Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (25 page)

A cafeteria tray sat on the table. On it was the
triangular plastic wrapper from a sandwich from a machine and a can of Coke.
That was Sanders’ dinner. He was sitting on one of the plastic chairs, looking
twenty years older than he had a few days ago. Puffy grey bags underscored his
bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. His skin looked a sickly yellow, thin as paper. His
blond beard, which was carefully groomed when we last saw him, looked like it
hadn’t been trimmed since then. Grey whiskers were visible in the inch of skin
separating the beard from his neck. He wore a t-shirt with an old black V-neck
sweater over it. He looked up at us but didn’t seem to realize who we were.

“Mr. Sanders, you remember me? I’m Detective
Seagate. This is Detective Miner.” His eyes shifted back and forth from me to
Ryan. “Do you know why we asked the police to bring you in?” He was silent. I
didn’t know how far gone he was, but he looked like he’d have a lot of trouble
finding his way back.

Ryan and I sat down. I was thinking about how to
carry out the interview. Suddenly, he spoke. “I ima-ma-magine you are here to
arrest m-m-me for murdering Arlen.” His fingers tapped out the rhythm on the
steel table.

“Did you kill Arlen Hagerty?”

“N-N-N-No, Detective, I d-d-did not. I
w-w-w-wanted to, but I d-did not.”

“Let me tell you why we’re here, Mr. Sanders. When
you came to our office in Rawlings last week, you told us you had just flown in
that morning from Waco.”

“That was tr-tr-true.”

“Yes, it was. But you didn’t tell us you were in
Rawlings a few days before, when Arlen Hagerty was killed. Why didn’t you tell
us that?”

“Y-Y-You didn’t ask.”

“Now, you see, Mr. Sanders, what you just said,
that’s the kind of thing makes us think maybe you did kill him. Then, when we
wanna talk with you about it and nobody knows where you are, not even your
partner, Mr. Friedl, that’s when we start thinking it even more.”

“I have co-co-committed no cr-cr-crime,
Detective.”

“Nobody’s accused you of any crimes, Mr. Sanders.
But Detective Miner and myself want to talk with you now, to understand what’s
going on. You hear what I’m saying, Mr. Sanders?”

He looked at me as if I was insulting him.
“T-T-T-talk.”

“We need to understand what you were doing in
Rawlings that first time, before you flew back to Waco.”

“I c-c-c-came to t-t-talk to Arlen.”

“What about?”

“Ab-b-b-bout Henley Pharmaceu-ceu-ceuticals.”

“What about Henley Pharmaceuticals, Mr. Sanders?
Don’t make me pull every sentence out of you. I can see you’re pretty tired,
but we can sit here with you all night, if that’s the way you want to do it.”

“W-W-We had found out Ar-Arlen was supp-porting
Dolores We-We-Weston, and that she was w-w-w-working to bring Hen-Henley to
Rawlings.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I d-did the re-research. I s-saw an ad from
S-S-Senator Weston that m-mentioned that S-Soul Savers was supp-p-porting her
cam-campaign, and I d-d-d-discovered that she was working to get the
Repu-pu-publican caucus to support the t-t-tax breaks for the c-c-company. I
p-p-put it together. I w-w-wanted to ask Ar-Ar-Arlen if he k-k-knew she was
doing this.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Y-Y-Yes,” he said, his face contorting. “I
c-called S-S-Soul Savers and found where he was st-st-staying. I c-c-called him
and met him that af-af-afternoon, at a c-c-coffee shop.”

“What day was that?” I could see the strain this
was putting on him. His face was flushed with exertion, and he was breathing
heavily. But I had to keep going.

“Tu-Tu-Tuesday, the d-day he was ki-ki-killed. We
met at a c-c-coffee shop downt-t-t-town.”

“You didn’t meet him at his hotel?”

“N-N-No, I didn’t want to r-r-r-run into anyone
else from that g-g-group. I wanted to sp-peak with Arlen alone.”

“Do you remember the name of the coffee house?”

“No, I-I don’t. It wasn’t a ch-chain, like
S-S-Starbuck’s. It had a woman’s n-n-name in it.”

It could be Elsie’s. “Okay, tell us about the
conversation.”

“I n-n-need a b-b-break,” he said.

“Take a minute or two to collect yourself,” I
said. The three of us sat in the interview room. An awkward silence hung over
the room.

After a couple of minutes, Timothy Sanders began.
“It was like the c-c-conversations we u-u-used to have when I was p-p-president
of S-S-Soul Savers but he was pulling the or-or-organization away f-f-from me.
I p-p-p-presented the view that it was po-po-potentially very d-d-d-dangerous
to get too closely involved with a p-p-politician, about how D-D-Dolores
Weston’s ag-genda might overlap w-w-with ours to s-s-some extent, b-b-but her
ultimate p-p-priority was to gain and m-maintain power. I felt her all-l-liance
with Henley might necess-s-sarily draw her into c-c-conflict with our
g-g-goals.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“He s-s-said what you w-w-would expect a m-m-man
like that to s-s-say. That he underst-t-tood my concerns, but that he didn’t
ag-g-gree there was a p-problem. He said that D-Dolores Weston had ass-s-sured
him she b-b-believed strongly in our c-c-causes, in the r-r-rights of the
unb-born and so forth, and he t-t-trusted her. He s-s-said she was a w-w-woman
of her word. However, I had d-d-done considerable research on Henley
Pharmaceuticals, and I d-d-did not see how it would be p-possible for
them—g-g-given their research agenda—to b-be of like m-m-mind with us. All
y-you have to d-do is read their annual reports. They say it as c-clearly as it
c-c-can be said.”

“Then what happened?”

“The ar-rgument became more he-he-heated. He
t-told me he had m-met with me, he had listened to my p-point of view, and th-that
was that. When I r-reminded him I had f-founded Soul Savers and w-was a life
m-member of the B-Board, and that the c-chair was Archbishop McManus, he
s-simply laughed in my f-face. He t-t-t-told me McManus—that’s what he called
him: McManus—was not a p-problem. He would g-get the Board to do w-w-whatever
he w-w-wanted, and th-there was n-n-nothing I c-c-could do about it.”

“And that was the end of the conversation?”

“N-N-No, he f-felt it ap-p-propriate to c-call me
a ‘p-p-pathetic freak.’”

“He was talking about your stutter?”

Sanders was silent for a moment, his breathing
labored. He looked down at his hands, folded on the table. “M-Many years ago,
when I th-th-thought he was a m-m-man of s-s-substance, I had confided in him …
I had c-c-confided in him that I was a v-v-victim of ab-b-buse.” He stopped
talking.

I said, “He called you a pathetic freak because
you were an abuse victim?” He didn’t reply. He just looked in my eyes. “Mr.
Sanders, was that the end of your conversation with Mr. Hagerty?”

“Y-Y-Yes.”

“And then you flew back to Waco?”

“F-First I t-talked with D-D-Dolores Weston.”

“She knew who you were?”

“N-N-No, she didn’t. I explained to her on the
ph-phone who I was and what I s-suspected was the r-relationship b-between her,
S-S-Soul Savers, and Henley Pharmaceu-ceuticals. She ag-greed to meet with me.”

“What happened at that meeting?”

“S-S-She explained to me, as Ar-Arlen had, that
she would n-never b-b-betray the r-r-rights of the unborn. She was quite
poised, supplying a p-plausible answer to every q-q-question I had. F-Finally,
I asked her if she w-w-was aw-ware Arlen was a man w-with, shall we s-say,
unsa-avory s-s-s-sexual habits.”

“What did she say?”

“She smiled her b-b-beautiful smile and told me
she had no interest in s-such things. She didn’t believe in the politics of
c-character assassination. That was her phrase.”

“So what did you do?”

“I th-thanked her f-for her time and r-returned to
the airport.”

“You went home?” I wanted to see if his story
lined up with his partner’s.

“I d-didn’t g-go home. I w-was t-too angry. I
d-didn’t want to d-d-disturb S-Stephen m-more than n-necessary. He g-gets so
upset. I w-went s-somewhere else. I k-know other p-people in W-Waco.”

“Okay, why did you return to Rawlings?”

“When I l-learned of the m-murder, I d-didn’t know
what to d-do. I w-wanted to p-p-present myself to you in hopes that you w-would
not suspect me of the c-crime.”

Ryan touched my arm, asking for permission to
speak. I nodded. “Mr. Sanders, tell us about the church.”

“W-What would you like to know, D-Detective
M-M-Miner?”

“When you came to Rawlings two days after the
murder, you stopped off here in Milwaukee, is that correct?”

“Y-Y-Yes.”

“The abuse occurred at Our Lady, didn’t it?”

Sanders held his gaze. “How d-do you know that?”

Ryan said, “I’m a Catholic, too.”

Sanders said to him, “W-Where did it h-happen to
you?”

“In my church … in my church in Portland, Oregon.
I was nine years old.” Ryan’s eyes began to tear. He put his thumb and index
finger to his eyes.

“The p-priest?”

Ryan said, “Yes.”

“D-Did you t-tell anyone?”

“The only one I’ve ever told, before right now, is
my wife.”

Sanders nodded his head in fellowship with Ryan.
“H-Have you ever g-gone back to the c-church?”

Ryan said, “When I can, I go back there.”

Sanders said, “W-Why d-do you go b-b-back?”

“I don’t really know,” Ryan said. “I think it’s to
see if I can see myself there. See who I was, see what happened there, how it
changed me.”

“W-When I c-come here to Our L-Lady,” Sanders
said, “I s-see how small the ch-church is. It’s j-just a few b-bricks, some
c-colored w-windows, a few trinkets. It’s n-not where J-Jesus lives. It’s just
a b-b-b-building.”

“And the priest, he was just a man,” Ryan said.

“He w-was the p-pathetic one. I w-was just a
little boy,” Sanders said. “I s-still have J-Jesus. I still have Mary.”

Ryan got up from his chair and walked over to
Sanders. He put his arms around Sanders’s shoulders, hugging him tightly.
Sanders clung to Ryan’s arms and began to sob. Through his tears, Sanders said,
“I c-couldn’t kill F-Father Heaton. I c-couldn’t kill Ar-Ar-Arlen H-Hagerty. I
could n-n-n-never k-kill anyone.”

“I know that,” Ryan said, hugging him tightly,
kissing the top of his head, stroking his shoulder. “I know.”

I didn’t know what was happening between Ryan and
Timothy Sanders. I knew only that Sanders was telling the truth.

Ryan kissed Sanders on the head one more time and
released him. Sanders’ arms trailed out, as if he didn’t want to let go of him.
Ryan returned to his plastic chair. Sanders removed a handkerchief from his
pocket and wiped at his eyes.

Ryan said, “Mr. Sanders, I think we’re ready to
conclude our interview. We’re going to ask the police to release you and
recommend to our chief you be dropped as a suspect. But there’s one more thing
we need to ask of you.”

“W-What is that, D-Detective?”

“Before we came here tonight, our chief told us he
wanted us to check you for defensive wounds.”

Sanders looked puzzled. “I d-don’t know w-what
you’re ref-ferring to.”

“You don’t know this because you had nothing to do
with the murder. You don’t know Arlen tried to fight off the murderer. The
murderer will have scratches on his arms, maybe on his chest. We need to be
able to tell our chief we looked at your arms and your chest.”

Sanders stood up. He removed his sweater, then his
t-shirt. His arms and chest were smooth and unblemished.

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” Ryan said. To me, “Do
you have anything else for Mr. Sanders?”

“No, I’m good,” I said.

Ryan walked over to Timothy Sanders and hugged him
again. “May God bless you and heal you, Timothy.”

“G-God b-bless you, R-Ryan,” he said, kissing the
detective on the cheek.

I watched them separate, their hands entwined.
“Mr. Sanders, we’ll send the detective in, and he’ll arrange to have you put up
tonight, then be on your way tomorrow, okay?”

“Y-Yes, Detective. Th-Th-Thank you.”

“I want you do a couple of things,” Ryan said.

“W-what’s that, D-Detective?” he said.

“I want you to call Stephen in Waco. He’s really
worried about you.”

“Y-Yes, I will. W-What’s the other thing?”

“I think you should visit your mother, in West
Chester. You need to talk to her. She’ll understand. She’ll understand
everything. She loves you.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Ryan and I left the room and walked down the hall
to ask Detective Knox to take care of Sanders. Downstairs, we asked Sergeant
Barner if she thought we would find it hard to get a cab to the airport. She
told us it might be but offered to call an officer to run us out. We walked
over to the wooden bench to wait.

“Ryan, if I asked you a question, would you tell
me the truth?”

“There’s a pretty good chance I would, yes.”

I looked at him. “Are you a Catholic?”

“No, Karen, I thought I mentioned I’m LDS.” He
shook his head, mocking my gullibility.

“So there was no priest?”

“No.”

“No abuse?”

“No.”

“So why that whole story?”

“I just wanted him to take his shirt off.”

“And you figured since we couldn’t force him to do
it, you’d talk him into doing it.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“I see.”

Ryan said, “Just so I’ll know, am I going to have to
explain everything to you, Karen?”

“There’s a pretty good chance,” I said.

*  *  *

Ryan and I made it back to
Rawlings a little after noon. We each went home to change clothes and came back
to headquarters to report to the chief and see if Robin had the DNA results.

The chief’s lunch was running a little long, so we
sat in the armchairs in his outer office. Every time I looked up, I saw Helen
Glenning giving me a nasty look for using up her oxygen. After fifteen minutes,
the chief walked in, taking off his coat, nodded to the two of us, and entered
his office. A moment later, he used the intercom to tell Helen we could enter.