by John J. Lamb
“Huh?”
“He was a Minute Man.” Donna’s face twisted into a wry grin.
I gave a humorless chuckle. “You mentioned her having a ‘wicked’ sense of humor. I guess that’s an example?”
“She could be cruel.”
Ordinarily, I’d have spent a great deal more time eliciting background information about Jennifer, but I decided to move forward more quickly and aggressively with my questioning. There were a couple of reasons for this. I realized the clock was ticking and that it wouldn’t be long before the cops began looking for Donna. Also, I knew it was only a matter of time before her mood switched back to Joan Crawford–mode and there was no assurance that she’d continue the interview after that happened. I gently asked, “Cruel enough to make someone want to kill her?”
“Yes.”
“You, for instance?”
She blinked at me in confusion as if she hadn’t quite heard me correctly. “No. I told you that once already.”
“Call me a nasty old cynic, but people have been known to lie when they’re looking at life in prison.”
“I’m not lying. I didn’t kill her.”
“But you hated her.”
“That’s not the same thing as wanting her dead.”
“Say for the sake of argument that’s true. If you didn’t want her dead, what did you want?”
Donna seemed to be holding her breath. At last she said quietly, “An acknowledgement from her that she’d betrayed me.”
“But you knew that wasn’t going to happen, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She looked down at the tabletop.
“Do you know how Donna was killed?”
“The only thing I heard was that she couldn’t breathe.”
“She was poisoned. Somebody removed the medication from her asthma inhaler and replaced it with superglue.”
“Oh my God.” Donna looked up and her eyes shone with a sick horror. “A big enough dose of cyanoacrylate fumes would shut her lungs down almost immediately.”
“Uh-huh. Not many people are aware of that, much less the chemical name for superglue. But it’s exactly the sort of information I’d expect a high school chemistry teacher to know.” I put the pen down and sat back in my chair.
“How did you find out that I teach chemistry?”
I nodded in the direction of my laptop on the table. “I Googled you. Your name came up on the high school Web site.”
“And so you immediately decided that I killed her?”
“Put yourself in my place. What would you think?”
She locked eyes with me. “I didn’t sabotage the inhaler or kill Jennifer.”
The interrogation of a homicide suspect involves as much tactical listening as it does asking questions. A skilled interviewer pays close attention to phrasing, use of tenses, metaphors, body language, and five or six other indicators to determine if the suspect is providing an honest answer or false information. Crooks almost always try to qualify their answers because, deep down inside, they recognize they aren’t smart enough to remember their lies and they want some wiggle room when they’re eventually forced to explain disparities in their stories. Think of a former president quibbling over the precise meaning of the word “is” and you have an idea of the sort of word games that criminals can play. Yet, Donna had answered directly and hadn’t sworn to it on her mother’s grave, which is a guaranteed signal that a suspect is being frugal with the truth. I was forced to conclude that she’d answered honestly.
“I believe you, but you’ve still got a major problem.”
“Being in her room last night.”
“Breaking into her room,” I corrected, “after falsely identifying yourself as Jennifer to the hotel clerk and then later making statements to a hundred or so witnesses that could be construed as threats. You’re Tony’s get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Do you think he actually killed her?”
“Unlikely.” I took a sip of coffee. “Like I said earlier, he’s a thug. Blunt force trauma is his style. He’s not smart enough to use poison.”
“And I am,” Donna said bleakly.
“Yep.”
“Well, what about Todd Litten? Couldn’t he be a suspect?”
“I’ll admit he probably has the brains to have done it, but what was his motive?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded frustrated.
“Neither do I and your problem is that the police have already crowned him as their star witness.”
Donna’s gaze dropped to the tabletop. “Now what do I do?”
“Tell me why you went into her room.”
Twelve
Donna put her elbow on the wooden arm of the chair and rested her chin in her palm. She studied me in silence for a few moments and then finally said, “Tell me something. Did you really design and make that bear? The one that was nominated for the award?”
“Of course,” I answered a little stiffly.
“Your wife didn’t help?”
“Not unless you count the couple of hundred hours she spent teaching me how to avoid sewing my fingers together as helping.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if she helped. She’s good.”
“It’s my work.”
“The clothes, too?”
“I got the shoes from a doll supply shop. Other than that, it’s all my own work, including the gun and sunglasses.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“So is the idea that sane people actually paid seven-fifty to see Gigli. We live in a strange universe.”
For the moment, we’d switched roles and she was the interrogator. Back when I was a young and inexperienced detective, I’d have bristled at this change in circumstances and sought to immediately reassert myself as being in control. But now that I was older and a little wiser, I understood that we were at that pivotal point in an interview when fundamental trust was being established. Donna’s decision as to whether she was going tell me the rest of her story hinged on how I answered her questions.
“How long have you been making teddy bears?” she asked.
“Just since last October.”
“Why did you begin making them?”
“Two reasons, I guess. The most important one is that I get to spend time with Ashleigh. My job kept us apart way too much.”
“And the other reason?”
“I like them and having them around makes me a better man. Twenty-five years of cop work in a city like San Francisco tends to give you a pessimistic view of the human race. Yet, artisan teddy bears are proof that people aren’t all bad.” I paused to take a sip of coffee, slightly taken aback by a sudden realization. “Which, I suppose, is the real motive for why I’m investigating Jennifer’s murder.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A murder at a teddy bear show is as bad as a murder in a church. Worse, as far as I’m concerned. Most of the wars in history were caused by religions, but no one’s ever started a crusade, massacred a town of heretics, or declared a jihad over a teddy bear.”
Donna slowly sagged back into the chair. “Are you a parent?”
“We have two children. My daughter is a police officer. My son is a vintner.”
“I had a son…Benjamin. He was the sweetest little boy. We used to play a kissing game every night before he went to bed.”
“What happened to him?”
“Eleven days after his third birthday he was diagnosed with severe muscular dystrophy.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine how terrible that must have been.”
“No, you can’t, but thank you for not saying you’re ‘sorry.’ It’s a word people use when you’ve made them uncomfortable and they want you to change the subject.”
“Were you still married when this happened?”
“Could I have something to drink?”
“There’s some coffee left. Or would you like some water?”
“You don’t have anything else? I’m not picky.” Donna tried to sound
blasé, but there was an undercurrent of shame in her voice.
I realized that she wanted something alcoholic and, as a matter of fact, there was an unopened 750-milliliter bottle of Frangelico in my suitcase. Ash and I don’t drink much, but we occasionally enjoy small glasses of the sweet hazelnut liqueur as a nightcap. I’d brought the bottle along because the only thing more obscenely overpriced than a hotel bar drink is a CEO’s golden parachute retirement package. Back when I was a homicide inspector, I wouldn’t have even considered giving her an alcoholic beverage, since any statement given afterwards would probably be suppressed in an evidentiary hearing. Judges tend to frown on the practice of liquoring up witnesses, much less potential murder suspects, before an interview. However, this wasn’t an official police investigation and it was clear that I was going to have to prime the pump before Donna continued her tale.
“I may have something here.” I limped over to the closet, opened the suitcase, and held up the monk-shaped brown bottle. “Will this do?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You want it in some coffee or straight?”
“Straight, please. You must think I’m pretty pathetic.”
“People do the best they can do.” I grabbed a clean water glass from the bathroom and returned to the table. Unscrewing the bottle top, I poured about three finger’s worth of the fragrant amber liquor and slid the glass across the table to her.
Liqueurs such as Frangelico are made to be sipped, but Donna knocked back half the Benedictine joy-juice in two swallows. Giving me a weak grin, she said, “Better. You know what they say?”
“No.”
“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy, but…”
“You’d opt for the lobotomy, if it made you forget.”
She nodded and her eyes grew moist. Ordinarily, I have a very low tolerance for boozy self-pity, but it was pretty clear that her son had died, so she had a better reason for wallowing in it than most folks. I sat down and kept silent, waiting for her to resume speaking.
Donna wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and then drank the rest of the liquor. “Here’s an Oliver Twist moment: May I have some more, sir?”
I poured two fingers worth this time and said nothing.
She stared down into the glass. “My husband’s name was Gus—Augustus. He wanted us to wait to have children.”
“Which can mean increased health risks to both mother and infant.”
“I don’t like you and you shorted me on my drink, but you’re very smart.”
“Thank you.”
“Finally, he gave in and I got pregnant. I was thirty-nine. There were serious complications with the delivery and it turned out that this was going to be the one and only time I could give birth.” She took a small sip of the liquor. “You know, this tastes like candy.”
“Glad you like it. How’d Gus deal with the arrival of a new baby?”
“At first, he was a really good dad, but a few years later, when we found out just how sick Benjamin was…”
“Why do I have the feeling that you’re about to tell me that Gus pulled a D. B. Cooper?” I asked, referring to the legendary skyjacker robber.
“Huh?”
“Did he bail out and disappear?”
“He told me he couldn’t deal with the situation. That he had a life to live. That…”
“He was a selfish, dishonorable bastard?”
“No, but I appreciate you saying that.” Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “Gus blamed me for Ben’s illness. He said that if I hadn’t insisted on having a child at my age, this never would have happened.”
“And so he skied.” I shook my head in disgust.
“He left. The last I heard, he was living someplace in Nevada. If it hadn’t been for Jen, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“I assume you were teaching then. How did you manage to keep your job?”
“I needed to stay home with Ben, so I took a sabbatical.”
“Which meant no income and—oh God—no health insurance.”
“No, I was able to keep the health insurance through the school district. My parents are fairly well-off and they kept up the monthly premiums, but they couldn’t completely support me.” Donna swallowed a little more of the Frangelico. “I needed money and something I could do from the home, so that’s what made me start making teddy bears. I’d always wanted to make them and it turned out I was talented.”
I stood up and carried my empty coffee cup over to the brewer. Pouring what remained in the carafe into my cup, I asked, “What did you do? Sell them at regional bear shows?”
“There, and at craft shows, and to a bear shop in Lititz, and even on eBay. I began to develop a collector customer-base and it looked as if I was on my way to a new career.”
“How did Jen help?”
“At the time, she lived just down the block. She came over every morning to visit after Tony went to work. She’d play with Ben and talk to me while I worked on the bears. Eventually, I ended up teaching her how to make the bears.”
“Was she any good?”
“Not at first, but she improved. Sometimes Jen would stay all day and then Tony would beat her because his supper wasn’t ready.” Donna smiled ruefully.
“Yeah, as if he should have been concerned over missing a meal.” I sat back down at the table. “What happened to change your relationship with her?”
“Ben had the best medical treatment, but he kept getting sicker and more weak. By the time he was four, he mostly stayed in bed. But he never complained. He was such a sweet boy.” She held out the empty glass for a refill. When I’d poured some more Frangelico, she continued, “He loved teddy bears and so I began making some especially for him—some that I never intended to sell, because it would have been like selling part of Ben.”
“The Cheery Cherub Bears?”
“My cheery cherub’s bears. I hung them up with fishing line from his ceiling, so it looked like they were flying around his room. Then I made fabric clouds and began attaching them to the walls with the bears sitting on them.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
“Ben loved them. In the end there were probably fifty bears and, and…” Donna’s lower lip began to tremble and tears were running down her cheeks. “And I told him that that was what heaven looked like, so he shouldn’t be afraid of going there.”
Suddenly, she was wracked with sobs and slowly bent forward to bury her head in her shaking hands. I wanted to touch her arm, but somehow knew that she wouldn’t tolerate even the slightest sign of intimacy from me, and with good reason. I wasn’t her friend. I was the coldhearted son of a bitch making her relive the most terrible and anguished episodes of her life. It was one of those moments as a cop when you know that you’re doing the right thing by digging for the truth, but you still hate yourself. So, all I could do was sit there and watch silently as she wailed and wept. When the crying finally guttered to a halt I held out a Kleenex box. Donna grabbed a wad of tissue and mopped at her eyes and nose.
“When did Benjamin die?” I asked.
“Two and a half years ago,” she whispered.
“You were devastated.”
“Yes. There were times when I thought about just stepping out in front of a train or something…”
“And killing yourself?”
“But I didn’t. I toughed it out.” Her nostrils flared and I heard a subtle yet unmistakable tinge of pride in her voice. “After the funeral, I went back to my teaching job and tried to get on with my life. But I couldn’t continue making the teddy bears, because they reminded me too much of Ben.”
“How soon was it after Ben died that you learned Jennifer had stolen your idea and designs and was making the Cheery Cherub Bears?”
Donna blew her nose and frowned. “Four weeks to the day after the funeral.”
“What happened?”
“We need to back up a little bit for you to understand why I hated her so much. The d
ay after the funeral, Jen came over to help me pack up everything in Ben’s bedroom. I had to clean it out completely, otherwise it would have ripped my heart out every time I went in there.”
“I’d have done the same thing.”
“We took all the cherub bears down and put them into three big cardboard boxes. I asked Jen to take them over to Lancaster General Hospital and donate them, thinking that maybe some other sick child would like a teddy bear. Jen said she’d take care of it.”
“And then?”
“After that I saw less and less of Jen. I figured she was just tired of listening to me cry. Hell, I was tired of listening to me cry.”
“But?”
“But a few weeks later I understood the real reason why. I was over near York taking care of some errands.”
“What is that, about thirty miles from Basingstoke Township?”
“Maybe a little farther.”
Donna took a swallow of the liqueur. “It was a Saturday and the last thing I wanted was to go back to that empty house. There was a craft fair and I decided to go in.”
Spontaneously, I knew where the story was heading and, although as a cop you smugly imagine that you’ve seen the very worst the human race is capable of, people can still surprise you with their capacity for sheer vileness. I said, “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me she was there, selling the bears you’d asked her to donate to the hospital.”
“She and Tony had a booth and, yes, she was selling Ben’s angel bears along with some others that she’d made, as if it were all her own work. I guess they figured that York was far enough away that I wouldn’t find out what they were doing.”
“Christ Almighty, talk about stealing the pennies from a dead man’s eyes. What did you do?”
“At first I just stood there in shock, because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was supposed to have been my best friend.”
“Did they see you?”
“Yes, eventually.”
“How did they react?”
“Tony looked away. I could tell he was embarrassed.”
“And with good freaking reason. What about Jennifer?”
“She just jutted her jaw out and stared right at me as if daring me to say anything. That look was just like being slugged in the stomach. She’d traded our friendship for a little money and you could tell that it didn’t bother her at all.”