Chapter 14
The Tower portends sudden change, chaos, and upheaval. This is a necessary step in your journey.
CAL
My hands are clammy as Laura and I climb the steps and enter the double doors of the Virginia Highlands precinct.
Everything will be OK. Everything will be OK. Everything will be OK.
I feel sick to my stomach.
Laura places her hand on my back as we step over the threshold. “Stay calm, Cal. You’ve got this.” From your lips to God’s ears, I prayed.
Laura greets the police sergeant at the front desk like he was an old friend. “Hiya Eddie, how’s it going? Listen, my client, Dr. Cassidy, is here to speak with Detectives Chan and Bizzell. Can you have Sue Ellen get her prints and then escort her into Room C? I’ll let Danny and Biz know we’re here.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Fuller.”
Laura instructs me, “Wait here until Sergeant Knight comes to get you. I’ll meet you in the interrogation room. I want to have a word with the detectives.”
Eddie—Sargeant Eason—picks up the phone and punches a few buttons. “Sue,” he said, “got some fingers for ya.”
A few minutes later Sgt. Knight ambles down the hallway. “Ms. Cassidy, come with me.” She leads me down the hallway and through a dreary squad room. There are several police officers sitting at their desks, doing paperwork, or talking on the phone. Detective Chan is seated at one of the desks, typing on a computer. I know he saw me enter the room, but he completely ignores me as I pass by.
I tell myself this will be over in a few minutes. They’ll realize they have made a mistake and I’ll be home in time for a late celebratory lunch with Marci.”
Sgt. Knight stops at a desk in the back of the squad room and motions for me to sit down. The sergeant opens her laptop and presses a few keys. She slides a tablet over to me.
“Left hand, please.” She places my fingertips one at a time on the pad, checking her computer screen after each impression. “Right hand.”
When she finishes, she stands up and says, “Follow me.” She never meets my eye or cracks a smile.
We go down another hallway. She stops about halfway down, opens a door, and walks away.
To my great relief, Laura was sitting in one of the chairs around the table. She is having an animated conversation with a man in a suit whose back is to me and Detective Bizzell, who is sitting at the end of the table. The light banter and laughter cease when I enter the room. The smile on Detective Juanita Bizzell’s face is replaced with thinly disguised hatred.
Laura rises walks over to me. She gently places a hand on my elbow and guides me to the seat beside her. “Would you like some water, Dr. Cassidy?”
“Yes, please, no ice.”
Detective Bizzell snorts. She looks up at the two-way mirror and says, “Hey Franco, please bring our guest some water, chilled, no ice, in a frosted goblet.” She turns to me, “Anything else? Caviar and toast points?”
“Biz,” chastises Laura, shaking her head.
The two women are obviously well acquainted. Maybe that will work to my advantage.
A moment later the door opens, and a uniformed officer hands me a paper cup. I take a sip; it is tepid tap water. I smile at Detective Bizzell, “Thank you, Detective.”
No one speaks for the next few minutes. Detective Bizzell is busy making notes on the inside cover of a manilla folder full of papers. Laura checks her mobile phone for messages and then discreetly places her hand on my knee to stop the nervous tapping of my foot that is shaking the table.
I sit up straight in my chair. I cross one leg over the other and fling my arm over the back of Laura’s chair, telegraphing to Detective Juanita Bizzell that I am relaxed and comfortable because I am, after all, innocent. I contemplate suing the police department for false arrest. Specifically Detective Bizzell. And maybe I’ll throw in Detective Twin Soul for good measure.
He enters the room carrying a box, putting it on the floor between his and Biz’s chairs. I can’t help it; I inhale slightly when I see him. I don’t think of him as “Danny” any longer. He is Detective Chan and like Detective Bizzell he is my adversary.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Detective Chan says. He avoids my gaze. “Just conferring with CIS and confirming a few things.”
He turns to Biz. “You’ve apprised Dr. Cassidy of her rights?”
Biz nods, “Ready to rock and roll.”
Chan turns on the recording device. “This is April 25, 2023. Detectives Daniel Chan and Juanita Bizzell interviewing Susannah Caroline Cassidy. Also present is Laura Fuller, Dr. Cassidy’s attorney, and Aaron Carter, Fulton County DA.”
He finally looks at me. His face is unreadable with no hint of emotion or kindness.
“Dr. Cassidy, we appreciate you coming in to clear up a few inconsistencies regarding the murder of your former husband, Paul Davis. Would you mind telling us how you learned about Mr. Davis’s death?”
I take a sip of water and clear my throat. “I learned about Paul’s death from you, Detective. You came to a seminar I held at the college on Saturday, April 22.”
“That would be Peachtree College?”
“Yes, that’s right. I am employed by Peachtree College.”
Chan continues. “You didn’t hear about it on the news, or a friend didn’t call to tell you what happened?”
“No.” I am thankful my voice is strong and clear. “I don’t watch the news.”
Bizzell interjects. “What about phone calls from family or friends who might have seen it on the news? Surely someone saw it and contacted you.”
“No, when I’m preparing for a lecture, I turn off my phone. I had a drink with a friend at my house around 5 and she left around 6:30. I turned off my phone and prepared for the seminar. On Saturday, after the seminar when I turned on my phone again, I had a million frantic messages from friends and colleagues. But by then Detective Chan had already informed me about Paul’s death.”
Detective Chan resumes the questioning. “When was the last time you spoke to your late husband?”
“Ex-husband,” I correct him. “It would have been in October of last year when he called to ask if he could buy my share of the property we owned together in East Atlanta. I said I would have my attorney contact him to arrange the sale. My attorney handled the transaction from that point with power of attorney and Paul and I didn’t have any reason to speak after that.”
Detective Bizzell opens the manilla folder and takes out several sheets of paper. “So, you are saying you have not had any telephone conversations with your ex-husband for six months. None?”
“Yes, Detective Bizzell, that is exactly what I am telling you. Paul and I have not spoken since October.”
Detective Bizzell slides the papers across the table. “Perhaps you can tell us why Mr. Davis’s phone records indicate that you and he talked several times a week, with the last phone call being two hours before his death.”
“That’s impossible. You and your phone records are mistaken. I will repeat, I have not spoken on the telephone, in person, by email, or any other method, to Paul since October.”
“These are not ‘our’ records, Ms. Cassidy. They are ATT’s records.”
Laura reaches for the papers. She shows the top sheet to me. There are many highlighted lines, all calls to the same number. “Is this your phone number?”
Without looking at the paper I say, “No, it’s not,” but when I look at the paper, I see my office telephone number. The calls were incoming and outgoing. I recognize Paul’s home telephone number. “This is literally impossible. I have not called Paul and he hasn’t called me. This is a huge error.”
“Oh, I think not, Ms. Cassidy.” Bizzell picks up the paper and waves it. “According to these records, you and Mr. Davis spoke three or four times a week. What did you two talk about? Did his wife know you were in contact?”
A tiny trickle of sweat forms at my temples and the base of my throat. My armpits are sweating profusely. I feel flushed. I locked eyes with Laura. I need her to believe me.
“I swear I have not spoken to Paul since last October. These records are wrong. They’re fake.” Detective Bizzell snorts and slams her hands on the papers in disgust.
“Dr. Cassidy, where were you on the night of Thursday, April 20, from midnight to 5:00 Friday morning?” It was Detective Chan who asked the question. I ignore him. I point to the piece of paper on the table. I can’t let this go. “This is a mistake. These are wrong. Paul and I haven’t spoken since October.”
Detective Bizzell raises her voice. “Detective Chan asked you a question, Ms. Cassidy. Where were you on the evening of April 20th?”
“I was home, preparing for Saturday’s seminar.” Sweat is pouring down my back now. “I’ve already told you this.”
“Was anyone with you?” Detective Bizzell glances at her partner and says sarcastically, “Other than your dog?”
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I am hot and sweaty, thirsty, and a little bit dizzy. And frustrated as hell. I raise my voice to match the decibel and timbre of Detective Bizzell’s. “I have already explained to you that I do not like distractions when I am preparing for a lecture. I was home alone.” I slam my fist on the table. “My television was off; my fucking phone was off. I worked on the presentation until midnight and then went to bed.”
“So, you have no alibi for the evening?” I want to kill that bitch.
Finally, Laura speaks up. Apparently, she either thinks I’m doing fine by myself, or I am a lost cause. “Asked and answered, Biz.”
Bizzell continues. “When was the last time you were in Paul’s home?”
Laura notices the sweat running down my cheek and says to Detective Chan, “Danny, can we get Dr. Cassidy another cup of water?”
Detective Chan nods at the two-way mirror.
Taking a deep breath I say, forcefully, “I’ve never been in the home that Paul lived in. When we divorced six years ago, he moved out of the home we shared and bought the house in Virginia Highlands. I’ve never had occasion to visit Paul there.”
Detective Bizzell feigns a surprised look. “Really? You’ve never been to Paul’s home?” She reaches into the box between her and Chan and pulls out a plastic evidence bag. “Dr. Cassidy, do you recognize this cup?”
She takes the cup from the bag and places it in the center of the table.
“Yes, I have a set of cups just like this at my office. They are from a gift shop in Decatur.” I look pointedly at Detective Chan. “We’ve discussed this before.”
“Are you missing any?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I am missing one cup.”
Chan held up his hand. “Hold on, Dr. Cassidy. I questioned you about a missing cup and you said, verbatim, ‘I don’t keep track of my coffee cups.’”
“You are correct, Detective Chan. I said that at the time you questioned me. Since then, I have counted my cups, searched my home and office, and determined that one is, indeed, missing. I think a patient stole it.” I try not to sound snarky but fail. “I officially amend my previous statement.”
“Dr. Cassidy, we found this cup in Paul’s house.”
“Well, that makes sense. As I have said before, he has eight of them.”
Detective Bizzell plays her trump cards. “Does it make sense, Ms. Cassidy, that your fingerprints and DNA were found on the cup in Paul’s house? The house you say you’ve never visited. Your fingerprints were on the plastic bag that the poison was in. The poison that killed Mr. Davis. Your fingerprints were also found on the bottle of wine that you two shared that night.”
The detective smiles triumphantly as she pulls a plastic bag with a shoe in it out of the box and slams it on the table. “And it was your Manolo Blahnik that was shoved through Paul’s eye socket.” Bizzell tosses a color photograph on the table. Paul is lying on the floor with a high-heeled shoe sticking in his head.
Detective Chan snatches the photograph from the table, and I hear Laura shout, “What the hell, Biz? That was uncalled for.”
The interrogation ends at that moment when I throw up all over the table, the cup, the shoe, the phone records, and Detective Bizzell’s polo shirt.