by Laurel Dewey
I continued up the stairs to the master bedroom. The light on the landing was on. That was what Mr. Gambrel told me in his first telling of the story. I flicked on another switch, which partially lit up the master bedroom. Walking into the bedroom, I turned on another light and gazed around the dark wood-paneled room. My first thought was that it reminded me of the kind of elegance you might find in an English castle. There was the king-size four-poster that sat so high up, one would need a small step stool to comfortably get in. A stone fireplace across from the bed had a wrought iron emblem that looked like a royal crown and the words “Hail Britannia” beneath it. I’ve always wanted a fireplace in my bedroom because there’s something quite calming to me about going to sleep with only the amber light from a fire and the reassuring crackle of the logs spitting embers onto the stone. It’s like camping, minus all the annoying shit. I stood there for a second and imagined Winston and Abbey curled up in their high-rise bed staring at the roaring fire and talking about their long day at the pub.
Walking around to the foot of the bed, I turned on a decorative lamp that stood on a small table. I determined that Winston slept on the right side of the bed based on the fact that on the left side table, there was a jar of jasminescented hand cream, a box of pink Kleenex, and a small photo of Winston. Call it preschool deduction, but that had to be Abbey’s side of the bed. I stepped back and retraced the most likely steps that Winston would have taken in the dark if, as he claimed, he had made his way around the bed and out the door. There were those surface cuts on his upper thigh, some of which had bled, that had attracted the attention of the cops on the scene. From what I could see, his alleged route showed several telltale signs of recent travel. For example, a framed photo was on the floor beside the small table that held the decorative lamp. A pair of slippers were several feet apart, as if someone had stumbled over them. Signs of a physical altercation in the room? Maybe. I peered closer at the corners of the bed but the dark wood made it difficult to see major blood transfer. Mr. Gambrel initially said that he tore off his wife’s lacy panties because he thought he saw a puncture wound in her pelvis. But there was no puncture wound anywhere on her body.
I went back to those motives for murder: sex, money and gettin’ even. That’s where the secrets like to play. When you have bloodied lacy panties, you’ve gotta consider rough sex gone wrong or rape. It didn’t mean that he killed her on purpose. Working out this twisted scenario in my head, I wandered onto the landing off the bedroom and tried to picture the possible ways this could have gone down. Abbey and Winston could have been going at it on the landing; maybe he rubbed against something sharp and transferred his blood onto her panties. Perhaps that’s when he ripped them off her body and tossed them downstairs, which would make more sense given their final location. But without getting too graphic here, no matter how many sexual positions I tried to visualize the Gambrels engaged in, I couldn’t find any sign of activity on the landing nor could I figure out how they might have been having sex in order for Abbey to land in the manner she did. Even though Winston said he turned her over to do CPR, the manner in which she was initially sprawled — again, according to Winston — indicated that she fell forward down the stairs. Of course, Winston could have lied to us about how he found her body, but my initial take was that his telling of that part of the story truly seemed genuine. What I didn’t buy was his second version of the story, when he had his head lowered and never looked me in the eye. That was guilt showing through. What that guilt was connected to, I didn’t know yet.
One of the first cops on the scene called up to me at that point. Mr. Gambrel was now in the other room. “There was no sign of sexual penetration on the deceased,” he offered, as if he somehow knew I was up there visualizing the Gambrels getting frisky.
Okay, I thought, cross sex off the list. That left money and gettin’ even. But this was spouse-on-spouse, which revolved in its own orbit. And that orbit is known as rage. Typically, you kill your spouse because you find out he or she is cheating on you. It can be premeditated but it’s usually a boiling hot explosion wrapped in a blinding primal frenzy that starts with a verbal confrontation, graduates to throwing and breaking various household items, and escalates to a full-blown physical fight that leads to the death that lawyers justify as a “crime of passion.” I thought about how shattered Mr. Gambrel looked. If that was an acting job, the guy should get an agent and go to Hollywood. As far as I was concerned, he loved his wife with a depth most people never experience. But that kind of unflagging devotion could certainly make the pain of finding out she had a lover even more cutting, which could result in a swift and sudden fight to the death. And yet, where was the proof of this violent fight? Aside from that knocked-over photo and scattered slippers, I was coming up short.
I returned to the bedroom and righted the photo that had fallen off the small table. I couldn’t help but smile. It was an obviously old shot of our man Winston Gambrel personally re-creating the cover of the Abbey Road LP in his cream John Lennon suit. There he was, all alone, walking across the real Abbey Road in London, caught in long stride. But he didn’t look like he had on a wig or fake beard and mustache in the photo. I opened the back of the frame and pulled out the photo, turning it over. Printed were the words: Me on abbey road, December 1, 1969.” Ah, he was a Beatles fan even back then.
I meandered around the bedroom, opening up drawers and closets. I memorized the contents of the drawer in Abbey’s side table. I discovered a media closet that housed at least several hundred CDs. Of course, he owned every single Beatles album, but he also had every solo effort that John Lennon recorded. Oddly, there was nothing in there of George, Paul or Ringo’s solo projects. In the corner of the closet, I found a small, unmarked box of reel-to-reel tapes. They were all dated 1969. As I shuffled through them, I only found one that was labeled: “proper elocution.” I thought back to when Winston was wailing after hearing that his wife was dead. “She was my world!” I heard him say. I had detected something off at that moment in the entryway but I had nothing to link it to, so I just stuck it in the back pocket of my memory. But now I replayed those words as I had heard them downstairs. Oh, those buried secrets. They do tend to rise up at the most inopportune times. Buried reel-to-reel tapes on proper elocution from the late 1960s. What else was buried?
I strolled over to the walk-in closet. It was immaculate and was big enough to hold a compact car. The left side held all of Abbey’s clothes and shoes, while the right side belonged to Winston. I closed the door, turned on the light and soaked it in. It wasn’t the smell of the cedarwood or the beautifully crafted shelving I cared about. I was marinating in the vibe, letting my mind’s eye root out the surreptitious clues. I took a few steps forward, touching the smooth handles of the wooden drawers that lined Winston’s side of the closet. I was drawn inexplicably to a small brown, unmarked box pushed to the back of the top shelf. There was no way to reach it without getting on a stepladder. Thus, it was either something Winston didn’t need often or something he wanted to make sure was out of the way. I went into the bedroom, grabbing a chair and the fireplace poker. Back in the closet, I stood on the chair and used the curved tip of the poker to drag the small box toward me.
It was sealed shut with heavy tape. I cut through the tape with the side of my car key and opened the box. There were only three items inside. Three items that someone in that house was hoping would stay buried forever. I collected them, sealed up the box, and replaced it on the shelf so that Winston would never know I had been there.
But somehow, I knew I wasn’t finished in there. I stood back and stared at the columns of shelves and drawers that lined Winston’s side of the closet. Something tugged at me. This happens to me a lot on the job. It’s like a pull on my sleeve that holds me back and forces me to stay focused. When I get in that moment, it’s like I fall into the void. All sound disappears and a guiding force takes over. It’s the hand of God or justice, depending upon the innocence or guilt of the i
ndividual involved. My eyes canvassed the area. And that’s when I saw it sticking out from one of the drawers nearest the door. I opened the drawer and pulled out the items, one after the other. I examined the tags and then replaced each one exactly the way I found it. I wasn’t sure how this whole thing was going to play out, but I sure as hell hoped for a favorable outcome.
Four days passed. I got a call from the doc who had completed the autopsy on Abbey Gambrel. The cause of death was 100 percent certain. I got off the phone and took a deep breath and then rushed downstairs into the evidence room and signed off on the lacy panties I’d sealed in the plastic Kapak baggie. I was just getting off the elevator to walk back into Homicide when I saw Winston Gambrel standing in the hallway. I quickly secured the Kapak baggie behind my back. Gambrel looked disheveled, as though he hadn’t slept in days. Under his arm, he carried a section of the Denver newspaper. He turned to me. Agony mapped his weary face.
“Detective,” he said, his voice shaking. “I need to talk to you.” The broad British a was pronounced when he said the word talk.
“I was actually just about to give you a call,” I told him, watching him closely.
He didn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he studied the carpet in a lost gaze. “My world is crashing down around me.” Emotion overtook him and he began to weep. “Have you read today’s paper?”
I shook my head, and he reluctantly withdrew the section he had tucked under his arm. The article, on the front page of the local section, featured a sensationalized story about the Gambrel case. From the little I scanned, the journalist who penned it intimated that “sources” suggested a sexual slant to the death of Winston’s wife. While any mention of the bloodied lace panties was kept out of the story, the writer got around that by citing, “some investigators on the scene are considering whether a sexual motive led to the death of Abbey Gambrel.” Fuck, I thought. I was the only investigator on the scene, so this “journalist” obviously got the story from some rookie cop who hadn’t learned to keep his goddamn trap shut.
“I’m assuming that police searched my house that night?” Gambrel asked me, his eyes pooled with fear.
“I was the only one collecting evidence that evening, sir.”
He looked at me, nearly paralyzed, for a hard minute. “I see.”
“I was up on the landing. And in your bedroom.”
The color drained out of Gambrel’s face. He turned away, wiping his tears. “This could go to trial — ”
“Sir,” I tried to interrupt him.
“I can’t go through a trial, Detective. This is killing me already. God, it’s all so random.”
So random. Yes. It is, I thought. “Mr. Gambrel, please — ”
“I have something to confess, Detective,” he said, looking me in the eye. “I killed…my wife.…” He reached out and rested his arm on my shoulder as he dropped his head and sobbed.
I looked at Mr. Gambrel and watched the unrelenting pain course through his muscles. Waves of anguish rose and fell across his chest as he gritted his teeth and gripped my shoulder tightly.
I led him to one of our interrogation rooms and directed him to sit in one of DH’s metal chairs, which leave a lot to be desired in the comfort department. I excused myself briefly, returning to my nearby office to retrieve several key pieces of evidence and information I would need for the conversation. I secured them, along with the Kapak, in a large manila folder. I also grabbed a tape recorder and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. When I returned to the tiny interrogation room, I found Mr. Gambrel with his head buried in his arms on the metal table. His brawny six-foot, four-inch frame barely fit beneath the table. “Here you go,” I said, handing him the water.
He seemed dismayed by my gesture. “Do you always give cold bottled water to people like me?”
I thought about it and nodded. “Yeah. Actually, I do always give cold bottled water to people exactly like you.”
“You’re very kind,” he said, dropping his head. “Too kind.”
I knocked two quick raps on the two-way glass.
“What was that for?” he asked with a concerned look.
“I’m letting them know on the other side to start the video.” I pointed up to the two corners of the tiny room where the video cameras were perched and pointed toward the table.
“You’re filming this?”
“Yes, sir. Have to get it on record.” I sat down and started the tape recorder. “That’s my backup in case something goes screwy with the video.”
Gambrel seemed overwhelmed. “How many people are behind the glass?”
“Two, I think,” I said, opening the manila folder on my lap. Gambrel gazed at the two-way glass with great concern. “You thought this was going to be private?” I asked him. “Get used to it, sir. Confessing to murder can become a very public affair. Especially when it’s someone as prominent and well-loved in the community as you.”
“My world is crashing down around me.” He tossed the Denver newspaper to the side.
That was the second time he’d said that in the last ten minutes. “Yeah, after we’re done here, I’m going to call that news writer and show him some love. My job is tough enough without having a case tried in the court of public opinion. It can’t help but infect a jury pool — ”
“But I’m confessing,” he said quickly. “That means no trial, right?”
“Your lawyer is going to fight you on that. They hate it when you confess.”
“I don’t want a trial,” he stressed. “That’s why I’m confessing.”
“You know that you’ve got the right to remain silent? Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law — ”
“Yes. Fine. Understood.”
“No. I really have to finish this spiel. This is how the defense likes to catch us up later in court and I’m not going there.” I rattled off the rest of his Miranda rights. “Take a sip of water,” I suggested.
He took a rushed sip and shook his head. “You must think I’m awful.”
I studied him. “You’re not the first husband to confess killing his wife. You won’t be the last.” He looked at me briefly, pain laced in his blue orbs. “I see the guilt all over your face.”
“You do?” He seemed shocked by my statement.
“Oh, yeah. I saw the guilt when I talked to you in the entryway of your house too. Guilt has a way of shadowing all of us. The things we strive to conceal from others tend to hide in the baggage around the eyes.”
He was taken aback. “Really?” he said quietly.
“It’s not obvious to everyone,” I assured him. “You have to be observant. You have to know the codes.”
“What codes?”
“If I told you that, I’d give away all my secrets and then I’d be an open book, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
“You want a cigarette?”
“Excuse me?”
“A cigarette? Sometimes it helps to calm you down. I’m sorry I don’t have any Dunhill ciggies to offer you — ”
“Dunhill?” Gambrel looked at me, his mouth slightly agape. He gulped another sip of water.
“That’s a fancy English brand? Lots of well-heeled Brits and celebrities favored them back in the day.”
He was flustered. “Yes. I know.”
“I figured you probably smoked those at some time in your life?”
“Is that right?”
“Well? Didn’t you?”
“Yes.” He paused. “But I quit.”
“Well, good for you, Mr. Gambrel. I still can’t give up the habit.”
“Please call me Winston.”
“Okay, Winston. You can call me Jane.”
He furrowed his brow. “Friendly, aren’t you?”
“Normally, no. Okay, so first question: where’d you go to college?”
He looked at me as if he didn’t understand the question. “Excuse me?”
“College?”
“I thought…” He peered toward the two-way mirror and the video camera in the corner of the ceiling. “I thought I was making a statement — ”
“Yes. We’ll get to that. Right now I’d like to know where you went to college.”
“Oxford,” he stated without hesitation.
“Oxford.”
“Yes.”
“What years did you attend?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I went from 1964 until mid-1969.”
“The five-year plan is alive and well in England as well, eh? That’s kind of a staid college for a guy like you. Didn’t a lot of uptight prime ministers graduate from Oxford?”
“I…I’m not sure…”
“Really? I thought that was common knowledge — ”
“Yes, of course, you’re right. Quite right.”
“Just because I’m an ugly American doesn’t mean I don’t know a little bit about the motherland. Getting back to Oxford — I know it screams British just like tea and crumpets, but you seem like a fellow who would prefer a more outside-the-box, liberal education. I mean, your pub is not exactly a religious experience unless you worship the Queen Mum.”
He appeared baffled by my banter. “When can I begin my statement, Jane?”
“In a second. I need to cover some basics for them.” I gestured behind me toward the two-way glass. “Would you agree that you’re a guy who is more of a free spirit?”
He looked flummoxed but he answered. “Yes. I would say that was true.”
“Always have been?”
“Yes. I don’t understand where this is — ”
“Is that what drew you and Abbey together?”
He was silent as a sad smile crept across his face. “Yes.”
“Was she an English rose or a wild child of the ’60s?”
“I would have to say the latter. England couldn’t contain her. She dreamed of hopping across the pond to America to find the freedom she longed for.”
“And you? Did you want to experience America’s freedom?”