by Dave Derin
“Sure thing, kid,” he replied and pulled out his phone to search for the local Bingo hall.
I backed out of the parking spot in front of Myrtle’s mint green townhome, then slowly pulled out of the neighborhood while Skip read out directions to the gaming hall. I drove for only a few minutes before we reached the address listed for Go-Go! Bingo on Bernard Rd., and pulled into a dilapidated, nearly vacant brick strip mall that had a local thrift store on the far left side, Go-Go! Bingo directly next to it, then four empty storefronts with dark windows in a row. One empty store’s glass front was covered with faded newspapers, but the other three looked in on dark, abandoned spaces. I parked in the cracked, weed-infested cement lot, and we made our way inside.
As soon as we opened the glass door, we were smacked in the face by the stench of cigarette smoke and body odor. About thirty people sat beneath a cloud of smoke at rectangular tables set up in rows in the surprisingly large space. They all stared intently at their numerous Bingo cards as country music played in the background. The cement block walls seemed to have originally been painted white, but had been stained a light yellow from years of second-hand smoke. I quickly scanned the sea of strangers, then my eyes landed on a bright green tuft of hair on the opposite side of the room.
“There,” I pointed, and Skip followed me across the peeling white linoleum floor toward our green-obsessed key witness. The paunchy woman sat alone with her back to us and focused on the cards on the table in front of her. We approached the right side of the table, and she glanced up at us quickly over her glasses, then looked back down at her cards. She wore a neon green oversized t-shirt that came down to her knees with black leggings and bright green flip flops.
“B twenty-eight. That is B, as in boy, twenty-eight,” a rich male voice announced over the loudspeaker.
“Bingo,” a hunched-over elderly man shouted hoarsely, and a wave of groans ran through the room.
“Dammit,” the green-haired lady muttered then looked up at us and smiled sweetly. “Well, I guess you must want something since you’re just standin’ there lookin’ at me all funny. What do you two fine looking gentleman need?”
I glanced over at Skip who had an amused smirk on his face. “Good afternoon, ma’am, are you Myrtle Jones?” I asked and slid into the chair that faced her while Skip sat in the chair next to her.
“Last time I checked,” the lady replied flippantly and rearranged the Bingo cards, red plastic ashtray, and a pack of cigarettes in front of her. “Just call me Myrtle, none of that ma’am stuff. I know we’re in Texas, and it’s polite and all, but it just makes me feel old.”
“I hear that,” Skip snickered and shook his head.
“I can see that you’re busy,” I ignored Skip’s quip and studied Myrtle’s tan, wrinkled face. “So, I’ll cut right to the chase. We represent Susanna Jenkins in the ongoing criminal investigation regarding the Central US Air bombings.”
“Oh my stars, they actually charged that sweet little thing?” Myrtle’s face dropped, and she looked up to meet my eyes. “But, there’s no way--”
“That’s why we’re here,” I explained and rested both hands on the brown laminate table top. “Both Susanna and Roland Dodge, the gentleman she was seen with, told me that you interrupted them in the plane’s restroom. Do you mind giving us your account of the event?”
“Oh sure,” she said and rubbed her short, green-streaked white hair. “So, that boy, Roman or whatever you called him--”
“Roland,” I gently corrected the elderly woman.
“Yes, Roland,” she nodded. “The blonde guy. He was sure giving that pretty redhead a run for her money. He was flirtin’ and distracting her the whole time.”
“Can you be more specific?” I inquired and leaned back against the chair.
“Well, I remember before the explosion, I had a little, well. How can I put this delicately,” she looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then met my eyes with her small blue ones and grinned. “Screw it, I had to take a massive shit. This old plumbin’ I’ve got isn’t as reliable as it used to be.”
Skip tried to contain his laughter, but broke out with a roar of amusement as I smiled down at my lap.
“Happens to everyone,” I smiled and contained my laughter, then leaned forward against the table. “So, is that when you ran into Susanna and Roland?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she nodded, then picked up the soft pack of light cigarettes on the table in front of her, tapped one out, and lit it with the green lighter that sat next to it. “I’d seen some big, fat guy go into the bathroom on the left, I figured he would be awhile, so I went and knocked on the door on the right. I could hear them in there talkin’ and giggling, so I just went off and let them have it.”
“Can you remember about what time that was, or how long it was after you went to the restroom that the plane landed?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know what time it was, but I know I was only in the bathroom for a couple of minutes or so because my rumbly guts had given me a false alarm,” she smirked then blew out a billowing cloud of thick smoke. “I heard the landing announcement while I was still in there, so I went back up to the front of the plane, my son always flys me in first class when I go to visit him, and I know I passed those two kids, Roland and Susanna, because he tried to pull her in his lap when I squeezed past them.”
“So you can testify that you saw Susanna in the restroom before the landing announcement, and that you passed her in the aisle after the pilot made the announcement, is that correct?” I confirmed as my mind spun with ideas of how to incorporate her testimony into our timeline.
“Sure is,” the green-shirted woman nodded.
“Would you be willing to come before the court on Wednesday, August first and tell the judge what you just told me?” I asked again and prayed she’d come willingly.
“Of course I will,” she exclaimed, and shook her head yes so hard that her glasses slid off her short, button nose and hung around her neck on their pastel green-and-pink beaded string. “Just let me know when and where, and I’ll get there somehow.”
“You’re an angel,” I grinned at her, then felt my phone vibrate in my front coat pocket. “Excuse me for just one moment, please.” I glanced down at my phone and saw that it was from Benji Price, the prosecuting attorney. It was almost five o’clock, and a little unusual for him to call so late in the day.
“Everything okay?” Skip asked after he’d glanced down and seen the prosecutor’s name.
“I’m just going to take this very quickly,” I said, stood up, and walked toward the front door.
“John Stone,” I answered the phone loudly so I could be heard over the near constant Bingo announcements.
“John, hey, it’s Benji,” the prosecutor’s voice on the other side sounded hesitant.
“Hey Benji, to what do I owe the pleasure? Business or personal?” I asked casually.
“Business,” he said shortly. “Listen, John, are you somewhere where we can talk?”
“Uh, yeah,” I pushed open the glass door of the smoky Bingo hall and looked around the parking lot of empty cars. “What’s up?”
“I assume you haven’t been to your office this afternoon?” The prosecutor asked then cleared his throat loudly.
“Well, no,” I responded. “I’ve been meeting with a witness over in Cape Royale for most of the day. What’s going on, Benji?”
“Well, would you rather have a chance to review the discovery file first, or do you just want me to tell you over the phone?” he asked.
“I guess go ahead and tell me, otherwise it’ll drive me crazy on the three-hour ride home,” I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and felt the pressure in my head build as a headache began to boil, partly from the cigarette smoke in the Bingo hall, but also because I was suddenly anxious about what Benji had to tell me that he was so hesitant to reveal.
“Well, for one, the trace evidence has been delivered to your independe
nt lab for testing, just so you know,” he stated, then cleared his throat again.
“Benji, you’ve gotta stop beating around the bush,” I chuckled. “Out with it. What’s going on?”
“Fingerprints came back on the laptop,” he said after a long pause.
“Okay, what did they find?” I figured he was calling to tell me that it wasn’t a match and he’d go ahead and remove it from evidence so that we didn’t have to file a motion to suppress.
“They lifted a perfect left thumb print,” he said softly. “It matches Susanna’s.”
Chapter 15
My heart dropped to my stomach, and I leaned against the dingy wall of Go-Go! Bingo and steadied myself. How the hell was Susanna’s thumbprint on a laptop she claimed she’d never seen before in her life? I needed to speak with her in person to clear this up.
“Thanks for the heads up, Benji,” I said quickly. “Talk to you soon.”
I hung up the phone, rushed back inside the Bingo hall, and dashed across the white linoleum floor toward Skip and Myrtle.
“Bingo,” our green-haired witness shouted as she jumped from her seat with surprising agility and held her winning card above her head.
“Nicely done, Miss Myrtle,” my consultant tipped his black cowboy hat at her and smiled, then looked up at my face as I reached the table and grew suddenly somber. “John, what’s wrong?”
“Congratulations, Ms. Jones. We won’t keep you from your game any longer,” I placed my hand on her shoulder and gave her a smile, then looked over at Skip. “Did you make sure we have her current address and phone number?”
“Got it right here,” he replied as he patted his front shirt pocket and studied my face carefully. “We had been callin’ an old number the whole time.”
“Alright,” I nodded at him. “Well, thank you so much for speaking with us today, Ms. Jones, but we have to get going now.”
“Oh, we do?” Skip was on his feet before I could blink and strode around me to shake Ms. Jones’ hand. “Pleasure to have met you, Myrtle, and we’ll see you at court soon, okay?”
“Okay, boys,” she replied as she gave us a little wave, then turned and hobbled her way toward the announcer’s table to claim her prize.
“We need to ask Destinee to send her a reminder letter,” Skip said as we exited the front door and walked to my car. “And maybe a few reminder phone calls as well. That sweet little ol’ loon repeated three different dates back to me, so I have a bad feeling she may forget.”
“Definitely a good idea,” I agreed and noticed that the stench of cigarettes coming from us filled my car, so I rolled down the windows to air it out as I pulled out of the parking lot and drove toward the highway.
“So, what’s up, John?” Skip asked as he took off his hat and tossed it behind him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Benji called,” I said stonily and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “They lifted Susanna’s print from the laptop.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” my consultant’s voice was harsh as he ran his hand through his white hair and groaned.
“I know,” I said in a deadpan voice while my throat tightened up. “I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“Okay, well don’t freak out yet,” Skip tried to calm me down. “There’s all kinds of tricks they can pull with prints these days, so let’s just get back to the office and take a look at the discovery before we call Susanna and lose it on her, alright?”
“Alright,” I repeated and released a deep sigh. “You’re right. We don’t even know if there’s anything incriminating on the laptop anyway. What if it’s just Cooper’s personal laptop that she used to check her email?”
“Exactly, man, exactly,” Skip nodded slowly. “We don’t know anything yet, so let’s brainstorm on our way back and we can check out the records when we get there and figure this sucker out.”
“Yes,” I managed to utter as my heart beat faster and faster and my lungs refused to fill with air completely. I knew there were so many possibilities of why her fingerprints were on the laptop, but my first instinct was to feel that my trust had been betrayed by my client. It took all of my self-control not to call and confront her right then and there, so I was thankful Skip was there to talk me down.
We arrived back at the office around 8:00 p.m. that evening and busted through the back door to a dark, quiet room. I flipped on the lights, and found that Destinee had set the mail on my desk, and included in the stack was a thick rectangular envelope from the prosecutor’s office. I grabbed my silver letter opener from my desk drawer and carefully cut open the top, then pulled the documents and two discs out and laid them on my desk. Skip pulled his reading glasses from his front pocket, and we each grabbed a few papers and started to scan the information for anything related to fingerprints.
“Here, look at this,” my consultant handed me one of the papers in his hand and pointed at two images at the bottom. “The prints match a little too perfectly in my opinion.”
“What do you mean?” I asked and held the document closer to get a better look at the detailed lines of Susanna’s left thumb print.
“How often do you actually see a full thumbprint with no smudges or discrepancies of any kind?” He asked as he took off his hat, laid it on my chair, and then smoothed down his thick, white hair. “Never, that’s how often.”
“Huh, interesting,” I pondered his assertion, then grabbed one of the discs, walked around my desk, and stuck it in my laptop. “Wonder what we’ve got here.”
There was only one folder on the disc labeled Photos, so I clicked on it and waited as large digital files loaded sluggishly. I scrolled through the images and noticed a picture of a silver laptop with bright pink flower stickers on it. It sat with the top closed on a black metal desk next to a queen size bed covered with a white duvet. I double clicked the image, and the data showed the photo had been taken on July the fourth at 8:15 a.m. in Susanna’s bedroom.
Skip pressed his hand against my desk and leaned in to get a better view of the pictures. I went back to the image list and pulled up an image labelled Laptop Receipt. A clear image of a receipt from a major retailer showed that a laptop with a matching serial number had been purchased with cash on the fifth of May.
“This keeps getting better and better,” I mumbled, then popped that disc out, inserted the second one, and opened the folder directory. According to the discovery directory, this disc contained a copy of the complete hard drive from the laptop. “That’s very strange.”
“What is?” the white-haired gentleman asked and peered at the computer screen.
“Well, the directory says the entire hard drive copy is on this disc, but there’s no way it would all fit on one DVD,” I explained as I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “Unless--”
I opened the main folder and discovered three folders stored within it. One was labelled Resume, one Emails, and one Shopping. I clicked on the Emails folder and a list of fifteen to twenty emails that had been saved as PDFs appeared in the window. They were each labelled by date and had an outgoing email address of [email protected]. I opened an email that had June first as the send date.
“The first bomb went off on June second,” I reminded Skip as I scanned through the email, then shook my head and looked up at him. “This is nonsense.”
“Yeah, it sure is,” he agreed and squinted his eyes behind his reading glasses. “Literal nonsense.”
A few lines of coded characters that looked like wingding symbols made absolutely no sense. I opened a few more emails, and found that only a handful were actually legible, and the rest were in that weird code. One email that was readable was an order confirmation from a beauty supply company for three cases of hydrogen peroxide, which I knew was one of the easy-to-obtain ingredients in manufacturing TATP, the explosive medium used in the CUSA bombs.
“Ain’t this some shit,” Skip said as he stood up straight, crossed his arms, and then stroked his white mustache.
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“So, Susanna allegedly paid for that laptop with cash,” I mused skeptically as I paced across the wood floors beneath my original Mordatelli fixture. “Even though she most likely has direct deposit through CUSA, and it would have been more convenient for her to use her debit card. They also lifted one perfect thumbprint, only one thumbprint, and nothing else.”
“Fishy, right?” Skip nodded his rarely hatless head as he shuffled through the discovery papers on my desk.
“Oh, and she also kept that receipt somewhere they could easily find it, even though the receipt indicated there was no warranty purchased with the laptop?” I raised my eyebrows at Skip when he looked up and met my eyes.
“Good catch, kid,” he said with wide blue eyes. “I didn’t even notice that on the receipt.”
“It’s labelled as a clearance item,” I said and walked over to my desk, pulled up the receipt image, and pointed the detail out to Skip. “See here, no refunds, returns, or exchanges on clearance items. Why would she keep a receipt that she couldn’t use for anything?”
“I don’t think she would, John,” Skip smiled at me then leaned against my desk and crossed his arms. “You’re the one that told me about your inside source in Tranquility. Do you think it’s out of their means to stage something like this?”
I widened my eyes at him, then said very slowly, “Well, I didn’t think we were acting out a John Grisham novel, Skip.”
“Oh, okay kid,” he narrowed his eyes at me “What do you think those stories are based on? Reality is stranger than fiction, isn’t that what they say?”
“Honestly though, Skip,” I tried not to grin at him as I raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to convince Judge Williamson that old George Erickson stole Susanna’s fingerprints, planted them on a laptop he bought with cash, snuck it in her bedroom while she was in prison, and the FBI was raiding her house, then also hid a receipt somewhere in there, too?”
