Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3)

by Patrick Kanouse

  Drexel opened the middle drawer.

  “Ah, those must be her knives,” said Ben.

  Drexel looked at him and looked down at the rectangular bundle.

  Ben said, “I remember seeing it on the show. The chefs bring their own knives.”

  Drexel lifted the bundle up. A cloth, trifold container with a velcro fastener.

  “What’s that?” Ben pointed to the drawer.

  Two small vials and a sandwich-size Ziplock bag. Drexel pulled out the vials. He held them to the light and twisted it, the powder inside rolling around. “Guessing that’s cocaine.” He pulled out the bag. The pills were pink and had an S stamped on them. “I’m guessing those aren’t prescription.”

  Ben whistled and photographed.

  They bagged the vials and Ziplock and returned their attention to the knife case. Drexel pulled it open and laid them out. No knives were missing from their slots. He pulled out each one. Katsumi Titanium with metallic blue blades. They looked expensive, not like the cheap ones in the knife block on his counter, even after his brother upgraded them last year. With all of them back in the case, Ben and Drexel bagged the knives.

  He called Noelle, but she did not answer, so he left a message telling her about the vials and pills and to run a broad toxicology screen to see if anything was in her system. He left Ben to finish the crime scene work, pausing at the door to the office, wondering what he would learn over the coming hours and days about Vickie Lopez.

  ***

  Drexel’s phone buzzed and then blared out the chorus of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” as he walked across the dining room—the ring tone he had set for Daniela at her suggestion. “What’ve you got?”

  “Sorry it took me so long to get back, but you’ll have a hefty file for you when you get in.”

  His mind immediately jumped to the drugs in the bottom drawer. She had been arrested before. “Drug possession, right?”

  Daniela did not answer right away. He could hear her scrolling through the screens with her mouse. “No, not at all. Guessing you found something there?”

  “I did, but surprise me.”

  “Well, she’s married. Spouse is Henry Fulsom. Looks like they’ve been married a couple of years. Now the surprise. She’s called 911 five times over the past six years. The pictures aren’t pretty.”

  Drexel knew where she was going. He had seen it many times. The world saw it with Nicole Brown and O.J. Simpson. “He abused her.”

  “Yeah, he did. But she always withdrew charges.”

  And district attorneys were hesitant to take such cases to trial, thinking the spouse would testify for the defendant. Not sure enough if juries would convict. “Okay. Well, I need to inform him about his wife’s death. Can you send me over the latest incident? And his address?”

  “On its way.”

  “Thanks.” He tapped the end-call icon, and the phone popped up a notification that he had received an email from Daniela. He opened it, waited for the PDF to download, and then opened the file. He zoomed in on the text. Before running out to the car, he stuffed the phone in his pocket. Once in the car, he tossed his messenger bag in the passenger seat and started the car, though he left it in park. He pulled out his phone and looked at the PDF and looked at the latest 911 call.

  Vickie Lopez called the emergency line at 1:46 a.m. two weeks prior. He flipped the pages to the transcript of the call:

  Operator: Nine-one-one operator ID 4621. What is your emergency?

  Caller: Help! Help me!

  Operator: Who is this?

  Caller: Vickie. Vickie Lopez. Please hurry.

  Operator: Where are you, Vickie?

  Caller: One-zero-one-six West Grace Street. Apartment two-b.

  Operator: I’m dispatching police officers now. Help is on the way. Are you safe?

  Caller: He’s left. A few minutes ago, but he’ll be back.

  Operator: Are you safe? Can you escape your location?

  Caller: I’ve locked myself in the bathroom. I can’t get out. [Pounding.] That’s him. He’s back.

  Operator: Stay on the line. Police are coming. Who is that?

  Caller: That’s my husband. Hank. Hank Fulsom.

  Operator: Has he been drinking?

  Caller: I don’t think so. I can’t tell when he gets this mad.

  Drexel read the rest of the transcript. The pounding got louder. Vickie screamed that the police were coming. The operator escalated the priority for police response. The pounding stopped. When the officers arrived, they did not find Hank Fulsom in the apartment or the immediate vicinity. Vickie was still locked away in her bathroom. The operator hung up when Officer Janet Donovan gave her badge number and indicated she was on scene with the caller. The responding officers’ reports and photographs followed. Donovan had taken them with her smartphone.

  The door had significant damage from someone hitting and kicking it. The wall to the left of the door had the drywall punched out, exposing the two-by-fours and wiring. The living room, which connected to the hallway and thence to the bathroom looked like it had been tossed in a burglary attempt. In the photo of the victim, Vickie still wore her Fling chef’s jacket. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a bun. She looked tired. Haggard. Drexel flipped to the end of the report. No charges were filed, though Donovan encouraged Vickie to do so. Instead, Vickie had thrown the officers out. He closed the report, knowing he would review it more thoroughly when he had the copies on his desk in front of him. Yet, with the little he read, he had seen this dozens of times. The pattern was consistent even if the details differed. Vickie’s last 911 call meant she either had to escape or end up a homicide victim.

  Chapter 4

  Drexel pulled into the parking lot where Vickie Lopez’s apartment complex, a four-story brick edifice, looked out onto Grace Street. Wrigley Field was south a few blocks. The rain had slackened, but the wind still gusted, creating walls of rain. He parked in the closest spot in the parking space on Grace Street he could find, which was a block away. Using the messenger bag as an umbrella, he jogged down the sidewalk and ducked under the awning. He pants were soaked up to the knees. He twisted the ends in front and behind the ankles, hoping to keep them from dripping. Referencing his notes, he found the buzzer for her apartment, 2B, and pressed it. He waited. And then pressed the buzzer again for longer.

  A voice leapt from the speaker. “Jesus Christ, what do you want?” The man’s voice seemed to form at the back of his throat and barely escape his lips. Almost a mumble.

  “Detective Drexel Pierce from the Chicago Police. Is this Henry Fulsom?”

  “Yeah. What do you want? Look, I told the other cops it was all a big mistake.”

  “Understood sir. However, I would like to talk to you nonetheless. Can you please let me in?”

  “Christ.” A pause. “Fine.”

  The door’s lock to the complex snapped open. The hallway, a tan linoleum floor, was introduced by a large, black rug, which he wiped his shoes on. A staircase against the wall led up to the second floor. Not knowing exactly where 2B was, he climbed them. At the top of the stairs, he looked left then right. A man stood halfway down the hallway and waved at him. “Detective?”

  Drexel raised his hand and walked toward Hank Fulsom. He wore a plain light blue muscle shirt. His navy workout pants reached to the bottom of his gym shoes. When Drexel reached the door, Hank extended his hand. The grip was strong. He wore a black Fitbit on his left wrist. “Can I see some ID?”

  Drexel nodded and pulled out his badge.

  Hank looked at it, looked at Drexel, and then gestured with his head for the detective to enter.

  Drexel walked into the apartment’s living room. A light tan leather sofa hugged the back wall. Behind it, a large print of a bull in a ring. It reminded him of Ernest Hemingway for some reason. He turned and faced Hank as he c
losed the door. A large TV sat on a black credenza. The cable box sat tucked behind it. On the coffee table a large smartphone protected by a rugged, thick plastic case sat with a dark screen. A single lounge chair, matching the sofa, was positioned at a ninety-degree angle. An end table between them supported a lamp.

  “So what’s this about?” asked Hank. The voice was not an artifact of the speaker system.

  “Mr. Fulsom—“

  “Hank.”

  Drexel nodded once. “Hank. I think it would be a good idea if you’d sit down.” Hank squinted, thought about it, and walked over to the couch and sat. Drexel sat in the lounge chair. The physical presence of the man was palpable. He worked out regularly. His sandy blond hair was parted at the side in an elegant wave across his forehead. Sharp blue eyes took in the detective. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you, but your wife, Vickie, was found dead this morning at her restaurant.”

  Hank blinked rapidly a few times and both of his cheeks twitched. “Wh—what?”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “That can’t be right. I’ll call her.” Hank reached for the phone on the coffee table.

  “I’m afraid I am right, sir. We’ll need formal identification, of course, but her ID was in her pocket. She was in her office at the restaurant. The manager who found her was sure it was her.”

  Hank stood up. Sat back down. Put his hand to his mouth. Redness appeared around his eyes. “It can’t be.” He shook his head. “It’s not her. What happened?”

  “I’m very sorry to have tell you this.” He paused before proceeding. Given the record he had seen to date and the statistics for murder, Hank was the most likely perpetrator. How Drexel approached the next few minutes were critical. “It looks like suicide.”

  “No. Absolutely not.” He stood up. “She’d just opened the restaurant of her dreams. She had everything she’d ever wanted in life.” He wiped a tear away as he sat down. He held his hand to his mouth, a slight tremor apparent.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water.” Drexel stood up and walked across the living room to the kitchen. Appliances the like of which he had never seen in a Chicago apartment gleamed in stainless steel glory. In the second cabinet he opened, he found the glasses. He turned on the tap.

  Hank said, “We don’t drink from the tap. Water bottle’s in the fridge.”

  Drexel turned off the tap and poured the water down the drain. He turned around, taking a look at Hank, who was looking down at the floor and shaking his head. His reaction to the suicide statement had seemed like genuine surprise. He had reacted as if her death had been a surprise. He could be hiding it well, though. Drexel filled the glass with the spring water from a large bottle in the refrigerator and took the glass back to Hank. “I don’t think she committed suicide. That was staged.”

  Hank closed his eyes and held them that way. Then he drank a large gulp. He started to speak but turned away.

  Drexel rubbed his chin. “It’s difficult news to hear.”

  Hank looked back at the detective. “Do you know who did it?”

  “No. Not at this time. Can you think of anyone that would want to hurt her?”

  “No. The restaurant business is pretty cutthroat, but not that—” He shook his head and cried.

  Drexel held his gaze steady on Hank, pausing only a few seconds before pushing through. “Can you account for your whereabouts from midnight?”

  Hank breathed in and gulped, his head bobbing up as he pulled it back. “I was with a friend. I got home earlier this morning.” He pulled down on his cheeks and chin with his right hand. “Had too much to drink and it was late.”

  “So you were with this friend from?”

  “I was at his place by eight. Didn’t leave until seven this morning.” He looked at Drexel. “His name is Adam Thompson.” He provided Adam’s phone number and address.

  Drexel slid the contact information into his folder. He debated further questioning.

  “We were watching the Cubs game and then played some video games, Call of Duty mostly.”

  Drexel nodded once as well as he wrote it down. If the alibi checks out, then Hank was probably innocent. And bringing up the abuse would only serve to attack the man’s grief. But if the alibi did not check out, not asking the question now when the husband was in a vulnerable state would give him time to prepare for a second round. He thought of the audio he had heard. Fuck it, he did not deserve that consideration. “So can you tell me how often Vickie called nine-one-one?”

  Hank’s jaw clenched.

  Drexel let a thin smile that turned into a frown creep across his face. “I have the call from the last time. What, two weeks ago? I’ve heard lots of calls. I’ve heard people screaming before. I could hear it in her voice. She was scared out of her mind.”

  “It was a misunderstanding. That’s all. She thought someone was breaking into the house. All it was was me.” He shook his head. A tear rolled down his cheek. “I love her. She was everything to me. What happened two weeks ago was a misunderstanding.”

  “She’s pretty clear in the call she knows it’s you.”

  Hank raised his hands. “I don’t know what to tell you. I told the other cops. They obviously believed me because they didn’t arrest me. She was on a TV show, you know? She could’ve been an actor.”

  “You weren’t around when they showed up. Were—”

  “A couple of others swung by a couple of days later asking questions.”

  Drexel nodded once. “What about the other four calls? Were they misunderstandings as well?”

  Hank stood up. “I need to make calls. I need to tell her family.” He twisted his chin a bit, which quivered. “I—I—“

  Drexel stood up. “Can I take a look at her stuff here? It might be helpful.”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course. Follow me.” Hank led Drexel past a bath and a closet in the hallway and into an office. “This was her office away from her office.” Hank sucked in his breath and held it. Drexel could see his eyes glistening as he did so. A small desk with drawers on each side sat butted up against the window looking out onto the central, common courtyard. An expensive-looking piece of gym equipment Drexel could not identify sat in the opposite corner. Hank said, “Knock yourself out,” turned his back, and walked out.

  Drexel turned to the desk. A small desk light and nothing else graced its veneered top. The drawers were not locked. One held a stapler, checkbooks, pens, tape, and other basic office supplies. The other contained ten hanging folders, inside of which were manila folders, the tabs torn, frayed, and otherwise damaged. Most of the folders were empty. A couple had old copies of tax returns, the latest from three years ago. Another had various types and sizes of paper with handwritten notes. Some were recipes in two sets of handwriting. He pulled out a sample of each. Some were lists of ingredients. Others were diagrams of what looked to be seating areas for restaurants. Another set Drexel interpreted as diagrams for how the food would sit on the plate.

  He closed the drawer and walked back out to the hall. He did not see or hear Hank, so he stepped into the master bedroom. A light brown carpet and off-white walls. The bedspread was a dark brown. He looked to his right. The door to the master bath had been replaced. He looked back at the queen bed and the nightstands on each side. On one, a large men’s silver watch and a lamp. On the other, a small framed portrait. Drexel walked to it and picked it up. An older couple. Drexel assumed these were Vickie’s parents. He set it back down. He took in the room. If he had had to guess, the apartment seemed like a bachelor’s pad. Vickie was barely a presence. He left the master bedroom and walked down the hall to the living room, where Hank sat on the couch, his right hand holding his cell phone, his left hand held over his eyes. He dropped the hand over his eyes when he heard Drexel. They were red and moist.

  “You find anything useful?” asked Hank.

  Drexel pursed his li
ps. He held out the two sheets of paper he had pulled from the desk. “Looks like different handwriting.” He gave them to Hank. “Do you recognize the writing?”

  Hank nodded. He set one written on an index card on the coffee table. “That’s Vickie’s writing.” He waved the other. “No clue whose writing that is.” He pushed it into the air with his fingers, watching it glide to the table.

  Drexel picked up the sheets of paper. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

  Hank leaned back, tossing the phone on the couch beside him. “Yesterday morning. We got up, had breakfast, and then I went to work.”

  “Did you talk to her at all during the day?”

  “Some texts is all. And I don’t know much about her day. Probably like any day.”

  “Did she use or have you ever used drugs?”

  Hank glared at Drexel, frowned, and said, “The occasional Mary Jane. That’s all.”

  “One last question. Did your wife have any threats against her? Any stalkers?”

  “Why’re you asking?”

  “Keeping all options open. She had won a TV show. She had publicity. She might’ve had people who crossed the line from fan to obsessed stalker.”

  Hank rubbed his jaw and breathed in deep. “If she did, she didn’t tell me about it.”

  Drexel walked over and dropped a card on the table. “That’s my number. You think of anything we need to know, you call me.” He walked out of the apartment.