by B K Stevens
Someone grabbed my arm. “Finally!” Charlene Gorshin said. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Five minutes?”
Wayne Spat slipped through the door. Well, I’d catch up with him later. “We already released a statement,” I said. “If you missed it, I’ll get you a copy.”
“Aw, Lieutenant. Nothing extra?” She moved in closer. “Know who I spotted in line? Your ex. Look.”
Janet had just walked into the main room, wearing the black wool dress she’d bought for my uncle’s funeral. Probably, she’d come to show the solidarity of the local real-estate industry in tragic times. She looks good, I thought—and then I saw Jim Bixby walk in next to her, whispering something that made her shake her head in teasing disapproval. I started to detach myself from Charlene Gorshin, then saw Janet look over at us and do a double-take. I let Gorshin’s arm stay where it was.
“I don’t have any new information for you,” I said, smiling at her warmly.
“How about a personal angle?” she persisted. “An in-depth interview with the handsome detective who cracked the Dodd murder. You really are a handsome detective—did I ever tell you that?”
“Right now, you’d tell me I was the Pope, if it’d get you a story.” Janet had moved on, so I disentangled myself. “No interview,” I said, and walked over to Randy Dodd.
He drew me aside. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s a relief to have everything settled so quickly. But to think Jacqui could do that! I can hardly believe it.”
“I’m not sure I believe it myself,” I said. “By the way, I noticed a man talking to you a few minutes ago—short, red hair, glasses, nervous manner. Do you know him?”
A wariness came into his eyes. “There’ve been so many people. I don’t remember.”
“His name’s Wayne Spat—does that help? He gave you something.”
“Oh. Him.” He reached into his coat pocket and took out a wad of business cards. “So many people have given me cards—lawyers, child psychologists, even a medium. Yes, here it is. Wayne Spat. I’d never met him before.”
I took the card and glanced at it. “What did he say to you?”
“Just that he was sorry about Karen—everyone says that.” He lowered his voice. “Did you find that videotape?”
“Yes, but we haven’t told the press. Chances are, we’ll never have to.”
“Really?” he said. “Are you sure? Isn’t it evidence?”
“I talked to the prosecutor. He agrees he probably won’t need it, since Ms. Liston admits to the affair. And he’s got no wish to embarrass your family.”
“That’s fantastic,” he said. “What a relief. Thank you.”
I nodded. “I should move on—you’ve got a lot of people waiting. Maybe I’ll find Mr. Spat, see what he’s up to.”
That startled him. “No, I—that is, why bother? The case is closed, right?”
“It’s closing,” I agreed.
*
Wayne Spat seemed transformed. He stood near his desk, holding a rifle, his glasses pushed up on his forehead as he brought the rifle to eye level and pointed it at some imaginary prey. His body looked tensed and proud, his hands on the rifle knowing and sure. Watching him through the glass doors leading to the outer office of the American Firearms Association, I hardly recognized the timid little man who had scurried away from me at the funeral home.
When I pushed the door open, when he saw me, the timid man returned. Hastily, he set the gun on the desk, and his glasses slid down on his nose. “Do you want to see Mr. Haywood?” he asked.
“I want to see you.” I walked over to look at the rifle. “Winchester?”
“Yes.” He sat behind the desk and started fussing with papers. “And I’m sorry, but I’m very busy, so—”
“This won’t take long.” I remained standing, leaning over the desk. “I saw you at the funeral home this morning. Do you know the Dodds personally?”
“No. But I thought—well, to show my respect. I thought I should.”
“I see. What did you say to Mr. Dodd?”
He tried to stuff a letter into an envelope. The letter was mis-folded and wouldn’t fit. “Did you ask him? What did he say?”
“I asked him. Now I’m asking you. What did you say, Mr. Spat?”
He shrugged. “I expressed condolences. Why do you care?”
“Because I’m puzzled. You gave him a business card, and I noticed that you’d crossed out your office number and circled your home number. Why didn’t you want him to call you here? Why did you think he’d want to call you at home?”
“Because I just did!” He grabbed another letter and slapped folds into it. “Maybe it was dumb, but I did it, and I’m sick of talking about it, and you’d better leave me alone, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I asked, quietly. “Puncture my tires? Slash my upholstery?”
He sat back in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not. We can’t prove anything—no fingerprints, nothing to show whose knife it was. As for motive, Detective Carlson was rude to you, but he’s rude to lots of people. It’s his way. Someone else may have wanted to get back at him. But I’ve got to wonder how this person knew where his car was. I’ve got to wonder if someone was following him—someone with a special interest in the Dodd case.”
He tried to swallow. “I’m not all that interested. And I never followed anyone, and—this is crazy.”
“Is it? I’m not so sure.” I straightened up. “But I’ll tell you what would be crazy. Trying to pressure Randy Dodd. Frankly, Mr. Spat, I see two possibilities. One is that you know something damaging about Mr. Dodd, and you’re threatening to reveal it if he doesn’t pay you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know why you’re even here. I mean, the case is closed. You arrested that woman.”
“We haven’t proven she did it. Her lawyer may argue she couldn’t have done it. He may have a point. By all accounts, she was dead drunk on Friday. Could she have driven to the Dodd house and killed someone with one shot, dead on target? Maybe not.” I gestured toward the rifle. “Maybe I should be looking for a marksman.”
Something new came into his eyes. The fear was still strong, but now there was anger behind it, keen and ready. “That’s typical. You all hate us, don’t you? You’ve got guns, but you’re afraid to use them. We’re not afraid, so you blame us for everything.”
I held up my hand. “I’m not making any accusations. But I am warning you. When I saw you with Randy Dodd, the second possibility that came to mind was that you were threatening him. ‘I got your wife; I can get you, too’—something like that.”
He snorted and turned back to his letters. “That’s nuts.”
“I hope so. By the way, where were you on Friday afternoon?”
The envelope-stuffing slowed. “I was home. All day. I was sick.”
“If we asked you to prove that, could you? Any phone calls? Visitors? No? Then don’t leave town, Mr. Spat—and stay away from Randy Dodd. Now, please ring Mr. Haywood. And if you don’t mind some advice, next time, before you seal the letters, maybe you should have him sign them.”
*
Jackson Haywood welcomed me heartily. “Well done! You must feel gratified, wrapping the case up so quickly. I feel gratified, too. That unstable woman does not belong to our organization. Just as I predicted.”
“You made a couple of good predictions.” I sat down. “What you said about the investigation wrecking the Dodd family image—that turned out to be true.”
“A lucky guess.” He spread his hands graciously. “Nothing more.”
“You’re too modest. I think you knew about Randy Dodd’s affair. I think you were trying to let me know about it, to steer me in that direction.”
He braced his fingertips against each other. “It was delicate. One hates to spread gossip. But if one of our members saw Randy Dodd at a bar with a woman who wasn’t his wife—well. I lacked
solid information, yet sensed there might be a connection. An indirect approach seemed appropriate.”
“You can be more direct now. Who saw Dodd at that bar?”
He chuckled. “Put me on the stand, make me take an oath, and I’ll tell you. Otherwise, no. Frankly, the person who saw Mr. Dodd wasn’t with his wife, either. And what does it matter? The case is closed.”
“People keep telling me that,” I said. “But I’ve still got loose ends. For example, a man who lives across from the Dodds saw a battered blue or black van parked near their house Friday. Mr. Spat drives a dark blue van, doesn’t he? An older one?”
“Many people drive blue vans,” Haywood said tolerantly. “Many people drive black ones. What’s your point?”
“I’m not sure. But you’d had a hint about trouble in the Dodd family. Maybe you wanted ‘solid information,’ as you put it. Maybe you had Mr. Spat follow the Dodds, see what he could dig up.”
“I wouldn’t stoop to such tactics,” he said. “That’s an insulting accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation, just a theory. I can’t prove it—I lack solid information. Now, why did Mr. Spat come to the Wharton Funeral Home this morning?”
His shoulders jerked back. “Is that where Karen Dodd is? Wayne went there?”
“Yes, and he spoke to Randy Dodd and gave him a business card with the office number crossed out and his home number circled. Didn’t he tell you?”
The tiny crack in Haywood’s composure had already closed. “No, but I must commend him on his initiative. His visit was an appropriate expression of our sympathy.”
I lifted my shoulders. “Mr. Spat says he called in sick Friday. Was he out sick yesterday, too?”
“For part of the day. Why do you ask?”
“Because yesterday,” I said, “someone took a knife to Detective Carlson’s car and slashed his tires and upholstery. You remember Detective Carlson—he insulted Mr. Spat on Saturday.”
His attempt at an incredulous chuckle came out as a wheeze. “Now, Lieutenant. You can’t think—”
“I think something’s going on, and I think Wayne Spat’s involved in it. Either he did something, or he knows something. Maybe you know something, too. If you do, tell me, now. This is a murder investigation. It’s no time for playing games.”
Perhaps only to give himself time to think, Jackson Haywood walked over to the glass case displaying his pistol collection. “I am playing no games,” he said. “You had no legitimate reason for coming here today. If you continue this harassment, I’ll be forced to consult our attorneys.”
“I look forward to meeting them.” I stood up. “By the way, is this a two-man office? So when Mr. Spat called in sick Friday, you were here alone?”
He was smart enough to know what that meant. “Yes. Are we finished?”
“Probably not,” I said cheerfully. On my way out, I gave Wayne Spat a friendly wave. I’d pay a lot, I thought, to know what happens between those two after I leave.
*
The next afternoon, I visited Karen Dodd’s mother in the hospital—a depressing half hour that yielded no new information and left me encased in gloom. As I walked to my car, it was almost a relief to see Charlene Gorshin racing toward me, pursued by her camera crew. Come on, Gorshin, I thought. Ask me some outrageous, impossible questions. Try to trick me into saying something indiscreet. Irritate me out of this mood.
“Lieutenant!” she called. “Thirty seconds! No camera, okay? Just answer one question.”
I slowed my pace, curious to hear her one question. As long as it isn’t about the tape, I thought.
“It’s about the tape,” she said eagerly. “Rumors are flying about a sex tape, Randy Dodd and Jacqui Liston, very explicit and wild. Could you comment on those rumors?”
Damn, I thought. We couldn’t even get her buried first. “Rumors are generally unreliable,” I said. “What’s your source for these rumors?”
“I’d like you to be my source,” she said, coyly. “Will you confirm the existence of the tape?”
“Not a chance.” I reached for my car door.
Her hand shot out to stop me. “But you don’t deny its existence?”
“No,” I said. “I also don’t deny the existence of the Loch Ness Monster. Lots of things are possible.”
“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t really put the tape in the same category as the Loch Ness Monster, would you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Some of those pictures of Nessie are damn convincing. It’s no good, Gorshin. I won’t discuss it. But I do want to know your source. Give me this, and someday I’ll pay you back. Deal?”
She sighed. “Anonymous call—male voice, muffled, unrecognizable. At least two other reporters got calls, too. Give me a hint. Is this a waste of time, or should I try to track it down?”
“Don’t try to track it down,” I said. “Don’t try to bring this story out on the day Karen Dodd’s being buried. It’s not decent. You wanted a hint? That’s it.”
I drove off. A muffled male voice—Wayne Spat? Had he found out about the tape, tried to blackmail Dodd, called the press when Dodd didn’t pay? Or it could have been someone in the department. I’d sort the possibilities out later. I was glad Carlson was covering the funeral. I had other things to do.
I drove to Wayne Spat’s apartment, knocked, got no response, noticed the morning newspaper still lying outside his door. No, the landlady said, Wayne hadn’t said anything about going out of town. But he came home from work earlier than usual yesterday. No, she hadn’t seen him today, and his van wasn’t in his spot.
At the American Firearms Association, a crisp, pleasant temporary secretary sat at Wayne Spat’s desk. Today, Jackson Haywood greeted me with amused exasperation. He had not fired Wayne Spat, he said. They’d simply agreed Wayne should explore other career options. No, the decision had nothing to do with anything I’d said yesterday. For some time, it had been clear Wayne wasn’t ideally suited to an office environment—he wasn’t detail-oriented, and that impacted negatively on efficiency. Just yesterday, he’d sealed up a dozen letters before Jackson Haywood signed them. That incident highlighted the problem, so they’d agreed, amicably, that Wayne should move on.
“You’re good at this,” I said, impressed. “You should run for office. You’re lying, I know it, you know I know it, but you look me straight in the eye and go to the trouble of providing supporting details. Is there any chance we can talk frankly, Mr. Haywood? Because I’m getting sick of your bullshit, and I think you must be getting scared.”
He laughed indulgently. “Lieutenant, you’re the most imaginative person I’ve ever met. Yesterday you came here with an array of bizarre suspicions about Wayne, and today you solemnly assert I’m scared. Well, I’m not scared.”
“You should be.” I took out my notebook. “I found out some things about Mr. Spat—probably all old news to you. When he was three, his mother died; twelve years later, his father was killed in a prison fight while serving a term for shooting and killing two teenagers he’d caught making out in his barn.”
“A tragically unjust sentence.” Haywood shook his head. “Wayne’s father was protecting his property against hoodlums he assumed to be home invaders.”
“He knew who they were,” I said. “He’d caught them in his barn before and threatened to shoot them—the boy bragged about it at school and went back on a dare. But let’s not debate that. The point is, Wayne Spat lost the father who taught him to hunt, lost the farm he loved, and was sent to the city to live in a series of foster homes—six of them. I’m no psychiatrist, but I’d bet he saw himself and his father as victims. I’d bet this organization was a lot more than a job to him. I’d bet he was willing to do a lot more than typing and filing—following the Dodds, for example, to find ‘solid information.’ When you fired him, I bet it crushed him. There’s a good chance he didn’t stay at his apartment last night—he may have gone into hiding. And I bet he thinks you betrayed him.”
�
�I didn’t fire him,” Haywood said wearily. “And I—your phone is ringing, Lieutenant.”
I glanced at my cell phone. Janet—she wouldn’t call just to chat. I flipped my phone open. “Janet?”
“Oh, thank God. Thank God you answered.” She attempted a laugh, but it sounded strained and false. “Dan, you won’t believe this. I just brought Amy home from preschool, and there’s a deer in the living room—a dead deer. It’s been shot, and the carpet’s—”
I stood up. “Janet, get out of the house. Now. Take Amy to the police station. And check the back seat before you get in the car.”
“Dan, what’s going on? Did you make someone mad again? Maybe I should check upstairs—”
“No!” I said. “Drive straight to the station. Ask for Officer Sullivan.”
“Won’t you be there? Dan, I don’t know what to say to Amy. She’s asking all these awful questions about Bambi’s mother, and I—”
“Damn it, Janet! Just get her out of there. Will you do it? All right.” I shut my phone and looked at Haywood. “My wife found a deer in our living room—shot, like the animals at the Dodd house. If you have family, get them out of town. It’s starting.”
*
The deer had been shot just once, eloquently, between the eyes. There had been nothing eloquent about the break-in, though—a pane of glass in the back door knocked out, the deer dragged through the kitchen. We questioned the neighbors, but no one had seen anything. He managed it in daylight, I thought, looking at the huge, stiff form on my living room floor. Timid as Wayne Spat seemed, he obviously had courage. I thought of the dead animals at the Dodd house. But this time, the animal had been left inside the house. That made the threat more direct. And this time, it was a large animal. That made the threat seem more deadly.
I packed suitcases for my wife and daughter, met them at the police station, and persuaded Janet to take Amy and stay with relatives in Wooster. It wasn’t easy. Janet had appointments, a big closing. She didn’t want my life messing her life up again. She’d thought she was done with all that, she said, and then this happened. I agreed it wasn’t fair, and meant it. Finally, she agreed to go. I spent a little time with Amy, then watched them drive away. And now, I thought, I’ll damn well catch that son of a bitch.