Gone With a Handsomer Man

by Michael Lee West

  “The dog has to be examined,” he said.

  “Examined for what?”

  He shifted his eyes but kept holding my arm. “You can fetch him later.”

  “From where?”

  “The pound.”

  “No!” My eyes filled with tears as a bearded officer walked by holding my dog. I turned back to the detective. “Can you take his squeak toy?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Purvis said.

  He led me to a white car and put me in the back. I blinked at the metal grid that divided the front and back seats. Before he shut the door, I said, “Wait, are you arresting me?”

  “No, ma’am. I just have some questions.”

  “May I make a phone call?”

  “Sure.” His jaw tightened. “At the station.”

  fourteen

  The Mount Pleasant Police Department was tiny compared to the large facility in North Charleston. A white-haired volunteer was fingerprinting a woman with frizzy red hair. A man in a Hawaiian shirt had his feet propped on a table. He was watching Days of Our Lives on a small television.

  An official-looking man waited by the water fountain. His name tag identified him as Louis Qualls, a crime scene technician for the Charleston Police Department.

  “She washed her hands,” Purvis said, removing the bags from my hands.

  “I’ll need her clothes,” the technician said, then leaned over to swab my hands.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  “GPR,” the technician said. “Gunpowder residue.”

  “You won’t find any,” I said.

  The technician ignored me and opened a compartment in his field kit.

  A female volunteer took me to the restroom and waited outside the stall while I undressed. I handed my clothes over the door. There was a rustling sound, and a striped jumpsuit fell into my stall.

  I got dressed and followed the volunteer out of the restroom. Purvis and the technician were waiting in the hall.

  “People think it’s easy to get rid of GPR,” Purvis said, looking at my hair. “It saturates everything.”

  I wanted to say it couldn’t saturate an innocent person, but I was too scared. They’d find out soon enough that I hadn’t fired a gun. I followed Purvis to an ice-cold room with dark paneled walls. Off to one side was a metal table and plastic chairs. A Coke machine stood on the far wall, next to a coffee urn and metal racks filled with chips and candy bars. It looked more like a bus station café than an interrogation room.

  I sat down and watched a bald, sunburned man set up a video camera. He introduced himself as Bill Noonan. He and Purvis took turns asking questions. Simple things, like my name, age, address. Then they started rehashing the murder.

  “Did you find the body?” asked Noonan.

  I sighed. They’d asked this five times already, but I said, “Yeah.”

  “And you called 911?” asked Purvis.

  “Yes, sir. But before I did that, somebody knocked me out.”

  The men exchanged glances. Detective Purvis did an eye roll.

  “Did you get a description?” asked Noonan.

  “No. It happened too fast.”

  “Are you sure someone hit you?” asked Noonan.

  “What else could have happened?”

  Purvis rested his elbow on the table and drummed his fingers. “You tell me.”

  “Wait, you don’t think I hurt Bing?” I cried.

  “Could you have hurt him and forgotten?” Noonan asked.

  “No!” I made a face.

  “We’re just trying to determine the facts is all,” Purvis said. “Tell me about the altercation between you and Mr. Jackson.”

  He had asked this before, too, but for some reason my answers weren’t pleasing. Now, with the camera rolling, if I explained about Bing and the women, the detectives might learn about my prior arrest and the restraining order—if they didn’t already know. And I didn’t want to talk until my head cleared. Bits and pieces of the morning were fading in and out.

  “Why did you wash your hands, Miss Templeton?” asked Purvis.

  “I don’t remember.” It was the truth. I crossed my arms. “It’s too cold in here. I can’t think straight with all this cold.”

  “Do you own a gun, Miss Templeton?” asked Purvis.

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone who’d want to shoot Mr. Jackson?”

  “Is that what happened? Was he shot?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Purvis rolled a pencil on the table.

  “’Cause there’s nothing to tell.” I burst into tears. A while later, they brought me a phone. I couldn’t for the life of me remember Alvin Bell’s number, so I dialed SUE-THEM.

  The detectives leaned against the wall, pretending not to listen. I turned my back to them. If Coop was in court, I’d just have to leave a message. A woman answered on the third ring. I gave her my name. My chest tightened when she put me on hold. I laced my fingers through the telephone cord. I heard a click, then Coop answered.

  “This is Teeny Templeton,” I said. “I’m sorry to call, but I’m in a world of trouble.”

  I explained the predicament, giving him a speeded-up version. “I’ll be right there,” he said. “And don’t say another word to them.”

  Purvis sat down and crossed his arms while Noonan fiddled with the video camera. “So,” Purvis said and leaned forward. “When did you last see Mr. Jackson?”

  “I’m not talking till my lawyer gets here.” I pressed my lips together.

  “We can still interrogate you,” Purvis said. “We used to not, but the Supreme Court ruled on it.”

  “I’m a little nauseated,” I said.

  Noonan dragged a metal trash can over to my chair and sat down beside me. I laid my cheek against the table, hoping the coldness would settle my stomach. I could hear the detectives shift in their chairs. After a long time, I heard voices in the hallway. The door swung open and Coop walked in, trailed by two officers. The detectives got to their feet and shook Coop’s hand.

  “Hey, O’Malley,” Noonan said. “Didn’t know you was practicing criminal law. Thought you gave that up for easy shit. Divorces and disability cases.”

  “I’d like to speak to my client, please,” Coop said.

  After they left the room, he sat down beside me and took out a yellow pad. “What’s going on?”

  I started with the text message and ended with the 911 call. He made some notes, then examined my neck.

  “There’s two red marks. A stun gun can do that. That’s why you’re experiencing mental confusion. We’ll take some pictures.”

  The detectives returned. Coop rose from his chair, smoothing his tie. “If you don’t need Miss Templeton for anything else, then we’ll be going.”

  “Go with god,” Purvis said, spreading his hands.

  I followed Coop into the hall. We walked past a coffee machine into a larger hall with glass doors at either end. Off to the side was a square room with desks. The back wall was covered with policeman of the year plaques and pictures of South Carolina’s most wanted.

  We stopped by a long counter where a fax machine was spitting out pages. Noonan gave me a chilly stare, like I was getting away with something bad.

  “Take it easy, O’Malley,” Noonan called.

  Coop and I stepped out of the building. Heat rippled over the pavement, rising into a cloudless sky. He stopped beside his truck and helped me into the passenger seat.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “No, but I’d like to change clothes.”

  “No problem.”

  “Well, there might be. They’re in my car. And my car is at Bing’s house.” I couldn’t bear to call it a crime scene.

  “Not anymore. Your car has been impounded.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You’re a person of interest.”

  “But my clothes aren’t, right?”

  “Detective Noonan said it looked like you were leaving town.”

 
“Bing threw my stuff out of his house. Miss Dora put everything into bags and brought them to me.” A lie of omission was still a lie, and I’d just told number fourteen.

  “Miss Dora?” Coop asked.

  “Bing’s stepmother.”

  “You get along with her?”

  “She’s my friend.”

  Coop walked around the truck, got in, and started the engine.

  “How did Bing die?” I asked.

  “The detectives say he was shot. Did Noonan test you for gunpowder residue?”

  “A technician from Charleston did. He took my clothes, too. Noonan was upset because I’d washed my face and hands.”

  “I’ll get a copy of the test. The residue can be washed off sometimes. But they’ll check your clothes.”

  “There was nothing to wash off. I don’t even own a gun.”

  “They’re just following procedure. You were Bing’s girlfriend. The police always start with the significant other. They’ll eliminate you soon enough and move to the next person of interest.”

  He drove to Towne Centre and we walked to the stores. My jumpsuit drew stares as we stepped into Banana Republic. I went straight to the sale rack. Coop’s phone rang. He walked to the front of the store and put his hand on top of his head. Then he glanced back at me.

  Something was up. I grabbed beige slacks and a white blouse and started toward the cash register. I hadn’t withdrawn any money from the bank, but I still had the envelope with Miss Dora’s money. Even on sale, Banana Republic clothes were sky high. I hated to squander cash when I didn’t have a place to live, and even though I was still queasy, I would eventually need to eat.

  I paid for the outfit and asked the saleslady if I could change in her dressing room. Her eyes lingered on my jumpsuit, and she pointed to the changing area.

  “I’ll just be a second,” I told Coop and hurried to the dressing room. When I stepped out, he snapped his phone shut.

  “You’ve been holding back,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  fifteen

  We walked in silence to the red truck. Coop started the engine and turned on the air conditioner. “Teeny, what in the Sam Hill’s going on? You didn’t tell me about your previous arrest.”

  “I was going to,” I said.

  “When? The police have issued an APB. Now they’ve got a reason to hold you.”

  “Hold? You mean arrest?”

  He nodded.

  “For what? Not murder. ’Cause I didn’t do it.”

  “Relax, they’re booking you for trespassing. And violating a restraining order. Apparently you were already on unsupervised probation.” He gave me a stern look. “This is bad, Teeny. The DA will argue that you’re a flight risk. If the judge sets bail, it’s liable to be steep. So, either you tell me everything, and truthfully, or get yourself another lawyer.”

  “It’s a long story.” I pushed back my hair. “If I start talking, you’ll run out of gas.”

  “Teeny, this isn’t funny. The police think you had several motives. Your fiancé cheated, but he held the financial cards, and you were going to end up homeless. I need to know more about your previous arrest. You were booked for criminal assault and resisting arrest, correct?”

  “I didn’t know about the resisting arrest part,” I said.

  I told him everything, starting with Aunt Bluette’s funeral. When I finished, he shifted gears and steered the truck onto the highway, toward the Ravenel Bridge. “You taking me to the detention center?”

  “I have to.”

  “Will they keep me long?”

  “They can hold you till the bond hearing. Then you can bail out—unless the judge is really pissed. He could deny bail. But I’ll try to meet with him in chambers later this afternoon and get this sorted out.”

  I didn’t have enough money for bail. But I knew who did. “Could I borrow your phone, please?”

  I punched in Miss Dora’s cell number. At the sound of her chipper hello, I burst into tears.

  “Teeny!” she cried. “What’s the matter?”

  “Bing’s dead. The police think somebody killed him.”

  “My god, dear god,” she said. “How’d he die?”

  “Someone shot him.” I filled her in.

  “My Lord.” She exhaled. “Why’d you go over there in the first place?”

  “He texted me—at least, I thought it was him. When I got to the house, Bing was dead.”

  “You poor thing. But listen, you’ve got to be strong. We’ll need to arrange the funeral.”

  “Funeral?” I shuddered.

  “We just better hope Eileen doesn’t show up,” Miss Dora said.

  “Who?”

  “Bing’s sister. She got kicked out of the Jackson family. I wouldn’t put it past her to kill Bing.”

  This was the first I’d heard of a sister. But now that I thought about it, my lack of information summed up our whole relationship.

  “The Mount Pleasant police issued a warrant for my arrest,” I said. “I might need your help with bail.”

  “Arrest?” she cried. “For what?”

  “Because I went to his house and violated probation. They’re claiming I trespassed.”

  “Those bastards! Don’t you worry one little bit. I’ll be happy to help you. The only thing is, I’m still in Savannah. But I’m leaving right this second. I’ll call when I get home.”

  “The police took my cell phone. Let me give you Coop’s number.”

  “Who?”

  “Cooper O’Malley. My lawyer.”

  “Why didn’t you call Alvin Bell?”

  “Couldn’t remember his number. I’ll explain later.”

  After I hung up, I set the phone on the console. “She’ll post bail,” I said.

  “If there’s bail.” He chewed the inside of his lip.

  We drove in silence over the Ravenel Bridge into North Charleston. I was going to the Big House, where they took bank robbers and child touchers. When Coop pulled into the detention center parking lot, I turned away from the ugly brick building and looked up. The South Carolina flag snapped in the breeze atop the metal pole.

  Coop’s hand slid across the console, and he touched my arm. “Teeny, the police will interrogate you again. They have the right to do that, but if I’m not present, don’t say a word. I don’t care what they say or promise, wait till I get there.”

  I nodded.

  “One more thing,” he said. “The booking process is demeaning. Being in jail is worse. But I’ll do my best to get you out. You’ve got to trust me.”

  “Okay.” I reached for my lemon purse and pushed it into his hands. “Can you keep this? I’ve got money and stuff in there. I only need my inhaler.”

  “Sure. The medical staff will keep your inhaler.” He tucked my purse into the backseat.

  I climbed out. The heat from the pavement pushed through my shoes. We stepped into the building, cleared the checkpoint, and passed through electronic doors. A lady cop escorted me to the restroom and patted me down. I changed into a striped jumpsuit, then the woman led me to the same processing room where I’d been booked the night of the naked badminton game. For a second time, I was photographed and fingerprinted. The cop who took my picture said, “You back here already?”

  “Didn’t like the first mug shot,” I said. “Thought I’d try again.”

  When he asked my name and address, I hesitated. Then I gave the Bonaventure address. He led me to an interrogation room. Coop stood next to a wall with a huge grid map of Charleston. The Mount Pleasant detectives sat at one end of the table, and a new cop sat at the other.

  “I’d like to speak with my client alone,” Coop said.

  The woman cop shuffled out, with the detectives following. The door slammed.

  “Teeny, there’s a problem,” Coop said, helping me to a chair. “A woman is claiming you sent her a threatening text message around the time of the murder.”

  “What woman?”

  “Natalie Lockhart.”r />
  “She’s Bing’s girlfriend,” I said. “I didn’t text her. I don’t even know her number.”

  “A text message was sent from your phone to Miss Lockhart’s at 9:42 a.m.” He slid a photograph across the table. It was a picture of a cell phone. The display read, You’re next.

  “I can prove I didn’t send it. The English is too perfect.” I tapped the photograph. “If I’d done this, I would’ve texted Ur Next. Check Bing’s phone. See if he kept any of my messages. He used to go wild over my bad grammar.”

  “I’ll mention it to Detective Purvis.”

  “After I was knocked out, maybe the murderer texted Natalie from my phone.”

  “They’ll check for prints. But Teeny, this doesn’t look good.” He glanced at my throat. “I’ll get photos of your neck and show them at the arraignment.”

  “Let me take a lie detector test.”

  “A polygraph isn’t admissible in court.” He wrote something on the legal pad, then looked up. “I got your bail hearing moved up to tomorrow. But you’ll have to spend the night in jail.”

  I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. “Are they charging me with murder?”

  “No. Criminal trespass and violation of a restraining order.”

  “Trespass? But he texted me.”

  “That’s the law, Teeny.”

  “I’ve never had a speeding ticket. The first time I saw a real courtroom was the night I got arrested for throwing peaches.”

  “That will help our case. Right now, all the police have is motive and opportunity. Even their circumstantial evidence—like the text message—is pretty shaky. They’ll need physical evidence to convince a jury, like gunpowder residue or an eyewitness. Without a murder weapon or forensic evidence, it won’t happen. The DA can’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you killed Bing.”

  “Because I didn’t.”

  There was a knock at the door. The Charleston detective cracked it open. “Y’all about finished?”

  Coop waved them inside. The Mount Pleasant guys sat down, but the Charleston detective stood against the wall with his arms crossed. Detective Noonan started quizzing me about the text message but Coop cut him off.