Authors: Nadja Bernitt
Her dad’s eyes twitched nervously as he paced the kitchen and living room floors. All the while he rubbed the stubble on his unshaven face. He mumbled as he paced. It was torturous to listen to him and there was no escaping his pitiful uttering, though after hours of it she tried. She closed the door to her bedroom and sat on her bed with her open but unread school books. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Each one of those first several days passed as slowly as weeks. From the moment her eyes fluttered open in the morning till sleep took her at night, the days blended into an endless gray fog. She must have eaten, dressed, showered and brushed her teeth. But what she remembered was standing at the front window, waiting for her mother. In between the phone calls and the gut-wrenching pacing, her father drove up and down the neighborhood streets and through the out-lying county roads. His love for Mother and desperation was etched in Meri Ann’s memory.
She shook her head to shed the old memories, but the distance between then and now was blurred. It seemed too incredible that she really was sitting in the very office where her dad’s frantic call had come in, reading the original note scribbled by some cop on the night that had torn her world apart.
Perspiration covered her forehead and her toes curled from tension; sometimes they did that. Emotional involvement is a bitch. Six minutes into the files and she needed a break.
She found a coffee station opposite Dillon’s office and fixed herself tea from the herbal bags she kept in her pocket. Her tension eased slightly at the scent of ginseng. She carried her cup back to the desk, picked up where she’d left off.
She found a missing person’s report, dated November 4, signed by Detective Peter Sparks. His interview notes were thorough, his questions standard: When was the last time you saw your wife? What was she wearing? Then the probing questions: You and your wife fight, Mr. Dunlap? Were you happily married? Is there anyone who might have a grudge against your wife? Where did she work?
Both her dad and Wheatley were subjected to formal interrogations. Meri Ann skimmed over her dad’s line-by-line interview, then skipped to Wheatley’s:
How long has Joanna Dunlap worked for you? Was she a good employee? Did she seem troubled? Were you close? What was your relationship?
His answers were so predictable. “We worked together. Close, yes. Good friends. The last time I saw Joanna was a quarter after five on Friday, when she left the office.” Two interviews later he admitted he loved her.
Meri Ann’s heart recoiled, and she understood in a small way why it was so hard for Mendiola to bring this up. Cops dealt with other people’s dirty little secrets all the time, but not usually another cop’s.
She went on, plowing through stacks of phone messages, neighbors’ comments, fellow workers and finally the statement from the man who had discovered her mom’s car. A bartender at the Broadway Bar and Grill reported an abandoned Jeep in his lot, registered to John Dunlap. Said it had been there two days. When shown a photograph, the bartender admitted he knew the woman, that she sometimes parked it there for a few hours at a time. He indicated a possible rendezvous at the restaurant.
Forensics reported the vehicle clean of prints other than Joanna and John Dunlap’s. As Mendiola had said, they suspected her dad and Wheatley. Wheatley accused Meri Ann’s father, the same thing he’d done when she had confronted him. Her body stiffened at the recollection.
The results of polygraph tests for him and her dad were there too. Her dad’s test indicated he’d answered truthfully. Wheatley’s, on the other hand was inconclusive. She wondered if the polygraph results reflected his guilt over the affair with her mother or something darker. Even if her mother had said she was leaving with Wheatley, she could have changed her mind at the last minute. Despite her inclination to believe him, she still had doubts.
Midway through the next file, she came across a suspicious incident report filed by a woman describing two aggressive teens at the supermarket where Meri Ann’s mom had last been seen alive.
60-year-old white female complainant reported two unidentified white males, approximately 17 to 20-years of age, in a black, Toyota pickup with over-sized tires accosted her as she left the supermarket, headed for her car. Suspects verbally harassed victim, beat on door of vehicle, called out obscenities. Victim unharmed, but reported seeing suspects threaten a younger woman in same manner. Suspect tag number 1A 622 223.
Investigators had found the distinctive pickup and driver within hours. Suspect Mark Randall admitted to cruising the parking lot on the afternoon in question. He denied the allegation of harassment, though he admitted he had seen several women, including one who fit Joanna Dunlap’s description in the parking lot.
Code
red
alert
. The last person to see a victim alive is critical to any investigation and there were two white males in that pickup.
Meri Ann meticulously examined every note, report, telephone message and interview in the files, searching for a subsequent interview or even the name of the second suspect. Nothing surfaced, not in the top file or in the two beneath. The dilemma troubled her, and she’d started to check a second time when the phone rang.
“Detective Fehr,” she answered, surprised how easily it came out.
“Hell-loo,” Becky’s usual greeting but said uneasily.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Pause. “Well, kid, I don’t like being here alone, not after the other night and after what you said this morning.”
Becky didn’t like being alone under the best circumstances. Meri Ann listened hard for clues as to just how upset she was.
“Renee’s coming over. Said she’d stay until you got home.”
Meri Ann breathed easier. “I’m glad to hear it. They’re picking up a suspect for questioning, so I’ll be late for sure.”
“Figured as much. By the way, your ex called.”
“Ron? Why would he call?”
“He says he had to borrow the kayak and was inside, writing you a note when your phone rang. Someone left a message on the answering machine. The readout said the message was from Boise.”
Furious about Ron’s audacity to take her property and furthermore to let himself into her house, Meri Ann had only half processed the bit about a message on her machine from Boise. “That jerk.”
“I agree he’s a worthless sombitch, but maybe it’s a good thing he was there when the call came in. It couldn’t have been Mendiola, kid. Ron said it was a woman’s voice. Came in Sunday night.”
A chill inched down Meri Ann’s spine as she realized the significance on the heels of the message left on Becky’s machine. “Did Ron leave the number?”
“I don’t think so. I… I didn’t write it down.”
“Damn it!”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“I’m not mad at you,” Meri Ann said, trying her best to tone down the shrillness in her voice.
“I’m a wreck.”
“We both are. The situation stinks and I hate to put you at risk by staying at River House. But what should I do? Should I stay at Pauline’s or get a motel room?”
“No, no, kid. I didn’t mean… please don’t leave.”
“Think about it, Becky, seriously. I’ll do whatever works best for you.” After a brief goodbye, they hung up.
Meri Ann finished her tea, wishing the ginseng were kava kava or, better yet, a mug of Merlot. Her mind wandered as she riffled through the file folder and page after page of bureaucratic nonsense.
Then she spotted Harold Graber’s interview and Mendiola’s subsequent notes. Graber claimed his friend, who had suffered a broken leg, shoulder and ribs while prospecting for gold in Snake River Canyon, was released from the hospital on the day Meri Ann’s mother disappeared. According to the injured man and nursing staff, Harold had taken him home from the hospital. The man swore Harold hadn’t left his house for two days. One account noted Graber had carried his friend out of the canyon after the accident and driven him to St. Luke’s Hospital—proof of Graber’s strength.
It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Graber could have over medicated his friend with pain pills and put him to sleep, then driven down the mountain. The scenario worked for her. She leaned back in her chair and circled her dry lips with her tongue, wondering, wondering, wondering.
The door opened, and Mendiola came in huffing, as though he’d run up the stairs. He slam-dunked a soda can into a wastebasket and threw open Dillon’s door.
Meri Ann secured the files and headed over.
She heard him tell Dillon, “We’re screwed. Wheatley’s called in the cavalry.”
The ire in Mendiola’s tone set her on edge. Meri Ann hurried over to where they stood. “What’s the problem?”
# # #
Ten minutes later, Wheatley hobbled in, favoring a sprained ankle. He leaned on his broad-shouldered attorney, a six-foot five-inch black man in a three-piece suit, the shade close to the fellow’s rich brown complexion. In predominantly white Boise, Wheatley’s choice surprised her. It added dimension. It also gave him a strong arm to cling to. He needed one.
Mendiola mumbled, “Academy award time.”
She disagreed about Wheatley’s acting. His pain struck her as genuine, and so did the simmering anger in every tight, painful step he took. His self-confidence seemed intact as he smoothed his perfect hair and glared accusingly at her.
She nodded a greeting.
Dillon led the group to an interview room, a standard vanilla cubical with a wood-grain Formica table, four black molded chairs, and a camera facing the suspect chair. Once everyone was inside, Dillon left them, no doubt to observe through the two-way mirror beside the door or on a monitor in her office.
The two detectives sat side by side with their backs to the glass. They faced Wheatley and his attorney, a Mr. Jackson.
Jackson laid his heavy briefcase on the table. He began, “My client, having been through this procedure before, is fearful of being harassed. I want it understood that his participation in this interview is voluntary.” He locked eyes with Mendiola’s.
“No problem here. We aren’t charging Mr. Wheatley. Just trying to clear up some questions.”
Jackson tugged at one brilliant white cuff of what appeared to be a hand-tailored shirt. “My client expresses a willingness to explain his whereabouts this morning, understanding full well that he doesn’t have to tell you the time of day.”
Mendiola leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We’d be real interested, Mr. Wheatley.”
Wheatley tented his fingers as he’d done in his office two days ago, a gesture of control. His deep green anorak set off his ruddy face.
“I run early mornings, occasionally at night. Working the hours I do doesn’t give me much time for exercise.” He covered his mouth and coughed. “Last night I had trouble sleeping, and… and about quarter to five this morning, I gave it up. I decided to get up and take a run.”
When a suspect reports doing something unusual at the time a crime is committed, hairs on the back of a detective’s neck shoot up like a dog’s hackles. Meri Ann glanced sideways at Mendiola to note his level of excitement or tell-tale neck-rubbing. But his bland expression hid all emotion.
Wheatley went on, “I left the house about ten minutes later.”
“Did Mrs. Wheatley know you’d gone?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.” His color deepened as he spoke. “I never wake her. Tina’s usually the one with insomnia. Most nights she’s up making hot cocoa or reading.”
“Was she at home last night?” Meri Ann asked, wondering about the prowler, or stalker, or whoever had played postman at Becky’s.
“I suppose. I got home about midnight. Drove back from the Twin Falls office. With all the flight delays, it’s easier to drive than fly.”
“Should you need verification of my client’s whereabouts yesterday, we can provide that.”
“Go back to this morning’s run,” Mendiola said. “If you don’t mind.”
Wheatley conferred with his lawyer.
The air hung heavy with the musky scent of raw nerves.
“We do have an understanding that any part of my client’s statement will not be considered a formal deposition or sworn statement. Is that correct?”
Mendiola grimaced, sat back. “Ease off, Jackson; we agreed it’s informal.”
“Thank you.” He nodded to Wheatley to begin.
Wheatley cleared his throat, reluctantly said, “I started my loop backwards at Camel’s Back, ran up the hill like always, and… and I saw the skeleton.” He stopped and stared hard at Meri Ann.
“Did you touch the bones,” she asked, trying to map the movement of his eyes, to see if he pulled answers from memory or the fictive side of his brain.
“No,” he said. “How could I?”
“Could if you put ’em there,” Mendiola said.
But she’d asked the wrong question and rephrased it. “Did you touch anything?”
He sat for a few seconds, then said, “Joanna’s earring.” His voice wavered. “But I put it back. Then I panicked and ran. Didn’t stop until I twisted my ankle near the Mobil station on Hill Road. I called a taxi.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Meri Ann asked. Wheatley sucked air the way some people drag on a cigarette, deep and needful. His pupils were enlarged like an animal’s in distress, but he met her gaze. “Because of your mother’s earrings. I was sure they were hers. And that piece of plaid fabric. She’d had a skirt like that. You’ve got to understand; I’d read about the discovery at Table Rock. If this had something to do with her death, I knew I’d be a suspect—again. I’m innocent. I didn’t kill her and I had nothing to do with that sickening scene at the park.”
He pulled out his handkerchief again and dragged it across his forehead. “If only I’d seen someone there, someone’s car or some sign of whoever did this. But I didn’t.”
Jackson squared his tie and stood. “So there it is. My client was at the scene. Unless you can produce evidence of his direct involvement in the crime or care to make an arrest, we’re leaving.” Jackson directed his gaze first at Mendiola, then Meri Ann, then at the mirror.
Wheatley pushed up from the table. His former arrogance returned, no doubt bolstered by Jackson. “My wife is ill over this, mentally and physically,” he said, “and I won’t put up with innuendo. Not again, not when you let good, solid leads slip through your fingers. You, Detective Mendiola, you know what I’m talking about.”