Nine Detective Walter Duncan
Nine
Detective Walter Duncan
It’s the holes—the ones that go unrecognized for a little too long—that cause the most trouble in even the best-laid plans.
I sit on the back porch steps, my loyal companion at my side.
We both stare out across the lawn for as far as the light will reach through the darkness.
I think of Stella’s roses and how inept and pathetic I’ve proven at trying to keep them healthy and blooming.
My Stella was a natural with plants. Our yard, front and back, was always a standout in the neighborhood.
Until Stella suddenly got sick, the yard was her domain.
Of course, I navigated the lawnmower around the property on Saturdays, kept the grass trimmings up, but the rest was her territory and she had shooed me out of her flowerbeds more than once.
She would be horrified if she could see the overgrown mess they have become.
I’m glad it’s dark and I don’t have to look at them.
The funny thing I just realized when I sat down on these steps this evening is that in all my elaborate planning and thorough consideration for my own demise I forgot the most important thing in my life, besides Liv and my work—Sandy.
At eighty-five pounds and taller than me when she stands on her hind legs, my yellow Lab should be hard to forget.
And yet, I left her completely out of the scenario until that call from the vet.
Back when Stella’s final arrangements were made, I made my own.
I’m to be buried next to my wife without the bother of a funeral.
I told the funeral director to do what he had to do and plant me, no frills, no fuss.
My house, everything inside it, and the SUV I bequeathed to Stella’s favorite charity.
She and I donated her car to the charity before she closed her eyes for the last time.
I considered leaving my savings and insurance money to Liv, but she doesn’t need it.
She would be the first to say her parents left her far more than she will ever need.
So I decided to assign it to my favorite charity—the families of wounded and fallen officers.
My fellow officers are the only real family I have.
Like Liv, I was an only child. Parents are long gone.
I was never close to the few distant cousins I met as a kid.
I’ve been so thorough with all the necessary final arrangements. How in the world did I allow anything—especially something as important as my sweet Sandy—to fall through the cracks in my preparations?
Thank God I don’t have to worry about that anymore. At least not for a while. But I do need to make a decision, just in case I get in an accident or have a heart attack or get shot in the line of duty.
Leaving a dog behind is a true dilemma, not like the money or the material possessions. I’m reasonably sure Liv would take her in a heartbeat, but I don’t know about the fiancé. Maybe I could bring up the subject of pets with her and get a feel for Preston’s take on such things.
“Don’t worry, girl.” I rub Sandy’s back and pull her against me. “I’ll make sure you have a good home for when the time comes.”
I toss the tennis ball Sandy loves to chase and wait for her to bring it back to me, then I throw it again.
At least one of us will get some exercise today.
I expect the cardiologist will be taking that issue up with me.
Along with diet and such. I’ll have to lay off the JD.
He and I became a little too well acquainted after Stella died.
A blast of heavy air puffs out of me. Other than the coughing jags and some chest discomfort, I haven’t had too much trouble.
I smile. Damn, I can hardly believe it’s real. But I don’t have cancer, and I might just live a good while longer.
I pitch the ball again. Hell yeah.
My lips fall into a frown as I consider that Liv looked like hell again today.
I don’t like that those migraines are taking her down so low.
In the time we’ve worked so closely together, I’ve never known her to look anything but healthy and vibrant.
She seems almost withdrawn lately. Distracted and fatigued.
The big-ass bags under her eyes underscored by the dark circles have me worried.
But she went to the doc. I was there in the waiting room.
Her doctor didn’t seem overly concerned.
These days I’m not sure if that is a good thing or not.
Sometimes I think they just run us through like scanning groceries at the supermarket checkout.
If you’re turned the wrong way, they might not pick up on the real problem.
It’s all scary as hell and it feels like nothing more than the luck of the draw.
The good news is, Liv is smart. And she’s strong. No matter that she’s a little off her game right now, she’ll pull it together. That’s something else I know about her.
“Come on, Sandy.” I stand, stretch my back, and lead the way into the house.
I fill her water bowl and move to the fridge to scrounge around for a late snack. For thirty-five years, I came home to a hot meal prepared from scratch, unless we went out, which was rare. I’m spoiled and mostly inept in the kitchen. I round up cheese and crackers and snag a beer.
With my arm full of goodies, I drop into a chair at the table.
My working case file lies open on the table.
Photos of the known victims of Carl Fanning and a mug shot of the bastard himself stare up at me.
I consider Dana Reeves and Janie Hyatt. Is it possible these two average-looking women—neither of whom looks particularly strong—could be holding Fanning for the purposes of torture or could have killed him already?
There’s no question they were watching him.
I’ve mapped out the route to the cabin Hyatt inherited. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find Fanning there and wrap this one up tomorrow. I could take Friday off and get a few things done around here. God knows I have an avalanche of leave days built up even after all the time I took off with Stella.
My cell phone vibrates against the countertop. I answer with my usual, “Duncan.”
The only sound on the other end is static. I frown. “Hello.”
“Detective Walter Duncan?”
The voice is male. Not one I’ve heard before—that I can recall, anyway. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“This is Mario Sanchez.”
The words break a little, but I still hear and understand that this is the guy on a climbing trip down in Mexico. “Sanchez, thank you for calling.”
I stay perfectly still just in case a movement in one direction or the other might cause the connection to drop off. I vividly remember back when most all long-distance phone calls sounded like this.
“My wife and my mother say you’ve been very adamant about getting in touch with me.”
The words crackle across the line in pieces, but I get the gist of it.
“That’s right. If you could call me as soon as you return home, I would appreciate it. I have a few questions I’d like to review with you in person. It’s very important.”
“That’s the reason I’m calling. I wanted to confirm that we will return on Sunday and the minute I’m back in Nashville, I will call. Is there anything I can do from here, Detective? I’m a little confused as to what this is about.”
It was good to hear such eagerness to cooperate with the police, though I’m not so sure he’ll still feel that way when he learns all the fuss is about Fanning.
“Your wife tells me you and your friends left Nashville on Saturday morning and arrived in Mexico City late Sunday evening. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct. We spent Saturday night in Brownsville, Texas, at a Holiday Inn Express.”
“Your two friends were with you the whole time and can vouch for your itinerary?”
“Absolutely. This sounds serious, Detective. May I ask what this concerns?”
The static is back, so I wait it out, hoping the call won’t drop. “It’s about Carl Fanning, Mr. Sanchez.”
The long stretch of dead air that follows makes me worry that he’s severed the connection, then he says, “I see.” He hesitates before going on. “Has he taken another victim?”
That is a tough one to answer. At this point, we still can’t say one way or the other. “We’re not entirely sure, Mr. Sanchez. You see, he disappeared sometime between late Saturday and midday on Monday. It’s very important that we locate him.”
More of that tense hush lingers between us; the crackle of static pops again and again. Finally, he speaks. “If the world is lucky, he’s dead and buried somewhere.”
I can’t help wondering whether that somewhere is in Mexico.
“Have a safe trip back, Mr. Sanchez. I look forward to hearing from you as soon as you’re home.”
The call ends, and I study the photo of ten-year-old Mario Sanchez. He was Fanning’s final victim. The one who fought back and won. But was the plea bargain Fanning managed to finagle for owning up to abusing all those victims not what Sanchez had hoped for?
Or is the idea of his own child coming into the same world where Carl Fanning lives too much for him to sit idly by and do nothing?
Would his friends help him take that kind of revenge?
I can’t say just yet. I need to sit face-to-face with Sanchez and measure the man he has become.
But I have already concluded one thing with absolute certainty: There is no way the boy escaped Carl Fanning without help.
Both the detectives who worked the case felt Sanchez wasn’t completely forthcoming, but they had the bad guy so they let it go.
Maybe it’s time that possibility was revisited.
I turn my attention to Reeves and Hyatt. There’s always the chance Fanning is just a few miles up the road in Hendersonville hog-tied in a shed or an old barn awaiting execution.
Somehow I can’t muster up any sympathy.
He deserves a lot worse than whatever has happened to him.