by Diane Kelly
She cut me a smug grin. “I can’t wait to see the look on Shelby’s face when she realizes the jig is up.”
We walked up to the porch. Jackson raised her hand to the door and knocked fast and furious. KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!
Shelby opened the door wearing a guarded expression and pink knit pajamas with little Eiffel Towers printed on them. Once again, she held her French bulldog in her arms. If I hadn’t seen Marseille’s bloody paw prints on the floor for myself on Valentine’s Day, I might believe her little doggie feet never touched the ground.
Jackson jumped right in without preamble. “We know, Shelby.”
“Know what?” the woman asked, her gaze shifting between the detective and me.
“About the hidden messages in the e-mails.”
Shelby’s eyes went wide and her skin flamed as she took a step back, her arms reflexively tightening around Marseille. The dog wriggled in protest, but Shelby only doubled her efforts, hanging on to the dog as if she were a lifeline. Marseille stopped moving and snorted out a sigh of resignation.
“Officer Luz found them.” Jackson thrust printouts of the secret e-mails at the woman.
Shelby looked down at the printouts, but didn’t take them, refusing to release her death grip on her bulldog. She pressed her lips together so hard they turned white, and said nothing. Her legal training is serving her well.
Jackson tucked the printouts under her arm, and swapped them for the lab results. “The lab analysis shows that the samples of your husband’s blood collected from your kitchen varied in relative amounts of elements. One of them contained trace amounts of antibiotics not found in the others. The test results prove the blood had been drawn over time prior to Valentine’s Day, and was tossed around your kitchen that night to make it appear he’d been attacked and killed.”
Shelby stared at the lab report that Jackson held up, but still stayed quiet.
“The jig’s up, Shelby,” Jackson said. “We’ve got your husband in custody.”
Shelby studied our faces for a long moment, as if trying to read our minds, before she finally spoke again. “If you had Greg in custody, he would have called me.”
Jackson tossed a look my way, inviting me to tell Shelby what had happened this evening.
I was happy to oblige. “Your husband got jumped by muggers in a hotel parking lot tonight. He’s in the ER as we speak.”
Shelby’s eyes narrowed, but not before flashing with alarm. “I-I don’t believe you. You’re just trying to get me to admit that I had something to do with whatever happened to him. If he was still alive and was hurt, he’d have contacted me.”
“He can’t,” I said. “He has a head injury. He’s unconscious.” I pulled out my phone and brought the first photo of the injured man up on my screen. It showed him lying in the bed, eyes closed. “Take a look.” I held the phone up for her to view.
Shelby’s eyes squinted and her head jerked forward and back as she tried to discern whether the man in the photo was truly her husband or merely a decoy we were trying to use to trap her. Her movements were much like that of the heron I’d seen on Goat Island when searching for her husband’s body. She turned her gaze on me. “That man doesn’t look like Greg at all.”
“He would have changed his appearance. He wouldn’t have risked being recognized as the missing man whose face was all over the news and the Internet.” I turned my phone so that the screen faced me, and scrolled to the second picture that showed him with his gown raised, his outie belly button and appendix scar visible. “How about now? Does this look like Greg?” I turned the phone to face her.
She gasped and gaped for an instant before composing herself and leaning in to take a closer look. “That can’t be him.” She sounded far less sure now, her words more of a plea than a protest. “It can’t be!”
Maybe I should’ve taken a photo of his junk so she could positively identify him.
“Look, Shelby,” Jackson said. “We’ve got enough evidence to charge both you and Greg for conspiracy and insurance fraud. You’re going to jail tonight, regardless. But if you cooperate, answer all of our questions, we’ll take you by the hospital first so you can see your husband before we book you. Deal?”
Shelby’s shaking head said No, but her wild eyes said I don’t know what to do! Are they lying to me? Am I being duped? She was teetering on the edge of resistance and cooperation. I decided to push her over.
I waved my phone, the pic still up on the screen. “This man in the photo? He was carrying a fake driver’s license. I went to the address on the license to inform them that their loved one had been hurt and was in serious condition at the hospital. Imagine my surprise when the man whose photo was on the license answered the door.”
Shelby’s chest rose and fell at a rapid pace and her breaths came fast. Her voice was a soft squeak. “What name was on the license?”
Jackson and I exchanged a glance. We’ve got her now.
Shelby lost it then, shrieking, “What name was on the license?!?”
I eased my hand toward the cuffs on my belt. “Samuel Leftwich.”
Shelby went pale, her dog slipping from her hands as they went to cover her mouth. Marseille didn’t mind. She landed unhurt on the rug and looked up at Brigit as if to say Bon jour. Brigit wagged her tail in greeting, and the two exchanged sniffs of their doggie derrieres.
Shelby’s head began to bob, slowly at first, but then nodding frantically as she burst into sobs. I reached out and gently removed her hands from her face, pulling them downward and cuffing them behind her.
Jackson recited Shelby’s rights. You can keep your mouth shut if you choose. If you can’t afford an attorney, we’ll give you one for free. If you decide to say something, it could come back to bite you in the butt. “Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”
“Yes,” Shelby said.
“With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to us?”
“Yes.” She raised a shoulder to wipe the tears from her cheek.
Jackson pulled a small digital recorder from her briefcase and pressed RECORD. “Detective Audrey Jackson here at the home of Shelby and Greg Olsen, along with Officer Megan Luz and her K-9 Brigit. We have a suspect in custody. Please identify yourself.” She held the recorder toward Shelby, who softly recited her name. To ensure she had the woman nailed down, Jackson said, “Mrs. Olsen, do you admit that you and your husband conspired to fake his death to collect insurance proceeds?”
“Yes,” Shelby said.
“You admit that you knew he was alive when you called nine-one-one and summoned police to your home on the night of February fourteenth?”
“Yes!” she cried, stepping toward the front door.
Jackson put a hand on Shelby’s shoulder to hold her back. “You admit that you gave false statements to me and Officer Luz that evening?”
“Yes! I admit it!”
“You admit that you went to the coffee shop on Wednesday and to Burnett Park today to meet your husband?”
“Yes!” she sobbed. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Just take me to Greg! Please!”
Jackson eyed the woman, taking in her tears and anguish, before saying, “All right.”
I agreed with the detective’s decision. There was nothing to be gained by throwing our weight around, forcing Shelby to answer our questions here before we took her to see her husband. Besides, we already had enough to nail her and she’d likely be even more forthcoming if we met her halfway. Discretion was a law enforcement officer’s most powerful tool.
Before we took our shackled quarry out to the detective’s cruiser, I asked Shelby what arrangements should be made for Marseille.
“Can you call Regina to come get her?” She angled her head to indicate her cell phone, which was charging atop an end table in the living room. “There’s a spare house key in the drawer. You can leave it for her in the mailbox.”
I phoned her coworker, but left out the details. “Shelby is coming to the police stati
on. Could you come over and pick up Marseille, take care of her for a bit?”
Regina agreed to pet sit, and I told her where she’d find the house key to let herself in. When we ended the call, I dropped the key into the mailbox and closed it.
Jackson buckled Shelby into the back of her cruiser, tossed me the car keys, and slid into the passenger seat. I loaded Brigit into the back, instructing her to lie down on the floorboard.
As I drove to the hospital, Jackson locked Shelby’s testimony down. We learned that Greg had watched YouTube tutorials on how to draw his own blood, and had purchased the necessary medical supplies, with cash, from a medical supply store in Oklahoma before they’d moved to Fort Worth. They’d concocted the spam e-mail communication system after Shelby accidentally made a paragraph in a legal memoranda disappear when she’d meant to change the font color from red to black, but had clicked on the white block instead. At a thrift shop in Dallas, Shelby had bought the shoes and clothing purportedly worn by the killers and later found in the garbage bag at the bottom of Lake Worth. Greg had walked around the kitchen in both pairs of shoes to make it look like there’d been two attackers. To simulate a human body, Greg had dragged a large bag of dog food through the blood on the kitchen floor, and tossed the blood-covered bag into the trunk of his car. He’d been the one to drive his car to Marion Sansom Park. The passenger we’d spotted in the security camera video had been none other than a cardboard cutout of Jason Momoa from the Aquaman movie, a promotional display Greg had brought home from the theater in Oklahoma after the movie’s run a couple of years back.
Now that we knew the who and the how, I wanted an answer to the big remaining question. Why? “What did you plan to do with the insurance money?”
“We were going to buy a place in Paris,” Shelby said softly, staring out the window. “The French film industry is more about art than entertainment. Greg hoped to freelance for a movie company there, or maybe work on his screenplays and get one of them produced. People in the industry sometimes use a pseudonym. We thought he could fly under the radar there.”
With prison looming, Greg might never become a part of the French film scene now. Or heck, for all I knew, maybe the Parisian film producers would be intrigued by his experience as a former jailbird once they were released—if the two could afford to get there one day. They might even make a movie about this entire debacle. If so, I wondered who they’d cast to play Brigit and me.
Now that Shelby had started talking, she was in no hurry to stop. She continued on, without prodding, as if Jackson’s cruiser were a confessional. She seemed almost relieved to be getting things off her chest, or maybe she was trying to justify her actions, garner some sympathy from us.
“Greg and I work so many hours we have to schedule times to see each other. The insurance money would have allowed us to live a whole new lifestyle. My mother and sister don’t like to fly, so I knew they wouldn’t surprise us with a visit in France.”
Despite the fact that we’d caught them, it was a well-thought-out plan, far more intricate and clever than the typical criminal could come up with. I was impressed with Shelby’s acting abilities, too. “Were you really crying when we came to see you that day in your garage?”
“Yes,” she said, “but it was because I’d rubbed menthol ointment under my eyes. It’s an acting trick. Greg read about it on one of the movie blogs he follows.”
A-ha! I knew I’d smelled the stuff.
Jackson met Shelby’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You know, if you’d told us that Greg had a drug or gambling problem, or was into strip clubs, it would’ve pointed suspicion away from you. Officer Luz wouldn’t have taken a second look at your e-mails and you might have gotten away with your plan.”
Shelby slowly shook her head. “I couldn’t let anyone think bad of Greg.”
She’d been brought down by love. Another irony.
We pulled into the hospital’s parking garage and, while I attached Brigit’s leash to lead her inside, Detective Jackson put a hand on Shelby’s forearm to escort her into the building. After checking in again with the receptionist, we made our way to the curtained area and down the row. I reached out, grabbed the last curtain, and pulled it back.
While the IV stand and machines remained, the monitors had been turned off and the tubing and wires hung to the floor. The gurney was gone, along with the suspect who’d been lying on it. Derek lay asleep in a chair. He snored loudly, his mouth hanging open, his teeth and tongue tinged green by the colored gelatin he’d gobbled down. The empty bowl and spoon sat on the tray table beside him.
I was tempted to wake Mackey with another jolt from my Taser, but the chief would never let me slide for the indiscretion a second time. I settled for kicking my former partner’s foot. “Derek! Where’s the suspect?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face as if to wipe away the sleep and sat up, looking over to where the bed should be. “I guess a nurse took him away for tests.”
“You guess?” Jackson snapped. “You mean you don’t know?”
“I must’ve fallen asleep.” Derek scrubbed a hand over his face again, but this time it seemed intended to hide his shame. “I cuffed him to the bed. I didn’t think he could go anywhere.”
“Think again.” I grabbed the call button attached to the back wall and pressed it several times in rapid succession, like an excited contestant who knew the right answer on Jeopardy! A few seconds later, the nurse I’d spoken with earlier yanked the curtain back.
Jackson motioned to the empty space. “Where’s the patient who was here?”
The woman stammered, flabbergasted. “I-I don’t know.”
Jackson sent a scathing glance at Derek before turning back to the woman. “He wasn’t taken for testing?”
“No,” she said. “They’d already run a CAT scan on him. He was being kept here for observation until he came around.” She pointed to Derek. “Wasn’t he keeping an eye on the patient?”
“Not a good one, as it turns out.” Jackson’s gaze went to the door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. “Greg must have escaped through that door.”
Derek stood, as if ready to go after the guy. “He couldn’t have gotten far.”
My gaze went to Derek’s waist. His holster release was open and his gun was gone. My gut hardened into a ball of terror and my voice was a mousy squeak. “Derek, where’s your gun?”
He looked down at his empty holster. “Oh, shit.”
“Holy hell!” Jackson threw up her hands. “We’ve got an armed suspect on the loose!”
I pulled Shelby in Derek’s direction. “Can you at least hang on to her?” I didn’t wait for an answer before I left them behind and followed Jackson out the staff-only door with Brigit beside me.
We drew our weapons and looked up and down the hallway, but Greg was nowhere to be seen.
Jackson pointed to our left. “You two go that way.”
Brigit and I took off at a sprint down the hallway, careful to stay in the center of the corridor in case someone stepped out of one of the rooms along the way. I kept my gun pointed down, as I’d been trained to do, and issued a silent prayer that no one would die here tonight.
At the end of the hall was a perpendicular passage. I stopped at the corner and peeked around it, first one way, then the other. There he is! Greg was halfway down the hall, aiming for the emergency exit door at the end. He ambled alongside his wheeled gurney, weaving like a drunk, his pasty backside on display for all the world to see.
My partner and I had to act fast, before he realized we were on to him and could get off a shot at us. As much as I hated to send Brigit after an armed suspect, I knew she could move much faster than I could and was our best bet for preventing an escalation. I looked down at my partner and she looked up at me, awaiting her orders, eager to please, to do her duty.
For the second time that night, I gave her the signal and off she went, a furry blur in the hall. Greg had just begun to turn his head when she leaped up onto his
back. He cried out in surprise as she took him down to the tile floor. Unfortunately, with his wrist being cuffed to the bedrail, the gurney turned over on top of them, the wheels sticking up in the air like the legs of a dead cockroach. Brigit disappeared as the sheets and blanket billowed over them.
By then, various hospital employees had heard Greg’s cry and ventured out of the doors to see what was going on.
“Back in your rooms!” I shouted as I ran to my partner. “He’s got a gun!”
The medical staff disappeared into the rooms and closed the doors behind them. Banging and thudding noises quickly followed, telling me they were barricading themselves in the spaces. They’d probably learned what to do in an active-shooter drill. What a world we live in.
The blankets and sheets moved as Brigit and Greg wrestled and wrangled beneath them. Detective Jackson ran up from behind me and grabbed one side of the gurney, trying to right it. The frame came only partway up, anchored to Greg by the cuff on his wrist. The thin mattress toppled out of the frame, falling atop the writhing pile. I yanked the mattress away and grabbed at the bedding, pulling it back to reveal my K-9 partner pinning the injured man to the ground. Greg flailed his left arm, waving the gun about, though it seemed to be a reflexive gesture rather than an intentional one. My heart pumped blood like an open floodgate. I didn’t want to have to shoot this man, but if he didn’t put the gun down I’d have to.
I ordered Brigit off him and he grew still as she backed away. The hand that held the gun now lay beside him on the tile, but it would take him a mere instant to raise it. I pointed my gun down at his face. Fresh blood showed on his bandage. His stitches must’ve pulled loose while he’d been grappling with my partner. But he had nobody to blame for that but himself.
“Let go of the gun!” I ordered.
He looked up at me and issued a desperate, anguished wail, but he didn’t release the weapon.
“Work with me, Greg,” I demanded. “Okay?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes desperate, and turned his head to look at the gun in his hand.
