by Nenny May
He and Claire Fisher weren’t on talking terms.
They’d maneuvered their temporary living space in taut silence and when he’d parted from her, he’d long for the soft feel of her lips on his in a goodbye kiss.
Then he remembered, she’d tried to quench the flame of grief that burned in him like a wildfire. He didn’t want to be quenched.
She hadn’t had it in her to keep her eyes open and her body upright. Minutes into their conversation and she’d begun to tilt, jolt awake and tilt again. From her body language, she’d wanted to be with him, awake as a form of support. He hadn’t asked for it. Quite frankly, he didn’t need her to. She would just make matters worse.
Paul had said nothing as he’d lowered her into the blankets. He hadn’t placed a kiss on her forehead. He’d felt odd breaking a pattern.
He had to prove a point.
◆◆◆
Even With barely getting a nick of sleep, Paul had set out for the day ahead. His first stop, the Tillamook Wellness Center.
His first thought on arrival to the Wellness Center had been the narrow lot and barely available parking. It was 8:23 A.M. on a Tuesday, how many people needed to see a therapist?
It would be amusing if he would have to wait...
Nah, that couldn't be likely, how much did these people even make?
Wasn't business strained for them because of how much information was on the internet? People could diagnose themselves and solve their own problems with a few clicks on Google.
When he'd eventually pulled, he and Claire’s too big Sienna—a car he’d made only half the down payments on—into a rather petite parking spot; without managing a scratch if he would add, he’d set off on a rather quiet walk to the front of the four-story glass building.
It was properly polished and shimmered in the morning sun. A sign hung above the door that read, Tillamook Wellness Center in bold matte red. It was in a sense welcoming. The automated doors slid apart and welcomed him to a busy front desk.
The thought he'd most dreaded was a reality.
Because from what it seemed waiting for Lisa Patterson was going to be the least of his problems. The mere bureaucracy of getting his appointment approved seemed daunting.
There were more people lined up at the front desk than he'd seen at the Sherriff's office.
Shit!
◆◆◆
He'd joined the end of the queue.
Not too long into his wait, behind a family with their pre-teenage daughter, a man in a white suit had approached a restless Paul Campbell. Clearing his throat, the man asked. "Have you picked a number sir?" He was heavy on his Italian accent.
A short trip to Italy after college earned Paul the opportunity to pick up a thing or two about their culture, their food, and their wines. Oh, did he adore the aged Italian wine. But that was off-topic.
What exactly did the man mean by a number? Like they did at the phone store? Or at the bank? He could tell the place eluded class but wasn't this a tad over the top? The foyer already reverberated the name of the building. Though the colors used were rather mature, he could find himself feeling soothed in wait. Brick decorated the wall behind the receptionist's desk; grey adorned the wall to their right and beige to their left. Looking around, he'd noticed waiting areas strategically assembled by the door to each office. Couches, armchairs, and coffee tables, as well as pictures, lamps, bookshelves, and plants, made up these waiting areas. Many of which were occupied. If Lisa Patterson worked here, he could only imagine the bill. He could only imagine her salary. Here he thought he was helping her out by showing up... She didn't need him. Not in the slightest.
"Okay, umm... humor me, where can I get a number?" The man gestured to a machine on the wall by the entrance.
He was instructed how to get a number even if he'd shooed the man time and time over. The digits on the piece of paper had his jaws clenching. He was already late for his appointment. He was going to completely miss it if he had to wait to be the forty-fifth number in line to be attended to.
He couldn’t wait.
He would much rather return to the morgue and claim his mother.
He hardly knew if there was a timeline before the body would be removed… was that possible? His mind was a jumbled mess. One he would find a way to get a hold of, without this… psychologist.
That also meant a visit to the lead Detective on his mother’s case.
How much could she have uncovered within the span of a day?
◆◆◆
Detective Olson hadn’t been alone in her office. Neither could he recognize the man that had been perched in a chair at the other end of her desk, both their heads buried in the papers scattered about her desk. The man had been leaned back in the chair, a folder opened up before him, one leg crossed over the other. Detective Olson behind her desk like a throne had tossed on a pair of reading glasses and been straining through a thick print-out. This wasn’t going to change his perception of her. Not until he’d seen results.
He knocked on the open door, a courtesy move. Both heads jerked in his direction. He straightened and cleared his throat. Detective Olson discarded her glasses on the table and the man seemed unbothered by Paul’s presence. “You… contacted me, last night, you wanted to talk about my mother?”
Or what you’d found regarding her murder?
“You are also wanted for questioning, but that’s a discussion we can keep in our back pockets, I wouldn’t want to get you all riled up,” The man had said, his tone, threatening. He’d placed his crossed leg down, and shoved the folder on Detective Olson’s desk.
“Ignore him, Mr. Campbell this is my partner Detective Dawson. We’re working together to—”
“Close the book on your mother’s case, catch a killer, and everyone goes home happy.” Paul knew the game Detective Dawson was playing and he wasn’t going to take the bait. Even though both men knew that wasn’t why Paul had driven down to the Sherriff’s department, completely disregarding his appointment with Psychologist Lisa Patterson. Detective Olson’s features seemed swollen with frustration.
“That’s… not correct, we don’t want to just… close the book, what my partner meant to say, was we want to seek justice for Miss. Campbell and make sure her killer pays with every last bit of time he has left. If that’s something you’re interested in, take a seat and we can, get started.” She offered up the only other seat by her table, but Detective Dawson had risen to his feet and rounded her table joining her by her throne. He’d perched himself at ease with his hands shoved in his pockets.
Paul knew his type, typical bad-cop. That wouldn’t work on Paul. Intimidation rolled off his back like water off a duck’s, how was he going to drum that into the glaring man’s ears?
He took Detective Olson up on her offer, lowering himself in the chair Dawson had risen from and Paul had bitten back a chuckle. “This couple thing you have going on, isn’t going to faze me, he’s the bad-cop and you’re the good one, what, did you rehearse this before I came in?” They shared a look of confusion. Detective Dawson cleared his throat.
Detective Olson was flustered. “No, we’re not… when I said partners, I didn’t mean… we’re work partners,”
“Work partners,” Detective Dawson echoed with one last delayed glance at Detective Olson.
They weren’t the only ones that could play the hard game. They wanted to play good-cop bad-cop, Paul would play along, but he wouldn’t be the nervous wreck.
“Let’s make this quick. What would you like to know about my mother?”
“Okay, umm…” Detective Olson flipped through the pages of the document before her. “I had these questions printed out, give me a minute, I’m usually not this… scatter brained.” Yet another thing he would add to his reasons to not trust the city’s police departments. She couldn’t even keep track of her documents. Paul huffed. It usually started small, questions, get misplaced, then what? He would receive a call in the dead of the night that circumstantial artic
les of evidence had slipped between their fingers?
He was sure, this was yet another reason to invest in a private investigator.
“She wrote down a bunch of questions, and I’m going to let her go through that, but I’m going to jump straight to the point—”
“Aha!” She called out triumphantly as she adjusted her seat. “Dawson, I would implore you to recall the conversation we had yesterday, regarding control.” Detective Olson warned. The man who’d still hand his hands shoved in his pants pocket shrugged her words over his shoulder.
“Mr. Campbell, where were you on the 9th of October between 11:15 P.M. and 2:30 A.M.?” Paul Campbell backtracked.
He chuckled. “You don’t think I did it… do you?” The man’s stoic features were enough of a response. “She was my mother,” He sat up in his seat, mirrored the man’s stare. “I didn’t kill her.”
“I know. I just wanted to get that out of the way. What we really want to know is if your mother had any… what’s the word…”
“That’s enough Dawson or so help me,” Detective Olson scowled over her shoulder at the man that didn’t come off as bothered by her words. The man that had taken a hand from his pocket to place on his stubbled chin.
“…sanity points left in her?” His baritone voice returned.
“Dawson!” Detective Olson scolded. “That’s not what we want to know… well it is but we were supposed to build up to that question.” She tried to salvage the situation.
“You’re insinuating that my mother was crazy?”
“Not at all Mr. Campbell—”
“I’m not insinuating. We have medical records, our team of professionals collected from the scene that led us to seek you for… confirmation,”
“Mr. Campbell you have to understand that this is merely procedural, and we would just like to cross that out of the box,”
“She was not crazy,” Paul overlooked the desperate Detective Olson. She couldn’t even control her colleagues. These were the clowns Sherriff Pierce held in high esteem? He would get better results on his own. They didn’t seem to have their act together. “I’ve seen crazy before. Are you kidding me? This entire precinct is a joke!” His hands flared over his head. “One request,” He jabbed a finger in Detective Olson’s face. “Find a goddamn killer, that’s all I asked and you’re playing doctor and trying to find out whether or not she was sane? What if she wasn’t sane how does that have anything to do with the killer on the lose? She was stabbed twenty-two times if you can’t recall, because I can. And I want a killer caught before Friday, or I’m going to hire someone to do your job for you?”
◆◆◆
“What the hell was that?” Rachel Olson asked, her hands spread out before her in exasperation. This was nothing like what they’d discussed before Mr. Campbell had joined them. Huh, the joke was on her for believing Detective Dawson would follow instructions.
By the door, Detective Dawson had chuckled. He’d peeked out to get the last glance of a retreating Mr. Campbell. “This, Dawson” She gestured to her table, referring to what had just transpired. “Is what I meant by taking control of every situation you’re in.” He turned to her. From the way, her carved brows had dipped, and eyes wailed in frustration, he’d straightened. She didn’t seem half as amused by the situation as he was. “I sounded like I was begging you to listen to me, and in front of the son of our Jane Doe.” Detective Dawson had his lips pressed in a thin line. “It’s clear you don’t give a shit about this case,” She pressed her index finger on the table. “But I do, and if you respect me, Dawson, you will listen to what the hell I have to say.” She spat.
“This is why the CSI crew is finding it difficult to loosen up around you,” He joined her by the table. “You’re taking this too seriously. A woman was murdered, that man’s mother. Not yours.”
“And so, I should be apathetic because it wasn’t my mother?” She wiped her dampened hands on her favorite Macy’s work pants—It was a two-piece she’d gotten for less than a hundred bucks, the Blazer and the work pants, both in a bold deep blue. She dreaded the riled up feeling Detective Dawson pumped into her.
“I am not saying you shouldn’t care at all; I’m saying don’t lump a case on your shoulder, especially a case that has nothing to do with you.” He picked up the autopsy report he’d been reading before a disgruntled Paul Campbell had walked in. “That’s how you get high blood pressure before you’re sixty.”
“Bullshit, I should, as a matter of fucking fact treat this case as if it were my own. Because, news flash,” She jabbed a finger at her badge on her desk. “I’m the Detective responsible for this case.”
“I feel compelled to remind you,” He’d interjected in a calm tone that had her eyes squeezing shut and her lips parting for a breath. “…that I am also a Detective on this case. And I am here, earlier than I turn it to work normally, reading a fifty-six-year-old woman’s autopsy.”
“Should I congratulate you for being early and doing your job?”
“I’m just saying don’t act like the world is going to end if worst case scenario, the case goes cold on us.”
“You know what, Dawson, I don’t care what you or the rest of the bloody CSI team think of me. I am the boss; their boss and they should fucking fear me. And as for you, I don’t know how you handle murder cases down at the city P.D. but here, we offer restitution to our clients, and you should start acting like it if you want to keep your place on this case.”
“You’re threatening to have me kicked off this case? There’s a reason I’m here,” He closed the file. “This is only your second murder investigation, and you want to kick the man who’s closed over a dozen murder investigations off your team?” He’d held her stare. Her eyes were soaked. One more blink and the waiting tears would run down her cheeks. He wasn’t moved. “Think carefully about that decision.” He rose to his feet. His hands back in his pockets. “I’ll be in my office at the City P.D. when you’ve reached a verdict.”
◆◆◆
Annabelle Dawson was restless. She couldn’t sit still and let her ratings plummet. It had happened once before, only then, it had cost her more than she’d been willing to pay. She wasn’t going to let that happen twice. She’d endured enough sleepless nights. Her job was hanging by a thin thread. Lucy Wilkens with Channel Nine was on top of every news story regarding the deceased Blake Campbell.
Annabelle didn’t hate the woman with her botched lips and faux-ass… It’s just, if the woman were on fire... Annabelle would drink the last bottle of water.
Channel Six was barely getting any attention, and Simon Neil, the Head News Producer couldn’t ignore it. Not only had he been acting like he had a rather hot stick up his ass, his disdain had been boldly imprinted on his forehead.
She had to do something… anything to get the ratings up. Whatever it took to surpass Lucy Wilkens.
And then it hit her, in the dead of the night.
Lucy Wilkens had the latest coverage on the Campbell Murder investigation, Annabelle Dawson was going to take a step back, several steps back and build a story on the life of their deceased.
Restlessness morphed into anticipation, and that Tillamook night in a home on 2nd Street by Douglas Avenue, an idea was born, sleep shoved aside, coffee a loyal partner.
She pushed through the door, her Armani pumps clicking above the wooden floorboards, accompanied by stumping steps, and a second pair of heels gracefully sauntering into the room. Frank Peterson, the studio’s Camera Operator had been thrilled to escort her, a black Sony PXW-FS5 camera on his shoulder.
She didn’t have anyone else to trust. Down at Channel Six headquarters, her colleagues had begun to anticipate when she would gather her belongings in drab cardboard boxes and etch her signature on her own resignation letter.
They even made bets to see if Simon Neil would give her the iron boot before then! She wasn’t deaf to their breakroom chit-chat.
The job wasn’t hers anymore. She needed a miracle.
<
br /> “The place looks empty,” Frank’s nasal tone filled her ears.
She turned to him, his jewel-like emerald eyes glimmered with a fading excitement. He couldn’t give up on her too! Not him, he was the nice guy who always said ‘hi’ to her whenever he would walk by her cubicle. He’d even split his jelly doughnut with her last week when someone ate her tuna sandwich… and he loved his jelly doughnuts, so that was saying something.
“He’s here,” She assured him.
The strong scent of liquor and cheap air-freshener smacked her in the face and she resisted the urge to wince. She took in the room, recalling her night at the desk by her hand-me-down MacBook in her bedroom profiling the business.
He had to be here… he just had to…
“Because if he isn’t, Simon Neil is going to give all of us the boot,” News Anchor Amanda Hampton said practically reading Anna’s mind. Sure, the only reason the Cinnamon tanned woman was there had a thing or two to do with overhearing Annabelle’s conversation with Frank and tagging along. But what were good news anchors for if they couldn’t eavesdrop on private conversations and follow a story? Anna had never been able to say no to the nosy woman.
One day, she would find the courage to. That day was yet to come. Until then, she was chasing a story, one that brought her to a district bar.
It had a history. American Angels didn’t just pop-up in Tillamook on 4th street. It was a family business, owned and run by a neighborhood name, a man, Robert Ellison who’d inherited the bar from his father Benjamin Ellison.
Benjamin in the summer of 1980, founded the business under the name of Tillamook Angels. Beers, music and a good time for the locals, that’s what the bar stood for. Business wasn’t great on the onset, there were slow days and setbacks that seemed to drag on. Rumors circulating about the district bar on 4th. Substandard and cheap. It was claimed only skanks and delinquents frequent the place.
