The Death of Alan Chandler (The Red Lake Series Book 1)

by Rich Foster

  “Why don’t you let Mrs. Chandler speak for herself?”

  “I would. We are more than willing to cooperate, however the current charges against my client makes it extremely difficult for her to speak without endangering her position.”

  “Fine let’s not talk about how she lied to the police, let’s talk about Sunday night. What happened?”

  Lilly squirmed in her seat. Parks began to say something but a look from Maddox silenced him.

  “Alan and I had a fight.”

  “Didn’t you tell me it was a marital disagreement? Was it a fight or a disagreement?”’

  Annoyance crept into her voice. “Okay. We had a fight.”

  “According to your neighbor it was an extremely loud and violent fight. Is that correct?”

  “Have it your way, yes, we had a big fight!”

  “It’s not a matter of having it my way, Mrs. Chandler but a question of facts. And the fact is a violent fight was heard at your residence the night your husband disappeared. Are you often given to violence?”

  “I object,” shouted Travis

  “We’re not in court Mr. Parks. It is a simple question your client may choose to or refuse to answer.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “So it was unusual that most of the dishes in your kitchen were smashed during that fight? I mean we have trash can full of shattered dishes.”

  “It had never happened before.”

  “Hmm…” Maddox let it hang there for a few moments. “So who smashed the plates, you, your husband or were you both playing dodge the gravy bowl?”

  Lilly looked down in her lap where her hands were beginning to work.

  “I threw them.”

  And was your husband, Alan injured by this assault?”

  “I object to the term assault!” interrupted Mr. Parks

  “And what would you call it, sir, when one person throws an object at another?”

  “Have it your way,” Parks sighed.

  “That’s the second time I’ve been told to have it my way. So here it is. My way is for you to lay the facts out on the table, unless you have something to hide. Let’s cut to the chase. Where is your husband?”

  Maddox had let exasperation into his voice. All interrogations were part theatrics and part dull repetition.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well when did he leave?”

  “I don’t know, sometime during the night.”

  “How did the blood get on your floor?”

  “I don’t know!” Lilly responded through clenched teeth and a rising voice.

  Maddox raised his voice a notch, “There seems to be damn little you do know Mrs. Chandler!”

  “I woke up and he was gone!” Lilly shouted.

  “Are you religious? Perhaps your husband was raptured?” Maddox’s voice was laced with sarcasm. Course it’s damn curious that he’s the only one Jesus took.”

  Lilly visibly shook as she fought for self-control. It’s like this, Sergeant, we had a fight; I lost it and threw some dishes. The next thing I remember was waking up in the morning. Alan wasn’t there and the kitchen was a mess.”

  “Did you leave the house after the fight?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t remember? How can you say you didn’t leave the house?”

  Maddox was pushing her hard. He could see her struggling to maintain control. He had seen the type before. Cool and calm. Nothing seemed to disturb the surface. But feelings can only be pushed down for so long before something snaps. Then there was no telling what might happen or who might die. He had seen a little old lady who at Thanksgiving dinner had calmly shot-gunned her husband of 46 years because he said the “damn turkey” was tough again this year.

  “I don’t remember but I’m sure I didn’t leave.” Lilly was leaning forward and on the edge of her chair. Maddox leaned in close invading her personal space.

  “Maybe you stuck a knife in him while you weren’t remembering!” he whispered. They sat face-to-face glaring into each other’s eyes. She could smell his after-shave; he could smell her Channel perfume.

  “I didn’t kill him! I told you the truth!” she spoke flat and hard. “My husband left in the night after a fight. I don’t know where the blood came from but it’s definitely not mine. I told my realtor that Alan was on a business trip because our personal problems are none of his business.”

  “Hold it Lilly, no more. I think you should stop talking,” said Parks.

  “No, I want to tell him. I lied to Mr. Voss and the officer who came to my house to protect Alan’s job. That’s it!”

  “At least that’s your latest version.”

  The two were still inches from each other’s face. Each could hear the other’s breath. Maddox could see small beads of moisture on her upper lip. Lilly could see the pulsing of the small blue vein by his temple.

  “That is correct!”

  “Well, you are one dedicated wife, Mrs. Chandler. And a most remarkable liar!”

  Lilly’s attorney stood up with indignation and he declared, “I’ve had enough of this. We are leaving. This interview is over!”

  Maddox said nothing. He simply waved his arm and pointed toward the door with his open hand. Silently he watched as Parks helped her on with her coat. They were at the door when Maddox spoke. “I suppose you didn’t think we would find out about the life insurance policy, did you?

  Lilly and Parks both turned and looked at Maddox.

  “Insurance?” she asked.

  “No games, please! Your signature is on the half million dollar policy.”

  “I forgot about that.”

  “Sure you did. But you might check this out with your attorney. No body, no money for seven years, right counselor?”

  But Parks didn’t answer. Without a word he turned and hustled his client out of the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Parsons County Courthouse was built in the 1800’s. It was made of yellow brick with tall, white mullioned windows. Ivy had taken over its lower walls. Its arched entrance was approached by a broad row of steps that ended before wrought iron doors. Behind these doors a set of more functional aluminum and glass doors had been installed for convenience. Inside the lobby was a small rotunda. Circular, wood capped, iron rails encircled the second and third floor hallways, which were open to the lobby below. Above rose a modest dome set in the slate roof. From the apex of the dome a pole held the American flag. When it was dedicated it replaced the local Protestant church as the second biggest building in town. It was only surpassed by the local bank, which showed that folks in early Beaumont had their sense of priorities.

  Behind the courthouse was a grassy tree lined park. In the middle a fountain sprayed water where in years past the gallows had stood. Tradition said the gallows had been built from the old hanging tree, which expedited justice before the circuit court judges had first come to town. The old jail cells were conveniently placed in the basement of the courthouse. Prisoners came upstairs to court, and if convicted returned downstairs. The next day they were lead up the rear steps just before high noon and out to the gallows where the town folk could observe justice being meted out and served. Murderers, horse thieves, rapists, and villains had all swung with the courthouse at their back, a symbol of justice.

  From her second floor office District Attorney Joyce Denison contemplated her future. She had come out of law school determined to climb to the top of her profession. Some of her classmates went to the public defenders office driven by their ideals and the conviction that all men are innocent until proven guilty. Joyce had chosen to be an assistant district attorney. She was convinced that most men were probably guilty, if not for the current charge then for past malfeasance. Her contempt for men spilled over into her personal life where she saw most men as an obstacle to her future. However, she dated a few men of power and put out just enough to avoid becoming labeled a dyke.

  In the courthouse she acquired the nicknam
e “the blond bitch” from defense attorneys because she would turn down reasonable plea attempts solely to keep her conviction rate up. In court she went for the jugular, where she was both articulate and eloquent. When she faced the accused she could provoke sympathy in the jury simply by using her female frailty. The bigger and nastier the accused, the less chance they had with the jury.

  After three years, she had filed baseless sexual harassment charges against her boss, dropped the complaint just before trial, and then ran for his job. The aura of wrongdoing clung to him and, though innocent, he never had a chance in the polls.

  Her next career goal was to be appointed a federal prosecutor at the justice department. She had joined the Republican Party. Her involvement was not from conviction but because that was how the state’s power network was aligned. She glad-handed her way at caucus meetings and shamelessly self promoted in subtle but effective ways. When the youthful offspring of local powerbrokers committed indiscretions, she refused to file charges arguing that the evidence was too weak to bring to trial. This gave her a reputation as a team player, which she was not. Her career was the only real team.

  Perhaps, she thought, she should have gone for a judgeship. But that could leave her in the backwaters of justice for years. Joyce Denison was looking for the fast track to Washington D.C. She needed a high profile case to keep her name in the newspapers and to promote her image as a defender of the public welfare. Unfortunately, there had been no kidnappings or sensational murders in Beaumont for years. Local crime was more plebian, drunk drivers killing the innocent on Saturday night, or domestic violence ending in senseless murder. To lead on the statewide news it had to be more “outré.” Secretly she hoped for a case that would be her ticket out of Beaumont.

  She had entered office during an off year election. Now half way through her second term it appeared the Republicans might take the White House. If party control changed it was normal practice for all federal prosecutors to step down and party faithful were rewarded. She only had six months to catch the attention of those at the state capitol who could put her name in play in D.C.

  Joyce turned away from the window. Her office was narrow with high ceilings. When she had moved in the office had the acoustical dropped ceilings used to retrofit old buildings. But demanded it be torn out and the ceiling re-plastered. The proportions gave the room overtones of a chapel. Intentionally, she placed her large mahogany desk directly in front of the windows, so when the blinds were open her head was surrounded by the harsh outside light making it hard for visitors to see her face. The office chairs for visitors were soft and lower than one would expect in an office. Joyce used every subliminal trick to affect her power.

  CB was sunk in one of these chairs. He was the assistant district attorney. His real name was Calvin Boil. Commonly known as CB by family and friends. He was forty-two, six years older than Joyce. But ambition had not abandoned him. Though more modest in his aims he hoped to inherit her job when she moved on, so anything which worked toward that goal, he supported. He worked out and stayed trim. When grey began to show up he colored his hair. He was not immune to the small vanities. More than anything Calvin hoped to join the “good old boys network” in town.

  Joyce gave the mini-blinds a half twist and the light in the room became muted. CB knew his place; she didn’t need parlor tricks to keep him cowed.

  “What do you have, CB?”

  “Mostly just misdemeanors. One armed robbery for that liquor store and a couple criminal assaults. Pretty quiet until the Gardner case starts next week.”

  “There’s no glory in that one. Arson for profit is small news.”

  “But there was a fatality.”

  “Nobody cares about a drunk whose alcohol level was high enough to fuel the fire. If anything decent came up I’d let Gardner plead out.”

  CB rummaged through the papers on his lap.

  “There is one odd one in the stack.’

  He handed a file to Joyce and remained silent. He knew she preferred to scan a case and form her own opinions before he spoke. When she looked up annoyance covered her face.

  “It’s a misdemeanor! So this Chandler woman reports her husband missing and then tells the cops he’s in bed, who cares? Why the hell did Maddox file charges? I mean the guy seems to be missing, correct? So any first year law student could get this thrown out. All she needs to do is claim she misspoke or was miss-quoted when she said he was in bed. They’d have reasonable doubt. I won’t even prosecute it.”

  “It seemed strange, that they would even bother to book her, so I checked it out. Seems Maddox thinks she may have killed her husband. Obviously they don’t have a body, but the police department must have something, Judge Ashe signed a search warrant for her house and knowing Ashe, I doubt it was merely because she lied to the police.”

  “See what you can find out over at the department about the search.”

  “But even if they file murder charges we could get crucified! Let’s assume we have motive and opportunity. We don’t have a body. Hell we can’t even prove the guy is dead.”

  “We don’t need a body to get a conviction. Study your case law.”

  “But without the corpse, it would be tough to get much traction.”

  Joyce dismissed the problem with a wave of her hand.

  “I don’t need a body, I need a case! Everybody loves a “who done it.” They sell a billion murder mysteries a year.”

  Joyce paused while she thought of the possibilities. “The woman may or may not have killed her husband. But that is why this case might have something. See if she’s attractive. I don’t want some pathetic, fat, housewife who will use the Twinkie defense. I need a woman for whom some people will feel sorry and others will hate. We want a story that people will argue around the water cooler, one that the networks might pick-up. If we push it to trial quickly we could start by mid-summer and have steady play during the election cycle.”

  “If you lose it could hurt you,” said Calvin as he gathered his papers.

  “No way! It’s not high profile like she killed a kid. If she gets off, which she might, nobody will care or remember. If we win, she gets what she probably deserves. Meanwhile, I keep my name in the paper for several months.

  “I’ll see what the word is around the station.”

  Joyce nodded. Then she reached back and opened the blinds and Calvin lost her in the glare.

  *

  After her meeting with the police, Lilly returned to her office where she tried to settle down to work, but it kept slipping away from her. Her ability to let problems resolve themselves was failing. Troubles were building up too rapidly for her defenses to cope. Being arrested was frightening, but what gnawed away at her was the inability to recall what happened. At last she had given up and gone home where she lay down to take a nap and awoke to darkness. She fixed a bite to eat and returned to bed. Despite her nap she was exhausted and slept until dawn.

  The next morning she felt rested but still was unable to focus on her work. Mentally she blamed Alan for not calling. It was his fault that policemen were hounding her. She pictured him on a tropical beach sipping a margarita and immediately wished it was herself. When forced to choose between fight or flight, Lilly had always picked flight.

  Even her reticence about the past was subconsciously an effort to avoid the emotionally painful memories of her childhood. She simply chose not to think of the past. In that particular, both, she and Alan were alike, neither of them talked about the past very much. Thinking of it she was surprised by how little she new of Alan’s past. He had grown up in Santa Barbara but moved to Denver for college. They had met in Denver. What friends he had she never knew. There had never been the surprising call of an old chum. No one had ever called while coming through Denver to renew a friendship and bum a bed for the night. There were no photo albums, no scrapbooks. If he ever had them they had been left behind, mere ghosts in his past.

  His father still lived on the coast as far a
s she knew, but they had never met. Alan had made excuses for his father’s absence when they married. Now, Lilly recalled how when she wrote the thank you notes, there had not been a gift from him. She had asked about him, but Alan simply said we don’t talk anymore. That first Christmas she sent his father a Christmas card but it came back undelivered. In neat ink pen lettering was the single word “deceased” which was underlined twice for emphasis. She had left the card on the table to ask Alan about it, but forgot. The next day she saw it torn in half and shoved down in the trash.

  His mother had died. Of this Lilly was certain. Alan had filled out a medical history and she had seen him check the box for deceased. Her age was thirty-two at the time of death. When Lilly asked what she had died of Alan tersely replied, “Grief and barbiturates.” Then he turned in his chair so his back was toward her and continued to write. She could only think of one other occasion where he had spoken of his mother. Having been thinking of her own mother she asked him what his mother was like. He said he didn’t recall that much, because she had died when he was eight. And then as if it caught unawares he said, “It seems to me, she was a lot like you.”

  Alan also had a brother. She had learned this in the “get to know you” phase of their relationship. But like his mother he never spoke of him. She noticed a haunted look in his eyes whenever the subject of his family arose. Occasionally she had asked other questions but he had verbally sidestepped them and changed the subject. Finally she stopped asking. In honesty, she was content to let the past go. Lilly had her own memories she didn’t wish to visit.

  Her teenage mother hadn’t wanted her. She wasn’t even a love child or the seed of prom night’s romantic promise. Lilly was the product of a teenage girl who drank too much at a high school party and two months later did not know which one of several football players might be the father. Her grandfather had cursed his daughter but been content to let her live in the old house trailer on their farm. Lilly remembered him as a large silent man. Her grandmother loved her but always seemed ashamed of her. When folks would ask, “Is this your granddaughter?” she would say, oh she’s Elsie’s daughter as if Lilly were not kin. Her grandparents were given to hard work but had little else to give. They subsisted more than lived. And when the big drought came they seemed to shrivel like the wheat in the fields. By mid-winter her grandfather had died and his wife followed him, in the spring. The farm’s only crop was debt. But with farms in foreclosure across the state the bank had let her mother and her stay on in the trailer as caretakers.