55
Every two feet in nice even rows, two metal desks sat pushed together so that each occupant faced each other. At each occupant’s backside, a three-foot aisle separated the next row of desks. Unlike the even neat rows, the desks were cluttered full of case files and police reports for cases not yet gone cold.
Detective Ernest Marshall picked up the cup of hot coffee from his desk, blew softly on it, took a sip, and sifted through his notes with his free hand, muttering something to his partner, Samuels, about how Victor Christianson, the suspect in a case they were working on, had eluded their dragnets for days. However, a single bullet from someone’s gun had put him out of his misery before they had a chance to get a foothold on the case. He shook his head at the thought of all the legwork he and Samuels had put in for someone to find their perp dead, stretched out near a set of railroad tracks. For sure, the case wasn’t closed.
Looking into the folder, it hit Marshall. The case was not closed because Victor Christianson had found himself at the end of killer’s handgun, and the evidence already collected was only part of a larger picture. Christianson may have shot Afrika Bailey and the real truth might go with him to his grave, but given Victor’s societal rap sheet, this case might get real ugly.
“Samuels,” Marshall called out, taking another sip of coffee, “we’ve got ourselves a mess on our hands with this Victor Christianson murder.”
“Yeah, Christianson had a long list of folks who are probably happy with his early demise,” Detective Bryan Samuels replied.
“That’s what I mean. The Afrika Bailey shooting was just the tip of the iceberg in this case. Christianson was up to his ears in alligators—hiding behind some nasty mess.”
“Why do you say that?” Samuels asked, peeking his head over the top of the day’s News and Observer.
“Only a hunch and my great intuition. I can’t get Brenda Christianson’s demeanor out of my mind when she spoke about her relationship with her husband.”
“What was that?”
“What was that…are you listening, Samuels? Put the paper down so I can see your face. Isn’t that why they placed our desks this way…so we could bounce ideas with our partners?”
Detective Samuels put the paper down on the desk, loosened his burgundy tie, pulled his body straight up in his chair, cocked his head, and stared at Detective Marshall. “So, what did she say?”
“Remember when she told us that she asked her husband for a divorce and he became visibly upset. She said he became angry and decided to leave the house and when he picked up his coat, a gun dropped out and it fired. She could be our prime suspect. We need the murder weapon.”
“I don’t think it was Christianson’s wife. What about his secretary? What was her name?”
“Sheila…something—I don’t remember right off hand.”
“Sheila…yeah, that was it,” Samuels said, filling in a word on the crossword puzzle he had started. “Sheila Atkins.”
Yes, that’s it, Sheila Atkins soon-to-be Mrs. Sheila Billops. She was trying to flirt with me until I told her that her coworkers said she and Christianson were an item. Also, she was hiding something because her demeanor immediately changed when I let her in on her little secret. If she doesn’t have a motive, I’m sure she knows a lot more about Christianson’s wheeling and dealing than I initially gave her credit. She deserves a follow-up visit.
“The computer we took from Christianson’s office didn’t yield a lot, except that he seemed to be consumed with Afrika Bailey,” Marshall continued. “He had logged on to her records almost every day up to the day she was shot. I would most likely conclude that Ms. Bailey was his target, and with all that Mrs. Bailey told us, the puzzle pieces seem to fit.”
“I still say the mother, Setrine Bailey, wanted Christianson put away bad. She had a real hatred for the man.”
“You blame her?” Marshall took a sip of his coffee and put it down. “Coffee got cold that quick.”
“No, I can’t say that I do. She told Rathmusen at the hospital that Christianson stalked her, came to her house, and threatened her—told her to leave town or else.”
“But look, Samuels, if she was willing to tell that to Rathmusen, why would she go out and kill Christianson? For sure, she’d realize that we’d be after her before the clock struck another second after we found out Victor was dead. She’s divulged a lot of information to us, which could ultimately place her as the number one suspect on our most wanted list.”
“True, however, you hit on my point. If she believes that we wouldn’t point the finger at her because there is no earthly way we’d believe she did it since she’s been so forthcoming with all this information, guess what?”
“What?”
“She would kill that sucker in a heartbeat and leave it to us to figure it out.”
“I don’t think she’d be that stupid.”
“Umph.”
“Marshall, Samuels,” a close, cropped curly head, dark-skinned Idris Elba look-alike called out, as he entered the two detectives’ space.
Marshall nearly spilled his coffee while Samuels laughed, not realizing the intruder was that close on him without being heard. “What is it, Smith?” Marshall asked, annoyed.
“Got what is believed to be the murder weapon,” Detective Chad Smith replied in his robot voice.
“What murder weapon?” Samuels asked, making Smith spell it out. “And I don’t have all day.”
“The Christianson murder,” Smith replied. “Twenty-two-caliber. It’s registered to a Setrine Bailey. It was picked up from the gun shop the day of the murder.”
“What? Where is it, now?” Marshall asked.
“Ballistics,” Smith said.
“I can’t see the mother of that shooting victim…ah, ah, Afrika Bailey, killing the man, although she had every reason to want to see him behind the jailhouse,” Marshall said, with a small hint of irritation in his voice. “What perplexes me is that she purchases a gun that she picks up on the day of the murder but has done everything she knows to arm us with the kind of information we needed to pick up Christianson to do something as stupid as murder the dude.”
“Maybe we were taking too long, and she got tired of waiting. Had to do the job herself.”
“Yeah, that’s a reasonable explanation, Samuels, but I don’t think she did it, I don’t care what you think. She was praising God that her daughter was going to live.”
“Well, the gun definitely belonged to a woman,” Smith said, not wanting to be upstaged.
“Now how did you deduce that, Smith?” Samuels asked.
“Would a man buy a gun with a pearl handle?”
“You gotta point there, kid,” Marshall plugged in.
“Watch who you callin’ kid. I might not be ten seconds from claiming my retirement check like you old fogies, but I’m not your kid.”
“Forty-three ain’t old,” Marshall said. “I can still make women whisper my name.”
“That’s why you had that welt on your face yesterday?” Samuels cracked. He began to laugh and Smith joined him, doubled over in laughter at the sight of Marshall. “Margie slapped the smile off your face the other night during one of your hot, erotic dream episodes.”
Marshall jumped up from his seat. “Shut the hell up, Samuels. You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if you had one. If you must know, that welt was the remnant of good sex—rough and tumble good sex.”
Samuels looked at Smith and Smith looked back at Samuels. They grabbed their sides and burst out in laughter, causing the other detectives in the room to stop what they were doing and cash in on the comedy act. Marshall looked at all of them, grabbed his jacket, swung it over his shoulder and began to move away from his desk. He stopped at the end of the row and looked back at Samuels.
“Don’t forget, we have a dead man lying in the morgue. Call me when they ID the prints on the gun.” Marshall turned and walked away, the laughter trailing behind him.