Bonita Palms

by Hal Ross

  The words rang in my ears like a point-blank explosion. The gun my wife was referring to was the legal spare I kept locked in the top desk drawer in my home office. I had no idea she was aware of its existence, or how she knew where to find the key to the drawer.

  I dashed out of my office, mind in turmoil, and drove like a madman, lights flashing, siren blaring, causing anything in my way—be they cars or pedestrians—to scamper for safety.

  I made it home in record time and screeched to a stop, half on the lawn. I jumped out of the car, motor left running, and blew through the front door.

  My wife stood inside the vestibule. She was wearing an old, worn-out nightgown. Her eyes were spooked. She was holding my .38 in her hand.

  “Alice?”

  She turned toward me without speaking.

  I ran to her, praying I’d somehow misinterpreted what I’d heard on the phone, that this was all a mistake.

  But Charles was lying facedown on the hardwood floor in the hallway just outside his bedroom, a great amount of blood pooled beneath his upper body. His legs were splayed out and both arms were flat; his switchblade near the curved fingers of his right hand.

  I dropped to my knees and placed my hand on my son’s carotid artery, needing to double check what I was already sure about.

  My wife stood opposite, shaking as if about to have a seizure. “Is he…”

  I got to my feet and silently nodded yes. I carefully took the gun she was still holding out of her hand and eased it into my pocket.

  She described what had happened, veering in and out of hysteria: Charles demanded money. She refused to give in this time. He slapped her in the face and headed for his bedroom. “I … instinctively knew he was going for his knife,” she said. “He’s done it before … threatened to cut me if I didn’t give him what he wanted.”

  My wife’s voice dropped; I had to strain to hear her. She’d known for years about my spare gun and where to find the key. She hurried to my office, got the key taped beneath the center desk drawer, took out the gun … “to protect myself. Charles came out of his bedroom with the knife, high on something and acting crazy, slashing the knife through the air. I … thought he was going to kill me. I pleaded with him to stop. I begged him. But he lunged at me … and I shot him. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think.”

  I wrapped Alice in my arms. The frailness of her body surprised me. I could only imagine how much weight she’d lost.

  A solution played out in my mind. I knew what I had to do. My actions in the next few minutes would determine her fate. I guided my wife into the master bathroom, lowered the lid on the toilet and helped her take a seat. I carefully cleaned her hands with a washcloth until I was sure no gunshot residue remained. I then took the gun out of my pocket and had her grip it to reset her fingerprints.

  “We need a story,” I slowly explained. “You called me at work in a panic. Charles was hopped up on cocaine and acting crazy. You begged me to come home. I left the office in a hurry and drove like a bat out of hell. Inside the house I found Charles holding you in a chokehold with one hand, brandishing his knife with the other. My spare gun was lying by your feet. You had taken it out but couldn’t bring yourself to use it, so you dropped it. I picked up the gun and told Charles to let you go. He released you then lunged at me. We struggled and the gun accidentally went off. “

  I paused.

  “Alice?”

  She remained mum.

  “Do you understand what I said?”

  Her nod was slight but perceptible.

  “This is imperative, Alice. We need to tell the police it was me who shot our son.”

  * * *

  I helped my wife into bed, then went back to the bathroom where I’d left the gun. I felt emotionally spent and had to pull myself together. I hurried down to the basement and fired a bullet into the wall to add the necessary residue to my hand, providing evidence that I was the one who shot it, corroborating my story.

  Back upstairs I kept my mind blank as I passed by my son’s body and dropped the gun next to him.

  I returned to the bedroom. My wife was lying on her back, her breathing shallow, eyes open but unfocussed.

  I spoke her name.

  She didn’t move.

  “Alice—please. Listen to me. I have to call the police. Too much time’s already passed. I need to know you’ve got our story straight.”

  Not getting a response, I nudged her shoulder.

  She turned her head toward me and blinked.

  “Do you know what we have to tell the police?” I pressed.

  “I … know,” she acknowledged.

  * * *

  I was instructed to take a paid leave of absence. Quitting booze cold turkey played havoc with my body. It got so bad I had to check myself into rehab. Luckily, a neighbor promised to look in on Alice.

  I went through the roughest patch of my life. Severe nausea accompanied by tremors I thought would never end. By the time I came out I saw things in a clearer light. My withdrawal pains gave way to mental anguish. How does anyone overcome the loss of a child … no matter how troubled that child may have been?

  I was to blame for what my wife had done. It was her finger on the trigger, yet I was the one responsible. Time and again she’d warned me about Charles’ behavior. Rather than act I’d escaped; at Alice’s peril, it turned out.

  The investigation took months. In between there were numerous meetings with our lawyer, Tim Walsh. It was one thing to lie, quite another to have others believe it. I didn’t know if we were being successful or not.

  My wife and I were interviewed separately and together. The specialists had all been called. By the time Walsh reached us by phone to give us the verdict, I was a nervous wreak.

  “Justifiable homicide,” he said, baritone voice booming in my ear.

  “For real?”

  “For real. Your testimony was compelling. Your son’s friends helped by admitting Charles was losing control. The authorities are closing their case without pressing charges.”

  My relief was palpable.

  “You still there?”

  I cleared my throat. “Tim … I can’t thank you enough.”

  After disconnecting I turned to Alice. “It’s over. We can get on with our lives. I’ve been exonerated.”

  At first, there was no reaction. “Exonerated?” my wife muttered dully.

  “Yes … declared innocent.” I grabbed her shoulders, wanting to celebrate, to make this a new beginning.

  Alice edged away from me. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go lie down.”

  * * *

  The following morning, she took her first shower in weeks. I waited for the water to shut off before going to see her. Alice was still toweling off and I drew in my breath.

  Her breasts had shrunk to emaciated orbs. Her arms looked frail. And her legs, once her best feature, were now feeble sticks of sagging skin.

  Alice put on her nightgown and took a seat in front of the mirror.

  I approached and asked if I could brush her hair.

  She nodded.

  It’d been many months since we’d been intimate; this felt as intimate as it was going to get.

  Less than a minute passed when my wife turned to me and said, in words fraught with pain, “I murdered our son.”

  * * *

  I went back to work, came home most days for lunch, arrived early for dinner. I told myself Alice was marginally improving. But her zoned-out state concerned me more and more.

  I took to washing whatever pills of hers I found down the toilet. Crespon, and one called Melocontine, which I was sure was an opioid. My wife would invariably come up with a new supply of one or more. I reasoned with her: “You need help. I’ll find a therapist. Someone you can talk to.”

  She neither consented nor prot
ested.

  Appointment after appointment was made but each was canceled. She kept coming up with one excuse after another.

  * * *

  I planned an intervention. If Alice refused to see a therapist, I’d have one come to her. Before I could make the arrangements, however, I came home from work on a Wednesday evening and was surprised to find my wife dressed and wearing makeup. The blouse and slacks she wore swam on her. But at least she’d forsaken her nightgown.

  I stood in the vestibule, mute.

  “I made dinner,” she said.

  I washed up and took a seat in the dining room. For the first time in ages, Alice had lit the candles. I watched her approach the stove. She returned carrying a plate filled with what could have been fish or chicken. The top layer had been burned so badly I couldn’t tell for sure.

  Yet, I didn’t complain. I tried my first forkful. It was chicken and it was tough. But it tasted like the most wonderful meal of my life. We didn’t say much to each other. Once dinner was over, I cleared the table and Alice handled the dishes.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She didn’t reply but I was more encouraged than I’d been in months.

  * * *

  The next morning I left the house before six and was forced to skip lunch. I was working on a new case that required my full attention. The day flew by and I arrived home exhausted. The lights were off and the blinds were drawn.

  “Alice?” I called and walked into the bedroom.

  She was naked, lying on top of the sheets, unconscious. The hair on the back of my neck bristled. I threw a blanket over Alice, swooped her up in my arms and made a dash for the door.

  I positioned her as gently as I could manage in the back seat of my car. I talked to her as I drove, hoping beyond hope that she’d respond; knowing she wouldn’t, but trying nevertheless.

  The hospital was normally a twenty-minute drive. A light snow was falling and the roads were slippery. I still made it in fifteen minutes flat. I parked in front, rushed to the door, and called for help. An orderly and an intern hurried out. I could do nothing but watch while Alice was transported on a gurney.

  The waiting room was jammed with every seat taken. I stood in a corner and tried to divert my thoughts.

  “Mr. Delany?”

  I nearly vaulted forward.

  A young doctor with brown hair and dark eyes approached. He looked worn out. “Your wife is comatose,” he said matter-of-factly. “We pumped her stomach. Tried everything to revive her. I’m not sure she’ll survive the night. You might want to notify the rest of her family.”

  I thought of lashing out at his indifference, then reconsidered. “Yes. Well. I’m the only one.”

  * * *

  Memories haunted me: Alice and I first starting to date. Graduating university. Getting married. The way she eased the transition when we moved from Phoenix to Chicago. Trying to have a baby. Her joyous reaction after she found out she was finally pregnant.

  How did it go so wrong? I shook my head. Who was I kidding? It went wrong because of what I’d done; selfishly not caring; going on a permanent bender; hurting the people who mattered the most.

  The night dragged on. The crowd thinned but the room never completely emptied. Every few hours I’d get an update on my wife’s condition. Little had changed: Alice was on a respirator to help her breathe. The latest electroencephalogram showed diminished brain activity.

  I realized she intended for last night’s meal to be her goodbye. Finding her made up and dressed had felt too good to be true. And it was too good. I should have known, or at least suspected.

  The same doctor approached at six o’clock in the morning, looking even more exhausted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Delany,” he said, finally with a little empathy, “but we need a decision about removing life support.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so. Would you come with me, please?”

  I followed him into an isolated cubical. A half dozen machines were monitoring Alice’s vital signs, each making a sound I detested.

  The doctor pointed out the one that read her brain waves. The ripple in the line was barely perceptible. “Do we have your permission?”

  I turned my attention to the bed. My wife wasn’t merely pale, she was ghost-like. Her face had shrunk into itself. I touched her cheek, found it frigid. I kissed the spot I’d touched.

  “Mr. Delany?”

  I reluctantly turned. The doctor was proffering a document and pen. I snatched both from his hand. “I’d like some privacy.”

  “Of course,” he acknowledged and left.

  * * *

  The feeding tube, breathing apparatus, and other devices were removed. I was told my wife wasn’t suffering, but I didn’t believe it. Three days later she died.

  I racked my brain for a time afterwards. I was of two minds as to why I took the blame for my son’s death. Was it, as I wanted to believe, to protect Alice from the strain of an intensive investigation and possibly being prosecuted? Or was I worried that her claim of acting in self-defense was suspect?

  I handed in my resignation and put the house up for sale. There was constant chatter in my head, reminding me of my culpability in Alice’s death. I doubted I’d ever find inner peace again.

  On occasion I’d drive by a liquor store and slow down. Something always prevented me from coming to a full stop. I felt I owed it to the memory of my wife and son to walk the path of sobriety for the rest of my life.

  * * *

  After burying Charles and Alice I left Chicago and ended up in my hometown of Phoenix for a while, where almost everything was different from what I remembered. Old friends, for the most part, weren’t as friendly; old haunts not as familiar. Even renewing family ties was a challenge; they didn’t make me feel welcome at all.

  I decided to travel across the U.S. My car was a rusted-out Chevy Impala with over 100,000 miles on it and tires so worn I could see the steel belts. I wondered which would give out first—the tires or the motor. I vowed to keep going until one or the other quit on me.

  My stubborn self-incrimination never left; whether during the day while driving, or at night while having take-out dinner or watching television in a cheap motel room. Sleep was a constant challenge. I couldn’t get the death-pallor images of my son and wife out of my head.

  I went north to Denver, then east to Minneapolis, Detroit, New York, and Boston; then south from there, with extra time spent in Washington, D.C. By the time I reached the northern tip of Florida my car engine lost the battle, sending a plume of smoke out from under the hood in a final death throe.

  I got hold of Guy Thomas, my superior at Chicago PD, which led to an introduction to Sheriff Norman. Two days later I was in Bonita Springs—having traveled by train—being interviewed.

  I was told an opening was forthcoming, but I’d have to be patient. The current deputy sheriff, Hank Broderick, was apparently looking to take on a better-paying position in Tampa. Little did I know that later on our paths would cross, and not in a pleasant way.

  12

  January 23

  By noon I needed a reprieve. I’d been tied up in our interview room all morning. Dozens of service people, in and out like a revolving door, yet only two remotely viable suspects: Turk Lagerfeld, a 30-year-old technician with Comcast whose story changed twice; and Harold Brown, a 47-year-old electrician with Florida Power and Light who’d lied about where he was when the first murder was committed.

  I was grasping at anything I could find. Eight years in the sheriff’s department and I’d never encountered a conundrum like the one I was facing now; a killer with no clear motive.

  Meanwhile, I assigned Pederson and Wellington to the task of interviewing friends and relatives of the deceased women, hoping one of them could offer us a lead. But I kept Barbara Miller for myself, on a strong hunch she
knew a lot more about Frank Sinclair than she was saying.

  Traffic was unusually light. I had called Mrs. Miller to ask if I could talk to her about the case, and she’d readily agreed. We were familiar with one another, of course, having met again as recently as a week ago at Cathy Sinclair’s memorial.

  Barbara greeted me with an effusive smile, in a diaphanous yellow blouse and a black skirt that barely reached a third of the way to her knees. Her dark hair was piled high and held in place by a rhinestone-studded comb.

  “Bill’s still out, so you’re stuck with lil’ ole me,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Presently, Bill was being waylaid by Pederson, at what I knew was his favorite cafe. I’d planned the interview with Barbara accordingly, figuring she wouldn’t talk about Frank with Bill in the room.

  She led the way to the couch in the great room. “Can I get you something?”

  It sounded like there was more to her invitation. Mrs. Miller was not only attractive, she had an aura of overt sexuality that could make any man feel uncomfortable.

  “No, this won’t take long,” I promised.

  “So you said on the phone.” Her eyebrow raised slightly. “What would you like to know?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve given the murders any thought? Questioned what the women were doing on the day each died? Considered who might’ve wanted to do them harm?”

  “Considered it? That’s all my friends and I have been doing. Going over and over it. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “What about the husbands?” I asked, getting to the key question. “Especially Frank Sinclair?”

  “Frank?” she frowned, taken aback. “He had nothing to do with the murders.”

  “Oh? What makes you so sure?”

  “I know him well,” she said evenly. “We’re friends. Have been for a long while.”

  Intimate friends? I wanted to ask, but held my tongue.

  “When you get to know a person, Sheriff, you learn a lot about them. Get to understand what they’re capable of. Frank can no more be a murderer than me.” She shot a mischievous glance my way.