Twisted Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  Annette Morris. The name niggled at the edge of her memory. Before she could access her mental Rolodex and place the woman, her cell phone rang again. She checked her display: Bodhi.

  She swiped to answer the call.

  “Bodhi King, isn’t this a nice surprise. How’s my favorite Buddhist?”

  “I’m well, Maisy. You?”

  His voice, as always, reminded her of a cool waterfall.

  “Busy as a queen bee, and twice as bossy.”

  “Buzzy as a bee too. All anyone can talk about around here is the report you aired today.”

  She smiled, satisfied. “Around here? You’re back in town?”

  She’d heard he was spending time in some postage-stamp Midwestern hamlet, mooning over its chief of police. As if Pittsburgh could afford to lose such an eligible bachelor to corn country. She pushed out her lower lip in a pout even though the effect would be lost over the phone.

  “I’m back, and I’m consulting on a matter for the medical examiner’s office.”

  “Ooooh. Really? Would it happen to be the Giles Noor murder?”

  “As a matter of fact, it would.”

  “Let me guess. You want to know who my source is on the DNA story? Now, Bodhi, you know I don’t kiss and tell.”

  He laughed throatily. “Same old Maisy, I see. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. But I do have a proposition for you. A business proposition,” he added hurriedly.

  “Hmmph. That’s disappointing … but fine. What do you have in mind?”

  “Why don’t we sit down, and I can answer any questions you might have about the medical examiner’s forensic testing procedures. I won’t comment on any specific cases, but I think you’ll find the background information helpful.”

  She tilted her head to the side while she considered it. He was right. It would be useful to have a better understanding of the science. “And in return?”

  “Nothing. It’ll be a benefit to the office and the case if you have solid information. That’s all.”

  With anyone else, her antenna would be up. But this was Bodhi. He didn’t have the capacity to be dishonest or manipulative. And she’d love to see him again. For all her over-the-top flirting, she considered him a friend.

  “Okay, yeah. That would be great.”

  “Fantastic. I have a meeting in Squirrel Hill this afternoon, and then I’m having dinner with Saul. Can we get together for an hour in between? Say around 5?”

  “Sure. I’m getting ready to leave for the day. Why don’t you stop by my building after your meeting and we can walk somewhere nearby for coffee or something?”

  “You’re still at the same place—that loft in Shadyside?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I’ll see you at five.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she said. She ended the call and checked her face for any remaining traces of makeup. Satisfied, she swept the stack of messages into her oversized purse, turned out the lights, and left the dressing room, shrugging into her coat.

  She wrapped her long deep purple scarf around her neck, letting the ends flutter behind her as she strode down the hallway, her heeled boots clicking against the tile floor.

  She was waiting for the elevator when her phone rang again. She plucked it from her pocket. She didn’t recognize the caller’s phone number, but anyone who had her cell phone number was either a friend or a source who’d proved himself or herself to be valuable. Everyone else had to go through the station.

  “This is Maisy,” she trilled.

  “Hi, Maisy. It’s Penelope Geoffries from the public defender’s office. I’m not sure if you remember me, but we—”

  “We co-chaired the Big Sister luncheon last year. Of course I remember you, Penny. How’ve you been, darlin’ girl?”

  “Good, good. I’m calling about your segment this morning on the news.”

  “Yes?”

  “Damon Tenley was—is—my client.”

  A bell chimed, announcing the arrival of the elevator car. The doors slid open. Maisy scrunched up her face apologetically and shook her head, pointing to the phone at her ear. The occupants of the car seemed unfazed.

  She waited until the doors closed and the elevator continued its descent to the lobby. Then she said, in a calm voice that belied her racing pulse, “You represented him in the Raina Noor murder case?”

  “Yes. I also represent him with regard to the claim that he’s a match for any genetic material found at the Giles Noor murder scene.”

  “I see,” Maisy said carefully.

  “I’d love to talk to you about the DNA situation.”

  “I’d love to hear what you have to say. In fact, my producer is trying to arrange an interview with Mr. Tenley, so he can tell the public his story himself. Do you think he’d be interested?”

  “Hmm. Yes, he might. I’ll talk to him about it. Could you and I get together and go over the specifics? You know, what topics and questions would be off-limits … that type of thing?”

  Maisy wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue then stifled a laugh. She was glad Penny couldn’t see how eager she was, how badly she wanted this sit down with her client. “That’d be great. When do you want to talk?”

  “Well … we’re starting our own investigation now, and things will start to happen pretty quickly if we determine Mr. Tenley’s eligible for post-conviction relief. So, the sooner the better. If we file a petition under the PCRA, we’ll need to shift our focus to litigation, not public relations.”

  “Sure. And the PCRA is, what, exactly?”

  “Sorry, the Post-Conviction Relief Act.”

  “Wait. Are you saying Damon Tenley’s not guilty of murdering Raina Noor?”

  “No, I’m saying he may have been wrongfully convicted of murdering Raina Noor.”

  “Are those the same thing?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  Maisy frowned. She had a good friend who practiced law. Maybe she’d have to convince Sasha to give her a quick lesson about wrongful conviction. In the meantime, she didn’t want to lose Penny. Time to reel her in.

  “Are you available this afternoon? I could meet you at four o’clock at the Book Seller/Tea Cellar right off Walnut. Do you know it?”

  “I am, and I do. I’ll see you there.”

  “Great.”

  Maisy stowed her phone back in her pocket and laughed. Her day just kept getting better and better.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Burton’s day just kept getting worse and worse. Every path he started down ended with him smacking his face against a metaphorical brick wall.

  He’d pulled the old interviews from the Raina Noor murder and had combed through them, scouring them for any hint about how Damon Tenley could have crossed paths with her before the day he ended her life. He found nothing. Nobody knew anything.

  He shifted in his chair and pushed the interviews aside to turn to the copy of Tenley’s service record the Department of Defense had sent over during the original investigation.

  Tenley had apparently been spurred to join the military after the September 11 attack. On October 7, 2001, the same day the United States invaded Afghanistan and launched Operation Enduring Freedom, Damon Tenley, then age seventeen, presented himself at the Army recruitment office in Monroeville Mall with his guardian, who consented to his deferred enlistment.

  After graduating from high school the following June, Tenley reported for ten weeks of basic training in Fort Still, Oklahoma, followed by fourteen weeks of infantry unit training. By October of 2002, he was overseas, fighting insurgent forces in southern Afghanistan’s Helmand Province.

  His service record was devoid of anything noteworthy—good or bad. Apparently, Infantryman Tenley kept his head down, followed orders, and managed to stay alive through two long deployments. There was no evidence his behavior ran afoul of any military code of conduct or civilian laws when stationed stateside in Georgia. He served five years active duty, and three years in the reserve
s. On October 7, 2009, Tenley extended his enlistment for a term of three years to take advantage of a stop-loss bonus and returned to active duty.

  On October 31, 2012, Tenley separated from the Army in Fort Benning, Georgia, with an honorable discharge and returned to Pittsburgh to pursue a career in computer programming. Twenty-nine days later, Raina Noor was dead.

  Burton frowned at the dry summary of utterly useless information.

  Chrys rapped on the doorframe. He glared up at her.

  “Tell me something good. Please.”

  “You asked for it, you got it. I found an army buddy of Tenley’s. His name is Van Lewis. He manages a bowling alley in Lawrenceville, and he’s willing to talk to us.”

  “You’re a rock star, Chrys.”

  “I know.” She shot him a grin.

  “Seriously, you are. These files are useless. According to them, Damon Tenley was a regular G.I. Joe. I was beginning to think we were going to have to drag our butts down to Fort Benning to get any real insights.” He stood up and turned out his desk lamp.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Georgia? Uh-uh, no thank you. I don’t like the heat.”

  “It’s the dead of winter, Martin. But it doesn’t matter, let’s start with Mr. Lewis and maybe we’ll hit a strike.”

  Another nose wrinkle. “Your puns are terrible. You know that, right?”

  “Deal with it. It’s how I roll.” He mimed rolling a bowling ball.

  She groaned dramatically and dangled the keys from her fingers. “Just for that, you’re driving.”

  Chrys refused to be intimidated by his size, gruffness, and generally cranky attitude. It was one of his favorite things about her. He preferred working alone, always. But partnering with Martin was a distant second choice.

  He snagged the keys from her hand and grabbed his overcoat.

  As they headed down to the car, he said, “How’d you find this guy anyway?”

  “Well, seeing as how Hardiman hasn’t coughed up Tenley’s visitors list yet, I took a flier. I called up a friend at the county jail and asked whether Tenley had any visitors while he was there. Mr. Lewis came to see him twice.”

  Good old-fashioned detective work. No high-tech forensics lab, no computerized programs to sniff out social media posts or read email or whatever the geeks in the technology unit did all day. She used her brain and a telephone.

  “Good work, Chrys.” They stepped out into the lot and he turned his collar up against the wind.

  She tried, and failed, to hide a smile. “We’ll see if it pans out.”

  “Was Van Lewis Tenley’s only visitor?”

  “Yeah. So, keep your fingers crossed that he’s a talker.”

  Van Lewis eyed the pair of detectives across the counter as he reached for a pair of rental shoes a bowler was returning.

  “I don’t understand why the police want to talk about Damon now. He’s been in prison for years.”

  Burton forced a smile. “Sure. But his name’s come up in the course of a new investigation, and we just need to rule out his involvement.”

  Lewis squinted at him from behind a pair of dirty glasses. “We can talk in the party room. My office is the size of a closet and, wouldn’t you know, doubles as a supply closet. So unless you wanna sit on an overturned mop bucket—”

  “The party room’ll be great,” Chrys assured him.

  “Kayla, take over the rental counter,” he called over in a loud voice that was barely audible over the din of balls thwacking the pins, pins clattering to the ground, and electronic beeps, whirrs, and dings. Somehow the girl wheeling a cart of bowling balls toward the end of the room heard him. She raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  Burton’s temples thumped and pulsed with pain. He’d been in here all of four minutes, and he already had a headache. How did these people work here?

  “Sorry about the noise,” Lewis shouted. “You guys want a pop or something?” He gestured toward the soda machine.

  “It’s nice of you to offer, but we’re good. We don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary,” Chrys said.

  Burton nodded his agreement using the smallest possible head movement.

  Lewis ushered them to a glassed-in, rectangular room that housed a long cafeteria table and a dozen or so metal chairs. He flicked on the lights and closed the door behind them, muffling the noise.

  “It’s quieter in here than in my office, too,” he said in a low, resigned voice. He looked from Burton to Chrys. “Does it matter where I sit?”

  “Nope,” Burton told him. “Sit anywhere you like. Like Detective Martin said, we’ll try to make this quick. Thanks for meeting with us.”

  Lewis deposited himself into the nearest seat. “No problem.”

  Burton and Chrys pulled out two chairs directly across the table, and Chrys flipped open her notebook.

  “You and Damon were in the same infantry company?”

  “Yeah.”

  Burton recognized the shadow that crossed the man’s face. He’d seen the expression countless times on everyone from Korean War vets to young guys just back from the Middle East.

  “Thank you for your service,” Chrys said, managing to infuse the tired, trite words with feeling and sincerity.

  Lewis shrugged it off, but his eyes lightened.

  “Would you say you were good buddies?”

  Another shrug. “Good enough. We were in the same bunk house. We were both from Pittsburgh. He lived up the hill from here, in Stanton Heights. I grew up right across the river in Sharpsburg. So we had that in common. We talked about the Steelers, mostly. He was a good guy, solid guy.”

  “Damon re-upped when his initial term of service expired. Did you?”

  “Nah, man. I wasn’t one of those young guns like Damon, all pumped up about being a soldier. I went in under one of those programs to boost enrollment, Call to Service or something like that? I got an enlistment bonus and only served twenty-four months on active duty. The rest of my time was in the reserves. I got a business degree on Uncle Sam’s dime out of the deal, too.”

  “But you and Damon stayed in touch?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I guess. When he came home on leave, we’d have a beer or two. And when he got discharged and decided to come back here for good, I told him he could work here until he figured out what he wanted to do.”

  “Did he take you up on that?”

  Tenley hadn’t mentioned a job during his interviews. Burton wondered if Lewis had been paying his buddy under the table.

  “He didn’t get the chance. He wasn’t even back a month when … you know … that lady was killed.”

  Burton cocked his head. “You think he didn’t do it?”

  “I don’t know. I was surprised when he got arrested, right? Obviously, he’s killed people. We were infantry. That was our job, you know? But I never figured Damon for a psycho. Some guys got off on it. You could tell. Not Damon. So, I just couldn’t—can’t—see him whacking some random lady.”

  “He got paid, though. Twenty thousand dollars is a nice start to civilian life,” Chrys observed.

  Lewis shook his head. “He had money socked away from all those years in the Army with no living expenses. His parents’ cancer treatments ate up what money they had, so they didn’t leave him an inheritance or anything like that. But he had their house. And a job, if he wanted it. He didn’t need to do it for the money.”

  The guy had a point. Burton switched gears. “You have any idea what he did for the month of November?”

  Lewis thought for a moment. Chrys doodled a snowflake on her notepad. Burton resisted the urge to massage his temples.

  “After he got out of the hospital, you mean?”

  Chrys’ pen stopped mid-flake. Burton lowered his chin and looked at Lewis over the tops of his glasses. The shift in attention levels must’ve made the bowling alley manager nervous. He took off his own smudged glasses and rubbed the hem of his shirt over the lenses.

  “What happened? Do you know
why he was in the hospital?” Burton asked in the most casual tone he could manage.

  “Uh … not really. All I remember is I called him up to see if he wanted to get some wings and beers and watch the game one Sunday, and he said he couldn’t. He was going in for some kind of procedure and had to fast. I asked if he needed a ride. He said no, but he asked if I could stop by his place and bring in his mail for a few days.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t get any mail, really. Just junk. He’d only been living at his parents’ place for maybe a week. Most of it was still addressed to them.”

  “And you don’t have any idea what was wrong with him?” Chrys pressed him.

  “No. I figured it was his personal business. I didn’t want to pry.” He returned his glasses to his face and gave Chrys a puzzled look. “His sister might know. They were pretty tight.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bodhi carried his bicycle up the cement stairs to Hope Noor’s front porch, where he lowered it from his shoulder and rested it against a wrought-iron glider. He turned to smile and wave at the woman across the street. She stood on her toes, clutching her sweater closed with one hand, while she ostensibly checked her mailbox for the day’s mail. He was pretty sure she was actually just keeping an eye on her neighbor.

  She blinked, caught in the act, raised a fistful of advertisements, and returned the wave.

  He tucked his bike helmet under his arm and raised his hand to lift the door knocker but, before he had the chance, the door swung open to reveal a pale woman. Her blonde hair was piled on the crown of her head in a loose knot. She wore a long cardigan sweater over jeans and a black turtleneck. The dark color near her neck accentuated the circles under her eyes. A stab of compassion tore through his chest. She looked over his shoulder and frowned at her nosy neighbor.

  “Hi, Mrs. Remmy,” she called.

  Bodhi turned in time to see the woman duck inside her house and pull the door closed. He turned back to the woman in front of him.

  “Mrs. Noor?”

  “Yes, are you …?” She trailed off, her eyes shifting uncertainly from his mop of curly hair to the bicycle propped against her porch furniture. “Um, are you with Mr. King?”