who sought greater understanding of the people she served. Amy Frechette’s home did not appear to be a place of sanctuary from her work, rather a place of continued study of the work to which she devoted her life.
A hinged, two photo frame sat at eye level on one of the shelves. One side of the frame held a sepia-toned picture of a young couple’s profile as they looked at each other, the opposite side held a color photo, yellowed with age, of a young man dressed in jungle fatigues standing next to an airplane somewhere in the tropics. Her father perhaps. But it was a single photo next to the others which caught my eye and reminded me of Cora’s comments about not being able to serve the State and my own personal agenda at the same time. The photo was one of Murton and me, taken just after we’d arrived home from basic training, before we were shipped out to fight in the gulf war. In the photo we stood side by side, our arms around each other, both of us smiling at the camera. Just off to the side, part of her face cut out of the frame of the photo, was my mother. She was looking at us and the flash of the camera caught the tears running down her cheek.
I left the photo untouched and continued to search the room. A February 2006 issue of Psychology Today lay face up on the sofa, open to an article entitled, ‘A Field Guide to Narcissism.’ I wasted a few minutes as I scanned the article, but I ultimately decided I was not narcissistic, and tossed it back on the couch.
The kitchen was extremely small, a nook really, with only one florescent light bulb that hummed above the kitchen sink. The flickering light against the dark paneled walls reminded me of the times I had spent as a child with my grandfather when I’d wake in the early morning to the smell of percolated coffee and toasted wheat bread before we would go out to fish on his neighbor’s pond.
We spent close to three hours searching Amy Frechette’s residence, but the truth was, I did not know what we were looking for. I did not expect to find a ledger in Murton’s handwriting that detailed a master plan to kill Franklin Dugan. In fact, the best I could hope for would be to find nothing at all. I searched every drawer, every closet, the attic, the crawl space and every inch in between. In the end, we had made a hell of a mess but turned up no evidence whatsoever.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and when I looked at the screen the number that showed was not one I had seen before. “Jones.”
“You’re not going to find anything,” Murton said. “There’s nothing there. There never was. I’m not the man you think I am, Jonesy.”
“Murt, what the hell is going on? That was you in the cab, wasn’t it? If you’re not part of this, come in and we’ll-“
He laughed without humor into the phone. “We’ll what, figure everything out? Get me a lawyer? I don’t think so, Bud. We were going to be married, did you know that? Did she tell you that?
“Murt…”
“I left to protect her, Jonesy. I told them she didn’t know anything, that she was just a minister working with pre-school children. She was pregnant. We found out about a week ago. She died thinking I left her because she was pregnant. Jesus, what have I done?”
I picked up the phone from the kitchen while he spoke and dialed 911. “Murt, I’m sorry. Let me help you.” I could hear the 911 operator in the background asking if someone needed assistance.
“You know, I always sort of had it in my head that you and I might hook back up one day, but I guess that ship has sailed, but that’s not on you. Hey, what’s that we used to say? Pop ‘em and drop ‘em? That’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Tell your old man he’s the best, will you? And don’t bother trying to get a trace on this phone. It’s one of those pre-paid specials. It’s about to be road kill on the interstate. What a country, huh?”
Sandy came around the corner and saw me holding two phones. “What’s going on?” she said.
“I wish I knew.”
CHAPTER NINTEEN
Monday morning when I arrived at my office I discovered Amanda Pate sitting in one of the two chairs that front my desk. “Your assistant said I could wait in here,” she said.
I walked past her and sat down at my desk. ‘What do you want, Amanda?” I said.
“What do I want?” Then, as if she were either trying to digest my question, or make something clear to me, she repeated the question. “What do I want? For God’s sake, Jonesy, I want my husband released from that rat hole you’ve put him in. He’s been in there all weekend. What were you thinking?”
I looked at my watch. “Arraignment is in two hours. He can bond out afterwards.”
“Bond out? Have you lost your mind? I want the charges against him dropped and I want him released this instant.”
“That’s not going to happened, Amanda. It’s time to get a grip on reality, here. Samuel is being held for assault on a police officer.”
“Oh, bullshit, Jonesy. That is pure bullshit, and you know it. You’re holding him because you think he’s somehow mixed up in Franklin’s death, and that just isn’t true. God, you piss me off.”
“If it’s not true, then convince him to talk to me so I can clear him and move on, otherwise, he’s our number one suspect.”
“Our attorney has advised us-”
I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Yes, yes, your attorney has advised you not to speak with the police or answer any of our questions.” I shook my head at her. “That’s what attorneys do, Amanda. But the hard reality of the situation is this: The truth eventually comes out, and when it does, it’s one of two ways. Either a suspect talks to us and we clear their story, or we move forward with charges and the whole thing goes to trial. Which would you prefer?”
She rose from the chair and stood in front of my desk, her face and neck red with anger. “You’re wrong,” she said. “Those aren’t the only two choices.”
“I’m afraid that’s the way I see it, Amanda. If you or Samuel change your mind and want to get on the record, let me know. Otherwise, my office will be moving forward on the case with the evidence we’ve accumulated from both your home and your offices.”
“What evidence? There is no evidence.”
“We’re building our case, Amanda. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. If I were you, I’d advise Samuel that it’s time to get in front of this thing before it’s too late. Capital murder in the State of Indiana carries the death penalty. With a full confession, the D.A. might be willing to accept a plea deal of life without the possibility of parole, but I may be speaking out of turn here. I can check with him if you’d like.”
She pointed her finger at me and I watched as it trembled, the fear and rage evident when she spoke. “Fuck you, Jonesy. Fuck you times two, you son of a bitch.”
“Good bye, Amanda. Next time you want to speak with me, make an appointment.”
When she walked out of my office I was left with the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the exchange we just had, as I have had countless ones with other suspect’s spouses just like it over the years. This was different. Visceral in a way I was unable to define. It was as if my office was not the same after Amanda had been in it. The feeling was so strong I moved around the room and viewed it from different angles in an attempt to put myself at ease. In the end, I shook the feeling away and walked back over to my desk. When I looked out my window at the street below I saw Amanda as she stood on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change so she could cross and make her way to the courthouse.
A well-dressed elderly man stood next to her, his small dog on a leash at his side. A city bus pulled up next to the curb just past where they stood as they waited on the light to change. When the bus started to pull away its airbrakes let out a blast of air and the dog jumped at the sound and managed to pull free from the man’s grasp where it darted out into the flow of traffic and was crushed under the wheels of a passing car that was unable to stop in time. The elderly man ran out into the traffic, his arms flailing at his sides like a bird that lumbers along in an effort to take flight. He scooped up the remains of his dog and I could see the animal’s head hung at an odd angle when he raised it from the street. It looked like a sack of furry triangles. He brought the animal up close to his face and buried his head in its fur, but the tragedy of the moment was lost on me when I looked at Amanda who still stood on the curb. She was bent forward at the waist, her hands over her face. She stood there like that for a minute or so, then turned and looked up at me in the window and shook her head as if she were unable to
