by Bella Knight
“That crazy lady with the baby kicked me. I wanna press charges.”
“That’s your right,” said Beck. “I am Special Agent Beck, FBI, and this is Deputy Tanner.” She went over his rights, and had him sign a paper. Then, she told him the interview was being recorded, and had him sign another paper. “I’ve been given some confused stories about what happened tonight. When did you enter the house with the two women and the baby?”
“What house?” asked Denver. He wiped his hand over his hair, down his broad face and over his squashed nose, then scratched his chin.
“The sheriffs’ house,” said Denver. He failed to mention that there were two sheriffs living in a house, not one. “You were picked out of a six-pack, twice,” he said. “We have the knife,” Tanner went on, and held up a skinning knife with an ugly hook on the opposite side of the curved blade. “It was found in your possession, and it has your fingerprints on it. Both women described the knife, perfectly.” He laid down a picture of the knife, and put the knife back into a box. “The gun, which wasn’t fired inside the house.” He held up a bag with a little black gun with a long barrel. “This is a Luger P08. Both of them described the gun.”
“Didn’t have it on me,” he said.
“Not at the time of your arrest, no. It was kicked out of your hand by one of the women. Was right where she said it would be. Found it in a bush, just a block from the house.”
“Fucking woman kicked Jase,” said Denver. “Bet his wife had a cow. He in the hospital?”
Tanner slid over a morgue photo. “He’s dead.”
Denver’s eyes got huge. “He was kicked in the head. He was fine.”
Tanner pulled out a picture of the scene from the scene folder. “See his neck,” said Tanner. “Not a normal angle.”
Denver blew out a breath through his nose. “So, how come that bitch isn’t in here gettin’ questioned, instead of me?”
“Because you kidnapped two women and a baby,” said Tanner. “She gets a walk. You don’t.”
“Kidnapping? What the fuck?” said Denver. “We wanted them to make a phone call!” His voice broke.
“To whom?” asked Beck, leaning forward. “Who were they supposed to call?”
“The damn sheriff. Was supposed to be at work. Hit the lady in the face.”
“Yes, and we have her epithelial cells and blood on the butt.” Denver looked confused. “Skin,” said Beck, and sighed.
“So, we’ve got you hitting the wife,” said Tanner. He cringed internally.
Xenia was on a pedestal to him, and this covering up her identity was making him sound like he didn’t value her. He also knew that, eventually, she’d see the tape of the interrogation.
“That happened on the back porch. Found a blood drop on the outer edge, and in the soil. So, you struck her on her property.”
“That was after she wouldn’t call him,” said Denver.
“Did you strike her when she was holding the baby?” asked Tanner.
“Naw,” said Denver. “The other lady had the baby. Wait. It was her baby?”
“The baby stuff all over the house might have been a clue,” said Tanner. “So, you hit the lady when she wouldn’t call. Then, she ran, and you chased her down and hit her.”
“Jase had the gun. The knife is mine.”
“An unregistered gun,” said Tanner, (as if he was adding on charges to a dead man). “So, she ran, then you hit her. The other woman ran, too, with the baby.”
“I chased her down, and she kicked me. A couple o’ times.”
“I know,” said Tanner. “Did you hit her when she was holding the baby?”
“Once or twice,” said Denver. “She got away with the kid, though.”
“So, that’s a home invasion,” said Tanner. “You busted in, held a knife and gun on the kid and the women, and demanded they call. They didn’t do it, and tried to run away, so you said Jase hit the woman with the gun.”
“Yeah,” said Denver.
“Then the other woman killed Jase, and you ran, and the other woman hurt you.”
“Yeah,” said Denver.
“So, when did your wife want you to call to say you’d done it?” asked Tanner.
“What time is it now?” asked Denver.
Frenchie, behind the glass, pumped a fist. She had all four phones, and dumped them to Olivia. Olivia found a series of text messages about “doing it,” “getting the job done,” and “getting the call made,” all between Louanne Pryse and her husband, Denver, and similar ones about “getting it done” from the now-deceased Jason to his wife Marybelle Taton. She had enough, but wanted her boss there when each woman went down.
Tanner slid over a pen and a legal pad. “Write it down. We’ll try to make the judge go a little easier on you, since you’ve lost a friend and all, but I can’t promise a thing. It’s up to the district attorney.”
Georgina Quall, called “Georgie,” the district attorney, stood next to Frenchie. “Got one. Let’s slam-dunk the other ones.”
“I bet Marybelle will squeak ‘lawyer’ as soon as possible. Louanne already did,” said Frenchie.
“Still gotta run the bases,” said Georgie.
They hit up Marybelle next. “Ms. Taton,” said Frenchie. “I’m Agent Cinna French, and this is Deputy Tanner,” she said, and read the rights and the fact that the interview was being recorded. “I’m sorry to inform you that your husband is deceased.”
Marybelle was confused. “Deceased?”
“Dead,” said Frenchie. “He was kicked by a woman, and his head twisted, and then he died.”
Marybelle’s eyes filled. “Dead?” she asked, again.
“I have the pictures,” said Frenchie. She showed the same two photos Tanner had, the on-scene photo and the morgue photo. “Is this your husband?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Marybelle.
Frenchie handed over a small packet of tissues. “When was he supposed to contact you?” asked Frenchie.
“To-tonight,” said Marybelle. “He was supposed to send a text when he was done.”
“Calling a police officer?” asked Frenchie.
“A sheriff.”
“Why didn’t you just call the sheriff’s office, directly?”
“I did,” said Marybelle. “I talked to a Deputy Harris.”
“What was it about?” asked Frenchie, in all sympathy.
“My father did not kill my mother,” said Marybelle. “He did not wish to listen to my concerns.”
“Your father was convicted, was he not?” asked Frenchie.
“Yes, he was,” said Marybelle. “But he says he didn’t do it, and he’s dying. I believe him.”
“We’re looking into that,” said Frenchie. “Now, what did you send your husband and your half-sister’s husband to do?”
“Do?” asked Marybelle.
“Did you send them to the sheriff’s residence?”
“They were supposed to tell his wife to call him.”
“And you couldn’t come into the station and do the same thing?”
“I did, twice. They said he was out,” said Marybelle.
“This one?” asked Tanner, confused. He’d never seen this woman before.
“No, at the other one.” She gave the location of the other sheriff’s office, the one for the county, not the city.
“Okay,” said Frenchie, trying not to get bogged down. “What were they supposed to do to the women?”
“Do?” asked Marybelle, again.
“What were they supposed to do to get the wife to call them?”
Marybelle shrugged. “They’re big guys.”
“Did you happen to look on the wall at the station where you went to talk to the sheriff?” asked Tanner.
“Nope,” said Marybelle. “I was in and out. They gave me a card, but I lost it.”
Tanner sighed. “Your husband and your half-sister’s husband entered the house, pistol-whipped one of the women, threatened a family friend with a knife, and the
re was a week-old infant in there as well.”
“What?” said Marybelle.
Tanner laid out all the evidence —the gun, the knife, pictures of Xenia’s bruised face, a shot of Deputy Reece’s broken hand.
“Well, fuck,” said Marybelle.
“So, this was supposed to be a break-in and an intimidation by the husbands to get the wife to call the sheriff?” asked Frenchie. “Sheriff Bob Hunter?”
“Yes,” said Marybelle.
“Did you talk to your sister about this?” asked Frenchie.
“Yeah, a couple of times. She was on board,” said Marybelle.
“Did anyone, at any time, say no to this?”
“No,” said Marybelle.
“Write it down,” said Tanner, and pushed over a pen and paper.
“Why?” asked Marybelle, who still hadn’t wiped away her tears.
“The woman kicked your husband and killed him,” said Frenchie. “We kind of want to know why.”
Marybelle took the non-sequitur as a valid reason for doing so. She began writing. When they got it back, they asked the same questions again.
Then, Tanner said, “The office you went to, had a sheriff, Sherriff Xenia. She’s the woman your husband pistol-whipped. She was trying to protect her baby, who is only a week old, and her husband. The woman who drop-kicked your husband is a sheriff’s deputy. Your husband broke into a home and attacked two police officers and a week-old infant. This was a conspiracy you set in motion, so that makes you as responsible as they were. Please stand up,” she said, and Frenchie went around and cuffed her. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit a home invasion.” She kept listing charges, and Marybelle just looked confused. Sad, and confused.
“Oh, and one more thing,” said Frenchie. “It is quite likely that your father did not commit the murder. But, your sister-in-law, Louanne, probably did.” Marybelle’s jaw dropped, and she was led away.
Beck turned to Georgie Quall. “This is just… sad. Disturbing and sad.”
“Welcome to Idiot Central,” said Georgie. “We seem to raise dumb criminals here.”
Beck shook her head. “Nope, it’s that way everywhere. The worst thing is…”
“She was in the wrong office,” said Georgie. “This all began because she didn’t have any idea that there were two offices.”
“This is…” said Beck. “I’ve got to write this thing up.”
“She had the card, too. I know that card. It has her direct line. It would not have mattered to her that her husband was on the case, previously. A lot of this happened in the distant past. I know how she is on cold cases. She’s always running two or three. We have gotten at least four solved since she’s been here —wait; no, six. She would have found out what we did. A lot slower, but she would have gotten it done.” Georgie’s green eyes snapped, her facial expressions were ranging from furious to sick.
“Well,” said Beck, “these are charges against a peace officer, and they carry federal time. None of the survivors of this are going to do well. Let’s get the sister nailed down,” said Beck.
Since they were on a roll, Beck and Georgie watched while Tanner and Frenchie went after Louanne and her lawyer. “My client has nothing to say. She has done nothing wrong,” said Michael Taragon. Everyone called him “Spice,” because of his red hair and his aggressive attitude.
“Let me lay it out for you,” said Frenchie. She went over the entire conspiracy, step by step, including the warrants for the cell phones, pictures of the body, and the confessions of Denver and Marybelle. “We’ve got you on conspiracy to commit several federal crimes. A man is now dead. Two women were injured. The infant was not injured, but the baby’s life was threatened. This was a home invasion on the sheriffs’ house, a kidnapping, two assaults; one with a deadly weapon. These were done to peace officers.”
“What?” said both Spice and Louanne.
“One woman was Sheriff Hunter’s deputy. The other woman is Sheriff Hunter’s wife, who is also a sheriff, for the county, not the city.”
Spice’s jaw dropped. Louanne groaned and put her head in her hands. “I did not know that Sheriff Xenia Poulolakis was one of the women assaulted in the complaint,” said Spice. “I need a moment to confer with my client.”
“Of course,” said Tanner. He picked up all the pictures and turned off the recording software, and Frenchie followed them out of the room.
Beck and Georgie met them in the hall. “She’s gonna cave,” said Frenchie.
“If so, we’ve got all four,” said Beck. “Or three, one of them being dead and all.”
“Write everything up, get your ducks in a row. Let’s make this so perfect that no one can touch this,” said Georgie. “Or two sheriffs will be upset, later on.”
“They’re upset now,” said Tanner. “Be a good idea to get these people locked up far, far away. In a federal facility. No temptation to show up and stare at the zoo animals.”
Beck and Frenchie stared at him. “Wow,” said Frenchie. “That’s just… scary.”
“Throw in a stone cold, viciously-angry herd of Valkyries, some of which are in law enforcement, and it gets even more terrifying,” said Tanner.
“Making my point for me,” said Georgie. “Get it done.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Tanner.
Spice stuck his head out of the door. “We’re ready,” he said.
“You’re up,” said Beck. Tanner and Frenchie went in to get a slam dunk. They took their time, walked her through it.
Spice seemed resigned. “My client accedes that she knew the men were going over to get the… Sheriff Xenia… to call her husband to reopen the case.”
“What did Marybelle promise you and your husband if you cooperated?”
Louanne twisted and untwisted her hands. “A house. A bigger one. I thought, Daddy’s dying anyway, so why not get him out?”
“But you knew he murdered his first wife, your mother,” said Frenchie.
Louanne shrugged. “It was a nice house. Bigger. The one she’s in now, and she’d get a bigger one for herself. Besides,” she said, leaning forward, “he would go to hospice and die slowly, and I would get to visit every day, and watch him die, unable to breathe. I planned on making things… a little harder for him.”
“Stop talking,” said Spice to his client. “Please, just stop talking.”
Judge Rane took one look at the list of charges at the arraignment the next morning. “Good god, Georgie. Are the sheriffs okay? Didn’t they just have a baby?”
“Home now, Sir,” said Georgie. “Recovering.”
“That’s just…” He looked over his glasses at the three defendants. Marybelle looked dazed, Denver angry, and Louanne showed nothing on her face. “And there is a plea agreement?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Spice.
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Georgie.
“Federal charges, I see,” he said. “Very well. Do you, of your own free will, agree to this agreement?” Each defendant answered individually. “Forty years for Mr. Denver Taton; twenty-five years each for Marybelle Taton and Louanne Pryse, with no opportunity for parole. The Court agrees.” He banged his gavel.
He waited until only Frenchie, Beck, and Georgie were left, and said, “In chambers.” He took them back, hung up his robe to reveal a trim man in a blue short-sleeved shirt, and chinos, and offered them Cokes. The women took them, then sat down. “Is it in the interest of justice to reopen the old case against Mr. Greeley?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Georgie. “He murdered one of his wives. We can try to make the murder charge against Louanne stick, but she was twelve at the time. If he gets out, he’s facing a long, slow, hospice death, and with his daughters in prison, he has no one to care for him.”
“And, it’s a dead point,” said Beck. “I’ve conversed with several physicians, and they concur that Mr. Greeley has about two weeks to live. By the time we’ve investigated the case, and attempted to prove his innocence —and his daughter’s guil
t, he would’ve passed on. He is also receiving much better care inside the prison than he would outside.”
“I concur,” said the judge. “Please, wrap this up. Someone go and interview the man.”
“Yes, Your honor,” said Beck. “We’ll go, right now.”
Beck and Frenchie were able to get in to see the dying man by flashing their badges —and because the judge called the warden directly. Greeley was in the hospital ward. He was reading a fishing magazine. He had a tube up his nose and was on oxygen. He looked to be thirty years older than he was, worn down to a thatch of white hair and skin and bones.
“I’m Special Agent Beck and this is Agent French. We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Greeley.”
He waved his hand. “Not… going anywhere.”
“We know you killed your first wife, not the second. We’ve got proof,” said Frenchie. “Just want to get it all straight for the records.”
“Not… getting out. Am I?”
Beck shook her head. “No Sir, you are not.” They both took out their cell phones, set them to record, and put them on the tray.
“Okay.” Greeley sighed. “I take it my… lovely daughters… fucked it up? Getting… me out?” He coughed explosively.
“They’re in prison for the next twenty years, so yes,” said Frenchie.
“Serves… Louanne right,” said Greeley. “I loved… Annabelle. Didn’t have no call… to kill… her.”
“You murdered Louanne’s mother,” said Beck. “She should have killed you.”
“Yeah,” said Greeley. “She was too… small, though, couldn’t have taken me out. Did get to… Annabelle. She was lovely and kind. Was making me… a better man.”
Frenchie snorted. “You spent money like water, even after you married her.”
“I was stupid,” said Greeley. “Wouldn’t have ended up here if I’d been smart.”
He went on to verify the entire theory. He killed his first wife, and Louanne killed the second one. “Why didn’t you finger Louanne at your trial?” asked Beck.
“First, no one… woulda… believed me. Second… had to admit… killing the… first one… to prove… motive.”
