Who the hell are you?
Still unable to answer, he employed the prompts he sometimes used with his students.
I’m the type of man or woman who—
He tried on various identities. I’m an educator—the type of man who enjoys opening the minds of young people.
No, the other voice inside him said. You’re the type of man who has affairs with his open-minded students—the type who cheats on his wife and lies to his children. Though the voice of his conscience was loud and hard to ignore, he continued. I’m the type of man who likes to ponder the big questions. A scholar.
No, the other voice insisted. You’re the type of man who writes textbooks on morality and ethics, but has none. You’re the type of man who uses women, and has an ex-wife and daughter who look right through to your shameful core. The kind of man who may have driven his son to a despicable act.
He cried silently now, the tears leaking out, slipping down his temples. He was no closer to a definition than when the question first rose. If someone were to reach out and touch him, he felt as if he would shatter. He had to put those bloody scissors into some kind of perspective that didn’t involve Matt.
The doorbell rang.
He wiped his face on a napkin and stepped into the entry and opened the door.
Detective Radhauser and a shorter, black police officer in uniform stood on the porch, a black and white Tucson Police car parked in front of the house.
“Are you Loren Garrison?” the black officer asked.
“Radhauser knows I am,” Loren said. Holding the door open with his foot, he invited them inside. “What do you want this time? To search my underwear drawer? Or confiscate my silverware?”
In the entryway, the black officer stepped forward. “We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Crystal Reynolds and her unborn fetus. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do you understand? Anything you do say can and may be held against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”
The officer stood in front of Loren, spouting off the entire paragraph as if it were one sentence.
Loren grabbed the warrant, read it, then handed it back to Radhauser. “Of course I understand. I’m not an imbecile. But this is ridiculous.”
The officer had intense dark eyes that were impossible to read. His squared-off chin was clean-shaven, like his head. He looked directly at Loren and commanded, “Put your hands behind your back, sir.”
Loren braced himself, planted his feet wide apart on the entryway tile and crossed his wrists behind his back. “Is this really necessary?”
As he heard the click of the cuffs, felt the pressure against his wrists, Loren stared at his cordovan wingtip shoes, so remote from the rest of his body. His legs were like rubber bands, his feet receding farther and farther away.
“I need to leave a note for my son,” he said. “Matt will be worried.”
The officer nudged Loren gently forward again, his big hand pressed into the small of Loren’s back.
“I need to call my lawyer.”
“There’ll be a phone booth in the holding cell. You can call and leave messages for Matt and your attorney.” Radhauser opened the back door of the patrol car. The officer protected Loren’s head with his hand as he ducked into the back seat, then Radhauser reached down and fastened Loren’s seat belt.
As they pulled out of the driveway, Loren’s neighbor’s bronze van glided down the cul-de-sac and into the driveway next door. When she craned her neck to see, Loren lowered his head.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Saturday evening, long after the Catalina Sheriff’s station had emptied of everyone except the weekend officer manning the front desk, Radhauser waited for Matt to confess what Radhauser already suspected. The kid had found Crystal dead and hurried out to Marana to intercept Travis. But who made the 911 call? None of the neighbors admitted to it. They’d traced the call to a phone booth outside a convenience store, five miles north of Crystal’s house.
Radhauser studied his now completed notes on the case. Something bothered him but he couldn’t nail it. He swigged the dregs of his coffee, then tossed the Styrofoam cup into his trashcan. His office smelled like the leftover pizza he’d found in the break room refrigerator and reheated for his lunch.
Through the open window behind his desk, the sunset disappeared, the sky darkening fast. Obsessing about the case had brought him nowhere. He closed his notebook, folded his arms on the desk, and lowered his head onto them.
Night was the worst time of day for him. That’s why he played Laura’s piano until he collapsed from exhaustion. He didn’t want to get his wife and son out of his mind, but he knew it was time—knew he was headed for another breakdown if things didn’t change. Before the accident, he’d had no idea grief was so ugly and isolating. And he wasn’t the kind of man who shared it easily with others.
Ever since he’d questioned Matt and Travis, his internal wheels were set in motion, heaving up memories and dreams for his son he hadn’t thought about in months. When his eyes blurred, he blinked back tears, furious at himself. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 8pm, and it looked like Matt had lost his nerve and wasn’t going to show.
Tonight, he’d bypass the piano, eat some real food, and get a good night’s sleep. He packed his briefcase, turned off the light, and was headed out the door when his intercom beeped. He hurried back inside, flipped the switch for the overhead light and picked up the receiver.
“There’s someone here to see you,” the officer at the front desk said, a smile in his voice. “Claims she knows you. Her name is Millie Brooks and she’s hell bent on seeing you and nobody else.”
Before Radhauser had hung up the receiver, Millie sashayed into the office, a folded newspaper in her left hand. She wore her waitress outfit, including the red cowboy boots. “You look like a woman with a mission,” Radhauser said.
“And you look like a man who needs some sleep.” She flopped onto the chair in front of his desk, then opened the newspaper to the front page. “I know it’s kind of late and I’m sorry to barge in on you, sugar, but is this for real?” She set the newspaper on his desk.
Radhauser scanned the headline. Double Homicide in Catalina.
He read on. After an autopsy, Pima County Medical Examiner, Irvin Crenshaw, confirmed Detective Winston Radhauser’s suspicions that Crystal Reynolds, the young waitress found dead in her bathtub, was the victim of a brutal murder.
Nice of Crenshaw to give him a little credit.
The autopsy also revealed that Crystal Reynolds was pregnant, making this the first double homicide in the history of Catalina.
“I didn’t write the article,” he said, wishing the captain had held off a few more days before broadcasting Crenshaw’s forensic brilliance to the media.
“You can tell me, sugar. Was she really pregnant? Or is this one of them tricks the police play to draw out the real killer?”
“We have a suspect in custody. Are you saying we don’t have the right guy?”
She pressed her hand against her chest, as if too caught up in her surprise to answer his question. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, sugar. I just need to know if they got the pregnancy part right.”
Radhauser smiled. “If you read it in the newspaper, it must be true.”
Millie flipped her hair back and tucked it behind her ears, then gave him a big smile. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I tried to tell Bax it might be made up.”
Radhauser told Millie that the ME had confirmed the pregnancy.
The clock on his desk ticked.
Millie crossed her legs, revealing a narrow edge of black lace. “Look, sugar. Baxter’s in a bad way. Acting all weird and psycho about this. I need you to talk to him.”
Radhauser briefly closed his eyes. He was so damn tired. “What do you mean psycho?”
“He’s asking me and Gracie the same shit over and over, like some escapee from the loony bin.”
Radhauser
winced. “What’s he asking?”
“If we knew how far along in the pregnancy Crystal was, and if she had one of them fancy new tests that told if the baby was a boy or girl. I said, ‘Holy crap, Bax, I didn’t even know she was pregnant.’ Which ain’t exactly true. I had my suspicions, but I tried to protect him.”
Millie talked with her hands now, throwing them up in the air as if too exasperated to go on. “And Gracie’s no help. She just clams up around Bax and won’t say a word. If you ask me, she knows something. Her and Crystal was real tight.”
Millie cocked her head. “Didn’t I tell you he has this thing about his daughter coming back?”
“Yes, you did.”
“And that Medical Examiner, he was positive?”
“Yes. I know I already talked with you and Gracie about this, but I want you to review it with me again. What time did Baxter leave the bar last Saturday?”
She told him the exact story she’d told before—maybe too exact—that he’d left a little before 10pm, gone home and turned on the television, that she heard it when she’d emptied the trash around eleven. That there was a motion light over his garage door that stayed on for five minutes after the door closed.
“So, you’re absolutely certain he never left the house that night.”
“One hundred percent. I’ve known Bax a long time. We opened The Spur together.” She stopped and looked at Radhauser.
He knew she wanted some acknowledgment. “Wow. You must have been a great help.”
“Bax was in a snit that night. I fretted about him, so I watched him real close. You can’t walk nowhere from The Spur.”
She was right. Crystal’s house was a good five miles from the restaurant. There was no way Baxter could have walked that distance in time to murder her. “Why were you so worried about him?”
“I could tell by his red face that his blood pressure was way up. Bax has some health issues.”
“Do you know why he was upset?”
“No,” she said. “But you can bet your boxer shorts it was about Crystal.”
“Come on, I’ll walk you out to your car.”
Millie remained seated. “Will you talk to Bax? He’s a good person and he’s been through a lot. Just tell him the kid couldn’t be his.”
“I don’t know that for sure.”
“A little white lie,” she said, turning her hands palm-side up. “What can it hurt?”
“It would be unethical,” Radhauser said, while knowing he’d lied before and would do it again if it would help solve a case.
She lowered her head, directed her words at her lap. “You must think I’m plum pathetic, coming here like this. But please, could you just do one of them paternity tests? Give the poor man some peace of mind.”
When he didn’t respond, she lifted her face, her eyes wide enough for Radhauser to see her feelings for Thomas Baxter swimming inside them. If Gracie hadn’t provided Millie with a solid alibi, Radhauser would consider her a suspect. “Where is Baxter now?” he asked.
“At home, moping around. I told him I’d work a double shift. But he called in a temp to cover the bar. I’m worried half to death and I had to talk to someone.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know where else to go.” She stood and turned to leave the room.
Radhauser called after her. “I’m glad you came by, Millie. Baxter is real lucky to have you on his side.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Yeah. Too bad he don’t know it.”
* * *
It was almost 9pm when Radhauser parked his car in The Silver Spur lot and walked around the brightly lit restaurant to Baxter’s house. Through the front window, Radhauser saw a small lamp burning. He tapped on the door.
No one answered. Maybe Baxter had decided to work the bar after all.
Radhauser knocked louder.
Finally, Baxter opened the door. He wore a pair of sweat pants and a black T-shirt. “What do you want?”
Radhauser handed him the newspaper. “I wanted to give you a heads-up this article was about to appear, but I didn’t get a chance. I’m sorry if it caught you off-guard.”
He looked Radhauser up and down with weary, bloodshot eyes. “What makes you think I give a shit?”
“Nothing. Except you used to date Crystal and I got the feeling you cared, at least a little.”
Baxter hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob. He stared at Radhauser’s face as if searching for the man behind the one he projected—a deeper, more worthy and authentic man. “Are you married, Detective Radhauser?”
A dizzy, sick feeling built in his gut. He needed that real food. Now. He needed to get out of there. “Not any more.”
“Kids?”
“A son.”
“How old is he?”
Lucas’ face swam into Radhauser’s mind. Thirteen. A vulnerable age. Not a child, but not an adult either. Had he lived, Lucas would be bounding back and forth between the child he was and the man he would become. Radhauser puffed out his cheeks, let the air out slowly. “My son died.”
Baxter nodded, as if everything was clear to him now. He pulled the door completely open and moved aside so Radhauser could enter. “I had a gut feeling about you.”
Radhauser stepped inside. The house smelled different from the last time, like sandalwood and pine incense burning.
“Can I get you anything?” Baxter asked.
“I could really use a beer,” Radhauser said, wanting Baxter to trust him enough to talk openly.
Radhauser took a seat on the sofa. A six-inch rectangular tray about an inch wide sat in the center of the coffee table, spirals of smoke curling up from the stick of incense it held. The stick was nearly burned out and a long, gray piece of ash dropped into the tray.
Baxter returned with two open bottles of Corona.
Radhauser took a long swig, then set the bottle on the coffee table.
Baxter’s gaze flicked over to Radhauser’s face, then instantly flicked away. “I’m cleaning the air of my anger,” he said, nodding toward the tray. “I like to be calm when I’m working on Becka’s dollhouse.” Without drinking any of it, he set his own beer on the end table beside his recliner and dropped into the chair. He rubbed his hands over his face—pressing so hard Radhauser saw the flesh whiten on his stubby fingers.
“Why are you angry?” Radhauser asked.
“Is there any way the Medical Examiner could have made a mistake?”
“Doctor Crenshaw is good. And he says she was pregnant.”
Baxter flinched, as if this confirmation had physically hurt him. And for a brief moment, Radhauser appreciated what little access we have to what’s going on in another person’s head.
When Baxter spoke again, it was as if he’d wiped his old voice away to let out a new, much higher, one. “She promised me we’d—” He stopped; started again. “She should have told me. I would have taken good care of her and the baby.” He kept waving his hand back and forth as if shooing a mosquito away from him. His gaze darted around his living room for a moment before it came to rest on the photo of him pushing his daughter on the swing. It lingered there for an instant and then he shot Radhauser a panicked look. “Do you know if it was a boy or a girl?” Baxter’s voice was tight, cautious, not the flippant man Radhauser had previously interviewed.
Something told Radhauser not to tell him it was a girl—at least not yet. Radhauser shook his head.
Baxter’s shoulders slumped. After a moment, he picked up the newspaper again, folded it, then held it in his lap, rocking slowly from front to back. “I know it sounds crazy, but I need to know.” Something flashed over Baxter’s face, but it was gone before Radhauser could interpret it.
“I’ll try to get that information for you,” Radhauser said carefully.
“Thanks. Can you do a paternity test on me? I’m sure you of all people understand that it’s important I know if the baby was mine.”
“I’m sorry. The police department doesn’t do paternity tests on demand.”
On some level, Radhauser felt a little sorry for Baxter and hoped Crystal’s baby belonged to Garrison or someone else.
“Do you know where I could get one?”
“Even if you found a place, you’d need tissue from the fetus for comparison.”
“The Medical Examiner has that, doesn’t he? I’ll pay whatever you want,” Baxter said. “Please.”
Radhauser took another swig of his beer. He needed to play this carefully. “It sounds like you believe you could be the father. When was the last time you had sexual intercourse with Crystal?”
He blinked, then dropped his gaze. “We were together from Christmas through the end of February. We talked about having a child. I wasn’t using protection. Then her hotshot boyfriend came back into her life.” Baxter shook his head, his dark eyes glassy.
Radhauser had a perceptible feeling of something coiled up just beneath Baxter’s skin, like a tension spring that couldn’t be wound any tighter.
After finishing his beer, Radhauser stood. He opened his briefcase and pulled a swab from the box, swished it across the inside of Baxter’s cheek, replaced the cap, then sealed it in a bag. “I’m writing you up as a suspect, so the captain doesn’t question the expense,” he said casually.
“I don’t care about that. When will I know the results?”
“I’ll try to put a rush on it,” Radhauser said, knowing that even if the captain did authorize the test, it could be months before they got results.
Baxter stood, spun on the balls of his feet with the agility of a dancer and looked Radhauser straight in the eyes. “You know what I’m going through, don’t you?”
Radhauser nodded.
“Will you call me as soon as you get the results?”
“Yes. And I’ll do everything in my power to make it fast.”
Just before Radhauser walked out the front door, he looked at Baxter again.
Redemption Lake Page 25
