“To celebrate, he booked himself a hotel room, took a much-needed bath, and then visited the local barber shop. It was a challenge, he says, because no one wanted to feed him or house him looking the way he did when he first got to town, all filthy and smelly, with a big bushy beard and hair grown well below his collar. ‘But I convinced them when I showed them these,’ he says, and then he takes out a handkerchief, unfolds it, and drops two small gold nuggets onto the bar. He tells the others, ‘I cashed one nugget in already—the biggest one—to pay for my room and all, and these may not look like much, but that vein I found has enough gold in it to make twenty men filthy rich. Problem is, it will require some blasting and hauling work to get the rest loose, and I’m flat broke. All I have left for money is these gold nuggets right here. So I’m willing to share my good fortune with anyone who wants a part of it, because I can’t get the gold out alone. And, believe me, there’s plenty to go around. Would any of you good fellows be interested in a stake?’ ”
Carter paused to take a sip of his drink and I looked around the table at the others. He had their undivided attention and had he paused much longer, I’m sure there would have been a loud protest.
“So that’s the guy’s story,” Carter continued. “After he is done with it, several of the men in the saloon walk over and examine the nuggets the prospector has dropped onto the bar. One of the men suggests they might be fool’s gold, but another fellow, one who knows how to tell real gold from the fake stuff, assures them the nuggets are real. With that assurance, several men take money out in preparation for buying a stake in the prospector’s mine. But the barmaid, who happens to be the bartender’s wife, tells them to put their money away because it’s obvious the prospector is lying. How does she know?”
With that, Carter leaned back in his chair and took another swig from his drink, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
Dr. T was the first person to venture a guess. “Was the guy who said the gold was real in on it with the prospector?”
“Nope,” Carter said. “No consults this time, Dr. T. The prospector is alone.”
No one else said anything for a minute or so, and then Holly snapped her fingers and said, “I got it! You said his face was tanned . . . the whole thing?”
Carter smiled and nodded.
“Then clearly the man was lying. If he’d been out in the desert for months and had to shave when he got to town, the lower part of his face that was covered by the beard wouldn’t have been tanned.”
“Excellent!” Carter said.
“Just in time for me to head back to work,” Holly said, beaming.
“Good work, Holly,” I said. “Since you’ve already had and paid for your lunch, the next time you come in, you can have a meal on the house.”
“I’ll be back tonight after work,” she said. “I want to know what’s going on with that poor little boy.”
“Me, too,” Alicia said, and then the two of them got up and left.
The next hour or so was blissfully normal, an ordinary day in the bar. It felt good to be away from all the death and mystery, but we all had one ear tuned to the TV the entire time, waiting to see if there were any updates on the search for Davey Cooper. There weren’t, but just before three o’clock, Duncan called me.
“I need your help,” he said.
I had mixed feelings about the request, because I was eager to see him and hoped it would be some good news about the Cooper case, but I also feared the news might be bad.
“What’s up?” I asked, and then I held my breath waiting for the answer.
“We found Jamie Cooper,” he said. “In fact, we had him the whole time and didn’t know it. He spent the wee hours of Sunday morning in the drunk tank, plastered out of his mind after he was arrested outside a local bar. Apparently he had been on one hell of a bender and when the bartender cut him off, he got mad and started trashing the place. He left before the cops got there, but some public ambassadors found him curled up in an alley around four in the morning. He didn’t have any ID on him—we think somebody rolled him—so he was listed as a John Doe. When he woke up yesterday afternoon, they moved him to the jail pending an arraignment today and he didn’t give us his name until just a little while ago. We have him here at the station now and we’re getting ready to question him. Would you mind listening in?”
I breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t bad news and felt a sense of renewed hope. Maybe Jamie Cooper would help us find his son. “Sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to.”
“Great,” Duncan said. “I have a patrol car waiting out front to bring you here.”
His presumptuousness annoyed me, but not enough to change my mind or my mood. So I told him I’d see him shortly and then made arrangements with my staff to cover things while I was gone.
The same two cops who drove me to the Coopers’ house were waiting out front and they greeted me like old friends. I had mixed feelings when Tyrese declared me a member of their cop family and the district’s secret weapon.
When we arrived at the station, they dropped me off out front and I went inside, where I was buzzed into the inner sanctum. Duncan greeted me in the hallway and escorted me back to the same room I’d been in when he interrogated the suspects in Dan Thornton’s murder. I settled in and turned on the room speaker and then waited while Duncan went to fetch Jamie Cooper.
When Duncan brought Jamie Cooper into the room, it was easy to see why no one had recognized him despite all the appeals on TV. He didn’t look anything like the picture that had been broadcast with the Amber Alert. His dark hair was greasy looking and messy, he had several days’ worth of scraggly beard growth, his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his overall color was pasty. He also looked much thinner in the face than he had in the picture I’d seen.
Duncan steered him, shuffling, to a chair, which Jamie dropped into like a sack of wet towels. Jamie then leaned forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. Duncan left then, which had me puzzled for a minute, and I watched to see what Jamie might do. He didn’t budge until Duncan returned bearing a cup of hot coffee. Jamie cupped it in his hands like it was the most precious thing he’d ever held.
Jamie took a sip of the coffee and, judging from the grimace on his face, it either tasted bad or was scalding hot . . . maybe both.
“Mr. Cooper, I need to talk to you about Davey and Belinda,” Duncan began.
“What’s the bitch want to do to me now?” Jamie grumbled, his speech sloppy. His voice tasted like sour soup that was too hot, making me want to spit. “I told them I can’t pay child support if I don’t have a frigging job. What the hell do they expect from me?”
“You seem to have been able to afford to buy booze,” Duncan observed, and Jamie shot him a mean glare. “When did you last see Belinda?”
“I don’t know . . . a few weeks ago?”
“Where have you been for the past two days?”
Jamie snorted with amusement. “I don’t know. Can’t remember much,” he said. “Why?”
“When was the last time you were at Belinda’s house?” Duncan asked, ignoring Jamie’s question.
“I haven’t set foot in that place in . . .” He grimaced as he tried to think, as if it hurt. I suspected it did. “Long time ago,” he said finally.
“Your ex-wife Belinda was found dead Saturday night,” Duncan said.
Jamie stared at him a moment with a half smile on his face while his brain tried to process the information. Then he let out a big belly laugh. “Good one!” he said, slapping a hand on the tabletop. “You cops are a riot.”
Duncan said nothing; he just sat in his chair, leaning back and staring intently. Jamie shook his head and continued to chuckle to himself for a few more seconds. But when Duncan’s demeanor and expression didn’t change, Jamie’s expression sobered up. “You’re just messing with me, right?” he asked with hope in his voice.
“No, I’m not,” Duncan said very matter-of-factly. “We found her dead in her bedroom Satu
rday night.”
It took Jamie several seconds to digest this bit of information. He shook his head once as if to rattle something loose, and the action made him moan and then massage his temples.
I knew the moment things clicked for him. His shoulders straightened and he sat up rigid in his chair. He dropped his hands and looked back at Duncan. “What happened to her?” he asked, and the soupy flavor of his voice turned to a beefy strong taste that was no longer too hot. “And where’s Davey?”
“Let’s not play games, Mr. Cooper,” Duncan said. “I think you know very well what happened to her.”
“I do?” Jamie said, looking thoroughly confused, and when the beefy taste didn’t change, I felt his confusion was genuine. But whether it was due to his innocence or his inability to recall past events due to whatever drunken state he’d been in, I couldn’t be sure. “Where’s Davey?” he repeated.
“Don’t you know?”
“How would I know?”
“Mr. Cooper, your ex-wife was murdered.”
Jamie just stared at him, gape jawed. I half expected Duncan to fill the silence that followed—it felt as if it lasted for a full minute or more—but he remained silent, and the two men engaged in a stare-off. I don’t think either one of them blinked once the entire time, but while Duncan was clearly focused on Jamie Cooper, Jamie didn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular. I got the sense he was trying to digest the news that had just been delivered.
It was Jamie who eventually broke the silence, finally focusing his disconcerted stare on Duncan. ”Someone killed Belinda? Why? I mean, sure, she was a bitch to me, but hell, I deserved it. She never hurt anybody . . . never bothered anybody. And she didn’t have much. Why would anyone want to hurt her?”
“I understand you hurt her yourself a time or two when the two of you were married,” Duncan said.
Jamie looked as if he was about to object, but instead he snapped his mouth closed and hung his head in shame. “I know . . . I did some stupid stuff. I’m still doing stupid stuff. It’s the damned booze. It makes me mean, but I can’t seem to stop.” He threw his head back then and sighed heavily. For a few seconds he sat that way, staring at the ceiling, and then I think the reality of his situation suddenly dawned on him. He moaned, rubbed his stomach, lifted his head back up, and stared at Duncan. “You think I killed her, don’t you?”
“Did you?”
Whether it was the motion of his head, the hard hit of reality, or some combination of the two, I don’t know. But the next thing to come out of Jamie Cooper’s mouth was vomit. Duncan shot back with his chair just in time to avoid the splatter as it hit the edge of the table and the floor. Duncan muttered some choice words that made his chocolate voice taste like it had jalapeños in it, and then he got up and left the room.
He entered the room I was in a few seconds later. “Well, wasn’t that just dandy,” he said, clearly disgusted.
“At least you avoided the puke bomb,” I said, trying to hide my amusement because I sensed Duncan wouldn’t appreciate it. Vomit has never really bothered me, as I’ve been around it my entire life. You can’t work in a bar for any length of time and not be exposed to it on a somewhat regular basis. I suppose I’ve become inured to it the same way medical professionals often do.
We watched as an officer took Jamie out of the room and a maintenance worker came in to clean up the mess. “When he’s cleaned up, I’ll take another go at him,” Duncan told me. “What’s your take so far?”
“He seems genuinely befuddled by it all, but it’s hard to tell if that’s because he doesn’t know anything or if it’s because he just doesn’t remember. It looks like he went on quite the bender.”
“Yeah, he still reeks of alcohol, and that was before he barfed.”
“Do you think he could have killed his wife and done something with the kid in such a bad state of drunkenness that he truly doesn’t remember any of it?”
Duncan shrugged and frowned, watching the maintenance guy, who was sprinkling some kind of powder on the mess in the interrogation room. “Serious drunks have blackouts all the time, so who knows? The killing did seem kind of clumsy and maybe that’s because he was so drunk he couldn’t function normally.”
“Maybe,” I said doubtfully, and Duncan didn’t miss my hesitation.
“What? You have another idea?”
I shrugged. “Jamie’s a big guy and Belinda Cooper was a small woman. Even drunk out of his mind, I would think he could overpower her easily.”
“You’re right,” Duncan admitted grudgingly. “We had hoped to find some blood or tissue from the killer under Belinda Cooper’s fingernails. We did find tissue, along with some nylon fibers, but the tissue was her own, from pulling at the panty hose that were wrapped around her neck.”
“Unlike the kidnapping, Belinda’s murder didn’t seem well planned,” I said. “The panty hose, were they hers?”
“They could have been. They matched others we found in her bedroom, but they’re a standard brand that half the women in Milwaukee probably have, so I don’t know if that’s any help. I have the lab techs analyzing some skin cells we found in them, so it would appear they had been worn. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Well, I don’t see any killer taking the time to take off their own panty hose to strangle the woman, so I’m betting they’re Belinda Cooper’s.”
Duncan looked at me then and smiled.
“What?” I said.
“You’re getting the hang of this. You’re starting to think like a cop.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I think so. I always knew you’d make a good bar-stool detective.”
The door to one of the other interrogation rooms opened and an officer escorted Jamie Cooper inside. He still looked haggard, but his face was clean and his hair was wet and looked as if a comb had been run through it.
“Okay, here we go again,” Duncan said. “Show me what you can do, Mack.” With that, he gave me a peck on the cheek and headed in for round two with Jamie Cooper.
Chapter 24
I switched the speaker knob over to the new room and sat back to listen to round two of Jamie’s interrogation.
“Sorry about that,” Jamie said when Duncan entered the room and sat catty-corner from him. “My head is spinning and that coffee didn’t sit too well.”
“You’d be surprised how many cops react the same way. We’re not known for the quality of our coffee here.” Duncan’s demeanor was relaxed and easy, I presumed to set Jamie at ease. “Mr. Cooper, your ex-wife is dead . . . murdered . . . and we need to know where you were between the hours of six and eight on Saturday evening so we can rule you out.”
“She really is dead?” Jamie said, looking sad and pathetic. Duncan nodded. “I was hoping you were just messing with me, trying to rattle me or something by saying that.”
“Can you tell me where you were?”
Jamie screwed his face up and I couldn’t tell if he was having an emotional reaction to the news, trying to remember where he was during the time in question, or in some kind of pain.
“I suppose you could check at the places I normally hang out,” he said finally. Then he named two bars located not far from mine. “What about Davey?” he asked then. The concern and worry on his face looked genuine.
“We don’t know where your son is,” Duncan said. “He’s missing.”
“Then he’s not dead, too?” His relief also seemed genuine, though Duncan’s next words made it short-lived.
“We don’t know. There’s no evidence at the house that he was harmed in any way, but we have no idea where he is or who he’s with.”
Jamie Cooper leaned forward, put his arms on the table and his head on his arms. Then he began to sob.
Duncan waited patiently for a minute or so, then he grabbed a box of tissues on the table and slid it toward Jamie, nudging his arm with the box. “What can you tell me about Valeria Barnes?” he asked gently.
Jamie r
aised his head, grabbed a tissue from the box, and blew his nose noisily. When he was done, he said, “Val? I just met her like a month ago. She introduced herself one night when I was at one of the bars I go to. She likes to party and she was willing to buy me drinks, so we kind of hit it off. ”
“Are the two of you lovers?”
Jamie made a face that I couldn’t quite read. “No, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. It seemed like she always had an excuse.” He paused and ran a hand through his damp hair. “And when I drink, I sometimes . . . I have trouble . . . you know?” He looked at Duncan with a sad, embarrassed expression.
“Your roommate said you haven’t been there in a while. Are you staying at Valeria’s place?”
Jamie nodded. “I was. She has a camper that she lives in and she invited me to stay in it at night with her. It was nice in a way because she would arrange to meet me somewhere each night we got together and we could park the thing somewhere close to a bar and then spend the night in the camper if we wanted to and not have to drive. Though, most of the time Val would move us during the night, because in the morning when I woke up, we’d be somewhere else.” He shot Duncan a worried look and then shrugged. “I suppose you already know I have several DUIs and lost my license awhile back.” Duncan nodded. “That’s why I lost my job. It’s hard to be a car salesman if you can’t drive.”
Murder with a Twist Page 19
