As Dog Is My Witness (23 page)

Ethan got down on his knees and, sure enough, the dog
came over and licked his face, which made my son laugh. Then,
amazingly, the dog walked over to me and did everything but beg for
a pat, so I provided one. Suddenly, she was such a close friend I
expected Dalma to ask me out for a beer after work.

Rezenbach, however, was more likely to invite me in
for an arsenic. “I have to protest,
again
, Mr. Tucker, your
insistence on questioning my client when I’m not present, and when
we haven’t had any advance notice.”

“The last time, Mr. Rezenbach, your client called me
and asked me to question her. This time, I had to acquiesce to
someone with considerably more influence over me than you
have.”

“And who is that?”

“My son,” I told him. I was looking directly into his
eyes and strangely, he didn’t seem outraged. His eyes actually
softened a bit. Maybe a human being was actually in there trying to
find a way out.

“I don’t understand,” was all the lawyer said.

“Ethan has a certain understanding of this case,” I
said within my son’s earshot. “He has been helping me in the
investigation of the story, and he has some questions for Karen
that can help clear up Michael’s murder.”

Karen, to her credit, did not condescend. Ethan,
still petting the dog, literally rose to his new status—he stood
up. Karen nodded, and said to Ethan, “Sit down. Ask whatever you
like.”

The dog, tail wagging shamelessly, followed us into
the living room and sat at Ethan’s left hand, hoping to be stroked,
but not realizing that the concentration of the Asperger’s boy
would allow for only one area of interest at a time. Still, she sat
hopefully, grinning and waiting.

Another major trait of people with AS: their total
indifference toward small talk. “Why was your husband walking the
dog that night?” Ethan asked. “Why not you?” He knew that in our
house, Abigail usually walks the dog at night. Still, it hadn’t
occurred to me to ask.

“I would wake up before Michael in the morning, so I
walked Dalma before breakfast,” Karen said. “After dinner was his
turn.”

“And how did the dog get back after your husband got
killed?” Perhaps charm school
was
an option for the boy.

Karen, to her credit, did not flinch. “Dalma knew the
way back, and she came running as soon as it happened,” she said.
“She must have bitten the person who . . .  did it,
because she had a little blood around her mouth. It was how I knew
something was wrong, when the dog came home alone.” Karen turned
her head toward the window for a moment, and I think Dalma
whimpered a bit.

Ethan, who has seen more television in his lifetime
than most ninety-year-olds, spends the bulk of his time on what we
shall call the more animated forms of entertainment, so the
intricate points of forensic science are lost on him. Blood
spatter, DNA, semen samples: alas, all these were foreign to my
son, the poor deprived child. Or at least I thought so, until he
said, “Did the blood on the dog’s mouth match Justin Fowler’s?”

Karen shook her head slowly. “Dalma had licked the
blood off her mouth before the police got here. It never occurred
to me to save some. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

I knew Justin Fowler didn’t appear to have any recent
bite marks on his hands, or anywhere else I could see, but that was
not, in itself, physical evidence. Aside from Karen’s word for it,
there was no proof the dog had bitten anyone.

“Mrs. Huston,” my son said politely, “who hated your
husband so much he’d kill him?”

Rezenbach wanted to go into apoplexy, but a
twelve-year-old kid with Asperger’s asking questions in the most
innocent tone imaginable didn’t make that a realistic option. He
puffed out his lips a couple of times, but never really managed a
sound.

Karen looked Ethan straight in the eye. “I don’t know
anyone who even
disliked
him, Ethan,” she said. “I’m sorry I
can’t help you.”

“No, Mrs. Huston,” said the “afflicted” boy. “I’m
sorry I can’t help you.”

The dog wagged her tail appealingly when we stood,
and Rezenbach even shook hands with Ethan, although I’m sure he
went to wash off the AS the minute we left. Karen thanked Ethan for
his concern, and we bundled ourselves up against the light breeze,
which threatened to push the Pocono Mountains straight into New
Jersey if it didn’t abate soon.

In the car, while I fumbled with the heater (pushing
the fan button in the minivan up to maximum), Ethan sighed and
looked back at the house.

“She’s still hiding something,” he said. Then he sat
back and started making noises under his breath again.

“
W
hat you said was
hurtful.”

Abby had waited all evening, through a very tense
dinner, to find an excuse to lure me to the basement. The rest of
the family, extended and otherwise, was upstairs, participating in
various activities, all of which involved electronic devices.

“I know,” I answered. “I’m sorry. I’ve felt bad about
it all day.”

“The problem is,” she went on as if I hadn’t spoken,
“you were right.”

That I hadn’t expected, and when I turned to face
her, I nearly tripped over the ancient assemble-it-yourself end
table we use down there.

“I was
what
?”

“You were right. I wasn’t even listening to Ethan’s
side of the story. I was acting differently than I normally do
because Howard was there. I’ve been that way since he arrived.”
Abby’s face was sad, and that’s the last thing on this earth I want
to see. I walked to her and embraced her, and she put her head down
on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. Her voice was a little
shaky, but I don’t think she was crying.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” I told her. “I’m
as guilty as you are, if not more. But you do need to talk to your
son.”

“I already have. I reduced his sentence to no
PlayStation tonight, and Dylan can’t use it either.”

I leaned back and looked at her. “Howard agreed to
that?”

She put on a grin I’ve never actually seen before,
one that had a touch of naughty little girl in it. “Howard wasn’t
consulted.”

I hugged her closer, which is what I always want to
do anyway. “Good for you,” I said. “You’re finally growing up.”

“Yeah,” my wife said with a touch of pride in her
voice.

“Any chance you can teach me how?”

“That, my love, is a lost cause.” She grinned at me.
“And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It would have been the perfect place for a big kiss
and a Hollywood ending, which reminded me that, with four days left
before I had to put up or shut up, I hadn’t done any work on the
screenplay yet. So I leaned in for the kiss of the century.

And naturally, the phone rang.

Within a heartbeat, Leah was at the top of the stairs
yelling down.

“Dad! It’s Uncle Mahoney!”

Natch. Up the stairs, away from a kiss that might
have been sung about by villagers for centuries to come, and toward
a conversation with a humongous rental mechanic. Life causes us to
make odd choices sometimes.

“What’s up?” I started. There were lips warming up
for me in the basement, and no time to waste.

“I have a plan,” came the response. “A very famous
plan.”

T
he next day was Sunday,
when Mahoney and his tormentor didn’t work, and when we couldn’t
put into action the Very Famous Plan (it’s a reference to the
Beatles movie
Help
!, and I’m sorry, but you’ll have to take
my word for how funny it is). So, having worked out the details on
the phone Saturday night, we arranged to meet Monday morning at the
appointed place and time.

Sunday morning, I took a chance that the North
Brunswick Police Department wasn’t terribly used to dealing with
murders, and might have their detectives working overtime. I called
Rodriguez. And he was there. Score one for diligence and
hunches.

“Is there something I can do for you, Tucker? Because
I sure am feeling underworked here.” Rodriguez was so good at
playing the TV detective, I thought of asking Waterman to cast him
in the movie I hadn’t rewritten yet.

“It’s nice to talk to you, too, Lieutenant. Should I
ask if you’ve caught any ‘skells’ today, or gotten someone ‘jammed
up’? I just love to hear you guys talk the talk.”

“Is there a reason I’m talking to you today, when I
should be home with my family?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I answered. “I have a
couple of questions. Was there any indication that Michael Huston’s
dog had bitten someone the night of the murder?”

“No,” he said after a moment. “Why?”

“Karen Huston says the dog came back to the house
with blood on her mouth.”

“First I’m hearing about it. Any clothing fibers,
hairs, anything like that?”

“Not that I know of,” I told him. “She was pretty
upset, as you might imagine, and maybe wasn’t thinking
clearly.”

“I’ll check into it,” he said. “Even tips from
someone like you have to get investigated in a murder.”

It’s touching when public servants take you
seriously.

“Something else you might want to check up on,” I
told him. “Justin Fowler says he found the gun in a hiding place he
and his brother used when they were kids. But Kevin was supposedly
in Indiana at college when the weapon was found. Can you
. . . 

“We’ve already checked the phone records,” Rodriguez
said.

“Believe it or not, occasionally the cops do a better
job of crime detection than electronics writers.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So, what did the phone records show?”

“Kevin Fowler called his mother three times the week
before the murder. Each of the calls came from a number in Muncie,
Indiana. No mistake.”

“Any possibility the calls could have been from
someone else at the same number, or does he have a cell phone that
carries an Indiana exchange?”

“Wow, if only we’d thought to check that!” Rodriguez
marveled. “Damn, I’m going to have to go back to the Police Academy
for lessons from freelance writers!”

“Okay, Rodriguez, you win the Sarcasm Ribbon for the
year. Feel better? Now, what about the phone number?”

“His cell phone is a Jersey number. Whether or not it
was Fowler himself on the line, I can’t possibly know. We didn’t
have a tap on the line.”

“Okay, how about this: any news on who might have put
up the money for Justin’s bail?”

Rodriguez paused a moment, perhaps trying to come up
with exactly the right sardonic tone to take. “The fact is, Tucker,
I have confidential sources that indicate Justin’s bail money came
from a . . .  local businessman.”

Whoa.

“You mean Justin Fowler was bailed out of jail by
Hyman Shapiro?”

Rodriguez didn’t answer, and in that, there was
answer enough.

To tell the truth, I would have preferred the
sarcasm.