Chapter Twenty-One #2
A blonde woman came rushing from the back of the house and opened the door, seeming out of breath. “I’m so sorry. I was on a call, and Frieda told me you were here. I’m Emma Knoff. What can I do for you?”
Freddie wanted to ask if she was deaf, because she’d have to be not to hear that doorbell. He produced his badge and introduced himself and Jeannie. “May we have a few minutes of your time?”
“Is this about Cleo? It’s such a tragedy! And the children. Are they all right? No one seems to know where they are.”
“Mrs. Knoff,” Freddie said, running out of patience. “May we come in?”
“Oh yes, of course. Please come in. I’m so sorry. This day has been… It’s been awful. We’re organizing a fundraiser for the children and trying to do what we can to help. I’m heartbroken.”
Behind her back, Jeannie rolled her eyes at Freddie.
They were led into a formal living room. “May I get you something? Coffee or other refreshments?”
“No, thank you,” Freddie said. “This isn’t a social call, unfortunately.”
“I’m sure you’re very busy at a time like this. I heard the vice president’s wife was investigating the case. Do you work with her?”
“We do,” Freddie said. In the back of his mind, he could hear Sam’s voice telling him to take control of this interview—and do it now. “Mrs. Knoff, our investigation has found there was no love lost, for lack of a better way to put it, between you and Cleo Beauclair.”
Emma’s mouth fell open and then snapped shut, her eyes flashing with what could only be called rage. “Who said that?”
“We’ve heard it from multiple sources. Can you please describe your relationship with Mrs. Beauclair?”
“I’m just…” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I’m stunned to hear that anyone would describe my relationship with Cleo as less than cordial.”
Freddie wanted to groan with frustration. “I understand, but that is in fact how it was described to us. If you’re unable or unwilling to answer our questions here, we’d be happy to take you downtown for a formal interview.”
“Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
“I’m saying we have questions, and either you’re willing to answer them, or we’ll make you our guest at the city jail,” Freddie said. “Is that clear?”
“Y-yes,” she said, the slight stammer a welcome hint of humility. “What do you want to know?”
“How would you describe your relationship with Cleo Beauclair?” he asked. “And I’d advise you to be honest with us. There’s nothing we dislike more than people who waste our time.”
“If I’m being honest,” she said, haltingly, “I’d have to say I didn’t like her very much.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Freddie thought, as he took notes. “And why was that?”
“Who did she think she was coming into my school and trying to turn herself into volunteer of the year? I’m the PTO president. I decide who does what and when, not her. And what’s with her never leaving the building while her children were there? Who does that?”
“She did,” Jeannie said. “And I guess I wonder why it would matter to you if she wasn’t asking you to do the same.”
“It’s not done,” Emma said, her glare frosty. “New mothers don’t come into the school and take over the volunteer positions. That’s not how it works.”
“Most people would be thrilled to have the extra help,” Jeannie said.
“I wasn’t,” she snapped back.
“Were you angry enough to kill her?” Freddie asked.
Emma’s face went completely white before it turned bright red, the entire cycle occurring within seconds. “Absolutely not! Ask anyone who knows me! I wouldn’t harm a fly!”
“What the hell is going on here?” A good-looking man came into the room wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit and a frown on his face. He was the picture of success and good fortune, from his styled hair to his Italian shoes.
“Oh, Cal,” she said, jumping up to hug him. “Thank goodness you’re here. These detectives had the gall to ask if I killed Cleo Beauclair. Can you imagine such a thing?”
“Are you accusing my wife of a crime?” he asked.
“Not at this time.”
“Then I’ll need you to leave my house. If you wish to speak to her again, you’ll do so only with an attorney present.”
Without another word, Freddie and Jeannie stood and headed for the front door.
Behind him, Freddie heard Emma say, “That’s it? They’re going to leave after accusing me of murder?”
“Shut up, Emma,” the husband said. “Just shut your mouth.”
Freddie closed the door and took a deep breath of the fresh air.
“Holy shit,” Jeannie muttered. “That was intense.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’d like to request an interview with her downtown to give those people a dose of humility.”
“Right there with you.”
“It sure would be fun to make her twist in the wind.”
“Yes,” Jeannie said, laughing. “It will be. And P.S., Sam would’ve been proud of you back there. You were awesome.”
“Oh thanks. She’s always in my head, for better or worse.”
“I’d say it’s for better—most of the time anyway.”
“Except until I want to unleash a string of profanity. Then it’s not so good.”
“Such as shit, fuck, damn, hell?” Jeannie asked, referring to one of Sam’s favorite sayings.
“Yes, that. Exactly that.” They got in Freddie’s car and started battling their way through late-day traffic on the way to Sam’s house.
“Ugh, this traffic,” Jeannie said. “This is why people say things like shit, fuck, damn, hell.”
Freddie laughed. “Seriously.”
“Could I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What’s going on with Gonzo?”
“I wish I knew. Whatever it is, it’s not good.”
“Not good at all,” Jeannie said with a sigh.
“Christina called me this morning and asked me to come by after work and pick up the bags she’d packed for him.”
“Ahh, crap.”
“That’s what I said, too. I tried to talk to her, but she wasn’t having it.”
“What do you suppose this means for Alex?” Jeannie asked.
“I don’t know, but I hope they aren’t going to end up fighting over him, because that would truly suck.”
“Yeah, for sure.”
When Dr. Anderson came through on afternoon rounds, Gonzo demanded to be released from the room they’d taken him to after they’d admitted him.
“I’m totally fine, and while I’m sitting on my ass in here, my life is falling apart.
” When he’d had the room to himself, he’d gotten up to find his jacket in the closet and had taken a pill that had helped calm his nerves and settle the relentless pain.
He’d overdone it with the meds yesterday.
That’s all it was. He wouldn’t do that again.
He’d take enough to keep the pain manageable but not so much that he blacked out or half killed himself looking for relief.
As bad as he felt—and he felt pretty damned bad most of the time—he didn’t want to die.
He wanted to watch Alex grow up and become a man.
His son needed a father, and Gonzo was determined to be there for him.
So he only took one pill when he desperately wanted two.
Anderson checked Gonzo’s chart, listened to his heart and sat on the stool next to the bed to type notes into the computer.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Sarge. I’m worried about you, and for the record, I don’t believe one word you said to me yesterday.
” When Gonzo started to object, the doctor held up his hand to stop him.
“As you well know, the opioid epidemic is out of control. We see it every day in here. I know what it looks like, and it looks like this.”
He gestured to Gonzo. “A professional guy who has his shit together until he suffers some sort of injury that requires pain meds. Suddenly, the pain meds are essential, and the perfectly healthy person can’t do without them.
Couple that with the tragedy you suffered earlier this year, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. ”
“I’m not hooked on anything, Doc. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Maybe I do. But if you don’t mind giving me five more minutes of your time, let me tell you where it goes from here. Soon enough, whatever you’re taking isn’t going to be strong enough to feed the beast. That’s when you’ll turn to heroin.”
Gonzo recoiled. “I would never touch that shit. Come on, Doc. I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake. I know what happens to people who get hooked on that crap. That’s not going to be me.”
As if Gonzo hadn’t spoken, the doctor continued.
“When heroin doesn’t do it for you anymore, that’s when you’ll go looking for fentanyl.
And that shit… That shit makes heroin look like aspirin, and it will kill you.
We’re losing people like you to fentanyl every single day.
If you think it can’t happen to you, think again.
If you stay on the current path, it will happen to you.
The best thing you can do for yourself is ask for whatever help you need.
Get help. If you don’t want to end up dead, get help.
I promise you this isn’t going to end well if you don’t stop it right now. ”
“I know all this,” Gonzo said, his teeth gritted. “I’ve had the training at work.”
“And I haven’t even mentioned the career you’ve worked so hard for,” Anderson said, again as if Gonzo hadn’t spoken.
“If you’re scoring heroin or fentanyl or anything else that’s not prescribed for you by a doctor, you’re risking your badge, and you damned well know that.
You’ve had the training. You know better than most people that this is a path that ends in the morgue.
Is that what you want for your kid? A father who OD’d and left him to fend for himself in this world?
What about that pretty girlfriend of yours?
You think she’s going to be sitting on her ass at home waiting for you to get your shit together?
A woman who looks like her, who takes care of your son the way she does—she’s not going to be on the market for long.
You want some other guy raising your kid and loving your girl?
That’s where this is heading, Tommy. That’s the only place this is heading—you dead and the two people you love best going on without you.
But hey, if that’s what you want, far be it from me to get in your way. ”
Anderson scrawled his signature across the bottom of a piece of paper, took it off the clipboard and handed it to Gonzo. “Your walking papers.”
Gonzo stared at the stark white paper as an image of Christina and Alex with another man, a nameless, faceless guy walking between the two of them, holding hands with them, appeared in vivid detail.
The man wasn’t him. He’d been replaced. Someone else was raising Alex in the scenario he could see so clearly it made his heart ache with agony.
They were in a park, and Alex was laughing and talking.
To someone else. A stranger. A stranger who Alex would love because he’d be the only father the child would ever know. He wouldn’t remember his real father.
In all the words that had been thrown his way in the last twenty-four hours, those were the ones that finally got his attention. The thought of Alex growing up without him, calling another man Dad. That was truly unbearable to him.
“Tommy? You’re free to go.”
“I…” His heart raced, and the pain lanced through him like a live wire, stealing the breath from his lungs. “I think I need help.”