What Happened To Flynn

by Pat Muir

  “Of which you were guilty as charged.”

  “Yes, but that damn well prejudiced me on the state charge. Why in hell’s name did you come here? What do you expect from me?”

  “I thought you might have learned where Bailey or Arzeta are or that you might have a clue on how they might be located. I know you can pick up a lot of information in prison.”

  Swift snorted. “First of all, I try to avoid having anything to do with those heavy-duty inmates. My motto here is the same as in federal prison: I see and hear nothing, and I certainly don’t ask. I am innocent of anything to do with Flynn’s murder… I hope you catch Bailey and Arzeta and clear me.”

  “But you made those phone calls to Bailey,” I reminded him.

  “I bloody well did not. I think you bastards damn well manufactured those phone records.”

  There was no point discussing the matter with him and I stood up to leave. As I did so, I asked him if Marge Holmes had visited him in prison. His face soured further. “I haven’t seen her since I entered.”

  “Really?”

  “She is, or was, a beautiful woman and a great lay. But as soon as I had no money left, she wasn’t interested in me. You guys left me destitute. I still don’t understand how you can take all a man’s money before he is convicted, together with that of his friends and legitimate co-investors. Marge got mad at me because you guys took all her money as well.”

  “Did she have a lot of money?”

  “I was giving her twenty grand per month to run the house and pay her personal expenses. She had good taste. She liked jewelry, designer clothes, and high society. She asked me for more. And I was paying for her kid’s chemo as well.” He sighed. “Sally was such a sweet girl. You know she died a year after I was sentenced. I really loved her. So did Art Flynn. I was sorry Marge insisted he be denied visitation rights in her divorce.”

  “So that was Marge’s idea?”

  ‘Yes, but she told Flynn it was mine.”

  “Why did you never marry her after the divorce?”

  “She certainly wanted me to. But I found her a bit too demanding and manipulative. I thought if we lived together for a couple of years, when the stress of Sally’s illness was over, she might be a little less pushy.”

  I thanked Swift for his time. He had given me a portrait of Marge that corresponded to the one expressed by Flynn’s neighbors.

  Over the years, there were occasional sightings of Joseph Bailey, but he was never caught. We would get requests for Flynn’s DNA data to see if it matched bodies that had been found from Chula Vista to Redding in California. There were no matches. Bailey had done a good job of dumping the body. Steve came back as a homicide detective six years after Flynn’s murder. Dane Hanson became his partner. I knew very well that when Thompson retired, Steve, being a sergeant, would become unit head. I had wanted that job myself, so I steeled myself for that retirement, which took place in May 2014. Thompson called me into his office in late March of that year.

  “You know I’m going to retire in a couple of months, Shane,” he said, “and I know you wanted my job. If you had passed the exam to be a sergeant, you would be getting it.”

  I had passed the written exam for sergeant many years back but had failed the interview. The sheriff’s department had encouraged minorities to join the department to improve diversity, and thus encouragement was viewed as a preferential leg up. Thus, minorities like me had to suffer the belief by the majority whites that we weren’t quite up to their standards. Perhaps it was true, but the merest hint of it by that one interviewer enraged me, and I reacted in my true Shane capacity. I wasn’t exactly encouraged by Thompson to take the exam again. Perhaps it was because I was an excellent homicide detective with a well-above-average closure rate and he needed my skills. Perhaps he thought I would never pass the interview anyway. All such perhaps are in the past. It doesn’t pay to dwell on them.

  Thompson went on. “The lieutenant asked me to talk to you about this since I know you better than he, and we thought you might be upset because, as you probably have guessed, Steve, whom you once mentored, is to become unit head. You might feel you are entitled to the position because you have the most seniority. But you know the hierarchy here. You have to be a sergeant to become the boss.”

  “Harry, you didn’t encourage me to take the sergeant exam again… Was that because you perceive I have negatives?” I asked bluntly.

  “Shane, we all have negatives. Some are more significant than others.”

  “Harry, you’re beating around the bush. Get to the point.”

  “Well, you’re a mouthy broad to start with, and you also have inadequate respect for authority.”

  “Harry, don’t damn well tell me my calling you Harry all these years was a factor.”

  Thompson smiled. “An irritant, not a factor.” He gathered his thoughts before he spoke again. “Shane, you’re a smart woman and an excellent homicide detective, but you have a temper that gets you into trouble. You’re also smart enough to recognize that Steve is better qualified to be the unit head.”

  I appreciated Thompson taking the time to talk to me, as well as his compliment. The talk had not been necessary, since I already knew the outcome. I had to acknowledge its validity. Steve was indeed a very competent detective and noted for his civility and helpfulness. He would certainly not play favorites like Thompson. Yes, he would be a better boss.

  I have had disappointments and sadness in my life. My mother died of breast cancer just before I graduated from university. I suffered covert racial prejudice when I began my career as a sheriff deputy, prejudice that did not entirely disappear when I became a detective. My marriage failed, though it gave me a beautiful son. While I reveled in catching Swift at money laundering, I grieved we had never caught Flynn’s murderer, Bailey, or his abettor, Arzeta. I have learned from life that carrying grievances around perpetually is a poor way to live life.

  The next day, Steve asked me to go to lunch with him, and I knew he would say something about his promotion. We went to my favorite lunch place, a nearby Mexican one with fabulous burritos. I ordered one with a Coca Cola, and we moved to a table furthest from other patrons.

  “I knew you would have liked to be the unit head,” said Steve, biting into a taco that squirted out salsa onto his shirt. He wiped himself and continued. “You know the drill; you have to be a sergeant. I want to let you know it has been a very rewarding professional experience to work with you in this homicide detail. I am very grateful for your mentoring me and showing me how mentoring is done. It shows in how you have brought Norman Bolder along in our unit. I’m looking forward to your continued working in this homicide detail, and I hope it will be a long time before you decide to retire from being a detective.”

  I put my hand on his wrist. “Steve, congratulations. You deserved the promotion more than I did. I look forward to working with you also.”

  Steve smiled, one that told me he had been uncertain how I would handle it. “It’s okay for you to call me Steve instead of Sergeant,” he added. “And I will be putting Bolder with a new man. Hanson will be your new partner.”

  In an early December morning of 2015, I received a phone call at work from a Lily Gross, who said she was an insurance adjuster for the National Harper Insurance Company (NHIC). “A Marge Holmes has requested a court hearing to have Arthur Flynn declared dead,” she said. The whole case flooded through my mind as she spoke. “I understand that you investigated his disappearance, and I further understand you believe Mr. Flynn was murdered. I am aware that Laurence Swift was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder. Could I meet with you to discuss the basis for this assessment of murder? I would very much like to see your evidence file.”

  I told her I would have to discuss the matter with my boss and would call her back. “You are not to release your evidence file to her,” said Steve emphatically. “She will have to get a subpoena for that or alternatively ask the judge to request a copy. Tell her to look at t
he trial transcript.”

  “Should I meet her?” I asked.

  “Yes, I think you should,” Steve replied. “You may tell her about the case, enough for her to see if she wants to agree or oppose the Holmes petition.”

  I called Lily back, and she agreed to come to the sheriff’s office. Steve decided to sit in on the conversation. She entered the conference room and offered her hand to us with a very warm “So pleased to meet you.”

  We introduced ourselves and, at her invitation, used first names in our discussion. Lily, in her mid-forties, was dressed in a blue top over black pants that revealed a modestly overweight figure. I empathized. She had a distinctly domestic air that was disarming. However, she quickly revealed her intelligence with penetrating questions. I had recovered the evidence file and my notes from storage before the meeting and had reviewed them beforehand.

  “You probably want to know why this petition is so important to Marge Holmes,” said Lily, opening the conversation. We both nodded. “Arthur Flynn has an accidental life insurance policy whose beneficiary is Sally Holmes, Marge’s daughter.”

  “How is it that the policy is active?” I asked, noticing Lily had used “has” instead of “had.” “Flynn was killed over seven years ago.”

  “It seems that when the Palomar South Park attempted to foreclose on Flynn’s home, Mr. Laurel stepped in. He produced a listing for the mobile home signed by Flynn and petitioned the court to have him declared conservator of Flynn’s estate. The mobile home was sold, and the proceeds put into Flynn’s bank account, which had an automatic deduction to pay the monthly policy premiums.” Lily looked at her notes and said, “Sally Holmes died on March 14, 2010.”

  “I had heard she had died,” I offered. “What caused her death?”

  “Well, the little girl had acute lymphocytic leukemia and was undergoing expensive chemotherapy treatments at the time of Mr. Swift’s arrest. The seizure of his and most of Ms. Holmes’s assets meant there was little money to pay for the treatment. Sally Holmes died a year later when she was only eight years old. Thus, if Mr. Flynn was murdered, then the insurance proceeds would be paid to Ms. Margery Holmes as the contingent beneficiary.”

  “Marge Holmes knew about the insurance policy seven years ago. Why didn’t she make a claim on the policy at that time?” I asked.

  “She did. The insurance company did not feel that Mr. Swift’s conviction of conspiracy to commit murder assuredly meant a murder had taken place. I called the Sonoma County district attorney and was told they had declined to prosecute Mr. Swift for murder in the absence of Mr. Flynn’s corpse. NHIC consequently rejected her claim.”

  “And now?” asked Steve.

  Two factors. A person may be declared dead in this state if he or she has been missing for over seven years. Secondly, being missing for over seven years makes it much more likely Flynn is deceased.”

  “How large would the insurance payout be?” asked Steve.

  “Two million dollars,” said Lilly. “I have been hired by NHIC to make sure that Mr. Flynn did indeed die of an accidental death, and murder does so qualify.”

  “Whew,” I blew though my teeth, a whistle echoed by Steve.

  “I see why Marge wants this petition to succeed,” said Steve. He motioned me to talk about the case, which I did, mentioning Swift’s conviction for conspiracy to commit murder and that we believed Bailey, under Arzeta’s instructions, had carried out the assassination.

  When I had finished, Lily asked me, “I take it you have not been able to arrest Bailey or Arzeta?”

  “That is correct,” Steve replied. “Arrest warrants for them are still outstanding.”

  “Did the Sonoma Sheriff’s department send out cadaver dogs to look for Flynn’s corpse?” asked Lily.

  “Not to our knowledge,” I replied. “Since Flynn’s car was found in Compton, some four hundred miles away from the fishing camp, they felt there was too much uncertainty in location to justify that kind of search.”

  Lily sat back in her chair. “I appreciate you’re spending this amount of time on the case. I will be reporting back to the insurance company. My recommendation will be to oppose this petition. I suspect Ms. Holmes’ attorney will ask you”—she pointed at me—“the chief investigating officer, to give evidence at the hearing.” She stood up; the meeting was over.

  CHAPTER 29

  Two weeks later, I received a letter from an attorney requesting my attendance at a court hearing in early February on the petition to have Arthur Flynn declared deceased. I showed the letter to Steve, who had me talk to the district attorney, who, it turned out, was still Brenda Williams. I had seen her little over the past seven years, and it was very pleasant to talk to another professional black woman in law enforcement. We discussed what progress we had made over that period of time. Brenda had reached a senior level in the DA’s office. I congratulated her.

  “It’s very clear,” said Brenda. “You are not to give the evidence file to the Holmes attorney. You should tell the judge merely it is your belief Flynn was murdered and the evidence file is confidential since the case is not closed.”

  Three weeks before the hearing, I received a call from Tom Small. I did not recognize his name or his voice on the phone, and he had to remind me he was still manager of the Russian River fishing camp. “There’s been a body discovered upstream of the camp on the other side of the river. Have you heard about it from our sheriff?”

  I told him no. “I bet it’s your missing man,” he said. “I heard there was no skull with the corpse; it was mostly just a collection of bones. They’ll probably have to extract DNA from the bones and compare it to your missing man’s. That’s probably why you haven’t heard from them.”

  I thanked Tom for the information and waited for the call from Sonoma County. They had received a copy of the evidence file seven years earlier, so they would be reviewing it before they talked to me. They would also be conducting an extensive forensic examination of the site and the remains of the body. I was excessively curious to know if the corpse was Flynn’s and wanted to call to find out. I decided to wait and not tell Lily Gross about it until officially notified.

  I was delighted when I answered the telephone a week later to find Angie Haigh on the line. “Yes, I’m still the sergeant in charge of homicide detail here,” she said, “but I plan to retire next year. I’d like a warmer winter climate and will be considering San Diego or Phoenix.”

  “I think you’ll like San Diego better than Phoenix,” I countered. “If you come down here to check the area out, give me a call, and we’ll hook up.”

  We made small talk for a couple of minutes before Angie got to the point. “We found a skeleton a week ago somewhat upstream of the Russian River fishing camp that we have identified as your missing man, Arthur Flynn.”

  “How did he die?” I asked, clearly interested in the assassination details.

  “His head was sawed off,” Angie replied. “Obviously, that would have killed him. There was no evidence of broken bones or other evidence to indicate if he had been stabbed, strangled, or drugged prior to his decapitation.”

  “The bones do not show evidence of a bullet wound, then?” I asked.

  “That is correct,” replied Angie. “The medical examiner’s report states the cause of death is unknown. This presents a conundrum for us since he is not prepared to say it was a homicide despite decapitation being a form of homicide.”

  “Wow! Is there anything we can do at this end?” I asked.

  Angie replied, “Could you and any other of your departmental staff involved in the investigation of seven years ago sit in on a conference call with us to discuss our options. We’d also like the DA staff member who decided to prosecute Mr. Swift for conspiracy to commit murder participate as well. If you get me their direct phone numbers and a convenient time to call, that would be very helpful.”

  I agreed to get her that information. I liked Lily Gross and decided to call her about this turn of events
. “You mean that sawing off Flynn’s head isn’t considered murder?” she said incredulously. “That’s right,” I replied, “but you can’t say it was not accidental. I would guess your insurance company will have to make the payout.”

  “I’m going to have to think about this,” said Lily. “You tell me you guys are to confer on the matter. I assume it will be on whether to charge Mr. Swift with murder or not. Please let me know what happens. It will affect what I recommend to the insurance company.”

  I agreed to do so. “I will let Marge Holmes’ attorney know what is going on,” added Lily. “I’ll suggest he request a delay in the petition hearing.”

  I gathered the direct phone numbers of all the interested parties in San Diego County and e-mailed a list of convenient times to Angie, who selected Wednesday, January 6, at 1:00 p.m. “We’ll have all the holiday celebrations out of our system by then,” she commented. “Also, Swift isn’t going anywhere.”

  I had a great holiday season. My son, Ralph, flew in from Boston, where he is a professor of history at Dartmouth University. I thoroughly enjoyed his two-week visit. He is divorced but is on good terms with his ex-wife, so he gets to see his two children frequently. I also had the opportunity to get out my roasting pan, untouched for over fifteen years, and cook us a turkey with stuffing for Christmas day. Brenda Williams, another single mother, joined our little celebration. It would have been impossible not to discuss the Flynn case when the man’s body had just been found.

  “It’s amazing how that man’s observance of another entering his mobile home listing could cause so much trouble,” remarked Ralph. “You have Swift in jail, likely to be charged with murder. You have Marge Holmes impoverished and her daughter dead. You have Andy Collins assassinated and two men on the run. And you have most of Swift’s businesses closed and his employees out of work.”