by Roger Hayden
Upon their arrival, Fitzpatrick and Dobson were warmly received by the other detectives at the station. Heads turned from cubicles and offices as two officers escorted a limping Morris, bruised and dirty, to Holding Room A for questioning.
Fitzpatrick walked behind them with his head high to clapping and several atta-boys for his impressive detective work. Dobson kept his distance as he followed, increasingly skeptical of the applause. Perhaps it was envy. The thought had crossed his mind. Or maybe it was something else.
Captain Nelson was waiting for them, eager to put eyes on their unruly suspect. As the officer opened the door and pushed a handcuffed Morris inside, Nelson patted Fitzpatrick on the back and congratulated him.
“Fine work, Lieutenant. Fine work all around.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fitzpatrick said with a smile. “He gave us a little fight, but our well-trained task force quickly subdued him.”
“I heard he pulled a shotgun on you?” Nelson said.
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “He wasn’t happy to see us, that’s for sure.”
Nelson then eyed Dobson. “A quick word with you both.”
Fitzpatrick glanced at Dobson and then back at the captain. “Sure. What’s up?”
Nelson beckoned them toward a shadowy nook farther down the hall. “Follow me.”
Fitzpatrick raised a finger and then stuck his head inside the holding room to address one of the officers. “Have him sit, and we’ll be back in a moment.”
“No problem,” the bulky officer said. Morris grunted as they pushed him down onto the seat behind the table and then Fitzpatrick turned away, closing the door behind them.
Dobson and Fitzpatrick followed the captain down the hall to the security desk in the corner, where black and white monitors displayed the interiors of each holding room. They collectively watched the screen in the middle where Morris slumped in his chair and lowered his head, long hair covering his face, his arms locked behind him.
“He certainly fits the bill.” Captain Nelson’s eyes then shifted from the screen to Dobson. “What do you think, Detective?”
Dobson didn’t know what to say but tried to play along. “I think that we have a very unstable man in custody.”
“You think?” Fitzpatrick said with a laugh.
“We need hard evidence,” Dobson continued. “The gun fired in her bedroom, for starters.”
“The jewelry represents a direct link,” Fitzpatrick said.
“We don’t even know if it’s hers,” Dobson said.
Fitzpatrick opened his mouth and was promptly cut off by the captain. “That’s enough. I agree, finding the weapon would be a breakthrough. It would solidify the case. I just want to make sure we have the right person.”
“We might,” Dobson said. “But I don’t believe that he drove there.”
Nelson’s eyes widened a bit in surprise as Dobson continued.
“His vehicle looked like it hasn’t been driven in ages. Certainly not within the past week.”
Nelson then took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. “Go in there and talk to him. Get something out of him. Maybe he’ll reveal where the gun is. Has he requested a lawyer?”
Fitzpatrick shook his head. “We read him his rights, but he’s made no formal request for legal representation.”
“Okay,” Nelson said, leaning closer. “Book him under felony possession of a firearm for the shotgun. I’ll trust you two can work together on this.”
Dobson and Fitzpatrick exchanged glances.
“Certainly, sir,” the lieutenant said.
“Good. I’ll watch from here,” Nelson said.
With that, he dismissed them as Fitzpatrick moved swiftly toward the holding room with Dobson trailing behind, feeling the hunger pains of a missed lunch and the day far from over.
Fitzpatrick scanned his key card at the holding room door and walked in with a friendly demeanor. Morris remained slouched, head drooping toward the table. “How are you feeling, Mr. Morris?”
Dobson closed the door behind him and pulled his chair back from the table, sitting.
“Can we get you anything?” the lieutenant asked while pacing the room. “Coffee? Soda? Water?”
Morris said nothing in response. Fitzpatrick pulled his chair closer to the table and sat, hands folded over its surface. “We want this to go easy, Mr. Morris. All you have to do is tell us where the gun that you used to shoot Mrs. Bailey is at. Cooperate with us, and I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you. Maybe even lower the charges to second degree. She did, after all, fall down the stairs, right?”
Fitzpatrick waited as Dobson leaned back in his chair. Morris made no movements. A puddle of drool had formed on the table under Morris’s scruffy beard.
“Mr. Morris?” Fitzpatrick asked.
He slowly raised his head and stared at the wall beyond them, his gray eyes glossy and dazed. “I didn’t do it…”
“What was that?” Fitzpatrick asked.
Suddenly, Morris jerked forward, teeth gritted and seething. “I said, I didn’t fuckin’ do it!” He then kicked at the table with his leg and twisted around in his chair, startling both detectives.
“Mr. Morris, please calm down,” Fitzpatrick said, backing away.
Dobson then pushed his chair forward. “Didn’t do what?”
Fitzpatrick looked at him, surprised. “He knows what he did.”
“I don’t think he knows what year it is,” Dobson said, rising from his chair and walking close to the table. He leaned against its surface and studied their frantic suspect as he turned away and spit on the ground. “Mr. Morris, do you even know what you’re being accused of?”
“’Course I do,” he said, head down. “It’s that bitch ex-wife of mine. Just ‘cos I wanted her dead, don’t mean I killed her. I just thought about it. So what? She left me and took my kids.”
“We’re not talking about your ex-wife,” Dobson said, making the connection. “We’re talking about Andrea Bailey, the elderly woman that you’re accused of having murdered.”
Morris looked up in utter confusion. “Who?”
Fitzpatrick suddenly jumped in. “The woman you tried to sell frozen meats to. Wealthy woman who lived in a mansion.”
Morris dropped his head again, inches from the table, and said nothing. Dobson backed away from the table and sat, thinking to himself.
“Is your ex-wife dead?” he then asked.
Morris said nothing.
Dobson looked at Fitzpatrick then back at Morris.
“Do we know if any of this is true?”
Fitzpatrick shook his head and leaned close to Dobson, talking softly. “She’s alive and well. Lives in Missouri, newly remarried.” He then turned to Morris, speaking louder. “He knows exactly who we’re talking about. Don’t you, Randall?”
Again, Morris said nothing.
“You can tell us,” Fitzpatrick said in his most understanding tone. “We’re here to listen to you, but you have to know that we found the jewelry. We know you stole it from Mrs. Bailey, so why don’t you tell us what happened?”
A prolonged silence followed, to which Dobson turned to Fitzpatrick and spoke softly. “Can I talk with you outside?”
The lieutenant turned to him, slightly annoyed.
“Just for a minute.”
Fitzpatrick rose with a sigh and walked to the door as Dobson followed. They stepped into the hall and could see Captain Nelson in the distance, an impatient expression on his face.
“What is it, Detective?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“He’s not talking,” Dobson said. “If you want to waste an hour in there listening to his ramblings, that’s fine, but I’ve got other avenues to pursue.”
Fitzpatrick narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”
Dobson thought to himself but had no immediate answer. At least nothing that would appease the lieutenant. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”
Fitzpatrick’s breathing increased and his nostrils flared. “Are we going
to work together on this or not? Or do I need to have you reassigned to a different case?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Dobson said. “I know what I’m doing.”
Fitzpatrick stammered and then placed his hands on his hips, leaning forward and frowning. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing from you after what we’ve seen. I’m shocked, frankly.” His eyes moved beyond Dobson’s shoulders to Captain Nelson in the distance. “I’m going to recommend your removal from this case immediately.”
Dobson narrowed his eyes. “Under what justification?”
Fitzpatrick stepped forward. “That you’re out of your fucking mind!”
A silence seemed to permeate the entire hallway. Captain Nelson looked up from the monitor desk, prepared to walk over as Fitzpatrick recomposed himself and backed away.
“Maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words.”
Dobson shook his head. “I’m not trying to sabotage this case. I only want to capture the person or persons responsible.
Before he could respond, Fitzpatrick’s cell phone rang from his coat pocket. He paused and pulled the phone out, glancing at its screen. Initially, he seemed hesitant to answer but turned his back and held the phone to his ear, walking away.
Curious, Dobson listened as Fitzpatrick spoke in hushed tones.
“Yeah. He’s here right now. You’re more than welcome to come down and see.” He then turned around and hung up the phone, noticing Dobson’s stare. “That was Evelyn Bailey, if you must know. She wants to see the man who killed her aunt.”
Dobson pointed to the door. “And you’re going to show her that head case in there?”
“Cute,” Fitzpatrick said. “You’re dismissed, Detective.”
Suddenly, Captain Nelson emerged from farther down the hall with a woman walking beside him, Evelyn Bailey.
“Ms. Bailey. Glad you could make it,” Fitzpatrick said, walking past Dobson.
“She came here in record time,” Captain Nelson joked as they huddled in the hallway, leaving Dobson out of their circle.
“So, he’s in there,” Evelyn said, pointing to the door. “You actually caught him?”
Fitzpatrick extended his arm toward the monitor station. “Why don’t you have a look for yourself?”
Evelyn and Fitzpatrick walked past as though he wasn’t even there. Captain Nelson then placed a hand on his shoulder, concerned.
“Why the long face, Detective?”
Dobson shrugged and looked at the captain. “Nothing, sir. Just thinking.” He considered leaving, but then had an idea to stay close to Fitzpatrick and the Bailey heiress.
“Join us,” Nelson said, walking toward the monitor station.
Dobson followed as Fitzpatrick looked up and noticed his presence, but gave no hint of any tension between them. “You remember Detective Dobson?” he asked Evelyn Bailey.
She looked up from the screen, distracted, and then smiled when she saw Dobson standing off to the side. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, Detective. How are you?”
“Fine, Ma’am,” Dobson said.
Fitzpatrick cut in. “He did a hell of a job during our raid, though he’s a little unsure about Morris’s involvement.”
Evelyn glanced at the screen then at Dobson. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you find my aunt’s jewelry in his trailer?”
“We found jewelry, yes,” Dobson said. “But did it belong to Mrs. Bailey?”
“It did,” Evelyn said. She wore her blonde hair pulled back into a bun, showing off her pretty features. “Lieutenant showed me the pictures. That was her jewelry without a doubt in my mind.”
They all looked back at the screen to see Morris sitting handcuffed and staring at the wall in front of him.
“That’s him,” she said. “That’s the man who tried to sell us the frozen meats or whatever he had. I’ll never forget the deranged look on his face.” She turned away, wiping her eyes, tense and upset. “I want him brought to justice. I want—” She stopped and pushed between Fitzpatrick and the captain, moving swiftly back down the hall.
“Give me a minute,” Fitzpatrick said, following after her.
Dobson and Captain Nelson watched as Fitzpatrick caught up and stopped Evelyn near the exit. She seemed distraught as she turned to him and began talking, though neither Dobson nor Nelson could hear a word.
“What’s on your mind, Mike?” Nelson asked.
Dobson’s focus remained down the hall. “I’m not sure, sir. I need to get some air and clear my head.”
“Without a weapon, it’ll be hard to press charges,” Nelson added.
“I’m sure we’ll find it soon enough,” Dobson said, walking off. He quietly approached Evelyn and Fitzpatrick at the end of the hall, keeping his head down and trying not to bring any attention to himself. He glimpsed Evelyn placing her hands inside Fitzpatrick’s, squeezing them.
Dobson stopped and hid by the filing cabinet as the pair continued to talk in hushed tones, eyes locked onto each other. She then pulled her hands away, stepped forward, and walked through the door to the lobby as Fitzpatrick held it open for her.
Dobson kept his head low and pulled out his cell phone, pretending to talk as Fitzpatrick raced back past him to reconvene with the captain. Seeing his moment, Dobson continued down the hall through the exit, just in time to see Evelyn enter the lobby on her way out of the station.
He pushed through the lobby doors, keeping his distance as Evelyn raced outside. Beyond the glass, he could see her driver parked at the roundabout in front of the station, Mercedes idling. He moved past the manned front desk, head down, and nearly ran into a man wearing a trench coat and ball cap who had just entered the station.
“Excuse me,” Dobson said as their shoulders collided.
The man’s shoes squeaked on the tile floor as he stopped and turned to look, exposing a face of burn scars under the bill of his hat. “Quite all right, Detective,” he responded in a quiet, raspy voice. “Can you tell me where your Records department is?”
Dobson pointed to a door on their right, but kept his attention on Evelyn as her driver held the door open for her. “Down the hall and to the left.”
“Thank you,” the man said, displaying what looked like a press pass. “I’m doing some research.”
“Sure,” Dobson said, walking past him. “It’s down there.”
“Have a good day, Detective,” the man said.
“You too,” Dobson said as he pushed the entrance door open and walked outside. Evelyn’s Mercedes drove off as the cool breeze of the afternoon hit his face. They stopped at an intersection just outside the police station, giving Dobson just enough time to run to his vehicle and get inside before they pulled away.
* * *
The Mercedes crept ahead along the busy downtown street of afternoon traffic, with Dobson carefully following in the distance. He switched back and forth between the two lanes, remaining several car lengths behind and prepared to make a turn in either direction. They passed the town plaza and continued at a steady pace as traffic thinned out. Dobson wondered if Evelyn was driving to the Bailey estate or to her hotel.
The mansion was still an active crime scene, with police tape stretched across the front and back entrances. His curiosity piqued once he saw the Mercedes pass the Radisson and continue down the road, taking a quick right turn down Saxon Boulevard. The only thing down Saxon, to Dobson’s knowledge, was a run-down laundromat and a hokey strip of discount shops—hardly anything of interest to a well-to-do woman like Evelyn Bailey. But he could have been wrong. Maybe they were taking a back road somewhere.
He turned and followed as the Mercedes increased its speed and shot ahead. Dobson applied even pressure to the gas, hesitant about blowing his cover. If there was ever a time to follow her, he was there. His cell phone rang from the middle console. He didn’t recognize the number but pressed the speaker button anyway.
“This is Dobson.”
“Mr. Dobson, hello. This is Lenny Neumeier. Mrs. Bailey’s attorney.�
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“Hi, Mr. Neumeier. Thanks for getting back with me,” Dobson said.
“My pleasure,” he said.
His sunglasses blocked the abrupt glare of the sun as the Mercedes passed the laundromat and slowed down at a fenced-in shipping yard with dozens of unmanned semi-trucks parked in a row. Dobson tapped his brakes and watched as the Mercedes turned down a dirt road alongside a barbed-wire fence, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.
“I hope you can clear up some of the questions I have,” Dobson continued. “Last we spoke, you said that most of Mrs. Bailey’s wealth was to be transferred to a variety of charities.”
“That’s correct,” Neumeier said.
“And what exactly was she leaving behind for her niece, Evelyn?”
Neumeier paused for several beats before answering. “She isn’t mentioned in the will.”
Dobson was stunned. “How is that possible? Evelyn took care of her. She had described a great relationship between the two, so much that Mrs. Bailey placed her as the executor of the estate.”
“Yes and no,” Neumeier said after a sigh. “You see, Detective. Our relationship, that is Evelyn Bailey’s and mine, was rather tense. She didn’t approve of the way I was handling her aunt’s estate, and I didn’t necessarily believe that she was looking out for Mrs. Bailey’s interests, especially in regard to these charitable donations.”
“Why would Evelyn insist that the money go to these agencies as opposed to her?” Dobson asked. “Doesn’t add up.”
“I long suspected something askew, and after delving into several of the charities recommended by Evelyn, I discovered that they were actually fronts, established to siphon Mrs. Bailey’s money into her niece’s accounts.”
Dobson was at a loss of words. “What… Why didn’t you take it to the police?”
“At the behest of Mrs. Bailey. She insisted no harm come to her niece. She still believed that Evelyn had nothing but the best intentions. So, I acted and produced the evidence necessary.”
Dobson stopped at the shipping yard, prepared to turn in. The Mercedes was far down the dirt road, nearly out of sight. Instead of following, he drove on a short distance and turned onto the next narrow street, where the fence ended and a No Trespassing sign was posted.
