Mad Max: Unintended Consequences

by Ashton, Betsy

  “I talked with Mr. Zimmerman, too, because we'll need Uncle Johnny during the day sometimes.”

  “You called Tops?” Johnny raised his left eyebrow. “He's okay with this?”

  “Why wouldn't he be? He said we can borrow you whenever we need. He promised to do anything he can to bring Dad home.”

  “Great!”

  Johnny told me just after Whip was arrested he was worried about getting away from the office without being AWOL.

  “Remember, Mad Max, you said we need a plan. Anyway, me and Alex…jeez, I mean, Alex and I started a list of stuff we know and stuff we don't know.” Emilie put the pad in the center of the table.

  Johnny and I poured over the list.

  “Great start, guys,” I said, “but not everything's accurate.”

  “Like what?” At eleven, Alex hated to be told he was wrong. About anything.

  “Like we don't know Dracula took Mom's jewelry. We think he did.”

  “Well, we know he killed Mom. Mrs. Curry heard it.” Emilie stared at her list.

  “Mrs. Curry heard someone shoot Mom. She didn't see anyone.”

  “He had to have done it.” Alex's voice rose in frustration.

  “I agree.”

  “What Mad Max's saying, Alex, is we don't know these things. We think they're true, but we have to prove them.”

  “All we really know is Dad didn't kill Mom.” Emilie looked crestfallen.

  “Your father would never have killed your mother. If he wanted to kill anybody, it would have been Dracula.”

  “The police think Dad did it, though.” Emilie sighed.

  “They're idiots,” Alex said.

  The police were fools if they thought Whip capable of murder. No, wait. We were all capable of murder, given the right circumstances, but Whip wasn't capable of cold-blooded murder. Not the cold-blooded murder of the mother of his children, no matter how angry and hurt he was by Merry's betrayal. I'd never believe he could have done it.

  “We've got a lot of work to do before Dad can come home.” A pattern emerged in what we were missing. The task was daunting, but we should be able to do it if we made baby steps and worked together.

  “May I see the list?” Johnny reached out his hand. “Let's see if I can make it more accurate. Then we can decide how to get the answers to the unknowns.”

  Johnny drew three columns on a clean piece of paper and moved things around.

  “Jeez, we don't know much, do we?” Emilie looked discouraged.

  “It's not all that bad. We know your dad didn't kill your mom,” Johnny said. “He worked late that night.”

  “Were you there all the time?”

  “No. Tops and I left around eight-thirty, after scarfing down some pizza.”

  “Dad doesn't have an alibi for the time Mom was murdered, does he?”

  None of us wanted to admit the lack of a verifiable alibi. There it was, front and center and unavoidable, the pink elephant in the kitchen.

  “Not really. Let's say you left just after eight-thirty. Let's agree Mrs. Curry is right about the time CSI started. It'd be a real stretch to get from the office to Merry's apartment on the far side of Richmond near Chaminade.” I steepled my fingers under my chin.

  “He could do it, but he'd have to have been flying,” Johnny agreed.

  “Wonder if there were any construction delays on I-95 that night.”

  “I can find out.” Alex had something else to pursue.

  Emilie told Johnny about our visit to the apartment and Mrs. Curry's remark about the money. We left that as a known, because we had an earwitness. Plus we had pictures from Emilie's cell.

  “The police have pictures too. They'll be presented at trial. Vince'll see them after Dad's arraigned.”

  “When's that?” Emilie had a small catch in her throat.

  “Day after tomorrow. I assume you want to go.”

  Three heads nodded.

  “So, what else do we know? Do we know what kind of gun killed Mom?” Alex, Mr. Serious, asked. “I mean, Dad has lots in the safe. Was one missing?”

  “It was a twenty-two. Dad's guns are all nine-millimeters. We know where they all are.”

  “Whew!”

  I was surprised by Alex's reaction. Did he harbor a tiny doubt his father wasn't innocent? I stared at him. No, he was just relieved his father's guns were a different caliber. Simple as that.

  Emilie stared at the list. “Has anyone sold Mom's jewelry? If it turns up in a pawn shop, we should be able to find it.”

  “Could be on eBay. I'll check.” Alex seized on another way to use his computer skills.

  “Good idea. I'll hit the pawn shops.” Johnny echoed Alex's enthusiasm.

  “We had insurance riders and pictures, so when we find it, we can prove the jewelry was Merry's.”

  “If the police didn't see the messed up bedroom, doesn't that prove Dracula came back?” Emilie dwelled on that point. “After all, we didn't break the police tape.”

  “It just proves someone came back, not necessarily Dracula.”

  “There are two more questions,” Emilie said. “Why was Dracula turning Mom into Kiki?”

  “Kiki?” Johnny's pen was poised to add to the list.

  “We don't know who she is,” I answered.

  “Kiki's a person?”

  “We think so.” Emilie told Johnny about finding napkins of doodles with “Kiki and Andy” along with other variations of her name with Hunter's. She rolled her eyes. I let her get away with it this time, because I agreed with her assessment of her mother's silliness.

  “It's also Dracula's password.”

  “His password? On what, his computer?”

  Alex blushed bright red and picked at a crumb on the table. “Um. Yeah.”

  “Alex Pugh, you are not to do anything illegal. Do you hear me?” I was furious. “My grandson is not going to end up in jail next to his father. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Alex mumbled.

  “I'll work on Kiki.” Emilie saved Alex from more of a tongue lashing.

  “There must be a thousand more things, but I can't think straight.”

  The effects of the wine and the stress of the day were hitting me. Funny, I didn't mind saying I couldn't think straight. Like Eleanor said, I didn't have to be the only strong one all the time. Johnny was here. I could lean on him.

  “Good time to stop. Do you want to give each of us our ‘to-do's'?” Here was strong, tough Johnny asking for his “honey-do” list. I burst out laughing.

  “Let's divvy this up and see where it gets us. I'll ask the police about the stuff that's missing—Merry's purse, cell phone, and jewelry box.”

  “I'll help Alex with the jewelry.” Johnny wrote their names next to each task.

  “Alex can find out where Dracula came from and who he is,” Emilie volunteered.

  “Yeah,” Alex nodded.

  “You guys can help, but you have to make me a promise.” I put on my sternest, most grandmotherly voice.

  “Promise what?” Emilie and Alex shared a wary glance.

  “If I feel there is so much as a nano-inch of danger to any of this, you'll stop playing detective at once. Pinky swear?”

  “Pinky swear.” Emilie clearly didn't like it.

  “There's no such thing as a nano-inch,” Alex sassed.

  “Whatev-ah.” I rolled my eyes in perfect mimicry of Emilie. “Pinky swear?”

  I had to drag it out of Alex. “Pinky swear.”

  We reached across the table and hooked little fingers. We were a team with two priorities: proving Whip innocent and Dracula guilty.

  “Let's go get Whip out of jail,” Johnny said.

  “I'll type this up and put it on the fridge, so we can track our progress,”

  Alex grabbed the paper and ran upstairs. “‘Night.”

  Emilie kissed and hugged me. “Thank you. For everything. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, dear child.”

  She kissed Joh
nny on the cheek, surprising the heck out of him.

  “Well, we have some place to start, don't we, pretty lady?” Johnny took my hand and held it. “You look about done in.”

  “I am, but I'm not too tired for a nightcap and a hug.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Whip looked good in his own clothes instead of jailhouse orange. Even for a day. I took his suit, shirt, tie, and underwear early the day of his court appearance. Alex wanted his father to know he polished his loafers for him. Add a jail haircut and shave and Whip looked almost normal. That was, until I remembered why the changes: his court appearance to plead not guilty.

  An hour before the hearing, the police led Whip through an underground corridor into the adjacent two-century old courthouse where Vince and I waited in a conference room. The transport cop removed the plastic handcuffs and locked us in. Vince said Whip would make a good impression. “We've been fortunate to draw one of the more centrist judges on the bench, Mary Rhonda Garrison.”

  Vince went over the protocol of what to expect once again.

  “You'll come in through a side door. You won't be able to speak to your children, friends, or other family.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think of this as prosecutorial posturing. The district attorney can and will do everything in his power to diminish your position.” Vince shut his briefcase. “Just be glad you aren't in a jail jumpsuit.”

  Not much more would happen at the initial hearing. The prosecution would present the charge, which Vince believed would be manslaughter.

  Whip would say, “Not guilty.”

  Vince would ask for bail or release on Whip's own recognizance. They'd post bond and surrender his passport, because he was neither a threat to the community nor a flight risk. And Whip would be out.

  Nothing went according to plan. The prosecution asked for murder two and remand. No matter what Vince said, he couldn't convince the judge to grant bail.

  “Not on a murder charge, Mr. Bodine,” the Honorable Mary Rhonda Garrison said for the second time.

  “But, Your Honor…” Vince got no further. He fell silent when the judge pointed her finger at him.

  The judge sided with the prosecution. So much for being a centrist.

  Whip returned to his home away from home—the jail cell. Vince said he'd be over after he petitioned for an immediate release of the evidence. I followed Whip to the jail to wait for Vince; Johnny took the kids back home.

  I was with Whip when Vince arrived, his face red with fury.

  “The district attorney plans to try the case himself. George Weed never prosecutes murder two. It has to be his re-election campaign. He lost his last high-profile murder case.”

  “What happened?” Whip ping-ponged around the room, too hyperactive to sit.

  “He tried a guy who killed his parents and boss in front of a dozen witnesses. Sad but true, most of the physical evidence was compromised by sloppy police work and thrown out.”

  “What happened to the guy?”

  “He was released, left town, and murdered his in-laws out in West Virginia. He killed a cop in a shootout before the police nailed the son of a bitch with a couple of dozen well-placed bullets.”

  “So, reading the tea leaves, Weed's going to eviscerate Whip to prove he killed Merry. In cold blood? Or premeditation? A crime of passion?” I squirmed on the hard wooden chair.

  “Premeditation. He doesn't think it's a crime of passion.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Calm down.” Vince laid several new colored file folders on the table.

  “How could it be premeditation? What about the evidence?”

  “I have a partial list and asked for the police photos. I should get the rest of the evidence next week.” Vince handed over a single sheet of paper. “I don't see how they can build a case out of this.”

  Whip scanned the list and handed it to me.

  Nothing unexpected. Whip's fingerprints were found in Merry's car—naturally, since he bought it for her and maintained it. None in her apartment—he'd never been there. A blue shirt with gunshot residue the police took from the dirty clothes hamper. An old New York state registration for a twenty-two caliber handgun. An inventory of the nine-millimeter guns from the safe.

  “Here's the first thing wrong, Vince.” Whip pointed to the twenty-two. “That gun was stolen from a locked case in the trunk of my car more than four years ago. I filed a police report. I bought it for Merry, but she never liked it. Funny, isn't it? She was killed with a gun similar to the one I got her for her own protection.”

  “I'll pull the police report.” Vince made a cryptic mark on his legal pad.

  “I have one with the insurance claim in my filing cabinet.”

  “I'll bring it, Vince.” I'd do whatever I could.

  “That'll help, but it's not evidence the gun was stolen. It's evidence you reported it stolen.”

  “So I was planning to kill Merry for more than four years? Bullshit!”

  “The other guns were all registered?” Vince didn't miss a beat. He ran a manicured finger down the list.

  “Absolutely. Even before the Brady Bill, I registered every one of them. I haven't owned an unregistered gun since I was a kid. My dad had an old thirty-eight we used for target practice. I have no idea what happened to it. Hell, he may still have it.”

  “Don't mention any unregistered guns. Even as a kid. Even if you owned one before guns had to be registered. It's no use planting any seeds of doubt in a juror's head. Look over the list of guns the police impounded. The police compared them with your known permits. One's missing.”

  “It's not missing. I shipped the Glock to the worksite in Peru. Steve can fax the Peruvian permit. It's still there.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “It sounds like Weed intends to make a federal case out of that gun. Just like the twenty-two. He wants to show a pattern.” Vince made a note in his neat handwriting. His ever-present legal pad filled up with single words and short cryptic phrases. “Maybe you were planning to get rid of your wife for a long time.”

  “I repeat, the Glock's not missing. It's all legal and locked in my safe in Peru. I couldn't have sneaked it back into the country, because I came home with a small carry-on. American Airlines can pull my records, if necessary. Since September Eleventh, no one's been allowed to board a plane with a weapon. Besides, the Glock's a nine-millimeter, not a twenty-two.”

  Vince ignored Whip's outburst. “What about the shirt the cops found in the clothes basket? Any idea how the GSR got on it?”

  “Easy. Two days before Merry's murder, I competed in a tournament at Saunder's firing range. Beat the police chief and the head of the detective squad. Everyone knows me. Shoot there as often as I can.”

  Whip always wore the same shirt, his lucky shirt, in competition.

  “Why?”

  “I like to keep my skills sharp.”

  “Have you ever fired your gun at a person?” Vince made another mysterious entry on the pad.

  “Twice. Once to scare a robber off down in South America. Once in Africa.”

  “And in Africa?”

  “This militia guy chased two of my native crew with a machete and an AK forty-seven. Him or my crew. I chose him.”

  “He died?”

  “Direct shot in the heart.”

  I'd never heard this before. Boy, I don't know as much about my son-in-law as I thought.

  “That doesn't have any bearing on Merry's murder.”

  “It would, if Weed tries to prove you're violent.”

  “Does he have evidence of Whip's violent nature?” I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve.

  If the district attorney got wind of Whip's fight with Hunter, it might support his theory. I wanted to make sure he never did. Johnny, Whip, Hunter, and I were the only living witnesses to the beating, and Johnny and I weren't about to volunteer any information. From the lack of charges against Whip for assault
, I doubted Hunter wanted to admit his married lover's husband beat the snot out of him.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What about a statement from the guys at the range?”

  “It doesn't hurt to have the chief of police vouch for you.” Vince smiled the tiniest of smiles. Whip didn't.

  “Before we move on, what do you know about GSR, Vince?” Whip asked.

  “Not much. Why?”

  “My shirt should be covered with microscopic trace particles of lead, barium, and antimony. Fired between six-and eight-hundred shells that day. Both in practice before the competition and during it.”

  “Okay.” Vince made a note but didn't appear to see a pattern. I did.

  “Should have trace all over the front and both sleeves. Merry was killed by a single shot fired from someone standing beside or behind her. Trace would be on the right sleeve, with a little on the front maybe, if the murderer touched the shirt. There would be very little.”

  “You could have worn a dirty shirt, just to throw the police off.”

  “Jesus! What about my alibi?”

  “Full of holes, Whip. Mr. Medina left right after eating the pizza, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was around eight-thirty?”

  “Eight-thirty. Maybe eight forty-five.”

  “Mr. Zimmerman left about the same time?”

  “Yeah. Maybe a couple of minutes before Johnny.”

  I didn't like where this was headed. I could see Whip didn't either.

  “The coroner set your wife's time of death between nine-thirty and ten-thirty. That gives you enough time to get up to her apartment and shoot her.”

  “But Mrs. Curry heard the gunshot about nine-fifteen. She said a rerun of CSI had just started. The coroner must be wrong.”

  “Shit on a shingle!” Whip exploded over my comment.

  “What are you doing, Vince?” I wasn't pleased with Whip's attorney playing good cop-bad cop.

  “Just asking the kind of questions the district attorney will ask at trial. If I anticipate his line of attack, I can prepare Whip and other witnesses. We want to get our story out our way and not have to rebut the prosecutor's spin.”

  “Makes sense.” I didn't have to like the tactic. Still, it was effective and made us think through what we said about each piece of evidence.