Poisoned Dreams

by A. W. Gray

  The connecting garage and servants’ quarters were at the back of the yard with an entrance opening onto the alleyway, and Detective Harding decided that the garage was the next place to search. As she walked in that direction she passed a stone cherub on her right, and crossed the sidewalk under which, eight months earlier, Nancy had discovered the fire ant bed. The February wind bit with icy teeth; Kathy Harding hugged herself as she entered the garage. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the musty odor of stored paint, then she went to work. Her search of Richard’s tool cabinets and underneath his work bench, plus a careful survey of every corner, nook, and cranny turned up the same thing she’d found in the house: exactly nothing. In the garage she did find a half-full green and red sack of Amdro, a common fire ant poison sold in feed stores and supermarkets. Though she doubted its value in the way of evidence, she took the Amdro with her.

  Back in front of the house, she stood in the driveway and opened the trunk of Richard’s Alfa Romeo. She’d found nothing of significance inside the car, just as she’d found nothing in the way of evidence in the house, but she did discover one thing in the trunk that gave her pause. The strange item was a soccer ball, which Detective Harding picked up and turned around in her hands. Someone had poked a number of holes in the ball’s leather hide. The soccer ball, Detective Harding thought, was a puzzler.

  After Richard had taken the polygraph exam, he got on the phone and found his own transportation home from police headquarters. He’d apparently decided that the less time he spent in Detective Ortega’s company, the better off he was going to be. As Richard stood in the doorway leading to the third-floor hall, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, the short, round-faced detective regarded the suspect with a stone-faced glare. Ortega then told Richard in no uncertain terms that he was the prime suspect in Nancy’s murder, that he was free to go, but that he hadn’t heard the last of the matter. As Richard walked away down the corridor, he was trembling all over.

  When Richard had gone, Ortega went over his file. The incest stories he’d heard from Richard plus Richard’s alleged suspicion of Bill Jr. and David Bagwell, all of these things Ortega decided were mere smoke screens. Aside from Ortega’s certainty that Richard was lying, he still hadn’t been able to shake the suspect’s story of what had occurred on the day that Nancy died. Richard’s admission that he’d bought arsenic acid in Houston was the biggest break in the case thus far, and since Richard hadn’t been entitled to any Miranda warning—which was the plan in having the suspect in for a talk to begin with—Ortega himself could testify in court to what Richard had told him. Still and all, it wasn’t a great deal to go on.

  Ortega needed more information and rapidly thumbed through the notes he’d made, both in his conversations with the Dillards and his just-finished chat with Richard. Somewhere, Ortega knew, he had Denise Woods’ address and phone number. If anyone could shed light on a murder prompted by marital infidelity, that person would be the other woman.

  26

  If Richard had been nervous about going to the police station, Denise Woods was absolutely petrified. Ortega called the striking, azure-eyed blonde just moments after Richard had left the homicide division, and tersely demanded that she come in for an interview that afternoon. Up to that point, Denise had thought that the rumors regarding an investigation into Nancy’s death were nothing but vicious gossip. After she’d hung up from speaking to Ortega, she sat speechless and stared at the phone for several moments. Her insides were cold.

  By the time Denise had dressed, driven downtown, and located the Crimes against Persons section at main police headquarters, it was nearly three in the afternoon. Denise had never seen the inside of a police station in her life; as she told the receptionist her business, her voice quavered. The receptionist directed Denise into the lobby waiting area and picked up the phone to buzz Ortega. Denise sank down in a waiting room chair. She felt as if she might faint.

  She didn’t have long to wait. As she sat staring at the far wall, a burly, square-jawed man in a flashy blue suit came out of the homicide office, flopped down in the chair beside her, and said, “You Denise?”

  Denise recoiled as if slapped. “I’m Miss Woods,” she said timidly.

  “I’m Detective McNear,” the man said, leaning back and crossing thick legs. “I guess you know this is about your boyfriend.”

  “My … ?”

  “Your boyfriend. Mr. Richard Lyon, the guy that murdered his wife.”

  Denise was on the verge of tears. “Look, I don’t know anything about this.”

  “Come on, we know he did it,” McNear said. “There’s no point in beating around the bush about it.”

  Denise swallowed hard. “You have evidence of that?” she said.

  “We’ve got some,” McNear said, nodding. “You bet. Well, follow me and let’s get this over with.”

  He crooked a finger in her direction, then got up and led the way past the receptionist into the homicide section, making it very clear that as far as he was concerned, the “Ladies first” rule didn’t apply. As she followed the broad back and swaggering shoulders down the hallway, it dawned on her that the guy was treating her as if she was a suspect herself. She practically gagged with fear.

  McNear took Denise to a small interview room containing a bare wooden table with straight-back chairs on either side, told her to have a seat, went out and closed the door behind him with a bang. Denise sat and nervously drummed her fingers. McNear had put the fear of God into her, and she had no way of knowing that the burly cop was merely a warm-up act for what was to come.

  Now it was Ortega’s turn. The short detective entered the room at a brisk walk, his round-eyed gaze on Denise, his legal pad dangling at his hip. He sat across from her and readied a ballpoint. “You already know what this is about, don’t you.”

  Denise hugged herself. “I’m sorry. But who are you?”

  “Detective Ortega. You know what this is about?”

  Denise was still petrified, but now was getting angry as well. “I don’t think I do.”

  “Well, it’s about your Mr. Richard Lyon killing his wife. Don’t you know that?”

  “I don’t believe Richard killed anybody,” Denise said. “This is all a bunch of bull.”

  “Yes, he did,” Ortega said aggressively. “Nancy Lyon was poisoned slowly over a period of time. At the end it took just a teensy bit to push her over the edge.”

  Denise crossed her legs and testily rocked her foot. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you believe it or not. First I want to ask you about—”

  “What kind of poison?” Denise said.

  “Arsenic. Cyanide. Strychnine. What does it matter? I’m asking the questions here.” Ortega prepared to write. “First I want to know about this trip to Mexico you took with him.”

  Denise’s anger melted instantly into shock. Up to that moment she’d thought that only she and Richard knew about the Puerto Vallarta trip; underestimating the Dillards’ pipeline was a serious mistake. She said faintly, “Mexico?”

  “Mexico,” Ortega said. “Our information is that two weeks after his wife died, this guy took you to Puerto Vallarta. Anything to that?”

  “What does that have to do with—?”

  “Listen.” Ortega laid his pen aside and pointed a finger. “You’re about two inches away from being in a heap of trouble yourself. Me, I’m the one deciding what has to do with what. Now, did he take you to Mexico or not?”

  Denise’s gaze lowered, and she said meekly, “Yes.”

  “That’s better. Where did youall stay down there?”

  “Garza Blanca.” Denise’s vacant gaze was impassively on the wall above the detective’s head.

  Ortega’s tone intensified as he said, “That’s a helluva note, miss. The guy’s wife not even cold in her grave and you’re gallivanting off to Mexico
with him.”

  Denise was suddenly hoarse. “I just went along as a friend.”

  “A friend? A friend? A man and woman going off together, and you’re saying you’re just a friend? Tell me something. You think that’s normal?”

  Denise shut her eyes tightly, turned away from Ortega, and folded her arms. “I’m not answering any more of your questions.”

  “Don’t make it hard on yourself,” Ortega said.

  Denise was practically screaming. “You’ve already made it hard on me. And you can put me in jail or whatever, but I’ve got nothing more to say.”

  Ortega expelled a breath, then stared at Denise for the better part of thirty seconds. Finally he rose, extended a hand, palm out, and said, “Just a minute.” Then he took a couple of steps, stopped, and said, “Don’t move a muscle,” and left the room.

  Denise couldn’t breathe. It was as if her lungs were frozen. Would they lock her up? In less than a minute, when a not unpleasant-looking woman entered the room, Denise decided that she was in fact going to jail. The woman must be her keeper. To Denise’s surprise, the newcomer sat in Ortega’s place and smiled across the table. “Denise, I’m Kathy Harding. You’ll have to excuse these men around here, they’re awfully rude sometimes.”

  When shown on television, the bad cop–good cop routine is often humorous. In real life the situation is anything but. Denise breathed a large sigh of relief. “I’m not hiding anything. Really I’m not,” she said.

  Suddenly Ortega reentered, pulled up a second chair, and sat next to the woman. Denise flinched.

  “He’s going to sit in,” Harding said, “but I’ll ask the questions, okay?”

  Denise stared daggers at the male detective, then said to Harding, “All right, but I won’t speak to him.”

  “Fine,” Detective Harding said. “And, I’ll tell you, this case is in the investigation stage. Nobody’s accused anybody of anything yet.”

  “That’s not what he told me.” Denise pointed at Ortega.

  Harding smiled. “Well, maybe he jumped the gun. Denise, do you use any poisons in your business?”

  “No. What’s all this talk about poison, anyway? Have you found some?”

  “Nancy gave some things to her friends,” Harding said, “which we believe are poisoned. Some wine and some pills.”

  “Why not have them tested?” Denise said.

  “We’re doing that.” Harding glanced at Ortega, who sat impassively by, taking notes. “Denise, I know you’ve been close to Richard,” she said. “Did you even know that he was sleeping with Nancy?”

  “No. He hasn’t in over a year.”

  Harding slowly shook her head in a just-between-us-girls attitude. “Not true, Denise. I hate to be the one to tell you. He came by her house, by their house, on Shenandoah pretty often, without telling her he was coming.”

  Denise was surprised and, though she tried not to show it, just a bit jealous. “He respected her,” Denise said, “and they were into shared parenting.”

  “Oh, Denise,” Harding said, sympathetically shaking her head. “Listen, let’s change courses. Richard’s already told us he bought arsenic in Houston. Did you ever see it?”

  “The ants, he … no, I never saw it, but he bought it for fire ants. He threw it away when he was through, I think.”

  Harding examined her nails. “He threw it away. During the times you’ve been with Richard, have you ever known Nancy to be sick?”

  Denise pursed her lips. She was sorry the woman was dead, but still bore a grudge. “Nancy was sick,” Denise said, “when it was convenient for her to be sick. If she’d find out Richard and I were going out somewhere, she’d call him and whine that she was sick. Away he’d run to her, then when I’d see him again he’d tell me there was nothing wrong with her all along.”

  “He said.”

  Denise lifted her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Richard told you there was nothing wrong with her, is that right?” Harding said.

  “Well … yes.”

  “Denise,” Harding said, “did you ever know Richard to lie?”

  Denise was firm. “Only once. Only once in the whole time I’ve known him.”

  “Oh? When was that?” Harding’s voice was soft and encouraging, a real change from Ortega’s gruff male tenor.

  “It was only so I wouldn’t know the real reason he went on a trip with her, that was just after Christmas.”

  “And what did he tell you? What did he say that was a lie?”

  “He told me, just that …” Denise paused to gather her thoughts. “Well, he told me the reason they went on this trip was because she had this rare disease, and she needed treatment at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York. But he was just covering his …”

  Denise paused. The two cops were staring at each other, Ortega sitting forward with an attitude of urgency. Finally he spoke. “Will you sign a statement to that effect?”

  Oh, my God, Denise thought, what have I told them? She pursed her lips together in determination. “No.”

  The detectives exchanged glances. Kathy Harding regarded Denise, the detective’s gaze soft and caring. “Look, Denise. I’ve got to tell you,” Harding said. “Richard’s been here today, and he busted hell out of a polygraph test. We’re going after Richard in a big way. Please, Denise, don’t let him drag you down along with him.”

  Denise lowered her head and closed her eyes. At that moment she wished she’d never been born.

  Denise refused to sign a statement and was never to give her consent, but the detectives knew full well that the signed statement didn’t matter. If necessary, Jerri Sims could subpoena Denise and put her on the stand where, under oath, Denise would have to repeat the story of Richard’s lie or suffer the consequences. The lie showed intent, and next to Richard’s admission of the Houston arsenic buy, was the best information the police had yet uncovered. After Denise had gone home, the detectives talked things over. They had enough to proceed. More than enough, in fact.

  The following day, Ortega did something that was uncharacteristic for him, and newsmen who know him are still in a quandary as to his motives. Ortega had never before confided in the media, not once in his two decades as a homicide cop. But for whatever reason, Ortega got together with Captain Mike Brock of the University Park Police, and the two of them called a news conference. With minicams grinding and newspeople scribbling furiously, Ortega stated that the death of Nancy Dillard Lyon was no accident. She’d been poisoned, Ortega said, slowly and systematically over a period of months. There was only one suspect as far as the police were concerned, Ortega said, and that man was Nancy’s husband, Richard Lyon.

  After the headlines appeared in both the Dallas Morning News and the Times-Herald the following day, Richard went into seclusion for a while. He called Stan Wetsel at Architectural Site Services and resigned, stating that his life was in too much turmoil for him to continue working. Wetsel, who’d read the papers along with the other three million metroplex residents, accepted Richard’s resignation willingly, and no doubt with some relief. And Richard did have problems. Massive problems. His first order of business was to find a good lawyer.

  27

  Young Dan Guthrie could pick ’em up and lay ’em down. He was, as they say on the dusty West Texas plains, a runnin’ fool. As a mere colt of a kid he went all the way to Minneapolis to blister a northern track with a 22.4-second 220-yard dash, then a national record for thirteen-year-olds. Ain’t no way, grizzled West Texans thought, they can keep the Guthrie boy out of the Olympics, once he gets some seasonin’ to him.

  As a boy, Dan Guthrie was a nomad, a year here, two years there. His parents divorced early on, and Dan lived with his dad, a radio and TV announcer for small-town stations in Sweetwater, San Angelo, you name it. And wherever his father put down for a spell, Dan Guthrie would run and run. As a seventh-grader
in Abilene, Guthrie’s hero was his next-door neighbor, a champion high school sprinter named Carlton Stowers, who was to grow into a writer and win an Edgar award; Dan spent months and months doing his best to mimic Stowers’ running style.

  So talented a sprinter was the Guthrie lad that his parents agreed, when Dan was a ninth-grader, that the boy needed roots; each time Guthrie transferred high schools, he would lose a year of his track eligibility. So Dan went up to Dallas to live with his mother, and spent his prep school years at Bryan Adams High. As a senior he recorded a 9.6 in the hundred-yard dash, which back in those days was movin’ on. His high school record earned him a scholarship to Rice Institute in Houston, where as a freshman he was considered a shoo-in to one day be the Southwest Conference champion sprinter.

  Dreams tend to fade, however, and Guthrie never lived up to his high school promise. His decline as a runner was no fault of his own; he suffers from a congenital defect known as spinal bifida, which causes hamstring muscles to pull easily. Guthrie’s college track career was riddled with injuries.

  Unable to run as he wanted, Guthrie moved fast in other ways. At Rice in the sixties he became a campus leader and a skillful fundraiser for college projects; it was largely through his efforts that the university obtained money for a campus radio station. He also did nighttime duty as a disk jockey, spinning platters for Houston’s KILT radio under the pseudonym of Jim Gregory. After the tragedy at Kent State University, Guthrie, along with a college sidekick named John Sortore—who today lives in New York City and serves as president of Drexel Burnham, a stock trader of some note—became a campus rover and searched for hidden bombs. By 1971, when Guthrie earned a bachelor’s degree from Rice in economics and accounting, he had experience in several trades.