by Mike Omer
“So you were unhappy.”
“Of course I was unhappy! I wanted her to help me with Paula! Not to tell me to stop trying. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t keep trying to win over the girl I loved?”
The kind who wasn’t a creep, Bernard thought. “But you still asked her to read for you again, even though you weren’t satisfied with the results.”
“Yeah, because I wanted her to admit that she was wrong. Other psychics told me that it was meant to be, that it was true love, that I should prevail, and that she would be impressed by how determined I was. But Mune kept telling me the same bullshit. That I had to move on. That Paula wasn’t interested.”
“And then you began threatening her,” Bernard said, his voice softening.
“What? I didn’t threaten her.”
“The first threat was in your last review, Denver. You said that she’d regret it.”
“I just… I just meant that it would hurt her reputation when people heard what a crap psychic she is.”
“Really? Do you want to hear something interesting, Mr. Denver? The judge didn’t only give me a warrant to search your apartment. I also got a warrant for your call logs for the last two months.”
Nils Denver’s face became even paler. “Listen…”
“Seventeen calls to Jacqueline Mune’s home number. Seventeen! Three weeks ago, you called five times in a row. I take it she hung up but you kept calling her.”
“I just wanted her to apologize.”
“Apologize?” Hannah suddenly snapped. “For telling you that you should stop being a creep and move on? And how exactly did you ask her to apologize? Did you ask nicely?”
“I… I…”
“Because you know what she finally did, don’t you?” Hannah said, her teeth clenched. “She bought a gun. You scared her so much with your stalking that she bought a gun. Of course you know that, because you shot her with that gun.”
“Shot her? No! I swear I didn’t!”
Bernard glared at him, and something suddenly occurred to him. A sequence of events, snapping together, telling a story.
“Show me your hands!” Bernard barked at Nils.
“My… what?”
“Your goddamn hands, show them to me!”
Confused, Nils displayed both of his palms, facing up. Bernard stared at them both for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet Nils’s terrified look.
“Why did you stop calling her, Denver?” Bernard asked, the words seething with rage. “Last call was five days ago, and no calls since. Was it because you decided to take things to the next level? Because you decided she deserved to die?”
“I stopped calling because I was in jail! I only got out this morning!”
There was a moment of silence. Bernard and Hannah exchanged glances.
“What?” Bernard finally said. “When exactly were you in jail?”
“I was arrested four days ago.”
“What for?”
“It doesn’t really matter.”
“It matters to me, Denver!” Bernard roared. Nils flinched. “What were you arrested for?”
“It was just a mistake! They made a huge mistake. My lawyer says we have grounds for suing them.”
“What was their mistake?”
“They arrested me for stalking and harassment,” Nils muttered. “I made bail. But my lawyer said that there’s no way I’d be found guilty, and that I can sue the city for this.”
“Really,” Bernard said dryly. “Are you paying him an hourly rate?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Who did they say you harassed?” Hannah hissed.
“It’s all a mistake. I didn’t harass anyone. But they say I stalked Paula. It’s all a huge misunderstanding.”
“Paula?” Bernard looked at him. “Your one true love?”
Nils straightened himself. “That’s right.”
“You know, Denver,” Bernard said, “you’re a sad little shit.”
Chapter Eight
Evening was just around the corner as Bernard drove the car into the Glenmore Park Police Department parking lot. The lot was half-empty, and he had the dubious pleasure of parking wherever he wanted. The last rays of sun sparkled in the rearview mirror, and he squinted, the light blinding him. He stopped the car and switched it off, glancing at Hannah. His partner had been silent the entire way back. He knew the moody stare in her eyes quite well. She wouldn’t let this rest, not even just for tonight. It irked her that the killer was still free, that more than thirty hours after the murder, they still hadn’t made an arrest.
He sighed. Whether he went home or not, he knew that Hannah intended to work into the night, look up leads online, write additional notes on the murder board, maybe even go back to the scene of the crime. She was a fantastic partner, definitely better than his last one, but she occasionally exhausted him. All he wanted was to go back home, see his wife, kiss his kids goodnight.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs, grab a coffee, and try to figure this out.”
They got out of the car, Hannah slamming the door a bit harder than was necessary, as if it was the car’s fault that no suspect was in jail yet. They walked to the department’s entrance, Bernard matching his pace to Hannah’s brooding strides.
“Lots of suspects,” Bernard said conversationally.
“Yup,” Hannah said.
“You’d think a nice old woman who worked as a psychic would have less people wishing for her death,” Bernard remarked.
“Well, I think when you touch a lot of lives, you’re bound to make a few enemies as well.”
“Maybe.” Bernard wondered if he had any enemies. If he were to be shot and killed, how many suspects would his fellow detectives find? Well, a lot, if they included all the criminals he’d managed to put in jail. The thought was unpleasant, and he pushed it away. They walked past the front desk, and Hannah ignored the elevator, beelining to the stairs. Bernard followed her.
“We should check the alibis,” Hannah said. “Some of these suspects can be eliminated easily.”
Bernard nodded distractedly. They’d already checked with the Boston PD. Nils Denver was innocent, of this crime at least—he had indeed been in jail when it happened. There was something else that bugged him. A random detail from the crime scene. The dried leaves that had lain beside the body. What were they doing there? They could have simply been on the storage room floor, and then the wind that had blown in when the back door had opened could have sent them tumbling over the floor, only to get stuck in the sticky pool of blood around the victim. But the floor in the storage room was quite clean.
Another explanation was that Jacqueline had been carrying them when she was shot. But would she have simply held a few dried leaves of squaw vine from her storage room in her hand? If she needed squaw vine for something, wouldn’t she have taken a bag, or the entire jar?
It was a ridiculous detail to latch on to. Bernard knew that whenever he stepped into a crime scene, some details would strike him as odd. Sometimes they were explained later, sometimes not. People were weird. They had strange habits and bizarre secrets, and in many cases, those distractions only stood in the way of solving the crime.
But still…
They entered the squad room, Bernard flipping the light on. The rest of the squad had apparently left already, and Bernard envied them, thinking about his own home, wife, and bed.
“I’ll check Ginny Mune’s alibi,” Hannah said. “It’s the strongest. Easiest to verify.”
“Okay,” Bernard said. “I’ll… I’ll verify Sophia’s alibi, call the client from that morning.”
They sat down at their desks. The client’s phone number was in Bernard’s inbox; they had received it using the same warrant that had given them Nils Denver’s address. Bernard opened the email and stared at it. Then he opened his browser and searched for “squaw vine.”
The results were as random as could be expected. It was used for Christma
s decorations. It could be used to prepare women for childbirth. The berries could be used to make jam.
He shrugged. He was wasting time. He picked up the phone, then put it down. He searched “Squaw vine herb psychic.”
Squaw vine was supposed to be helpful for fertility. Also, if a pregnant woman bathed in squaw vine tea once a week, it supposedly protected her unborn child from jealousy. He leaned back in his chair and tried to think. Finally, he closed the browser, kicking himself for wasting valuable time. Every minute wasted was a minute in which people’s memory dimmed, and the killer could clean his traces. The first days after a murder were the most crucial to the investigation, and he was searching for the mystical effects of squaw vine.
Hannah got up and walked over to the murder board. She wrote strong alibi under Ginny Mune’s picture.
“Ginny’s alibi holds up?” Bernard asked.
“Yup,” Hannah said. “Both her associate and the secretary remember seeing her arrive at work, and the secretary could verify that she saw her several times that morning. I still have some additional phone numbers, but I think we can probably rule her out.”
“Okay,” Bernard said. “I’ll try Sophia’s client now.”
“What did you do all this time?” Hannah asked.
Bernard ignored her and dialed the number.
“Hello?” the soft voice of a woman answered the call after a few moments.
“Hi, is this Miranda Gold?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“My name is Detective Bernard Gladwin, from the Glenmore Park PD.”
“From Glenmore Park? Where’s that?”
“Just north of Boston, ma’am. Would you mind answering some questions?”
“Boston? But I live in San Francisco.”
“That’s fine, ma’am. I just need to ask you some—”
“I’ve never even heard of Glenmore Park.”
“It’s a very nice city, ma’am. I just need to ask a few questions regarding—”
“Frank? Frank! Turn that down! There’s a detective on the phone. He says he’s from Glenmore Park.”
“Glenmore what?” an irritated voice shouted in the background. He sounded a bit like Homer Simpson’s dad. Bernard imagined the man shaking a walking stick angrily.
“Glenmore Park! It’s near Boston!”
“Well, what does he want from us? We don’t live in Boston.”
“I’m sorry, Detective, I think you have the wrong number,” Miranda said. “We’ve never been to Glenmore Park. And I’ve only visited Boston once, thirteen years ago, when my cousin’s daughter was born. This is not about my cousin, is it?”
“No, ma’am, this is about Jacqueline Mune, the psychic,” Bernard said.
“What is he saying?” Frank yelled. Bernard rolled his eyes.
“Nothing!” Miranda said. “It’s just the wrong number!” Then she quickly whispered into the phone, “Hang on, please.”
Bernard waited, hearing the noise of high-heeled footsteps, then a door closing.
“Sorry,” Miranda whispered. “Frank would kill me if he knew I was paying a psychic. But she really helps me, and I am going through a very difficult time in my life. Frank isn’t an easy man to live with, you see, and…” She slowed down. There was a moment of silence. “What’s this about?” she suddenly asked.
“Ma’am, did you have a session with your psychic yesterday morning?”
“Yes, I did. She wasn’t supposed to tell you that! It’s confidential!”
“It’s quite all right, ma’am, I won’t tell anyone. I just need to verify some details. Was it a video chat?”
“Uh… well, there was no video, it was a regular chat.”
“At what time did you two chat?”
“Well, we started at seven fifteen and ended at eight fifteen. It was a long session, because I met a man, and I think I might be feeling something about him, but Frank and I have been living together for twenty years, and—”
“Thank you, ma’am. At any point during that chat, was there a lull in the conversation? Maybe a bad connection? A few minutes that Soph… Jacqueline didn’t respond?”
“No, not at all.”
“Did she seem like herself? Do you think it’s possible that you were chatting to someone else, and not to, uh… your usual psychic?”
“Oh, no, it was definitely her. She mentioned some things about Frank that I had told only her. Why? Is there something wrong? Is Jacqueline okay?”
“Your psychic is in perfect health,” Bernard said smoothly. “Thank you for your help, ma’am. I’ll call again if I have any more questions.” He quickly hung up.
He swiveled his chair to look at Hannah. She talked intently on the phone, standing up, like she often did when excited.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asked. There was a moment of silence. “Okay, thanks.” She put down the phone and turned to Bernard.
“I just talked to Jack Thompson’s boss,” she said. “He denied that Jack ever came to work yesterday. He said that Curt was there, but he showed up alone.”
Bernard stood up. “He lied to us, and his friend lied as well.”
Hannah nodded. “I think we have our guy.”
Bernard called Sophia to ask for her address, claiming they had some follow-up questions. Coldly, she informed him that they weren’t at home, they were at her mother’s house, and they weren’t about to answer any more questions without their lawyer present. Bernard thanked her and hung up, telling Hannah to drive back to the scene of the crime.
The street was quiet when they stopped in front of Jacqueline Mune’s house. The lights were on inside, and Bernard approached the door, Hannah following him closely. He knocked and waited. He heard footsteps approaching the door, and then some muttering. Finally, the door flung open and Sophia Mune stood in the doorway, her mouth twisted in anger.
“Can’t you leave us alone?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I’m here cleaning up after my mother’s murder. The police didn’t even clean the blood off the floor!”
“I’m very sorry for the intrusion,” Bernard said. “We just have a few questions for your husband.”
“I told you, we won’t answer any more questions! Not without a lawyer present.”
“That’s fine, ma’am. But we still need to ask them.”
“Who is it? Is it the cleaning people?” Jack Thompson said behind her, and then saw Bernard in the doorway. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you. I’m calling my lawyer.”
“That’s probably a good idea, sir,” Bernard said, getting irritated. “We just talked to your boss, and he says you never came to work yesterday.”
Jack’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. For a moment, Bernard though he was about to bolt. He could feel Hannah behind him tensing as well.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sophia said angrily. “Of course he was at work. He drove there with Curt.”
Bernard looked at her sadly, and then back at Jack. “It’s over, Jack,” he said.
“Look, you have it all wrong…” Jack said. “I… my boss…”
“I know that Curt said you were there,” Bernard said. “What will he say when we tell him we checked it out with your boss? Will he still lie for you? What will the rest of your crew say?”
“Okay, listen, you’ve got it all wrong…” He looked at his wife. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Bernard moved forward into the house, a pair of handcuffs already in his hand. “Jack Thompson,” he said, “you are under arrest.” He grabbed the man’s hand and clicked the handcuffs onto one wrist, then quickly cuffed the second wrist without encountering a shred of resistance.
Jack seemed to completely deflate, fear in his eyes. His chin trembled. “Soph, call Perry. Tell him I’ve been arrested, tell him it’s all a mistake. Okay? Soph!”
Sophia stared at them as if in a dream, a look of utter bewilderment in her eyes. Bernard couldn’t imagine what was going on in her head. How wo
uld it feel to have the person you loved most taken away, charged with murdering your own mother? Bernard firmly led Jack outside and helped him into the backseat of the car. He then sat in front, Hannah joining him in the passenger seat. They said nothing. He started the engine, steering the car into the street.
“Listen,” Jack said from behind, “you’ve got it all wrong. I would never kill Jacqueline. I loved that woman as if she was my own mother!”
Bernard glanced at Hannah, and their eyes met. Both remained silent. As long as what Jack said was spontaneous, as long as they asked him no questions, his Miranda rights didn’t apply.
“You’re right, I wasn’t at work yesterday morning,” Jack said. “I lied. But I have a real alibi. I was with another woman. I met her at the Park’s Lodge—it’s that motel, you know it? The woman at the front desk might remember me. You should call her!”
Bernard and Hannah said nothing as the man in the back of the car said over and over that he was just having an affair, that was why he’d lied. He would never kill anyone.
Eventually he fell silent, realizing that it was pointless to rant at them from behind. After a minute or two, he began sobbing, covering his face with his handcuffed hands. Was he crying because he was afraid of jail? Or because he didn’t want his wife to find out about an affair? Bernard doubted it was an affair. An affair was a convenient excuse. Jack had mentioned the woman at the front desk. Was she also an alibi Jack had prepared in advance, like Curt?
They walked the man into the station and sat him in the interrogation room. Bernard sat in front of him, looming, silent. Hannah left the room.
“Listen…” Jack said.
Bernard put a finger on his lips. “Jack,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand that right?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then let’s exercise it together. I have three kids at home. You know how much noise three kids make?”
“I…”
“A lot of noise, Jack. Sometimes, I think my daughter’s voice can pierce literal holes in my brain. You know what I do then?”