The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  Suddenly he pulls back, taking her face in his hands. His eyes are glossy; filled with regret. “I’m so sorry, Jamila. I can’t do this.”

  She springs backward, away from him with a little whimpering cry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. . .” She jumps up from the couch, moving to the love-seat, crumpling onto it.

  He leans toward her, his face a mask of misery. “Do not apologize,” he says.

  She hides her face in her hands. “Please go,” she says. “I’m sorry. I need to be alone.”

  He rises slowly from the couch, standing over her. “I –Emily, I’m sorry.”

  She scrunches her body into the love-seat, willing him to leave. He stands there a moment. When she hears his foot-steps trudge across the floor to the back door, hears it open and gently close, she is filled with remorse. She listens to his car engine rev and drive away.

  Chapter 18

  – Darby~

  Darby enters Mel’s office cavorting with a little shoulder-shimmy, her laughing eyes glistening. She holds a piece of paper aloft in her hand. “We got it!”

  Mel rises to high-five his spunky partner. “I can’t wait to see his face! Emily Sim’s word was enough, then?”

  “That and my convincing arguments.” Darby hooks her thumbs in her armpits and thrusts her chest outward, grinning. “Not to mention he was already a person of interest in the case. AND he has a record. Jedidiah Andrusyszyn did five years for trafficking from 2001 – 2005.”.”

  Mel grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. “Let’s go!”

  NEW SNOW HAS FALLEN over the ice, and the squad car slips and slides, almost hitting an old tractor as they maneuver up the cluttered driveway to Jed and Rose’s house. They clomp up the steps and ring the bell. There is no sound. Darby bangs on the door, and stands waiting, the search warrant clutched firmly in her hand. Mel leans sideways and gazes through the kitchen window into darkness. It’s still early, after all. Darby knocks again. They hear a stomping sound, and the door is thrust open. A scowling, bleary-eyed man stands glaring at them. Jed in long underwear. His body is thick and muscular despite his age. He oozes power and hostility.

  “Jedidiah Andrusyszyn,” Darby says, “we have a warrant to search your property.”

  His upper body judders and he gives them an incredulous stare. “What the fuck for?”

  Darby shows him the warrant maintaining, with more than a little difficulty, a poker-faced demeanor.

  “That’s bull-shit!” he screams, his face turning purple, eyes bulging.

  “Calm down, Sir,” Darby begins.

  “Fuckin’ calm down?” Spittle flies from his mouth. “What the fuck? I haven’t done anything!”

  Darby moves to step by him with Mel right behind. Lunging toward her, fists clenched, his face a mask of fury, Jed strikes wildly. Darby twists, putting her hands up to block his punch. Mel grabs his upper right arm, Darby his left. They push him against the porch wall.

  Darby’s voice is cold and hard. “Assaulting a police officer gets you time, ass-hole.”

  Mel speaks. “Don’t be stupid, Jed. You don’t want to go to jail for this.”

  Jed’s nostrils flare, and he bares his teeth. “Go ahead. Search the goddamn place. There’s nothing here.”

  As they walk up the steps to the kitchen he yells, “Fucking pigs! Rose!” He follows behind them closely, breathing heavily, muttering, his arms folded across his chest. They hunt through kitchen cupboards, drawers and appliances. Clearly, this is Rose’s domain; neat, clean and orderly. And not one incriminating piece of evidence to be found. The living room, bathroom and bedroom are the same. Frilly knick-knacks and crafts have been carefully placed here and there; a crocheted doll covering the toilet paper, a beaded basket on the coffee table, crocheted animals on the bed-spread . . . Rose’s attempt to create a happy home.

  She appears as if out of nowhere, her face grey and fearsome. Rose stands in a corner of the living room, staring wild-eyed at Jed and the detectives as they methodically search. Her lips quiver and her body trembles, but she says not a word. Darby leaves the bedroom search to Mel and approaches her. “Rose, I’m sorry about this. It won’t take too long, I hope. We have found Scarlett Sims’s body, and are investigating all angles.”

  Rose emits a small cry; like a wounded animal. “Scarlett?” she croaks softly. “Has he hurt Scarlett?” She covers her face with her hands, silently weeping.

  Jed casts her a malignant glance. Darby screens Rose from his sight with her body and picks up a bundle of photo albums from the lower shelf of an end-table. “Rose, I’m going to take these with us, okay? I’ll return them to you soon.”

  Rose lifts her face to look, through frenzied eyes, into Darby’s. She nods her assent.

  Mel and Darby move to the yard with Jed following, looming over them, cussing and hurling abuse. “You fucking pigs don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.” Darby sets the photo albums on the squad car’s hood. They dodge old tires, discarded containers and broken furniture to reach a falling-down shed. “Fuckin’ walk all over a man’s life!”

  This is obviously Jed’s territory. Oily, grimy old tools, empty cans and bottles, broken-down bikes, rusty car-parts and yard equipment fills the space. At the end of the lean-to is a wooden work-bench with shelves. Above it hangs a 30-30 Winchester rifle. No 30-0-6. Darby kneels to rummage through the variety of rusty nails, old nuts and bolts and broken tools to retrieve a dusty box of rifle shells. 30-0-6. She pulls it out. Voila! Could these be like the one that shot Rick Mullen? She crouches, her head stuck into the narrow shelf. Dust fills her nose and lungs as she scrapes her fingers back, back, back to feel for whatever may be forgotten there. A jar. She pulls it out. It is filled with black powder.

  “Mel, come here,” she hisses. Mel stands by her side. Right behind him looms Jed. “Does this look like gun-powder to you?”

  Mel picks the jar up and examines it. “I believe that’s what it is.” He glances at the tools Darby’s pulled out and set on the work bench. He points. “And this is a reloading press.” He turns to Jed. “Make your own bullets, Jed?” Jed’s face has taken on a whitish hue. He doesn’t answer.

  Darby continues digging, crouching side-ways to reach far back, with her arm and upper body. She finds another little box and yanks it out. With trembling hands, she opens it. Yes! It’s a box of used bullets. 30-0-6. Jed’s face is distinctly pale now, and his mouth hangs open. Grabbing a flashlight from her pocket she forces her body deep into the shelf. She has to turn her head sideways to fit, and the dust and grease fumes make her nose prickle; catching at her throat. Holding her breath, she shines the light through rumpled bags, rags, tool parts and rusty tins. She sees it. Shoved way into the corner behind boxes and jars of nuts and bolts. An old rifle. She slides her body out, brushing the dust from her jacket. Turning to Mel, she points to the end of the wooden work-bench. “There in the corner. A rifle.”

  Mel squats to look, but only his arms fit when he reaches back, and they’re not long enough. Head-first, Darby dives in, brushing away everything that hides the desired item. Her fingers touch the cold, hard steel of the barrel. Grasping it, she pulls. It’s stuck. She yanks out boxes, tins, rags and tools, setting them on the floor. And finally they have it. The wooden stock is worn. It’s covered in a kind of oily film, but it’s a 30-0-6 rifle. Darby can’t hide her delight, as she gives Mel a knowing look. Maybe – just maybe – we’ve got him!

  But their search of the garage and the yard, old vehicles and rubble reveal no sign of Scarlett. No sign of drugs. Strange, Darby muses. If he’s still dealing he must do it from somewhere else.

  As they drive out of the yard Darby looks back at Jed’s fuming face, hears him yelling obscenities, watches him giving them the middle finger. Clamping her hands together to avoid childish payback, Darby’s eyes blaze as she looks at her partner. “Oh how I hope this gun matches the one that killed Rick Mullen!”

  “We just may just solved our cold case.” Mel’s eyes twi
nkle.

  Darby leans her head back, deep in thought. “Why would a woman stay with a man like that, I wonder? It’s so fu - friggin’ frustrating. I get the feeling that she lives her life walking on egg-shells.”

  “I suppose in the beginning he was charming.”

  “Yeah.” She gazes out the window, unseeing. We can be pretty blind and stupid when it comes to love.” Darby sighs, looking at the squad-car roof. “I, of all people, should know that.”

  Mel gives her a questioning look, and says nothing.

  “I suppose it creeps up on you. You don’t realize what you’re in until you’re thoroughly browbeaten. No self-confidence left.” Her eyes widen suddenly. “Mel, do you think he beats her?”

  “He may not have to. She’s been there a long time. A powerful character like him? He’s probably brain-washed her through the years. Cowed and bent her.”

  Darby feels tears springing to her eyes. “I hope we can put him away and help her.”

  “No sign of Scarlett, though.”

  “Rose was with him at the Hogshead. It’s not likely he killed Scarlett there or even kidnapped her with Rose by his side. She did ask if he’d hurt that girl.” Darby runs her fingers through her hair. “We need to talk to Rose again.”

  “Would he have taken off with Scarlett to the river while Rose waited somewhere? Let’s bring her in. She’s not going to talk to us with her husband looming over her mad as a hornet like he is now.”

  Darby snickers, looking at the rifle and shells sitting on the back seat of the squad car. “I love it!”

  Mel glanced at her, grinning. “But if ballistics matches the rifle, and if Emily Sims will testify . . . That may be enough for the Rick Mullen case. Maybe Dave Sims will give us something.”

  Darby stares ahead at the road, icy and glistening in the sun. “When you called Red Deer they said he was probably at the Safe Harbor Society shelter?”

  “He comes and goes, they said. We’ll try there.”

  PULLING INTO A LARGE, mostly empty, parking lot they look over at a blue and white sided building. A sign, ‘Safe Harbor’ hangs over the doorway. Climbing the steps, they knock. A kindly-looking, grey-bearded man opens the door. “Welcome to Safe Harbor. I’m Gerry. You’re here to see Dave?”

  They shake his hand. “We are. Is he here?”

  Gerry ushers them into a large wood-paneled room with worn, oak floors and a big, square table in the center. “He is. Come sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

  Sitting at the table is a thin, wiry man dressed in raggedy jeans, runners and a navy-blue hoodie. He turns to the detectives, his lined face solemn. His emerald-green eyes are wary; intelligent.

  Darby holds out her hand. “Hello. Are you Dave Sims?”

  Tentatively, he takes her hand and shakes. “Yes.”

  “I’m Darby Greer and this is my partner, Mel McDougal.”

  He clears his throat. “Nice to meet you.”

  Gerry brings them coffee. Darby turns the chair and sits next to Dave Sims. Mel walks around the table across from him.

  Darby bends forward, her face grave. “Dave, I’m sorry to have to come to you with this.” She pauses, watching his eyes. They take on a haunted look. Fuck, I hate this! “Mr. Sims – Dave – we have found the body of your daughter, Scarlett.”

  Except for a flash of alarm, he sits still and silent for a moment. Then he crumbles, his body sagging into the table. His voice becomes week; reedy. “Scarlett? Where?”

  Mel speaks now, while Darby touches his arm, struggling to hold back her own tears. To see a man so broken is heartbreaking. “She drowned in the Clearwater River. We don’t know what happened yet, and the autopsy results haven’t come through, but we’re doing everything we can to find out.”

  Dave’s care-worn face goes slack and he stares into space. His head falls into his hands. He leans his elbows on the table and breaks into great, racking sobs. It’s a moment of breathless agony for everyone and they sit, heads down. No one says a word.

  It seems an eternity before Dave turns to look at Darby and Mel, his eyes glistening and filled with pain. “I haven’t seen her for so long.”

  “When did you last see her, Dave?” Darby asks gently.

  He takes a deep breath, blowing it from his lips. “She came to see me about a year ago. The girls were leaving Red Deer. Bought a house. Scarlett told me if I could get clean they’d take me in.” He looks down at his gnarled hands, rubbing and twisting together. “But I couldn’t do it. I knew they were better left in peace.” His voice breaks a little.

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?” Mel asks.

  He shakes his head, looking dumbfounded. “No. She was full of light and happiness. Always.”

  Mel persists. “We understand that the girls witnessed a murder twenty years ago. A man named Rick Mullen was shot?”

  His face takes on a hang-dog expression. “They should never have had to see that.”

  “What happened?” Mel asks.

  They watch the muscle in Dave’s jaw twitch up and down up and down. Finally, he says, “We sold cocaine. Jed and I. Rick owed us money. Had reneged several times. Jed arranged to meet him and insisted I come along.” He lowers his head, and his voice becomes croaky. “I thought we were just going to pick up the cash and be on our way. But when Jed got out of the truck to get it, Rick couldn’t pay. Jed shot him. And my little girls saw him do it.” His face cracks; and he covers it with trembling hands, shoulders shaking.

  After a moment Mel says, “And you helped him cover it up.”

  Dave’s looks up at the detective. His expression is dull, lifeless. “Yes.”

  “Will you testify in court?” Darby asks. “It could help your case.”

  “I don’t give a shit about my case,” Dave says grimly, his eyes taking on a new ferocity. “Yes, I’ll testify. Do you think Jed killed my little girl because she could be a witness? And Emily . . .”

  Darby reaches out to hold the stricken man. His trembling body, ashen face, terror-filled eyes and raspy breaths tear at her heart. “Emily’s aware, Dave, and she’ll be careful. Let’s put this ass-hole in jail as soon as we can.”

  IT’S DARK WHEN THEY pull up in front of Hunter’s Bar and Grill. A small, brown wooden front gives the impression of coziness. Through the windows they see red aluminum lights hanging over small, squarish tables scattered here and there on a black and white parquet floor. At the large bar several locals sit drinking and chatting. A TV blares from above. Only a few tables are occupied.

  “Hey, Bill! It’s the police. Whatcha done now?” a young man in a cowboy hat calls to the bar-tender as Darby and Mel walk in. Laughter ensues. All eyes turn to them.

  Darby pulls her badge and shows it, scanning the group. “Anyone here named John Smith?”

  A few shake their heads, murmur, “No”, and continue to stare at the two detectives.

  “Has anyone seen a big, bald man with a scar on his right cheek?” Mel asks, pulling from his pocket the sketch done from the information Matthew and Abigail gave the police artist. He holds it up, fixing each patron, one at a time, with his eyes.

  The eyes of a ruddy-faced man dressed in a flannel shirt flicker. Darby approaches him. “Do you recognize this guy?” she asks eagerly.

  He shrugs. “I might’ve seen him in here once or twice,” he says.

  She turns to the woman sitting beside him, a pretty girl who appears to be pregnant. “Have you seen this guy?” The woman shakes her head. “I’m not sure if it’s him,” she says, “but a big guy with a scar on his cheek comes in and marches straight to the back of the restaurant sometimes.”

  “Thanks.” Darby’s eyes are pleading as she looks around the room. “We’re investigating the death of Scarlett Sims. Can anyone tell us anything at all about Scarlett?” The mood in the bar changes instantly.

  It’s filled with gasps of horror, dismayed faces, a few tears and “Oh my God. Not Scarlett.”

  A young woman volunteer
s. “She worked here. An excellent waitress. Lots of fun.”

  Another voice. “We loved Scarlett. What happened?”

  “We’ll let you know when we know more,” Mel tells them. They wait, but no new information is forthcoming.

  Darby addresses the bar-tender. “Is the manager here?”

  He points to a ‘Staff Only’ door at the back of the room. They nod their thanks and head through it to find a short hallway with two doors to the side and an open room that appears to be a staff-room.

  Darby knocks on a closed door, saying, “Police.”. They hear a soft rustling, but no voice telling them to enter. She knocks again. Mel knocks on the second door. Finally, ‘Darby’s’ door opens a crack and a greying, pot-bellied man stares at them through beady eyes. “Yeah. What do you want?”

  “We’d like to speak to you, Sir. Are you the manager?”

  The door opens and they walk in. The room is filled with cigarette smoke. A large, tinny desk takes up most of the space. It is covered with papers, a calendar, a computer and a phone. Two lawn chairs have been shoved against the opposite wall.

  Mel holds his hand out. “I’m Sergeant McDougall and this is my partner, Sergeant Greer. You are . . .?”

  “Brian McLean,” the manager says. His face remains impassive. His eyes dart back and forth, filled with – dread? Suspicion? Something’s going on here, Darby thinks to herself.

  “We’re here investigating the death of Scarlett Sims,” Darby says, holding out her badge. “I understand she worked here.”

  “Yes.” His eyelids droop behind his glasses. “We’re so sorry. She was a fine girl. Very well liked.”