Seventeen Detective Walter Duncan
Seventeen
Detective Walter Duncan
I finished the interview as quickly as I could. I climb behind the wheel of the Tahoe and glance at Liv, who has her eyes closed. Damn.
“Andrea Donnelly was home Saturday night. She says her best friend can confirm it, since they were together making margaritas. She pulled a twelve-hour shift on Sunday night and spent Monday at home with a sick daughter,” I say.
Liv grunts. “I guess we can check her off the list, then.” She says all this without opening her eyes.
I start the vehicle without agreeing or disagreeing.
There is only one more victim on the list that we haven’t had some sort of contact with: Melanie Hardeman.
We still haven’t been able to interview Janie Hyatt, but her partner spoke for her, sort of.
Admittedly, the two’s alleged surveilling activity of Fanning is suspect.
As is the burned-out barn, but we haven’t found anything more to take our suspicions to the next level. And we can’t get a call back.
But I’m fairly convinced that something went down related to Fanning with those two, Reeves and Hyatt.
Sanchez is still a potential actor in all this despite being away.
His alibi regarding the road trip to Mexico has checked out.
He used his passport to cross the border into Mexico, as did his friends.
But that doesn’t mean they didn’t have a body with them.
The timing is the suspicious part for me.
Not to mention that I just can’t get past this story of him as a skinny little kid taking down Fanning all by himself.
He had to have help. I simply cannot see it otherwise.
In the end, I am growing more and more convinced that we’re beating a dead horse.
Even if all seven prove to have firm alibis, we’re left with a family member or friend or maybe a totally unrelated vigilante who could be responsible for Fanning’s disappearance. The fact that he hasn’t shown up at a hospital or in a morgue leaves no doubt that he is missing, conceivably dead.
Then again, it’s possible he has taken off and plans to set up a new identity someplace. But that takes money, which makes the option unlikely.
The only reasonable alternative makes my heart ache. I do not want to find out that Fanning has hurt another person and is holed up somewhere.
Damn him. He should have died in prison. He should be in hell, where he belongs. How is it good people like my Stella can suffer such horrific, slow deaths and that bastard is still breathing?
Well, he might not still be breathing. But then again, if he is and he took a victim—considering that victim has not shown up anywhere—the victim is likely dead by now.
Dammit all to hell. It’s a vicious fucking circle of possibilities without a single one that stands out a little more than the other.
Fury quakes through me as I drive away. I glance at my partner again. She’s still slumped in the passenger seat. “You okay? You don’t look okay, Liv.”
“I am definitely not okay.” She scrubs a hand over her face. “Sorry about running out on you in there. It was either that or puke on her carpet.”
“We’re going to lunch. You need something in your stomach.” I pull away from the curb.
“Chances are, I’ll just puke it up,” she says. “I can’t decide if it’s related to the migraines or if it’s plain old morning sickness.” She untwists the lid on her bottle of water and sips gingerly.
“Is that normal either way?” I am worried sick about her.
If it’s the migraines, that can’t be good for the baby.
If it’s morning sickness, that can’t be good for Liv.
Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never been in this situation before.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Damn, I wish I knew what to do.
“It can be normal either way, yeah.”
She sounds so weak. “What about soup? That bread place you like has killer chicken noodle soup. You’re always saying that. I’ll bet soup would help.”
She sighs. “Maybe. I’ll give it a try.”
The weight on my chest eases a little. “I kind of like that broccoli-cheddar soup, and I’m not usually a soup man.” No one can make soup the way my Stella did. I don’t have to say as much. Liv knows. Stella sent soup to her plenty of times.
“Stella spoiled you for anybody else’s soup.” She laughs.
I’m glad. The sound is weary but it’s a laugh nonetheless. I’ll take it.
I decide to lighten things up. “You been thinking about baby names?”
“Are you kidding? I’m still dealing with the concept that I’m pregnant.”
I hit my blinker for the next turn. “Bullshit. Baby names have crossed your mind. That’s just normal.”
“Maybe I’m not normal.” She smiles.
I grin. “Normal enough.”
“I’ll get around to names eventually.”
At least she smiled and sort of laughed again. That’s something.
“You want to go inside and eat?”
“We probably should. That way I can make a run for the bathroom as necessary. I don’t want to puke in your car.”
At half past one, the biggest lunch rush is over, so we’re served and seated fairly quickly.
“You want to talk about what the warden said?” I talked her down from the edges of hysteria as we left Riverbend. Then she moved straight to the next name on the list. I took her cue and let it ride. But Riverbend is the elephant in the room. There’s no avoiding it for long.
She shrugs. “I’m thinking maybe my father spoke to Fanning on Sanchez’s behalf.
So far, those are the only two names related to the case that I’ve found in his notes or files.
Sanchez may have been his patient, and he may have asked my father to talk to Fanning.
It seems a bit unorthodox, but there has to be some reason, and that one sounds more logical than any other I can come up with.
I don’t believe for a second that my father was acting as Fanning’s therapist. I’m certain that was a ruse to gain access to him. ”
“We can drop by Fanning’s lawyer’s office and feel him out. If Fanning had his own therapist, the lawyer should have a record of the name and any visits before and after his release.”
“But we both know he’s not going to tell us either way.”
I drink down the last of my soup, not bothering with the spoon, and offer, “No harm in asking.”
Liv sips at her soup for a while longer, then pushes it away. She didn’t eat much, but at least she ate something. The few crackers she nibbled on should help as well.
Once in the Tahoe, she reaches into the back seat and grabs a Walmart bag, dumps the dog shampoo out, and pokes the bag into one of the cupholders in the console.
Our gazes meet. “Just in case,” she explains.
I nod. “To the lawyer’s office, then?”
“Let’s drop by the Hyatt Riding Academy first,” Liv suggests. “It’s probably pointless to hope we’ll find Hyatt, but maybe the receptionist will let us have a look around.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Can’t hurt,” Liv echoes.
The riding academy sits on one hundred exclusive and valuable acres in Franklin.
Part of the property is wooded, but most is covered in beautifully manicured pastures and high-end barns.
The place is very fancy. It’s also not for beginners looking to have their first experience with a horse.
This is the place you go when you want to learn to compete.
Where someone who wants to be like Liv’s mom, God rest her soul, would start out.
The main office is large, with a lobby that exhibits photos and pamphlets showing off their award-winning former students and the teachers who once went home with the trophies and ribbons.
Said trophies and ribbons stand proudly in glass cases.
Two customers—a mother and daughter, I figure—are perusing the stuff meant to encourage application.
Liv walks up to the counter and displays her badge. “We’re here to see Janie Hyatt.”
The woman, receptionist or whatever, glances at me, then back to Liv. “As I’ve already told you, Ms. Hyatt is on vacation this week. She and her wife are in the Smokies for a long weekend.”
I move up next to Liv. Show my badge as well.
This is the same woman I’ve spoken to twice, and she wants me to know it.
Well, I want her to know that we’re tired of waiting.
“I’m wondering,” I say, “why she hasn’t at least called back, since I’m confident you’ve passed along the messages that we need to speak with her. ”
The receptionist blinks, takes a moment to consider how to respond. “I can’t say. I’ve passed along your messages. That’s all I can tell you.”
I put my badge away. “Well, maybe we’ll just have a look around.”
The woman blinks again, hesitates once more. “I’m afraid we don’t allow that sort of thing. We do have weekly tours of the facility on Mondays. If you’d like to come back then, you’ll get a very good look at our facility and what we do here.”
“We really need to do this today,” Liv presses. “We’re not looking to sign up for classes. This is police business.”
Without hesitation and with a big smile, the receptionist leans forward and lowers her voice for our ears only. “Then I’m afraid you’ll need a warrant.”
“Is that what Ms. Hyatt told you to say?” I ask.
Her full attention lands on me once more. “No. That’s standard operating procedure.”
Now I’m just pissed off, but before I can say something I shouldn’t, Liv speaks up. “We’ll need any associated phone numbers and the exact address of that vacation location.”
She stares at Liv for a long moment, then scratches something onto a notepad. She tears off the page and hands it to Liv. “Good day, Detectives.”
Frustration has me gritting my teeth on the way out the door.
When we’re back in the Tahoe, I sputter, “Damn it.”
“It was a long shot,” Liv points out.
As I back out of the parking slot, I mutter another curse.
“I’ll call Gatlinburg PD,” she says, “and have them knock on the door at this location.” She eyeballs the info provided by the receptionist. “There’s no phone number, just an address.”