Darrowby slammed his fist on the table. “Shut up. I’m not finished. Between Kowalski and me, we have thirty-five years of the best training and experience available to law enforcement anywhere in the world. Together, we’ve solved forty-seven homicides. Forty-seven. With the exception of six who got off because of their slick lawyers, forty-one are currently behind bars in Jackson State Prison.”
Darrowby’s eyes intensified on Bob. He knew the detective wanted to increase that number by four with him and Debbie as the perps. Bob looked back through the large archway that led into the living room. All of the guests were now staring in at him and Debbie.
“Ah, isn’t there a better place we can talk?”
Darrowby was quick with a response. “Sure is. Down at the station.”
“Wait. You’re not arresting us, are you?”
Darrowby grinned and let Bob’s question hang in the air. “No. This is just for questioning. That’s all.”
Bob was quicker with his reply. “I don’t think that’s in our best interests.”
Kowalski spoke. “Mr. Stevens, I strongly suggest you come with us voluntarily. If you haven’t done anything wrong, then you don’t have a thing to worry about. And coming in on your own volition will look good for you. Makes it appear like you want to help rather than trying to hide something or obstruct our investigation.”
Investigation. There was that word again.
Bob looked back into the living room. “But I need to attend to our guests.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a couple officers keep an eye on the place. And I’m sure your hired help will keep your guests comfortable until you come back.”
Darrowby reached for Debbie’s elbow. “Shouldn’t take long. I promise. C’mon. You can ride in our car.”
Bob despised Darrowby. No way was he letting the scumbag touch his wife. He stepped in front of Debbie and pushed the detective’s arm away. Darrowby looked insulted and offended, but Bob didn’t care.
The caffeine was kicking in. Adrenaline raised his blood pressure. His mind was clear. He knew going to the Battle Creek Police Station and answer questions was the right thing to do. He didn’t have anything to hide. He hadn’t killed anyone.
But Bob also knew he needed to lawyer up.
“Okay, detective. We’ll go. Give us a few minutes to get dressed. But we’ll follow you in our car.”
Chapter 33 One More Death
Bob pulled out of the driveway and followed Darrowby, who kept his speed at exactly the speed limit. By the book. Fifty miles per hour.
Behind him, a police cruiser kept a safe but close distance. The time on his dash read 3:16 am. They were the only ones on the two lane country road. Bob glanced in his rear view mirror. Murcat Manor disappeared as Oak Hill Road veered west.
“Bob, the police station’s twenty minutes way. What are we going to do?”
Debbie was frantic, he knew. Although she’d momentarily freaked out when Sophie Johnson ran through the second floor screaming and they found the Johnsons dead, she had kept her cool while being questioned by the detectives.
But they were in their own domain, at the kitchen table, which was their territory. And Bob had stood up to Darrowby, as usual. But now, they were on their way to the Battle Creek Police Station, where Darrowby ruled supreme. He would have a dominant advantage.
“You know Darrowby wants to arrest us. This might be a one way trip for us. I’m calling grandma and grandpa.”
Debbie fumbled for her phone and dropped it. She bent forward and swept her hands across the floorboard and under her seat. The thought of having to tell Erma their situation sent a shiver up and down Bob’s spine.
“Slow down, honey. Forget about your phone. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Bob,” Debbie snapped, sounding too much like her snarly grandmother. “In case you haven’t noticed, four people have died at Murcat Manor in nine weeks. One of them was Darrowby’s friend since they were kids. Obviously, he thinks we’re behind all of them. Are you listening to me? He thinks we’re murdering psychopaths.
“And with four deaths, I think this categorizes us as serial killers in his eyes. Like he said, put yourself in his shoes. For all he knows, we had nefarious and insidious reasons for opening a bed and breakfast—to lure in people so we can kill them.”
Bob took his hands off the steering wheel for a moment to wave Debbie down. “I know. I know. We need help. And I know just who to call.”
“Grandma and grandpa, right?”
Hell no, Bob thought. Not those two. “Clark Hodgkins,” he said.
“Hogdkins? The guy who sold us the property?” Debbie shot him an incredulous look. “What’s he going to do?”
“We need an attorney. Now. Hodgkins has lived here his whole life. He seems to know just about everyone who’s anyone. I’m betting he can find us a lawyer to meet us at the station.”
Debbie leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. She smiled for the first time since they woke up to Sophia’s maddening screams. “Good thinking.” She gripped his knee. “My man. You’re right, as usual.”
Bob pulled out his cell phone and spoke “Call Clark Hodgkins” into it. After a few rings a sleepy and disoriented voice answered. “Hello? That you, Mr. Stevens?”
“It’s me. Sorry to wake you.”
“Is everything okay? It’s three-twenty in the morning. A ghost wake you up?”
Funny man, Bob thought. Not.
“It’s a bit more complicated. We’re on our way to the Battle Creek Police Station. There have been two deaths at Murcat Manor tonight.”
Bob could hear Hodgkins throw the covers off and get out of bed. “Good God Almighty. Two?”
“Yes. A married couple. Seems she took a fire poker and stabbed her husband in the chest, killing him. Then she ran down the hall screaming like a mad woman. She fell down the stairs and tumbled all the way to the first floor. Broke her neck and half the bones in her body.”
“That’s four deaths in nine weeks.”
“Are you keeping score? How’d you know?”
“It’s my business to know. What do you need from me?”
“We need a damn good lawyer.”
“Don’t tell me. You’re being escorted by the Battle Creek police for questioning.”
“That’s right. But we didn’t do anything.”
“Mr. Stevens, I believe you. You and your wife seem like some of the finest people I’ve ever met. But you have to admit. This looks suspicious. Especially in this area.”
“There have to be murders around here.”
“Sure. Battle Creek, Kalamazoo, and Marshall all have homicides. But not four at the same place in a nine week span.”
“I know. I have to admit it looks bad.”
“It does. But I’m here to help. Who’s the detective bringing you in for questioning?”
“Detective Thomas Darrowby.”
“Ooh.” Bob heard Hodgkins smack his forehead. “That’s tough. Darrowby’s one contemptible asshole if you’re outside of his circle of friends. You get on his shit list? You’re going need serious legal help.”
“That’s why we’re calling you. You know who’s who around here. We don’t.”
“Don’t worry one bit. Got your back. Just happen to know an excellent defense attorney who’s gone up against Darrowby in court and won. Name of Kenneth Wilson.”
“Is he good?”
“Damn good. Trust me on this one. You want this guy in your corner. With him, you’ll be home for breakfast. Without him, Darrowby will make sure you eat your next meal in an orange jumpsuit.”
Chapter 34 Interrogation
Bob needed to be strong for Debbie. He put his own emotional needs in the storage bin. For the second time in his structured and sheltered life, the reality of losing his posterity was more than a frightening bedtime story.
Outside of Rotten Ronnie and that backstabbing family friend Phil McKenzie, he had never faced an adversary that
threatened to take away everything he worked for. Believed in. Sacrificed and fought for. For the first time, with a sense of hesitation, Bob realized, he could add the word ‘entitled’.
His parents, church officials, school teachers, and sports coaches had provided a safe albeit protected environment for him to thrive in. The most trouble he had experienced was his high school basketball coach yelling at him for not getting back on defense.
But now, Bob faced an adversary with the backing of the legal system who could shut down their lives. Unlike a competitive basketball game where he could lose yet start anew after a good night’s sleep, his current reality may not refresh into a new day.
As soon as they entered the front doors of the Battle Creek Police Station, Bob and Debbie were searched and patted down; Bob by Kowalski and Debbie by a female officer. Darrowby looked at them as if they were human traffickers. They placed their personal effects in a plastic tub that rolled down a conveyor belt at the security checkpoint.
Bob held Debbie’s hand and followed the detectives, who remained silent, down a series of corridors. Two police officers brought up the rear. The last door behind them slammed closed, the clacking of metal locks echoing down the hall.
“Just relax, honey. We’re law abiding and taxpaying citizens. This is just a formality. We’ll be home before you know it.”
Debbie squeezed his hand and looked up at Bob with a genuine smile he loved so much. “I know. You’re my Superman. I trust you.”
Darrowby stopped in front of a non-descript room where a police officer stood. He opened the door and motioned them in with a wave of his arm.
Bob looked around. The room resembled a jail cell. It had a foreboding sterile smell, much like a doctor’s office recently disinfected to kill contaminants from the previous occupants. Or to cover up something maleficent they couldn’t get rid of.
The walls were white and devoid of pictures. There were no windows. And it was hot and stuffy. Sweat formed on his forehead. He looked up at three cameras set up high. Bob returned his gaze to the barren walls and thought the police used sensory deprivation and lack of sleep and food to their advantage.
There was no furniture except for a silver metal table and four folding metal chairs, just enough for Darrowby, Kowalski, Debbie, and himself. Obviously, Darrowby had no idea of Bob intending to lawyer up. Your arrogance, Bob thought, will be your undoing.
“Have a seat,” Darrowby said in a cold desolate voice while flipping through papers, pushing a chair out for Debbie with his foot. He didn’t give Bob the decency to look him in the eyes.
Bob helped Debbie sit and pushed in her chair. Darrowby and Kowalski sat on the other side of the table.
“It’s really hot in here,” Debbie said, loosening the top button on her blouse and rolling up her sleeves. “Can you turn on the air conditioning?”
“Sure is.” Darrowby turned on a tabletop fan. It oscillated back and forth on the two detectives. “Ah, that’s better.”
Childish ploy, Bob knew, but an effective tactic to further wear them down. Breakfast was only a few hours away and he was hungry. He took a deep breath and prepared to go toe to toe with Darrowby on an empty stomach.
No problem. Coffee and adrenaline was a good substitute for food and a lack of sleep. This was going to be a major battle. Bob was ready.
“Four deaths in nine weeks.” Darrowby plopped his pile of papers on the table. “Explain.”
“Are we being arrested?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” Darrowby said as he leaned in. “If there’s anything you want to say Mr. Stevens, just say it. Spare us the time and the taxpayers’ money of prolonging the inevitable.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“Oh, you don’t. And just what the hell do you plan on doing about it?”
Darrowby was interrupted by the sound of knuckles rapping on metal. The door swung open. A Battle Creek police officer escorted a dapper dressed man in a deep blue power suit with a brown leather briefcase into the room.
The impeccably attired man moved across the room with confidence. Physically, he could match up with Darrowby. He approached Bob and Debbie, right arm stretched forward, and gave a smile assuring Bob everything was going to be okay.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, my name is Kenneth Wilson. I’m a good friend of Clark Hodgkins, and I’ll be representing you moving forward.”
Wilson looked to Darrowby and nodded, then redirected his attention back to Bob and Debbie. “Let me assure you, you’re in the best of hands.” He opened his briefcase on what little space was left on the table.
Bob noticed Darrowby’s face. If this bozo is mad at me, he’s furious with Wilson. So livid, he can’t find the words to speak. Bob could read the wonder on his face. How the hell did you find Kenneth Wilson?
Wilson broke the awkward silence. “Thomas, it’s so good to see you again.”
“Stuff it,” Darrowby said, composing himself and standing. “And that’s Detective Darrowby to you. I don’t know how the hell you ended up here. But trust me. The Stevens are up to their assholes in trouble.”
He punched a finger on top of the stack of files. “That’s four deaths at their place in nine weeks. Understand? This doesn’t just happen.”
Wilson, with a casual air of intended annoyance to Darrowby, took out a pad of paper and a pen from his briefcase. “My, my, sounds like a lot of work for you to sift through. Four deaths, you say?”
Darrowby’s eyes narrowed into viper slits. “I’ll only have to prove one. And you can bet your slick suited ass they’re going down, Wilson. You lose this time, you get me?”
Wilson yawned and brought a hand up to his open mouth as he leaned against the wall. “It’s so early. How about getting us some coffee, Darrowby? That sound good to everyone?” He gave an aside wink to Bob and Debbie, then fixed his feigned earnest gaze at Darrowby.
Darrowby smirked back, said nothing.
“No? No Coffee?” Wilson shrugged, pulled on his ear while looking down and away, then paced in measured steps as if he were in front of a jury. “Fair enough, detective. So why don’t you give me your strongest case.”
Darrowby gripped the edge of his desk and leaned forward. “We’ll start with the first. DeShawn Hill. Our investigation, using a neutral third party, proves conclusively he must have been pushed backwards while standing on top of a ladder. He was three stories up while working at Murcat Manor. Hill was a big man. A contractor with decades of experience. It would have to take another man—a strong one—to push him back. And someone he would trust to get that close to him three stories up.”
Darrowby’s eyes laser-focused on Bob. “No one else around could have done that. Except you.”
Wilson wasted no time. “And I would have to assume there are witnesses Bob or Debbie pushed him?”
Darrowby seethed while he hesitated, then said, “No.”
Wilson chuckled, making a note. “Moving on. Surely, you have more than this on my clients? Please tell me you didn’t haul all of us into this little box of a room and try to pin a murder on them with no more than some,” he snort-giggled, “little notion of yours?”
If Darrowby’s eyes were weaponized, Wilson would have been shot dead.
“Sure’s hell do. The second death; Paul Knudson. Ten days ago at the breakfast table inside Murcat Manor. The kitchen was practically destroyed in a violent fight involving Bob and Debbie Stevens. Guests, including Knudson’s wife, stated in sworn depositions Bob was fighting Knudson hand to hand while Debbie jumped on his back and tried to claw his eyes out.”
He pointed to Bob and said in an accusatory voice, “Both confessed to fighting Knudsen. The autopsy reports are due back this morning.”
Darrowby looked at his watch. “In just over three hours, one of the reports is a DNA test of skin particles found under Debbie’s fingernails. I’m confident that will turn up a positive match to Knudson. And that’s all I need to positively connect Debbie contributin
g directly to Paul Knudson’s death. She attacked him while he was eating. He choked and had a heart attack. All because the Stevens violently attacked him.”
“And you’ve determined who the aggressor was, and who was defending themselves?” Wilson said, cool as chilled guacamole.
Darrowby clenched his fists and posted them on the table. “Guests reported there was a heated discussion at the breakfast table. Bob was yelling at Knudson. Telling him to shut up or get out of his house because he insulted his wife. Mrs. Knudson has given a sworn statement of the event. Yeah, I’d say your client was the aggressor. And so do some of the guests.”
“That’s your interpretation of what the guests have said. In a court of law, which I can assure you we will never reach, cross examination will conclude otherwise.”
Wilson nonchalantly looked at his cell phone and yawned. “Good. The Tigers beat the Red Sox last night. Okay. Anything else? Anything of any substance?” he said, not bothering to look the detective’s way.
Darrowby stopped for a minute. Bob could see he was calming himself down as he wiped sweat off his forehead and ran his hands over his shirt to smooth out wrinkles. “I like my chances. And I’ll say in advance, I accept your challenge.”
Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Looking for a rematch in court?”
“No. I’m looking for justice.”
Darrowby pointed to Bob, but yelled at Wilson. “And don’t think for a minute because you got three murderers off because of technicalities you can do the same with the Stevens. Four deaths on their property? You’ll have to defend them all. And like I said, I only need to prove one,” he said, lifting his middle finger and holding it up prominently in defiance. “Just one. Oh yeah, I really like my chances.”
This guy is a real nutcase, Bob thought. Wilson better be real good, or we’re going to be in a world of trouble.
“And you say the autopsy reports for Paul Knudson will be here this morning?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmmmm. That’s only a week and a half from the time of death.”
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