I signed in the visitor’s log, made a cup of bad coffee, and then took a seat in the plastic orange chairs against the wall. A woman in torn jeans and matted blonde hair sat beside me, rubbing her hands between her knees, and she anxiously looked around with a sleeping child on her lap.
The joys of going to jail.
Bernice showed me back to the small interrogation room, with an orange eight piece table. Three officers congregated in the middle, and the disgraced Count sat anxiously on one side.
A desperately hopeful look crossed over his face when he saw me.
“Henry,” he gasped, “thank you for coming.”
His voice had lost that dramatic flair, and he just seemed stripped down and bare. It was always like that during this stage of the case. It was interesting to watch how litigation could suck a person’s personality right out of them.
“Hello, Alfred,” I said and turned to the officers. I didn’t know any of them, but they knew me.
“Hello Mr. Irving,” one of the officers said. “These are Detectives Walker, Williams, and Whitaker.”
The three W’s, it was fitting as they all seemed to run together, a nameless group of paunchy bellies, glasses, and no nonsense manner.
“Nice to meet you,” I replied as I shook all their hands.
“We just want to ask Mr. Dumont here a few questions about the murder of Jerry Steele.”
“I already told you everything I know,” Alfred insisted.
“If you have a direct question,” I said as I joined Alfred at the table, “go ahead.”
“Mr. Dumont, were you alone with Mr. Steele this morning at approximately 11:30 a.m?”
“Yes,” Alfred answered, “but, I was--”
“What evidence do you have regarding the particular time?” I cut in.
“We believe the murder was committed at or around 11:30,” Whitaker said. He was the only one of the W’s that stood out from the others, mainly because I guess he was in charge of this investigation.
“What evidence do you have of that?” I asked again. “Mr. Steele dismissed the rehearsal at eleven a.m., and the practice did not resume until two p.m. At two p.m., when the cast returned, the doors were locked, as several witnesses will confirm. So, there is a three hour window in which the murder could have occured. Why did you believe it was at 11:30?”
“The last witness who exited the building reported leaving at 11:17, and they heard Mr. Dumont and Mr. Steele in a heated exchange,” Whitaker said.
“That still does not mean Mr. Dumont committed the murder,” I pointed out. “Anything could have happened between 11:17, and when the cops were called. Which--” I flipped open my padfolio. “When were the police called?”
“The police were called at 1:43 p.m,” Whitaker said as he looked at his notes.
“So,” I went on, “the murder was committed between 11:17 and 1:43 p.m.”
“Yes,” Whitaker reluctantly agreed.
I jotted down notes on everything that was being said. Police interrogations were notorious for twisting words and statements around, and it was best to have accurate records.
“Go ahead with your questions,” I told Whitaker.
“Thank you,” he replied before he turned to address The Count. “What time did you leave Steele Productions?”
“I told you,” Alfred said with a frown, “I left at around noon.”
“Why did you leave?” Whitaker asked.
“Because,” Alfred explained, “Jerry and I were not seeing eye to eye on some things, and I felt he was being irrational. I was frustrated, so I left.”
“You were frustrated?” Whitaker asked with a raised eyebrow. “How frustrated?”
“There is no way to quantify frustration in that context,” I pointed out.
“Okay,” Whitaker sighed. “What did you do when you left?”
“I went home,” Alfred answered.
“You went home?” Whitaker echoed. “And you live at 432 Lake Drive, correct?”
“Yes,” The Count said with a nod.
“And from Steele Productions to your address was how long?” Whitaker asked.
It suddenly dawned on me they were fishing for evidence they didn’t have.
“I’m sorry,” I cut in. “If you want to question my client further, you’re going to have to formally arrest him. Otherwise, my client will not answer any more questions.”
The Three W’s looked at each other, and then Whitaker turned to the other guys.
“Let’s step outside, fellas,” he said.
The Three W’s all left the room, and I turned to Alfred.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I can’t believe they would think I would murder someone,” he said indignantly.
“They don’t really believe that,” I corrected him. “They would just like to be able to believe that so they can solve the murder and go home.”
“I suppose,” he allowed with a frown, “but it is infuriating. They should rather spend their time trying to find the real killer, instead of mapping out how far it is from my house to the studio, and how long it would have taken. Is this what my tax dollars go to pay for? It’s unbelievable!
“It is,” I agreed as I remember Harmony’s days on the wrong end of a murder case.
Then the Three W’s re-entered the room.
“You’re free to go,” Whitaker told Alfred.
Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. We left the interrogation room, Bernice had us sign a few papers, and we walked out of the police station.
“Need a ride home?” I asked as I slipped on my shades in the mid-afternoon sun.
“I could use a ride back to the studio, if you could,” he said sheepishly. “My car is still there. Or it should be anyway.”
“They couldn’t have impounded it without an arrest,” I assured him. “So it’s still there.”
We got into my car, and I drove back to the studio.
“Thank you for coming,” Alfred said as he stared out the passenger window. “I can’t believe all of this.”
“I
