Paper-Thin Walls

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  As Adam scampered to the porch, I plunged back in the car, backed out and left. Still livid with Ryan, I just wasn’t in the mood to chat with him. We could get into his philandering later. But not now, and not in front of Adam.

  Ten minutes after arriving back at my apartment, Detective Sutton knocked on my door and I opened it. For a moment, he took me by surprise. He had ditched the suit-and-tie look and was wearing tight-fitted jeans and a tan pullover shirt that stretched across his broad chest. His sparkling-white smile lit up at the sight of me.

  “You ready?” he drawled out.

  Expecting him to be professionally dressed, I was wearing black dress pants and a silk blouse in a cream, gold and black swirled pattern. For a moment, I considered changing, but decided I was fine. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I acknowledged, grabbing a light jacket and my purse. “Let’s get on the road.”

  He led me to a white Chevrolet Silverado and opened the door for me to climb in. I couldn’t remember the last time Ryan had opened a door for me. And let’s face it, he wouldn’t be sending flowers, gift cards and making fancy reservations if he weren’t in the doghouse. Perhaps mine and Ryan’s marriage had run its course. For a moment, I looked forward to new beginnings and eyed the ringless wedding finger on the handsome man seated beside me. Then I came to my senses and almost bawled in front of him over the marital loss of my husband.

  “You’re not married?” I bluntly asked before my brain realized what my mouth had said.

  He fidgeted, letting me know I had touched on a sore subject. “Was,” he answered. “I won’t ever be again.”

  “Oh, okay. Sorry I brought it up.”

  The next five miles down I-35W South slowly passed in complete, awkward silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a while. “I didn’t mean to sound so gruff. It’s just that relationships never go well for me. Five years ago, I gave up and decided solo was a better option. But sometimes the loneliness gets to me. I find myself more and more wanting to share my life with someone who will be loyal and trustworthy. It seems an impossible find.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I get it. My husband slept with another woman two weeks ago last night. I moved out the next day. Then this last Thursday night he was out catting around again. I’ve already filed for a divorce. He’s hired his own attorney.” I leaned back in the seat and stared at the highway. “It’s all over but the judge signing the divorce decree.”

  He gave me a compassionate look. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts … and you have a little boy, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and he dearly loves his father. Worse, he wants his Momma and Daddy together. I don’t know how to explain any of this to him.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry, I wouldn’t know either. I never had any children.”

  “Ryan and I had been trying for another child. Maybe it’s best I didn’t fall pregnant again.” He nodded and we were back to riding in silence, watching as the fence posts flew by.

  After a few more miles and being a big Dateline fan, along with all things murder mystery on TV, I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer and just had to ask, “What are some of the most interesting murder cases you’ve ever investigated?”

  He chuckled. “Your boss for one. I suppose you’ve heard all kinds of stories around your workplace?”

  “Some,” I admitted.

  He shook his head. “Three dead workers and your boss ended up in the prime position as the Chief Financial Officer. I thought for sure she did it.”

  “That’s kind of what I heard.” Unsure about talking behind my boss’s back, I asked, “What else?”

  He shrugged. “Not too long ago, there was a girl who checked into a hotel so she could listen through the walls as two people had sex. Later, the guy turned up dead and her DNA was found all over the murder scene. I thought for sure she did it.”

  “Wow, I guess it’s a good thing Kenna didn’t turn up dead. After all, I was listening through the walls and Bill might have pointed the finger at me. You would’ve thought for sure I did it.”

  He grinned. “No, I don’t think so in your case.” He paused and the grin fell off, replaced by a forlorn expression. “There is something bothering me though. That’s why I’m really on my way back to Hillsboro.” He shook his head in frustration.

  “What’s that?” I asked in a worried tone.

  “Irena Simpson introduced herself as Bill’s mother. She introduced the girl with her as Kenna Simpson, Bill’s wife. The girl confirmed being Kenna. When I asked them to prove their identity, Irena Simpson presented her driver’s license. Kenna said she and Bill only had the one truck and so she never drove anywhere and had let her license expire. I asked her about an Identification Card, and she said she’d been meaning to get one, but since she never went anywhere, she just hadn’t messed with it. She said she didn’t have a credit card in her name and that she used Bill’s whenever she ordered groceries online. And Bill had the checkbook. But since she was there, exactly where Bill said she’d be, and Irena was vouching for her, I took them at their word. But now it’s bothering me.”

  “Well, if she said she was Bill’s wife, I can see why you believed her. It seems cut and dried. And you know, I never saw Kenna getting out and about. It’s not incomprehensible that she would’ve ordered everything online or by phone and had it delivered. She probably didn’t need a vehicle of her own, or a driver’s license.”

  “That’s probably true, but with neither of them answering their phone and Bill threatening you, something just doesn’t feel right. That’s why we’re going back today.”

  “Did you mention anything to Bill about going back?”

  He pulled a face. “Heck no. You’ve never believed Kenna was alive or you wouldn’t have brought me that suitcase. And after telling me about Bill threatening you, I want to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up. The best way to do that is to catch people off guard. I haven’t told anyone that we’re on our way, including Bill’s mother and Kenna.”

  “I see,” I said. “What if the girl was posing as Kenna?”

  He grimaced. “Then we’ve got a real problem, don’t we?”

  I nodded and we dropped back into our silent thoughts. Thankfully, the small town of Hillsboro was just under an hour and thirty minutes’ drive south of Fort Worth. We exited off the interstate on Old Brandon Road and ate lunch at the Lone Star Café, each of us having a down-home cooked meal, he with chicken-fried steak and me with meatloaf, both with green beans and mashed potatoes.

  After gorging ourselves and quick bathroom breaks, we drove into the small town, passing by the Hill County Courthouse, The Hillsboro Antique Mall, and the Hillsboro City Library. A few blocks farther west, we turned north and worked our way into an older neighborhood. Eventually, he pulled to the side of the road, one without curbs, and came to a stop.

  The detective leaned forward and pointed. “Irena Simpson lives in the white-painted house three doors down.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I squinted in the direction he’d indicated, seeing a small square house with a wide front porch. The yard was mostly dirt and there weren’t any flowerbeds. Underneath a dying oak tree was a huge mud puddle, no doubt left from the recent rains.

  “Do you think they’re home?” I asked.

  “Nope. There should be an old white Impala parked underneath that tree.” He eased the truck forward. “I’ll check. Maybe Kenna’s mother-in-law’s gone on an errand and Kenna’s there by herself.” He came to a slow stop in front of the run-down home. “Stay in the truck,” he admonished.

  “Okay,” I agreed, feeling my voice getting high and my heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly so nervous, especially considering either Kenna would come to the door, or no one would. Well, possibly Bill’s mother. But even so, I found myself rocketing into a complete fit of anxiety. “Be careful,” I urged for no apparent reason.

  “Yes, mother,” he joked and smiled at me, which helped to ease the tension.

  He walke
d his perfectly formed butt to the front door and banged on the frame. “Fort Worth Police. This is Detective Tanner Sutton. Please come to the door.”

  After excruciating minutes, he repeated the call. After another few moments, he shot a warning glance in my direction. “Stay in the truck,” he told me through the rolled-down, passenger window.

  I nodded and he took off around the side of the house, leaving me to wonder what was going on. During the next five minutes, I had three heart attacks and vapor locked at least once. Finally, he emerged from the opposite side of the house, worked his way around the mud puddle and climbed back in the truck.

  “No one’s home,” he reported once he positioned himself back behind the steering wheel.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, disappointed that we’d made the trip in vain.

  “Do you need to get back?”

  “No,” I quickly answered, thinking I hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

  “Then we’ll wait a while.” He circled the block and returned to the spot three doors down and threw the gear shift into PARK. “Hopefully, they’ll show up soon.”

  “Do you have a partner?” I asked, filling the time.

  “Yes, Detective James Andrews. He’s been having some medical issues lately and has taken off a few days to recuperate.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I consoled. “I have to ask, what’s the backup plan in case they come back, and trouble breaks out?”

  He laughed. “I’m not worried about that little old mother, or the mousy brown-haired girl. I think I can take them both if trouble breaks out.”

  “Black-haired girl,” I corrected.

  “Brown-haired girl,” he repeated.

  “No, black-haired girl,” I argued.

  Suddenly, the color from his face drained away and his breathing shallowed. “Describe Kenna for me.”

  “She’s extremely skinny, in her early twenties, and has long, stringy, thin, black hair. Because of her bruises, she generally lets her hair fall forward, attempting to cover her face.”

  He cursed under his breath and shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me. It never occurred to me that the sweet little mother was lying. Heck, I believed the girl too. There wasn’t a single time they messed up their story and everything fit with what Bill had told me.” He cursed again. “How in the world did those two manage to pull the wool over my eyes? I can’t believe those two conned me.”

  “Shit,” I said. Immediate chill bumps popped up on my arms, realizing the girl wasn’t Kenna. “What happens now?” I whispered, thinking the worst thoughts possible.

  “I’m calling the local authorities.” After a quick search on Safari, he made a non-emergency call to the Hillsboro Police Department, asking that Irena Simpson and Kenna Simpson’s names be run through the system. After fully explaining the situation, the police captain said he’d be right over with backup officers.

  “Kenna Simpson may not have a current driver’s license, but possibly she has a mug shot. If you’ll simply email me the reports, there’s really no need for everyone to jump and run. There’s not even anyone at home right now,” the detective explained to the captain. “We’re only talking about a little old woman and a young girl. It shouldn’t be a problem to handle it on my own, but just in case, it’d be nice if you had someone on standby and available within a short timeframe.”

  “No, we’ll be right over,” the captain insisted. “I’ll pull whatever I find on Irena Simpson and Kenna Simpson. I’ll see you in a few.” Then he hung up.

  In less than fifteen minutes, one captain, one lieutenant, five sergeants, two detectives, four corporals, nine uniformed officers, and even one city property manager arrived in about twenty cars with sirens blaring and lights flashing, like it was the crime of the century.

  “Good Lord,” Detective Sutton muttered under his breath when what must’ve been the entire police force arriving, making their presence known for miles on end. “And this is a Saturday. You’d think they had better things to do with their weekend.”

  “Did you?” I asked, feeling a bit guilty about dragging him down to Hillsboro on his day off.

  He grinned. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

  Police units lined the streets in both directions and an army of men bounded out of their vehicles, taking shelter behind their opened doors, each with their guns drawn and pointed at the Simpson residence. Detective Sutton slid his butt out of the truck, pausing to look back at me. “Stay in the truck.”

  I nodded. The weather had been pleasant today, near seventy-six degrees and we had been sitting with the windows rolled down, making it easy for me to overhear everyone from the comfort of my seat. Captain Watson ambled his considerable girth over to the front of the truck, shaking hands and introducing himself.

  “So, we’ve got ourselves a murderer on our hands, do we? Let’s go through everything again for the sake of my men.” He turned and assessed the situation for a moment, looking first at his men, then the closed front door to the residence. “You said no one was home, correct?”

  “No one’s here, currently,” Detective Sutton answered.

  “Alright then, men gather in!” he shouted to the officers who were each crouched behind their opened car doors, ready and waiting for something to happen. Once the captain’s order was communicated, the men holstered their weapons, looking disappointed as they made their way over to the front of the detective’s truck. The captain waited for the men to assemble, then he turned back to Detective Sutton. “Let’s develop a game plan. I don’t want no surprises. This is the last driver’s license on Kenna Simpson. She’s let it expire since then. The one I’ve got here is from back when she was still a teenager, so I don’t think it’ll help since she’s likely to have matured quite a bit since then. The other one is of Irena Simpson. Here’s what I pulled up from the data base.” He pulled out two enlarged photos, each from the Texas Department of Public Safety and presented them to Detective Sutton. “Which one’s the murderer?”

  “Neither one,” Detective Sutton said, taking a closer look at the photos. “This one is Irena Simpson. She’s the mother-in-law of Kenna Simpson.” He switched to the other photo and stared at it. Then he came around to my side of the vehicle and handed it through the window to me. “Is this Kenna?”

  The driver’s license photo took me by surprise. It was expired – just as Detective Sutton had been told. It had been taken several years ago, according to the expiration date. It was hard to imagine the girl was the same Kenna I had met. She was heavier in weight and her black hair was shiny, shoulder length and flipped back on the sides, out of her face. She looked considerably different compared to nowadays with her thin hair, skinny build and constantly battered face. It must’ve been taken early on in her and Bill’s marriage and certainly long before the steroids. But it was Kenna.

  “Yes,” I confirmed after closely examining the photo.

  “It’s not the girl I interviewed,” he confirmed. He took the photos and returned to Captain Watson. “This is Kenna, but it’s not the girl I met with a few days ago. I highly suspect that Kenna is dead.”

  “So, we do have a murderer,” the captain said in what I’d label as a joyous tone. “Do you think the girl you talked to did it?”

  “No, I think the husband did it, but back in Tarrant County. The girl in the truck reported Kenna missing.” He gestured toward me.

  “Murdered, not missing” I shouted back at him. “I reported her murdered.”

  Detective Sutton shook his head at me and then turned back to the captain. “My report said missing. I spoke with the husband, and he said he brought her here … to his mother’s house.” He went through everything again with each of law enforcement agents listening in. “If she has been murdered, then we have no idea where the body might be.”

  “Here,” Captain Watson said, pointing at the ground. “He probably brought her right here … just like he said. She’s probably buried in the backyard or in a crawl spa
ce under the house. Maybe even up in the attic in a trunk or something.” He turned to his team. “Don’t just stand there, get busy hunting.”

  Gloves came out of everyone’s pockets and like an army of ants, the men fanned out and began searching the grounds. I wondered if a search warrant mattered, but I supposed it didn’t.

  “You need a warrant,” Detective Sutton said as if reading my mind.

  “Of course, I do,” Captain Watson grunted and hopped on his phone, making a call to Thad as he referred to him, explaining to Detective Sutton that Thad worked in his administrative department. Eight minutes later, a long, black Lincoln Town Car pulled up and out jumped a short, round man with a bald head. He trotted over, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “That’s Judge Rankin,” the captain said to Detective Sutton as the man hurried over to them. “We now have a search warrant.”

  Okay, I was impressed. Talk about getting the job done. With the official go ahead, one by one, the law enforcement team disappeared into the backyard, into a shed at the rear of the property, through a garage, and ultimately under the house. One guy even lifted an old tire. I supposed it effectively left no stone unturned. There wasn’t a square inch that wasn’t inspected, investigated and examined. They were thorough.

  During this time, every neighbor on the block from both sides of the street, came out to take a look-see. They were all on their phones, either calling someone or filming the hubbub.

  In no time at all, cars filled with gawkers began canvassing the area, coming up from the south on one side and down from the north on the other. With a narrow street to begin with and police units parked on each side, gridlock occurred almost instantly. Two officers were pulled from the search team just to direct traffic. And another guy was stationed as a lookout for a white Impala, thinking the Simpsons might return home, but pass on by once they realized the commotion was at their house. My bet had them on their way to Mexico if they had heard what was going on, which was an extreme possibility.

  Eventually, everyone was instructed to use the lane as if it were a one-way, from south to north. But just when things seemed to fall into place, a local news crew turned the corner and headed up the street, finding a place to park a few feet shy of the dead oak tree. A reporter bailed out with a microphone, along with a man carrying a large camera on his shoulder. They immediately pounced on Captain Watson and Detective Sutton, steadfastly inquiring about what was going on.