Sitting down on a bench a few feet away, I pulled a handkerchief out of my back pocket. After handing it to her, she blotted her eyes. "She was walking along the path when," the woman managed to say as she blew her nose, "he mugged her from behind."
"Do you remember what the mugger looked like?"
"Tall, about your height." The tears slid down her cheeks more rapidly again. "Dishwater blond hair, maybe a little darker, combed to the left," she told me while wiping away her tears, breathing deeply, trying to regain her composure. "Short hair. I'm not sure about the eyes."
"You're doing wonderful," I commented as I turned her to face me. "I want you to calm down." I grabbed her shoulders, looking directly into her emerald eyes, continuing, "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on the killer. What is he wearing?"
She started shaking, almost violently, before I put my arm back around her. "It's alright." I helped her stand up. "Let me take you home."
"Detective Boston, jeans with holes in the knees, and a blue muscle shirt. He has a tattoo of a snake on his left arm."
I smiled. "Thanks, Ms. Colt." I led her to my car. "Would you be able to identify him in a line-up?"
She waved the handkerchief around. "I guess so."
What did she mean she guessed so? Five years as a full- fledged police detective, and every time I asked that question, I never received a straight answer.
I nodded, starting the car, "I need a more definite answer than that. Sleep on it and call the station if you decide to." On the drive to her home, neither of us spoke.
* * * * *"Stacey!" As I attempted to sneak past his office, Commissioner Peters beckoned me from his desk.
When I was younger, the children teased me about being named Stacey. "That's a girl's name," they taunted. At my high school reunion, it was me who was laughing. After all, Detective Stacey Boston had a nice ring to it.
I turned back and leaned in the doorway of his office. "I'm working on a case--"
"The Madeline Harkins' case." He picked up a manila folder from his "Incoming" tray. "We picked up a suspect that was hanging around the Country Club Park." Glancing down at the pages inside the folder, he sighed, "He matches the description Ms. Colt gave at the scene."
"Is he in the conference room?" Peters nodded, closing the folder, and handing it to me.
Before entering the room, I cleared my mind. My son had been murdered while he slept in his own bed. The person who did it claimed it was my punishment for putting him behind bars. I couldn't conduct an interview with pre-conceived ideas of what type of person it took to murder someone's child.
Stepping in the conference room, I sat down in a wooden chair, facing the suspect. At my request, there were no tables in the room. He was precisely as Ms. Colt described. As I introduced myself, I shook hands with him and then his attorney--a woman with short blond hair, dressed in a light blue suit. "Timothy Williams. Am I correct?"
He nodded. "How long is this going to take, Detective?" He added a tilt of the head and a smirk on the word "Detective."
I wanted to slap this guy from here into the next decade. "As long as it takes to get the truth." I grinned, unfolding his file. "If you tell me the truth from the beginning, it won't take long." I looked him in the eyes, noting they were a smoky blue. "Otherwise, we could be here for hours."
He didn't react. His face remained expressionless. His lawyer, however, shot me a warning glance.
She reminded me of my ex-wife in appearance. Of course, my ex-wife, after ten years of marriage and our son's death, found detectives to be a bore and ran off with an Emergency Medical Technician.
"According to several people in the park, you had been seen in the area between seven and nine yesterday morning." I placed the folder on my lap. "Is that correct, Mr. Williams?"
"No." He waved his hands around frantically. "I didn't kill anyone, Detective."
I stood up and walked around the room. "In the police report, it states you were picked up by Officers Young and Vincent in the park later that afternoon." I pointed to the report I left on the chair.
"I wasn't in the park earlier." I stopped to study him. His arms were hugging his chest. "I didn't kill anyone."
"Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?"
He wrinkled his forehead into a frown. "I have to talk with my attorney. " Mr. Williams and his attorney hurdled for a few minutes. "She informs me that if I take the test, it could prove my innocence."
"Then you'll do it?"
He glanced back at his lawyer. "Yes."
I had the guards take him back to his holding cell. His attorney lingered behind. After Williams was removed from the room, she stood up. "He is innocent, and once that is proven, we will sue this Police Department for all its worth."
Unfortunately, that statement only strengthened my gut feeling Mr. Williams was definitely guilty.
* * * * *The naked body of a middle-aged woman was sprawled out on the sidewalk under a fifteen story apartment complex. She was badly beaten--welts on her back, bruises on her face, and teeth marks on her arm. As I walked around the body, I jotted those items in my notes. Possible domestic abuse gone too far? From the lack of clothing, I suspected possible rape.
An officer traced an outline in chalk around her as another snapped photos.
I spotted a man watching the ordeal carefully. Walking across the street to meet him, I frowned. "Did you see the murder occur?"
He pointed up to the top of the building. "I heard screaming and then she fell out of the window." His voice--trembling. "I tried to catch her but..." His deep voice trailed off.
"Did you see the person who threw her out?"
"No." He stared at the people who were carrying the corpse away. "She and I dated a few times. Nothing serious."
"How many times is a 'few'?"
"Five, maybe six times." He glanced at me. "Cindy met Roger, and one thing led to another. She loved running her fingers through his light blond hair." He rubbed his bald head, turning slightly red in the cheeks.
"Where could I find this 'Roger'?" I asked the man, who was obviously pre-occupied by Cindy's death. I think he had a secret crush on her.
I wasn't sure how, but I had the feeling the two murders were connected. How could they be, though, Mr. Williams was in a holding cell at the Police Station?
"On the fifteen floor, apartment 2-C." He walked toward the building, so I followed. "I think Roger killed her, Detective."
"Had he been violent to her in the past?"
"A couple of times." The man was short, by my standards, about five foot, five. His clothes appeared to be faded and stained. His beard--gray as well as what was left of his hair. "She made excuses for him like he was drunk, or she deserved it."
Taking the elevator upstairs, I wasn't surprised to see apartment 2-C blocked off with yellow ribbon. If Roger was is there, he would be retained by Police. I made my way in, leaving the gentleman outside. Right away, I noticed that there was fresh blood drops on the tan carpet. Probably dripped from one of Cindy's wounds.
In the bedroom closet, I came across two sets of clothes--a woman's and a man's. I hypothesized this apartment belonged to both the victim and Roger. No was one in sight. I decided to track down any Roger who lived in this building, so on the way down, I stopped at the supervisor's office.
* * * * *After reaching a dead end with the building manager and in my search of the Motor Vehicles' records, I returned to the Station. After all, a person couldn't do much with only a first name.
Stopping at my desk, I noticed Mr. Williams was still undergoing the polygraph test. He was there when I got called out to the crime scene. Officer Young was observing. I marched into the conference room. "What's the word?"
Officer Vincent motioned me over with his head, not looking up from the machine. I wanted to see if Mr. Williams was anxious, if he believed he committed a crime. I glanced down at the sheet printing out of the machine. Very erratic.
I pulled a chair up in front of Mr. Williams. I folded my hands. "You want to tell me the truth?"
"I am telling the truth." His eyes were dilated. Why was he insisting he was in the right? "Your machine is broke."
"What do you know about the Cynthia Randell murder?"
He twirled his wrist, putting his palm up. "I told you, I'm telling the truth."
"I can't help you unless you tell what's going on." I leaned forward. "And don't give me that 'I don't know anything' business."
He didn't say anything for a few minutes. "This is all Roger Matters' fault." His attorney tapped him on the shoulder several times, telling him not to continue. "He convinced me to take the fall for the first murder." He wrung his hands. "When I asked him about the plan, he told me it was none of my business."
A last name. I actually for the first time since we met, believed him, but I turned to Officer Vincent, who gave me an "okay" signal. As I exited the room, Vincent disconnected Mr. Williams from the polygraph machine.
* * * * *Armed with Roger Matters' address and a search warrant, I knocked on his door. I wondered what a man who kept his clothes at Randell's apartment needed with a house. Maybe Randell was seeing someone else.
The guy lived in the ritzy part of town, in a white Victorian house. It upset me to think that a criminal, possibly the brains behind two murders, lived better than the police officers that keep the streets safe for abiding citizens. My son's killer was still at large after escaping from prison. Before we caught him the first time, he lived in a house much like Matters'.
After he knocked for several minutes, Officer Young kicked in the door. I frowned as I pulled out my revolver, cautiously entering the house. I checked behind the doors, in the closets, and in the bedrooms, but no Roger Matters. I stopped to glance at the diplomas on the wall--all in Timothy Williams' name. I slid back the Acacia door to find a man in his swimming trunks resting on a lawn chair beside the oval-shaped pool. Officer Young followed me.
I walked in front of the man, flashing my badge. He screamed. "You are under arrest for conspiring to murder," I told him, pointing my gun at him. I noticed his hair was jet black when wet.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You are Roger Matters, aren't you?" He nodded. "Timothy Williams named you in the murder of Madeline Hawkins."
"Come along, now," Young instructed, grabbing him by the arm.
Matters knocked Young's hand out of the way, lunging toward me. I pulled the trigger, shooting him. Young helped me get him off of me. Turning him over, I realized I injured him in the stomach. Too occupied by the pain of his wound, Matters cooperated with us as we carried him out to the police car.
* * * * *Matters had to have emergency surgery to remove the bullet before it killed him. The doctor called me when it was safe to question him. By that time, the tests concluded that Randell had been raped, and DNA testing of blood at the scene pointed to Matters as the killer.
When I arrived in Matters' hospital room, he was sitting up in bed, picking at his lunch. "Good afternoon, Mr. Williams."
He stared at me; a scowl on his face. "I am Mr. Matters."
"Come now, Mr. Williams, I contacted your mother," I mentioned as I pulled a chair up to the bed, "and she seemed quite concerned by this whole identity crisis you seem to be having." I sat down.
"You must be mistaken." He glanced up at me before stabbing a pea with his fork. "How do you explain that my driver's license, my medical records, fingerprints all match Roger Matters?" He ate the pea.
I leaned forward; his file set on my lap. "I had wondered that myself until I learned that you worked at the County Clerk's office." I wrinkled my forehead. "Your mother also said you abruptly left your family doctor for another."
He stared at his mashed potatoes. At least I thought that's what it was, but they looked a little blue. "What first tipped you off?"
"The diplomas in your house were in Timothy Williams' name. At first, I thought maybe you lived in Williams' home." I opened up the file, turning a few pages. "I was talking to a man at Cynthia Randell's murder, and he remarked that Roger Matters had blond hair."
"I could have dyed it." He dug his spoon into the mashed potatoes.
"Yes, but your eyelids, eyebrows, and the hair on your legs are black."
He was silent for a few moments, then laughed. Immediately, he nursed his side. "Oooh! That hurts." He watched me for a minute before pressing the button to get the nurse. When the nurse arrived, he told her, "Get this man out of my room!"
I walked out of the room.
Several weeks later--after he had recovered enough to stand trial--both men pleaded guilty to murder in the first degree, conspiring to murder, and tampering with county records.