Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery)

by Annelise Ryan

  Richmond told Arnie about the Ames family interview and the people he hoped to talk to tomorrow. “I was going to call all of them first thing in the morning,” he said. “But I’ll wait and see if you get a hit from AFIS. Maybe we’ll get lucky and snag the killer based on a print alone.”

  “You may not have to call anyone,” Arnie said cryptically. “I have something else that might solve the case for you. You know that camera you found between the cabinet and the refrigerator?”

  “Is there something on it?” Richmond asked, his voice rising with excited anticipation.

  “I’ll say,” Arnie said. “I found a handful of videos. Most of them are pretty mundane: pans of the rooms in the house and some outdoor clips that I suspect were test runs Derrick made with the camera to get used to using it. Then there’s the last video, which starts with a shaky image and then provides a line of sight across the kitchen floor from that space where you found it. My guess is it got knocked off the counter and the fall turned it on.”

  “What does it show?” Richmond asked.

  “Some feet and lower legs,” Arnie said. “But it wasn’t just what I saw, it was what I heard.” Once again he paused for dramatic effect.

  “Come on, Arnie, spill it,” I said, growing impatient with his game. “What have you got?”

  “I’m pretty sure I have video of your killer.”

  Richmond and I exchanged looks of disbelief that morphed into hope.

  “I just e-mailed it to you,” Arnie said. “I’ll hold while you download it.”

  Richmond settled in at Hurley’s desk, and I stood behind him, watching over his shoulder. It took him forever to log into his e-mail and download the attached video, so long that Arnie probably could have walked it over to us in less time.

  “Okay,” Richmond said into his phone. “I got it.”

  “Go ahead and start it,” Arnie said. “It’s short, just under a minute long.”

  I watched as a blurry image flashed on the screen, along with a time and date stamp in the lower right corner showing the current date, a time of 7:28:07 P.M., and a flashing red warning at the top of the screen that said LOW BATTERY. Within seconds the blurry image settled into a view of Derrick Ames’s kitchen floor, and after a few seconds more, a close image of two pairs of jeans-clad legs and feet came into view, moving erratically. Based on the grunting and heavy breathing we could hear in the background, it wasn’t hard to tell that the two people were scuffling; either that or they were the worst dance couple ever. One pair of jeans—those on the person who was backing up—were basic, straight-legged denims. The jeans on the aggressor were stonewashed, boot-cut denims, and the back hems, which were ragged and dirty, dragged on the ground. After about ten seconds the feet disappeared from view, but there was another thirty seconds or so of audio: heavy breathing, oomph sounds, the thud of what sounded like fists against skin, and someone—I felt certain the voice was Derrick’s—yelling out “Stop, damn it!” A few seconds after that there was a loud crash. Then the video stopped.

  Arnie said, “The feet you see on the right of the screen, the ones that were moving backward, belong to Derrick Ames. Those are the same pants and shoes the hospital gave Izzy when they handed over Derrick’s clothing. I don’t know who the second pair of feet belongs to, but those shoes are ASIC Gel Scout athletic shoes. That blue shade with the orange soles might help you find the owner.”

  “I can’t be sure without a direct comparison,” I said, “but those ragged, dirty hems on the stonewashed jeans look exactly like the ones Jacob Ames was wearing tonight.”

  “Did you notice his shoes?” Arnie asked.

  “No, sorry.”

  “Can you tell what size the shoes are?” Richmond asked.

  “Given that we know Derrick Ames wears a nine and the other pair of feet look to be around the same size, I’d say odds are you’re looking for a nine, but they might be tens. The perspective changes from one frame to the next, and that’s the closest I can come without doing the math. I can be more precise for you tomorrow, though if you can find the actual pair of shoes, I won’t need to be.”

  “Why is that?” Richmond asked.

  “If you look closely at the footage you can see a very specific scuff mark on the inside of the left shoe, just above the arch. You can see it in several frames, but it’s clearest when the feet first appear. It’s shaped like the Nike swoosh. Find me a shoe with that mark and we’ll have a winner.”

  Richmond replayed the footage, advanced it more slowly, and then froze it on the frame in question. “I see it,” he said. “If we play back footage from the lobby-area security camera, maybe we can see what kind of shoes Jacob was wearing. Nice find, Arnie.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to head home and get some sleep, but I’ll be back at it early tomorrow. And if I get a hit from AFIS, I’ll let you know as soon as it happens. I have the computer rigged to call my cell and forward the info once it finds a match.”

  “Sweet,” Richmond said. “You techies are all right in my book. I don’t care what everybody else says.” Richmond winked at me, and the two of us waited in silence.

  Arnie didn’t make us wait long. “What does that mean?” he asked in what I’ve come to know as his conspiracy tone. “What are people saying?”

  Richmond and I both laughed. “I’m just busting on you, Arnie. Nobody is saying anything.”

  That wasn’t altogether true, given my conversation with Jonas earlier, but I decided to keep mum on that subject.

  “Get some sleep,” Richmond said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Before I left for the night, Richmond played back the station’s security tape to see if we could get a look at Jacob’s shoes. But the tape didn’t show his feet with enough clarity to be able to tell.

  Our mututal disappointment was palpable, and I sensed this case wasn’t going to be an easy one, if for no other reason than because there was a fork involved.

  Chapter 12

  I headed home and fell into bed on Saturday night just before one in the morning. I cuddled up with my cat Rubbish at my chest, my cat Tux at my back, and my dog, Hoover, nestled alongside my legs. The four of us filled the bed quite nicely, but just before I fell asleep, I reminded them all that things were going to change once the baby arrived. The cats ignored my warning, knowing they’d sleep wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted, baby or no baby. Hoover thumped his tail twice and eyed me lovingly. It’s hard to beat doggie love.

  On Sunday morning, I slept in until just after eight and awoke feeling better than I had in a long time. I had a leisurely breakfast of toast, soft-boiled eggs, and orange juice. I also had a half cup of coffee despite the fact that a pregnant food Nazi named Saffron, whom I met in the waiting room of my OB doctor, said coffee was an absolute no-no. Also on Saffron’s list of no-nos was nitrates (which meant no bacon, pepperoni, hot dogs, or salami), deli meats, alcohol, sugar, processed foods of any kind, cheese, and a sense of humor. I was puzzled by the cheese inclusion, and as a joke I told her I thought avoiding cheese was against the law in Wisconsin. She looked at me with this pitiful, pained expression, as if I was a drooling idiot, and then said the reason to avoid cheese is because it might not be pasteurized.

  As Saffron eliminated my entire diet while warning me of all the potential hazards, she was eating something that looked like the piece of plaster that got knocked out of our kitchen wall when Desi and I were kids and decided to make a tower out of our kitchen chairs. I have no idea what Saffron eats on a regular basis, but based on her waiting room fare, I wouldn’t be surprised if her kid developed a hellacious case of pica, an odd malady that makes people eat weird things, like dirt, clay, and paper. There was a kid named Hal in my third-grade class who had it, and our teacher had to resort to keeping all the chalk under lock and key so Hal wouldn’t eat it.

  I figured that if my mentally unhinged mother managed to have me despite the fact that she was living on a diet of coffee and wine at the time, a little
coffee now and then wasn’t going to hurt me or the baby. Just to be sure, I ran it by my OB doctor, who okayed it with that vague term we medical people love so much: in moderation.

  Richmond called just before ten to say that Arnie had struck out with AFIS, and the Ames family had lawyered up with some hotshot from Milwaukee. They weren’t going to talk to us at all that day because the soonest Mr. Hotshot could make it to Sorenson was Monday. Richmond also said he was working on getting a search warrant for the Ames house so we could look for those shoes in the video, but that it wasn’t likely to come through until Monday, either.

  He’d also struck out with Blake Sutherland, who wasn’t answering her phone and hadn’t yet returned his call. “I’m thinking she’ll get back to me sooner rather than later, though,” he said, “because the message I left said I needed to speak to her regarding Wendy Ames, and if I didn’t hear from her today, I was going to call her husband tomorrow to track her down.”

  “I suspect she already knows why you’re calling. I’m sure Wendy called her the first chance she had to fill her in.”

  “Could be, but I reviewed the tape last night after you left, and the only call Wendy made before we joined her was to her parents in California. She did text someone after that, but at this point there’s no way to know who that went to.”

  “My money’s on Blake,” I said, wincing at the gambling metaphor as soon as I said it. I don’t know if I’ve always used a lot of gambling metaphors and have only recently become aware of them after my little casino binge, or if the occasional desire to binge some more has led to a subconscious gambling fixation that is manifesting itself in my speech.

  “While we’re on the subject of phone calls,” Richmond went on, “Junior looked over the call history for Derrick’s cell. Most of the calls were to his wife and kids, and the others Junior was able to track down were to businesses, the school, and some of his coworkers. Nothing jumped out. There were a number of text messages, too, both sent and received, most of them to family and coworkers. Only five were from yesterday, including the four to and from Mandy that we know about, and one from Sam Littleton later in the evening, just before ten. Littleton is a teacher at the high school and he was one of the names Mandy gave us, the one I couldn’t reach last night. I called him again this morning and explained the situation, and he offered to let me read his text message on his phone, but he’s in Madison until later tonight. So I told him we’d catch up to him at the school tomorrow. We still don’t know where Derrick’s phone is, but I don’t think the phone or text records are going to be of much help.”

  “Then why did the killer take Derrick’s phone?”

  “Maybe they didn’t,” Richmond said. “Maybe Derrick lost it, or dropped it in a lake somewhere, or ran over it with his car. Who knows?” I heard him sigh with frustration. “I did have one positive outcome this morning. I was able to convince Mrs. Fitzpatrick to let me come by and talk to Sean today. I’m about to head out there now. Want to come along?”

  “Sure.”

  Half an hour later, we were standing on the front porch of the Fitzpatrick home, which was in the same neighborhood as Wendy and Derrick’s houses. “Jacob could have walked to his father’s house from here in a matter of minutes,” I noted as Richmond knocked on the door. “It’s just around the corner.”

  A woman with red, frizzy hair answered the door. “You the detective?” she asked in a weary voice. There were dark circles under her blue eyes, and she was dressed in gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt with a breast cancer ribbon logo over the heart that was partially covered by a large brown stain of some sort.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Richmond said. “I’m Bob Richmond, and this is Mattie Winston from the ME’s office.”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick shot me a curious look. “Come on in,” she said. “Sean is in the kitchen.”

  We followed her inside through a living room where a heavy, balding man in a stained T-shirt and worn jeans was sitting in a recliner aiming a remote at the TV. The kitchen was cluttered and messy: crumbs and a partially used stick of butter on one countertop, three open boxes of cereal on another countertop, three dirty cereal bowls on the table, a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and a trail of muddy dog paw prints across the floor. The raucous sound of children fighting and playing came from beyond the room. From the backyard came the baying of hound dogs.

  Sean was seated at the table, eating a bowl of cereal and studying the back of a cereal box like he was about to be quizzed on it. He had his mother’s red hair, though without the frizz. Instead he had one stubborn cowlick near the crown of his head that made him look like Alfalfa.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “With four kids, two dogs, and a husband who thinks Sundays are for sitting in the recliner and drinking beer, it’s hard to keep up at times.”

  Sean hadn’t acknowledged our presence, and his mother cuffed him on the back side of the head and said, “Pay attention, Sean. You have company.”

  “Company is invited, and I didn’t invite them,” he said, never taking his eyes off the cereal box.

  “Sorry to intrude on your Sunday brunch,” Richmond said, “but we need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” Sean said.

  Richmond shot me a look; Mrs. Fitzpatrick gave Sean another whack on the back of his head, which earned her a surly side glare from the boy.

  “They aren’t here to talk about you,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “They’re here to ask some questions about Jacob.”

  That got Sean’s attention. For once he wasn’t the one in trouble. He looked at us with curiosity, dropped his spoon in his bowl with a loud clatter, and leaned back in his chair, tossing one arm over the back of it.

  “What do you want to know about Jacob?” he asked.

  “He was here last night,” Richmond said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So I need to know what hours he was here, and whether or not he left at any point in time.”

  “You guys think he offed his dad, don’t you?”

  “Why would you say that?” I asked.

  “It makes sense,” Sean said with a shrug. “That’s when his dad was killed, right?”

  “It is,” Richmond said. “So can you answer my questions?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said in a cocky tone, giving Richmond a sad look. “My memory isn’t so good these days.”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick had a dish towel in her hands, and she snapped it at her son. “Damn it, Sean! This is serious business. This isn’t one of your pranks or little misdemeanor violations. A man is dead. So quit playing games.”

  Sean rubbed at his arm where the towel had snapped him and scowled at his mother. “Yeah, he was here last night,” he grumbled. “But I don’t recall the time. We were in my room playing video games. I don’t know what time it was.”

  Richmond walked over and stood across the table from Sean. Then he bent down, put his hands on the table, and leaned forward, pinning Sean with his eyes. “You better be telling the truth, Sean,” he said.

  Sean stared back at him with an expression full of teenage rebellion. “I told you what I know,” he said, his lips tight, his tone even tighter. “Next time you want me to squeal on someone, let me know ahead of time, and I’ll try to keep a better timeline.”

  The two of them stared at one another for several seconds until Richmond finally turned away.

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, “I know it was around eight because Kelly works a three to eight shift over at the grocery store, and she got home minutes after Jacob left.”

  “Kelly?” Richmond said.

  “That would be Miss Goody Two Shoes,” Sean said with a sneer.

  “It’s his twin sister,” his mother said with a much-put-upon sigh.

  Richmond looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Okay, I think we’re done here. Thank you for your time.”

  Mrs. Fitzpatrick showed us out. We walked right past her husband again, w
ho had not acknowledged our arrival and appeared equally oblivious to our departure. Like father like son, I thought. And then I wondered what might be different in this household if there was no father figure at all. Would it be better or worse? Was I dooming my child to a warped upbringing if I tried to raise him or her by myself? I didn’t think so because there were plenty of single-parent households that produced perfectly fine kids, and I essentially grew up without a father, though I did have a few intermittent stepfathers along the way. Then again, I wasn’t sure I should put myself forth as a paragon of good mental health and emotional stability either.

  “Man, I’m glad I don’t have kids,” Richmond said as we walked back to our cars. “That was an exercise in frustration. I’m going to head to the gym and work some of it off. Want to come along?”

  I did battle with myself. I knew I should work out, but I had so much on my mind with the pending dinner tonight and Hurley’s return tomorrow that I felt I needed some alone time to prepare myself. “I’m going to rest for a day or two,” I told him. “I’ve been feeling a little off. I think I might be coming down with something.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up later today; otherwise, I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Okey-dokey. Have fun at the gym.”

  “I will. Feel better.”

  Too late for that. There was no cure for coming down with a bad case of pregnant.

  Chapter 13

  With a free day ahead of me, I settled in on the couch and put my feet up on a pillow I set on the coffee table. I tried to read a book—some heavy family drama thing I’d had on my to-be-read pile for months, but it struck a little too close to home and made my anxiety worsen. So I tried to watch TV instead, but my mind kept going back to the two things that were keeping me on edge: my upcoming dinner and talk with Izzy, and Hurley’s return the next day. I turned the TV off and spent an hour mentally playing out dozens of scenarios with the two men, imagining awkward conversational moments, rehearsing my speeches and responses, and chewing on my fingernails out of nervousness, a dietary item I felt sure would give Saffron a stroke. I was hoping the mental practice would calm my nerves, but instead it had the opposite effect. Even eating the cheesecake I had in the fridge from the night before didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse because now I felt guilty about not going to the gym.