by Terry Odell
“I’m up for that.” Gordon disconnected before he got too up for that. He focused on the email from the trooper and opened the attachment with the accident report.
Oh, yeah. He looked forward to getting Bart in a room and having him explain this one.
Gordon made a quick call to Xander, asking the tech to see what he could find out about any prints on the pill vial from Marianna Spellman’s purse. “I wouldn’t bother you, but you know who to ask, and how to get things moved to the head of the queue.”
Once Xander—giving an exaggerated sigh worthy of any melodrama actor—agreed, Gordon decided he wanted to be part of both interviews after all. He’d rather see things for himself, then compare impressions with Solomon. Too bad the station didn’t have two interview rooms. A much better place—from the cop standpoint—to have someone sweat it out while waiting to be questioned. The breakroom was far too comfortable. He considered the reception area. It wasn’t particularly inviting, but it wasn’t secure either. Plus, the person at the desk wasn’t a sworn officer, so the intimidation factor of a person in uniform was lost. Aside from himself, nobody had a private office.
He checked to see who was on duty this shift to babysit the actors when they weren’t being interviewed. Gaubatz. He called him, let him know he’d be watching a couple of persons of interest. Not right to call them suspects. Yet. “You’ll have them one at a time. Don’t talk to them. Park them, keep an eye on them. In an ignoring kind of way. But be stern.”
Gaubatz snickered. “Got it, Chief. Be myself.”
Gordon went over to Solomon’s cubicle. “Change of plan. We’re both going to interview both of them. But we’ll keep them separated. I’ll go fetch Bart, you get Kathy. We’ll start with her. Put her in interrogation. Last time, I interviewed them both in my office, all nice and friendly. Let’s ramp it up for this one.”
Solomon shut down his laptop. “No thermoses lying around so far.”
Gordon hadn’t expected to find one. He considered the discrepancy in the neat and tidy wardrobe RV and the ransacking of Marianna’s office. The bad guys tended to be either organized or disorganized. He mentioned this to Solomon.
“Are you saying there might be two people working together?” Solomon drummed his fingertips on his desk. “Bart and Kathy? Might make sense. He’s the messy one, she’s the poisoner.”
“Keep an open mind. Meet you at Daily Bread. Back entrance.”
Gordon locked his office, went out the rear door, and headed for the Village. The security guard—the porky one—was leaning against the barricade. He jumped up and moved it aside as Gordon approached, waving him through. “All quiet?” Gordon asked.
The guard nodded. “Yes, sir. No problems.”
Solomon appeared seconds later, and Gordon pulled ahead to give him room, aiming for a spot close to the rear entrance to Daily Bread. Through his rearview, Gordon saw the guard return the barricade into place. Was he standing a bit straighter?
Gordon got out of his vehicle and waited for Solomon. The two strode toward the diner, which was guarded by the lean and lanky security guy who’d been there the last time Gordon had come through.
He gave a brusque nod and didn’t slow his pace as he approached. The guard, an almost frightened expression on his face, opened the door and jumped to the side. “Go right in, officers.”
“What did you do to that poor schmuck?” Solomon whispered once the door had shut behind them.
“Other than put him down in front of Dawson? Nothing. Dawson’s the one who reamed him a new one.”
They paused in the passageway to the kitchen. From the sound of things—or the lack thereof—Gordon guessed they were between takes. He strode through the kitchen and into the dining room. Dawson was conferring with one of his aides, whose head was bouncing like a Bobblehead doll on the dashboard of a speeding Indy car. Gordon spotted the two stand-ins. Kathy sat in a booth with Mai Phan and Ian Patrick. Bart sat by himself, reading his paperback. Not so lovey-dovey now. Or were they keeping their relationship below the radar?
“You round up Kathy,” Gordon said to Solomon. “I’ll let Dawson know we’re taking them to the station, and follow with Bart.”
Gordon approached Dawson the same way he had the security guard. “I need Bart Bergsstrom and Kathy Newberg,” he said without preamble. Dawson opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Gordon said, “Now. I’ll try to have them back as soon as possible, but that’s entirely up to them. I suggest you find a couple of other people to fill in while they’re gone.”
Dawson gazed across the diner, where Solomon was ushering Kathy ahead of him toward the rear exit. “I take it this is related to Marianna Spellman’s death. Very well. They’re not needed for the next couple of sequences anyway.” He turned to his Bobblehead.
Dawson’s lack of protest, or demonstration of at least a modicum of curiosity, puzzled Gordon, but he’d accept getting Bart and Kathy without an argument. He intercepted Bart, who was now standing, gazing after Kathy and Solomon. “Come with me, please, Mr. Bergsstrom. We have a few more questions for you. It’s been cleared with Mr. Dawson.”
Bart shoved his book into a rear pocket. “Am I under arrest? What for? I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“No, you’re not under arrest. We’ll discuss it at the station,” Gordon said. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
If you give us the truth.
After a quick pat-down— “for both of our protection” —Gordon put Bart in the backseat of the SUV. Technically, he should have cuffed him, but Gordon didn’t want to let the man think he’d been found out. Nor did he want him too comfortable, which letting him ride in front would have conveyed. Against regulations, not to mention stupid. He hoped uncuffed in back would say, we’re not all buddy-buddy, just out for a little drive.
He took his time settling behind the wheel, wanting to give Solomon enough time to get Kathy into the interrogation room first. Make her stew a while, get her thinking, worrying. He took the side roads to the station, noting Solomon’s vehicle in the lot. Gordon swung his SUV into his parking place. He walked Bart along the path to the main entrance to the building, through reception, and then swiped his key card through the door admitting them to the business side of things.
He hadn’t liked having to install that extra security measure, but sometimes the citizens of Mapleton felt it was their right to speak to a police officer any time they wanted, and after Mr. Johnson had barged through in the wee hours one morning, threatening to drag an officer to his place to investigate, the Town Council had insisted on the locked door. Although Gordon could understand the need, to him, it added a layer between us and them when his goal was to have the citizens trust the cops, to feel comfortable with them, to consider them protectors, not adversaries.
Gordon marched Bart down the hall to Gaubatz’s desk. “You can wait here, Mr. Bergsstrom. Can we get you something to drink? I don’t recommend the coffee, but you’re welcome to give it a shot. I’d go with the bottled water.” Gordon waited, hoping Bart would take the bait, since the man had refused anything the first time Gordon had interviewed him. The lab was comparing the prints on the tainted hot chocolate cups to the ones Gordon had gathered during interviews, and he wanted to be sure they had Bart’s as well.
Bart shrugged. “Sure. Water’s fine.”
Gordon left Bart in Gaubatz’s care while he went to the breakroom for a bottle of water. Solomon was there, studying the offerings of the vending machine. As if they were any different than they’d been for the last six months.
Solomon inserted some change, pressed some buttons and waited while a peanut crunch bar clunked into the tray. “Kathy’s in interrogation. She’s twitchy. I think she’ll talk.”
“You get anything from her on the drive?” Gordon asked.
Solomon snagged his candy and ripped open the wrapper. “No. I set the stage for being bad cop.” He bit off a chunk of the bar.
“Which you do so well,” Gordon s
aid. “I’ll be right back. Our other guest requested water.”
Holding the bottle carefully by the bottom, he walked to Gaubatz’s desk and handed the drink to Bart. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back shortly.”
Gordon snagged Solomon, a legal pad and a pen.
Solomon shoved papers into a file folder, grabbed his laptop, and they ambled toward interrogation. “Too bad we don’t have video, or a one-way mirror like the television cops,” Solomon said. “I’d like to see what she’s doing in there.”
They paused outside the door, listening. Judging from the footfalls, Kathy was pacing the floor. With feeling. A few emphatic thumps punctuated her stomps. Pounding the table? Or the wall? Gordon put his hand on the knob.
Chapter 31
Gordon pulled the door open a couple of inches and peered inside. Kathy was indeed pacing the width of the room, hitting the wall with the palm of a hand as she reached each side. From the looks of her disheveled hair, she’d been yanking on it with the other hand. Gordon nodded to Solomon, opened the door wider and stepped inside.
Gordon approached Kathy. “Have a seat, Miss Newberg. Did Officer Solomon offer you anything to drink?”
She shook her head. “He wouldn’t speak to me, except to tell me to wait.”
Gordon turned to his officer. “You know it’s policy to ensure our guests are comfortable.”
“Yeah, right.” Solomon rolled his eyes. “You wanna drink?” he said to Kathy. “Water? Or maybe hot chocolate?”
She straightened her spine, met his eyes. “Not now, thank you very much.”
“Please.” Gordon pulled out the chair. “Sit.” He set the recorder in the center of the table. Then he moved away, leaning against the wall, pen poised over his notepad. Solomon’s question about hot chocolate hadn’t garnered a reaction.
“A few basics to begin,” Gordon continued. He asked her date of birth, home address, how long she’d been an actress. Simple ones, designed to ease the tension.
Solomon stood across from her, dropped the file folder next to the recorder, and set up his laptop. He leaned his palms on the table’s scarred laminate surface. “What really happened the day you said you were in an accident?”
Her eyes popped. “I was in an accident. On the way to the shoot. Don’t you believe me?”
“How tall are you, Miss Newberg?” Solomon said.
She squinted. “Five-seven. Why?”
“We ask the questions.” Solomon yanked out the second chair and sat. “How long have you and Bart Bergsstrom been an item?”
She examined her fingernails, as if she’d had the answers manicured into them. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘an item’. We’ve been seeing each other for a while. I don’t know precisely. Maybe three months?”
“Where did you go on your first date? What’s his favorite food?”
Kathy turned confused, imploring eyes to Gordon. “Why is he asking me all these questions? What can they possibly have to do with Marianna Spellman’s murder?”
“Officer Solomon, I agree. Please, ask your questions in the prescribed and approved manner. There’s no need to upset Miss Newberg.”
Solomon, bless him, didn’t crack a smile at prescribed and approved.
“I’m sorry, Miss Newberg,” Solomon said, his tone conveying anything but. “Will you please go over everything that happened on the day of the accident. Starting when you got up that morning. At Frank’s cabin.” He poised his fingers over the laptop’s keyboard.
Gordon watched, waited for Kathy to refute the owner of the cabin, since Solomon had apparently pulled the name out of nowhere but his creative brain. However, she merely sighed and closed her eyes. Composing herself? Recalling the script she and Bart might have prepared? Reviewing her lines?
When she opened them again, there was a difference to her demeanor. Not quite the same Kathy Newberg. “We woke up at six and showered.” She gave both Gordon and Solomon a weak smile. “Do you want the details of that, as well?”
“I think we’re fine. Six o’clock. Shower. Go on.” Gordon started a timeline on his notepad.
“I fixed us breakfast.” She paused.
Solomon gave her what she was waiting for. “Which was?”
“Eggs and sausage,” she said with a triumphant head shake. Back on script, Gordon thought.
“How did you fix the eggs? What kind of sausage?” Solomon asked.
She paused, as if trying to remember. “Fried eggs. Link sausage.”
“That’s it?” Solomon said. “No toast? Juice? Coffee?”
Kathy pursed her lips in and out. “Well, of course we had coffee. That’s automatic. And orange juice. We hadn’t brought much food with us, and we were using up what was left. I cleaned the kitchen and straightened up the living room. Bart took care of packing and cleaning the bedroom and bathroom.”
“Nice of him,” Gordon said. “Most guys don’t like cleaning bathrooms.”
“Well, the place belonged to his friend.”
“Fred,” Gordon said.
From the frown on Kathy’s face, he might have pushed too far.
“I never asked his name, and if Bart mentioned it, I don’t remember.”
Good save, Kathy.
“Okay, so you had breakfast, cleaned up, packed, and then hit the road. What time?” Gordon asked.
She wrinkled her brow. “I think it was about eight. Not before that. Maybe more like eight-thirty.”
“Then, you headed out for Mapleton. Can you run us through the accident, please?” Gordon said.
“I was driving. Bart was messing with his cell phone. He complained about the bad reception a couple of times. The road was all curvy, and maybe I was driving close to the center line. I was afraid I might go over the edge of the mountain. But I was not on the wrong side of the road. I went around a tight curve, and the sun hit my eyes, and the next thing I knew, this car came across the line and we spun out, and then we went to the hospital.” Her head drooped for several seconds. Then she lifted her gaze and blinked several times. She rubbed her fingertips against her forehead. “Things are a little fuzzy.”
“A bonk on the head will do that. It seems to be much better now, though,” Gordon said.
Solomon stood. “Very nice, Miss Newman. Now, back to my original question. How about you tell us what really happened.”
“What … what are you talking about?” Kathy said. But the downcast eyes and catch in her voice said she knew.
“Tell you what,” Gordon said. “Let’s take a short break while I have a few words with my partner.”
Relief spread across Kathy’s face. Fine. Gordon would let her think he was going to come down on Solomon for pushing her. She could worry about things while they talked to Bart. Gordon nodded to Solomon, who grabbed his laptop and rose. The men left Kathy while Gordon laid out his strategy.
“I want to get Bart in here, see how much of his story jibes with hers.”
“Let him think she’s sold him out, you mean,” Solomon said. “I’m getting hinky vibes. Half the time, she’s rattling stuff off like it’s rehearsed, the other half, she’s trying to make stuff up to fill in holes. I doubt their stories will line up perfectly if they’ve fabricated what happened.”
“Agreed. I think Bart will be a tougher nut to crack, so I’d like to get started now that we have details to confront him with.”
Gordon returned to the interview and told Kathy they were done for now. He held her beyond the workroom door, where Bart wouldn’t pass them as Solomon escorted him to interrogation. Once they were out of sight, he seated Kathy in the chair Bart had vacated. Next, he went to a supply cabinet and took out a fresh legal tablet and a clipboard.
“Pen?” he asked Gaubatz. The officer opened his desk drawer, fished around, and came up with one. Gordon handed the pen and tablet to Kathy. “I want you to write down everything that happened on Thursday. Make sure it’s the truth, because we know how to check these things.”
Without look
ing at him, Kathy propped the clipboard and paper on her lap and started writing, her lips flattened. From the way the pen raced across the paper, Gordon felt they’d get an accurate accounting of her side of the story. And probably a few not-so-kind words about Bart Bergsstrom. He headed to interrogation where Bart sat across from Solomon, who was fiddling with his laptop.
“Thanks for your patience, Mr. Bergsstrom,” Gordon said. “Kathy was very helpful. If you’re as forthcoming as she was, we should be done in no time.” He made a point of activating his recorder.
Bart licked his lips and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Start at the beginning. Can you run us through what happened the morning of your accident?”
“Back up. I want to get this all down.” Solomon tapped his keyboard. “First, who owns the Evergreen place where you were staying? A formality, of course, but at this point in an investigation, it’s critical that we can verify even the tiniest detail.”
“Sure. His name is Steve Bigelow. If I had my phone, I could give you his contact information.”
“Thanks.” Gordon wrote the name down. “We can find it.”
“I’ll get it.” Solomon clicked away. A moment later, still focused on the screen, he said, “There is a property listing for a Stephen Bigelow in Evergreen. We’ll call him later.” He gave a pointed glare in Bart’s direction. “Next question. What time did you get up on the morning of the accident?”
Gordon and Solomon took turns asking the first few questions, and Bart fielded them all. Then again, asking his height, home address, and date of birth weren’t stumpers.
“You had sausage and eggs for breakfast, right?” Gordon said. “Who cooked?”
“Kathy,” Bart answered without hesitation. “I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”
