‘He did it. He really did it.’ She waited, frozen in place, repeating the same words in her head. He had to be inside now. She peeked around the edge. She didn’t see him . . . not by his truck, not anywhere. The bag she was holding made a crinkling sound so she set it down. Then she made her way to the kitchen window and crouched under it.
‘Don’t breathe, don’t breathe . . . .’
She slowly stood up and for a second, just a second, she glanced inside, and crouched down again. She’d seen a bouquet of roses. She’d seen Kyle look in the oven. She glanced inside again and suddenly stooped down. ‘Did he see her this time?’ She heard the sliding door edge open, and she rolled under the porch. She heard him call her name. Her mind was racing. How would she get to her car? He’d see her for sure. What if she went to Debra’s house? No, she might get held up crossing the road. He’d catch her then. She heard the door close, snatched her bag, and ran behind the barn where she waited. He called her name again. She took off for the only place left to run, to the stubble of a wheat field behind their property. The cornfield up ahead hadn’t been harvested yet. She rushed toward it, frantic that he might have seen her. Just outside the cornfield, she heard a sickening sound when her ankle suddenly twisted in a groundhog hole. “Shit!” Sitting in mud, cradling her ankle, she looked to see if Kyle was coming. Thankfully not. It was just her and the sound of wind through the corn stalks. Oddly enough, half-scooting, half-crawling, brought back the memory of how the whole thing started between her and Kyle—in that cursed field. Finally in the tall corn, she clambered to stand; and limped the rest of the way to Marie’s house.
“Marie, did you call the police yet?” Julie hobbled inside. “What if it wasn’t him?”
“What happened to your foot?”
“I twisted it. What if he didn’t do it?”
“Sit down Julie, take some deep breaths. We’ll figure this out. We’re just going tell them what we saw, that’s all. If Kyle didn’t do it . . . Julie, be realistic.” Marie bagged some ice and handed it to Julie. “Hold this on it so it doesn’t swell any worse.”
Kyle took the roaster out of the oven, set it on the stovetop and lifted the lid. Steaming meat and vegetables, basil and rosemary instantly drew him in. He started to get a bowl but stopped, and looked out the window again; Julie’s car was there. For some reason she hadn’t answered when he’d called her name. He sniffed his shirt and peeled it off as he headed toward the bathroom, probably thinking she was in the barn or maybe thinking she’d gone for a run. He stuffed his shirt in the bottom of the clothes hamper. Then he showered, shaved, and bandaged his hand—all while the smell of stew wafted through the house. He went back to the kitchen, sat down, and started to read the sports page. He looked at the clock again. It was well past his feeding time and supper was getting cold. He pulled away from the table and got a bowl, but just as he started to ladle stew, someone pounded on the door.
“Open up, sheriff’s department,” a voice barked.
Kyle opened the door hesitantly. “Can I help you?”
“Kyle Zourenger?”
“Yes . . . . What’s going on?”
“We’re investigating a crime that occurred in this area last night around seven on Jaycox. Were you at home last night between five and ten o’clock?”
“I was at work yesterday, and then I had a few beers with the guys.”
“Where were you having beers and who were the guys with you?”
“I can save you the trouble right now. I don’t know anything about it.” Kyle started to close the door but the officer nudged against it, holding it open.
“I would like you to come with me. I suggest voluntarily.” The officer stepped inside as he unsnapped his holster.
“Hey! I don’t want any trouble. There’s no need for that.” Kyle flipped his coat off the hook and followed the officer.
A second police cruiser stopped at Marie’s house. “I’m Officer Wilson and my partner is Officer Wetzel. We’re here to take you ladies down to the station to make a statement.”
“Can my husband come, too? I can’t leave him alone,” Marie asked
“Sure ma’am.” The officer nodded.
The ride to the police station took forty minutes. Forty minutes of Pine Sol cleaned vomit smells. Forty minutes of listening to police chatter on the walkie-talkies. Forty minutes of Julie fretting.
At the police station, Officer Wilson herded them into a collect-all room of worn out benches where a menagerie of toothless men, scantily dressed women, and scummy looking vermin all seemed to be vying for attention. “The lieutenant will be right with you. If you’d like something to drink, there’s a coffee machine and a Coke machine down the hall.”
Marie held tightly onto Sam’s hand and tighter onto Julie’s, huddled together in seats just behind a terribly smelly person.
A few moments later, Officer Wilson guided them down a hall. Julie kept her eyes ahead, still holding Marie’s hand, thankful that Marie was there. Sam followed, looking confused. They sat down on a pew-like bench that felt sticky. Julie wondered if Kyle had taken his shower yet. And wondered what she would tell their sons. She saw a nicely dressed man coming toward them.
“Juliet Zourenger, Marie Wachowski, Mr. Wachowski. I’m Detective Barger.”
“Julie . . . you can call me Julie.” She watched the detective toss back an ice chip from a paper cup. The man looked miserable like he’d been in a fight. He spoke soft and slow, in an almost raspy voice.
The officer turned to Marie and Sam, standing right next to Sam. “May I call you Marie?”
Marie nodded her head. Then she saw Sam smooth his fingers over Detective Barger’s silk suit. She silently nudged him in disapproval. Sam drew back his hand slowly, looking confused. Julie pressed her fingers into her forehead in anguish. She’d been so self-involved that she hadn’t stopped to think—Sam’s dementia always flared up at night and worsened in unfamiliar surroundings.
Barger stepped out of Sam’s reach. “Would anyone like something to drink, some coffee, some pop?”
Marie nodded her head again. As of yet, she hadn’t said a word.
“I’ll bet you’d like some coffee,” he said to Marie. “Sir?” he addressed Sam, “would you like some, too?”
Sam just looked at him with that far off look, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t think of the words. Julie patted his shoulder affectionately and answered for him. “Not right now. It’s a little late for caffeine.”
Barger offered his arm to Marie. “If you wouldn’t mind coming with me, we’ll get some coffee on the way.” She took hold of his arm and he helped her stand.
Sam stood up, too.
“We’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll try not to keep you waiting. Okay?” Barger said to Sam, clearing his throat, like talking came hard.
Marie’s cheeks looked flushed, a sign of how flustered she was as she handed her suitcase-of-a-purse to Sam.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be right back,” Julie said to Sam. “I’m glad you’re here to keep me company.” She tugged his sleeve for him to sit back down. But Sam wouldn’t have it.
“I’m missing . . . uh . . . uh . . . Magnum P.I. What time is it? Mother has to give me my . . . uh . . . uh . . . my pills.” The simplest words baffled him now. Sam took a step toward the direction of where the detective had taken Marie, motioning for Julie to follow, looking panicked and confused.
“Wait. Sam. Mother has a watch in her purse. See what time it is first,” Julie said, knowing that once that purse was opened, he’d be caught up in Marie’s collection of ‘just in case’ necessities.
Sam pulled out a tissue first, then he pulled out a coin purse, and after that he pulled out fingernail clippers, then a checkbook that was stuffed with receipts. “Magnum P.I. starts at eight. I take my—my pills—I eat my Oreo cookies at eight o’clock.” He was talking to himself now, whispering the words again as he opened the coin purse. He dumped at least three dollars’ worth of los
e change into a tissue. Everything rolled out on the floor. “What the?” He stood up, letting the purse fall, too. “Where is Mother? It’s time to go.”
Chasing after the coins, Julie tried to calm him down from a kneeling position. “She’s coming right back. I just know it. Let’s get this picked up for when she gets here. Come on Sam, help me.”
Sam acted like he was going to bend over, but froze in a half-stooped position. A puddle formed at his feet.
Sam had wet himself.
Julie heard someone coming, Detective Barger and Marie.
“Her hearing-aid battery died,” Barger said. “She left her glasses at home. Let her know that I’ll stop by her house tomorrow. She doesn’t have to come back.”
“Could you please take them home now? They can’t take any more of this,” Julie said.
“I understand.” Barger lumbered to a phone on the wall and picked up the receiver. Within a minute a uniformed officer escorted Sam and Marie to a car outside.
“Well Julie, it’s just you and me.” He led her down a long grimy corridor. “You must be exhausted. I’ll try to keep this as short as possible.” He opened the door to a small interrogation room and held it for her to come inside. The black and white tiles were chipped around the edges. ‘Probably from years of scrubbing off blood,’ she thought. ‘Blood from interrogations that must have gone terribly bad.’ The blistered chairs and the worn out table had probably seen just about everything, except for, of course, the other side of a five-foot mirrored wall. A coffee carafe was at the end of the table along with a pitcher of ice water. Barger poured Julie a glass of water and spooned out some ice chips for himself.
“I’m not going to mess around here. What happened yesterday?” Detective Barger paced slowly, holding a wadded handkerchief to his mouth. “By the way, this conversation is being recorded.”
“I don’t know where to start, with the man who was stalking me in the grocery store, with the anonymous love letters, or with my husband saying he was going to kill ‘the son of a bitch’?”
Barger sat down. “Tell me everything.”
“It all started a few months ago with an anonymous letter.” Julie relayed the entire story as it had unfolded; the visuals within the letters, the anger within Kyle. “Then yesterday, this really strange man followed me through the grocery store and then to my car. It scared the crap out of me.”
“How? What did he do?”
“He wasn’t just following me. It felt like he was stalking me. I can’t tell you how creepy it felt. He wasn’t buying anything and he was always in my aisle. I skipped an aisle and he went there, too. So I went to the opposite end of the store. And so did he. I went from being uncomfortable to being afraid. I didn’t report him to store security, they would have just thought I was being paranoid.”
“You assumed they would think that. I’m not thinking that. I’m thinking, if it had been my wife, I would have been very upset. Then what happened?”
Julie relayed the rest of the story, right up to Kyle kicking open the door.
“And what time was that?”
“Yesterday, a little after noon.”
“What time did he return?”
“Just before midnight.”
Barger had gone through nearly all of the ice. “So he cut his hand on the door.” Barger jotted something down.
“Yes,” Julie answered softly, feeling terribly guilty for betraying Kyle.
“What kind of a husband is Kyle? Has he ever hit you?”
“He’s a good man. No, he’s never hit me” Julie answered quietly. She wanted to say that he gets insanely angry at times. She wanted to say maybe it wasn’t his fault, from what she’d read he had all the tendencies of being bipolar. But she couldn’t say any of that. The guilt she felt was overwhelming. However twisted, going to Jaycox was Kyle’s way of defending her.
“You look tired. Where are you staying tonight?”
“With Marie and Sam.”
“Why don’t you go now? We’ll let you know if we need anything else. I’ll have an officer take you wherever you want to go.” He opened the door and finger-waved to an officer. “We appreciate your cooperation,” he said, seeming stiff all of a sudden, as he gathered his notes.
Carrying another glass of ice chips, Detective Barger came into the room where Kyle was waiting. “Kyle Zourenger? I’m Lieutenant Barger,” he said, taking note of Kyle’s bandaged right hand.
“My hand’s a little banged up.” Kyle slipped the hand in his pocket.
“What happened there?”
“It was my own fault.”
Barger extended a long-suffering breath. “Look around at where you’re at . . . .” He paused. A trace of blood crested in the corner of his mouth. Barger’s bruised jaw line gave him a seasoned appearance, lean and tough, like punching a guy in the throat was nothing. “Let’s try this again. I’m Lieutenant Barger. This is an interview room. When I ask a specific question, I expect a specific answer. Tell me what happened to your hand.”
“I cut it on a storm door at home yesterday. The glass broke when I pushed it open.” Kyle scratched at his waistband as he talked. “What has this got to do with some guy that got killed? Can’t you just ask me if I know anything and get me out of here?”
“Mr. Zourenger . . . .” Barger sat down at the table across from Kyle and leaned in as if he was sharing a secret. “I feel strongly that you can help us with this, especially since you know the neighborhood so well.” Barger was careful to use his words, his voice, to reinforce sincerity to ensure that the suspect would be receptive. “You may have seen something or heard something that no one else would have paid attention to. So let’s get the preliminary questions out of the way. Were you coming or going when you cut your hand?”
“I was leaving my house.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
“Somewhere around twelve.”
“Noon? Midnight?” Barger brushed his knuckles along his lower lip and swallowed hard. His jaw was swollen, blood in his mouth, and he was trying to shove back the pain. He had taken a thug down earlier, but not before the thug had sucker punched him, a roll of nickels in his mammoth fist.
“I wouldn’t say it was noon on the dot, but it was sometime around there.”
“Okay. So you pushed the storm door open, the glass broke, you cut your hand. You must have been in a hurry. Where were you going?”
Kyle suddenly became quiet, his eyes resting on Barger’s notebook.
“This must be very frustrating. A degenerate, a man stalking your wife gets himself killed, and coincidently . . . let’s see . . .” Barger flipped a page in his notebook. “Three witnesses state that you said, ‘I’ll kill the son of a bitch’. That’s pretty strong . . . .”
Kyle slumped in the chair, head down, and fingered a crease in his jeans.
“This is your chance to explain. Tell me what happened after you left your house, after you cut your hand? Tell me where you went, who was there, what time it was.”
Kyle scratched his elbow and then his head, changing seating positions. “I drove to a job on Fairfax in Columbia Station where I had a paving job. We finished around six, and then I had some drinks with the guys.”
“Good. You have someone who can verify your whereabouts that entire time—from when you left your house to when you came back.”
“Not entirely. I drank too much and fell asleep in my car. When I woke up, I drove home, near sober. It must have been ten o’clock or so.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t fare well. The lapse in time. The pointing trowel.”
Kyle sat straight up, planting his feet on the floor. “What trowel?”
Barger didn’t flinch. “It was fairly new, no fingerprints. I understand that someone broke into your truck and stole your tools.”
“Do you think whoever robbed me . . . but those tools were practically antiques. Some of them belonged to my father. You said the murder weapon was new.”
; “I didn’t say it was the murder weapon. You had to buy new tools, trowels and such. Didn’t you?”
There was a silence, a toxic vapor.
“I can get receipts,” Barger added.
The stillness of their bodies, their every breath, enforced the silent struggle for power. “That new pointing trowel is yours isn’t it? You used it to stab Devin Hurley through the throat. Isn’t that right?” The sound of Barger’s voice escalated with every phrase. “Did you tell him how wrong it was for him to stalk pretty women? Did you tell him how wrong it was for him to ruin marriages with raunchy letters? That you weren’t going to put up with it anymore?”
“No, I didn’t say any of that. I didn’t kill anyone!”
“Oh come on. Those might not have been your exact words. But you let that deviant know that he deserved to die, that he deserved to suffer.”
“No! I didn’t . . . .”Kyle jumped out of the chair, almost knocking it over. “I didn’t kill anyone!”
Barger jumped out of his chair, too. “Come on. You were insane with anger. You punched a hole in the wall. You kicked the door halfway off its hinges. You bullied three women into believing that you were going to kill this man. Don’t tell me you didn’t even go over there.”
“Yeah, I was mad,” Kyle yelled. “Do you think I wanted to lay cement for the rest of my life? Do you think I chose to be lower than a ditch-digger? I was seventeen when she got pregnant, and I’ve been paying for it for the last eighteen years. And now this damn company is the only thing that keeps us alive. I was counting on laying a roller skating rink to carry me through the winter, and an out-of-state contractor underbid me, that was on top of a hundred other setbacks. Honestly, I don’t know how we’re going to survive. And then I come home and find out some guy’s following my wife around. I just started yelling. I know I said some stupid things. We all do. I didn’t mean them, any of them.” Kyle plunked down in the chair and rubbed his butt hard against the wooden seat.
Barger’s jaw throbbed. His head hurt. This was the part where the suspect was supposed to confess. Not this guy, this guy kept scooting around and kept jabbing at his ‘Johnson’ like he had crabs or something. “You said some stupid things, huh. How is it the stupid things you said happened?” Barger shouted, swallowing his own blood. “I’m telling you what I know. I know you killed the man you thought was harassing your wife.”
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