Borderline

by Joseph Badal

A sudden image of Victoria as she’d seen her on the DVD again came to Barbara’s mind. She couldn’t fathom what motivated a person like her to do the things she’d done.

  “I understand your former wife is in a care facility,” Susan said.

  Horton looked as though he’d been struck.

  “That’s correct. For almost six years now,” he said. He looked from Susan to Barbara and back again to Susan. “All because of me,” he added in a husky voice barely above a whisper.

  “Why do you say that, Doctor?” Barbara said.

  “Because it’s true. If I had any character at all, my children would still be alive, and Patience would be . . . well.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a framed picture, looked at it for a second, then handed it to Barbara. “I look at that photo of Patience, Jeremy, and Abigail before I start work in the morning and before I leave at night. Those innocent faces . . . . My punishment.”

  The doctor’s eyes glistened with tears. Barbara looked down at the photograph of a raven-haired woman and two lovely pre-teenaged children—a boy and a girl. She gave the photo to Susan, who glanced at it, then set it on Horton’s desk.

  “That’s a lot of guilt to carry around,” Susan said.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Horton said. He suddenly slid his chair forward, leaned his elbows on the blotter, and stared at Susan. “I killed my own children. Because I thought I couldn’t live without Victoria. I was possessed by that woman.”

  Barbara’s heart lurched as though she’d been tazered. She noticed Susan shift slightly in her chair. Barbara placed a hand on Susan’s arm. Horton wasn’t finished.

  Tears now flowed freely down the man’s cheeks; he made no attempt to wipe them away. “I adored my children and never stopped loving Patience.” His hands now twitched. “But I couldn’t break away from Victoria. She was intoxicating. Even when I realized what she was really like, I couldn’t leave her. I watched Patience begin to crumble after we divorced. When the children died, she went into freefall. But I couldn’t walk away from Victoria. Two evil forces consumed me: Guilt on one side, Victoria on the other.”

  “What did you mean when you said you killed your children,” Susan said.

  “They died in a fire that burned our home to the ground,” he said. “Oh, you thought I had . . . . Oh my God! I would never . . . . I didn’t kill my children. I meant I was responsible for their deaths. If I hadn’t divorced Patience . . . . You see, Victoria and I had Jeremy and Abigail that weekend. But I was on call. I had to go to the hospital in the middle of the night. The fire started after I left. Victoria told the police she woke up and smelled smoke. She said she tried to get to the children, but was blocked by flames.”

  Something about his tone bothered Barbara. “What do you think really happened?” she asked.

  “Before my divorce from Patience, Victoria treated my children as though they were her own. Abigail got along with her all right. But Jeremy had reached the age when boys become protective of their mothers. He resented Victoria and the divorce. He said some awful things to her the night of the fire, before I went to the hospital. When Victoria cursed at Jeremy, Abigail went at her and scratched her. The kids went to bed in tears. Victoria was beside herself with rage when I left the house.” He stopped, turned to the window.

  When he turned back, hatred showed through the tears in his eyes. Barbara was shocked to see the change that had come over the man.

  The doctor glared at Barbara. “You asked what I really think happened. It took a while for me to reach this conclusion. In fact, it wasn’t until after I last saw her at the Community Foundation dinner that it really hit me. I believe Victoria started that fire.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “I think Marge Stanley had it right,” Susan said.

  “How’s that?” Barbara asked, as she drove down the hill from Rio Rancho to the Coors Road Bypass.

  “She said that whoever killed Victoria Comstock had made a lot of people very happy. I’m beginning to feel a little guilty about trying to identify her murderer.”

  Barbara assumed Susan was just making conversation. She looked over at her and, from the grimace she saw on her partner’s face, realized Susan might have been serious.

  “Don’t go down that road,” Barbara said. “We’ve got a job to do, plain and simple.”

  “Nothing’s plain and simple,” Susan said. “Especially in this business.”

  Barbara had seen cops go over the edge, act as vigilantes. Some would simply execute a scumbag. Others would give a pass to suspects they thought were justified in their crimes. Susan’s comment made her uncomfortable. She thought she knew Susan pretty well, but how well does anyone know another person. What really disturbed Barbara was that she felt the same as Susan did about the victim. Victoria Comstock was not a sympathetic victim.

  “Did you notice how old Doctor Horton looked?” she asked, to change the subject. “His date-of-birth is in Navarro’s report.”

  “Can’t say I remember his birth date,” Susan said. “But I’d guess sixty-five, going on eighty.”

  “Fifty-two,” Barbara said.

  “Vickie Jean tended to wear her men down before their time,” Susan said.

  “To say the least,” Barbara said.

  Lieutenant Salas had called a departmental meeting for two-thirty. So the department’s four male detectives were already at their desks. Salas hadn’t yet entered the squad room. The room went strangely quiet when Barbara and Susan entered. Barbara assumed this was because of Susan’s threatened sexual harassment suit. Good, she thought.

  She went to her desk and sat down. As she checked her phone messages, Barbara noticed the middle desk drawer was open a couple of inches. She pulled it out and found a copy of Galls Magazine, the cop’s equipment bible. There were several yellow Post-It notes sticking out of the magazine. She tossed the publication onto her blotter and opened it to the first Post-It note. Someone had pasted an advertisement for a very large dildo on the page. Scrawled in red ink across the bottom a message read: For the overweight, sex-starved female detective. When you can’t get a man, there’s always technology. Snickering sounds now filled the large room.

  This was no worse than dozens of other juvenile, classless acts Barbara had experienced since she became a cop. Practical jokes and bawdy humor were common among those who worked in high risk professions. But this was the practical joke that made Barbara go ballistic. The handwriting on the photograph was unmistakable. It sloped precariously to the right and looped dramatically, the way the left-handed Vince Gabelli wrote. She leaped from her chair, slamming it against the wall behind her. She picked up the empty metal wastebasket beside her desk and charged across the room.

  Gabelli’s eyes bugged out. He tried to stand, but his chair slipped out from under him and he couldn’t quite get his feet planted in time.

  Barbara bounced the basket off his head with a “Clang!” He landed butt first on the floor. Barbara started her backswing, when someone grabbed her arms from behind and turned her away from Gabelli.

  “Whoa, Lassiter, calm down.”

  Barbara recognized Don Anderson’s voice. When she dropped the wastebasket to the floor, Anderson loosened his grip, but still had her arms pulled tight behind her.

  “You okay now?” Anderson asked.

  Barbara’s body was flooded with adrenaline. She twisted away from Anderson, turned back, and shouted, “Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch me!”

  Anderson backed up and raised his hands in surrender.

  She heard grumbling and mumbled curses from behind and turned to see another detective help Gabelli into his chair.

  “Jeez, Lassiter,” Gabelli said, “can’t you take a joke?”

  Barbara raised her arm and pointed a finger at Gabelli, but was speechless with anger. She felt a hand on her arm and heard Susan whisper something, but couldn’t quite make it out. She allowed Susan to guide her into her chair. Her whole body shook.

  Susan bent down and s
aid, “Kee-rhist, what was that all about?”

  Just then Lieutenant Salas stormed into the squad room.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he shouted.

  He walked over to Gabelli and looked at the side of his head. “What happened, Vince?” he asked.

  Gabelli pointed in Barbara’s direction and opened his mouth.

  But before he could say a word, Detective Don Anderson said, “The stupid wop fell out of his chair.”

  “Is that right, Gabelli?” Salas said.

  Barbara watched Gabelli look from Salas, to Anderson, to her, and back to Salas.

  “Yup, just clumsy I guess,” he muttered.

  Salas turned to stare at Barbara. “You got a problem, Lassiter? You look like you might.”

  Barbara thought about showing Salas the Galls Magazine. She quickly looked around her desk, on the floor, in the drawer. Nothing. Someone had managed to dispose of the evidence in the commotion. Barbara just shrugged and shook her head.

  CHAPTER 22

  Susan pointed at one of the interrogation rooms. She picked up Barbara’s coffee cup and walked away from her desk. Barbara followed.

  Barbara closed the door after her, sat down, and barked, “I’m not taking this shit anymore. The next time, I’ll go to the Sheriff. If he sits on his ass and does nothing, I’ll go to the District Attorney, the press, or whoever. No more pretending to file charges, you hear me?”

  Susan looked through the glass panel in the interrogation room door, hoped that Barbara’s voice hadn’t carried to the squad room. “Take it easy, calm down,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me to take it easy, Susan. You do what you want. If you don’t want to get that bastard, fine, I’ll do it without you.”

  “Whoa,” Susan said. “I’m not the enemy, remember?”

  Barbara tried to sip some coffee, but she shook so badly she had to carefully place the cup back on the table. She looked across at Susan. “No more, Susan,” she said.

  “I understand,” Susan said. She ran her hands through her hair. “I’m with you. But, before you go any further, remember that we need backup on the street. Not a single one of those guys out there will be there for us if we bring harassment charges. Even against a guy like Gabelli. We do that, we’re vulnerable.”

  Barbara nodded. “You think we could count on them anyway?”

  “Probably,” Susan said. “Those guys out there, except for Gabelli, are pros. This isn’t the 1980s, girl. You need to stop acting like they’re all like Gabelli. They’re not. Pay attention. Except for one asshole, those guys know we’re damned good cops and respect us. Whatever Gabelli put in that magazine was no worse than some of the shit he’s pulled on some of the guys.”

  “Whose side are you on, partner?”

  Susan wagged a finger at Barbara, as though to say, Watch it! You know better than that.

  Barbara lowered her head and sighed. When she looked back up, there were tears in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Susan. I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”

  Susan stared at Barbara. Then she suddenly laughed. “Geez, did you ring Gabelli’s bell! Sounded like Big Ben when you hit him with that trash can. I hope he doesn’t bring charges against you for assault.”

  “If he does,” Barbara said, “then I’ll really kick his ass.”

  They erupted in laughter.

  TUESDAY

  JUNE 29

  CHAPTER 23

  The drive to Cedar Crest took Barbara and Susan east through Tijeras Canyon via Interstate 40. From the Cedar Crest/Tijeras exit, they drove north on Highway 14 about seven miles to an elementary school on the back side of the Sandia Mountains. The wind howled and buffeted their car. Juniper and pinon trees, twisted from years of combating wind gusts, seemed to reach for them in an other-worldly way.

  Janet Gibson taught at a school built to accommodate the influx of families moving into the East Mountain area to escape the congestion, crime rate, and public school system in Albuquerque.

  “You ever think about requesting reassignment out here?” Barbara asked.

  Susan smiled. “You serious?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I’d go crazy. They roll up the sidewalks over here at 8 at night.”

  They found the school and pulled into the parking lot. On the walk to the front door, Barbara said, “Wonder what surprises we’ll get out of Janet Gibson. It’ll be interesting to get another woman’s perspective on Victoria.”

  “I can’t wait,” Susan said.

  A female clerk in the front office told them Gibson would be out of class in ten minutes. She escorted them into an empty classroom and told them she would alert Mrs. Gibson.

  Susan sat on one of the small chairs, made for elementary school children. Barbara didn’t risk it. She paced the classroom, looked at the drawings taped to the walls. The predominant themes of the artwork were rainbows, big sun balls, and sharply peaked mountains. She was at the far end of the room when a woman entered, announced she was Janet Gibson, and said, “So, somebody finally had the guts to do what I couldn’t do and killed the bitch.”

  Barbara had reached the point where nothing about the Victoria Comstock murder case surprised her. She had even begun to think of Victoria Comstock as Crazy Vickie. But the vitriol in this elementary school teacher’s voice made her stop for a second. Then she introduced Susan and herself, and informed Gibson that they wanted to ask a few questions.

  Gibson was an inch or so shorter than Susan, heavier than Barbara, and about ten years older than either of them.

  “When did you last see Victoria Comstock?” Susan asked.

  “The day of Fred’s sentencing.” She looked embarrassed when she smiled. “I’ll never forget. It makes quite an impact, the day your husband gets sent to prison.”

  “Have you been in contact with anyone who has seen or talked with Mrs. Comstock?” Barbara asked.

  “Not a soul.”

  “So, Victoria Comstock’s death was a surprise to you?” Susan said.

  Janet frowned at Susan. “If you’re asking if I know anything about her murder, the answer is no. But I’m not surprised someone killed her. I’m just surprised it took so long to happen.”

  Barbara was about to ask another question, but Gibson wasn’t finished. “Fred and I had the most wonderful marriage. We dated in high school and married right out of college. The All-American family: Two kids—a boy and a girl—a nice house, Fred had a great job working for a man who treated him with respect.” Her eyes glistened. “Fred was a loving father and a caring husband. He wasn’t handsome, but he was nice looking. He wasn’t ambitious, but he worked hard and was honest. I loved him with all my heart. And then Victoria came along.” She patted her eyes with a handkerchief she’d pulled from a jacket pocket, then walked over and stared at the display of children’s paintings on one wall. “I almost wish Fred had gotten into heroin or booze,” she said after several seconds. “I could have dealt with that. But I wasn’t equipped to deal with Victoria. She was in a completely different league. She was the worst form of obsession.”

  Gibson turned back toward the detectives. “We dreamed about raising our children here in New Mexico, retiring here, spending time with our grandchildren some day. Now, that’s all gone. The kids left the state after college. They wanted to live where the name Gibson didn’t conjure up shameful memories.”

  “I’m surprised you stayed,” Barbara said.

  Gibson’s mouth opened, then snapped closed. She shook her head and turned back to the paintings. Finally, she lifted and dropped her shoulders, and turned back to Barbara.

  “You can’t imagine the number of times I almost left. Considered a move to Pennsylvania to live near my parents. Especially when I was introduced to someone who would say, ‘Gibson, Gibson; that name sounds familiar. Wasn’t there something in the papers recently?’ Hell, it’s been fourteen years.”

  “But you stayed,” Barbara said.

  Gibson tried to
smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “I’m stubborn to the point of stupidity. There was no way I would let that evil, predatory woman chase me out of town.”

  Barbara thanked her for her time, then looked at Susan and tipped her head toward the classroom door. It was time to leave. Janet Gibson was just one more of Victoria Comstock’s victims. Barbara knew in her gut that this portly schoolteacher had no more murdered Victoria than she would have harmed her own children. The drive out to Cedar Crest had been unproductive, except to reaffirm there were plenty of people whose lives had been destroyed by Victoria Comstock.

  CHAPTER 24

  Barbara pulled into a coffee joint off Highway 14 in Cedar Crest. She pointed at the two mongrel dogs and the half-dozen Harleys in front of the place. “Looks like our kind of place,” she said.

  “You know I don’t like bikers.”

  “And I’m scared of dogs,” Barbara said, “so we’re even.”

  “Now that makes a lot of sense.”

  Barbara laughed. “Come on,” she said. “I know the owner. Besides, the bikers in this place are more likely to be doctors and lawyers than Hells Angel types. Harleys are expensive you know.”

  Susan’s eyebrows raised. “I can handle outlaw bikers,” she said. “It’s the doctors and lawyers who pretend to be bikers who scare me.”

  There were six guys seated at two inside tables. They all wore black leather jackets; not a one of them under fifty. A few gave Barbara and Susan friendly smiles.

  Barbara ordered a coffee. Susan selected a bottle of something that was puke-green from a cooler by the door. They sat at the counter.

  “We need a break in this case,” Susan said.

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” Barbara responded. “I—”

  Barbara’s cell phone rang. “Lassiter,” she answered.

  “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

  Barbara jerked the phone away from her ear. Listening to Lieutenant Salas’s excited voice was painful. “I always go with bad news first.”