Find Me When I'm Lost

by Cheryl A Head

  “Okay. Let’s move in another direction. How would you describe your son’s demeanor?”

  “What do you mean?” Stanford asked.

  “My colleague has been looking into Peter’s movements the day of his death. He spoke to the bartender at the watering hole Peter and Franklin visited on Wednesday night.” Judy flipped a page in her notebook. “The bartender described Peter as a regular at the bar, and often belligerent.”

  “He had a quick fuse,” Pamela agreed.

  “That’s true,” Stanford said. He was perched on the edge of his chair. “Always a hothead. Ever since he was a boy.”

  Sharon, who hadn’t spoken before, stood. “I will not sit here and listen to you criticize Peter,” she interjected angrily. “My boy is dead. How are these questions helping us?”

  Sharon began to sob, sinking back into the chair. Stanford moved to give comfort to his wife, putting an arm around her and cupping her face in his hand. Pamela watched, pressing a handkerchief to her nose. Judy took note of the family dynamic—sincere grief and concern for each other. She thought she might lose the Fairchilds if she didn’t interrupt the emotions.

  “Mrs. Fairchild, I have two sons. Teenagers now. Very different from each other. One is always in some kind of trouble at school. He barely accepts a kiss from his old mom these days,” Judy said with a quick smile. “But he’s a smart, loving kid.”

  Sharon’s sobbing subsided. She lifted her head as Judy spoke and nodded once.

  “My other son, the younger one, is a whole different story. He’s sensitive but tries not to show it. He’s always concerned for me. He and I still spend time together watching TV or playing cards.”

  Stanford saw his wife’s changed composure and returned to his seat. Judy leaned forward on the couch.

  “Mrs. Fairchild, I want to ask you a question. It might seem superfluous, but your answer could lead to a line of inquiry we hadn’t considered. It might help us find your son’s murderer. Will you help me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Novak,” Sharon said.

  “What was Peter like?”

  The simple question opened a floodgate of memories. Sharon spoke about her son with feelings that belied her aristocratic bearing. She recalled his insecurities in school, trying hard to fit in. Peter and Pamela had grown up in this house, and there hadn’t been many other young people on the block. They’d sent him to a boys’ academy in Washington, DC, for a time, but he couldn’t find his way. He was athletic, but also interested in music, playing the trumpet for a while. Sharon spoke of her husband’s many absences from home and how a young Peter sometimes cried himself to sleep missing his father.

  Stanford Fairchild listened uncomfortably.

  Sharon explained that when Peter became a teenager, he found friends who were also interested in music and he formed a band. He hadn’t really been a drinker before that, but the bar atmosphere appealed to him and he eventually developed a drinking problem. They’d sent Peter to a six-month residential program in Connecticut for counseling and to wean himself off of alcohol.

  Sharon’s voice was strong with compassion for her son’s flaws. Sometimes she looked at Judy, but more often she closed her eyes, reciting her words to the place where she hoped Peter’s spirit resided. Throughout the account of Peter’s ups and downs Pamela sat stoically, occasionally running her hand across the front of her dress. She shook her head almost indiscernibly a few times. But Judy saw it.

  Stanford was not as emotionally distant from Peter’s story as Pamela, but he was certainly less forgiving than his wife. Judy watched his jaw clench tight for five minutes. A few times he glanced at his wife with a look that bordered on antagonism. By the end of Sharon’s telling he was slumped in his chair with his hands folded tightly.

  “Thank you for sharing all of that, Mrs. Fairchild,” Judy said, mother to mother.

  Judy was done with her questioning. There was an awkward twenty seconds of silence as she completed her notes. She raised her head from her task when she heard Stanford rise from his seat. He lifted his wife by her elbow. Pamela and Judy made eye contact, and then Pamela stood too.

  “Thank you for your time,” Judy said quickly, standing and shoving her notebook and pen into her big purse. “This has been very useful, and I hope I haven’t caused you too much additional pain.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Novak,” Sharon said with sincerity. “You will keep us apprised of your findings.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Fairchild. We’ll be making a report to Pamela on a daily basis.”

  “I’ll also want a copy of that report, Ms. Novak.” Mr. Fair-child’s lips were a tight line.

  “Of course.”

  Clearly, Judy had made a connection with Sharon, but not with her husband. Pam rang for Chase, and he appeared at the couch, holding Judy’s coat. “I’ll be happy to see you out, ma’am,” he said.

  They said their goodbyes, and Judy looked over her shoulder as the three Fairchilds stepped through the door to the private residence from which they’d arrived.

  # # #

  Back behind the wheel of the Impala, Judy started the engine to warm it up and reached for her bag. She completed the notes she’d been making before her dismissal. Then she glanced at the Fairchilds’ home, trying to imagine what it would be like to grow up there. Beautifully furnished, spacious, staff like Chase to take care of your every need. Still, these opulent surroundings couldn’t protect Peter from being a lonely child with a distant father.

  Judy grabbed her phone and dialed Gary. The chaos of her house came full force through the speakerphone.

  “Why is Abby barking?”

  “The appliance repairman is here for the washer. I’m going to put her in the crate because the guy won’t come in the house. What’s up, sweetie?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice. The kids got off to school okay?”

  “Abby! In the crate,” Gary yelled. “What? Oh yeah, everyone got some version of breakfast, and they’re off for the day. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “Great. I have to go before the repair guy decides to leave. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “See you. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Judy disconnected the call and took a last glance at the small mansion. She turned on the now-warm heater and left the idyllic for the normal she preferred.

  Chapter 5

  On rare occasions Don shared food with his office mates. Today he’d brought in pierogi from Polonia Restaurant in Hamtramck. The steaming hot dumplings oozed grease through the paper bag, and Judy put them on a tray to protect the conference table. Charlie, who usually purchased or made a salad for lunch, offered to spoon out some of the greens, tomatoes, and cucumbers onto their plates. Surprisingly, Don accepted.

  “You on some kind of diet?” Judy asked.

  Don smirked as best he could with a mouth stuffed with beef and onions. He grabbed a plastic fork and with a flourish speared a cucumber and shoved it in with the meat.

  “Speaking of diets, don’t let me eat more than two of these things,” Charlie pleaded. She followed the bite of vegetarian dumpling with a big swig of water. “Judy, finish telling us about your meeting with the Fairchilds.”

  “I did get a couple of specific leads. Pamela said there were two women Peter has been seen with recently, and there’s some guy he’s been meeting with about a bourbon deal.”

  “A bourbon deal?” Don asked.

  “Some whiskey company with a celebrity brand. I think the guy who owns the distillery was trying to get Peter to invest in the company. Mr. Fairchild might have checked out the guy, but he didn’t seem sure. I’ll ask Pamela to follow up with him on that info.” Judy paused to bite into a cheese, potato, and kraut pierogi. She picked up a napkin to swab at greasy lips. “These things are delicious. Thank you, Don.”

  “You’re welcome, Novak. So, what was your takeaway on the blue bloods besides they’re rich and have a house no kid should have
to grow up in?”

  “Well, their feelings about Peter are interesting. There’s a clear division when it comes to him. The father and Pamela seem to think he was a mess up all his life. The mom, Sharon, has explanations, or maybe just excuses, for his behavior. She admits Peter was a challenge to raise, but thinks his chronic troubles stemmed from his father not being around enough.”

  “Did they know if Peter had enemies?” Charlie asked.

  “He had lots of potential enemies, according to Pamela. She said people called her all the time saying he owed them money.”

  “That’s something we should look into,” Charlie said. “But why would he need money? He comes from wealth and had a steady job with his father, didn’t he?”

  “The dad wasn’t very detailed about the work Peter did; in fact, he was hesitant talking about it. Seemed to me it might have been a placeholder job for his son.”

  “The guy had rich tastes,” Don said. “His loft apartment is nice. Fancy artwork. A 180-degree view of the city. Solid, man-sized furniture. He spent a lot of cash on the decor. Maybe that’s why he needed more.”

  “Does he own or rent that place?”

  “He has a three-year lease and has been there a year and a half.”

  Charlie reached for a vegetarian pierogi. “This makes two. You have permission to shoot me, Don, if I go for a third.”

  “Right, Mack.”

  “Have you called Franklin again?” Judy asked.

  “Yep. I tried his mobile this morning. The phone is still on, and the mailbox isn’t full, so I’m assuming he’s ignoring the messages. I spoke with Mom about it. She suggested talking to his parents.”

  “How is Ernestine?”

  “Good. She was very helpful today. Her mind was sharp, and of course she’s shocked about Franklin. I hadn’t thought to call so she read about it in the newspapers like everybody else.”

  Don reached for another pierogi. His fourth. “Does your mother think he’s innocent, Mack?”

  “She thinks there would have to be a darn good reason for Franklin to kill someone. Like he snapped, or it was self-defense.”

  “Do you know Franklin’s parents well?” Judy asked.

  “I haven’t spoken to them in a long time, but yes I know them. They’re very nice people. Mom sees his mother from time to time at funerals.”

  “Funerals?”

  “Franklin’s father is a minister at Gethsemane Baptist Church. He’s been the pastor there for more than twenty-five years.”

  “So that’s your plan for this afternoon, see the other set of parents?” Judy asked.

  Charlie nodded.

  “Want me to come along?”

  “No. I’m taking Mom. I thought she might help. You should focus on how we can find Peter’s friends that Pamela mentioned. The two women.”

  “Right.”

  “What about you, Don, what’s on your list for the afternoon?” Charlie asked.

  “I made an appointment with Wallace to look at the crime photos, and I hope I can look at the security footage they pulled from Peter’s building.”

  “Good,” Charlie said, eyeing another pierogi.

  “Don’t even think about it, Mack,” Don warned.

  “There’s one more thing about the Fairchilds that sort of bothered me,” Judy said. “Stanford seems to think it’s possible Franklin did kill Peter. Maybe because he received a call from the police chief and the cops are convinced, but he practically ordered me to make sure we aren’t blinded by any allegiance to Franklin. It was an awkward moment. I think they’d been talking about it before I arrived. They’re a close-knit group, but I could see and feel the tension between them.”

  “He’s right you know,” Don said. “Franklin could be guilty.”

  “I know it’s possible,” Charlie conceded for the first time, struggling to believe her own words. “Maybe he and Peter had a fight. I don’t know. Judy, what about Sharon Fairchild? Does she believe Franklin’s guilty?”

  “Hard to say. She seemed as distressed as Pamela when Fairchild insisted that we follow the clues.”

  “Of course we’ll follow the clues. Wherever they lead.” Charlie pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “We have plenty to do this afternoon. Let’s check in again around five.”

  Chapter 6

  Don sprawled at a workbench in a makeshift library at police headquarters and studied the crime scene photos. He’d shucked his jacket and was on a second cup of ebony-black, head-buzzing coffee. Detective Wallace, second-in-command in the criminal investigation unit, had provided the full manila envelope from the police photographer, two hundred pictures in all. The photos deemed the most important were pinned to the case board, which Wallace had rolled into the room an hour ago.

  Don still had good standing with the Detroit Police Department, one of the assets he brought to Mack Private Investigations. Charlie was persona non grata with some members of the department because of a recent case implicating a dirty cop, but Don was still one of them.

  The photos certainly told a story. Countering Charlie’s notion that Franklin and Peter might have fought, the apartment was in the same organized condition he’d seen yesterday. The only difference was the gun lying on the shag rug and Peter’s body lying on the bathroom floor. There were dozens of closeups of the blood spatter on the bathroom floor and walls and mirrors. Don noted the bathroom ceiling baffle, the same kind as in the master bath. If a shot was fired in this room with the door closed, it might not even be heard in the master bedroom.

  The gun found in the apartment’s man-cave area was a Ruger GP100 revolver. The closeup showed the blue-steel alloy frame and black rubber grip. It was a solid workhorse weapon for home security. Don checked the police report; the weapon had been discharged twice. The .357 magnum bullets in the barrel matched the ones extracted from Peter’s body and the ones found in Franklin’s safe. The one curiosity for Don was the gun’s location—on the shag carpeting in the living room. Why would Franklin, or anyone, shoot someone in the bathroom, then leave the gun in another part of the apartment? Don got to ask that question when Wallace returned to the room.

  “What’s your theory about the Ruger?”

  “We figure Rogers panicked. Maybe his coat was on the couch and he ran for it, then dropped the gun.”

  Don looked dubious. “Possible, I guess. He wouldn’t necessarily hear it drop on the carpet.”

  “That’s what we thought.”

  “What about these photos, Wallace?” Don pointed to a set of six pictures he’d laid aside. They showed the apartment’s front entrance and the vestibule. “The door to the apartment was closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fingerprints on the doorknob?”

  “Yes, but smudged, as if someone had tried to wipe them off. Nothing usable.”

  “Did you find Franklin’s fingerprints anywhere else in the apartment?”

  “On the Ruger and a couple on a table in the living area.”

  “Not on the bathroom door handle?”

  “Nope.”

  Don stood to look at the photos pinned to the case board.

  “What’s the interest in the windows?”

  “We found prints on the sills that were fresh. Not Franklin’s.”

  “But those could have come from a party guest or a maintenance guy,” Don said. “We hear Peter had a lot of people coming and going at his apartment.”

  “We’ve heard the same thing.”

  “Did you find bloodstains anywhere else? Wouldn’t the shooter have gotten shmear on his shoes or clothes?”

  “Likely, since that guest bathroom is so small, but it looks like the door was open when the shots were fired because there is almost no blood on the inside of the door,” Wallace said.

  “So, the killer might have fired the shots from the doorway?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “So the guy would have transferred some blood, don’t you think? Like to that deep-nap rug?�
��

  “Right. I’m sure the techs checked the rug and the couch.”

  Don returned to the workbench, and Wallace joined him. “What’s the glass here in this one?” Don held out one of the photos he’d laid aside.

  Wallace looked at the number on the back of the print, then flipped through a thick set of stapled pages. He traced his finger down one page and stopped. “It says here glass from a broken fixture in the elevator entrance.”

  “You mean the lightbulb in the vestibule was broken?”

  “Yes. I think that’s what it means.”

  “You don’t think that’s odd? There’s a camera in that entryway. Was somebody trying to avoid being seen?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the bulb was just broken, and the maintenance folks hadn’t gotten around to repairing it.”

  “Do you have time to show me the security footage?”

  “Yep. I’ve got it all set up for you. It’s on my desktop computer. Come on down.”

  Don followed as Wallace rolled the case board—cork on one side and a chalk surface on the other—out to the bullpen. Then he entered his office where his desk and a round conference table took up most of the space. The footage, edited by the police media techs, was timecoded and cued to the date and time: 2.06.08/20:48. Wallace used his mouse to start the viewing.

  The first scene showed two men, one white, one black, entering the front entrance of the building. Don had only seen photos of Franklin. As chief of staff for the Wayne County executive, Franklin was often in the public eye, substituting for the top elected official of Michigan’s largest county.

  Franklin was slightly taller and appeared to be assisting Peter through the door. The next scene showed them clearly inside the elevator. They were arguing. More accurately, Peter was pointing his finger at Franklin, who was shaking his head. Then Peter got in Franklin’s face so close that Franklin put his hand on Peter’s chest to keep him at bay.

  The next section of footage, again from inside the elevator, was twenty minutes later. It showed Franklin, sweating and disheveled. He lurched from the elevator as the doors opened on the first floor. Then, on the lobby camera, he retreated through the front door and looked back over his shoulder. The camera caught his shocked and guilty look. Wallace closed out the file, returning the desktop screen to the folder view.