“It’s not that easy.”
“Well, have you had inmates do something like this in their dreams?”
“Sure.”
“What’d you do then?”
“It was different. Sometimes they would pretend to be someone else just to forget about their crimes for a while. But they knew they were pretending. I think Beth really believes she’s someone else.”
“Well, you’ll just have to convince her that she’s not. Now what about the fiancé? You said he was the only one she recognized.”
“But not as Bobby Fugate. As Mr. Stevens. It would help if I could talk to him.”
“But there is no Mr. Stevens.”
“I meant Fugate.”
“I doubt he’ll talk to you. He already made a statement. Unless he becomes a suspect, he doesn’t have to say another word.”
As it turned out, Bobby Fugate had an alibi for the night Beth was nearly killed. After a long night of boozing it up with the senior members of his law firm, he returned home to his inner-city apartment allegedly expecting Beth to be there. When she was nowhere to be found, he tried reaching her on her cell phone, a call that was made approximately two hours after the attack would’ve taken place. He then drove to his future in-laws’ farm house and Beth was discovered early the next morning.
“I still need to try,” I said. “Where’s his law office?”
“About two miles from here,” replied Linden.
“Can we go there?”
“It’ll piss him off, so absolutely.”
Linden started the engine and we drove out of the hospital parking lot. Within a few minutes we were outside the Law Offices of Baxter, Freeman, and Lester. Linden crammed his car into a metered spot between two vehicles, nearly ramming one and then the other as he settled into place. From where we were sitting, I could see the Ohio River nearly a stone’s throw away across the interstate. Directly on the other side was Indiana, a piece of geography I remembered from childhood but never expected to experience.
We got out of the car and walked up to the front door of the law office. Linden led the way inside and I followed close behind. There was a blonde-haired receptionist at a desk texting away on her cell phone. It was fairly easy to tell by the furniture in the waiting area that the firm had been successful. Not to mention the prime downtown office spot. The receptionist didn’t look up from her phone.
“Can I help you?” she asked indifferently.
“We’re here to see Bobby Fugate,” Linden answered.
“Mr. Fugate is out of the office at the moment,” the receptionist replied, still texting away. “Would you like to leave him a message?”
“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?” I asked.
“Nope,” she said.
Just then the front door opened and an older man in a suit entered the office. He gave Linden and me a once-over. “Are you gentlemen seeking legal counsel?” he inquired.
“We’re here to see Mr. Fugate,” Linden told him. “Will he be in today?”
“I’m afraid not,” the man answered. “He’s in court all day. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Actually, maybe there is,” I said. “My name’s Max Crawford,” I said, extending my hand.
The older man accepted hesitantly. “Oscar Freeman,” he reciprocated.
I motioned to Linden. “This is Agent Linden of the FBI We’re investigating the attack on Mr. Fugate’s fiancée, Beth Martin. Do you know her?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I know Beth. Lovely girl. It’s a shame what happened to her. Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk more privately?” He turned to the receptionist, who was now eavesdropping without trying to hide it. “Any messages for me, Candace?” he asked, giving her a disapproving look.
“No, Mr. Freeman,” she replied, pretending to go back to work. “Nothing this morning.”
“Thank you, Candace,” he said. “This way, gentlemen.”
He led us down a hallway and into a suite of offices. Each one had the name of each senior partner on gold plates on the door. I didn’t see one for Fugate. Freeman brought us into a conference room with a long, mahogany table in the middle of it. There were several plush office chairs around the table. An unobstructed view of the Ohio River filled a window that ran the length of one of the walls. Freeman motioned to two of the chairs.
“Please, have a seat.”
We sat down on the side facing the window and Freeman took a chair at the head of the table. In the center of the table, there was a bouquet of flowers. Next to the bouquet, there was a box of tissues. I assumed they were for clients when they found out how much their bill was going to be. Freeman leaned back in his chair, obviously very comfortable in his senior position.
“I’m gonna level with you, gentlemen,” he said with an air of authority. “Bobby’s already told me about you and, frankly, I disagree with how you’re handling the investigation. But it’s not up to me, so here we are. How can I help you?”
“How long has Mr. Fugate worked for your firm?” I asked.
“This is his second year with us. He’s in line to be partner one day. He’s a very bright and driven young man. Kind of like me when I was his age.”
I paused to read Freeman’s mind. He genuinely liked Bobby. He even had feelings toward him as if he were his own son. Linden and I, on the other hand, Freeman did not like.
He was trying very hard to hide his disdain for us coming to his place of business in the middle of the day unannounced. As for Beth, he didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He was very much about keeping up appearances.
“Any further questions?” he added with a grin that bared his teeth.
“Only a couple more,” I said. “How did Bobby act after the attack?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was his ability to perform his duties affected? Did he ask for time off?”
“No, he did not. I encouraged him to take time off, but he insisted on continuing to work. He said he needed to stay busy to keep his mind off it. I’m sure you can both understand. As for his performance, he’s as top notch as he’s always been. Does that make him a suspect?”
“Should it?” asked Linden.
Freeman smiled. “I assure you Bobby loves Beth very much. He wants to find the person that did this to her even more than you do.” He started to get up from his chair. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—”
“Just one more question if you don’t mind,” I said.
“Of course not,” he said, simultaneously sitting back down and wanting to punch me in the face. “Go right ahead.”
“Can you think of any reason Bobby would want to impede our investigation?” I asked.
“Let’s just cut to the chase, why don’t we?” he said, no longer feigning a grin. “This psychic nonsense isn’t helping anybody. Why don’t you leave the poor girl alone? The truth always comes out one way or another. Why continue with this charade?”
“Her parents don’t seem to think it’s a charade,” said Linden. “They actually want our help.”
“Her father is losing his mind and her mother is so desperate she’ll do anything,” said Freeman. “Of course, they’ll agree to the most cockamamie idea that comes their way. Why get their hopes up?”
“Because they deserve justice,” answered Linden.
“Justice,” Freeman scoffed. “That word is thrown around so often it’s lost its meaning. What they deserve is closure.”
Closure was a concept I always struggled with in my job. A respectable goal, no doubt, but one that seemed perpetually out of reach. Even when inmates came to terms with their crimes, were forgiven by their victims’ families, and gave their life to God, the nightmares still came back. No example better illustrates the apparent inescapable nature of the past than Paul Fletcher, an inmate convicted of killing a man while driving intoxicated.
One wouldn’t assume Paul Fletcher would be capable of such a thing. A very mild-mannered and polite man o
f fifty-seven, he served as assistant to the prison chaplain, a role he took very seriously when it came to converting other inmates. He also publicly confessed to his crime in front of his victim’s surviving family members, a gesture that would eventually cause them to cease pursuing the death penalty for him. He felt true remorse for his crime, made amends to the best of his ability, and found solace in religion. One might even say he had atoned for his sins.
But, as much as Paul appeared to be at peace with his past, he was haunted every night by the man whose life he took after surpassing the legal alcohol blood level. During visits into his dreams, I was a recurring passenger in his car and would try to remind him of everything he had done for the sake of his rehabilitation. Yet not once did he turn the steering wheel. Even at the very last second, he drove straight ahead, reliving the worst moment of his life repeatedly.
Obviously, Paul Fletcher’s type of closure wouldn’t be the same as that of Allie and Edward Martin. Nevertheless, what happened to Beth would likely stay with them one way or another for the rest of their lives. And if that’s the case, is there really such thing as closure? For once, and believe me, this was rare, I agreed with Agent Linden. What they needed was justice. At least that was something that could be defined in finite terms.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Freeman,” I said, realizing there was no further need for him. I stood.
Linden stood as well. “We’ll see our way out,” he said.
Freeman stayed kicked back in his comfortable chair. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s like my grandfather used to say, just because you disagree with where a man’s headed doesn’t mean you should wish him well on his journey.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Oh, and, by the way, I feel a need to apologize for Candance,” he added. “It wasn’t easy finding a replacement.”
“Replacement?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Our last receptionist, Maggie, quit without notice. It was the damndest thing. One day she was here, and everything seemed fine. The next day, poof, she was gone.”
The wheels turned in my head. “Maggie?” I said. “Is that short for Margaret?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. What was her last name?”
“Stevens,” he said. “Do you know her?”
Chapter Eight
After getting Margaret Stevens’ address from Mr. Freeman, Linden and I arrived at her apartment approximately thirty minutes later. It was in a less affluent part of town, a few miles away from the up-close, majestic views of the Ohio River. We pulled up to the leasing office and got out of the car. An older lady with a sunhat was hunched over a flowerbed pulling weeds in front of the office. We started to walk in but noticed there was no one at the front desk.
“Can I help you?” the older lady said, raising her head and tipping her hat to get a better look at us.
Linden flashed his badge. “I’m Agent Linden of the FBI,” he said. “We’re looking for Apartment 7C.”
She tilted her head in the direction of a series of apartments. “It’s over yonder,” she said.
“Are you the apartment manager?” Linden inquired
“Yep,” she said, stuffing a handful of weeds into a plastic grocery bag. “And apparently the landscaper.”
“Do you know Margaret Stevens?” I asked.
“Yeah, I know her,” she said and got up to face us. “She in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” said Linden. “We just want to talk to her.”
“Good luck. I ain’t seen her come and go in about a week.”
Linden reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a picture. He showed it to the apartment manager. It was an engagement photograph of Beth and Bobby. “Do you recognize this woman?” he asked.
The manager studied the picture closely. “Nope,” she said. “Is that the victim?”
“What makes you ask that?” said Linden.
“Well, you boys don’t normally go around showing folks pictures of your cousin Susie, now do ya?”
Linden smirked. “What about him?” he asked, pointing to Bobby.
“He looks familiar, but I can’t place where I seen him.”
“Thank you for your time, ma’am,” Linden told her, slipping the photo back into his coat pocket.
We left the manager to her yardwork and made our way over to the unit where Margaret Stevens lived. We climbed the stairs to find her apartment and encountered a man as he was coming down with four different dogs on leashes, all pulling him in different directions. As much as I wanted to see if they were going to overpower him and carry him off like in some slapstick comedy, I let him pass and followed Linden to the door with “7C” on it. Linden knocked on the door.
After a few minutes, a pretty, young woman in a bathrobe opened the door a crack but left the chain in place. “Yes?” she said, appearing as if she hadn’t slept in days.
“Are you Margaret Stevens?” Linden asked.
She sighed. “Yes,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I’m Agent Linden of the FBI,” he said. “This is Max Crawford. We’d like to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody,” she said and shut the door.
“Miss Stevens, we need your help!” Linden raised his voice and spoke to the door. “Do you know Beth Martin?!”
“Just go away!” she said through the door.
“What about Bobby Fugate?! You worked with him at the law firm until you quit! Why did you quit, Miss Stevens?!”
“It just wasn’t working out, okay?!” she replied and began to sob. “Now please! I haven’t been feeling well and want to be left alone!”
Linden turned to me. “Can’t you read her mind or something?” he asked expectantly.
“Through the door? Who do you think I am? Superman? I need to see her face, or it won’t work.”
Frustrated, Linden knocked on the door again. “Miss Stevens?!” he said, but, this time, she didn’t answer. “Miss Stevens?!” he repeated. When there was no response, he stepped away from the door and started down the steps. “Come on, Crawford,” he said.
“So, what now?” I asked, following him down the stairs.
“We head back to the hospital and you go into Beth’s head again,” he said matter-of-factly.
I stopped at the end of the stairs. “But what about her?” I asked, pointing up toward Margaret’s apartment. “Are we just going to give up?”
He came to a halt and turned to me. “What do you suggest we do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Can’t we stake out the apartment?”
“Stakeout? What do you think this is? Some 1980s drug bust movie? She might not come out at all and we have little time as it is.”
“Well, she’s got to come out sometime.”
“For what?”
“To get groceries.”
“She can have those delivered.”
“Okay, then what if she needs…I don’t know…tampons or something.”
“They deliver those too.”
“Really?”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Crawford, and humanity is lazier than ever. Trust me. There’s nothing they won’t deliver. Now come on. You’ve got work to do.”
We went back to the hospital and headed straight for Beth’s room. I opened the door to find Allie and Edward sitting on either side of the hospital bed. Allie was holding Beth’s hand and gently stroking her head. Edward sat and stared at the floor. When I walked in, Allie stood and stepped away from the bed. Edward didn’t budge. It was as if he was in a trance, unaffected by everything around him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford,” Allie said, wiping a tear away from her eye. “We don’t mean to be in your way.”
“You’re not in my way, Mrs. Martin,” I said. I motioned to the chair. “Please, have a seat. I’m sure Beth would be glad to know you’re both here.”
Allie sat down and looked at her daughter’s fa
ce. “They grow up so fast,” she said. “Do you have children, Mr. Crawford?”
“I have one,” I replied. “Her name’s Katie.”
“Enjoy every moment,” she said. “Because you never know when…” She started to cry.
I grabbed a box of tissues off a nearby counter and handed them to her.
“Thank you,” she said, pulling one from the box and dabbing her eyes. “Have you made any progress?” she asked.
“Some,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Do you know a woman named Margaret Stevens? She used to work with Mr. Fugate at the law firm.”
She shook her head. “No. Does that name mean anything to you, Edward?”
He snapped out of his daze. “Does what mean anything to me?” he said.
“Margaret Stevens,” she said the name louder this time, as if her husband’s hearing aid was turned down. “Do you recognize the name?”
He shrugged. “I knew a Margaret Ellingsworth back in school. She had a heifer she used to walk to school every day. Drove the teachers crazy.”
Allie frowned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford. I don’t think we can help you there. Is this Margaret Stevens person somehow involved with what happened to Beth?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I do have one other question for you if don’t mind.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Did you ever own a dog?” I asked.
“We’ve owned a few over the years. Why?”
“Was there one that Beth was particularly fond of named Petey?”
“Yep,” Edward chimed in. “Mangy little mutt but Beth loved it like it was one of her dolls.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Allie said, remembering. “Petey. Beth must’ve been six or seven. What ever happened to that dog?”
“Ran away, I suppose,” Edward said listlessly. “They all do eventually.”
“There wasn’t any kind of…accident you can recall?” I asked cautiously.
“No,” Allie said, shaking her head. “Why?”
“Well, Beth, or some part of Beth, seems to think that she killed him.”
“Oh, heavens no!” Allie exclaimed. “Beth wouldn’t hurt a fly. She must be confused.”
When Beth Wakes Up Page 5