by AR Simmons
“You think she was taking something to keep up?”
“Two jobs, trying to be a mom—that takes a lot of energy. She wouldn’t be the first to think … you know … like a temporary boost might get her over the rough stretch.”
McComb was engaging in a lot of speculation for a professional bartender.
“What can you tell me about Kirk Tinsley?” Richard asked.
“Tinsley? Decent guy. Quiet. He’d been giving her the eye for quite a while. That night he finally worked up the nerve to talk to her before she went on shift. Then he hung around longer than usual. He’s usually out of here by ten o’clock. He stayed until … I don’t know … longer than that, way past midnight. I understand they hooked up.”
“You do?”
“That’s what a couple of his buddies were saying after her kid disappeared. I hope you find out something. At least, I think I do. Then again not knowing might be best.”
“How so?”
“Well, if some pervert took the kid … you know.”
“Yeah, that would be bad.” Richard winced at the inanity of his remark as he fished out his money clip.
“Thanks for talking to me,” he said as he slipped out a five and placed it on the counter. “I gotta go pick up my wife. With luck, your other customer won’t run over me when I leave.”
“Other customer?”
“Yeah. A lady in a BMW almost plowed me over a while ago.”
“People are always using the lot as a turn around. I’ve been thinking about putting up a sign.”
•••
September 7, 12:35 AM
The sound came again, waking him.
“Richard,” said Jill drowsily. “Someone is at the door.”
He got up, pulled on his jeans to the incessant ringing of the doorbell, and went through the house, flicking on lights as he went.
“Police. Open up,” came a gruff shout through the door.
“Hold on,” he said as he opened the door a crack, leaving the security chain attached.
Two men stood on the stoop, one a uniformed officer he didn’t know, but the other he recognized. “What’s this about?” he asked as he unlatched the chain to let them in.
“How about I ask the questions for a while,” said Adams, barging in.
Jill came into the living room, cinching the belt of her robe. “What’s wrong, Richard?”
“Go back in the other room, lady,” said Adams gruffly.
Angered, Richard’s first instinct was to respond harshly, both to defend Jill and to impress her with his ability to do so. He checked himself, however, and responded as he would have to an overbearing NCO when in the Marines.
“Do as he asks, dear,” he said to her before turning back to Adams. “Now sir, what do you need to know?”
Jill retreated, but only a few steps, watching intently while twisting the tie of her robe nervously.
“Where you were today?” asked Adams.
“I took my wife to the college at nine, and then spent the morning here at the house. At one, I went into town to have lunch with her. Then I went to Kirk Tinsley’s place to talk to him about Molly Randolph. I dropped by the Honeycomb after that, and was there about half an hour. Then I drove around for an hour or so before going back out to the college to pick up Jill. We came home and haven’t left.”
Adams scribbled down notes in a small pad, taking his time and not bothering to respond until he was done.
“When did you leave the house the second time? In the morning?” he asked.
“No. Around one,” said Richard, repeating the information patiently.
“And what time did you pick up your wife at the college?”
“She got off at three. I was waiting for her when she came out. Now can you tell me what this is about?”
“Not yet.” he turned to the uniformed deputy. “Keep him here while I talk to the woman.”
Adams walked into the bedroom like a man accustomed to going where he pleased and doing what he wanted. “Where were you yesterday,” he said without preamble.
“You are not going to question me here in our bedroom,” said Jill sternly as she brushed past him. “Come to the kitchen if you wish to speak with me.”
Adams gaped after her for a moment before following.
“I intend to get some answers,” he said harshly as they arrived at the kitchen.
“Of course,” said Jill. “I presume it’s your job. Do you want me to fix some coffee?”
“No. Just answer my questions.”
“Then let’s sit at the table,” she said, sitting without waiting for his response. “I’m a graduate assistant at SMSU. My husband picked me up at three yesterday afternoon. We went shopping for groceries and then came home where we have been the entire evening and night.”
“That’s not exactly what your husband told me.”
Jill looked at him a moment. “He forgot about the shopping trip.”
“Why would he forget that?”
“He hates shopping. Do you enjoy taking your wife shopping?”
“I’m not married,” said Adams impatiently. “Can anyone confirm that the two of you were at home together all evening?”
“Why would they have to?”
“Just answer the question.”
“No. We just moved to town this month and haven’t met many people yet. Perhaps Miss Randolph saw the car here all afternoon and evening.”
“Randolph? That’s Molly Allsop?” he asked as if surprised.
“Mr. Adams, she was living in the house next door when you came to investigate the disappearance of her baby. I know you didn’t forget that.”
“Meth head—totally unreliable,” he grumbled dismissively. “Tell me about the morning.”
“Richard drove me to the campus at nine. He needed the car to go into town later. You noticed the crutches. He’s been unable to work since he hurt his ankle a week ago.”
“Workman’s comp, no doubt,” said Adams snidely.
“No. We are on one income until he can work again.”
“Where was he when you woke up?”
“What?”
“Where was your husband when you woke up tonight?” he repeated loudly, as if he thought Jill was either hard of hearing or simple-minded.
“He was on his side of the bed, as he always is. And before you ask, he did not leave during the night. I am an extremely light sleeper. I would have known.”
“Why do you assume that I was going to ask about that?”
“Because it was the logical point of your question. Please tell us what this is about.”
“I don’t have to tell you nothing, unless I charge him.”
“With what can you charge him?”
Adams stared at her a long moment, obviously trying to unnerve her. “Tell me about Katie Nash,” he said softly.
Jill frowned. “I never met her. She was Molly’s babysitter the night her baby was taken. Has something happened to her?”
“Stay here,” said Adams, getting up and going into the living room.
Richard leaned on his crutches, getting angrier with each moment that the officious detective spent sequestered with Jill in the kitchen. Making a scene wouldn’t help matters, however, so he didn’t say what came to his mind as Adams reappeared.
“Your wife tells it a little different, Carter,” he said.
“Not much different, I’ll bet,” said Richard evenly.
“Tell me about Katie Nash,” demanded Adams.
“What about her?”
“You tell me. Did you see her yesterday?”
“No.”
“Ever been in her house?”
Richard immediately picked up on the “in her house.” Normal people would say “to her house,” but not policeman. “In” suggested that the house was a crime scene.
“Something’s happened to her,” he said. “Is that what this is about?”
“Were you ever in her house?” repeated Adams.
> “Yes. Molly and I went there to talk to her the day before yesterday.”
Adams eyed him suspiciously. “Got an answer for everything, don’t you?” he said. Then suddenly, “Tell me what you did in Michigan.”
Richard stared at him blankly.
“I killed a man,” he said tonelessly.
Adams took handcuffs from his pocket. “I think we better continue this downtown,” he said. “And I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to say anything else until we get there.”
“You’re arresting me?”
“I’m taking you to the station for questioning,” said Adams before rushing through an explanation of the Miranda rights.
“I told you that my husband was here all night,” Jill protested loudly, pushing past the officer trying to bar her way. “You have no right to do this to him.”
“Yes I do,” said Adams with a tight smile.
“I’ll be all right, Jill,” said Richard. “Don’t worry about me.”
“How long will you keep him?” she asked, on the verge of tears.
“Call his lawyer,” Adams said to her, turning back to Richard. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“You’re really arresting me?”
“I’m taking you into custody for questioning in the death of Catharine Nash. The handcuffs are department policy. I didn’t need to tell you that, but you’re being cooperative, and I’m being sensitive.”
“This is ridiculous!” said Jill in outrage.
“It’s okay, dear,” Richard said as he turned around and held his wrists together behind his back.
“Done this before, huh?” said Adams.
“Don’t call a lawyer,” said Richard, ignoring the smug comment. “This is all a mistake, and we’ll straighten it out. We can’t afford a lawyer, Jill.”
“If you can’t afford a lawyer,” said Adams as he snapped the handcuffs snug, “One will be provided for you, remember?”
“We won’t need one,” said Richard calmly.
Jill stood in stunned silence, staring at the closed door after the uniformed officer and Adams took Richards elbows and led him out, supporting his weight awkwardly. It was like something from a fascist state. Undecided as to whether she should ignore Richard’s decision not to call a lawyer, she fretted anxiously and vented her anger at the empty house.
“You idiots didn’t even let him use his crutches!” she finally screamed.
Then she calmly got dressed and went outside intending to drive to the police station, only to realize that she didn’t know where it was. She stopped at a service station for directions.
•••
Richard patiently explained how he had gotten involved with Molly Randolph’s search for her missing child, careful not to imply criticism of Adams’s work on the case. He also explained that he had been majoring in criminology while working part-time for the sheriff’s department in Breton County, Michigan.
He told them again that it wasn’t surprising that his prints were found at Kate Nash’s house since he and Molly had gone there Tuesday. He remembered handling photographs on a bureau in the living room, and asked if that was where they found his prints. Adams refused to say. Having nothing to hide, and eager to convince Adams of that as quickly as possible, he agreed to take a polygraph. He anticipated only spending an uncomfortable night in lock up before being released after the test in the morning. To his surprise, Adams informed him that the technician who administered the test was at the station. Richard agreed to take it immediately, eager to put the whole thing behind him and get back home to Jill.
Then it all went bad.
As soon as they began hooking him to the machine, he began to feel light-headed. Although he knew better, he began to worry that the machine would give false readings. However, he began to calm as the routine questions elicited to calibrate the readings and establish a baseline were asked. Then, instead of going directly to the point and asking about Katie Nash, the operator began to ask general background questions, apparently making it up as he went along. He asked about Richard’s Marine experiences. Getting an emotional response when asked about acts of violence, the technician improvised by asking if he had ever harmed a child. The needles went off the scale!
The raised eyebrows and the exchange of glances between Adams and the technician hit him like an electric shock. His face flushed with dread. By the time they got around to asking him about Katie Nash, his readings were all over the place, with one serious and damning spike. Richard recognized the panic attack as soon as it began. He understood what was happening, but he was powerless against it. The test was inconclusive, but confirmed Adams’s suspicion that Richard was hiding something.
Drenched in sweat, Richard tried to relax his body and calm his runaway emotions. Then he heard a commotion in the outer office.
“You can’t go in there, Miss!” someone shouted as the door banged open.
Jill stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed on him a long moment. Then she turned angrily toward Adams.
“Lady, you’re getting ready to get yourself arrested if you don’t get the hell out of here!”
“Do not curse at me,” she said. “If you take a proper statement from me, you will discover everything that you need to know about my husband.”
“I already took your statement,” said Adams.
“You did not ask enough questions.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, lady.”
Jill bit back a sarcastic retort, and when she spoke her voice was soft and deferential. “If you’ll just hear me out, I know we can clear all this up. My husband had nothing to do with whatever happened to that poor woman.”
“Okay,” said Adams. “Put him in the holding tank until I hear out the little lady.”
He had Jill sit behind the table upon which the polygraph wires lay like stray strands of black spaghetti.
“My husband is not a well man,” began Jill.
“Just a minute,” said Adams. “We’re gonna tape this. Begin again.”
“My husband isn’t well,” she repeated. “He probably should be taking antidepressive medication, but he refuses to even admit that he has a problem. Some terrible things have happened to him, some while he was serving his country … in the Marines, and then later after he got out.”
“Some terrible things happened to some people who ran into him too, didn’t they?” said Adams pointedly. “How many people has your husband killed, other than Catherine Nash?”
“He didn’t kill her. I told you that he was with me all evening.”
“How do you know she was killed tonight?”
“You said so, didn’t you?”
“No, lady. I didn’t.”
“Then it was a logical assumption that your actions implied.”
“Looks like you got an answer for everything too—just like your husband.”
“Hook me up to your machine,” said Jill, nodding toward the lie detector.
“Maybe I will,” said Adams. “Answer my question, though. How many people has your husband killed?”
“He was forced to kill a man who—”
“He was charged with murder, wasn’t he?”
“Charges were never filed.”
“No. He got a pardon,” said Adams with a smirk. “His family must be pretty well connected to swing something like that.”
“My husband’s family has no influence whatsoever. He was pardoned because it was justice to do so. You should see what that man did to him.”
“Your husband took the law into own hands.”
“It wasn’t like that at all. It was—No, this will do no good. You will not believe anything I tell you. Call the Breton County Sheriff’s Department in Michigan. Ask them about Richard Carter.”
“I will,” said Adams. “But I doubt that it has anything to do with what he did here, other than show his tendency to violence.”
“He’s not a violent man,” she said adamantly.
&
nbsp; “His polygraph was a mess,” said Adams, “but one thing came out of it real clear. That nonviolent husband of yours has perpetrated violence against a woman. He said he didn’t, but that was plainly a lie. My guess is that it was Miss Nash, and we know what kind of violence was perpetrated against her.”
Jill realized at that moment what had happened.
“No. That woman he thinks he did something to was me,” she said. “But he never hurt me—not in the slightest. The man he killed in Michigan was a sexual predator who would have killed me and tried to kill Richard.”
“The man was a rapist?”
“Yes, and a murderer. He had already killed several women, and Richard suspected that he intended to harm me. I didn’t believe him, and Richard took me somewhere once. It was against my will, but he didn’t hurt me.”
Realizing how that sounded, she rushed on. “He was only protecting me—getting me out of the man’s reach. That’s what you discovered.”
“He kidnapped you?”
“No. He only took me somewhere I didn’t want to go,” she began. “I suppose that technically it was an abduction, but it was just to protect me.”
“Then he killed the guy?”
“Call the Breton County Sheriff. I know you don’t believe me.”
Adams made the call. Jill sat listening to one side of the conversation, trying to imagine the other. Adams ended the conversation sooner than she thought he should have. He replaced the receiver and looked thoughtfully across at her.
“Wait here,” he said, getting up and moving toward the door.
•••
Richard looked up when Adams came into the cell.
“Would you mind removing your shirt, Mr. Carter?”
“Why?” asked Richard, making no move to comply.
“Because I just heard a strange story from the people you used to work for.”
“About Boyd?” Richard made no move to remove his shirt. “That has nothing to do with anything.”
“Okay. You want to spend the rest of the night in a cell, be my guest. I just want to know what I’m dealing with here.”
Richard unbuttoned and removed his shirt and then turned around. “Happy now?” he asked.
Adams stared at over a dozen angry red scars running roughly parallel and angling from the juncture of his neck and right shoulder down to his shoulder blade. The stitch marks were too numerous to count.
