Weeds in The Garden of Love

  * * *

  “He’s in Exam Two,” the E.R. nurse said. “Second door on your right.”

  Detective Rick Palmer entered the room. Lorne Davis was sitting on an examination table. He had a large gauze bandage taped to his left shoulder and his arm was in a sling. The stench of stale liquor permeated the room. Rick held up his badge and police I.D. “I’m Detective Palmer. I understand you are Mr. Lorne Davis. Is that correct?”

  Lorne hesitated for a moment, carefully contemplating his answer. “Yeah, that’s me. Guess the E.R. called you. Procedure—right?”

  Rick’s cop senses were already telling him this guy was a jerk. “Yup. As you know, the law says they have no choice with a gunshot wound.”

  “Knew that. Guess you want to know what happened.”

  “We get a teensy bit curious when somebody stops a bullet,” Rick said. “Tell me how it happened.”

  Lorne knew the law, so he anticipated a visit from the police. He planned to accuse Melinda of attempted murder. He wanted to use it as a bargaining chip, forcing her to forgive his child support arrears. The police had no proof he attacked her. They would have to believe his story. It was his word against hers. He spun a yarn to Palmer about asking for her help until he got back on his feet financially. She freaked out, pulled a gun and fired at him.

  Palmer sensed Davis was lying. He hoped the details of the incident would trip him up. “How many shots did she take?”

  “Two or three. The first one hit me in the shoulder, and I ran. I didn’t want to stick around, in case her aim improved. She’s one wacko broad.”

  “Did you do or say anything to provoke this?”

  “No. She flipped out when I said I needed a break on the support. I tried to calm her down, but she went berserk.”

  “And this took place in your wife’s residence on Hillview Court in Botsford Downs?”

  “Yeah, upstairs in the master bedroom.” Palmer lifted his eyes from his notebook and looked at him. Lorne became defensive. “That’s where she wanted to talk. For privacy  you know  in case the kids came home.”

  Palmer handed Lorne a legal pad and told him to write out a statement. He was pretty sure Davis’ version of the incident was a fabrication. Palmer knew the master bedroom was the last place a woman would choose to have a conversation with her ex-husband. Unless, she lured him upstairs to kill him. Possible—but unlikely.

  As Davis continued writing, Palmer was busy piecing together a more probable sequence of events. He felt a more likely scenario was; they were downstairs, Lorne attacked her, she fled upstairs, he followed and she shot him. She probably kept the gun in her bedroom. He needed to prove his theory. That shouldn’t be a problem. He had enough evidence to obtain a search warrant.

  Lorne finished his statement and signed it. Palmer left without asking any more questions. Lorne assumed he had fooled him. He was wrong. Palmer suspected Lorne Davis and the truth were strangers.

  * * *

  Melinda Davis was two hundred miles away from Botsford Downs before she relaxed. She had told her parents the whole story. They agreed she and her children were in grave danger. They offered to do whatever they could. Her parents had both the time and the means to help her go underground.

  Melinda’s father made his fortune early. When a large European conglomerate bought out his engineering consulting firm, he was offered a senior management position. He opted for a cash settlement and early retirement. Her mother worked part-time with Melinda at the lingerie store. She was a retired teacher and liked to keep busy. She also liked the opportunity to spend time with her daughter. She had a loyal group of regular customers and loved going to work.

  Melinda’s mother would manage the store for the time being. Her dad would arrange to move her belongings. After he repaired the bullet holes in the bedroom wall, he would hire a local contractor to paint and prepare the house for sale. He would list the house with a realtor friend, one of the top sellers at Towercrest. Melinda expected nothing less from her parents. Their love and support were unconditional. She didn’t know how to thank them. “You just be safe, baby,” Melinda’s father said. “We’ll take care of things here.” Melinda hugged them both. She told them she loved them. They already knew.

  Melinda told Kimberly and David the truth about their sudden departure. She chose her words carefully so as not to appear overly critical of their father. They were young and vulnerable; she didn’t want to frighten them unnecessarily. Melinda explained about the attack, the struggle and the confrontation in the bedroom.

  “We know all about it, Mom,” David said, from the front passenger seat. “We heard you telling Grandma and Grandpa.” He was trying desperately to sound grown up.

  Melinda looked in the rear view mirror. “Did you hear it too, Kim? Kim?”

  Kimberly heard her mother but she didn’t feel like talking. She was looking out the window with tears streaming down her cheeks. Once again, her life was going to change and not for the better. Kimberly realized her parents would never, ever get back together.

  Reality had stabbed a young lady in the heart.

  * * *

  The desk sergeant was busy writing as Danny Fitzsimmons walked up. He stood quietly for a moment and then intentionally cleared his throat. The sergeant put down his pen and peered at him over tiny reading glasses.

  “I have an appointment,” Danny said.

  “Who with? Or is it a secret?”

  “Detective Roy Wood.”

  “And your name is?” The sergeant deliberately used an exasperated monotone voice.

  “Danny Fitzsimmons.”

  “Hang on.”

  Boy, this guy is a ball of fire, Danny thought, as he watched him slowly pick up the telephone. Working the front desk must be boring—almost as boring as bartending.

  After the sergeant dialed the phone, he tapped on the visitor’s book indicating he wanted Danny to sign in. He hung up, refocused on his paper work and pointed towards the stairs. “Upstairs. Second door on your right.”

  Roy Wood was sitting at his desk, talking to Detective Rick Palmer. The call from the desk sergeant interrupted their conversation. “Danny Fitzsimmons,” Roy said. “Yeah, send him up.” Hanging up, he turned back to Palmer. “Bartender from Malarkey’s. Okay, Rick—bottom line. What does your gut say?”

  “I don’t believe Davis for a minute. But he was telling the truth about one thing. The shots were fired in the master bedroom. The next day we executed a search warrant for the residence. No one was at home. Forensics recovered two slugs in the wall. They located blood spray and smears on the wall in the master bedroom. They photographed a blood trail going downstairs, out the front door and across the front walk and driveway. It all matches Davis’ type.”

  “And the gun?”

  “Ballistics figure it was a thirty-eight special or more likely a three fifty-seven. No confirmation back yet. Both Lorne and Melinda Davis have a three fifty-seven registered to them. We need to do a match. Problem is, when we searched the residence, we couldn’t find her gun.”

  “And his?” Roy hoped Lorne Davis had inadvertently left his gun behind. It would help prove he went to see his ex-wife with more on his mind than just child support payments.

  “He claims it was stolen. I checked. Sure enough, he filed a theft report two weeks ago.”

  “Think he’s lying?”

  “Through his teeth,” Palmer said. “He’s setting up a defense, in case we tag it for a murder weapon.”

  Roy didn’t speak. His thoughts were focused on Lorne Davis. Palmer’s right. Davis is lying. He’s up to something. I just don’t know what.

  “Here’s the weird part,” Palmer said. “Melinda Davis has disappeared.”

  Roy sat up and leaned forward. “What do you mean—disappeared?” Rick was about to answer when Roy spotted Danny standing in the d
oorway of the squad room. “Hang on a sec, Rick.” Roy gave Danny a hand signal indicating he should grab a seat. Danny sat down on a wooden bench out in the hallway.

  “It’s okay, Roy. We can do this another—”

  Roy interrupted him. “Now’s good. I think a potential homicide trumps a bartender, even if the bartender is a good snitch.”

  Rick felt good. Roy had just shown him the respect that comes from being an equal on the squad. It was a long time in coming. Palmer filled Roy in on his attempts to find Melinda Davis: enquiries with her parents, her neighbors and the employees at her lingerie shop. No one had seen Melinda. She had simply disappeared off the face of the earth. “It’s strange. Now, the house is empty and up for sale. Her car is gone. Kids aren’t in school. She’s vanished, and no one knows where.”

  “Somebody knows,” Roy said. “Somebody always knows. Dead or alive—that’s what it comes down to. If she’s alive, her parents know where she is. If she’s dead—her killer knows.”

  Roy waved Danny over, and Rick knew they were done. Detectives on the squad knew Roy’s time was limited. Palmer thanked him.

  “Anytime,” Roy said. “The priority now is to find her. And listen; let me know if you need help grilling Davis. Might be fun.” Rick laughed out loud and winked at Roy before he crossed the squad room to his desk.

  This case had just changed. He would put a hold on the attempted murder complaint filed by Davis against Melinda. He would now begin investigating her disappearance. Her ex-husband was the prime suspect. Palmer had to find Melinda Davis.

  Or, at least—find out what happened to her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Impaired Judgment

  Rick Palmer and his partner Ellen Landry were running out of leads. They were no closer to discovering the whereabouts of Melinda Davis or her children. They had re-interviewed her parents who maintained they had no idea where she was. Her employees at Melinda’s lingerie shop were still no help. Her bank manager confirmed her personal accounts became dormant after she disappeared. No one in Botsford Downs, or the city at large, had seen or heard anything about her. The trail was growing cold, and their investigation was at a dead end. They had one more person left to interview.

  “You know what we have to do now, Ell,” Palmer said, as they left the day watch roll call.

  “Interview Lorne Vincent Davis. Think he knows where she is?”

  Rick turned their unmarked car onto Handley Boulevard. “I don’t know. But I guarantee if she’s alive, he’s looking for her. God help her if he finds her.”

  “And the kids,” Ellen said.

  Before they arrived at Davis’ apartment, they went over the latest information they had on him. He pled not guilty to the D.U.I., and the pending SOE default hearing had been adjourned for a month.

  “What about the Myers paternity suit?” Ellen asked.

  “Still on going.”

  “Think Davis could go after her?”

  “I’m sure he’d like to, but she moved out west,” Palmer said. “She’s in hiding, living under her maiden name. Too much trouble to find her.”

  Ellen believed Palmer was right. Davis had enough on his plate to bother searching for Joyce Myers. Melinda was a different story, however. After she set the SOE hounds on him, she tried to kill him. Now, she had taken his children away. Both these women may have saved their own lives by disappearing, Ellen thought. It’s a sad state of affairs when we can’t protect innocent women and children from violent and abusive men like Davis. They have to run and hide to stay alive. Detective Landry was well aware of the pain and suffering women endure as a result of domestic violence. Years on the force, combined with special training courses, had taught Ellen about abusive relationships. She had frequently witnessed the cycle of violence.

  The cycle typically begins with a calm honeymoon period full of love and caring. The abuser begins to mistrust his partner, and then he uses domination and isolation to gain power and control. Tension builds until a violent episode erupts. He feels guilty, not always because of what he’s done, but often over the possibility of being caught. He is deeply repentant, apologizes and promises it will never happen again. He manages to shift the responsibility for the incident by blaming the victim. Then he does everything he can to keep her in the relationship and under his control. He may turn on the charm or act as if nothing happened. Another honeymoon period is followed, once again, by more tension and a violent episode. Over time, the cycle intensifies. The honeymoon periods are shorter. The violent episodes are more extreme. The abuse ends only if she escapes and never returns—or he kills her.

  “Joyce Myers and Melinda Davis are lucky,” Ellen said, as they drove along the parkway bordering the lush green fairways of Parkview Golf and Country Club. “Davis is probably a batterer. If the complaints filed with the SOE by those women are accurate, he appears to exhibit the telltale signs. It usually starts with mental abuse which eventually escalates to physical violence.”

  “So you obviously believe he’s capable of murder,” Palmer said.

  “That’s one of the ways the cycle ends.”

  They parked outside Lorne’s apartment building. “Let’s be careful,” Palmer said. “Davis is under a lot of pressure. His world is crashing down around him. If he picks up even the slightest hint we’re looking at him for his wife’s disappearance, he may snap.”

  The building superintendent buzzed them in. They didn’t want to ring Davis’ apartment. Sometimes, the guilty bolt when a cop comes their way. The interview didn’t last long. Palmer and Landry stood outside his apartment door because Davis refused to allow them in. He opened the door but left the security chain attached. Lorne glared at them. “Got a warrant?”

  “No, we just want to talk to you, Mr. Davis,” Palmer said. “We’re trying to locate your ex-wife.”

  “I have no idea where the b— ... uh, where she is. You don’t think I’m guilty of anything, do you? Don’t forget she tried to kill me!”

  “We know that, sir,” Palmer said. “But we still have to ask if you know anything about her whereabouts.”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. I only care about my kids.” Lorne paused before he shut the door. “If you find her, let me know.” The detectives heard the dead bolt.

  Palmer didn’t move. “Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch.” He looked at Ellen and raised his eyebrows. “I told you he was a nice guy.”

  Waiting in the alcove for the elevator, the detectives heard the sound of an apartment door closing. They glanced down the hallway but couldn’t see anyone. Palmer shrugged his shoulders. “Probably nosy neighbors. What do you think about Mr. Davis, Ell?”

  “He’s a jerk, but he’s also a smart jerk. I have the feeling he knows a lot more than he’s letting on.”

  “Absolutely. Do you think he killed her?” Palmer asked.

  “If she’s dead, I like him for it.”

  Palmer agreed. “And we’re gonna bust him for it.”

  Unbeknownst to them, paranoia had motivated Lorne Davis to slip out of his apartment. He hid around the corner next to the elevators. He heard every word.

  * * *

  Malarkey’s was busy on Saturday afternoon. The big game was on television, and the college football crowd was in. From the doorway, Craig spotted Garth waving from a booth. A huge cheer erupted as Craig walked over. Craig couldn’t resist. The timing was perfect. “Happens everyplace I go lately. I suppose I’ll just have to get used to it.”

  “Hey, Craiger. Good to see your ego is still intact.” Craig laughed and sat down. A large draft was waiting for him on the table.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Craig said. Garth’s smile seemed wider than usual. “You’re grinning like a Cheshire cat. What’s up?”

  “Well, Loretta is expecting another baby and—”

  “That damn neighbor,” Craig said. “Liste
n, if you want a hand to—”

  “Very funny. Actually, it’s gonna be great to be a dad again.”

  Craig raised his glass in a salute. “You bet, buddy! Congratulations! That’s wonderful.”

  Switching topics, Garth asked Craig if he’d heard the latest about Lorne Davis: his D.U.I., how the SOE were using his own rotten tactics against him and how his ex-wife disappeared after she tried to kill him.

  “Didn’t they have a couple of kids?” Craig asked.

  “Gone too. It’s spooky. The house is deserted and up for sale.”

  Craig shook his head. “Can’t blame her. Davis is a psycho. He was probably planning to kill them. You see that kind of stuff on the news. You know, guys going back and murdering their ex-wives and kids.”

  Garth agreed. “Cops think he might have already done it. And hey, listen to this. I heard someone has been following Charles Talbot’s wife. It’s really freaking her out.”

  “Where do you hear all this stuff? What are you now, the official nosey-parker of Botsford Downs?”

  Garth tilted his head towards to the bar. “Danny told me. You know bartenders—they hear everything. Oh  and here’s something else Danny told me. He thinks Eric Millard is coming unglued.”

  Craig grinned. “I probably hit him too hard. Sometimes, I don’t know my own strength.”

  Garth had a serious look on his face. “You gotta be careful, my friend. He could go nutso jealous and come after you and Vikki.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m ready.” As the words came out of his mouth, Craig realized he wasn’t ready. Maybe he had underestimated Millard. He had to find out exactly what kind of threat he posed. “Hang on.” Craig slid out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

  Garth watched Craig walk over to Danny. Their conversation looked intense. Danny was leaning over the bar so he could speak quietly, and Craig was shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Finally, they shook hands and Craig walked back to the booth.