Fifteen Detective Olivia Newhouse #2
The sky is overcast, threatening, as I climb out of the Tahoe. I draw in a deep breath heavy with the smell and taste of rain. The air crackles with the potential of the coming storm. The forecast is rain today and possible thunderstorms late tomorrow.
I’ve always had a thing for thunderstorms. They make me feel alive. The crashes and booms of thunder and the steady drum of rain are soothing to my soul somehow. It’s weird, I know.
“You should try talking to him again tonight.”
I glance at Walt. He could see that I was upset the moment I hopped into his passenger seat, so I told him the latest with David. “I will. I really don’t know why he’s got such a bug up his ass. Maybe he’s the one having second thoughts.”
Walt pauses to look at me. “If that’s the case, he’s a damn fool.”
I refuse to tell Walt about David’s jealousy where our relationship is concerned. No way would I do that to him. I will not allow David’s insecurities to become Walt’s guilt. Or mine, for that matter.
“Are you thinking of holding back until you see how things go from here?”
“Honestly?” I exhale a weary breath. “Yes, I am. I don’t want the baby to be the only reason that we follow through with our wedding plans. If we’re not supposed to do this, then we don’t need to do this.”
We stare at each other for a moment, then carry on toward the prison entrance.
What else is there to say? My relationship with David is unraveling at breakneck speed.
The best I can do is brace for whatever comes next and hope we can find our way beyond this rocky place that has suddenly consumed our lives.
There are so many things I should be telling him; then maybe he would understand.
But I can’t bring myself to do that—to expose this .
. . whatever it is . . . that’s happening to me.
Can a person have a midlife crisis at thirty?
“Hyatt and Reeves are still avoiding us,” Walt says, dragging my attention back to the here and now.
“I called each one and then each of their places of business. The only person who answered any of the four was the same woman at the riding school who said Hyatt was on vacation. She has not heard from her since our last call. I think I annoyed her.”
“No question they’re avoiding us,” I agree.
“The reason is the issue. Are they the reason Fanning is missing, or is it the other way around? Problem is, we don’t have anything that justifies taking the next step to locate them.
” BOLOs and the like require justification.
Until we have more than an elderly witness’s account of seeing two unknown women in an SUV driving by and a burned-out barn at a secondary residence, we can’t do more than keep trying to reach one or the other.
If remains are found in the barn rubble, that would give us the needed impetus.
Until then, we keep looking the old-fashioned way.
So we’re moving on to the next name on the list, Andrea Donnelly, as soon as this prison visit is over. This makes my heart hurt.
Inside, we sign in and are escorted to the warden’s office. Walt informed Warden Scott Tennison what we needed when he called and made the appointment. Hopefully, Tennison will have taken the time to look into his request.
Tennison is a short, heavy man who looks closer to seventy than sixty.
He stands behind a government-issue executive desk surrounded by government-issue filing cabinets and cheaply upholstered chairs.
The view out the window behind him is of the quad between buildings.
There are a few trees and picnic tables and more of that well-done landscaping.
Walt shakes the hand Tennison extends. “Walt Duncan,” he says. “And this is my partner, Olivia.”
I shake the warden’s hand as well. Walt left off my surname to prevent the inevitable questions of how I might be connected to the deceased psychiatrist we’re here to discuss.
“Please, have a seat,” Tennison says.
We settle into the stiff chairs. Tennison resumes his seat in the high-back leather executive’s chair—definitely not government issue.
“I had one of my assistants pull the records on Fanning’s visitors,” Tennison begins. “Besides his attorney, he had only one during his final months with us.”
The warden places four different photos across his desk, all of my father signing in at security. My heart thumps hard against my sternum. I ask, “There were four visits in all?”
Tennison meets my gaze. “Yes, one in December of last year, two in January of this year, and then a final visit on February second.”
I struggle to conceal my surprise at the number of times my father visited, particularly that last one mere days before he died. “Fanning had no other visitors?” He has answered this question already, but I suddenly need confirmation that I heard right.
Tennison shrugs. “The only other person was his attorney. He visited once in January and then again on February ninth.”
It’s not surprising that the attorney would visit, considering Fanning was coming up on his release date.
Why in the world would my father visit the son of a bitch four times?
This makes no sense whatsoever. I wasn’t aware my father even knew Fanning beyond what was seen in the news leading up to his release.
This is wrong somehow. My head is spinning and every breath is a struggle.
“In what capacity was Dr. Newhouse visiting Fanning?” Walt asks.
My heart practically stumbles to a stop.
“Newhouse listed himself as Fanning’s therapist. I was under the impression he was helping him to prepare for being released back into society, which is why I granted extended visitations.”
A chill leaches into my bones. “These visits weren’t recorded?” I know the answer before I ask, but I had to be sure.
“Certainly not,” Tennison assures me.
“Thank you, Warden.” Walt stands and thrusts out his hand.
I do the same, my knees feeling weak with this ground-shaking news. Why would my father hide this from me? We discussed Fanning’s upcoming release. I remember distinctly telling him I could not believe, even with the plea deal, that his sentence wasn’t at least a decade longer.
“You know,” Tennison says as we prepare to go, “it’s not unusual for an inmate to seek help from a therapist or a man of God prior to release.
They all leave here hoping never to return.
Generally, they seek counsel from one of our staff therapists.
I don’t know how Fanning landed himself a prestigious doctor like Newhouse. ”
“Maybe if we find Fanning alive, we’ll learn the answer to that question,” Walt replies.
I’m grateful my partner responded, because I couldn’t have spoken if my life depended upon it. I feel as if I’m in a dream—a nightmare—that keeps dragging me deeper and deeper into this place I don’t recognize.
“The really strange part is, Newhouse’s last visit was quite volatile,” Tennison goes on.
“The guards said Fanning demanded to be taken back to his cell and that the two men were still shouting at each other when Fanning was escorted away. It didn’t sound like any therapy session I’ve ever heard of. ”
Walt hesitates. “Any chance either one of those guards is on duty today?”
Air rushes into my starving lungs.
“I believe one of them is,” Tennison says. “Would you want to speak with him?”
Before I can shout yes, Walt says calmly, “If possible. We understand you have a prison to run here, and we’ve already taken up a great deal of your time.”
“I do have a meeting,” Tennison says, “so I’ll have the two of you wait in my conference room. I’ll see that Officer Winslow joins you as soon as he can.”
Walt and I wait in the conference room, both of us looking rattled. We know better than to discuss our concerns until we’re outside these prison walls. You never know when you’re being recorded, particularly since we’re not attorneys or doctors.
Seventeen endless minutes later, a tall, thin man in his mid-forties enters the room. “Ricky Winslow,” he announces.
He stands at attention, awaiting our questions. My money’s on him being former military. Maybe a marine.
“Have a seat,” I suggest, grateful my voice is steady once more.
Winslow pulls out the chair at the end of the table and settles into it.