by F J messina
Sonia was sitting at her desk. She had become more and more relaxed as she shared her story with this attractive, almost gentle man. But when he stood and began to leave, she popped up like an English muffin coming out of a toaster. She had been playing her part as the concerned citizen, but now it was her turn. “Aren’t you going to answer any of my questions? Like how he died? Of if there was anyone else there?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but any information we gather is strictly confidential. I’m sure the County Attorney will be releasing a statement to the media sometime today or tomorrow. You’re welcome to attend that press conference, or just listen to the news.”
She walked around the desk after him. “Now wait a minute. I just gave you lots of information you would never have gotten without me. I’d like to know exactly what happened to Hensley. Did he shoot himself? Did he hang himself? How’d he do it? Who found him? Was he already dead?”
The questions came flying out of her mouth. She had lots of questions and she wanted answers. She wanted them now. The problem was that she was already talking to the back of Detective Sergeant Adams. He had walked out of her office and was already halfway through the waiting room, headed for the door.
“Thank you for your co-operation, Ms. Vitale,” he shouted over his shoulder. Then he was out the door and gone.
“Damn him!” Sonia said, literally stomping her foot. “Figlio di puttana!” Sonia knew just a few choice words in the language of her forefathers, and loosely translated, those choice words meant, “Son-of-a-bitch!”
Way back in Cincinnati, John Eckel, the man who had asked Sonia to marry him, had learned not to mess with her when she started speaking Italian. Even Jet had seen a hint of Sonia’s Italian temperament when she was angry─and Sonia was angry now.
Sonia walked around her office talking to herself, while Jet sat at her own desk, unusually attentive to her paperwork. “That son of a bitch. I told him everything I knew and nothing. That bastard told me nothing. Damn it. Well just because you won’t tell me what the hell is going on, doesn’t mean I’m not going to find out. Screw you, Detective Sergeant Shithead. I’m going to find out.”
Sonia heard the door to the outside stairs click closed. Apparently, Jet had suddenly decided it was a good time to go to lunch.
At four-fifteen on Friday afternoon, Sonia found herself standing in the lobby of one of the two beautiful new courthouses that had been built downtown. The high ceilings, stone walls, and tile floors gave the space a chilly feeling. She was part of a small crowd, mostly news media folk, waiting to hear a statement from County Attorney, Estella Cabrera. She had been stymied over the past two days, with nothing of importance happening on the farm. She was determined that today, at least, she would find out what had happened to Hensley.
As she waited for Ms. Cabrera to begin, Sonia felt a light touch on her elbow. She turned to find Detective Sergeant Adams standing there.
“Good afternoon Ms. Vitale.”
“Good afternoon Detective.” Sonia’s eyes quickly took him in from head to toe. She looked away. Doesn’t he look nice in that dark gray suit? She liked how quietly he carried himself.
Adams stood at her side and looked around somewhat surreptitiously. “Listen,” he spoke to her while his eyes stared straight ahead, “I hope you realize that any information you shared with me is now part of the official investigation. I wouldn’t ask any questions here, or say anything that would compromise any of that information.”
Sonia was completely taken aback, literally speechless.
“Good,” Adams said. “Have a nice day.”
Sonia watched him turn and slip away into the crowd. There seemed to be an empty space where he had just been standing. The reporter to her left moved a few inches forward and Sonia turned to see Estella Cabrera stepping in front of a bank of six microphones, several of which were capped with the logos of local TV and radio stations. The young woman’s light-gray suit and white blouse set off her long, almost lustrous black eyes and hair. Well-known in the city for her intelligence, her appearance made her seem almost more TV star than prosecutor.
The County Attorney began. “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.” Sonia turned to listen. “I’m here today to share with you our conclusions as to the death of Mr. John Abbott Hensley, which occurred in our jurisdiction this past Monday evening, March 28th. Our conclusions are as follows:
We believe that, sometime between 7:00 PM and 9:00 PM, Mr. Hensley took his own life by hanging himself inside one of the barns on Dahlia Farm, a horse farm he owned and operated as an absentee owner. The body was found by the farm manager, Mr. Steven Hollings. Police and medical professionals were called as soon as possible, but Mr. Hensley was declared dead by the County Coroner at 9:51 PM.
Medical Examiner Dr. Xin Li, has determined that the cause of death was strangulation by rope, the same rope found around Mr. Hensley’s neck at the time of the discovery of his body. There were no signs of foul play.
Sonia’s insides roiled. No foul play? Who is she kidding? Mr. Sunshine didn’t just walk in that barn and off himself. And of course Hollings is the one who found him. He’s the one who went into the barn with Hensley and he never came out! No frickin’ way. Ms. Cabrera continued.
In a preliminary investigation of the finances of Dahlia Farm, we found that the farm was under financial duress. We believe this may well have been the motive for Mr. Hensley’s having taken his own life. We have, therefore, determined and declared the death of Mr. John Abbott Hensley a suicide, and no further investigations will be undertaken. I will now take questions from the media.
Sonia heard the rustle of hands being raised and voices calling out, as different reporters tried to be the first to get their questions answered. There were several questions, but they were mostly routine. The level of energy in the room was more subdued than Sonia would have imagined. Dahlia Farm was small. Mr. Hensley was not part of the Lexington scene and was rarely visible in town. Bottom line, somebody who owned a farm in Lexington, but didn’t live in Lexington and wasn’t famous, had taken his own life. Blah, blah, blah. Film at eleven.
Sonia walked out of the press conference and toward her car, her head spinning. What the hell were they thinking? There’s no way he killed himself. Something was going on in that barn and they missed it. “Idioti.” The word came out of her mouth with utter disdain. And what was that crap from Adams? What was he implying? My information was part of the official investigation? But Estela Cabrera said the investigation was closed. Was he trying to intimidate me? Why would he do that? What the heck is going on?
As she walked to her car, Sonia pulled her spring jacket up close to her chin and neck and wrapped her arms around her body. It had turned colder again, but her actions were probably more a response to her emotional state than her physical condition. Something wasn’t right, and that knowledge sent a shiver through her body. Her mind told her to just let it go. But her gut was telling her something entirely different.
11
At eight o’clock that evening, Sonia walked back into the offices of BCI. She was still rattled from her encounter with Adams and the press conference in general. Yet, it was another Thursday evening and, therefore, there would be another attempt to close the case of Robert “Bob” Dylan. This week the weather was a little chilly, but not problematic. Jet was ready to go with the six-foot ladder they had once again strapped to the top of Sonia’s car. The batteries were charged in the camera and there didn’t seem to be anything that wasn’t locked and loaded. Bob’s girlfriend might be singing, “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight,” but Sonia and Jet would be watching. By evening’s end, ol’ Bob Dylan would be knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door, trying to get away from his troubles. Sonia laughed at herself. I guess all those hours listening to Dad’s old cassettes must have really warped my mind.
At eight-fifteen, Sonia stood in the bushes, holding the ladder as Jet climbed up the rungs. She watched her partner’s head get high enough
to peek through the window. Jet seemed to be enjoying herself. “Well, I’ll be.” Her voice was, suddenly, all hushpuppies and black-eyed peas. “There she is naked as a jaybird once again, and she’s just sitting there waiting for him. Come on Bobby. Come to Momma. Step right up there and hop on your lady friend. Let’s get this rodeo started.”
Sonia looked upward. “Nice, Joyce Ellen.”
Jet flashed her a look.
Sonia was fully aware that little Joyce Ellen Thomas had hated it when her parents insisted on calling her by her full name, Joyce Ellen. When she’d become a bit of a girl’s track star in high school, she’d reveled in the fact that other kids had started calling her The Jet. Soon it had become simply Jet and she’d adopted that as her official, if not legal name. All of that made it more fun for Sonia to call her Joyce Ellen whenever she needed to make a point.
Jet got back to business, and a minute or two later she huffed and shook her head in frustration.
Sonia could tell there was still no sign of Bob. His lover must have been sitting there waiting and waiting. Every once in a while, Jet would whisper down that Bob’s lover was saying something, but she could never tell Sonia what it was. “Geez, how long can this go on?” Jet asked.
Suddenly, Jet gasped and looked down at Sonia with her eyes open wide. Then she whispered loudly, “I’ve got it. I know what’s going on.”
Jet stepped down from the ladder and put her hand up to Sonia’s ear. “That son of a bitch in there is doing some nasty, messed-up shit. He’s doing some weirdo thing and making that poor woman watch.” Jet was twisting and turning, wrapping her arms around her body. “Son-of-a-bitch. He’s in there doing who knows what. Yuck, I feel dirty just being near it. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.”
There was a part of Sonia that wanted to climb up the ladder and take a peek. But she knew better. If she ever saw what this pervert was doing she might never be able to forget the image. A chill ran up her spine. Her shoulders twitched. Damn, utterly repulsive.
Sonia had no idea what to do next, and Jet seemed to have had enough as well. “Let’s get the hell out of here. We don’t get paid enough to sit here in the dark while “Mr. Play-with-Himself” does some perverted show in front of that poor woman. Screw it, we’ll be back next week with an entirely different plan.”
Sonia let the ladder slide quietly down and grabbed one end. “I’m all for that.”
“What I need right now is a good shower,” said Jet. “Yuk, I can’t stand knowing what I’ve just seen, and what I feel like.” She moved to the other end of the ladder and took hold.
“Well, perhaps I know what will rinse that feeling off,” Sonia said as she led the way past the side of the house.
“And what would that be?”
Sonia smiled. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe some hot coffee laced with some Bailey’s Irish Cream?”
Jet cocked her head. “You know, I believe that’s just what the doctor ordered.”
By a little past nine, Sonia and Jet were sitting in a bar in a part of town known as Chevy Chase, a name that existed long before the actor/comedian’s birth. The bar, Charlie Brown’s, was in the middle of a block of connected buildings. It had a wooden edifice and was dark and cozy inside with lots of plush seating near an open fireplace. The coffees in front of them were strong and hot and laced with a noticeable dose of Bailey’s.
Sonia and Jet had chosen a well-worn couch, bookended by two even more well-worn tables. Settling into the couch, Jet spoke first. “I don’t know how the hell we’re going to nail ol’ Bob, but we’d better come up with something soon. Mrs. Dylan is getting impatient.” Jet took a tentative sip of her coffee. “In fact, so is McCormick. Do you think you can be done with the camera soon? I’ve got to get on that restaurant thing ASAP.”
Sonia blew on her coffee. “You know what? I know where Mr. Torres is dippin’ his wick, and I’m pretty sure those ladies will show up again in the same car.” She took a tiny sip, carefully blowing on the hot drink first. “I’ll just park somewhere between the castle and the farm and keep my eyes open. I’ll know when they resume their conjugal visits.”
“Based on how you described Marcos Torres,” Jet snorted, “they sound more like pity visits.” They sat in silence for a minute, enjoying the warmth of the cups in their hands. “Any idea how we’re finally going to snag Mr. Dylan?” Jet asked.
“I don’t know.” Sonia put her mug down on the marred table next to her. “Honestly, all I can think of is the Hensley case.”
“Oh, it’s a case now, is it?” Jet tipped her chin down and looked over the glasses she wasn’t wearing. “And exactly who’s paying us?”
“Well, you know what I mean. It’s just chewing on me. I did some research on the guy. Mom died when he was young. Dad was an alcoholic. The state took him and put him into foster care. From what I could tell, those folks were some kind of religious fanatics. Must have been tough on him. Still, he goes on to become a really successful lawyer, marries a beautiful woman, buys himself a horse farm.” She shook a finger at Jet. “Listen, I know damn well that Mr. John Abbott Hensley most certainly did not kill himself. Yet the police call it a suicide. Even the medical examiner called it a suicide.”
“Have you seen the Medical Examiner’s Report?”
“No, but I’m going to. It’s public record, isn’t it?”
“Honestly, I don’t think so.” Jet shook her head. “It’s not like on all those TV shows, where everyone knows everything. Damn, with all those HIPAA rules, the receptionist at your dentist’s office could get in trouble just for telling one of your friends that you dropped in to get your teeth cleaned. I’m pretty sure you’d have a hell of a time getting your hands on that report.”
Sonia sat in silence, her eyes roaming past several rows of books on a dusty shelf─books that hadn’t been touched in years, but were at least real books. Finally, she sat up taller. “Well, then, I’m just going to have to get it from the horse’s mouth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know how Magee’s has its regulars, right?
“Yeah, Magee’s has its regulars,” Jet shrugged. “As a matter of fact, don’t we qualify?”
Sonia bobbed her head. “I guess we do.”
“So? . . . What?”
“Well, one of those regulars is the medical examiner herself, Dr. Xin Li. Every Friday afternoon she stops in around one o’clock. She has a cup of coffee and just sits there. No book, no phone. She just sort of meditates. Then she stands up and walks over to the counter, and Hildy usually has a box waiting for her. I think she brings her family a cake or something every weekend.”
“And?”
“Aaand, I’ve had a few passing conversations with her on occasion.” She took a long sip of her coffee and felt the warmth of the Bailey’s slip down her throat. Aaand, tomorrow being Friday, I plan to be in Magee’s right around one o’clock.” She set the mug back on the table. “Aaand, I’m planning to have one of those conversations with our esteemed medical examiner.” She gave Jet a knowing smile.
Jet laughed. “And she’s going tell you everything you want to know, HIPAA be damned?”
“Oh, I have my vays,” Sonia said with a terrible German accent. “I have my vays.”
Jet rolled her eyes.
12
Spring can come relatively early in Kentucky, and this year it had. Friday’s warmth felt good to Sonia as she walked down the stairs from her office to Magee’s. It was her goal to be seated at the corner table when Dr. Xin Li arrived for her weekly visit.
Sonia got a cup of coffee and chose a seat along the brick wall, a place from which she would have a clear view of everyone who came into Magee’s. Shortly after she settled in, Sonia’s ears were accosted by the sound of a woman’s rather raspy voice coming from behind her. At first, she tried to ignore it. Within a few moments, however, Sonia’s ears perked up as she heard three words that had become very, very, important to her─John Abbot Hensley.
Sonia leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her coffee cup held in both hands, close to her lips. Making a distinct effort to not turn around and look, Sonia strained to hear every word the woman was saying. “. . . not sure anyone really liked him. I mean, with those coke-bottle glasses, and the way he dressed.” The woman chuckled derisively. “Do you believe it? The man wore some of the most ghastly clothing.” She paused, Sonia assumed to take a sip of her beverage. “You would think for a little man, he would have been more concerned with his choices in that area.”
There was a pause. Sonia strained to hear if there was another voice at the table. There was, but it was much more discreet and Sonia couldn’t really understand the other woman’s words. Finally, the raspy voice began again. “Oh, no. He was very successful, but that didn’t mean he fit in here.” The voice lowered. Sonia strained. “He would show up at one of the affairs in town with that wife of his.” She almost snarled the word. “I mean, really.”
Sonia was entirely focused on the women’s conversation when her attention was suddenly drawn to the smell of fine perfume. An attractive blonde-haired woman in her late forties walked by, dressed in obviously expensive clothing. From behind, Sonia could hear the raspy voice turn syrupy sweet. “Martha, Martha. How lovely to see you. Come. Sit with us.”
Sonia put down her cup, trying to control her disdain. What she couldn’t control was her curiosity. Reaching into her purse, she retrieved her compact. Ostensibly checking her own makeup, Sonia turned the mirror so that she was able to see a large, red-headed woman with expensive clothing, bright red lipstick and entirely too much hair─a bouffant that appeared so heavily covered in hairspray that any accidental contact with it might actually tip the woman over. Sonia was quite certain that the red-head was the source of the irritating voice and disparaging conversation. She went back to her coffee, disappointed that she had not learned anything new and important about John Abbot Hensley.
