The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  The trucker was not a serial killer, just a lonely man on the road; a talker. He rattled on relentlessly as Allan listened. He gladly agreed to drive Allan to the edge of his neighborhood, to his passengers appreciation and horror.

  “Heading home?” the trucker asked.

  “Yeah,” Allan answered flatly.

  “You’re lucky,” the man said. “I’ve been on the road four days now. Still have another ten before I can steer this rig home. Don’t like being gone that long, you know? I miss the wife, even the kids. And it’s hard on her, having to deal with all the issues of house keep and such. I should be there to help her. But I’m on the road. Job pays well, but sometimes I don’t know if it’s worth it, you know?”

  Allan listened to the trucker dredge on about how much he didn’t like driving anymore, how his relationship with his wife was strained, how she was a good woman and put up with him. The man managed to turn every third or fourth statement into a question, never waiting for Allan to respond. In half an hour Allan knew more about the stranger’s life than he did his own. All the while, the only thing Allan could think about was how lucky the man was never to have gone home to catch his wife having sex with a stranger.

  At the end of his street, the trucker pulled to the curb, apologizing for not taking the semi-trailer down the narrow street to his house. He said, “Bet your wife will be glad to see you.”

  “Last time, I caught her in bed with a stranger,” Allan said, not sure why he would share such private information with a man he barely knew.

  “Oh,” was all the man who had talked non-stop for thirty miles could say.

  Allan slid out of the passenger seat to the sidewalk below. Closing the door, he stood on the corner waving at the truck as it rolled away; not stopping until the truck disappeared over a hill. Turning to face his neighborhood, his eyes focused on his destination half a block away.

  The street was quiet and Allan sighed with relief. He wanted to change clothes and shoes. He wanted to talk to Sarah about what their next step might be. He wanted an explanation for closing the bank account. Most of all, he wanted to sleep in his own bed, although he wasn't sure he was ready for that after seeing another man there.

  He walked up the street glancing at the windows of the houses he passed, imagining the inhabitants staring back at him knowingly. He lived on this street more than fifteen years and did not know a single neighbor. He had seen them working in their yards, checking their mail, walking to their cars. Even so, if he ran into one of them at the supermarket he would never know.

  Standing in front of his home, he looked up at the small structure. It looked different somehow, less inviting. As he started to climb the stairs, a vision of his wife and the stranger crossed his mind and he froze. The man could still be there. He contemplated turning around, running away. He really needed that change of clothes.

  He climbed the steps slowly searching the windows for movement. He reached into his pocket for the key to the door and remembered he left them in his jacket draped over a chair inside. He stared at the door a long moment pondering what to do. He finally raised his hand and pressed the doorbell.

  Allan waited for his wife to come to the door and let him in. He did not know what he was going to say. He could not imagine what she would say. She might beg forgiveness he supposed. She might just stand there at a loss for words. She might even throw herself at him. He tried to think how he should react to each of the scenarios.

  “May I help you?” Sarah stood with the door only slightly ajar and only a sliver of her face showing through the opening.

  “What?” Allan said. He ran through the scenarios in his mind again and this one was not among them. “Let me in.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “Let me in, Sarah” he repeated.

  “Why should I?” she asked.

  “I live here,” he said. “That’s why.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said without expression. “Do I know you?”

  “Know me?” he was flabbergasted. “Do you know me? We’ve been married for nine years and you’re asking if you know me?”

  “Is this a joke?” she asked him.

  “I should be asking you that,” he said. “Come on. Let me in.”

  “My husband is dead,” Sarah said.

  “Dead?” Allan was taken aback.

  “He was killed a few days ago,” she said. “Murdered in fact. And this is not funny.”

  “Killed?” Allan said. “Murdered? What are you talking about? I’m not dead. I'm right here.”

  “You’re not my husband,” she said.

  “I am too,” he insisted.

  “No. You’re not,” she said. “You’re sick. And if you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

  “Call the police?” Allan said. “And say what? Your husband is here claiming to be your husband?”

  “One.”

  “Fine call them,” Allan said. “Maybe they’ll let me get some shoes.”

  “Two.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “Three.”

  “I’m leaving,” Allan relented. “But I’m going to the police. You can’t keep me out of my own home.”

  Sarah started to close the door and Allan called out to stop her. “Can I at least get another pair of shoes?”

  She slammed the door in his face. He stood looking at the wooden surface where her face had been only seconds before. How could she say he was dead? Murdered no less. She could not really think she would be able to convince anyone he was dead, did she? Maybe she was losing her mind. Regardless what her problem might be, he wanted his shoes.

  He walked the side streets of town toward the police station. He never realized how far he lived from the protection of the city’s finest. His feet ached, forcing him to stop often to massage his soles and adjust the strings. There were some major blisters forming. He was convinced he may not make it to the police station. Convinced that if he did, that would be as far as he could go on foot. If they didn’t help him he would curl up and die.

  Relieved, he did make it. Stepping into the station, Allan was struck by how underwhelming it was. There was a single officer standing behind a pane of thick glass with small holes cut through. To one side a windowed door showed an officer poised to respond to any threat that might present itself. On the far end of the same wall, another door, another officer. Allan felt like a criminal as he stepped up to the glass to speak to the officer.

  “How may I help you?” the officer said without making eye contact.

  “My wife has locked me out of the house and told me I was dead,” Allan said. “I just want to get my things.” Quickly, he added, “And talk to her.”

  The officer’s eyes came up to meet Allan’s gaze. He studied Allan for a moment, “What did you say your name was?”

  “Tuttle,” Allan said. “Allan Tuttle.”

  “You say your wife locked you out, did you?” the officer asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Tuttle, is it?” the officer asked. Allan nodded and the man behind the glass continued, “I’m going to have someone come talk to you. Would you mind staying right there for a moment?”

  “Certainly,” Allan smiled. He watched as the officer picked up a phone and spoke in a hushed voice. The officer set the phone back into its cradle and sat motionless, looking at Allan. The two of them stared at one another through the glass, waiting.

  The door to Allan’s left opened and two men stepped through. One was a uniformed officer. The other wore a suit. Allan turned to greet them. Instead of offering their hands they pushed Allan against a wall and searched him. His protests went unanswered as the men emptied every pocket. Finding nothing of interest they forcibly escorted him from the building.

  Outside they spun him on his heels, the uniformed officer holding his arm with an iron grip while the suit spoke. “Mrs. Tuttle called and told us you might be coming.”

  “She what?”

 
; “Shut up,” the uniform said.

  “Said you were claiming to be her deceased husband,” the suit explained. “You even told her you were going to come here to get us to let you into her home.”

  “But . . . “

  “I said, shut up,” the uniform twisted the grip on his arm and Allan winced with pain.

  “She doesn’t want to press charges right now,” the suit said. “That could change. You stay away from her. Got it?”

  “But . . .”

  “He asked if you got it.”

  Allan looked at him for a second and the grip on his arm tightened a little more. He said, “I’ve got it.”

  “Good,” the suit said. The uniform pushed him toward the street and Allan stumbled to the ground. “Have a nice day.”

  The two men re-entered the building without looking back at him. Allan sat on the sidewalk, stunned. His options were running out faster than he could think of them and he knew he wouldn’t be able to walk all the way back to the cabin before the sun went down. He had an overwhelming desire to cry. He just did not have the energy. He rose to his feet, standing awkwardly as he tried to keep from putting weight on the blisters. Failing that, the tears came, blurring his vision. He would walk until the pain was too much, which wouldn’t be long. After that he wasn’t sure what he would do.

  Chapter 15

  (The Imposter)

  Dave and Philip called every cab company in the city. True Value Cabs was the only one Mr. Tuttle ever used. He used them infrequently and only for transportation to or from the airport. Sarah was right about her husband flying. She seemed to be amiss on the amount of flying he did. Evidently, he spent a lot of his time away from home somewhere else in the city.

  “A girlfriend perhaps?” Dave suggested.

  “That would explain who he slept with the night he died,” Philip agreed. “Problem is figuring out who she is.”

  “Maybe we should hit some local bars with his picture,” Dave said. “Maybe someone will remember him. If he spent that much time away from home, maybe he didn’t spend it all at the girlfriend’s place.”

  “Yea, a guy like this probably had a steady where he could crash if he wanted, but didn’t necessarily spend all his time with her,” Philip said. “He probably cruised the clubs looking for women.”

  “We should check the motels in the area too,” Dave added. “Not every woman would take him to her place. And parking garages. He would need a car to get around. He may have a paid parking space where he keeps it.”

  The garages and motels took a couple of hours to call, asking if they had any records of a Tuttle storing or staying at their locations, waiting for the clerks to check their paperwork or refusing to check their paperwork. The couple locations that refused were the seedier motels. A quick drive out, a flash of the badge and the threat of frequent noisy visits got them the answers they needed. Unfortunately, the hours were wasted. There was no record of the man.

  “Motor vehicles only has one car registered to Allan and Sarah Tuttle,” Philip reported after hanging up the phone. “The one the wife uses. Fact is the License Bureau doesn’t even have an Allan Tuttle on file. I called to check on the status of his license and they say he doesn’t have one.”

  “Figures,” Dave said. “He probably doesn’t file his taxes or carry insurance either. What a creep our Mr. Tuttle was. Could have had any number of enemies. A guy like that doesn’t make a lot of friends.”

  “Shall we hit the bars then?”

  “I got a photo of him from the morgue,” Dave nodded. “I should have asked Mrs. Tuttle for a better one. Come to think of it, I didn’t see any pictures in the house. The man probably didn’t allow his picture taken. Typical double life tactic. Makes me wonder if Tuttle is his real name. He may have a whole other identity.”

  “You think he might have another wife?” Philip asked. “Could be another explanation for telling Sarah he’s out of town when he isn’t.”

  “Definitely a possibility,” Dave nodded. “Not sure how we’ll be able to track that down. Unless the other wife reports him missing.”

  “The other wife could be the one who had him killed,” Philip suggested. “Found out about Sarah and decided to end it permanently.”

  Philip looked the photo over. The photographer tried to avoid the dark impression on the side of the man’s skull and had cropped out the bruised handprints on the man’s neck. The pale, pasty skin, the slack features of the face and the closed eyes; no matter how good the photographer there was no disguising the fact it was a corpse in the photo. Philip handed it back to Dave saying, “Looks good enough for an identification.”

  “Well,” Dave stood. “If we start now, we should be able to hit all the bars by, say, next Tuesday.”

  “I say we don’t start too close to his home,” Philip said. “He might be a creep. But if he had a brain at all, he wouldn’t cruise chicks in his own neighborhood. And since we found him south of town, I think we should start in the south.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  The first bar they came to was Ted’s Tavern. They walked in together. The patrons all turned to see them enter, turning away just as quickly. They moved to the bar and waited their turn to be served. The bartender poured a drink for a short, sad looking man, wiped down the counter, draped the towel over his shoulder and approached the detectives.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Information,” Dave said.

  “Ain’t got none of that,” the bartender smiled. “That’s why I tend bar.”

  “We just need you to look at a picture and tell us if you know the guy,” Philip said.

  “Let’s see it,” the bartender gestured for them to hand the photo over with obvious impatience.

  Dave held out the photo and the man took it, looking it over for a long minute before handing it back. “That dude’s seen better days.”

  “Yea,” Dave said. “You ever see him before?”

  “Nah,” the bartender said. “A mug like that would stand out in a crowd like this. Mostly regulars here. Mostly old-timers.”

  “Okay,” Dave handed him a card. “If you do remember something, give me a call.”

  “Sure thing,” the bartender said. After the detectives left, the man tossed the card in the trash and moved down the bar to pour more drinks.

  It was the same story in each bar they entered. They visited nearly a dozen establishments with no luck. No one knew the man or at least didn’t admit knowing him. They were beginning to think the man didn’t drink, although results from the autopsy suggested otherwise. His liver was shot and the coroner mentioned alcohol in his stomach. So they pressed on. Deciding to try an obvious approach, they drove out to the airport and knowing there were two bars inside.

  The first was a family eatery so they passed it by and went to the next, which was more of a lounge. They presented the photo to the bartender. The young man, wrinkling his face at the sight of the photo, studied it closely. A second later he said, “Looks a little familiar.”

  The detectives stood a little straighter. Dave tapped the corner of the photo. “Are you sure?”

  “Not positive,” the bartender said. “Most of our customers are alive. I think I remember seeing him. I think . . . hold on.”

  The young man stepped away and walked to the far end of the bar and called out to a waitress who was just finishing taking an order from a group of businessmen. She walked over to the bartender tearing off the ticket as she walked and handed it to him. He spoke to her and pointed at the detectives. She glanced their way turning back to the bartender who seemed to have a lot to say to her. She nodded and walked around the bar and up to the detectives.

  “You have a photo or something?” she said, dully.

  Dave held the photo of the dead man out to her and she looked at it without touching it. She did not cringe at the sight of the dead man as the others had. She simply studied the image for a long moment before nodding her head, “That’s him.”

&n
bsp; “You know him?”

  “I don’t know him,” she said. “But he was here a few nights back. Looks like someone didn’t like him anymore than I did.”

  “You had a problem with him?” Dave asked.

  “Drank a lot, which was good. Talked too much and too loud, which wasn’t,” she said. “And he was handsy, which really wasn’t.”

  “What did he talk about?” Philip asked.

  “Himself mostly,” she said. “And some woman. Said he was here to meet some woman who was late. Said if he wanted to wait for a woman he could go home and wait for his wife.”

  The detectives glanced at one another. They were finally on the right track. Dave turned back to the waitress asking, “Do you remember anything else he said?”

  “Sure,” she said. “He asked me if I wanted to take him home if the woman didn’t show. Like I would be caught dead with a creep like that. I was really happy to see that woman show up.”

  “You saw the woman?”

  “Yea,” she said. “And when she did show, he was just all smiles and friendly to her. Never mentioned she was late. Like she was the queen or something. Two-faced type. I used to date one. Can’t trust ‘em.”

  “Tell us about the woman,” Philip said. “Ever see her before?”

  “No,” the waitress said. “Just that one time.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Kind of pretty,” the waitress said. “Dressed like she had some money. Not a lot, like she was trying to look rich. You know the type. The thing about her wasn’t her looks though.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was the way she acted,” she said. “The way she walked and talked. You know, she was in charge. And this guy seemed to know it. She was definitely the boss. Lead him around like he was on a leash or something.”