Poisoned Dreams

by A. W. Gray

  “And now you’re one of the superchiefs. Tell me, Jerri—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “—an attractive single woman, does it scare men off that you maybe could put them in jail?”

  “It’s the hardest part of it,” Jerri says reflectively. “That’s why most law enforcement people, if they have any social life at all, it’s with each other. My boyfriend, was my boyfriend until not long ago, he’s a homicide detective I met on a case I prosecuted.” It doesn’t bother her that one romance has fizzled; a woman with Jerri’s looks and smarts will never lack for suitors. She presently enjoys her Valley Ranch home, just down the road from the Dallas Cowboys’ football practice field, which she shares with a cocker spaniel named Monroe and a Samoyed named Sam.

  The interviewer adjusts his yellow legal pad in his lap and turns over a page. “Now, in Richard’s prosecution …”

  Jerri is suddenly concerned. “Now, I already told you, I can’t talk about the case while it’s on appeal. The judge’s gag order is still—”

  “Not the case itself, Jerri, I know you can’t talk about that. I’m really wanting to talk about attitudes, like, how you would have felt if you’d lost. Would you have taken it personally?”

  A determined blink. “You bet.”

  “More so than with other cases?”

  She reflects on this, elegant lashes lowering, and then raising once more, the wheels of her mind practically clicking audibly as she prepares to translate thought into spoken word. “Look,” she finally says. “There’s always conflict in trial. The other side’s trying to win, I’m trying to win, okay? But a lot of these defendants you can work up sympathy for, they’ve had a tough life. But not this guy. He’s had every advantage. God, what I wouldn’t give to have gone to Harvard.”

  “But surely there are worse crimes than what he’s been convicted of,” the interviewer says.

  Jerri’s brows shoot upward. “Are there?”

  “Rape, murder in a robbery …”

  “All committed by unbalanced people. He’s not a bit crazy. He was after the money. Nancy loved him, and because of that she overlooked all these—these signs, and trusted the guy. He used her love and trust to turn around and murder her. There’s no worse crime on the face of the earth, if you’re asking me.”

  Jerri Sims listened carefully to what the Dillards had to say and took extensive notes. She could see problems. It would be difficult to convict Richard even with stacks of physical evidence—and even if the stories Nancy had told about the wine and pills and the Coke in the movie could be brought out in court in spite of the hearsay rule, which Jerri seriously doubted—because jurors live in an orderly world. Every juror would question Nancy’s motives; if she suspected that the guy was trying to poison her, why on earth would she let him move back into the house? As she listened to Bill Jr. and Big Daddy recite the circumstances, Jerri was already considering her arguments. Somehow, some way, she would have to make jurors see the total chaos that had boiled in Nancy’s mind.

  25

  Exactly how much the Dillard meeting with the district attorney influenced the sudden kindling of police department interest in the case is up for grabs. But within days of the second conference at the Crowley Building, homicide detectives got on the stick. Though still lacking a medical examiner’s ruling, Detective Ortega and his partner, Detective Kathy Harding, went to Big Daddy’s Rheims Place mansion on February 24, six weeks after Nancy had died. If Richard had indeed murdered Nancy, he’d had ample time to cover his tracks.

  The detectives met with Big Daddy, Sue, and Mary Helen in the Dillards’ majestic living room, a far cry from the surroundings to which Ortega and Harding were accustomed. Ortega had already heard Big Daddy’s story, but now the detectives listened to Mary Helen’s version of the tale, and Bill Jr.’s wife had much to add. For one thing, she told Ortega and Harding about Richard’s canceled checks made payable to Houston’s General Laboratory Supply, and for the first time made Ortega feel that he had something solid to go on. So important did the information seem, in fact, that Ortega and Harding flew to Houston the following day and had an extensive discussion with Ellen Rose of General Lab.

  The initial trip to Houston ended in frustration. Yes, Richard had made purchases, but no, none of the orders included arsenic. The only toxic substance that Richard had bought, in fact, was barium carbonate, which on February 25, 1991, meant exactly nothing to the investigation; not until the analysis of the wine and pills hidden in Lynn Pease’s trunk came to light would Richard’s original buy from General Lab mean anything at all. One pill, one single capsule located near the bottom of the clear plastic container found on Nancy’s doorstep, was packed with barium carbonate, but as Ortega stood in Houston on February 25, the single tainted capsule remained undiscovered. Ms. Rose of General Lab couldn’t even identify Richard’s picture in a photo lineup, for goodness’ sake. As Ortega rode the Southwest Airlines jet from Houston back to Dallas, he felt that he’d wasted his day.

  The following morning, Ortega went over everything he had, and drew a total zero. Barring a sudden discovery of a poison buy, the General Laboratory lead was virtually useless. Nancy’s revelations to members of her family meant nothing without backup evidence, and her revelations might not be admissible in court. After much thought Ortega decided it was time to take the bull by the horns and interview Richard Lyon in person. A face-to-face encounter would make up Ortega’s mind as to whether or not the Dillards were barking up the wrong tree, and could put the entire matter to bed.

  Anyone who is literate enough—and, hopefully, sufficiently intrigued—to have read this far, and who hasn’t spent the past thirty years or so in a vacuum, can likely recite the Miranda warning by heart. Screenwriters and authors of police thrillers have the words down to a T, but pulp and movie fiction blow the importance of Miranda in the overall scheme of things out of proportion. Policemen do not beat their fists into bloody pulps against the wall while the criminal, freed because no one read him his rights, saunters out of the jailhouse while grinning and shooting the finger, and haven’t in decades. Just as prosecutors have learned ways to steer around the hearsay rule, policemen know legal gymnastics that render the Miranda warning totally useless as an escape hatch for the accused. Those contemplating a life of crime should pay particular heed to the following.

  The Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that no one, regardless of the amount of intimidation employed by law enforcement, has a right to a Miranda warning unless that person is under arrest. Policemen know this, and also understand the state of mind common to all suspects in a criminal case. All suspects believe they can convince the cops that they’re after the wrong person. So, keeping this in mind, detectives no longer clap the suspect in irons, place him under a spotlight, and grill him through the night while blowing cigarette smoke in his face. The modern cop apologetically tells the suspect that he, the cop, is sure that the suspect is innocent, and that if the suspect will drop by the station for a “visit,” the investigation will likely end right then and there. “Do I need a lawyer?” the suspect says. “What for?” the policeman says. “This little chat we’re going to have would bore a lawyer to tears.” Gets ’em every time. On February 27, 1991, Richard Lyon wasn’t under arrest, and therefore wasn’t entitled to a Miranda warning.

  A great deal depends on surprise in the questioning of suspects, so Ortega didn’t call Richard to say that he was coming. Richard answered the doorbell at the Shenandoah duplex around nine-thirty in the morning on February 27, and blinked in surprise as he read the detective’s ID shoved in his face. Richard was groggy with sleep, having just returned from a business trip. Ortega tersely introduced himself, told Richard that he was investigating Nancy’s death, and asked if Richard would come downtown with him to answer a few questions.

  Ortega, with twenty years’ experience in murder investigations, feels that he can determine whet
her or not a suspect is hiding something just by the suspect’s reaction to certain things, but many would question the detective’s theory. After all, anyone awakened by a policeman on their doorstep is apt to be somewhat nervous. One would expect Richard, on learning for the first time that the police were involved in the matter, to be curious. Why did the police want to question him, and why was the Dallas homicide unit interested in the matter at all? Nancy had died from septic shock, hadn’t she? Richard asked none of these questions, however. He merely nodded dumbly, told Ortega to wait while he dressed, and accompanied the policeman downtown in an unmarked city car. Even before the questioning session, Ortega was certain that he had his man.

  Once they arrived on the third floor of the dismal old downtown police building, Ortega sat at his desk with Richard in a straight-backed chair to the detective’s right. Kathy Harding sat across from Ortega. Ortega produced a legal pad for taking notes. Richard nervously crossed his legs.

  “I’m not sure what this is all about,” Richard said.

  “You’re not?” Ortega interviews suspects in a monotone; if anyone shows emotion during such sessions it will be the suspect. Ortega has big round eyes that give his face a peaceful expression, as if nothing in this world could upset him.

  Richard clasped his hands in his lap. “I know it’s about Nancy. How she died, I guess.”

  “What did she die from?” Ortega said.

  “I don’t know exactly,” Richard said. “Septic shock, whatever that is, is what the doctors told me.”

  “She was poisoned,” Ortega said, then doodled on his pad to allow the statement to sink in. That the police were still without the medical examiner’s report was, of course, something Richard had no way of knowing. This was his opportunity to ask how the police knew that Nancy’s death wasn’t accidental, but Richard merely regarded the floor.

  “Mr. Lyon,” Ortega finally said. “To save time. While we’re talking here, do you mind if Kathy Harding goes and searches your house and car?” Matter-of-factly, in an even tone of voice.

  Richard hesitated. Inexperienced suspects always do in situations like this. Above all, suspects wish to appear innocent; any criminal attorney or convicted burglar would have told Richard at this point that if he allowed the cops to conduct a search without a warrant, he was a fool. At long last, Richard said, “Of course not,” and tossed his car keys onto Ortega’s desk.

  Ortega scooped up the keys and turned them over to Kathy Harding, who left the office immediately. Then Ortega took pen in hand and regarded the suspect. “From the beginning, Mr. Lyon. Tell me everything you can remember about the day, and the night, you took your wife to the hospital.”

  Richard now told Ortega the identical story he’d related to the nurses in the hospital, and the same tale that he was to tell later on the witness stand. He’d gone to Houston on business that day—once again the tale included intricate details of the people he’d met in Houston, and with whom and where he’d eaten lunch, and a description of his ticket purchase at the airport using his credit card—and had returned home between five and six to find Nancy ill. He told Ortega about the morning coffee and how it had tasted terrible to him. He’d done everything he could to make Nancy feel better using home remedies, and had even had her doctor phone in a prescription to nearby Eckerd’s Pharmacy, which Richard had personally filled. Around midnight, he said, when it became apparent that Nancy wasn’t going to recover on her own, he’d taken her to the hospital. Richard’s story has never changed, down to the minutest detail.

  Ortega listened impassively and took notes. When Richard had finished speaking, Ortega said, “Mr. Lyon, if someone had wanted to kill Nancy, you got any idea who that someone might be?”

  This question is designed to cause the suspect to stammer and sweat, but Richard had a surprise in store. He said quickly, “Well, there’s her brother.”

  Now Ortega had difficulty keeping his own composure. “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” Richard said quickly. “Bill Dillard Jr. The guy had incest with Nancy when they were kids.”

  Here Ortega nearly dropped his ballpoint. Understandably, the long-ago problem was something the Dillards hadn’t discussed with the police or anyone else. Ortega lowered his head, made a note, and didn’t say anything.

  “The guy,” Richard went on, “he’s always in a bind for money. Nancy’s inheritance goes to him.” This wasn’t entirely true, of course, as long as Big Daddy and Sue were still kicking, and on Big Daddy’s death, Susan Dillard Hendrickson would be entitled to the same portion of Nancy’s inheritance as Bill Jr. The statement, though, did give Detective Ortega pause. He wrote down Bill Jr.’s name.

  “Anyone else?” Ortega said, almost as an afterthought.

  “Well, yeah,” Richard said.

  Ortega lifted his eyebrows.

  “This guy she worked with,” Richard said, as if he’d suddenly found oil. “David Bagwell. Nancy was going to testify against him in a lawsuit, and she got a death threat at work. And, oh yeah, the guy’s brother is a doctor and was on duty at Presbyterian while Nancy was dying. Have you ever heard of the Black Widow?”

  Of course Ortega had heard of the Black Widow; it was his own homicide unit that had helped the Tulsa police investigate Sandra Bridewell in connection with her third husband’s death, and also had looked into the death of Betsy Monroe Bagwell.

  “Well, John Bagwell,” Richard said, “David’s brother. He’s the guy whose wife was killed.”

  Ortega was hitting pay dirt; he’d started the day with only one suspect, and now he had four. He wrote the Bagwell information down, then favored Richard with a heavy-lidded stare. “Mr. Lyon,” Ortega said, “have you ever kept any poisons around the house?”

  “Certainly,” Richard said. “We’ve had fire ants. Amdryl, Amdro, commercial products. Damn fire ants are in the backyard, right where the children play.”

  Ortega was careful with the next question; it was something he’d been setting up all along. Casually he said, “Besides the fire ant poisons, have you ever bought any chemicals?”

  And Richard said, very quickly, “No.”

  It was a lie. Ortega immediately dismissed the Black Widow, David Bagwell, Bill Jr., and anyone else other than Richard. The man was lying. Keeping his tone on an even keel, Ortega bored in. “Mr. Lyon,” Ortega said, “have you ever bought any chemicals in Houston?”

  Richard paused, swallowing. “Well, no. Not that I—”

  “What about from General Laboratory Supply, Mr. Lyon?”

  Richard gave a nervous laugh. “Oh. Oh, yeah.”

  Ortega laid his pen aside and folded his hands. “You’re sure.”

  “Sure, I bought … mercury. To fix a battery I was building.”

  Ortega had trouble keeping his elation in check. None of the invoices he’d seen showed a mercury purchase. The detective picked up his pen and wrote something down. “Is that all you bought from them?”

  Now Richard was trapped. He seemed lost in thought. “Well, I bought some arsenic acid down there.”

  Ortega nearly pressed a hole through his notepad. “And when was that?”

  “October. November maybe.”

  “And for what purpose?”

  “The fire ants.”

  Ortega was, understandably, confused. It wouldn’t be until he had Ellen Rose go over General Laboratory Supply records once more that the answer would surface. The invoices Ortega had already seen, traced by using Richard’s canceled checks, were all in the name of either Hughes Industries or Architectural Site Services. Richard had made other purchases in his own name and paid in cash. Ortega said merely, “Do you still have the arsenic acid at the house?”

  By now Richard couldn’t hide his nervousness; his gaze averted, he said, “I think … I think I threw it away so the kids wouldn’t get into it.”

  “You threw it away. Did you
throw anything else away?”

  “Listen,” Richard said. “Maybe I should call my attorney.”

  Ortega stared. “Mr. Lyon, were you having an affair?”

  Richard swallowed. “Huh?”

  “An affair. Our information is you were having an affair with a Miss Debi Denise Woods.”

  “What does that have to do with … ?”

  “I didn’t say it had anything to do with anything,” the detective said. “I asked if you were having an affair.”

  “Nancy knew about that,” Richard said.

  Ortega nodded. “So she did.”

  “I don’t think I should answer any more questions without an attorney present,” Richard said.

  Ortega leaned back and intertwined his fingers behind his head, his round Hispanic face impassive. “Suit yourself, Mr. Lyon. But it’s too late for this session. I’m through asking questions.”

  Richard glanced in panic at the door. “I’m free to go?”

  Ortega waved a hand in the direction of the exit. “Sure you are. By the way, did you poison your wife?”

  Richard’s cheeks sagged, his facial muscles out of control. “Of course I didn’t.”

  “Well, if you didn’t,” Ortega said, “there’s a way to get us off your back.”

  Richard showed a questioning look.

  “Polygraph,” Ortega said. “Lie detector. You mind taking one before you leave?”

  Richard’s gaze shifted. “How long would it take?”

  “Half hour. No more than that. You got time.” The last was a statement, not a question. “Unless you’re hiding something,” Ortega added.

  Richard was indignant. “Suits me. And no, I don’t have anything to hide.”

  Ortega smiled. “I hope you don’t, Mr. Lyon.” He pointed a finger off to one side. “Polygraph guy’s right down the hall, sir. Follow me.”

  Meanwhile, Detective Kathy Harding went over the Shenandoah duplex with a fine-tooth comb. She started with the small upstairs bedrooms, opening and rummaging through closets, stooping to peer underneath the beds, all the time catching glimpses of the dome atop SMU’s Dallas Hall through the windows. She went downstairs, past the photos of Richard and the kids—all pictures of Nancy were gone—and did a thorough search of the living room. Then the attractive brown-haired police detective went to the back of the house into the small, outdated kitchen, knelt to look under the sink, stood on tiptoes to open the cabinets, and finally went through the back screen door into the yard. She paused to look around.