“Are we almost there?” Tesler repeatedly asked. “I really have to take a piss.”
“Go ahead. Let it go,” T.J. had answered. “The upholstery is Scotch-Guarded. Just don’t shit your pants.”
Dupree just shook her head.
She couldn’t wait to get Tesler in an interrogation room. Although she had no strong evidence to link Tesler to Dr. Crawford’s murder, at the least, he was indirectly involved. Why else would he have been following her?
Just as Dupree was searching for a parking spot, Adele once again was singing “Set Fire to the Rain” on Dupree’s cell phone.
“Go ahead, John, make my day.” She did her best Dirty Harry impersonation.
“Sorry, Clint, but I’ve got nothing for you. We dusted every flat surface, doorknob, door jamb, counter top, drawer handle—everything in the entire place—and other than Dr. Crawford’s and Jonathan Lentz’s prints, we found nada.”
“Terrific,” Dupree said. She could understand why Lentz’s fingerprints showed up, but it seemed odd that nobody else’s did. Based on what she already knew about Dr. Crawford and the fact that she probably didn’t do much entertaining, finding no other prints seemed reasonable. She glanced at Tesler, not wanting him to hear any more of her conversation with Butler. He was dancing around in the backseat as if he’d drunk a pot of espresso. Obviously, he really had to pee. “Where are you, John?”
“In the lab.”
“T.J. and I just pulled in the garage. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
Dupree eyed T.J. and shook her head ever so slightly, signaling him that Butler and company hadn’t found any prints. He acknowledged with a tight-lipped nod.
T.J. got out of the car, opened the rear door, pulled on Tesler’s arm, and not-so-gently yanked him out of the backseat. With one detective on either side of Tesler, they led him to the entrance. Once inside, they walked the suspect down a long hallway and stopped in front of the bathroom door.
“Still have to go potty?” T.J. asked, his tone sounding like a parent speaking to a child.
“Like a fucking racehorse.”
“You escort our friend here to the little boy’s room,” Dupree said. “Once he’s done with his business, sit his ass down in room 3. I’ll be in the lab talking to Butler.”
Just as Dupree turned to walk away, Tesler said, “Hey, Detective.”
Dupree turned, cocked her head, and stared at him.
“I’ve got a great idea.” Tesler flashed a dirty little grin and exposed a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Instead of this homo playing with my dick, why don’t you hold it and help me pee?”
Dupree glanced at T.J. and knew that he wanted to backhand the asshole, but he kept calm.
“You really want me to hold it for you?”
“Sure do.”
“Tell you what, Mr. Tesler. You just lost your bathroom privileges. We’re going to sit you and your piss-filled bladder down in an interrogation room all by yourself, and we’ll be back to speak with you in about an hour. Feel free to piss and shit all over yourself. How’s that, Mr. Bad Ass?”
Tesler’s defiant look faded to alarm. “You can’t do that.”
“Watch us.” Dupree grasped one of his arms and T.J. held onto the other. With her free hand, Dupree pushed on the center of his back, and moved him down the hall. She stopped in front of room 3 and opened the door.
“Have a seat, Bad Ass,” Dupree said. “And don’t worry about making a mess. The chair is aluminum and the floor is water-resistant vinyl. Piss as much as you like.”
“Stop! Please! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Should we give him another chance?” Dupree asked T.J.
“I don’t think he deserves it.”
Tesler squeezed his knees together, obviously in pain and ready to let loose.
“Are you finished fucking around with us?” Dupree asked.
“I swear.”
Dupree nodded and T.J. led Tesler to the bathroom.
Chuckling to herself, Dupree made her way to the lab. How many times had she encountered a “Bad Ass” like Tesler—defiant, uncooperative, and rebellious—only to learn that even tough guys can be humbled?
She found John Butler viewing the surveillance tapes from Dr. Crawford’s apartment building. Before speaking to him, Dupree looked around the room, totally intrigued with twenty-first century forensics. Much of the equipment was foreign to her. As a homicide detective, she had little time to learn the intricacies of crime scene investigation. She knew the basics, of course. But the highly technical stuff she left to guys like John Butler. Some detectives spent more time in the lab than in the field. But not Dupree. She enjoyed working the streets, loved the chase.
She snuck up behind Butler and squeezed the top of his shoulders. He was so intensely studying the surveillance tapes and startled by Dupree’s sneak attack that he nearly fell backwards.
“You scared the friggin’ crap out of me, Amaris. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Sorry, John. I just couldn’t resist.”
“I owe you one,” Butler warned. “And you know I’ll get even.”
Of this, she had little doubt. “So what’s the deal?”
“Unless the murderer has a twin, the guy who ransacked Dr. Crawford’s apartment is the same guy that killed her.” Butler pushed a few buttons. “Check this out.”
Dupree stood behind Butler and watched the video in slow motion. “So he has the same build as our suspect and he’s wearing a Yankees’ cap and dark sunglasses.”
“But we can’t see the back of his neck,” Butler added, “because just like in the garage, he’s wearing the collar up on his leather coat.”
“Still with the leather coat,” Dupree said. “In sweltering heat no less. This guy is right out of a Soprano’s episode.”
“With or without seeing his neck, he is obviously our guy.”
Dupree and Butler silently watched the video again, looking for anything that might offer a clue.
“Well,” Butler said, “at least we know that he used Dr. Crawford’s key to unlock her door.”
“But how did he get in the building and past the front desk? And what the hell was he looking for that would force him to turn the place upside-down?”
“We can verify this with Cardone, the super,” Butler said, “but this building has tenant parking underground, and I’d bet a king’s ransom that when the killer snatched Dr. Crawford’s keys, he also got a bonus: a key to the elevator in the garage.”
“Makes sense,” Dupree said.
Butler wagged his finger at Dupree. “When have I ever been wrong?”
“I’ll make a list and give it to you in the morning.”
Dupree heard heavy footsteps behind her. She turned and saw T.J. “How’s Bad Ass doing?”
“Warm and comfy,” T.J. said. “His bladder is much happier now.”
Butler looked at T.J. “I’m not even going to ask.”
Dupree updated T.J. on the surveillance video.
“Maybe Bad Ass knows who the bald guy is,” T.J. said. “Why don’t we go rough him up?”
“Let him stew for a while,” Dupree said. “It’ll give him a little time to think about his grim future.”
Dupree and T.J., their desks side by side, took a few precious moments and worked on their daily reports, a part of homicide work that Dupree hated. Detectives had to document everything. From the odometer reading on their Crown Victoria, to expense reports, to a thorough recap of the day’s activities. Dupree often wondered how soon before the hierarchy of law enforcement would require detectives to record their bathroom breaks.
Dupree glanced up at the clock. “I think he’s had enough time to marinade.”
“I’m ready whenever you are,” T.J. said.
Dupree picked up the manila folder holding all the details of the investigation and tucked it under her arm. When they unlocked the door and
entered the interrogation room, the strong stench of body odor hit the detectives in the face. Dupree guessed that Tesler’s body hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a long time. Tesler sat stone-still, his hands securely handcuffed to the metal ring screwed into the front of the wooden table. T.J. removed the cuffs and Tesler, noticeably relieved, massaged his wrists. Dupree and T.J. sat down and assumed their positions opposite Tesler. Dupree looked up at the video camera to be sure the red light was flashing.
“Mighty kind of you to remove the handcuffs,” Tesler said, his tone edged with sarcasm. “What did you think I was going to do, crash through the locked door like Superman?”
“Tell me,” T.J. said, “why did you run away when we buzzed your intercom and said we were New York City police?”
“Is this where you guys go through your good-cop, bad-cop routine?”
“Actually,” Dupree said, “we’re both bad asses, just like you. We just don’t have T-shirts to brag about it. Now answer the question: why did you run?”
“Cuz I’m sick and tired of cops hassling me. Every time a bike gets stolen in the neighborhood, you come knocking on my fucking door.”
“Maybe that’s because your criminal history is a city block long. You aren’t exactly a Boy Scout,” Dupree said.
“I ain’t never been convicted of nothing.”
“Well,” Dupree said, “that’s about to change.”
Tesler sat forward and grinned. “You guys are fishin’ in the wrong pond. I ain’t done nothing.”
“What kind of car do you drive?” T.J. asked.
“A Ford Fusion. Always buy American. Don’t want any part of Jap or Nazi cars.”
Dupree opened the folder. “What’s your license plate number?”
“I ain’t got it memorized. But I’d be happy to go look and get back to you.”
“What do you do for a living?” Dupree asked.
“I’m an unemployed brain surgeon.”
Dupree looked at T.J. “We’re wasting our time with this nitwit. Let’s just throw him in a cell, go have some dinner, and come back in the morning. I think he needs some time to think.”
“But tomorrow is the 4th of July,” T.J. said
“You’re right. I guess we’ll come back in a couple of days.”
T.J. and Dupree stood. Before they even took a step, Tesler said, “You can’t just leave me here. You ain’t charged me with nothing and you got no grounds to arrest me. I know my rights.”
“Your rights?” Dupree said. “Then I guess you know that we can hold you for up to seventy-two hours.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!”
“Let me enlighten you, Mr. Bad Ass,” T.J. said. “When you jumped out the back window, you went from person of interest to suspect in the matter of a felony. In other words, we own your ass for another seventy hours, and we don’t have to charge you or arrest you. If you’d like to call your attorney, we’d be happy to arrange that.”
T.J. picked up the handcuffs lying on the table, stepped behind Tesler, and handcuffed him.
“Wait!” Tesler yelled.
“It’s too late,” Dupree said. “This is not like baseball; you don’t get three strikes.”
“We don’t need some jive-ass-punk busting our balls,” T.J. added. “We’ve got better things to do.”
They stood Tesler upright.
“I’m sorry! I’ll cooperate. I swear.”
“I’m not convinced,” Dupree said. She tightened her grip on Tesler’s bicep. “What do you think, T.J.? Should we give this pinhead another chance?”
“I’d rather have dinner and come back on the 5th.”
Dupree pretended she was carefully weighing the two options. “Are you going to answer some questions, or would you rather spend the next three days locked in a cage?”
“I just want out of here, so ask me what you need to and I promise I’ll lay straight with you.”
“Okay,” T.J. said. “Let’s test that promise. How do you earn a living?”
“I don’t have a regular day job. I go to garage sales and estate sales. I don’t buy nothing expensive. But if I can pick up a lamp for ten bucks and sell it for fifteen, I’m happy. I paid my dues though. Lost my ass on lots of stuff. But then I learned what things I can turn for a profit and what ends up in the trash. It’s a real art. I’m sure you heard the saying, ‘One man’s junk is another’s treasure’.”
“So,” Dupree said, “buying and selling odds and ends generates enough income to pay your rent, buy food and clothes, drive a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car, and pay for insurance?”
“Except for buying the car, I live a pretty simple life. I have a little money set aside and that gets me through the rough times.”
“And of course,” T.J. said, “as a model citizen, you file a tax return every year and pay your fair share to the feds and the state, right?”
Tesler didn’t utter a sound.
“You know what I think?” T.J. said. “I don’t believe that one truthful word came out of your mouth all day. So, I’m going to ask you one very simple question, and I want you to think long and hard about the answer, because if any more bullshit comes out of your mouth, you’re going to get acquainted with the inside of a prison cell for a long time.”
Dupree had witnessed T.J.’s interrogation tactics many times. It amazed her how he could turn a hard-ass suspect into a sniveling crybaby.
“Okay, Mr. Bad Ass, here’s the question: Who hired you to tail Dr. Lauren Crawford?”
Tesler’s body froze; his eyes were wide and he was blinking furiously. Dupree watched him closely and could see his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he forced one swallow after another.
“Um… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard of no Dr. Crawford.”
Tesler was noticeably anxious, frightened actually. Dupree wasn’t sure if he was rattled because of the legal consequence or something more sinister.
“Well, partner,” T.J. said to Dupree, “I think we’re done for the day.”
“What about me?” Tesler asked. “Are you releasing me?”
T.J. laughed out loud. “Oh, we’re going to release you all right.” He looked at the wall clock. “In about sixty-eight hours when you’ve had some time to ponder your pathetic future, we’re going to release you to an IRS special agent. And when they’re finished with you, they’ll toss you to the New York State Department of Taxation.”
T.J. stood, slammed his palms on the table, his face inches away from Tesler’s. “When the tax folks are finished reaming your ass, believe me, you’ll never be constipated again. Say goodbye to your apartment, furniture, whatever money you’ve got socked away, and that nice shiny car. But here’s the best part. After they’re done with you, we get to charge you as an accessory to murder.”
Tesler popped up like a jack-in-the-box, almost stumbling backwards. “Accessory to murder? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“We know that you were tailing Dr. Crawford,” Dupree said. “And reporting back to the killer. That connects you to the crime as an accessory.”
T.J. eyed Dupree. “What do you think? Ten, fifteen years?”
“Actually, considering the stature of Dr. Crawford and the incredible loss to the scientific and medical community, I think the D.A. will go for twenty-five to life.”
“We’ll send in an officer and he’ll show you to your new quarters. See you in a couple days.”
As soon as they stepped into the hall, Dupree softly clapped her hands. “Bravo, partner. I think you just earned a nomination for an Academy Award.”
“Don’t nominate me yet. Not until we get a name out of Mr. Bad Ass.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As if God Himself had waved His hand and ended the oppressive heat wave, the morning of the Making Strides for Breast Cancer walk was nearly perfect. The temperature hovered at seventy degrees, the humidity surrendered to dry, refreshing air, a light breeze blew out of the northeast, and the sky was blue and cloudles
s. The relief from the gripping heat could change in a heartbeat, but Dupree hoped it would remain comfortable at least until she crossed the finish line.
The crowd, spirited and energized, appeared to be the biggest Dupree had ever seen. She stood in front of the portable stage, side by side with other supporters, and watched cancer survivors one by one hold a microphone, take center stage, and tell a brief story about their journey from cancer to remission. As each survivor ended her speech, the roar of the crowd and robust applause was nearly deafening. The height of the frenzy came when a man stood on stage and reminded everyone that breast cancer did not play favorites. When he announced that he’d been cancer free for nine years, the crowd howled with cheers.
Dupree struggled through the walk with greater difficulty than years past, but made it to the finish line. When she got back to her apartment, she drank a quart of Gatorade, picked up her two cats, set them on her bed, and curled up next to them.
She couldn’t stop thinking about T.J.’s story, unable to imagine what it must have been like for him to discover that someone had raped and strangled his wife. And even worse, to learn that it wasn’t just one assailant. What horrific images did T.J. have to deal with every day of his life? How did he find the strength to move on after experiencing something so unimaginable?
Although nowhere near as traumatic as T.J.’s ordeal, Dupree knew all too well what it felt like to be wounded by the loss of a loved one, to lie in bed every night wishing that she could go back in time and make peace with her mother long before cancer had swept her away. And of course, not a day went by that Dupree didn’t think about her daughter, how foolish she had been to give her up, not knowing anything about her, what she looked like, or if she was healthy and happy.
Today, yet another painful 4th of July, it took Dupree ten minutes to cry herself to sleep.
In the middle of the night, just about three a.m., Dupree, parched and dehydrated, made her way to the kitchen for some water. She filled the tall glass from the plastic jug in the fridge, and nearly guzzled the glass empty. As she poured another glass, Ben wandered out of the bedroom. Attracted to any unfamiliar object, he went into the foyer, and sniffed something sitting on the carpeting, just inside the door. From where she stood, it looked like a letter-size envelope, one of those cardboard envelopes with a little tab at the top to zip it open.
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