by Dale Hudson
Dressed in a bathrobe and a T-shirt, John Frazier stared back at the uniformed police officer standing in his yard, unflinching, as if there were nothing left inside to shine outward. He seemed startled and even a little nervous. Maybe even a little flustered.
Mills eased back toward the front porch, then apologized for his intrusion at such an odd hour.
“Are you John Boyd Frazier?”
John nodded. He looked like a bear who had just been awoken from his hibernation.
Frazier’s appearance, however, didn’t mean anything to Mills, since there’s never been a laundry list of rules on how someone should react when a police officer shows up at one’s house, unannounced, at 5:30 A.M. He had seen the same look many times before when he had awaken others at such odd hours. Some expressions were valid, as Mills was often called upon to deliver alarming or heart-stopping news. But not always. It wasn’t unusual for him to field a request that later proved to be initiated by a prankster or an angry lover with nothing better to do than waste police time and disturb someone’s early-morning REM sleep.
“There’s been a missing person’s report filed on you in South Carolina,” Mills announced, offering John a little more information. “I’m just trying to find out if you’re at home.”
The two men exchanged glances.
Mills kept his face blank of expression and tried to relax. He couldn’t tell if John was alone, and he didn’t appear to be drunk or under the influence of drugs. The only sign of emotion he could see in John was a slight nervousness. He hadn’t expected him to open the door and invite him in for a cup of coffee, but most people in this situation would want to explore if further.
“I have a cousin that lives in Myrtle Beach,” John offered, straightening his robe. “His name is Mike Frazier. Maybe it’s him they’re talking about. But as you can see, he’s not here.”
“Is that your car parked in the back?” Mills asked, hoping to secure additional information.
John shrugged rather smugly. “No, that belongs to a friend of mine, Kayle Schettler. I loaned my car to him and he let me borrow the Acura.”
“Can you give me an address on your friend?” Mills inquired, reaching for a notepad in his front pocket.
“Um, well, uh, that would be difficult to say.” John looked away from the officer as if his memory banks had closed and were not scheduled to reopen until later that day. “I can tell you how to get there,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to kick start his brain. “He lives a few miles down the road from here, but I can’t for the life of me tell you the address.”
“Okay, if you could give me his name again and I’ll see if I can’t locate an address.”
“Kayle Schettler,” John said softly, spelling out each letter in his friend’s name. “It’s spelled: K-A-Y-L-E. S-C-H-E-T-TL-E-R.”
After jotting down Schettler’s name, Mills didn’t ask John for any further details concerning the whereabouts of his car or why he was driving someone else’s car. Had he asked, Frazier would have told him that he and Kayle had been friends since high school and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the two of them to switch cars. Kayle was a crackerjack mechanic and worked at Cloverdale Shell on Cloverdale Shell Avenue in Winston-Salem. He had worked on John’s car before, and on several previous occasions had offered to loan him his Acura to drive until he returned John’s Blazer.
On Monday, June 8, John had driven up to the service station around noon and asked if Kayle could work on his car. The front end of his Blazer had been making a noise and he wanted Kayle to see if he could fix it. Since they had switched cars in the past, John then asked if he could borrow Kayle’s car. Even when he told Kayle he would need to borrow his car through Thursday, Kayle never hesitated. After all, what are friends for if not to help out when one was in a bind?
But Mills never asked for an explanation about John’s car and he never offered. He apologized again to John for disturbing him then excused himself. He wasn’t there to harass or accost him, and accepted the fact that he had accomplished his mission. John was at home so he left it at that. Unfortunately, he still hadn’t thought about walking to the car and placing his hand on the hood to feel if the engine was still warm—a sure sign that the car had been driven recently.
Inside his patrol car, Mills telephoned communications at headquarters and told them he had found John Frazier, at home. Several minutes later, he received another request from the MBPD. They wanted him to locate Frazier’s car, described as a black Chevrolet Blazer with a personalized tag. The tag was a North Carolina plate with a “first in flight” airplane insignia and had the word “NERVUS” blazoned across it.
Mills telephoned the name of John’s friend he had written down and asked the dispatcher to verify an address. He was given Schettler’s address at Brandemere Lane Apartments and drove straight to the adjacent parking lot and located John Frazier’s vehicle. Since he had been told there had been a shooting last night in Myrtle Beach and that John was a suspect, there was a good possibility this black Blazer had been there also. But when he checked it out, he found the vehicle to be cold and John’s friend at home and asleep in bed.
CHAPTER 13
Anything worth doing is always worth doing twice. Maybe even three times.
When Detective Altman finished searching the crime scene area a second, then a third time, he drove back to the MBPD station. Captain Hendrick was already there, meeting with the detectives between their interviews with Renee. They had become suspicious of Renee due to her inconsistencies in what they knew and what she had told them. Although the detectives believed at this time she was not involved in the shooting, they were convinced, however, that she could identify the shooter. They just didn’t understand why she insisted on not doing so.
“We contacted Brent’s family and they told us some pretty hairy stuff about Brent and Renee’s marital problems,” Hendrick immediately advised Altman.
Altman gulped a swallow of lukewarm water before entering the interview room to refresh himself. He winced. The water wasn’t very palatable. It was now 5:10 A.M. He had been going at it since yesterday afternoon.
As Altman and Hendrick talked about it, they clearly understood he and Sergeant King had the advantage at this point. They were in control of the situation. Not only was Renee Poole on their turf, so to speak, but she hadn’t been lawyered up as of yet. Still, they teetered a fine line in inducing their subject to talk. At any minute, she could refuse to answer their questions, ask to see a lawyer, and bring their interviews to a screeching halt.
“Up to this point, we’ve attempted to keep her talking,” Hendrick related. “We’ve tried to impress upon her that she’s not under suspicion. That no one is planning to arrest her, as we have no cause to, and that we’re merely just wanting to take her statement. Trying to get all the facts straight in our minds.”
Their plan had worked. Renee had not asked for a lawyer, and until then, they would continue to interview her. Hendrick assured Altman that he, too, didn’t like the smell of things and his previous suspicions had been greatly intensified after talking with Brent’s parents. He was confident the two detectives, with just the right amount of pressure, could wrestle the truth away from her.
“Take your time,” the chief cautioned Altman as a trainer would instruct his star athlete from his corner of the ring. “This might be our only chance to get what we need from her. If for some reason a lawyer shows up and wants to stop the interview, then you can count on us to stand at the door and prevent that from happening. She’s not going to get a lawyer until she asks for one.”
Altman walked into the sparsely furnished room. Sergeant King sat at the table across and directly facing Renee. Altman pulled his chair up beside her and next to King. In classic textbook style, the two well-trained detectives physically boxed her in. Forming what is known as the interrogation-style triangle, they created a powerful physical rendering of how they wanted Renee to perceive her present circumstances. As they s
tared at her fiercely, the air suddenly grew cold.
Renee shifted nervously in her seat, then leaned back slightly as if to draw a breath from the unencumbered air. She should have known sooner or later the posse would come gunning for her, and she guessed this was it. Had she not been so mentally and physically drained, she would have easily figured out these were no ordinary cops. What she didn’t know was that King and Altman had worked as a team many times before. Investigative work had long ago infiltrated their blood and they’d been given many opportunities to perfect their dog-and-pony show. They had played this game many times before and did it well, knowing exactly how and when to feed off each other.
“Ms. Poole, I’m Detective Altman. I know you have already told your story several times tonight, but unfortunately, I was working on something else involving your husband at the hospital and haven’t gotten all the details. I’ve just been getting bits and pieces of it, here and there, so if you could . . .”
Renee looked typically tired and worn. Dark circles like half-moons hung underneath her eyes. She repeated what she had already told King. She obviously felt comfortable enough with the two men to share confidences about her marital problems, but assured them she and her husband had worked all that out before they came to the beach. As she talked about her troubles, her voice sounded weak and vulnerable.
Renee began by explaining how she and Brent were high-school sweethearts and how they had been a couple for about seven years. She said she had dated just three other people besides Brent, and only because he had broken off their relationship while they were dating.
“He broke up with me just to go out with someone else,” she said in a voice as flat as her eyes were blank. “I was upset about it, but we still remained friends. He would call me and talk to me about his problems with his girlfriend and I would give him advice.”
Altman sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes toward Sergeant King, as if to say, Just great, we got ourselves another fucking Dr. Laura.
Renee shook her head, then said adamantly, “It was all good advice.” It was like she was just another simple, sincere, and forthright girl, trying to help her boyfriend work things out with his girlfriend. “But when he got ready to go to college, he broke up with her. . . .” She paused and bit her lower lip, then suddenly changed directions. In a gleeful voice that sounded much like a teenager, she blurted out, “And I just recently found out that he didn’t cry when he left her. That he came straight to my house and cried.”
Altman stared at her with a curious look.
Renee then answered her own question. “Because he wanted me to go back with him and we started dating again from there.”
“And how long ago was this?” Altman interjected.
“’93 maybe?”
“And when you guys would break up, would you go out with other people also?”
“Yeah.”
“And how did Brent feel about that?”
“He really didn’t say.”
“He never told you he didn’t like you going out with other people,” Altman snapped.
Renee shook her head again. “He was usually involved with someone.” She shifted her hands restlessly in her lap and reminded the detective it was Brent who had broken up with her to go out with someone else and not the other way around.
“Well, how did you feel about him going out with other people?”
“Uh, I wasn’t happy with it, because I loved him. But I knew within a couple of weeks, he’d come back,” she said lightly.
With that taken care of, Altman decided it was time to move on down the trail. He was confident Renee would soon learn this was not his first ride at the rodeo. “And how has your relationship been since 1993?” he asked, inching steadily toward her adulterous behavior.
“Uh, it’s been really good,” she said quietly, otherwise her manner entirely uncontrived. “We got married. I was three months pregnant when we got married. We had a pretty good marriage up until a year ago, uh, until we bought a computer.”
Sergeant King glanced toward his partner, signaling that she was giving Altman the same old soft-shoe routine she’d tapped out earlier for him. She claimed Brent had started staying on the computer six months after they got it. That he worked second shift and was never at home. And he wasn’t giving the family the kind of attention they needed.
Altman had been around the romantic block more than a couple of times, too. He wasn’t buying it, either.
When Altman asked Renee what was it that Brent was doing on the computer that she didn’t like, she said he was spending too much time on the Internet. She at first told the detectives he was looking for things for their four-wheeler, that they both had four-wheelers. She said he had bought her a four-wheeler for her birthday so she could be with him. But then she changed her story that he was really searching into adult pornographic sites.
After some probing, Renee admitted she would sit down with her husband and they would look through these pornographic sites together. But she said their troubles really started when they bought games. “Some of these games,” she added, “could be played over the Internet, and Brent would go in and find someone to play games with him.” She didn’t specify what kind of games, but the detective had a sneaky idea what she was implying. Renee said she didn’t like it because Brent was on the computer all the time when he could have been helping her with Katie, cooking meals, cleaning or doing anything besides that.
Altman curiously asked Renee if she stayed on the computer as much as her husband.
“Not near as much as him,” she answered quickly. “When he went to work, I’d do things with my daughter instead, like taking her to the park or visiting either with my or his parents.” With a look of disgust, she added that Brent’s addiction with the computer had been going on for about a year and she just got tired of him not paying her and Katie any attention. When asked if she thought Brent was seeing someone else, she shook her head doubtfully. She was sure their problem was the computer. She was almost certain nobody else had come into Brent’s life.
“What about your life?” Altman asked, leaning into her. Their faces nearly touched. “Has anybody popped up?”
“Yes, a guy named John,” Renee answered. She took a few minutes to explain how she and John had met, had become friends and how their relationship had blossomed from that point on. She said Brent didn’t have a problem with that at the time. That he was not the jealous type. So, if she wanted to have male friends, he didn’t care, as long as they were just friends.
Altman glared at her unbelievingly, then asked, “Just how often did you see John?”
“John and I talked on a daily basis,” she admitted. “I would take my daughter to his house to watch Disney movies and run errands. Since my husband worked the second shift, I would always go to John’s house about three or four in the afternoon and stay until nine or ten that night.”
“How does your daughter feel about him?” Altman asked.
“Oh, she liked him. She liked him a lot. And he liked her, too.”
“And that didn’t bother Brent at all?”
That sounded strange to Altman. Brent was her husband and any red-blooded male that he knew would launch a solid protest against that relationship. The husky homicide detective was intrigued when Renee said her husband didn’t have a jealous streak in him. And, even more so, when she detailed but yet casually dismissed her mysterious behavior.
“Every day I would check in with Brent while he was at work. But when he would ask what I was doing or where I was at, I would never mention John or that I was at his house. I always told him I was doing something different or what I was planning to do later.” She claimed this charade had been going on for about a year before Brent ever caught on. Then, of course, last month she had decided to leave her husband and move in with John.
“So there’s a little bit more going on besides you just going over and watching movies and stuff?” Altman asked. “I mean, is this a sexual relat
ionship that has evolved between you and John?”
Renee grew silent. She stared at the detective for a few seconds. She nodded nervously. Her eyes darting first from Altman to King, then back to Altman. Her hands shifted again in her lap.
“I—I did have sex with h-him,” she stammered, “but the last time was probably about a month ago. I do remember I was having sex with John when I left my husband and moved in with him. I think maybe that was the last time, right before I had left to come back home.” She clarified she had only moved in with John for a week.
Altman moved in closer, attempting to crowd her and close the space that opened between them. “So, how did Brent take it when you moved in with John?”
Renee shifted in her seat and leaned away from the detective, giving herself some breathing room. “Ah, he knew we were friends and he didn’t really have a problem with it,” she said, starting a sentence, then stopping abruptly, leaving them hanging in midair. “Uh, he met John, and, uh, we would all three get on the phone and have conversations to help us resolve some problems. Uh, get everything out in the open. You know, maybe there was something I told Brent that I didn’t tell John or I told John and didn’t tell Brent. And, uh, we’d get everything out in the open and discuss it and we’d solve all our problems.”
Despite the fact that Renee seemed to be surprisingly relaxed and untroubled while Altman talked with her, he could not help but believe she was spinning a web of lies. He was astonished that two men in love and having sex with the same woman could calmly sit down together and iron out their difficulties. That didn’t sound like anybody he knew.
“Now, let me get this right,” the befuddled detective insisted, “you’re saying things about getting stuff out in the open. How would you discuss things? Was it just a mutual agreement? Like, ‘Brent, I’m doing this now’ and he would say, ‘Oh, that’s fine.’ Or would it be you guys arguing about it?”