Marco was equal parts disgusted at Gene’s lack of responsibility, and thankful for the opportunity to shine on an important case. He decided his first step would be talking to Officer Jacobs to understand more about the situation with Terry Edmund.
---
Officer Jacobs was sitting in the corner of the room, kicked back with his feet reclined on his desk, staring at his phone, when Marco walked up.
“Hey Jacobs, you got a sec?”
“Sure, bud. What’s up?” Jacobs clearly acknowledged Marco, but didn’t take his eyes from his phone; they were still trained on the screen. After a long silence from Marco, who still had yet to say anything, Jacobs said again, “What’s up?” This time he looked up from his phone without adjusting his head at all, and waited for Marco to speak.
“I was just wonderin’ what happened at the Edmund house on Saturday. You went to do the interview, right?” Marco was frustrated already, just seconds into the conversation, because as he began to speak, Jacobs lowered his eyes back on his phone.
“Yeah, I went to the prick’s house in Denton. I started asking some questions and the guy got all pissy and told me to get the fuck out. That’s about it. He’s just some rich, stuck-up asshole is all. Threw us out.” Officer Jacobs didn’t like that guy, and that made Marco feel like there maybe was a conflict of interest. Jacobs didn’t take his job seriously, and that attitude could have attributed to the botched interview.
“Anything else?” Marco was just ready to leave his desk and not speak to him anymore.
“Nah, honest that’s all. Wasn’t there long before he slammed the door behind me. Guy’s a real piece a trash.” With that, Marco did not thank him or say anything further, but just turned around and walked away. It was not a long walk to his office, and once he got inside, he closed the door loudly behind him to make a point. If Marco was going to do this, he was going to do it right and form his own case file.
He took the notes out of the file and copied them onto a document on his new computer, and then wrote in what he had just learned from Officer Jacobs, not leaving out any details of his carelessness or poor attitude. Marco connected to the office printer and printed off the new case file and, in the meantime, scanned the photo of Miss Zoey Edmund onto his computer. Afterwards, he scrapped the chicken-scratch, handwritten pages and threw them into the garbage, and replaced them with the new, neatly printed and grammar-corrected documents.
Ready for a productive day, Marco returned to Gene’s office with the new case file in hand.
“Hey there boss, I did a little editing to your file.” Marco opened the file to display the new typed and printed pages, smirking all the while. “Sorry, I’m just a little new-fashioned.”
Gene adjusted his glasses and took a quick look, grinning.
“You rookies are so crazy about your technology. That’s alright, it’s your file now anyway.” Gene looked back down at what he was studying.
“Listen, I wanna go interview the parents of Miss Edmund to find out what they can tell me about her, and maybe what they can tell me about the ex. His case isn’t lookin’ so great right now.” Marco was almost about to explode out of his shoes waiting for Gene to give him the all-clear to go it alone, but to his surprise, he began to stand up from his chair.
“Alright, yeah. Good idea. I was gonna do that a few days back but ain’t got around to it yet. You wanna take my car?” Gene flashed a key fob with the Mercedes-Benz logo embellished proudly on the back. “Go start the car. I’m gonna go figure out the address. You drive,” Gene said on his way out of the door, carefully handing the expensive-looking fob to Marco. “But if you hurt my baby, Jeff’s gonna be the only detective left around here that can walk right.”
He laughed, but Marco sensed that he was only halfway joking.
In his very long and respected career, Gene had only gotten along with a handful of people. Most of the people he was forced to work with were beat cops, careless rookie detectives that could not make it, and sergeants, lieutenants and captains that were promoted over him, despite their inexperience. In his career with Dallas, he has seen four Captains come and go, each worse than the last, while Captain Cole had been the only respectable one of the lot. These Captains were only ever good at casting down judgement from a high horse and screwing up the opportunities they had been handed on a silver platter. And each time, Gene was overlooked for a promotion off any kind, and each time got more infuriating. With the promotion of Captain Cole, Gene had given up on his chance of moving up the bureaucratic ladder, realizing that now five men were chosen over him. Ultimately, he settled on retirement.
His career had been illustrious and he had been involved with numerous high-profile cases, and had earned a higher salary than the average detective. In the process, he managed to secure a rather large pension, plus his own retirement savings. Now was a good a time as any to hang it up.
But now, since he met Marco, he finally clicked with a colleague. He felt Marco was something other than some rookie detective that was going to realize this wasn’t for him. Gene saw real potential in Marco, along with the fire in his eyes that once burned in his own. The desire to win, to solve the puzzle, to catch the bad guy, and to achieve something. Plus, Marco filled the son-shaped void in his life, and kind of made up for never having one. Their personalities fit so well together, and Gene enjoyed teaching Marco the ropes. They were not only colleagues, but they were close friends, at least in Gene’s eyes; and for once, Gene respected someone other than himself.
Marco took the keys as Gene walked toward the Lieutenant’s office to ask about the address. He was dumbfounded. The chance to drive a Benz? He felt like a child on Christmas morning during his walk to the parking lot.
Marco clicked the unlock button and the LED beams of light melted his heart. It was the ultimate icon of class, comfort, and beauty. He hopped in the driver’s seat and turned it on. Using the power pedals on the side of his chair, he adjusted the seat and then used the touch screen to activate the heated seat functionality. Seventies rock blared as Marco explored the rest of the features.
Gene followed not far behind, and got in on the passenger’s side. “Ever driven a Benz?” Gene smiled, already knowing the answer that he had predetermined.
“Uh, nope. This is a first,” Marco laughed.
Without giving an address or directions, Gene pulled up the onboard navigation system and copied in the address from a piece of paper he had written on. Marco was thrilled to see the estimated time of arrival was over forty minutes. It gave him longer to drive.
---
Halfway through the drive, which so far had consisted of chatter not associated with work, and rock music, Gene mentioned that there are very few jobs in all the land that allow you free roam, within reason. He told stories of the countless times that he had been out on the job all day, not even visiting his desk but once in the morning. He was proud to have worked a career that never tied him to a desk for more than a little while. Gene would have driven himself crazy behind the seat of a desk; he was happier in his car, out in the sun, or in someone’s house, sipping southern hospitality tea.
Gene was open to admitting he has never really cared for his co-workers, and spending too much time with them made him apt to a short temper. Gene quoted the old saying, “If you find a job you love, you’ll never have to work a day in your life.”
He got sentimental, going on more about how he would miss the job when it was over; he would miss the thrill of a hunt, the pride of solving a puzzle, saving people, and serving justice.
Gene’s stories only deepened Marco’s pride for his chosen career path. He could not wait to get to this house, conduct his first interview, sit down for his first lunch with his mentor and friend, and report to the Captain with the latest development, for the first time. These would be memories he’d cherish forever, and he even pictured himself mentoring his own young detective one day, telling him stories on the way to their first interview. He imagined the k
ind of life he would live, who he would marry, whether he would have sons or not, what his first home would look like, and he got lost in these images. Gene was still talking about something, but Marco was so engrossed in his own fantasy, that his voice just sounded like faded background noise.
Before he knew it, they were pulling up onto the driveway of the parents of the missing girl. In his stomach, he felt a pit form, then harden. He realized that a girl’s life may depend on this interview and because of it, he felt Gene should take the lead this time.
“Hey Gene, I know it’s my first day and all, but will you do the asking questions? I just wanna make sure we get this girl and I don’t wanna screw it up.” Marco looked to Gene for reassurance, for confidence. He lacked those things on his own and because of it, his face was a ghostly pale color.
“Sure, bud. I’ll take care of it. Just hold that journal of yours and take the notes. If you think of something I don’t, though, you better chime up.” Gene then opened his door and grunted during his effort to stand up. The old age made standing up more difficult and more painful for him, but it did not slow him down much.
Marco felt angry and relieved at the same time: angry that he was forfeiting his first interview opportunity, but relieved that the pit in his stomach had loosened. He followed Gene up the stone walkway and to the massive oak door.
A black cast iron knocker, which was intricately forged into the shape of a lion’s head, hung on the door just beneath the peep hole. Gene grabbed a hold of it and firmly knocked on the door three times.
At first there was no answer, so after drawing the conclusion that the knock was not loud enough, Gene opted to using his fists on the wood. He let three more firm, and much louder, knocks out. The wood sounded sturdy and authentic; it sounded expensive.
The door opened slowly without a creak, and in the doorway stood an older, but quite tall woman. Her hair was gray and frizzled, and her eyes blue. Wrinkles covered her face, from her forehead, to next to and under her eyes, to the corners of her mouth. She was slim, with bony arms that were uncovered by her sleeveless house shirt. She was still in her pajamas, and it appeared as though she had just woken up. It was still rather early for many people, at 8:42 a.m.
“What can I do for you gentlemen this early?” The woman did not try to hide how inconvenienced she felt.
Gene spoke up. “Mrs. Bishop? My name is Gene Maxwell, and this is my associate-”
“You’re not salesmen, are you?” She interrupted them, the door now halfway closed and closing quickly.
“No, ma’am. My name is Gene Maxwell, and this is my associate Marco Moretti. We are detectives for Dallas Homicide, and we’d like to talk about your daughter, Miss Zoey Edmund. Do you have a moment?”
FIVE
Surprise, maybe even shock, became apparent and, without any sort of hesitation, she swung the door fully open, almost too quickly for her scrawny arms. She brushed her hair back and tidied her clothes, as if to appear a little more decent.
“Sure, gentlemen, come on in.”
Marco followed closely behind Gene as they stepped into the grand entrance. They stood underneath a crystal chandelier, waiting for Mrs. Bishop to direct them to a sitting area. To the left and right were two open arches that led into other rooms, and directly in front of them was a marvelous wooden spiral staircase. This home seeked to make an imposing first impression, and Marco met Gene’s eyes to form the general consensus that it had achieved its goal. The view was breathtaking. But Marco and Gene both knew it was somewhat unprofessional to gawk, so their faces remained as sullen as possible, and they followed Mrs. Bishop into the living area, where they took their seats on a luxurious leather couch.
The couch, loveseat, and reclining chair were a matching set, and they formed a circle around a large oak coffee table that looked to match the front door. They were all centered in front of a stone fireplace, and above the fireplace, on the mantle, sat a simple wooden box with a plaque engraved: Eugene L. Bishop: Adoring Father, Husband, Friend, and Hero.
They each took their seats, with Gene and Marco sharing the loveseat, while Mrs. Bishop sat alone directly opposite them on the couch.
“What can I help you with, gentlemen? It’s been over a week since I filed a report. I figured someone would have come by sooner,” she said, her voice trailing at the end.
“Yes, ma’am. The intention was to come sooner, but this is our first opportunity to get out here,” Gene said quietly, a rasp in his voice. After clearing his throat, a bit more loudly he continued, “But we have every intention of dedicating every spare second we have to finding your daughter. We just have some questions regarding the last time the two of you spoke, and then a few more about her ex-husband, Terry.”
“Absolutely. Could I get the two of you something to drink? Tea? Water? I’d offer coffee, but it would take a little while to brew.”
Mrs. Bishop’s attitude had completely flipped around, from the angry and inconvenienced tone she had used at the door.
“Please. Tea,” Gene said. Mrs. Bishop looked to Marco, but he politely just waved a hand, declining the service. She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
In her absence, Gene whispered to Marco. “You pretty much already know how to do this part of the job, but go ahead and watch me closely. Watch the way I phrase my sentences; listen to the tone of voice I use, and the words I choose. There’s an art to the perfect interview, and being in ass isn’t part of the art.” Marco nodded appreciatively, thinking to himself that he already knows how to do it, but wouldn’t dare say that. After all, it was his choice to forfeit the lead. He didn’t want to botch something so important on his first day.
There was some clinking in the room over, which must be the kitchen, and then the sound of a fridge opening and closing, then after a moment, Mrs. Bishop waltzed back into the room.
“Here you are, Mr. um- what was your name? I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushed, revealing her embarrassment.
“I’m Detective Gene Maxwell, but just call me Gene.” He flashed a polite smile at her, which completely disarmed any guard or reservations that she may have had left. She felt at ease in his presence. “It won’t take much of your time. They’re very simple questions. First, might you tell me about the last time the two of you spoke?”
“Of course. It was on the phone on New Year’s Eve. Middle of the day, I think. Anyway, she called to chat for a little bit, as she often does, and told me she wanted me to come see her new fancy condo in Dallas. She had only had it for a little less than a month, I think.” Her voice once again trailed at the end, and there was a pause while she thought. “Right, anyway, she wanted me to come see it because she finally finished getting it all decorated. She kept saying it looked like something out of a magazine, how beautiful it was, how much she loved it, and all that.”
Gene nodded and paid close attention as she told her story, while Marco relaxed and observed. She continued. “So, we were talking, and she sounded and acted normal. She called me the week before crying and venting about Terry, how she would be spending Christmas alone in her apartment, but this time she seemed totally fine.” Mrs. Bishop began to get off track, talking about how she had offered to have Zoey over and spend Christmas together - just the two of them - but she decided to stay home.
Finally, she returned to the relevant topic: “She was in high spirits, actually. Then she started talking about how she was gonna go out in Dallas to celebrate the New Year. She said she needed to get out and give herself something to do. I begged her not to. I kept saying, ‘don’t go out in that city. It’s too dangerous, and something bad always happens’, but she said the usual stuff; ‘I’m an adult, and I have to forget about Terry now’. We talked a little bit more about her apartment, and then we hung up. That’s the last time we talked.” After finishing her story, Mrs. Bishop’s eyes welled with tears, so she wiped them on her sleeve and apologized to the detectives.
“Mrs. Bishop, I feel for your grief, but th
ere are reasons to be optimistic. Although we haven’t found her yet, that’s not conclusive. She’s a grown woman and she could be anywhere, but the most important thing is that she hasn’t been found or reported to be deceased. This means she’s very possibly still alive, and Marco and I believe that we can find her,” Gene assured her.
One of his first lessons to Marco was to never promise anything. Gene always said promising people can give them false hope, and make a tragedy that much worse. He said instead to assure them of everything short of a promise; give them optimism and ease their suffering, but never promise them that everything will be okay.
Mrs. Bishop calmed a bit and then said a simple, “Thank you,” and wiped her last tear. She composed herself and said, “I hope that helps. But is there anything else I can answer?”
“Yes, a few things. Did she mention any place in particular she was going to go? Or maybe did she say anything about when she planned to be home?”
“Um, well no. She didn’t say what time she wanted to be home, and she never mentioned a particular place. I know she was going to a bar, but I don’t know which one. And Dallas has a bunch of bars.” Mrs. Bishop looked apologetic for not knowing more, even partially blaming herself for not asking more questions when she had the chance.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bishop. That’s actually a huge help. Now we know where to start.” Gene didn’t really think it was a huge help, but he did not want to see her blame herself for something she could not have predicted. She didn’t have to know what an undertaking this was going to be, and if easing her conscious was the only good he could do, then so be it.
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