Authors: Mike Monson
THREE
“What do you think it will be like when we finally get to Hollywood?” Miranda said.
“Oh, wow,” Logan said. “You’re going to be hounded by photographers wherever you go.”
“Really? Awesome, right?”
“You’ll have someone doing your hair and make-up. A stylist will buy you all the best clothes. How great is that?”
“Will I look totally hot like 24/7?”
“Dude. Of course. Duh.”
They were lying in bed in Logan’s room in his adopted parents’ house in North Modesto. Logan stabbed a spot next to his right big toe with a syringe-f of heroin. Miranda only snorted the shit occasionally and so far hadn’t even developed much of a habit with the drug. She needed to hold off today for sure because she had to edit the Mark and Tina murder video. Plus, she had a lot of shit to do all day. She moved the mouse with her index finger, switched over to a window containing a photo album of her and Logan fucking.
“What’s your favorite?” Miranda stared at the screen. She clicked through the pictures. “What’s, like, the
best
one?”
“That is
so
hard to say, dude.”
“I
know
.”
“It’s probably the anal one, right?”
Miranda clicked backwards four or five times.
“This one?”
“Naw, one more.”
“
This
one?”
“Yeah. That one’s a keeper.”
FOUR
The first thing Paul saw when Mavis opened the door was a red-faced plainclothes policeman. He knew he was a policeman because he held out his badge about an inch from Paul’s face. Behind him stood a uniformed patrolman. Paul was barefoot and wore yellow sweat pants and a white undershirt. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Mavis subtly loosen the belt of her white silk robe to show more cleavage from the front of her pink teddy underneath. Mavis always had a certain attraction to law enforcement. It was no secret to Paul that his fifty-four-year-old mother—with her long blonde hair and great body—was still considered hot by most men (he’d recently heard her referred to as a GILF), and that at this point in their lives, she barely looked older than him.
“Are you Paul Dunn?”
He froze, not at all sure if he could even talk. His head felt thick and slow and he couldn’t focus his eyes.
“Don’t fuck with me,” the policeman said. He put one foot across the threshold and brought his face up close to Paul’s. “We need to speak with Paul Dunn. Are you him?”
“Yes I am. What’s going on?”
Paul got a strong feeling that if he said the wrong thing (whatever that might be) that the policeman would hit him in the face and break his jaw or something.
He moved behind Mavis.
“I’m Detective Fagan and this is Officer Plant.”
Detective Fagan was a big man. Reminded Paul of the wrestler and politician Jesse Ventura. He’d never seen such a large policeman.
“Great, why are you
here
?” Paul said, sure it had something to do with his purchases of DM all over town the last two years or so.
“Do you have an ex-wife named Tina Dunn?”
“Well, technically, we’re still married.”
“She and her boyfriend Mark Pisko put out a restraining order on you last month? Because you threatened to kill them?”
Mavis said, “Oh that’s just part of the typical divorce back and forth. You know how people can get, Detective. Paul’d never hurt anyone.”
“Ma’am, both Ms. Dunn and Mr. Pisko were found dead just after one-thirty this morning.”
“Oh shit,” Paul said. “God
damn
it. I warned her. I told her not to get involved with Mark Pisko. Fuck.”
“Now watch your language, sweetheart,” Mavis said.
“Mr. Dunn,” Detective Fagan said, “do you own a shotgun?”
“I’ve never owned a gun in my life. I’ve never even fired one.”
“This is silly,” Mavis said. “Paul’s been here all night, since around eight-thirty.”
“We don’t have a time of death for sure yet but it was certainly several hours before they were found.”
“Why don’t all of you come inside and have a cup of coffee and we can work all this out?”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s Mavis, Detective.”
As Mavis offered her hand for Fagan to shake her robe opened a bit more. The Detective stared, his face growing redder.
“I’m Paul’s mother.”
“Uh huh,” Fagan said. He didn’t take Mavis’ hand. “Yeah, so … we’re going need your … uh, son … to come with us down to the station. He isn’t under arrest—at least not yet—but we need to talk to him.”
Paul started to cry.
“What happened? They were both
shot
… with a shotgun? Fuck! I fucking loved her. God
damn
it. It’s all that fucking Pisko’s fault. I’m sure it’s some shit he got them into.”
“Paul!” Mavis said. “Seriously. Watch your language.”
“I warned her I warned her I warned her, but she thought he was so hot and cool. Jesus! Now I wish I
had
killed him.”
“Paul,” Mavis said as she put her arm around her son. “Maybe you better go with the officers now. Don’t you think?”
FIVE
They didn’t let Paul change clothes for the trip to the station. They allowed him to put on a pair of flip flops, but they made him wear his ridiculous yellow sweatpants and puke-stained t-shirt. He wanted to bring his phone, but Fagan wouldn’t let him, though the detective insisted that he get his wallet.
An unmarked black Ford sedan and a patrol car sat at the curb. Paul automatically followed Detective Fagan to the passenger side of the Ford. Fagan raised one angry eyebrow and nodded at the patrol car. Paul got into the back of the black and white with officer Plant.
Mavis said she’d come to the station as soon as she “fixed herself up.” He knew that meant putting on makeup and some kind of sexy outfit. Plus, she’d need time to call everyone she knew with the news that her son had just been taken in by the police because they suspected he’d shot his wife and her lover to death with a shotgun.
This wasn’t his first trip to the police station. He’d gone there intermittently for years, usually with Mavis or his sister, Bethany, to pick up a niece, or a brother-in-law, or the nieces or nephews of one of his wives, or to pick up his mother or sister after visiting one of the wayward fuck-up relatives that always seemed to surround him.
He’d never been past the entryway and had never interacted with the policemen, but he’d seen every episode of
Law and Order
and hundreds of other crime dramas, so he recognized the tiny room Fagan put him in: metal desk with two wooden chairs, a video camera attached to the ceiling opposite the door, and a mirror on one wall that of course was two-way. He wondered who was watching. There was a notepad and a pen on the table for his confession.
Paul knew from TV he should keep quiet and ask for his lawyer, though he was pretty sure that strategy was just for guilty people. He didn’t have a criminal lawyer and didn’t like the idea of such a thing. For him, lawyers had always been all about wasted money and broken promises. Decided to go ahead and play innocent—perfect typecasting, after all. And, maybe, he could help.
“Did you kill Tina Dunn and Mark Pisko?” Fagan got right to the point.
“No, I did not, and it’s a ridiculous idea.”
“Oh, really? Why is that?”
“I’m not that guy, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. What do you mean? Who is ‘that guy?’ ”
“Someone who kills people. Someone who even
has
a gun.”
“Don’t fuck with me, asshole. I think you did it, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d just confess so I can sign off on this case and move on to other things. Save me all the trouble of going out and finding evidence and shit. I got enough going on without some pissant like you holding things up on this case.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“I’ve been doing this a long time. And, I’ve developed what you could call a sixth sense. So, I know you did it. I’m going to find out sooner or later but I guarantee that things will go a lot easier for you if you’d just confess now.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Okay, dumbshit. Have it your way.”
He stared at Paul for what seemed like five minutes before speaking again. Paul couldn’t look him in the eyes. Paul had a hard time looking anyone in the eyes.
“So, Mr. Dunn, take me through your day yesterday.”
“Starting when?”
“When did you get up?”
“Around noon.”
“Really? Was it your day off?”
“I’m presently unemployed.”
“Why is that?”
“I have a back injury, from a work accident.”
“Oh, so, you’re one of those, huh?”
“Whatdya mean?”
“On workers’ comp?”
“Yes, but—”
“Just sittin’ around on your ass collecting money? People like you make me sick.”
“Hey, I have a legitimate claim.”
“Of course you do. Just looking at you I can tell you are suffering. Big time.”
“Uh, Detective, really, shouldn’t we be concentrating on how to figure out who killed my wife? I mean, I know I didn’t do it, so let’s just get me cleared so you can move on and I can help you, okay?”
Fagan stood up. He took a step toward Paul and leaned down, grabbed a front leg of his chair and pulled. Hard. Paul went down on his ass. It hurt like hell.
The detective leaned over Paul, and, incredibly, held the chair above his head. He glared.
“What are you? Some kind of hard-ass?”
“No sir, just asking.”
“I ask. You answer. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good, now get back up and sit the fuck down and tell me where you were yesterday.”
Paul sat down. He could feel his face darkening with some humiliating version of a blush. He didn’t understand what was happening. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but he was a regular citizen and had never been treated like this before.
“Got up at noon. Then I had breakfast and watched TV until around five, when I left to go run some errands.”
“Productive.”
“Uh huh …”
“Jesus. Don’t you have
any
ambition?”
“What does that have to do with anything? I don’t get this shit.”
“So you just sleep away the day and veg out in front of the TV? That’s the kind of life you want to have? What are you, forty years old?”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-five.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’ve had a lot of jobs. I’m not totally worthless. I even have a college degree and a teaching credential. But I need to get my back fixed before I can get to working again. That’s all.”
“Do you have any actual skills?”
Thought about this for a moment. He shook his head. “Not really. I was a horrible teacher.”
“Big surprise.”
“But I’m sometimes good at getting information about stuff, about people, figuring out facts, research, that sort of thing. You know, googling.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Not that it’s ever done me any good. Made me any money or anything.”
“You know, I’m pretty good at getting information myself. I have a feeling it won’t be very long before I find out that you stand to profit from killing your wife. That is, if you were able to get away with it, which will
not
happen.”
Paul looked down. Didn’t know what else to do.
“So, was anyone else with you at your house, I mean your
mother’s
house, up until five?”
“My mother.”
“Anyone else?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. That was kind of private. He thought about it for a moment.
“Mr. Dunn! Anyone else there?” Fagan leaned forward in his chair. Paul covered his face with his hands until Fagan leaned back.
“My mom had a visitor.”
“She did? Who?
“I don’t know his name. Just some guy.”
“Why was he there?”
“He came to see my mother, like I said.”
“What did they do?”
“I don’t know … just hung out I guess. They were in her room when I got up.”
“Did he see you?”
“Yes, when he left he walked past me. I was on the couch watching TV.”
“And you two didn’t speak?”
“No.”
“Your mother had a guest in the house and she didn’t bother to introduce you?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“And when did this mystery man leave?”
“I’m not sure, around four or so.”
“We’ll have to speak with your mother about this.”
“Okay, good.”
“Does your mother make it a habit of having strange men over in the middle of the afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Your mother is a fine-looking woman. I think I’ll have to pay her a visit some afternoon, myself. You know what I mean?”
Fagan smiled, the fucker was enjoying himself.
“So then what?”
Paul shrugged.
“I went to the bank, then I guess I drove around for a while. Then I went to Wing Stop over off of Prescott. Then Walgreens, then home.”
“And that took from five to eight? Three hours?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay, Mr. Dunn.”
Fagan pushed the notepad toward Paul and handed him the pen. “Write all that down and be as specific as possible with locations and times and be prepared to produce receipts and bank statements to prove all of that activity. I’ll be right back.”