Voice Mail Murder

Chapter Twenty-Seven





She didn’t know how long she’d slept. It must have been those pain killer pills they gave her in the hospital yesterday—was it yesterday? Now, there was a throbbing in her forehead that woke her and caused her to reach up and gingerly touch her injured head. The large bandage ran from her hairline down through her eyebrow and into her eyelid. As her fingers touched her eye socket, she recoiled in pain. Every inch of the right side of her face was tender. She rolled over and glanced at her bedside clock.

“Ten o’clock,” she read, squinting in the morning sunlight that filtered through her bedroom curtains. “I’ve slept away most of the morning.”

Stretching and rolling out of bed, she awakened Candide who was snoozing along with his mistress at the foot of the bed. Pamela grabbed her comfy terrycloth robe from a nearby chair and pattered out to the kitchen where she retrieved a glass of water. Spying a plastic pill bottle on the counter, she quickly swallowed one of the capsules that they’d given her for pain. Then, she clung to the open refrigerator door as she searched for something easy to fix. Not finding anything ready-to-eat, she grabbed a banana from the counter holder and a roll from the bread box and started back to the bedroom with her cache. Candide pranced along behind her in hopes that she’d drop some food.

Before she reached the bedroom, the doorbell rang. Who would be visiting her today? In the morning? When she was recuperating? She dropped her food items on the dining room table and carefully edged her way to the front door. She cautiously placed her good eye—the left one—to the peep-hole in the door and squinted out to see the visitor.

It was Shoop. He was standing on her front porch, looking impatient—as usual. As her eyeball perused his form, trying to focus in on the man’s face—and his motive for being at her front door—Shoop bent towards the door and aimed his eye directly at the peep-hole, seemingly aware that she was observing him from inside.

“Dr. Barnes,” he called out to her. “Dr. Barnes, can you open the door? I see you there.”

Oh, no, she murmured to herself. I thought this stupid hole was supposed to let me see who was at my front door in private. Is the man psychic?

“I know you’re there, Dr. Barnes,” continued Shoop. “I spoke with your husband. He told me you stayed home from work.”

She pulled back and turned the doorknob. Squeezing the fluffy robe more tightly around her chest, she bent her head around the edge of the door. Shoop had pulled back the screen door and was standing, lodged in between the screen and the doorstep. He had his smug look on.

“Very fetching,” he announced as he eyed what he could see of her bedroom attire.

“I’m home resting under doctor’s orders,” she explained. “You know that.”

“Yes, Dr. Barnes,” he said smiling knowingly, “I just dropped by to bring you a present.”

“What?” she asked, incredulously. The man didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body. A present to him probably meant a speeding ticket.

“This,” he said, reaching into his overcoat, he extracted a plastic CD case.

“Oh, no!” she cried. “What’s that?”

“Consider it an addendum to the original,” he said. “You have recordings of most of the suspects, but with the death of Skye Davis . . .”

“Who?”

“Skye Davis,” he said, “the woman we believe was with Coach Croft in the motel room the day he was murdered.”

“Oh, her,” she muttered. She’d gotten so wrapped up in her own problems that she’d almost lost track of the fact that another murder had taken place.

“We’ve now questioned Ms. Davis’s son and her secretary. We’ve also re-questioned Charlene Terlinger as well as the son of Abigail Prescott.”

“And you want me to listen to them too?”

“Just do your thing, Dr. Barnes,” replied the detective, leaning against her door frame, waving the CD case around tantalizingly as if it were a box of Godiva chocolate. “Someone—no doubt someone you’ve heard on one of these recordings—thinks you’re a threat, which means they think you know something. Maybe you do.”

“I don’t know anything,” she answered.

“Just listen to the recordings, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, and he placed the little square under her nose with a snap. She reached up, unwillingly, and took it.

“What if this person—this someone—who considers me a threat decides to do more than just sabotage my car?”

“We won’t let that happen,” he replied.

“Oh, really, how?” she questioned.

“You see that Pontiac?” he stepped back and pointed to a green sedan parked a block down her street. She peered out where he pointed. “Officer Bradley, nice guy. He’s been there since your husband left for work and he’ll be there until he returns.”

“Wonderful,” she scowled. “Now I need protection.”

“Now, you need to just rest,” he said, nodding to the CD in her hand, “and listen to this CD while you’re doing it.” He lifted his bushy eyebrows.

“All right, all right,” she responded, shooing him away as she clutched her robe more tightly around her neck. The small movement sent waves of new pain shooting up her forehead. Shoop was off the stoop. He turned back to her as he headed out to his car parked in front of her sidewalk.

“And, Dr. Barnes,” he called, “take care of that eye. It looks like you’re really going to have a shiner!” He beamed an uncustomary jaunty smile at her in farewell and strode off to his vehicle.

She carefully closed the front door and headed back inside. Along the way, she stopped in the family study where she grabbed a portable CD player, then adding the glass of water and the banana to her collection, she returned to her bedroom and climbed back into bed. After downing the banana in a few bites, she opened the CD and slid the new disk into her portable player. Then, she leaned back against her pillows and sipped her water, eyes closed as she listened to the new voices.

The recording began with a male officer’s voice announcing the name of the suspect being questioned. The first voice she heard was that of Demetrius Davis, the son of the murdered Skye Davis. Like his mother, Demetrius spoke with no sign of a black dialect, much to Pamela’s delight. She knew Willard felt a personal vindication whenever this common stereotype was dispelled. All she heard in the young man’s voice was grief. From his responses to the questions, it was obvious that Demetrius Davis loved his mother and was proud of her. She had raised him alone. He had never known his biological father, although he did know his name. Skye Davis had refused any assistance although she had certainly qualified for it. Demetrius described his mother as a proud, energetic, hard-working, intelligent woman who had scraped her way to the top, becoming one of Reardon’s most successful realtors. She had worked at a major agency before stepping out on her own just several years ago. She had instilled in her son a work ethic second to none and he was making his way through college with a combination of academic and football scholarships, and work study. He was surprised that his mother was involved with the Coach—and that the Coach was involved with his mother. He didn’t even realize that they knew each other well. He assumed they had met at one of the many family functions held for team members throughout the year. His mother had dutifully attended these events because she loved her only son and she reveled in his success on the football field. The two of them lived together in a modest, middle-class home in a Reardon suburb.

Pamela listened to the young man’s story—his monologue. She felt her heart go out to the young football player. The two most important adults in his life—the two people he admired most—were now dead—murdered—and not only murdered, but murdered in a horribly scandalous way. These two people had betrayed him by their involvement. All she heard in his voice was sadness and despair. Could he have found out about his mother’s affair with his coach and become so enraged that he had followed the coach to his tryst with his mother and murdered him? Then later, could this young man have murdered his mother too?

She didn’t think so, but she wasn’t certain. The second voice was that of the Skye Davis’ secretary—Derlinda Washington. This woman was the only office worker in Skye Davis’s small real estate office. She was aware of all of Ms. Davis’s comings and goings—all of her appointments. On the recording, she explained that on the day of the Coach’s murder, Skye Davis had left the office to show a house—or that’s what she had told her secretary. When she had returned later that afternoon around three o’clock, she had seemed perfectly normal. Derlinda Washington reported that Skye Davis had only mentioned Coach Croft in reference to her son Demetrius and often noted how much her son admired the man. The secretary indicated that she never suspected that her boss was having a sexual relationship with the football coach. When asked about the day of Skye Davis’s murder, the secretary reported that she had come to work that morning only to find her boss lying on the ground beside her car bleeding from her back. Derlinda had called 911 immediately, but it was too late. She noted that her boss often arrived at the office before she did because she was a workaholic.

Again, Pamela could see no motivation for this secretary to murder Coach Croft or her employer who’d had an affair with him. Ms. Washington seemed genuinely upset at the woman’s death and truly sorry for her young son who was left behind. Also, Pamela realized that if Skye Davis had returned to her office by three o’clock the afternoon of the Coach’s murder, she could probably be eliminated as a suspect in that murder as the autopsy report indicated time of death as between four and eight.

The third interview proved more enlightening. The voice was that of Charlene Terlinger. Of course, Pamela had heard this woman speak before—on the original voice mail recording. She was their Speaker Number One who had left messages #1, 2, and 6. It was this woman’s son—Ricky—who had revealed the nature of the identities of the mistresses when he recognized her as his mother as Shoop had played the recording in Rosemary Ellis’s office. Now, Pamela heard Charlene Terlinger explain for the police the nature of the relationship that she had with Coach Wade Croft. Pamela assumed that much of what Charlene Terlinger was saying probably held true for Croft’s other mistresses as well, even though, it became evident that the mistresses were totally unaware of each other—at least that was apparently Coach Croft’s intent.

Charlene Terlinger’s sweet, almost child-like voice floated through her bedroom.

“He was so nice,” she said. “He was gentle and such a gentleman. Ricky adored him. I met him at that Team Family Picnic in the fall several years ago, when Ricky first joined the team. I mean, did you see him? He’s tall and strong. He has the gentlest face. I can’t believe he’s gone . . .”

The questioner attempted to redirect Charlene Terlinger to her story.

“He talked to me at the picnic. He asked about Ricky and me and our lives. I remember telling him that we were alone. I even told him how my husband had deserted me when Ricky was just a baby. He was really sympathetic. He told me he’d look out for Ricky and not to worry about him. I really believed him. He was always doing things for Ricky; he went out of his way that first year. I was really grateful; he was sort of like a second father.”

“And you felt obligated to repay him?” asked the police questioner.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “He never demanded anything. It wasn’t until this year. He had done so much for Ricky and he often called me at home to ask me things about Ricky and to check to see how he was doing—how I thought he was doing. One day, he suggested we discuss Ricky over coffee and we did and—one thing led to another. He is so attractive and . . . I am human.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “he told me he was married and that his wife was an invalid but that he was devoted to her, but that . . . well, you know. I told him that I would never want to damage his relationship with his wife . . . that I understood . . . you know.”

Pamela was wondering just how calculated these relationships had been. They obviously had taken Coach plenty of time to establish. This woman truly believed in the goodness of her and the Coach’s intents. Charlene Terlinger continued with her tale.

“Coach and I would try to get together when he could get away. That wasn’t often. I mean, he was the Head Football Coach. He had practice every day. He had recruiting. And, of course, his wife. He had to spend a lot of time with her and caring for her. When he was able to see me, he would call me and suggest a local motel. He always chose a different one, he said, because he didn’t want to become a regular. It was my job to register. I always paid cash for the room and he’d pay me back when I saw him. Then, I’d go to the room, call him on a disposable cell phone that he bought for me and leave the room number as a voice mail message on his cell because usually he couldn’t take a call. Then, I’d just wait. Coach would usually show up in an hour or two and we’d spend the afternoon together. Then, he’d leave first and later, I’d check out. He said we need to be very discreet because it would look really bad if anyone found out. I understood—and besides, I didn’t want Ricky to know. He wouldn’t understand. He worships Coach. He’d think he was taking advantage of his mother, and that’s not what happened.”

So that’s how they did it, thought Pamela. Very neat, simple—especially for Coach Croft. The women took all the risk, she noted, and the Coach took virtually none. Of course, she had to admit, that ultimately the Coach did suffer the penalty for his peccadilloes.

The remaining two interviews were with the other team members and sons of the voice mail mistresses. She had heard the recording of Demetrius Davis—son of the murdered Skye Davis. Now she listened to the conversation of Ricky Terlinger and Will Prescott. It was evident that Terlinger knew little, if anything, about the activities of the Coach and his mother—much as his mother had hoped. If he was lying, Pamela could detect no evidence of it. As for Will Prescott, he also appeared unaware that his Bostonian high-society matron mother had had a brief fling with his coach. Indeed, his major concern seemed to be to protect his family’s privacy. It was evident that Prescott’s mother had not revealed her indiscretion to her husband (she being the only one of the three voice mail mistresses who was married). She had, however, only recently since Shoop’s call, revealed her affair to her son in hopes that he would prevent the Reardon police from contacting her husband and further destroying their family unit. Apparently Will Prescott was following his mother’s orders and was going along with questioning on the assurance that his cooperation would keep the investigation local and that investigators would not question his father.

Also, it became apparent to Pamela from the questioner’s probes that neither Abigail Prescott nor her husband had ever visited their son Will in Reardon—to see any of his games or even just to visit. If travel records checked out this information that Will Prescott had provided about his parents, then both of them, at least, could be eliminated as suspects in Coach Croft and Skye Davis’s murders. Obviously, thought Pamela, Abigail Prescott was probably suffering more than necessary for what was no doubt a one-time fling with the Coach during one of the team’s numerous away games. If. . . and how many away games had there been to the Boston area, anyway?

“Jane Marie,” she said to her secretary, as the woman answered the phone with her standard, “Psychology Department,” greeting. “Do you have a list of the football team’s away games?”

“No,” replied Jane Marie, “but I can get them for you. Just this year? Are you hot on the trail, Dr. Barnes?”

“The trail is fairly cool,” she responded, “and maybe check a few years back, if you could. Call me at home.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” queried Jane Marie.

“I am. I’m in bed with my feet up.” The conversation drew her little friend out from under her bed and Pamela tossed him the last bite of banana on her nightstand. “But Shoop was over here a while ago with a new recording for me to analyze and now I’ve got some thoughts percolating.”

“Sounds dangerous,” suggested the secretary, “too much percolating can lead to . . .”

“An exploding coffee pot,” answered Pamela. She fingered her head bandage; it was still there.

“How’s your injury?” continued Jane Marie.

“I feel fine, but I’m evidently going to be black and blue, according to Shoop,” she replied.

“Like a war wound,” noted the secretary.

“Just,” agreed Pamela. “Call me when you’ve got that information, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bye,” she said and quickly hung up the receiver.

Hmmm, she thought. From her nightstand, she retrieved the two plastic CD cases to add to the third she was presently playing. She removed the first disk and inserted a new disk from one of the other transparent boxes.

“Let’s take a listen,” she said to herself.