One Deadly Sister

by Rod Hoisington

  The officer appeared panicky, as though wondering if he should disclose the sergeant’s name. “That’s Sergeant Lewis.”

  “Tell him I’d like to speak with him, please.”

  Ray sat astonished. The puzzled officer called for the sergeant, who walked over. With his white hair and slight bend, he appeared to be past retirement age, but was still in good shape, no doughnut paunch on this cop. She politely repeated her request.

  The sergeant replied, “Miss, I see you’re from Philadelphia. We do things different in Florida.”

  She gave him a courteous smile and repeated, “We do things different in Florida? Is that what you said? What’s a good-looking cop like you doing with such an old cliché? Please put me in touch with the DA immediately. You people are interfering with the defense in a capital case.”

  The sergeant chuckled, “Okay, show the young lady the log book. And Miss, if you’re going to storm through Florida like a Cat 5, you should know that we don’t have District Attorneys down here. That’s what I meant by doing things differently. Florida is divided into judicial districts, each with a state attorney who does the prosecuting. Just say SA, and everyone will know you’re cool.”

  She gave him a smile so warm and beautiful he no doubt would tell his grandkids about it. “Thank you Sergeant Lewis and I apologize for my attitude. I’ll appreciate any additional help you can give me.”

  She leaned toward Ray and whispered, “You can close your mouth now.”

  “What have they done with my little sister?”

  The officer brought the logbook over and she started copying. “Wake up, Raymond. Can’t you read people? That woman is a perfectly polished piece of work. She comes in here offering her help, and you don’t even find out her name?” She glanced down at her writing. “Megan Emerson.” She stared at him. “Emerson, Emerson, got it? She’s darling. Where is your head? The question remains, whose side is she on, and why is she helping someone like you?”

  “She was just here on business from the office. Do you realize everyone is this room thinks you’re a lawyer?”

  “Not my problem. Okay, here we go. I read about the murder in your local paper. Tell me your story. Give me the short version now, we can do nuance later. Make it fast. I need to crash someplace, I drove straight through.”

  Each time he told his story, it sounded more implausible to him. He barely got started when she interrupted him. “Who did you say invited you to that Saturday night party?”

  “Her, that Meg Emerson.”

  She put down her pad and pencil and gave him a frustrated smirk. “Let me get this straight. The young woman who just came in here to visit you—even though you’re in jail accused of murder—the one that just happens, by some amazing coincidence, to buzz around your desk every day, gave a party and invited you?”

  “Yes…?”

  “Geez Louise!”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sandy, but Meg Emerson isn’t interested in me. She’s a big deal broker, really in the fast lane. She took over a bank trust department straight out of college, made them a ton of money. They were thrilled, gave her a marvelous title, a splendid office, and paid her peanuts.”

  “She probably quit the bank and went into securities sales where she could be paid on commission,” Sandy guessed.

  “Exactly, and she’s breaking all sales records at E.J. Bradford. I know, I run the back office and my crew processes all the paperwork. The hottest stockbroker they’ve ever had and one of the top producers in the southeast.”

  “Next she’ll take over her boss’s job.”

  “She doesn’t want his job, she makes double his pay already, and next year it’ll be triple. Her dream is to start her own brokerage business and to buy her clothes in Milan.”

  “That explains the upscale outfit she wore.”

  “You should see the list of high-powered names she does business with—people you see interviewed on news shows. She flies around the country meeting securities analysts and giving speeches. Her condo apartment is incredible. I’m just not in her league.”

  “Geez, perhaps someone should explain that to her.”

  He continued with the bizarre story leading up to his arrest. She interrupted occasionally to get the spelling of a place or name. While the narrative went on, and his sister made notes, he noticed that all the other visitors and the young officer had left. Visiting hours were over. Sergeant Lewis remained, evidently permitting them to stay.

  When Ray finished she said, “Self-confidence is one thing, but wearing a thong at seventy? I think age twenty-five should be the absolute limit. Obviously, she set you up. Loraine’s a bad, bad girl, and she’s used you. I know something about users. But I don’t get why she came up with the rape or the Barner shooting. You said you didn’t have sex with her Saturday morning at the motel. Did she come on to you at all?”

  “Does lying naked on the bed with her legs spread count?”

  “Then forget about her being the one who was just raped. Unless she’s an inflatable doll, she wouldn’t be eager for sex so soon. For some reason, she actually did want to have sex with you again, probably to tie you closer. Anyway, she read you like a book, apparently an easy thing to do in your case. I’m beginning to doubt your judgment when it comes to women. I remember your ex-wife was a doozey too. You married the first girl who was nice to you, didn’t you? Mom told me she wrote on her body?”

  “I didn’t know mom knew that.”

  “On her body, you mean like on her hand?”

  “No, on her breasts and stomach. Can we talk about it later?”

  “You mean sexy words like, come and get it?”

  “No, bizarre symbols. I’m not sure. I never got that close. Never got to see the boob job I paid for either.”

  “Never got close? Poor guy, I never thought about that. Let’s see, you went without getting laid starting a couple of years before the divorce, I’ll bet, and then tried to catch up with a seventy-year-old.”

  “She appeared younger by candlelight.”

  “Of course she did, and after a few drinks and with the flickering candlelight, at times she even seemed to move—almost lifelike.”

  “Oh, she was lifelike alright. I’m not going to explain further.”

  “I’m sure she really knew how to bounce a bed.”

  “Sandy, age wasn’t a part of it. Do I wish that she were actually interested in me, of course? But, seventy’s not so bad. You’ll find out about this age thing for yourself one day.”

  “Maybe, in which case I’d insist on very few candles and lots of booze. How many women at that party turned you down before you hit on Granny?”

  “It wasn’t like that. I’m not like that. I never thought about leaving with her. Never dreamed she wanted to spend the night with me, and then she unexpectedly phoned me and—oh well, one damn thing led to another.”

  “I’m dying to get a look at that woman. How about this Tammy, are you certain she’s being straight with you? Not that you’d have the faintest idea one way or the other.”

  “She called the cops on me but that was a normal reaction. She was close to the victim so was upset about his death.”

  “Why were you running around like Dudley Do-Right anyway?”

  “What’s wrong with helping people? After all, I didn’t help you.”

  “So, you went for the granny-sex to ease your conscience about me?”

  “I’ve had some bad luck with women, now drop it.”

  She stood and reached for her brief case. “Job one is to get you out of here. That means we’ll start our own investigation. Give me your attorney’s name. I can do legwork for him and for you. Start getting your ideas together. I’m not a lawyer and I’m not qualified to handle your defense. I am, however, absolutely incredible at running around and pissing people off. Did you sign a statement?”

  “Yes, was that wrong?”

  “Not if you told the truth. I need a copy of it. Your attorney will have it. I’
ll go see him and then crash.”

  “Lawyer is Jeremiah Kagan. He’s probably still alive. You can stay at my place.”

  “Cops most likely got a warrant and tore up your place. Know a good motel, someplace with an Internet connection?”

  “Try the InnTowner,” he said half joking. “And Sandy, it’s great to see you.”

  “Well, take a fast look at me, because I don’t intend to hang around here letting you screw up my life for very long.”

  Chapter 11

  During those first few days after the shooting of Senator Towson, the citizens knew only that the nearest thing to a celebrity the town had ever known was murdered. Their astonishment soon changed into outrage. The anger would worsen if they became aware of certain undisclosed details. Neither the citizens nor the media were yet aware of the alleged rape, the suggestion of a Sonny Barner murder, or the names of the townspeople disclosed in the suspect’s statement.

  State Attorney Moran and Chief Oehlert had good reason to be worried. It was just a matter of time before details would leak out.

  Early on Wednesday morning, Moran summoned Goddard to his office. The chief was already there pacing around nervously, and explaining they couldn’t locate Sonny Barner. “He runs his exterminating business out of his house. No sign of him there and his answering machine is full. If he’s alive, he stopped functioning.”

  Moran studied the folder on his desk. “According to Reid’s statement Loraine Dellin shot him. You should be out looking for his body, Goddard. Do me a favor and find it before some reporter trips over it.”

  The detective took the chair opposite Moran’s desk. “I don’t believe he’s dead. He was Towson’s exterminator and serviced his apartment the afternoon of the homicide. CSI found a service receipt from Barner Exterminating at the crime scene. It was marked 2:15 p.m., Saturday. So, he might be a second victim, but he looks more like a suspect to me.”

  The chief didn’t get it. “Are you talking about the timing?”

  Moran referred to his notes. “Reid’s statement has Loraine shooting Barner on Friday. Now we learn that the next day he’s working in Towson’s apartment. Obviously, she didn’t shoot him, at least not on Friday, and Reid is lying.”

  “Or Loraine lied to him about shooting Barner,” Goddard added. “Apparently, Barner and Towson were both alive Saturday at 2:15 p.m. Question is, was Towson still alive when Barner left?”

  “Barner could have shot him then or gone back later and shot him.” Moran started thumbing through the folder. “Okay, so need to rule out a second murder. But if Barner’s not dead then where is he? Now, what about the rape of Tammy Jerrold?”

  “Tammy says it never happened and is intensely afraid the allegation might become public,” the chief said.

  “We don’t want it public either. People would go crazy if a rape was tossed into this homicide.” Moran held up the folder. “Plus, look at the names we’ve got: Barner, Loraine, Tammy, and Norma Martin. They may or may not have anything material to do with Towson’s murder, but what if these names get out?”

  “Fortunately, we have a good suspect in jail,” the chief said.

  “That reporter, Linda Call, is asking me for an interview.” Moran frowned. “I can handle her but we need a response ready in case the details of Reid’s statement become public. Goddard, give me another briefing, I may want to point you in a different direction.”

  Goddard opened his notebook. “You have the M.E. prelim: Towson died from a single shot to the chest from a .38, most likely a revolver, close range, died quickly. CSI found a second slug in the wall behind.”

  The chief said, "So, two shots were fired and one missed."

  "Let me go back over some crime scene details," Goddard continued. "Shooting was in the master bedroom. They found him in his underwear—t-shirt and boxers. A stylish robe was on the bed nearby. He may have been dressing or undressing. His blood was limited to the antique rug under his body except for minuscule traces leading out of the bedroom. Someone has his blood on the bottom of his or her shoes.”

  “Caught in his shorts suggests someone he knew. No defensive or scrimmage wounds. So, no struggle,” the chief added.

  “…the bedspread, blanket, and sheets were all pushed down onto the floor. On each nightstand was an empty wine glass. The victim’s prints and one set of unidentified prints were on the glasses. A trace of lipstick was found on one glass.”

  Moran interrupted, “So, a female is involved— presumably.”

  Goddard continued, “Yes, sexual activity is the obvious inference except there is no trace evidence of recent sex on that bed. There was a hairbrush and a toothbrush with Towson’s prints in the master bath. A second hairbrush and toothbrush with unidentified prints were in a small leather travel kit suitable for a woman keeping a few toiletries at his apartment. We’re going after DNA, of course. Here’s the kicker, the unidentified prints in the bathroom don’t match those on the wine glasses.”

  “Wait a minute,” Moran said. “There are two sets of unidentified prints? Tell me again, Goddard, because that doesn’t fit. You said the bed was messed up and a wine glass was on each nightstand. I get that picture so far, but the prints on the wine glasses don’t match the prints found on the female items in the bathroom.”

  “Indicating a second woman,” Goddard suggested. “I say woman because of the lipstick trace on the rim of the glass. As expected, there are the usual other unidentified prints around in other places. In the kitchen, CSI found a large shard of a cup under a cabinet recessed toe-kick apparently undetected, out of sight. We figure whoever picked up the other pieces overlooked it. That one piece had an oily film on it, smelled like insecticide. Reid’s prints are on that shard, remember he admitted he dropped a cup.”

  “The apartment wasn’t disturbed otherwise, no apparent robbery,” the chief said. “On the face of it, Towson was murdered between two, the time on the service receipt, and six when Tony Hackett went to the apartment to pick him up.”

  “M.E. says he has no problem with that timing and thinks closer to six,” Goddard said. “Hackett was to meet Towson to take him to a banquet for a campaign speech. Towson didn’t answer the buzz. Hackett phoned, no response. The maintenance man let him in. Hackett called out, walked around, and saw the body in the bedroom.”

  “Did you check out Hackett?” Moran asked.

  “He’s in the clear, I believe. He was in Tallahassee overnight Friday,” Goddard said, “and headed back around noon. We checked his phone. He called Towson three times from the Turnpike. Last attempt was around five. He got no answer the last time so was concerned and drove straight to Towson’s. The rest agrees with what the maintenance guy told us.”

  “We sent the rug and Reid’s clothing to the lab. We’re waiting for the follow-up report from CSI,” the chief said. “We’re interviewing every occupant of the building.”

  “I talked to Tammy,” Goddard said. “According to her, she met Reid at the restaurant around twelve-thirty. Reid left after thirty minutes saying he was going to find Loraine. Tammy went back to her office. So Reid’s whereabouts are unknown from one o’clock until I picked him up at six-thirty.”

  “I like Reid for this, but an immediate concern here is Barner,” Moran said. “Get more men on that angle, Chief. If he’s alive, then find him. If he’s dead, find his body. There may be a larger plot. What do you think, Goddard?”

  “Barner could be the murderer and he ran. First, he just happens to service the Towson’s apartment a couple of hours before the shooting. And then—he’s missing. Or, maybe he got in somebody’s way and his body is now sprawled out in his house. I’d like to search it.”

  “Great idea, but you can’t,” Moran said. “We’d never get a court order to go in there, not this early. And if he’s involved in the murder, we can’t risk any findings being tossed out by the judge.” He turned to Goddard smiling. “Yes, too bad you can’t search his house.”

  “If that’s all, I need to
get back on the street.” Goddard left knowing exactly where he needed to go next. He looked up Sonny Barner’s address.

  Barner’s small house was on a corner lot visible from two sides, exposing any vehicle parked on the street. Goddard drove up a dirt driveway at the rear and parked unnoticed in the ragged carport. At the rear door, he found an undemanding key-in-knob lock. He slid a plastic card along the jam, and the bolt moved enough to open the door.

  All he needed was a minute inside. No detailed search, just a quick check, for a dead body or signs of a struggle, and Goddard would be out of there. He walked through the kitchen and dining area to the sparsely-furnished living room at the front. The place was standard bachelor-mess. Two old pump shotguns were resting in the corner of a hall closet. He held them up and smelled them. He didn’t know why, habit he guessed. The murder weapon was a .38 revolver, not a shotgun. Neither had been fired recently. Another door off the hall opened to a small bedroom jammed with boxes, tools, hoses, and containers smelling of chemicals.

  He found something interesting in the other bedroom. On the computer desk was a large framed photograph of a naked woman. Beautiful with full breasts, sitting upright and posed looking into the camera, with her hands resting on her spread knees. Looped over one corner of the picture frame like a souvenir, was a real blue bra. Matching panties were hooked on the other side. They didn’t look new.

  Goddard started to walk away when he realized something about the photo. He leaned closer. He recognized the woman, at least he recognized her face. It was Tammy Jerrold.

  He studied the photo for signs of a paste-up, but it was seamless. Indeed, it seemed to be Tammy posed there. Probably digitized software was used to put her head on someone’s body.

  Goddard’s only concern was Barner possibly lying dead in the place. On his way out through the kitchen, he paused at the refrigerator; covered with cards, notes and an interesting newspaper clipping. The old clipping from the society page showed Senator Towson in his tuxedo standing with a group of people and Tammy Jerrold at his side. The image of Towson was crossed out with a red felt-tip. Interesting, but there was no dead body in that house.