The Pomeranian Always Barks Twice

by Alex Erickson

“Did you know the man who lives here?” he asked instead.

  I glanced toward the house. I could see movement inside, through the windows, but couldn’t make out exactly what was going on. Another police officer stood outside, wiping his hands on a wad of paper towels. He looked young, and pale, which made me all the more frightened.

  A pair of paramedics moved from the ambulance and headed around the side of the house, out back. Voices drifted from back there, sounding farther away than just the patio. The barn? I wondered.

  “I just met him today,” I said. “We were here to pick up his dog, Stewie. He’s a Pomeranian.” Not that the last was important. “We left a little over an hour ago. I was coming back for the dog. Is Timothy okay?”

  “No, he’s not.” Officer Perry’s voice had gone grave.

  I felt myself go faint, though I’d suspected as much. “He’s dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Perry’s grip on my elbow turned supportive. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Though I felt anything but as my gaze locked on Ben. “My son . . . Why’s he here?”

  “I’m sorry to inform you, but he’s currently under suspicion.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  Officer Perry looked grimly from me, to Ben, and then back again before answering.

  “For the murder of Timothy Fuller.”

  3

  I soon found myself trailing after a police cruiser on its way to the station downtown. I could just barely make out the back of Ben’s head through the rear window. He was keeping it bowed, never once looking up. In prayer, or in shame, I didn’t know.

  My brain felt numb, each thought slow, confused, as I tried to make sense of what I’d been told. Old man Fuller was dead. And somehow, someway, the police thought Ben was involved in his death, which was insane. He might have broken a heart or two in his time, but never had he physically hurt anyone. He’d never even gotten into a fight at school as far as I was aware.

  I considered calling Manny to let him know what was going on, but wasn’t sure what I’d say. Maybe after I’d talked to the police, and we got everything sorted out, I could let him know. Hopefully, I’d be taking Ben home, and we could laugh about it over the dinner table.

  Not that Timothy Fuller’s death was a laughing matter.

  Behind me, Junior followed, Alexis in the passenger seat beside him. Apparently, they’d arrived shortly after I did, having left during the hour in which I’d been dealing with Courtney. I never saw them until we were on the way to the police station, and even then, I had yet to speak to either.

  The cruiser pulled into the station lot, and around the side, where I wasn’t allowed to follow. I parked in one of the spaces out front, as did Junior. He got out and was around the front of his car, to mine, before I could so much as open the door.

  “This is on you,” he said, leveling a finger my way.

  “Excuse me?” I said, pushing my way out of my van, forcing him a step back. “I had nothing to do with your dad’s death. Neither did Ben.”

  “I know what you’re after,” he said. “And there’s no way you, or anyone else, is going to get it. I will die first!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Yeah, right.” He bared his teeth at me in a feral smile before he spun away. “Alexis! Come on.” He stormed toward the front doors of the police station.

  Alexis narrowed her eyes at me, shook her head, as if disappointed in me for whatever it was they thought I’d done, and then she followed after her husband. They both looked back at me once, and then went inside.

  I stared after them, mouth agape. All I wanted was the dog. I didn’t care about the family drama, or whatever it was he thought I was interested in. At this point, all that mattered to me was Ben and Stewie. Everyone else could drive off into the sunset for all I cared.

  Still, the accusations bothered me. Junior had no right to accuse me of anything.

  But there was nothing I could do about it now. I smoothed down my hair, closed and locked my van door, and then followed after the Fullers.

  The front of the police station was dominated by large plate glass windows that looked out over the lot, as well as a good chunk of downtown Grey Falls. The courthouse was across the street, though there was little activity going on there at the moment. When I entered through the front doors, I passed through a metal detector, which was currently turned off, much to my relief. If I had to stand there and wait for someone to pat me down, I’d explode.

  Alexis and Junior were already seated in red plastic chairs near the wall. About a dozen cops were milling around, each seemingly busy with their own worries. I’d never been inside a police station before, and had no idea what I was supposed to do now that I was in one. Did I stop someone and ask them where Ben was? He wasn’t anywhere in sight. Did that mean they took him straight to a jail cell? Or was he locked up in a room with a muscle-bound detective screaming at him to talk?

  Before I could panic, Officer Perry appeared. “Mrs. Denton. Please, this way.”

  “Can I see him?” I asked, following him past a glowering Junior, and down a short hallway. “Can I see my son?”

  “Not yet,” Perry said gently. I found I actually liked him, even though he was the man who’d told me the police thought my son capable of murder. None of this was the officer’s fault. “I’ll see what I can arrange once we get some things settled.”

  I didn’t like it, but what was I going to do? Screaming and crying wouldn’t help. Getting in his face would only land me in hot water, if I wasn’t already there. If they suspected Ben of murder, what did the cops think of me?

  So, I did the only thing I could, and followed meekly behind Officer Perry, hoping that somehow, this turned out to be one big mistake.

  The kindly officer led me down the hall, to a closed door. He knocked on it twice, and then, when no one answered, he opened the door. “Please,” he said, motioning for me to precede him.

  I entered the room, worry eating at my gut. It was small and stark, and no one else was in there. The walls were a faded white, the floor hard tile. There were no big one-way mirrors like you’d see on TV, but there was a camera in the corner, watching my every move. A table with four plastic chairs pushed beneath it awaited me in the center of the room.

  “Wait here,” Perry said. “I know it isn’t exactly welcoming, but it’s better than out there.” He jerked a thumb toward where Junior still sat. “This will give you a little privacy while you wait for someone to come talk to you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, pulling out a chair. It’s metal feet squeaked loudly against the tile.

  “Someone will be with you shortly for your statement. I want to make it clear that at this time, you aren’t in any trouble.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Do you need me to get you something? Coffee? Some water?”

  “I’m okay.” If I tried to drink anything, I’d likely choke on it.

  “Sit tight.” Officer Perry gave me a warm smile, and then closed the door, leaving me alone.

  I sat and placed both hands atop the table. I knew they’d ask me about Ben, about his whereabouts when Timothy Fuller was killed—murdered, did he say? I was in shock, I knew, and fear was growing with every passing second. I couldn’t tell them much of anything about Ben, other than to vouch for his character. He’d left me to go talk to a woman I didn’t know, whose name I didn’t know. After that, I knew nothing.

  It didn’t look good. Not one bit.

  There were no clocks on the wall, so I checked my watch. The second hand seemed to crawl around the face in slow motion. I drummed my fingers on the table, stared into the camera, and did just about everything but pace.

  Ten minutes, and three watch checks later, a burly police officer with a crew cut and a bushy mustache entered. He was wearing a faded suit and tie, badge clipped to his belt. He looked like he might have played football back when he was young
er, but much of the muscle had gone to fat. His skin was tanned, eyes squinted, as if he spent many hours outside, looking into the sun. Maybe not football, then. A farmer?

  “Mrs. Denton, correct?” he asked, checking a sheet of paper he’d brought in with him. His voice was deep, a little raspy, and in no way was it friendly.

  “I am. Please, call me Liz.”

  He settled into one of the chairs before glancing up at me. “Liz, I’m Detective Emmitt Cavanaugh.”

  My hands tightened into fists. Was it good that a detective was taking my statement? Or did it mean things were quickly spiraling out of control?

  “What can you tell me about what happened?” Cavanaugh asked, sitting back and resting his hands atop his stomach in a relaxed posture that was completely at odds with the gravity of the situation.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I wasn’t there.”

  He flashed me a tight smile. “Humor me.”

  “Ben didn’t do it, I can tell you that,” I said. “He would never hurt anyone, and had no reason to.”

  “Noted. You’re his mother, correct?” He made it sound like that would be a strike against him.

  “I am.” I straightened my back, met his eye. “Which means I know him better than anyone.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Cavanaugh glanced down at the page in his hand. “Why was he at Mr. Fuller’s home today?”

  “We were picking up Stewie.” At Cavanaugh’s pinched brow, I added, “The Pomeranian. Mr. Fuller was a sick man. He was going to be moved to an extended care facility that didn’t allow pets. He called us a little over a week ago, asking if we could find his dog a home. We did, and were there to pick him up.”

  “I see.”

  “We help people,” I said. “Ben and I. And we help animals that many people couldn’t care less about. Ben’s a good person, and would never hurt anyone, especially a man like Mr. Fuller. Who he barely knew, I might add.”

  “You were there for the dog, then?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “We were.”

  “And you weren’t present with your son at the time of the murder, because . . . ?”

  “There were, um, unanticipated complications.”

  Cavanaugh leaned forward, folding his hands on the table before him. “Such as?”

  Trying my best not to sound too bitter, I told him about the brief encounter outside Timothy Fuller’s home, making sure to note Courtney and Duke were uninvited guests, and how Junior and his wife were short with us. I told him how we were all kicked out, how Ben went over next door, while I went to speak with Courtney.

  Cavanaugh nodded as I spoke, but he didn’t seem all that interested in the story. Admittedly, none of what I said sounded like it had anything to do with Timothy’s death, but it was all I had.

  “Duke was missing too,” I said, feeling a little bad about throwing him under the bus like that, but what else was I going to do? “At the time of the murder, he was supposed to be with Courtney and me, but he wasn’t.”

  “And what’s Duke’s last name?”

  “Billings.”

  Cavanaugh produced a pen from his pocket and scrawled Duke’s name across the sheet of paper. “While you were at the house, did you see anything else suspect? Were there any strange people hanging around? An argument that might have escalated?”

  “No, there was nothing like that.” But boy, did I wish I had seen something. “Are you sure Timothy was actually murdered?” I couldn’t keep the pleading out of my tone. “He could have been sicker than anyone thought and died of natural causes.”

  “We’re sure.” Cavanaugh didn’t even hesitate in his answer.

  “It could have been a heart attack,” I pressed. “Or a stroke. He was in a wheelchair, so maybe he tried to get up on his own and fell. That sort of thing happens all the time, right?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “How do you know that for sure?” I was starting to get frantic.

  “Probably because of the knife we found sticking out of his back.”

  All my words dried up right then and there. How could anyone stab an old man in the back, one who was so sick, he was confined to a wheelchair? It didn’t make sense.

  Detective Cavanaugh must have sensed my misery, because he leaned forward, eyes and voice softening. “Did you know the deceased well, Mrs. Denton?”

  “No. While we talked on the phone twice before today, this was the first time I’d met him in person.”

  “What did you talk about on the phone?”

  “About Stewie,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “So, you have no idea why anyone would want to kill him?”

  “None.”

  “Your son, Ben, he met him at the same time you did?”

  “He did. Up until this morning, neither of us knew Timothy Fuller, or his family.”

  “Are you sure about that? There’s no chance Ben might have met him elsewhere?”

  I met his eye. “Positive.”

  Cavanaugh scratched at the stubble on his cheeks before heaving a sigh. “Mrs. Denton, I know it’s hard for you to understand right now, but we didn’t arrest your son on a whim. We have evidence that places him at the scene of the crime.”

  “What kind of evidence?” I asked. It came out as a mere whisper. This can’t be happening.

  “We have a witness.”

  I blinked at him, slowly, not quite sure I’d heard him right. “A witness? To the murder?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But someone did see a young man matching your son’s description entering the deceased’s home. He was inside for maybe ten minutes, before hurriedly fleeing from the scene. A few minutes after that there was a scream from out back, where the body was found.”

  “A scream?” A glimmer of hope formed. If Ben had left before Timothy Fuller had died, then there was no way he could have done it.

  “Mr. Fuller’s nurse found him. She screamed and then called the cops. Apparently, she was folding laundry when the murder took place. She came in to check on Mr. Fuller and found him missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “He wasn’t where she left him,” Cavanaugh said. “She claims Mr. Fuller often wheels himself out to the barn out back when he’s upset, so she went looking for him there. She found him.” He didn’t make it sound like a good thing.

  “But . . .” I swallowed, cutting my own words short. But what? They have a witness! “There are lots of young men who look like Ben,” I said. “Maybe your witness didn’t see him clearly.”

  “That may be the case,” Cavanaugh said. “But how many young men run around town with their names written across the back of their shirt?”

  “His shirt?” Just like the one I was currently wearing. Oh, no, Ben. “It’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid it is.” Cavanaugh started to reach out, as if he might take my hand to comfort me, before catching himself. He folded his arms instead. “Mr. Denton was seen going into the house, his name proudly displayed on his back. He was seen not just entering, but running away afterward. I hate to tell you, but it’s looking like he’s our man.”

  “It had to be someone else,” I said, but I knew I was fooling myself. If someone saw Ben’s shirt, then Ben was the one in it.

  But that didn’t mean he’d killed Timothy Fuller. There were all sorts of reasons why he might have run away.

  “Maybe he found the body and it scared him,” I said. “So, he ran. Maybe he went to get help, or tell someone.” Like the woman in the bikini. But why not Meredith? “Maybe he saw the murder take place and was running away.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Denton. There was blood on his shirt, and he’s said nothing about witnessing the murder.”

  “But . . . He couldn’t have.” Tears welled in my eyes. I refused to let them fall.

  “I’m sorry,” Cavanaugh said. “I imagine there aren’t many people running around with those shirts, are there?” He pointed at my chest where the rescue logo was printed.

  “ No.”
<
br />   “There’s yours, your son’s. Husband?”

  “Yes. And a daughter.” I had a shirt printed for Amelia, but she never wore it.

  “No other employees?”

  “No,” I said. “Just us.”

  “And no one else named Ben would have a shirt like this, I’m guessing?”

  “No.” I’d only printed enough shirts for the family, so there was no chance anyone else would have one. Am I sure about that?

  Cavanaugh stood. “I’m sorry,” he said yet again, and he sounded like he meant it. “We’ll find out exactly what happened. If it turns out Ben is guilty, all he needs to do is cooperate. The judge might go easy on him then.”

  I nodded. It all felt so surreal, I wasn’t sure what was happening anymore. Could he really be talking about Ben going before a judge? Did that mean prison? My stomach clenched at the thought. “Can I see him?”

  Cavanaugh bit down on his lower lip, chewed a moment, and then shook his head. “I think it’s best you let us deal with this for now. Let us talk to him, see what he has to say. Come back tomorrow. You should be allowed to meet with him for a few minutes then.”

  It was like a knife to my own back, but there wasn’t a thing I could do about it, but go along with it. Somehow, someway, Ben found himself smack-dab in the middle of a murder investigation. And not only was he a suspect, it was sounding more and more like he was the only suspect.

  “Go home,” Cavanaugh said. “Get some rest.” He opened the door to the small room. “And if you think of anything you might have forgotten to tell me, don’t hesitate to call.” He handed me a card with his name and number on it.

  “I will.” Heart heavy, I stepped out into the hall. Cavanaugh followed me all the way to the front room, where Alexis and a clearly agitated Junior were still waiting.

  “Mr. Fuller,” Detective Cavanaugh said. “I’m ready for you now.”

  Junior rose, but instead of going straight to the detective, he stepped closer to me, putting us practically nose to nose. “You won’t get away with this.” He very nearly hissed the words.

  And then, before I could formulate any sort of response, he spun on his heel and strode down the hall.