Mills tells him. “We believe your wife was found murdered this morning in Glendale.”

  As the color drains quickly from his face, Bobby Willis begins to tip toward the wall. Mills steps forward to steady the man. “Please let us come in and talk, sir.”

  “Whatever you want,” Willis says.

  The man leads the detectives into the house, to a room that overlooks a golf course through a wall of glass. A small, lagoon-like pool is carved into a portion of the patio. The ceiling soars above them. Two couches face each other—a huge marble slab between them. Willis sinks into one couch; Mills and Chase sit opposite him.

  “We have a positive ID on your wife, Mr. Willis,” Mills tells him. “Her body was found at the home of Marcy Stone.”

  “Marcy?” Willis begs. “Is she . . . you know, involved?”

  “We don’t think so,” Mills replies. “It seems she has an alibi.”

  The man’s face is contorted and suddenly red on fire, as if he’s about to howl. Mills has seen this kind of agony before, on the guilty and the innocent; the agony is never a true indicator of either.

  “How was she . . . uh, how was she murdered?” the husband asks.

  “We think she was strangled,” Chase says.

  “Strangled,” the man repeats. He looks at them, his face vacant, his eyes wide and blank; he sees everything but downloads nothing. Then, a few moments later, a light goes on, a switch, a Control-Alt-Delete reboot, and he says, “You think I killed her. Don’t you?”

  “Why would we think that, Mr. Willis?” Mills asks dryly.

  Willis shifts uneasily. “’Cause, you know, we were separated.”

  “Legally?” Mills asks.

  “No, not really. She bolted on me.”

  “Bolted? I bet you were angry,” Chase says.

  The man stares evenly at Timothy Chase. “Yeah, angry. But I didn’t kill her.”

  “We’re not asking you that,” Mills tells him. “Nor are we accusing you of that, sir. But we do need some information. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her?”

  “No.”

  “When is the last time you talked to her?”

  “About three weeks ago when she left. I mean, I’ve been trying to reach her, but she doesn’t answer.”

  “When she didn’t answer, you didn’t worry?” Chase asks the man.

  “About what?”

  “There’s a serial killer on the loose,” Chase says.

  The husband says nothing. He sits there with his head in his hands. Mills wishes he could have left Chase in the car.

  But Chase will not be stifled. “You’ve heard about the murders, haven’t you?” Chase persists.

  “Of course,” Willis says. “It’s been in the newspapers and on TV, like, every day. But I never gave it much of a thought. I didn’t think Andy was missing. She was mad, but not missing. Are you saying she could be one of those victims?”

  Mills leans forward and shakes his head. “We’re not saying anything, Mr. Willis. We’re just trying to put the pieces together. Your wife worked?”

  “She did hair. But she had taken the last two weeks off from the salon because we were supposed to go to Hawaii.”

  “Really?” Chase asks. “You must have been pretty mad that she would walk out on you right before that trip.”

  “I was upset. But I had no idea where she went. I had no way to find her.”

  The bong of a grandfather clock echoes through the house. It’s two o’clock.

  “Does your wife have family here in Phoenix?” Mills asks.

  “No,” he says. “We’re both originally from DC.”

  “I worked in DC for years,” Chase tells him. “FBI.”

  “No shit,” the man says. “What are you doing back here?”

  “Family stuff.”

  “We visited her family a lot,” Willis says. “She really missed DC. Phoenix doesn’t even come close.”

  Chase nods emphatically.

  Mills indulges their small talk, ignores them for a few minutes, gets up, walks to the window, and studies the fountain that spills lazy waves of water into the pool. The lapping is hypnotic. He turns around and wanders as the two men discuss the Redskins, the Orioles, whatever. Apparently, Bobby and Andrea met in college. Mills isn’t listening fully enough to decipher which college. It’s just two men colliding with deep-voiced familiarity. Their exact words, in fact, disappear into the generalized manliness of a frat house. A frat house of grief and sympathy, doubt, fear, and distraction. There must be something in it for Chase, psychologically speaking. Mills is back in the foyer. He ducks into a room on the other side, a den of sorts, with a love seat, a desk, a computer, and the source of the bong. Mills admires the handsome grandfather clock, the dark mahogany, the gilded edges, and the etched glass. He sees a small fissure at the top of the glass face and traces it slowly downward as it opens to a gash and then to a distinct hole at the bottom; the hole looks as random as a piece from a jigsaw puzzle. It’s 2:10.

  There’s a bookcase opposite the clock. Mills looks for something he recognizes. But he can tell from the spines of the books that someone in the house is a big fan of frothy romance. He can see it in the feminine fonts, in the titles, too. Her Secret Man. Rescued By a Stranger. She Takes a Dare. Perfect reading for the salon, he guesses. Not a trace of the classics anywhere.

  “I see your wife liked to read,” he says to Bobby Willis when he returns to the living room.

  Both men look up.

  “And I see that your beautiful clock has been banged up a bit,” Mills adds.

  Bobby Willis stands. “Well, hey, don’t you need a warrant to be snooping around my house?” He annexes his question with a laugh, bouncy and insincere, as if he’s joking.

  “Sorry,” Mills says. “Just admiring the place. But do you mind telling me how the glass on the clock broke like that?”

  Willis shrugs. “The clock used to be in here. We decided it would look better in the study. You know, more . . . studious or something. But I lost my balance, and it went into the wall when I moved it.”

  “That’s too bad,” Mills tells him. “It’s a beautiful piece.”

  “Thanks. Will that be all?” Willis asks, his voice breaking, and then he sobs.

  “Can you tell us about your activities between five p.m. last night and five a.m. this morning?” Mills asks.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Willis says, choking back the tears. “I was here the whole time. You know, I was laid off a while ago.”

  “You had nowhere you had to be?” Mills probes.

  “I went to the Home Depot yesterday around noon. And then to Safeway about two o’clock, grabbed stuff for dinner, and came home.”

  Mills asks, “And you stayed home?”

  Willis says, “Yes. All night.”

  Mills asks, “Can anyone verify that?”

  Willis shrugs. “I don’t think so. I was alone.” He wipes his face, sniffling.

  “So, no one can actually place you here in the time frame we’re talking about?” Mills asks.

  “I didn’t kill my wife,” Willis tells him. “I think the only verification you could find would be on the cameras as you enter and exit the neighborhood. The association elected cameras, instead of gates. I’m not a fan of people knowing when I come and go, but there you have it, boys. Get the video, and you’ll see that my car never entered or exited during your time frame.”

  They’re in the f
oyer now.

  “That doesn’t mean you didn’t leave,” Mills says. “You know that presents us with a problem. I’m not accusing you, sir. I’m actually trying to eliminate you.”

  Willis nods. “I’m sure you are.” His eyes fill again, tears brimming. “Now, really, I need some time, gentlemen. . . .”

  “Fine,” Mills says. “Thank you for meeting with us.” He hands Willis his card. “If you think of anything, call me right away.”

  “I will.”

  “And, one more thing, Mr. Willis. Do you have an article of clothing or something that belonged to your wife that you don’t mind parting with?”

  Willis narrows his eyes, cocks his head. “For what?”

  “It’ll just help us with the investigation,” Mills tells him. “You know, something important to her. Might give us some clues to who she was and who she knew.”

  Chase clears his throat.

  Mills doesn’t give a shit.

  Willis wipes a tear from his cheek. “Sure,” he says. “Wait here.”

  The man disappears down a hallway off the living room. Mills can sense Chase eyeing him uneasily. Before Chase has a chance to speak, Willis is back holding a necklace. Hanging from the chain is a solid gold lightning bolt. “This meant a lot to her,” Willis says. “She’s a big fan of some rock singer who wears one just like it. I forget . . . what’s her name? I don’t know, but Andy was always wearing it and dancing around the house.”

  He puts the necklace in a small cardboard box and hands it to Mills.

  “Thanks, man,” Mills says. “If you need anything let me know.”

  “Do I go to the morgue?” the husband asks, and then he backs into a wall, sobbing.

  “Not necessary,” Mills replies. “When the body is ready, someone will call you.”

  In the car the men decide to head back to Glendale. Mills isn’t too concerned about Bobby Willis. “If he was near the murder scene, we’ll get a ding off the cell tower,” he tells Chase.

  “We know that,” Chase says. “Doubt he does. Crime of passion. Better to let him speak. ’Til he unravels.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “You ever met a murderer who left his cell phone at home?” Chase asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “’Course not. Most of them are fucking sending out tweets with one hand while they’re killing with the other.”