Like Father Like Daughter

by Christina Morgan

  ***

  I arrived at the police-fire station around two o’clock that afternoon. Dave had beat me there by just a few minutes. We walked in through the front entrance this time, telling the weaselly-looking officer at the front desk we were there to meet with Detective Jim Dorne. As we sat and waited for Dorne, I flipped through an old copy of People magazine. It was the 2013 “Sexiest Man Alive” edition, and Adam Levine was there in all his white t-shirt, tattooed-arms glory. No argument there. I had always had a thing for Adam Levine, and he was on my celebrity hall pass list, along with Ryan Gosling and Charlie Hunnam. Ryan had one too. His included Scarlett Johansson and that actress in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I had always thought that particular choice was strange until I saw Lindsey. Apparently, my husband had a thing for trashy women with shaved heads, piercings, and tattoos.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Detective Dorne poked his fat head around the corner and motioned for Dave and me to follow him down the hallway. He guided us to the same interview room I had been in the night of Ryan’s murder. Dave sat next to me on one side of the table while Detective Dorne sat directly opposite us and laid a manila file folder down between us.

  He patted the table with his meaty hands. “I’m sure you know why we’ve asked you to come in today.”

  “My client is here willingly. She would like to help as best she can, but she knows nothing about Miss Unser’s murder.”

  “Is that right, Mrs. Carter?”

  “No. I mean, yes. That’s right. I don’t know anything.”

  “Would it surprise you, then, to know that we found messages from you on Lindsey’s Facebook Messenger?”

  “No,” I answered for myself. “I sent those messages. I admit that.”

  “They aren’t very nice. In one, you called her a ‘cunt’ and accused her of Ryan’s murder. In another, you told her, and I quote, ‘You’re going to pay, whore.’”

  “I was very upset. She was having an affair with my husband.”

  “And the very last message you sent asked her to meet you at Lake Mingo at seven last night. Did you go to Lake Mingo last night?”

  I immediately said that no, I had changed my mind, chickened out, just like I’d planned on saying. But my insides were all twisted at the thought someone had seen me or there was video of me being there. But if that was the case, he said nothing about it.

  “All right, let me get this straight. You set up a meeting with your husband’s mistress and then you, in your words, ‘chickened out.’ You didn’t go to the park. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Dave spoke up this time. “My client has already answered that question. She wasn’t there. Let’s move this along.”

  Dorne held up his hands. “Okay, fair enough. Now, let’s talk about what happened last Saturday night. You know that Miss Unser alleged that you punched her in the face. She told this to the county prosecutor the following Monday.”

  Dave answered for me again. “My client is not here to be questioned about unsubstantiated allegations made by a now deceased woman who obviously had problems of her own. As you are aware, the prosecutor decided not to pursue charges against my client as there were no witnesses to the alleged assault. That, and I’m sure they were aware of Miss Unser’s reputation as a heroin addict. A very unreliable witness.”

  The detective looked at me, ignoring Dave’s answer. “So are you saying you did not assault the victim less than one week before she was murdered?”

  “Move along, Detective, or we’re leaving.”

  Dorne sat back in his chair and crossed his arms across his massive chest. His face was red, as always, and he looked frustrated.

  “Miss Unser was strangled. Did you know that?”

  “How could I possibly know that? All the news said was that she was found dead in her car in the park.”

  “Strangulation is an up close and personal way to murder someone, don’t you think?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Seems to me whoever killed her not only knew her but wanted to watch the life drain from her eyes. Someone who hated her. Someone who very much wanted to see her suffer.”

  “Is there a question in there, Detective?” Dave leaned forward in his chair.

  Dorne leaned forward too, and opened up the file folder, which had so far been unacknowledged. He pulled out a large glossy photograph and slid it across the table in front of me, tapping it with his sausage-like finger. There in front of me was what appeared to be an autopsy photo of Lindsey. It showed her only from the chest up. A white sheet was pulled up and tucked under her armpits. The bruising I had seen the day before was more pronounced now against her pale throat. Her eyes were closed, and her stupid ugly haircut was slicked back. I would have, should have, recoiled at the sight of her dead body. But after all I’d seen over the past two weeks, I was no longer shocked by death.

  “You don’t seem very upset. Most people get sick when they see a picture of a dead body.”

  “Detective,” Dave answered before I could think of a witty retort. “As you are keenly aware, my client discovered her husband with half his head blown off not too long ago. She is also a certified paralegal, specializing in criminal defense. You’ll certainly understand if she doesn’t react the way ‘most people’ do. She’s not ‘most people.’”

  “Mrs. Carter. I’ll ask you plainly. Did you kill Lindsey Unser?”

  “No,” I said instantly, not wanting there to be any hesitation before my answer. “I most certainly did not.”

  “I think you did,” he said with a grin. “I think you were angry with Miss Unser because she was having an affair with your husband. I know you threatened her. And I think you asked her to meet you at Lake Mingo last night and that once you arrived, you two had another argument. I think you wrapped your hands around her throat, and I think you strangled her.”

  Dave shot up from his chair. “Are you charging my client?”

  Detective Dorne drew in a deep breath and let it go. “Not at this time.”

  “In that case,” he faced me, “Libby, let’s go.” He stopped and returned his attention to Dorne. “This conversation is over.”

  ***

  When we arrived back at Dave’s office, we were greeted by his receptionist, a white-haired lady with wrinkles that reminded me of a pug. She had bags under her blue eyes and jowls that hung down below her chin.

  “You have three messages,” she told Dave as he passed by her desk. She held out three pink slips of paper, and he snatched them from her and motioned for me to follow him. “Thanks, Helen. Hold my calls for a minute, will you?”

  I followed Dave into his office. It was still decorated the same as it had been when I worked there over ten years ago. Framed pictures of golf courses, a bookshelf covered in legal textbooks that he probably never opened, thanks to the internet, and a green-shaded lamp that sat on the corner of his big mahogany desk.

  I sat down in the padded maroon chair on one side of his desk. He sat in a large black leather swivel chair on the other side.

  “Look, Libby,” he began with his hands held open in front of him. “I’m not going to lie to you. None of this is good for your case. I’ve already got an uphill battle on my hands, and now this? I just want you to be aware that this is not an easy case for me. I’m doing the best I can, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

  “I know. But I swear, I didn’t kill Ryan, and I didn’t kill Lindsey, either.”

  “I believe you. We just have to cast enough reasonable doubt for a jury to exonerate you. I’ve been thinking, and I believe we need to hire a couple of expert witnesses. The prosecution will have a few of their own. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t hire experts to counter theirs.”

  “Okay. There’s a but in there somewhere.”

  “You’re right. The but is that it won’t be cheap. I think we need a forensic expert for one, and for two, we’ll need a psychologist to examine you. Someone who can testify that you are
not a violent person. The prosecutor has already figured out that you’ve been on antidepressants. They’ll use that against you. They’ll say you were already depressed and then you found out about the affair and went off the deep end.”

  I sat forward in my seat. “But that’s not true. I’ve been on antidepressants since I was a teenager. You know about my father, right? That’s why. It had nothing to do with Ryan.”

  “Well, perhaps to save money, we could call your current psychiatrist to the stand to testify on your behalf. You need to keep seeing him regularly. But that still leaves the issue of the forensic expert. Do you think you can come up with a couple extra thousand?”

  “I’m sure Mom will loan it to me. Right now I’m living off my 401(k), which I had to cash in. Ryan’s life insurance from work paid out, but it was only fifty thousand and the extra policy we took out when we got married won’t pay out since I’m a suspect in his murder.”

  “I’m still hoping they’ll figure out who killed Lindsey, and then hopefully we can pin Ryan’s murder on that person. But until then, we need to get you prepared for trial.”

  “I still think Mike Thompson did it…for Lindsey, I mean. Maybe she never paid him for Ryan’s murder, so he killed her too.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I shared my thoughts with Dorne this morning, but for some reason, he’s got blinders on when it comes to Mike Thompson, and to you. He’s convinced you murdered both of them, so it’s going to be up to us to prove you didn’t.”

  An idea popped into my head. I had planned on recording Lindsey, getting a confession out of her. Maybe I could do the same with Mike. I didn’t voice my plan to Dave because I knew he’d strongly admonish me not to go anywhere near Mike. But I wasn’t about to sit around and let Detective Dorne and the prosecutor railroad me for a crime, or crimes, I didn’t commit.

  I left Dave’s office with a newfound determination to find out who murdered Ryan and Lindsey and clear my name.

  Chapter 15

  The next day, with my handy-dandy recorder turned on in my purse, I drove to Mike Thompson’s little shithole on Wichita. It was a duplex and Mike lived on the right side, I knew from Ryan. He’d told me about going to visit him on occasion, just to check in on his old high school buddy. Knowing this was the place Ryan had met the whore made it all the more difficult to approach. But I knocked on the glass front door—the doorbell was broken—anyway.

  A moment later, the front door opened, and Mike stuck his head out, his eyes nearly closed to the midday sun. He looked like he’d just woken up, even though it was going on noon. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, only cut-off jean shorts, so I could see his scrawny chest, with ribs that reminded me of an old washboard my granny used to have in her basement. He had several faded tattoos on his arms and chest, including one of the Tasmanian Devil on his right pec. His face was covered in piercings—his ears, his nose, and even his cheek—and his sandy blond hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in months.

  “Can I help you?” So he didn’t recognize me.

  “Mike? Mike Thompson?”

  “Depends who’s askin’.”

  “I’m Libby Carter. Ryan’s wife.”

  “Holy shit! Come in, come in.” He opened the door the rest of the way, and I stepped inside cautiously. The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was a combination of McDonald’s French fries, dirty laundry, and cigarette smoke. A trace of marijuana also lingered in the air. I only knew that from my experimental college days; I hadn’t smoked since I was twenty-one.

  “Sorry ’bout the mess.”

  Mess was one way of putting it. I would have called it an uninhabitable pile of shit. There were clothes strewn about and McDonald’s wrappers—I nailed that one—all over the dirty glass coffee table. Mixed in with the wrappers were syringes, burnt spoons, and pipes. An ashtray was overflowing with brown cigarette butts—the cheap brand—and a glass of curdled milk sat next to it.

  “Sit down,” Mike insisted. I was afraid to sit on the stained blue couch covered in rips and tears, and besides, there wasn’t really a place to sit, thanks to all the clothes and garbage scattered all over it. He must have seen my hesitance, because he cleared off a space on the edge of the couch and patted it. “It’s okay. It won’t bite ya. I know it’s dirty in here, but I’m not working currently and, well, you know…”

  No, I didn’t know. I wasn’t working, either, and I knew that had absolutely nothing to do with the filth that had apparently accumulated over a lengthy period of time. When Mike had his back turned, I stole a quick glance at my purse to make sure I had the recorder going. Yep. Green light.

  Mike sat on the other end of the dirty sofa. “I was so sorry to hear about Ryan, man. Really good dude. He always treated me like family. We grew up together, did you know?”

  “Yes,” I answered politely. I sat with my hands in my lap so as not to inadvertently touch any of the disgustingness around me. “Ryan told me. He always spoke highly of you.”

  “He did?” Mike looked genuinely touched that anyone would say anything good about him.

  “Yes, he did. Mike, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Go ahead, shoot. If I can answer, that is. I hadn’t seen Ryan for weeks when he…well…”

  “No, it’s not about that. It’s about…Lindsey Unser.”

  Mike’s face changed instantly from one of good humor to one of complete dread. I had caught him unaware. Good.

  “I…uh…Libby, I’m sorry…I didn’t know they were going to…you know.”

  “So you introduced them?”

  “Yeah, but like I said, I didn’t know they were going to—”

  “That’s okay, Mike. It’s not your fault.” But truly, I did blame him, at least partially. He knew Ryan was married. Maybe he didn’t know me personally, but he should never have introduced someone like Lindsey to a married man. He should have seen that coming a mile away.

  I continued. “Mike, what I want to know is…do you think it’s possible that Lindsey killed Ryan?”

  Now he looked terrified. Why would he look like that if he knew nothing about Ryan’s murder?

  “I mean, I don’t know her all that well. She, uh, she was friends with my girlfriend Angie. That’s how I met her, anyway. That and she, well…”

  “She bought heroin from you? It’s okay, Mike. I’m not going to tell anybody. Ryan loved you like family. I wouldn’t betray you like that.”

  “Okay, then, yeah, she scored from me almost every day.”

  “And at some point, you realized they were having an affair?”

  “Not at first, no. But sometimes he would come with her when she came by to buy dope. I thought they was just friends at first, but then I’d see them…”

  “Kissing? It’s okay, Mike. I know about that too. Nothing you can say is going to surprise me at this point.”

  “Yeah, it became pretty obvious about a year ago they was hot and heavy. I told him he shouldn’t be doing that to you, but Ryan, he’s always been stubborn like that.”

  I’m sure you did. “So, back to my question. Do you think it’s possible Lindsey killed him?”

  “I mean, all I know is that she was pressuring him pretty hard to leave you. I’m sorry, Libby. I hate to tell ya this, but he promised her he would. Lots of times. Said you two were getting separated. But one day, about three weeks or so ago, they had a big fight. Right here in my living room.”

  “Go on. I’m okay. Really, I am.”

  “All right, so she was yelling at him about leaving you. He kept stalling and saying ‘soon, soon.’ Well, I guess she got tired of hearing the same thing over and over again, so she picked up an ashtray and threw it at him.”

  “Oh, my God! She threw an ashtray at him? Did it hurt him?”

  “No. Missed by an inch. He was one lucky bastard. That was a damn heavy ashtray.”

  “What else did she say?”

  Mike knew something more. I could see it in his eyes. Some
thing he didn’t want to say. Maybe because it was me, or maybe he wouldn’t want to say it to anyone. But when I kept staring at him, waiting for an answer, he finally shrugged his scrawny shoulders and said, “She said she’d kill him. If he didn’t leave you, that is.”

  Thank God for my mini-recorder. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. So she had threatened to kill him less than a week before he died! This was something the police had to know about. It could completely exonerate me if they knew his mistress had threatened to kill him. But that still didn’t rule Mike out as Ryan or Lindsey’s murderer. I had to get him to say something more. Something to prove Lindsey hired him to murder Ryan.

  “Mike, why didn’t you tell anybody? You know they think I killed Ryan.”

  “I promised her I wouldn’t. Plus, the police, well, we don’t get along real good.”

  “What about her?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s dead now too.”

  “I know, I heard.”

  I looked for any kind of reaction. Something that would tell me what I needed to know. But his pallid face revealed nothing.

  “Mike, do you know who killed Lindsey? Because now they think I killed her too.”

  “Wish I could help you, Libby. For Ryan’s sake. But I have no idea who killed either of them.”

  So much for a spontaneous confession. So much for any kind of confession. If he killed Ryan or Lindsey, he certainly wasn’t going to admit it to me. I had to think of something fast. I leaned forward with both arms on my knees.

  “Listen, Mike, if you know anything, I mean, anything about what happened to my husband…I can pay you for information. I have money from his life insurance.

  His dim, drug-addled eyes lit up briefly. “Money? You’d pay me for information?”

  “Yes, absolutely. It’s important. And you know, if anyone killed Lindsey…they’d have my eternal gratitude.”

  “For reals?”

  “Yes, for reals.”

  He seemed to contemplate this momentarily. I thought I saw something in his eyes. Was it greed? Was it knowledge? It appeared he was giving serious thought to helping me. That’s it, I thought. I’ve got him. He’s going to fess up. If for no other reason than the thought of a payday.