Final Vows

by Karen Kingsbury

  “And could someone pick me up at eleven o’clock, take me by the funeral home?” Dan’s voice broke and Strong could hear him crying as he struggled to speak. “I need to say good-bye, Wil. I haven’t told my wife good-bye.”

  The pastor closed his eyes, feeling the man’s pain as if it were his own. “Yes, Dan. Someone will be there to pick you up. They’ll have Carol’s dresses with them.”

  Dan was sobbing now, gulping back tears as he fought to finish the conversation. “Wil, there’s just one more thing,” Dan said as Strong strained to understand him.

  “Whatever I can do, Dan.”

  “Pray for me, Wil. Please pray for me.”

  Minutes after their conversation ended, the Reverend Wil Strong summoned his associate, Keith Hershey, into the office and asked him to take care of Dan and whatever he might need that afternoon.

  Hershey hadn’t known Dan as long as Strong had, but in the summer of 1986 he had spent three days with the Montecalvos on a missionary trip to central Mexico. That trip had given Hershey a chance to get to know the couple in a way that made him feel as if he’d known them all his life. When they weren’t preaching the gospel to Mexicans who gathered daily at the mission, they were working together passing food out to poverty-stricken families and homeless people. But what interested Hershey most about the Montecalvos was the way they worked together—laughing, casting the type of glances at each other that are usually reserved for newlyweds and love-stricken teenagers. In three days, Hershey decided that Dan and Carol had the kind of marriage most couples yearn for. There was no sign of bickering or harbored resentments. No boredom or disinterest.

  When Hershey learned earlier in the week that police might be pointing a finger at Dan in the wake of what he considered a terrible tragedy, he decided immediately that the police were mistaken. Dan and Carol were best friends. He had seen that much with his own eyes.

  Hershey drove up and parked in front of the Montecalvo house at 10:30 that morning. By then there was no sign of police. Dan had given a house key to Pastor Strong earlier in the week and Hershey now used it to open the door and let himself in. For a moment, the young pastor stood in the doorway stunned at the sight. The inside of the Montecalvo home had been completely taken apart. Books and papers were strewn about the floor, cupboards were open, their contents stacked haphazardly throughout the room. Slowly Hershey made his way around the piles of debris and belongings toward the back bedroom. As he passed the den on his right, Hershey looked inside. This room was even worse than the front room had been. File cabinets were open, piles of paper, receipts, and other records lay scattered about.

  Hershey continued down the hallway and saw the dark circular bloodstain a few feet away, indicating the spot where Carol had bled to death. Darkened blood spots still covered the nearby walls. He shuddered as he gingerly stepped around the spot. Finally he opened the door to Dan and Carol’s bedroom. This room, too, appeared to have been completely ransacked. The closets were emptied, clothes thrown across the bed and floor. The dresser drawers were open or pulled completely out and Hershey saw that their contents had been carelessly rifled.

  As he found Carol’s dresses, Hershey knew that burglars had not been responsible for leaving Dan’s house this way. He wondered what Dan would think when he saw the place, and he hoped that by then someone would have put things back in order. Hershey left the house and climbed back into his car, making sure to hang Carol’s dresses neatly in the back, then he drove to the hospital. Dan had already checked out and was waiting in the lobby. As the two men walked to the parking lot together, Hershey thought Dan looked gaunt and depressed.

  “You okay, Dan?” Hershey quietly asked when they arrived at the car.

  Dan nodded somberly. “I’ll be all right. Carol would’ve wanted me to be strong.”

  “She was quite a woman,” Hershey said with compassion.

  “I know.” Dan’s eyes filled with tears and he looked away. “God knows I’m going to miss her; she was everything I had.”

  The men rode in silence to the funeral home. Years later, Hershey remained impressed by Dan’s strength—being able to make funeral plans, arrange for transporting Carol’s body back East and, finally, say good-bye to his wife. When they left nearly two hours later, Dan seemed paler, the circles under his eyes noticeably darker. But despite his recent surgery, he had held up under one the most emotional moments of his life.

  They were driving back toward the hospital when Dan asked Hershey to go by the house on South Myers Street.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dan.”

  “Keith, I said please go by my house. I have to see it now.” Dan was suddenly urgent, insisting that the pastor help him.

  “I’ve been there, Dan. Trust me, you don’t want to see it. Not yet.”

  “I can handle it. I need to see what they did to it.” Dan was leaning forward in his seat now, turning toward Hershey and straining the stitched incision near his waist.

  Hershey released a deep sigh. “Okay.” He drove the two blocks to Dan’s house and parked the car. “But let me come in with you. You’ve been through enough for one day.”

  “No.” Dan was adamant, already moving to get out of the car. “I have to do this alone, have to see it and put this out of my mind once and for all.”

  “All right, Dan. I don’t agree, but go ahead. Take five minutes. If you’re not out in five, I’m coming in. Agreed?”

  Dan nodded, then shut the car door behind him. Inside, Dan did not even recognize his house. He picked up loose photographs of himself and Carol and stared at them, tears rolling down his cheeks. How could they do this? How could they treat Carol’s and his possessions like they were trash?

  “They’re going to be sorry for this,” Dan muttered to himself. “They’re wrong about me. Can’t anyone see that?”

  Dan began crying louder, angry, convinced that police had torn up his home looking for clues to prove he had killed his wife. Finally, when he could no longer stand being in the house another moment, he returned to the car.

  “How could they do that?” he shouted, pounding his fist into the palm of his hand.

  “I told you, Dan,” Hershey said quietly. “It’s a mess.”

  “No.” Dan turned angrily toward the man who was helping him. “It ain’t a mess, it’s a disaster. Ruined. Looks like a hurricane came through and tore the place up.”

  “Was it like that when you and Carol were shot, did the burglars make some of the mess?”

  Dan shook his head. “No. They only wanted one thing—money from the safe.” He pointed at his house. “The police did that. They think I killed Carol, so they tore up the house looking for clues.” Dan paused a moment and when he spoke again his voice was even louder. “It’s their fault she’s gone, not mine. They let her bleed to death. Took them fifteen minutes to get inside and help us. Fifteen minutes!”

  Dan was shaking from the rage that was building as he thought about the time police had taken to respond to his emergency call and what he thought their motives were for dismantling his house.

  “Drive me to the police station, Keith.” It was a command, not a question, and this time Hershey responded without hesitation.

  “What for?”

  Dan’s anger was focused now and he sounded calmer as he spoke. “I’m collecting my valuables and filing a report against the police for leaving my house in ruins. Then I’m going to do something else.”

  Hershey glanced at Dan, worried that the man might have gone over the edge. “What’s that?”

  “File a lawsuit.”

  “Why?” Hershey didn’t like the tone in Dan’s voice. It was as if he’d been terribly wronged and now he was going to get even. He didn’t sound like a man who was thinking of God.

  Dan answered Hershey without hesitation. “I’m suing the Burbank Police Department.”

  Chapter 12

  Eight days after Carol’s murder, Detective L
ynch learned that his police department was about to be sued by Dan Montecalvo. The suit—which was not officially filed until several months later—would accuse the Burbank Police Department of causing Carol’s death because of its unacceptably long response time the night she was shot. According to Dan, he planned to seek one million dollars in damages for Carol’s death and for subsequent police harassment.

  By then, Lynch had talked with an assortment of people from Dan’s past. In the process he had learned information about Dan’s background that the mere sketch of his criminal record could not possibly have revealed. Based on this information, Lynch believed Dan had long since developed reasons to hate policemen. So he was not surprised to learn that Dan was now hurling accusations at the Burbank police. The way Lynch saw it, Dan probably hoped the lawsuit would take the heat off him.

  Lynch was not worried about being able to defend the department’s actions. His officers had merely followed procedure by waiting until they were certain no suspects remained in the house before entering. As for harassing Dan, he was their primary suspect. Questions had to be asked. Lynch smiled to himself as he sat at his desk. If Dan thought their questioning constituted harassment, he hadn’t seen anything yet.

  Lynch had no intention of letting Dan’s impending lawsuit slow their investigation. Throughout the remainder of April, Lynch saw to it that the initial reports on Carol Montecalvo’s murder were in order. Sometimes Lynch would read a report and be satisfied with the details they contained. Other times he would read a report such as those by officers Glen Sorkness and Rick Medlin and he would sense that somehow crucial information was missing.

  For that reason, on April 16 Lynch asked Sorkness—“Snake”—into his office. When the door had shut behind him, Lynch presented Sorkness with a copy of the report he had written after interviewing Dan in the emergency room the night of the murder.

  “Snake, read this thing over,” Lynch said quietly, sliding the report across his desk.

  Somewhat confused by the request, Sorkness did as he was told. When he was finished, he looked up. “Okay. Is there a problem with it?”

  Lynch shook his head quickly. “No problem. Just seems a little shallow. Like there must have been more to it. You know, something else Dan might have said, something he might have done.”

  Sorkness glanced down at the report again, trying to grasp what the detective was saying. He paused. “It’s all there. Everything he said, everything he did.”

  “You were with him when they told him his wife was dead, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How’d he react?” Lynch reached for the report. “Says here he became hysterical. Does that mean he was screaming, shouting, crying, sobbing, what?”

  A knowing look came across Sorkness’s face. “I see.”

  “Think back, now.” Lynch slid the report once more toward the officer. “Was there anything, even one or two important details, you might have left out?”

  Sorkness thought a moment and then remembered Dan’s eyes. “Now that you mention it, when they told him about Carol he seemed like he was sobbing and crying. But the whole time his eyes were completely dry.”

  Lynch smiled patiently. “Right. That’s what I’m looking for. Details like that.”

  Sorkness nodded, scanning the report again and trying to remember other similar observations. “Want me to make a note of it somewhere on here?” he asked.

  “No. Fill out a supplemental report form. Mention the bit about the dry eyes and anything else you can remember.”

  When Sorkness left the room, Lynch picked up the telephone and dialed Sergeant Bob Kight’s four-digit extension. Although Lynch was the primary detective on the Montecalvo case, Kight was his supervisor and therefore officially in charge of the investigation. Kight had suggested that the officers might be able to remember more about what they’d seen the night of the murder. Now, listening to Lynch, he was thrilled to learn about the details Sorkness had been able to remember.

  Throughout the spring and well into the summer, Lynch and Kight went over the police reports written after Carol’s murder looking for areas where detail might be missing. On July 15, Kight called Officer Medlin into his office.

  The original report Medlin had written about the night of Carol’s murder included only the essential facts. For instance, he had not written about the barking dogs at the neighbor’s house where he was crouched in the front yard. Neighbors had since been interviewed and none of them had heard dogs barking until the police arrived. That meant, in all likelihood, burglars had not escaped from the Montecalvo home after the shooting, unless they had gone north toward Suzan Brown’s house.

  Medlin had also not written in his original report that the house was well lit and that two cars were parked in the driveway—both reasons for police to question whether a burglary had actually taken place. He also had not mentioned that Dan had appeared to walk normally down the hall until he saw the police, at which time he had grabbed his side and begun limping. According to medical experts, Dan’s injury was such that he might not have been forced to limp.

  After an hour in the office with Kight, Medlin began to remember these details. They became so clear that when he and Kight had finished their discussion, Medlin was able to write a three-page supplemental report. In that report he coined Dan’s behavior as something akin to “show time.”

  Finally satisfied with the initial and supplemental police reports, Kight and Lynch grew increasingly frustrated as the next several months slipped by. In their combined thirty years of police work they had come to trust their hunches. When their conversation focused on Dan Montecalvo’s possible involvement in his wife’s murder, they saw the puzzle pieces forming a picture that confirmed their suspicions. He was their man. He had to be. There were days when they rehashed each report, each piece of evidence taken at the scene. They spent hours telephoning Dan and Carol’s friends. But still they had nothing concrete, no neatly tied package of evidence to present to the district attorney’s office.

  In the early stages of solving a murder, detectives like to use deductive logic. Therefore, if an animal looked like a skunk and walked like a skunk it probably was a skunk. But in Dan’s case there was only the putrid smell of a skunk. And in the criminal justice system prosecuting attorneys needed to walk into court with something more than a bad smell.

  So the months slipped by and the investigation continued, never really going anywhere. Not until January 16, 1989, nearly a year after Carol’s murder, did the pattern of frustration change. That was the morning Kight handed the investigation over to Detective Brian Arnspiger.

  Chapter 13

  A good number of homicide detectives grow up knowing they want to be police officers. They wear plastic badges as children, pretending to be cops and doing their best to catch the robbers. As teenagers, they watch police shows on television and imagine a day when they will be chasing the bad guys and making the arrests.

  This was not the case with Brian Arnspiger.

  The son of a machinist and a homemaker, Brian from birth had a way of taking over a situation and mastering it to his own benefit. In 1943, technology was such that Brian’s mother had been unaware she was pregnant with twins. Twenty minutes after giving birth to a healthy baby boy, she began having more contractions. Soon afterward, Brian made his entrance into the world, instantly becoming the talk of the maternity ward and the unexpected miracle of the Arnspiger household.

  The identical twins grew up in Norwood Park, Illinois, with their older brother, Gordon, and a younger brother, Gene. Norwood Park, an ethnic melting pot a few miles north of Chicago, was an idyllic place for children. During the summer, boys would congregate along Circle Avenue to play baseball and stickball. Groups of girls would huddle together on the steps of large brick home fronts, giggling and sharing secrets. When winter came, everyone in the neighborhood gathered at the local park for ice-skating and hockey.

  Brian began participa
ting in the activities that brought life to his neighborhood as soon as he was able to walk. Before long, his father realized there was something different about his son. No matter what Brian did, it was never enough. If he found time to do well in sports, he still could get high marks in school. When he took extra time to study with his brothers after dinner, he would still find time to be the only one of his siblings to make his bed and clean his room.

  Those were happy times for the Arnspigers. The boys’ father had an average-paying job, their mother stayed home baking bread, making dinner, and providing her family with an atmosphere that was typical of the 1950s.

  By the time Brian entered high school in 1957, he had sprouted to more than six feet tall with the lanky build of a wide receiver. While his twin brother found satisfaction in playing musical instruments, Brian played baseball and football and ran track.

  On the field, the brown-haired athlete finally found an arena where he could express his intensely competitive, overachieving personality. His brothers were also athletically inclined, each excelling in baseball. No one in the family was surprised when Brian managed to earn honors not only in track but in baseball as well.

  The only negative factor in their otherwise blissful life was the Puerto Rican gangs that sometimes hung out near William Howard Taft High School. Occasionally these gangs would intimidate students while they walked home by blocking off a street corner. More than once, Brian took the initiative and used his fist to lay flat the largest gang members until, eventually, they no longer were a problem.

  The way Brian saw it, people had a right to live in a town and walk to their high school without feeling afraid. Having thrived since childhood in a strict though nurturing environment, Brian was fiercely protective of it. He could think of no better reason to fight than to preserve the sense of safety and morality that prevailed during the fifties and early sixties.

  In 1961 the Arnspigers moved to Burbank, California, to escape the cold Illinois winters and so Brian’s father could pursue work as a machinist in nearby Los Angeles. There was never a question about which of the Arnspiger sons would learn the trade, following in their father’s footsteps. Brian had been watching his father since he was a little boy and after the move to Burbank he, too, became a machinist. He and his father grew even closer and although he was taking college courses Brian believed he would be happy to spend the rest of his life repairing, perfecting, and designing machinery.