Salem's Daughters (20 page)

Chapter 34              Interrogation

Bob needed to be strong for Debbie. He put his own emotional needs in the storage bin. For the second time in his structured and sheltered life, the reality of losing his posterity was more than a frightening bedtime story.

Outside of Rotten Ronnie and that backstabbing family friend Phil McKenzie, he had never faced an adversary that threatened to take away everything he worked for. Believed in. Sacrificed and fought for. For the first time, with a sense of hesitation, Bob realized, he could add the word ‘entitled’.

His parents, church officials, school teachers, and sports coaches had provided a safe albeit protected environment for him to thrive in. The most trouble he had experienced was his high school basketball coach yelling at him for not getting back on defense.

But now, Bob faced an adversary with the backing of the legal system who could shut down their lives. Unlike a competitive basketball game where he could lose yet start anew after a good night’s sleep, his current reality may not refresh into a new day.

As soon as they entered the front doors of the Battle Creek Police Station, Bob and Debbie were searched and patted down; Bob by Kowalski and Debbie by a female officer. Darrowby looked at them as if they were human traffickers. They placed their personal effects in a plastic tub that rolled down a conveyor belt at the security checkpoint.

Bob held Debbie’s hand and followed the detectives, who remained silent, down a series of corridors. Two police officers brought up the rear. The last door behind them slammed closed, the clacking of metal locks echoing down the hall.

“Just relax, honey. We’re law abiding and taxpaying citizens. This is just a formality. We’ll be home before you know it.”

Debbie squeezed his hand and looked up at Bob with a genuine smile he loved so much. “I know. You’re my Superman. I trust you.”

Darrowby stopped in front of a non-descript room where a police officer stood. He opened the door and motioned them in with a wave of his arm.

Bob looked around. The room resembled a jail cell. It had a foreboding sterile smell, much like a doctor’s office recently disinfected to kill contaminants from the previous occupants. Or to cover up something maleficent they couldn’t get rid of.

The walls were white and devoid of pictures. There were no windows. And it was hot and stuffy. Sweat formed on his forehead. He looked up at three cameras set up high. Bob returned his gaze to the barren walls and thought the police used sensory deprivation and lack of sleep and food to their advantage.

There was no furniture except for a silver metal table and four folding metal chairs, just enough for Darrowby, Kowalski, Debbie, and himself. Obviously, Darrowby had no idea of Bob intending to lawyer up. Your arrogance, Bob thought, will be your undoing.

“Have a seat,” Darrowby said in a cold desolate voice while flipping through papers, pushing a chair out for Debbie with his foot. He didn’t give Bob the decency to look him in the eyes.

Bob helped Debbie sit and pushed in her chair. Darrowby and Kowalski sat on the other side of the table.

“It’s really hot in here,” Debbie said, loosening the top button on her blouse and rolling up her sleeves. “Can you turn on the air conditioning?”

“Sure is.” Darrowby turned on a tabletop fan. It oscillated back and forth on the two detectives. “Ah, that’s better.”

Childish ploy, Bob knew, but an effective tactic to further wear them down. Breakfast was only a few hours away and he was hungry. He took a deep breath and prepared to go toe to toe with Darrowby on an empty stomach.

No problem. Coffee and adrenaline was a good substitute for food and a lack of sleep. This was going to be a major battle. Bob was ready.

“Four deaths in nine weeks.” Darrowby plopped his pile of papers on the table. “Explain.”

“Are we being arrested?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Darrowby said as he leaned in. “If there’s anything you want to say Mr. Stevens, just say it. Spare us the time and the taxpayers’ money of prolonging the inevitable.”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Oh, you don’t. And just what the hell do you plan on doing about it?”

  Darrowby was interrupted by the sound of knuckles rapping on metal. The door swung open. A Battle Creek police officer escorted a dapper dressed man in a deep blue power suit with a brown leather briefcase into the room.

The impeccably attired man moved across the room with confidence. Physically, he could match up with Darrowby. He approached Bob and Debbie, right arm stretched forward, and gave a smile assuring Bob everything was going to be okay.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, my name is Kenneth Wilson. I’m a good friend of Clark Hodgkins, and I’ll be representing you moving forward.”

Wilson looked to Darrowby and nodded, then redirected his attention back to Bob and Debbie. “Let me assure you, you’re in the best of hands.” He opened his briefcase on what little space was left on the table.

Bob noticed Darrowby’s face. If this bozo is mad at me, he’s furious with Wilson. So livid, he can’t find the words to speak. Bob could read the wonder on his face. How the hell did
you
find Kenneth Wilson?

Wilson broke the awkward silence. “Thomas, it’s so good to see you again.”

“Stuff it,” Darrowby said, composing himself and standing. “And that’s Detective Darrowby to you. I don’t know how the hell you ended up here. But trust me. The Stevens are up to their assholes in trouble.”

He punched a finger on top of the stack of files. “That’s four deaths at their place in nine weeks. Understand? This doesn’t just
happen
.”

Wilson, with a casual air of intended annoyance to Darrowby, took out a pad of paper and a pen from his briefcase. “My, my, sounds like a lot of work for you to sift through. Four deaths, you say?”

Darrowby’s eyes narrowed into viper slits. “I’ll only have to prove one. And you can bet your slick suited ass they’re going down, Wilson. You lose this time, you get me?”

Wilson yawned and brought a hand up to his open mouth as he leaned against the wall. “It’s so early. How about getting us some coffee, Darrowby? That sound good to everyone?” He gave an aside wink to Bob and Debbie, then fixed his feigned earnest gaze at Darrowby.

Darrowby smirked back, said nothing.

“No? No Coffee?” Wilson shrugged, pulled on his ear while looking down and away, then paced in measured steps as if he were in front of a jury. “Fair enough, detective. So why don’t you give me your strongest case.”

Darrowby gripped the edge of his desk and leaned forward. “We’ll start with the first. DeShawn Hill. Our investigation, using a neutral third party, proves conclusively he must have been pushed backwards while standing on top of a ladder. He was three stories up while working at Murcat Manor. Hill was a big man. A contractor with decades of experience. It would have to take another man—a strong one—to push him back. And someone he would trust to get that close to him three stories up.”

Darrowby’s eyes laser-focused on Bob. “No one else around could have done that. Except you.”

Wilson wasted no time. “And I would have to assume there are witnesses Bob or Debbie pushed him?”

Darrowby seethed while he hesitated, then said, “No.”

Wilson chuckled, making a note. “Moving on. Surely, you have more than this on my clients? Please tell me you didn’t haul all of us into this little box of a room and try to pin a murder on them with no more than some,” he snort-giggled, “little notion of yours?”

If Darrowby’s eyes were weaponized, Wilson would have been shot dead.

“Sure’s hell do. The second death; Paul Knudson. Ten days ago at the breakfast table inside Murcat Manor. The kitchen was practically destroyed in a violent fight involving Bob and Debbie Stevens. Guests, including Knudson’s wife, stated in sworn depositions Bob was fighting Knudson hand to hand while Debbie jumped on his back and tried to claw his eyes out.”

He pointed to Bob and said in an accusatory voice, “Both confessed to fighting Knudsen. The autopsy reports are due back this morning.”

Darrowby looked at his watch. “In just over three hours, one of the reports is a DNA test of skin particles found under Debbie’s fingernails. I’m confident that will turn up a positive match to Knudson. And that’s all I need to positively connect Debbie contributing directly to Paul Knudson’s death. She attacked him while he was eating. He choked and had a heart attack. All because the Stevens violently attacked him.”

“And you’ve determined who the aggressor was, and who was defending themselves?” Wilson said, cool as chilled guacamole.

Darrowby clenched his fists and posted them on the table. “Guests reported there was a heated discussion at the breakfast table. Bob was yelling at Knudson. Telling him to shut up or get out of his house because he insulted his wife. Mrs. Knudson has given a sworn statement of the event. Yeah, I’d say your client was the aggressor. And so do some of the guests.”

“That’s your interpretation of what the guests have said. In a court of law, which I can assure you we will never reach, cross examination will conclude otherwise.”

Wilson nonchalantly looked at his cell phone and yawned. “Good. The Tigers beat the Red Sox last night. Okay. Anything else? Anything of any substance?” he said, not bothering to look the detective’s way.

Darrowby stopped for a minute. Bob could see he was calming himself down as he wiped sweat off his forehead and ran his hands over his shirt to smooth out wrinkles. “I like my chances. And I’ll say in advance, I accept your challenge.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Looking for a rematch in court?”

“No. I’m looking for justice.”

Darrowby pointed to Bob, but yelled at Wilson. “And don’t think for a minute because you got three murderers off because of technicalities you can do the same with the Stevens. Four deaths on their property? You’ll have to defend them all. And like I said, I only need to prove one,” he said, lifting his middle finger and holding it up prominently in defiance. “Just one. Oh yeah, I really like my chances.”

This guy is a real nutcase, Bob thought. Wilson better be real good, or we’re going to be in a world of trouble.

“And you say the autopsy reports for Paul Knudson will be here this morning?”

“That’s right.”

“Hmmmm. That’s only a week and a half from the time of death.”

Wilson looked to Bob and Debbie. “Obviously, the detectives planned to keep you here until the reports come in.”

He looked at his watch. “That’s just a few hours from now. I do believe Darrowby was going to arrest you. This was indeed a one way trip for you both.”

Wilson returned to Darrowby with a steely gaze. “Shame on you for trying to railroad these two decent people through the system.”

Darrowby smirked and kept pace. “A few more hours and the autopsy reports will be here. Complete with the DNA results.”

Wilson, again leaning coolly against the cinder block wall, turned to Bob. “Mr. Stevens, was Knudson drinking the night before?”

Bob felt rejuvenation in his heart. He wasn’t sure what direction his attorney was taking him, but he liked his style.

“Was he drinking
?
That’s the understatement of the year. They stayed in the Roadhouse Blues room. For some reason, that room attracts the wild beer drinkers. Guy was so drunk he still reeked of alcohol the next morning at the breakfast table.”

Wilson smiled and stepped toward Darrowby as if they were head to head in front of a jury. “Tell me, Detective, among the reports you requested—was there a toxicology report on Mr. Knudson’s condition?”

Darrowby’s jaw set. His left eye twitched.

“I see. Obviously, not. No toxicology reports were asked for. Must have slipped your mind, eh detective?”

Wilson returned to Bob and Debbie. “The reason Darrowby did not order a toxicology report is that these can take weeks or even months to come back. I’ll have to request them myself. They probably won’t arrive until after Labor Day. This will give us plenty of time to sort through everything. And not,” his eyes shot over to Darrowby, “while you’re stowed away in a six by eight jail cell.”

Darrowby looked like he might explode in a wall to wall, floor to ceiling splat of boiling plasma. “
I’m not finished
. Finally, tonight two more people died inside Murcat Manor.”

Wilson spread his palms out, wide, and up, cocked one eyebrow, and said with mirth, “And my clients are implicated
how
?”

Darrowby remained silent, clenching his teeth, a human steam kettle with its lid rattling against the pressure.

“Mmhmm—that’s what I thought. You don’t have anything of substance, Detective, and we both know it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to take my clients home. This has been a long and stressful night for everyone. Let’s go, folks. Back to Murcat Manor. Back you go to your home.”

Wilson winked at the flush-faced detective. “Stay classy, Darrowby, surely your chance to solve a fabulously renowned and televised-the-world-over case will come along for you one day, catapulting you into the fame you so desperately desire. But this is not the case.”