by Mike Monson
“Are you Paul Dunn?”
He froze, not at all sure if he could even talk. His head felt thick and slow and he couldn’t focus his eyes.
“Don’t fuck with me,” the policeman said. He put one foot across the threshold and brought his face up close to Paul’s. “We need to speak with Paul Dunn. Are you him?”
“Yes I am. What’s going on?”
Paul got a strong feeling that if he said the wrong thing (whatever that might be) that the policeman would hit him in the face and break his jaw or something.
He moved behind Mavis.
“I’m Detective Fagan and this is Officer Plant.”
Detective Fagan was a big man. Reminded Paul of the wrestler and politician Jesse Ventura. He’d never seen such a large policeman.
“Great, why are you here?” Paul said, sure it had something to do with his purchases of DM all over town the last two years or so.
“Do you have an ex-wife named Tina Dunn?”
“Well, technically, we’re still married.”
“She and her boyfriend Mark Pisko put out a restraining order on you last month? Because you threatened to kill them?”
Mavis said, “Oh that’s just part of the typical divorce back and forth. You know how people can get, Detective. Paul’d never hurt anyone.”
“Ma’am, both Ms. Dunn and Mr. Pisko were found dead just after one-thirty this morning.”
“Oh shit,” Paul said. “Goddamn it. I warned her. I told her not to get involved with Mark Pisko. Fuck.”
“Now watch your language, sweetheart,” Mavis said.
“Mr. Dunn,” Detective Fagan said, “do you own a shotgun?”
“I’ve never owned a gun in my life. I’ve never even fired one.”
“This is silly,” Mavis said. “Paul’s been here all night, since around eight-thirty.”
“We don’t have a time of death for sure yet but it was certainly several hours before they were found.”
“Why don’t all of you come inside and have a cup of coffee and we can work all this out?”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s Mavis, Detective.”
As Mavis offered her hand for Fagan to shake her robe opened a bit more. The Detective stared, his face growing redder.
“I’m Paul’s mother.”
“Uh huh,” Fagan said. He didn’t take Mavis’ hand. “Yeah, so … we’re going need your … uh, son … to come with us down to the station. He isn’t under arrest—at least not yet—but we need to talk to him.”
Paul started to cry.
“What happened? They were both shot … with a shotgun? Fuck! I fucking loved her. Goddamn it. It’s all that fucking Pisko’s fault. I’m sure it’s some shit he got them into.”
“Paul!” Mavis said. “Seriously. Watch your language.”
“I warned her I warned her I warned her, but she thought he was so hot and cool. Jesus! Now I wish I had killed him.”
“Paul,” Mavis said as she put her arm around her son. “Maybe you better go with the officers now. Don’t you think?”
FIVE
They didn’t let Paul change clothes for the trip to the station. They allowed him to put on a pair of flip flops, but they made him wear his ridiculous yellow sweatpants and puke-stained t-shirt. He wanted to bring his phone, but Fagan wouldn’t let him, though the detective insisted that he get his wallet.
An unmarked black Ford sedan and a patrol car sat at the curb. Paul automatically followed Detective Fagan to the passenger side of the Ford. Fagan raised one angry eyebrow and nodded at the patrol car. Paul got into the back of the black and white with officer Plant.
Mavis said she’d come to the station as soon as she “fixed herself up.” He knew that meant putting on makeup and some kind of sexy outfit. Plus, she’d need time to call everyone she knew with the news that her son had just been taken in by the police because they suspected he’d shot his wife and her lover to death with a shotgun.
This wasn’t his first trip to the police station. He’d gone there intermittently for years, usually with Mavis or his sister, Bethany, to pick up a niece, or a brother-in-law, or the nieces or nephews of one of his wives, or to pick up his mother or sister after visiting one of the wayward fuck-up relatives that always seemed to surround him.
He’d never been past the entryway and had never interacted with the policemen, but he’d seen every episode of Law and Order and hundreds of other crime dramas, so he recognized the tiny room Fagan put him in: metal desk with two wooden chairs, a video camera attached to the ceiling opposite the door, and a mirror on one wall that of course was two-way. He wondered who was watching. There was a notepad and a pen on the table for his confession.
Paul knew from TV he should keep quiet and ask for his lawyer, though he was pretty sure that strategy was just for guilty people. He didn’t have a criminal lawyer and didn’t like the idea of such a thing. For him, lawyers had always been all about wasted money and broken promises. Decided to go ahead and play innocent—perfect typecasting, after all. And, maybe, he could help.
“Did you kill Tina Dunn and Mark Pisko?” Fagan got right to the point.
“No, I did not, and it’s a ridiculous idea.”
“Oh, really? Why is that?”
“I’m not that guy, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. What do you mean? Who is ‘that guy?’ ”
“Someone who kills people. Someone who even has a gun.”
“Don’t fuck with me, asshole. I think you did it, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d just confess so I can sign off on this case and move on to other things. Save me all the trouble of going out and finding evidence and shit. I got enough going on without some pissant like you holding things up on this case.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. And, I’ve developed what you could call a sixth sense. So, I know you did it. I’m going to find out sooner or later but I guarantee that things will go a lot easier for you if you’d just confess now.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Okay, dumbshit. Have it your way.”
He stared at Paul for what seemed like five minutes before speaking again. Paul couldn’t look him in the eyes. Paul had a hard time looking anyone in the eyes.
“So, Mr. Dunn, take me through your day yesterday.”
“Starting when?”
“When did you get up?”
“Around noon.”
“Really? Was it your day off?”
“I’m presently unemployed.”
“Why is that?”
“I have a back injury, from a work accident.”
“Oh, so, you’re one of those, huh?”
“Whatdya mean?”
“On workers’ comp?”
“Yes, but—”
“Just sittin’ around on your ass collecting money? People like you make me sick.”
“Hey, I have a legitimate claim.”
“Of course you do. Just looking at you I can tell you are suffering. Big time.”
“Uh, Detective, really, shouldn’t we be concentrating on how to figure out who killed my wife? I mean, I know I didn’t do it, so let’s just get me cleared so you can move on and I can help you, okay?”
Fagan stood up. He took a step toward Paul and leaned down, grabbed a front leg of his chair and pulled. Hard. Paul went down on his ass. It hurt like hell.
The detective leaned over Paul, and, incredibly, held the chair above his head. He glared.
“What are you? Some kind of hard-ass?”
“No sir, just asking.”
“I ask. You answer. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good, now get back up and sit the fuck down and tell me where you were yesterday.”
Paul sat down. He could feel his face darkening with some humiliating version of a blush. He didn’t understand what was happening. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but he was a regular citizen and had never been t
reated like this before.
“Got up at noon. Then I had breakfast and watched TV until around five, when I left to go run some errands.”
“Productive.”
“Uh huh …”
“Jesus. Don’t you have any ambition?”
“What does that have to do with anything? I don’t get this shit.”
“So you just sleep away the day and veg out in front of the TV? That’s the kind of life you want to have? What are you, forty years old?”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-five.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’ve had a lot of jobs. I’m not totally worthless. I even have a college degree and a teaching credential. But I need to get my back fixed before I can get to working again. That’s all.”
“Do you have any actual skills?”
Thought about this for a moment. He shook his head. “Not really. I was a horrible teacher.”
“Big surprise.”
“But I’m sometimes good at getting information about stuff, about people, figuring out facts, research, that sort of thing. You know, googling.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Not that it’s ever done me any good. Made me any money or anything.”
“You know, I’m pretty good at getting information myself. I have a feeling it won’t be very long before I find out that you stand to profit from killing your wife. That is, if you were able to get away with it, which will not happen.”
Paul looked down. Didn’t know what else to do.
“So, was anyone else with you at your house, I mean your mother’s house, up until five?”
“My mother.”
“Anyone else?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. That was kind of private. He thought about it for a moment.
“Mr. Dunn! Anyone else there?” Fagan leaned forward in his chair. Paul covered his face with his hands until Fagan leaned back.
“My mom had a visitor.”
“She did? Who?
“I don’t know his name. Just some guy.”
“Why was he there?”
“He came to see my mother, like I said.”
“What did they do?”
“I don’t know … just hung out I guess. They were in her room when I got up.”
“Did he see you?”
“Yes, when he left he walked past me. I was on the couch watching TV.”
“And you two didn’t speak?”
“No.”
“Your mother had a guest in the house and she didn’t bother to introduce you?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“And when did this mystery man leave?”
“I’m not sure, around four or so.”
“We’ll have to speak with your mother about this.”
“Okay, good.”
“Does your mother make it a habit of having strange men over in the middle of the afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Your mother is a fine-looking woman. I think I’ll have to pay her a visit some afternoon, myself. You know what I mean?”
Fagan smiled, the fucker was enjoying himself.
“So then what?”
Paul shrugged.
“I went to the bank, then I guess I drove around for a while. Then I went to Wing Stop over off of Prescott. Then Walgreens, then home.”
“And that took from five to eight? Three hours?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay, Mr. Dunn.”
Fagan pushed the notepad toward Paul and handed him the pen. “Write all that down and be as specific as possible with locations and times and be prepared to produce receipts and bank statements to prove all of that activity. I’ll be right back.”
SIX
The Reverend Pete Fish pulled his black Mercedes sedan into the used car lot out on Crows Landing Road. It was seven a.m. and the sun was already high and bright. The dash gave the outside temperature: 78 degrees.
Jorge Rincon waited for him next to a 2001 Nissan Sentra ($1999). Big unlit cigar in his mouth. Hands behind his back. Rincon’s face was in shadow from his wide-brimmed hat so Fish couldn’t sense the man’s mood. Fish called and arranged this meeting, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared to death.
He parked a couple of feet away. As soon as he slammed his door shut he felt metal on the back of his neck.
“What the fuck, pendejo?”
Reverend Fish put his palms up about chest-high and started to turn around. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized the pistol in Rincon’s hand: A Sig Sauer P239 Tactical. A beautiful weapon—the same gun he’d tried to get Rincon to sell him a couple weeks before. Fish knew guns. And he knew that Rincon liked to shoot people when he was pissed off.
“Don’t you move, Rev,” Rincon said. “Put your hands on the roof.”
Fish complied.
“Did you do it?”
“No, of course not, Jorge.”
“But weren’t you there, you and your wife and daughter and that crazy Logan Swift? Trying to make a buy or whatever the fuck that was about. What kind of reverend deals in guns and now fucking drugs?”
Rincon pushed the barrel of the gun harder against Fish’s neck.
“No, not last night. We were there the night before and Mark decided he didn’t trust me and kicked us out.”
“That’s because he was fucking smart. Told me you brought one of your fucking guns to the meeting. What was that shit about?”
“Just trying to be careful. He wasn’t supposed to see it.”
“Didn’t know you were such an outlaw badass, Reverend Fish. What’s the name of that church of yours again, ‘The First Church of the Colt .45?’ ”
Fish looked at the ground. He lips moved.
“So tell me who killed my partner and his idiotic wife. And stole all that product I hadn’t even paid for yet.”
“It was Paul Dunn.”
“The fuck?”
“My wife’s brother. Tina’s husband. He killed them because she left him for Pisko.”
Rincon took the gun off of Fish’s neck and stepped back. “No shit?”
Fish turned around. Rubbed his neck. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“That pussy? He came and threatened Mark a couple months ago. We thought it was so funny. Laughed in his face right in front of his wife.”
“I guess he finally got pissed enough. We heard he got a shotgun a couple of days ago.”
“Why’d he steal the dope? He’d never know what to do with it.”
“Maybe he hoped to make it look like a robbery? I don’t know.”
“Where is he now?”
“In jail. They took him in about an hour ago. Just for questioning we think. Police found out that Pisko and Tina’d put out a restraining order on him for the threat.”
“But that was just to fuck with him. Mark wasn’t scared of that maricón.”
“His mother called my wife after they picked him up, she said they knew about the threats and since he was an estranged spouse he was the most likely suspect. You know.”
“Still, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure, it does, happens all the time.”
“I saw the bodies, Reverend. I just don’t see this Paul Dunn doing something like that.”
Fish looked at his shoes. His lips moved rapidly.
Rincon tucked the pistol in his pants at the small of his back. Stared at Fish. “You keep me informed,” he said and walked into his office.
SEVEN
Nearly an hour passed as Paul wrote up the previous day on the pad. He wondered what his mother was doing. Wondered why Fagan hadn’t returned. Hadn’t eaten since the wings and he was starving. He’d DVR’d Longmire, his new favorite show, the night before and he really wanted to watch it. Didn’t think they were allowed to just hold him for this long. It had to be illegal. He was close to asking for a lawyer. Plus, he wanted to know who the hell did kill Tina and that asshole Mark Pisko. He tried no
t to cry again.
He got up and walked to the door. Turned the knob. Wasn’t locked. As he pulled it open, Fagan rushed in carrying a manila folder. The policeman opened the door so hard onto Paul that the back of his legs struck the side of the table and he kept going and fell over onto the other side. His back seized up and he lay there for a moment unable to move.
Fagan stood over him.
“I told you I have a back injury,” Paul said. “Shit, I think you fucked it up even more. What’s wrong with you?”
Fagan picked Paul up like he was nothing and slammed him back down into the chair.
“I know you did this, you sonofabitch.”
Paul really thought it might be time for a lawyer.
“I’ve been doing a little research,” Detective Fagan said. “Want to know what I found out?”
Fagan took off his suit jacket. Hung it up by a hook on the door. Blue dress shirt soaked with sweat. Walked over and sat on the table so he was practically sitting in Paul’s lap. Planted his huge legs on each side of Paul’s chair and used his feet to drag the chair closer.
Paul looked at the camera and at the mirror.
“What? What are you looking at? You think someone is watching us? No one is watching us.”
The policeman’s body odor was foul. His breath was even worse.
“You know why no one is watching us? Because no one gives a shit.”
Fagan stared.
“And you know why no one gives a shit?”
“Why?”
“Because you aren’t shit. That’s why. You are just about the worst thing a person can be. A murderer.”
Paul felt enveloped by Fagan’s body, by his smell, by his hatred. The floor disappeared beneath him.
“Don’t you want to know what I found out?”
“Okay.”
“I had a nice long talk with your mother. Such a charming woman. She told me that you have a lot of financial obligations. Alimony, child support, etc. Isn’t that right?”
Fagan brought his face even closer to Paul’s and stared.
