by Alan Spencer
Cheyenne wasn’t so trustful. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind in front of the detective either.
“If he grills you too hard, don’t say anything you don’t mean. Ask for a lawyer if the detective starts treating you like a criminal. I know how these things go.”
“I wouldn’t force your father to say anything untrue. I’m not a detective from one of those TV crime shows. I genuinely care about you and your family. I’m only doing my job to the best of my abilities. So if you would, please, Mr. Saggs, come down to the station with me. We’ll get this over with quickly.”
Cheyenne was protective over her father, thinking that perhaps he could be the only living parent she had left. “You treat him right, Detective. He has rights.”
Morty held his daughter in his arms.
“Like he said, it’s only some questions. I’ll do anything to find Glenda. I’m scared like you are, Cheyenne. It’s natural to be scared. And we’re going to stick together and bring our family back together. I promise nothing bad will happen. I trust the detective. He’s worked very hard up to this point. Stay here. I want you to be here if anything turns up. Can you do that for me, honey?”
Cheyenne had tears in her eyes. There was nothing good to draw from this predicament, and they both knew it. Finding blood in a missing person’s case was never a positive thing.
Morty left the house with the detective. They drove in the detective’s vehicle. As they drove to the station, Morty looked back at his home as it grew smaller in the rearview mirror. The police were hard at work checking out the property. He couldn’t lie to himself. Sure, he could stretch the truth with Cheyenne if it meant not breaking her heart, but in his own mind, there was no lying. This was looking more and more like a murder case.
Chapter Thirteen
They weren’t in Detective Larson’s office this time. They were in an interrogation room. The walls were a cold institutional white. The ceiling lights were two times brighter than they should be. Maybe it made the room slightly hotter, Morty thought, so he’d spill whatever information the police believed he was holding back that much quicker. The table between them had a greasy top, making Morty keep his hands off of it. He noticed the two-way mirror and a warm pang of dread covered him from head to toe. Morty felt sick to his stomach when it dipped hard and fast. He closed his eyes, sucked in two great gulps of air, and kept thinking: This is for Glenda. Everything you’re doing here is for your wife’s safe return. You have to get through this for her.
Detective Larson had left Morty in the room alone for five minutes. Larson said he was getting a cup of coffee, and did Morty want anything? Morty didn’t feel like ingesting anything with the cramps in his stomach and the ache in his head. A bad feeling coursed through him from top to bottom. Whatever he drank, it would come right back up.
Was Cheyenne correct to assume this investigator was targeting him as a suspect? If that was the case, it would be a helluva tall tale. Put it in a novel and send it to a publisher, he thought, wanting to leave this room with every conviction in his body. And while he was here, was somebody else doing harm to Glenda? Was it already too late? Would somebody turn over a pile in an alleyway, junkyard or empty lot and discover the pale and very dead body of Glenda Saggs?
Jesus, I don’t want to imagine it!
Stop thinking that way.
Time is being wasted here.
Morty kept his eye on the door. Should he leave? Tell the detective that he couldn’t do this right now? It was a legitimate reaction to thinking his wife really could be dead. This was an emotional time for him, and why wasn’t he being handled with more care? Why did they put him in this room all alone for so long? Was Larson, the smug prick, behind the double-sided mirror watching Morty sweat? Was each bead going down the side of his head somehow proving his guilt or innocence?
He was seconds from pounding the door with both fists when Detective Larson finally returned. He was holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, both for himself, and sat down with Morty.
He also had a mini tape recorder.
“May I record this?”
“Yes, but what for? I feel like I’m in trouble. Am I in trouble?”
The detective did his best to offer a reassuring smile. His eyes were too cunning to offer anything of the sort. He was a vulture about to peck into a steaming pile of dead remains.
“It’s for our records, Morty. Now that our investigation has made a sudden turn, I want to re-ask some questions and maybe throw in a few new ones. Nobody’s suspecting you of anything. This is how every investigation is conducted. I’m working on your behalf. If there’s any problem, you may end this interview and request a lawyer. Do you request a lawyer?”
“Not at this moment.” But try me. I know my rights.
“Very good. And thank you so much for your full cooperation. I understand your daughter’s concern. She loves you very much. It’s a tough time for you guys. Know that I see that. You’re very courageous, handling this the way you’ve been handling it, Morty. I want to backpedal to the other day. A reporter interviewed you. You told her something about a doorway. Is there anything you can elaborate for me? Have you seen this door before?”
“Not before Glenda went missing. No. Never. And it’s not just a doorway. Somebody traced my bedroom door with black.”
“So why did you tell the reporter about the doorway? Do you feel it has any real significance to the case?”
“I was in a bad state of mind. The woman, that reporter, she pressured me. I had to run into my car to avoid her. I probably said things in haste that I normally wouldn’t say.”
I smelled burning things. It keeps me up at night. I think it made me sick the other day. But I don’t know if it’s real. God help me, I might be going crazy. I don’t know what to think or do about it—
“Janet Ranscombe is reprehensible. She’ll swoop down and pick on people until she gets her story, then she’ll fly away without another care for your well-being. She’s one of those young kiddoes who thinks being unkind gets them farther in their careers than finesse. I’m very sorry she pressured you in any way. I’m also very sorry for the disrespectful article she wrote in that rag paper.”
Detective Larson had printed off the article from an Internet website. Morty read it with severe displeasure. There were quotes Morty didn’t remember making, mostly about a mysterious “ghostly” doorway that appeared shortly after Glenda disappeared. The article went on about ritual killings, local cults and Morty’s questionable state of mind during Glenda’s disappearance. He couldn’t finish reading it, the article was so leading about Morty’s role in Glenda’s vanishing.
Detective Larson sensed the change in Morty.
“It makes me cringe, Mr. Saggs. It’s total and complete bullshit. A lot of theories are posed without evidence. Janet’s a rebel rouser. I’ll arrange for her to print a retraction, and an apology. You might get away with suing her too.”
Morty wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything.
“I talked to the officers who came onto the scene when you first called the police about Glenda. There wasn’t a single sign of a break-in or foul play. It’s just strange that after being sick as a dog, Morty, that you’d make a complete healthy comeback and find this slipper. I mean, you don’t look sick at all to me today.”
That was the punch in the gut that about knocked Morty from his chair. So the detective really was interrogating him, not casually running through a few things.
Detective Larson anticipated the rise from Morty, so the man raised his hands to calm him.
“Look, I’m only posing what other third parties might say about the case. I’m giving you a chance to clear the air. Man-to-man. Straight-talk. No bullshit, Morty. The truth. That’s all I want.”
Morty wasn’t sure why he was saying what he was saying. Scared f
or his wife, worried that he might be going crazy seeing burning doorways, the words came right out of him in a hurry.
“I’m stressed, I’m overtired and I’m, I’m emotional. I think I’m seeing things, Detective. The burning doorway. It appeared the night Glenda vanished. The doorway glowed like it was on fire. Yes, I was drunk that night. I walked home from Side Pockets, but that’s got nothing to do with what I saw, because the burning doorway keeps coming back. It scares me that it’s real, and I’m also scared that it might not be real. I don’t know for sure. Am I going crazy? Please tell me, Detective. Am I losing my mind? Does seeing burning doorways on my bedroom wall mean I’m slipping into insanity? It’s grief, right? I didn’t hurt Glenda. I love her. She’s my everything. I’m not a bad person. I wouldn’t hurt anybody, especially my wife. But what am I saying? How do I know I wouldn’t do these things? If I’m seeing burning doorways, maybe there’s other things going on in my head I can’t explain. Things I might not be aware of. I might be going fucking crazy, so do what you need to do. Detective, please. Yes, maybe you’re onto something. I could’ve done these things without even knowing it. It horrifies me that it could be true. So book me, arrest me, psychoanalyze me, but please, please, whatever happens, please please please tell me if I’m going insane!”
Chapter Fourteen
How he ended up in a holding cell, Morty couldn’t recall no matter how hard he tried. He was lying on a wooden bench, muttering to himself to calm down right now, or they’ll think he’s crazy. After an hour or so of lying there, the rage of his thoughts calmed. Then he was embarrassed and concerned. Would the investigation turn completely to him? Surely it would. Would Detective Larson push him in the direction of a doctor who would open up that brain of his and then the state could answer that sixty-thousand-dollar question: is Morty Saggs sane, or insane? Or better yet, did Morty Saggs in fact kill his wife?
Morty’s gone postal, he imagined Hannah, the gossip queen, saying when the shocking news hit the airwaves. Hannah could go on and on under his back porch awning drinking wine with Glenda and talking bullshit about their coworkers at the hospital. Glenda would nod and agree, and Hannah would keep dishing it out like a shovel slinging shit. Morty imagined Hannah’s response to Morty being insane had to do with his job with the post office. Hannah would suggest Morty walking the same route shoving letters into the same mailboxes for far too long had caused him to snap. Maybe Hannah would go deeper and bring up the old resentment of having a kid too early with Glenda. That giving up his hopes and dreams of doing anything beyond menial or labor-intensive caused Morty to snap. Hannah would tell anybody anything about Morty the murderer, Morty the psychotic, Morty the human piece of garbage who ended the life of a wonderful woman.
But that wasn’t right. He loved Glenda. He wasn’t postal, and he wasn’t a bad guy. Just ask his daughter. Cheyenne believed in him. Cheyenne knew him the best out of everybody. Better than Bruce Spaniel. Imagining Cheyenne speaking on his behalf tuned down the intensity of his thoughts. Cheyenne would clear up any misunderstanding. He did nothing wrong. He was a loving husband. He wasn’t a murderer. Yes, he was seeing burning doorways, yes, he could be crazy, but—
The door opened, and Cheyenne entered. She helped him up off the bench.
“I told them to let you out right now. I knew that asshole detective was trying something funny. They’re trying to take advantage of you, Dad. They think you’re stupid, but you’re not stupid. Damn it, I don’t trust these guys. We’re going home. If they want to press charges, they can.”
Cheyenne guided him out of the station and to her car. She kept saying over and over, “Total and complete bullshit. It’s all bullshit. The police are so wrong about this. So wrong it worries me.”
They drove home while Cheyenne kept cursing the police. When they returned home, the police investigating the house were gone. They collected all the information they needed, Morty supposed, and had packed up their operation. Cheyenne explained how the cops took pictures of rooms, but why? Cheyenne asked him. The bloody slipper was random. Nothing else in the room was touched. The slipper could’ve been placed by the one perpetrating Glenda’s disappearance. The slipper could mean a wide variety of things.
They were going back and forth when Cheyenne’s cell phone rang. She took a call from her husband. She went outside on the back porch to take it.
Morty couldn’t help but go to his bedroom. If he looked hard enough, would he see something else the police had missed?
He lowered onto all fours, peered underneath the bed and there was nothing but a few dust bunnies. Morty pictured the single slipper. He wondered where the second one was. He searched for it. It wasn’t in Glenda’s closet, the living room, dining room, bathroom, or anywhere. So where was the other slipper?
Morty returned to the bedroom thinking about the whereabouts of the slipper. He stared at the bed, then he looked at the bedroom doorway. He pictured the scene in his mind with Glenda kicking off her slipper and it landing under the bed the way it did. The angle of the slipper, the way everything else in the room was untouched, Morty wasn’t an expert in forensic science, but this seemed elementary.
This was obvious.
He wanted to shout for Cheyenne about his idea, but what would that do? Cheyenne wouldn’t believe his speculation. Cheyenne was his strongest ally right now. The way the investigation was going, Morty’s character would be put into question. He needed those who loved him here by his side vouching on the behalf of Morty Saggs’s good name and character. Cheyenne was that person, and to lose that, it would be devastating.
But it didn’t change Morty’s concern.
Think about it.
I mean REALLY think about it.
Glenda’s slipper had been on its side, as if flung off of Glenda’s foot. It landed crookedly under the bed. Morty imagined it happening, so he decided to actually play it out as if he were Glenda. Morty stood in front of the doorway. He loosened his shoe, and he flung it out as if he were struggling against somebody’s hold. His shoe landed right about where he located Glenda’s slipper.
By doing this simple experiment and seeing the result, Morty was attacked by too many feelings at once to properly interpret them. Much like the moment Glenda went missing. Was it really possible that somebody had dragged Glenda through the burning doorway? What did it mean for something like that to happen?
Right or wrong on his theory, there was one thing Morty had to do.
Chapter Fifteen
Detective Larson did his best not to slam his office door. He’d love to slam Morty Saggs instead. The bastard had fooled him from the start. Morty played up the part of being an innocent and grieving husband. If it weren’t for Morty freaking out in the interrogation room, he would have a full confession. The problem was, Larson still didn’t have any solid evidence. Circumstantial wouldn’t be enough. Conjectures didn’t cut it. He needed hard evidence. Something hard like a confession.
Morty was guilty of killing his wife. Larson didn’t need the evidence to put it together, the feeling in his gut was so strong, but the detective believed in the justice system. Due process. Against his judgment, there were still things missing in the case. The timetable for Morty to kill Glenda and to stash her body somewhere didn’t add up. Hannah and two other of Glenda’s friends visited their house that Friday night until about ten-thirty. Morty left Side Pockets at roughly midnight. Morty had walked three blocks to get home. Make it about twenty after midnight, maybe thirty after, and Morty shows up at home and does the deed to his wife. This was quick and clean. Very clean. Then to move Glenda’s body and hide it well was tough enough to explain. On top of that, Morty had made various calls, including calls to his daughter and Hannah, and then the police at about fifteen after one o’clock.
So Larson set it up in his head. Forty-five minutes to kill a woman, hide her body, clean the mess, make various calls and come away clean didn’t sit well
with Larson. Morty was in his early sixties. He wasn’t the smartest guy ever known to mankind, nor was he the dumbest. Morty was more of a crazy kidder, fun-loving, beer-drinking, get ’er done blue-collar type, but when it came to book smarts, he was limited. It didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of cunning murder. It was just highly improbable.
Morty was also lacking in motive. Hannah, Cheyenne and everybody else Larson had interviewed in the neighborhood were unanimous in how strong Morty and Glenda’s marriage was. There were no signs of tension between the two. No reason for Morty to suddenly snap and kill his wife. It didn’t mean it didn’t happen. The warning signs weren’t always there. And people weren’t always looking either.
So why did Larson keep thinking there was something off about the whole deal?
Morty’s talk of a burning doorway bothered him. Morty said something to amateur reporter Janet Ranscombe about it, but why? That article made Morty sound like a loony. Fortunately for Morty, not many people read the small-time paper Janet wrote for. She was no Diane Sawyer. She was a twenty-something wannabe journalist who was balancing using her journalism degree for a career or letting her lawyer husband put some buns in her oven and becoming a housewife. If anybody asked Larson, she should let the rich lawyer knock her up and be done with the deal. Put the pen down and start breast-feeding, lady.
So was Morty preparing himself for an insanity plea by mentioning a burning doorway in the house? Was he that smart? Was he that forward thinking? And what was up with him being sick, bedridden actually, and then bouncing back in twenty-four hours’ time? Too much wasn’t right, and Larson hated toiling with the information in his head to no clear conclusion.
Larson sat at his desk and eyed his bookshelf with titles like Unsolved Crimes of the Century and The Criminal Mind Versus the Investigative Mind. He enjoyed cases that were impossible to solve, and yet somehow a relentless investigator tackled it and got a conviction. Larson also read a ton of true crime novels and pulpy crime fiction. He also owned twelve different books on historical killers, anything from Ed Gein to Jack the Ripper.
