by Debra Webb
Can a person have a midlife crisis at thirty?
Inside we sign in and are escorted to the warden’s office. Walt informed Warden Scott Tennison what we needed when he called and made the appointment. Hopefully Tennison will have taken the time to look into his request.
Tennison is a short, heavy man who looks closer to seventy than sixty. He stands behind a government issue executive desk surrounded by government issue filing cabinets and upholstered chairs. The view out the window behind him is of the quad between buildings. There are a few trees and picnic tables, probably for staff.
Walt shakes the hand Tennison extends. “Walt Duncan,” he says. “And this is my partner Olivia.”
I shake the warden’s hand as well. Walt left off my surname to prevent the inevitable questions of how I might be connected to the deceased psychiatrist we’re here to discuss.
“Please, have a seat,” Tennison says.
We settle into the stiff chairs. Tennison resumes his seat in the high back leather executive’s chair—definitely not government issue.
“I had one of my assistants pull the records on Fanning’s visitors,” Tennison began. “Besides his attorney, he had only one during his final months with us.”
The warden places four different photos across his desk, all are of my father signing in at security. My heart thumps hard against my sternum. I ask, “There were four visits in all?”
Tennison meets my gaze. “Yes, one in December of last year, two in January of this year and then one in early February.”
I struggle to conceal my surprise. “Fanning had no other visitors?” He has answered this question already, but I suddenly need confirmation that I heard right.
Tennison shrugs. “The only other person was his attorney. He visited once in January and then again one week after Dr. Newhouse’s final visit.”
It’s not surprising that the attorney would visit considering Fanning was coming up on his release date. Why in the world would my father visit the son of a bitch four times? This makes no sense whatsoever. I wasn’t aware my father even knew Fanning beyond what was seen in the news leading up to his release. If he visited him in early February it must have been only a couple of days before he died.
This is wrong somehow. My head is spinning and every breath is a struggle.
“In what capacity was Dr. Newhouse visiting Fanning?” Walt asks.
My heart practically stumbles to a stop.
“Newhouse listed himself as Fanning’s therapist. I was under the impression he was helping him to prepare for being released back into society which is why I granted extended visitations.”
A chill leeches into my bones. “These visits weren’t recorded?” I knew the answer before I asked but I had to be sure.
“Certainly not,” Tennison assures me.
“Thank you, Warden.” Walt stands and thrusts out his hand.
I do the same, my knees feeling weak with this ground-shaking news. Why would my father hide this from me? We discussed Fanning’s upcoming release. I remember distinctly telling him I could not believe, even with the plea deal, that his sentence wasn’t at least a decade longer.
“You know,” Tennison says as we prepare to go. “It’s not unusual for an inmate to seek help from a therapist or a man of God prior to release. They all leave here hoping never to return. Generally, they seek counsel from one of our staff therapists. I don’t know how Fanning landed himself a prestigious doctor like Newhouse.”
“Maybe if we find Fanning alive, we’ll learn the answer to that question,” Walt replies.
I’m grateful my partner responded because I couldn’t have spoken if my life depended upon it. I feel as if I’m in a dream—a nightmare—that keeps dragging me deeper and deeper into this place I don’t recognize.
“The really strange part is Newhouse’s last visit was quite volatile,” Tennison goes on. “The guards said Fanning demanded to be taken back to his cell and that the two men were still shouting at each other when Fanning was escorted away. It didn’t sound like any therapy session I’ve ever heard of.”
Walt hesitates. “Any chance either one of those guards is on duty today?”
Air rushes into my starving lungs.
“I believe one of them is,” Tennison says. “Would you want to speak with him?”
Before I can rush to say yes, Walt says, “If possible. We understand you have a prison to run here and we’ve already taken up a great deal of your time.”
“I do have a meeting,” Tennison says, “so I’ll have the two of you wait in my conference room. I’ll see that Officer Winslow joins you as soon as he can.”
Walt and I wait in the conference room, both of us looking rattled. We know better than to discuss our concerns until we’re outside these prison walls. You never know when you’re being recorded, particularly since we’re not attorneys or doctors.
Seven endless minutes later a tall, thin man in his mid-forties enters the room. “Ricky Winslow,” he announces.
He stands at attention, awaiting our questions. My money’s on him being former military. Maybe a Marine.
“Have a seat,” I suggest, grateful my voice is steady once more.
Winslow pulls out the chair at the end of the table and settles into it.
Walt kicks off the questions. “Warden Tennison tells us you overheard what sounded like an argument between former inmate Joseph Fanning and Dr. Lewis Newhouse back in February.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Winslow confirms. “We heard shouting in the interview room. Fanning’s voice was particularly loud. He was calling for us. He wanted to return to his cell.”
Walt appears to consider his answer for a moment. “Do you recall anything else he or Newhouse said? Think carefully,” Walt urges, “this could be very important.”
A frown furrows Winslow’s brow as if he is doing exactly as Walt asked and concentrating hard to remember any little detail. “The doctor appeared visibly upset. I remember that. He told Fanning he’d better remember his warning or there would be severe consequences.”
I swallow with effort and throw out the next question. “Did Fanning say anything in response to my—to Dr. Newhouse or to you as you escorted him back to his cell?”
Winslow shakes his head then frowns. “Wait. He kept muttering something like: we all got bones buried somewhere. Didn’t make any sense at the time.” He shrugs. “To tell you the truth, I think the man was crazy. I mean, crazier than we already knew. We all thought he got off way too light for what he did, if you know what I mean.”
When I say nothing more, Walt presses, “That’s all Fanning said?”
Winslow nods. “We all got bones buried somewhere. That’s it.”
The image of a shovel sliding into dirt slams into my brain with such force that I flinch.
I blink away the puzzling image. The rest of the exchange between Walt and the guard is nothing more than a jumbled hum of syllables.
This can’t be—none of it. My father would never have been involved with a man like Fanning and he sure as hell didn’t have any bones buried anywhere.
The sound of that shovel sliding into dirt echoes in my head again.
Nothing about any of this makes sense.
There has to be some mistake.
Poor Walt. He spent the drive from Riverbend to the next address on our list trying to reassure me that I had nothing to worry about despite what we learned from the warden and the guard. I’m a really lousy partner right now. I feel terrible that he has to deal with all these personal issues of mine on top of this perplexing case. This is not me. This is not my life. And yet, it is.
I feel like I’m coming apart from the inside out.
With every ounce of courage I possess, I focus on moving forward to the next step in the investigation. I can’t look at the other for even a second longer.
Andrea Donnelly is the next name on the list of Fanning’s victims. She was eleven when he picked her up from the movie theatre. An ER nurs
e now, Andrea is petite and pale but her voice is steady and there is strength in her eyes as she explains what happened to her nineteen years ago.
“My friends Sunny and Ellen were making fun of me because I’d told them about my secret crush on a boy in our class.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It was silly.” Her lids flutter open once more. “They didn’t mean any harm but at that age you take everything to heart. I’d gotten my period earlier than them and I guess they were jealous. God only knows why, but it was a big deal at the time.”
When she hesitates I nod my understanding. “Girls can be cruel at that age.”
She exhales a big breath. “I have two of my own now and I remind them every day that adolescence is the hardest time they’ll face in their lives.”
“You were angry with your friends so you went outside,” Walt prompts.
Andrea nods. “It was so foolish. I should’ve stayed inside.” She draws in a big breath. “But I didn’t. He spotted me on the sidewalk half a block from the theatre. I was headed home. He offered me a ride. I said no, of course. But then I saw those mean boys from the high school. I was far more afraid of them than of a stranger who was old enough to be my father. And I was pretty sure I’d seen him at the theatre dropping off his daughter, which turned out to be a mistake. Joseph Fanning never had a daughter.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was stupid. Stupid and naive.”
Andrea shares how terrified she was when she realized he wasn’t taking her home and how he pulled over, yanked her out of the front seat and stuffed her into the trunk. Her throat works with the remembered fear. He took her to the rear parking lot of an abandoned factory, raped her and left her naked and unconscious on the cracked and faded pavement.
As she speaks the images flash through my mind as if I were there. I can smell the sweat from the bastard’s physical exertion. Can hear his raspy panting. I can see her lying on the ground like a discarded rag doll.
The black dots float across my field of vision and I know I have to get out of this house soon or I will vomit on the woman’s beautiful Persian rug.
I touch the phone at my waist and say, “I have a call.”
I rush out of the house so fast I almost stumble over the dog.
Detective Walter Duncan
I finish the interview as quickly as I can. Andrea Donnelly pulled a twelve-hour shift on Sunday night and spent Monday at home with a sick daughter.
There are only a few more names on the list and I am growing more convinced with each one that we’re beating a dead horse. Unless Sanchez is our perp, then none of Fanning’s past victims is responsible for his disappearance.
That leaves us with a family member or friend or maybe a totally unrelated vigilante.
The other option makes my heart ache. I do not want to find out that Fanning has hurt another person.
Damn him. He should have died in prison. He should be in hell where he belongs. How is it good people like my Stella can suffer such horrific, slow deaths and that bastard is still breathing?
Well, he might not still be breathing. But then again, if he is and he took a victim, that victim is likely dead by now. Dammit all to hell.
Fury quakes through me as I walk to the Tahoe. I climb behind the steering wheel and glance at my partner slumped in the passenger seat. “You okay? You don’t look okay, Liv.”
“I am definitely not okay.” She scrubs a hand over her face. “Sorry about running out on you in there. It was either that or puke on her carpet.”
“We’re going to lunch. You need something in your stomach.” I start the engine and pull away from the curb.
“Chances are I’ll just puke it up,” she says. “I can’t decide if it’s related to the migraines or if it’s plain old morning sickness.” She untwists the lid on her bottle of water and sips gingerly.
“Is that normal either way?” I am worried sick about her. If it’s the migraines, that can’t be good for the baby. If it’s morning sickness, that can’t be good for Liv. Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never been in this situation before. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Damn, I wish I knew what to do.
“It can be normal either way, yeah.”
She sounds so weak. “What about soup? That bread place you like has killer chicken noodle soup. You’re always saying that. I’ll bet soup would help.”
She sighs. “Maybe. I’ll give it a try.”
The weight on my chest eases a little. “I kind of like that broccoli cheddar soup and I’m not usually a soup man.” No one can make soup the way my Stella did. I don’t have to say as much. Liv knows. Stella sent soup to her plenty of times.
“Stella spoiled you for anybody else’s soup.” She laughs.
I’m glad. The sound is weary but it’s a laugh nonetheless. I’ll take it.
I decide to lighten things up. “You been thinking about baby names?”
“Are you kidding? I’m still dealing with the concept that I’m pregnant.”
I hit my blinker for the next turn. “Bullshit. Baby names have crossed your mind. That’s just normal.”
“Maybe I’m not normal.” She smiles.
I grin. “Normal enough.”
“I’ll get around to names eventually.”
As least she smiled and sort of laughed. That’s something.
“You want to go inside and eat?”
“We probably should. That way I can make a run for the bathroom as necessary. I don’t want to puke in your car.”
At half past one the biggest lunch rush is over so we’re served and seated fairly quickly.
“You want to talk about what the warden said?” I talked her down from the edges of hysteria as we left Riverbend. Then she moved straight to the next name on the list. I took her cue and let it ride. But Riverbend is the elephant in the room. There’s no avoiding it for long.
She shrugs. “I’m thinking maybe my father spoke to Fanning on Sanchez’s behalf. So far those are the only two names related to the case that I’ve found in my father’s notes or files. Sanchez may have been his patient and he may have asked my father to talk to Fanning. It seems a bit unorthodox but there has to be some reason and that one sounds more logical than any other I can come up with. I don’t believe for a second that my father was acting as Fanning’s therapist. I’m certain that was a ruse to gain access to him.”
“We can drop by Fanning’s lawyer’s office and feel him out. If Fanning had his own therapist the lawyer should have a record of the name and any visits before and after his release.”
“But we both know he’s not going to tell us either way.”
I drink down the last of my soup, not bothering with the spoon and offer, “No harm in asking.”
Liv sips at her soup for a while longer then pushes it away. She didn’t eat much but at least she ate something. The few crackers she nibbled on should help as well.
Once in the Tahoe she reaches into the backseat and grabs a Walmart bag, dumps the dog shampoo out and pokes the bag into one of the cup holders in the console.
Our gazes meet. “Just in case,” she explains.
The lawyer’s office is on the west side of town in a sketchy strip mall. Not too far from the Reeves Accounting firm, in fact. We park in the lot and eye the two remaining businesses still operating in the strip mall. A nail salon and the lawyer’s office. The other three shops are for lease. Considering the faded signs and the peeling paint they’ve been empty for a good long while.
She sits up straighter and asks, “We doing the good cop/bad cop routine?”
“I get to be the good cop this time,” I say.
“Suits me. Right now I feel a lot more like a bad cop than a good one anyway.”
I chuckle like she’s joking but I have a feeling she’s not kidding.
We climb out and cross the lot. The traffic on Powell is heavier than I would have expected for this time of day. There are two cars parked in front of the nail salon. One of the technicians or whatever they’re calle
d stands in the open door. She shouts a two-for-one deal at us as we move past.
Liv waves her off and goes for the lawyer’s door. The door as well as the plate glass window on either side of it is covered with iron bars. There are no vehicles parked in front of this office. I imagine most of his business scurries in on foot and well after dark.
Inside, the place smells of roses, compliments of the candle burning on the receptionist’s desk. The chair behind the desk is empty. She’s either out to a late lunch or in her boss’s office taking dictation or giving something I don’t want to think about.
The sound of rain draws my gaze to the iron clad windows. A torrential downpour has started. The weatherman said it was going to rain. I guess he got it right this time. “Looks like we walked in just in time.”
Liv nods. “Hopefully it’ll pass before we’re done here.”
“Can I help you?”
The man—Alexander Cagle—is standing in the doorway of what I presume to be his office. “My secretary is at lunch.” He gestures to the empty desk.
I flick the lapel of my jacket aside and reveal my badge. “Detective Walt Duncan.” I hitch my head toward Liv. “My partner. Olivia. We need to ask you a few questions about a client of yours—Joseph Fanning.”
Cagle’s expression closes instantly. “I’m sure you know that—particularly in light of your ongoing investigation—I can’t answer any of your questions, Detective.”
“Your client is missing,” Liv says. “If you expect us to find him, I would suggest you hear us out.”
Reluctantly he leads us into his office. As soon as we’re seated he picks up his cell and appears to answer a text.
While the reception area was as plain as hell with its seventies style paneling and the utilitarian tile floor like you see in hospitals, his office is as lavish as any I’ve encountered in the high-end law firms downtown. Mahogany desk and matching credenza. Lush carpet. Richly painted walls adorned with elegant artwork and the framed accolades that herald his right to practice law. His chair is as big as a throne and every bit as ostentatious. The two chairs flanking the front of his desk are overstuffed and clad in a classic paisley fabric.
