“You wanted to see me?” Stitcher said.
“Kim Collins is dead. She was shot to death this morning.”
“That’s terrible news.” His voice was dry as Death Valley but his upper lip glistened with perspiration. “I know you’re here because of my relationship with Kim. I’ll be glad to answer questions. Let me call my lawyer.”
While Kenner waited, he stepped outside the building and telephoned the Honda dealership.
“It’s three-fifteen,” Kenner said.
“I was about to call you,” Nick Glass said. “I’m sitting in my office with the service rep from the security company. One camera outside was working off and on. We have a few frames you’ll want to see.”
“I need those images right away. I mean now.”
“Give me an e-mail address.”
Kenner sat down at a conference table in a back room with Stitcher and Ned Jennings. He was a lawyer Kenner had seen in Atlanta courtrooms when upper-class people committed lower-class crimes like beating up their girlfriends or buying street drugs. He was a dark-haired version of Stitcher, but ten years older. Both lawyers wore black cap-toe oxfords, a serious shoe. Kenner approved.
“My client broke up with that woman months ago,” Jennings said. “She’s ancient history. Do you think Jon Stitcher is a killer? Do you know who he is? He’s one of the top asbestos lawyers in the country.”
Stitcher’s tanning-bed glow increased ten megawatts.
“We’ve got information that says otherwise,” Brownlee said.
Kenner held up his hand and shot Brownlee a shut-up look. “He fits the description of the shooter,” Kenner said. “We think witnesses will pick him out of a lineup. He used to live with the victim. We’re going to search his home and find other evidence.”
“That’s not much. You’re wasting his valuable time. He canceled an appointment for this.”
Kenner said to Stitcher, “When did you last talk to Kim?”
He tightened his already crossed legs. “About three months ago.”
“Bad breakup?”
“It was for the best.”
“When you met Kim on the flight, what city were you going to?”
“To Atlanta. From Dallas,” he said with a cough.
“At what point did you leave your wife?”
Jennings said, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“The Escalade, how much did that cost?”
“Wait a minute,” Jennings said. “What Escalade are we talking about?”
“The Escalade registered in Kim Collins’ name at Mister Stitcher’s home address on North Paces Ferry Road. The one Kim Collins tried to pick up at the dealership this morning before she was killed.”
“I’ve never been to Millerton,” Stitcher said.
“Stop talking,” Jennings said.
Jennings and Stitcher stood and walked to a back corner of the conference room and started whispering, their voices sounding like shoes sliding across a concrete floor. Kenner looked around. Why did city lawyers always decorate their offices with fox-hunting prints?
“Counselors,” he called, “we’re feeling left out.”
Jennings walked back to the table and said, “This is bullshit.”
Brownlee opened his laptop and clicked an e-mail attachment. A grainy black-and-white photo opened showing a man in a dark shirt, light-colored pants, and baseball cap walking across the parking lot of the dealership. Brownlee clicked open a second attachment that caught the man’s profile from a distance. It looked a little like Stitcher. Kenner tapped the screen with a pencil and said, “That’s your client.”
“No more questions,” Jennings said, slicing the air with his palm.
“You mean no more answers,” Kenner said. “We’ll be asking lots of questions.”
Brownlee recited the Miranda warning. Stitcher tried to set his face into a mask of impassivity while the Atlanta cop cuffed his hands behind his back, but Kenner saw his eyes flick around the room, focusing on nothing and nobody.
“Don’t say anything, Jon,” Jennings said. “I’ll visit you tomorrow and get you out on bail. I’ll call your father.”
Brownlee drove again. It was seven at night and the rush-hour traffic had thinned. The lawyer sat like a statue in the backseat. Just south of the airport Kenner’s cell buzzed. It was Dover, from the medical examiner’s office.
“I just finished the Collins woman,” he said. “Gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach. Died instantly. Doesn’t look like she had any drugs in her system.”
“How pregnant was she? How many weeks?”
They talked two more minutes and Kenner turned off the phone. He glanced backward to see Stitcher suddenly paying attention.
“That was the medical examiner,” Kenner told him. “Don’t know if you care, but Kim Collins wasn’t pregnant.”
Stitcher jerked forward and said, “You’re trying to trick me. Why would she lie?”
“Dunno,” Kenner said, turning forward.
“I just don’t believe it,” Stitcher said. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he struggled to find a suitable position on the seat before flopping onto his side. Kenner heard him hyperventilating.
He motioned for Brownlee to exit the interstate and park in the corner of a bright convenience-store parking lot. He locked his Glock in the trunk, went inside the store, and returned with two cans of Coke. He squeezed into the backseat and unlocked Stitcher’s cuffs. Stitcher stripped off his suit coat and gulped the Coke. Sweat streaked his white dress shirt.
“Lying bitch. Now I’m going to prison because of her lies.”
Kenner said, “Why’d you get the vasectomy?”
Stitcher froze, then exhaled deeply and fell backward onto the seat.
“How’d you know? I didn’t tell anybody but Ned, and I know he hasn’t told you yet.”
“I’m a detective,” Kenner said. “I figure things out.”
Stitcher flopped his head back against the car seat. “We made a great couple. We turned heads whenever we walked into a room together. My wife turned into such a frump after we got married, but Kim was just sexy all the time.” He shook his head in disgust. “She led me around by my pecker. As soon as I got snipped, she started moving away from me, like she’d done all she needed to do.”
“I agree Kim was a looker. Why didn’t you tell her to get her tubes tied?”
“She just wouldn’t discuss it.” He sighed.
Kenner handed the other Coke can to the lawyer.
“I’m confused. She wasn’t really pregnant, so why did you think she was?”
“She told me,” Stitcher said, his voice cracking. “By e-mail. She wouldn’t take my phone calls—and believe me, I called a thousand times—but a month ago she sent an e-mail. Just wanted to say hello.”
He started quivering. Kenner handed him a napkin to dry his eyes and wondered if Brenda had taken the chicken thighs out of the freezer.
“And I answered,” Stitcher croaked, “because I was desperate to talk with this woman. I still cared about her. She told me this stuff about her new husband, how much money he made, the Jaguar he bought her, their great house, how they met at church in San Francisco. And finally she told me she was pregnant and had never been happier. Can you believe that? She talks me into a vasectomy, then gets pregnant by another guy!”
Stitcher slammed the Coke can against the car-door window.
“Hey, calm down!” Kenner said. “Keep it under control.”
“Calm down, right,” Stitcher snarled, punching his leg with his right fist. “I’m going to prison because of that bitch.”
Kenner put the cuffs on again. They drove to Millerton and took him to the police-station interview room. Stitcher signed a waiver and confessed into a tape recorder.
“Ned will be furious with me,” he said, “but it would come to this anyway. Let’s get it over with.”
“We’ll mention your cooperation,” Kenner said. “How’d you know she was going t
o be at the Honda dealership? Did you tail her? Hire a private detective?”
“No, I thought I was getting over her. Yesterday the mechanic had a question about part of the repair but couldn’t reach Kim on the phone. He looked in the glove box and found old receipts with my name and phone number. He called and said it would be ready the next day at ten o’clock. I mean, she dumps me and I still get calls about the damn car.”
Stitcher turned to Kenner, his tanned face growing red with fury.
“I bought her that Escalade, a one hundred thousand dollar car. Now I’m driving the damn Lexus she left behind. Think about how I felt every time I turned on the car. I mean, wouldn’t you kill a woman who did something like that? Put yourself in my shoes.”
“I like your shoes,” Kenner said, “but I don’t approve of killing women.”
Kenner checked him into the jail. Brownlee helped fill out the paperwork and observed the booking process. Around midnight they finished and walked out the back door of the police station onto the cooling asphalt of the parking lot.
“Man, Kim Collins was some kind of woman,” Brownlee said. “These men went crazy for her.”
“She went through guys like I go through Big Macs.”
“Why didn’t Stitcher just buy another car if it bothered him so much?”
“He was still emotionally involved with Kim. That was his connection. He loved hating her.”
Brownlee thought about that, but Kenner wasn’t sure he’d understand. The kid lived his life in low gear. He had such a sheltered existence that love and hate were almost abstract principles. Finally, the younger man said, “Well, I guess you figured it out.”
“Hardly. I still don’t know why Kim told Stitcher she was pregnant if it wasn’t true. And I can’t explain the last e-mail.”
The detectives knocked on Tony Collins’ front door at eight-thirty the next morning. The widower was up and dressed in creased slacks, a knit shirt, and brown Italian loafers. Kenner realized he had a philosophical opposition to shoes without laces, except for bedroom slippers.
“You should have called.”
“We made an arrest,” Kenner said. Collins motioned for them to come inside. They sat down again at the kitchen table and Kenner laid the photo of Kim and Tony Collins right in front of him.
“Your wife was killed by a man named Jon Stitcher, a lawyer who lives in Atlanta,” Kenner said. “Heard of him?”
“Never.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, Kim might have mentioned his name.”
“Stitcher said your wife sent e-mails saying she was pregnant. That upset him for two reasons. He still loved her. And he’d gotten a vasectomy at her insistence.”
“A vasectomy. Holy crap,” Collins said. He walked to the sink, drew a glass of water, and took a small swallow. He cleared his throat and said, “She wasn’t pregnant. I’m absolutely sure of that.”
“She said some real mean things,” Kenner said. He unfolded a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Here’s one e-mail that was sent last week. ‘Dear Jon, blah blah blah, we just saw the sonogram. It’s a boy! We’re going to name him Anthony. I’m ecstatic. I hope you find this kind of happiness someday. Blah blah blah. Regards, Kim.’ ”
Kenner laid the paper on the picture frame.
“Wow. This is a kick in the gut,” Collins said. “Now I feel like I didn’t know my wife at all. I feel kind of sick.” He put his hand over his mouth, burbling, “Excuse me.”
Kenner grabbed his arm and stood, holding him in place.
“Mr. Stitcher allowed us to look at his e-mails after his arrest. He received one from your wife at ten-oh-five yesterday morning. That’s hard to explain, since she was shot to death five minutes earlier.”
Collins moved his lips, as if to speak, and sat down again.
“Oh shit,” he said.
“We know your wife didn’t send those e-mails,” Kenner said. “You did.”
Collins pressed his hands against his temples, as if to squeeze something out of his brain. He slapped his palms on the table and said, “I didn’t know about his vasectomy. I really didn’t know. Do you really think the e-mails made him do it?”
“He loved Kim. Yes, the e-mails made him do it.”
Collins scrunched his face and wailed, “No, no, no, no. Kim, Kim, Kim.”
Kenner grabbed the photo and held it up to Collins’ face. “This beautiful woman is dead because of you.”
Collins knocked the photo to the floor with both hands, causing the glass in the frame to break. He jerked to his feet, knocking his chair backwards.
“Stop it!” he yelled. “I didn’t want her killed. I just wanted to hurt Jon Stitcher. I got sick of hearing about him and his car and their social life and the way he treated her like a princess. Screw him! So I got his e-mail address and I sent the messages. And I told that lie about her being pregnant. And you know something? It made me feel better.”
Collins stood in the middle of the kitchen with his fists balled, panting like he’d just run a mile. “Screw! Jon! Stitcher!”
Kenner stepped into Collins’ face and said, “You did it because your wife conned you into getting a vasectomy too.”
Collins recoiled and deflated, like a rowdy child slapped by a parent. Shame seeped into his face.
“I gave her everything—a new house, a new car,” Collins whispered. “I uprooted my life, left my friends behind. But it was never enough for Kim. I thought one more thing would make her happy.”
He staggered out of the kitchen, still shaking his head as he crossed the living room. At the other end of the house, a door slammed.
The detectives drove in silence until they reached the police station and pulled into the parking spot designated for the detective’s car. Brownlee left the car running for the air conditioning.
“I didn’t see that coming,” he said. “How’d you know Collins had a vasectomy? Stitcher too.”
“Guesswork mostly, based on Kim’s patterns. She was a very consistent woman. She’d find a man, take their money, get a new car, bully them into a vasectomy, and move on. She sure liked blond guys.”
Kenner smiled, but the younger man maintained a stone face.
“Will the DA prosecute Tony Collins?”
“For what? Being an asshole? It’s not like he pulled the trigger. A decent lawyer would stop that idea in a second. On the bright side, he’ll feel like crap for the rest of his life. I’ll call Kathy Minter. Maybe she can help us keep tabs on Mr. Collins so we can torment him when he moves.”
“I’d like to go back and slap him around right now,” Brownlee said. “I’d like to pistol-whip the bastard. He’s awful.”
Kenner looked across the seat at Brownlee, surprised to hear such anger in the young man’s voice. Overnight, Brownlee had grown bags under his eyes. Small spots of coffee dotted his white shirt. This was his first murder case.
“His wife was awful too,” Kenner said. “There’s something I didn’t share with you, Tim, because I thought you might show sympathy for Stitcher or Collins during the interviews. The medical examiner told me Kim had her tubes tied years ago. She wasn’t pregnant and couldn’t have had children if she wanted to.”
Brownlee blinked hard. “What? So the vasectomies were useless? Why would she do that?”
Kenner shrugged. “Maybe it was her idea of fun. It doesn’t change the fact that Jon Stitcher is the killer. It does make me feel kind of sorry for the guy. I’ll make sure Jennings finds out.”
Brownlee dropped his head onto the steering wheel in exhaustion and breathed heavily. Kenner let him sit like that and thought about some of his old cases, the day he met Brenda, and what kind of sandwich he wanted for lunch. Brownlee finally lifted his head and said, “I thought I knew who the bad guys were, but now I’m not sure.”
“Tell me when you figure it out,” Kenner said and opened his door. “Let’s finish the paperwork. Tonight I’m having dinner with my wife.”
Copyright
© 2012 by Ralph Ellis
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