Nineteen Detective Walter Duncan
Nineteen
Detective Walter Duncan
I’m just walking into the lobby of Vanderbilt University Medical Center when I get the call from Warden Tennison.
I step to one side, out of the path of visitors going in and out. Vanderbilt is a large facility. The same one where Stella had so many tests and procedures.
Being here makes me sad . . . reminds me of the worst time in my life.
“Duncan,” I say, rather than hello.
“You have more questions for me, Detective?”
Warden Tennison’s voice is tense. He knows he’s done wrong. “Did you give Fanning’s attorney a heads-up about our visit?” Before he can respond, I tack on, “Think carefully before you answer, Tennison. I’d hate to see you charged with impeding an investigation.”
He exhales a big breath. “It’s not what you think.”
Somehow I doubt this. My instincts are humming with anticipation.
“I called Cagle to demand to know why Newhouse wasn’t listed as a therapist Fanning was consulting with. I don’t like being caught with my pants down as I was when you visited.”
“Which put you in a position to have to tell the man about our visit.” It’s not a question. Bastard.
“What choice did I have? I need answers the same as you do.”
Not the same at all. “We’ll see what the chief has to say about that. You know he plays golf with Commissioner Straton.” Straton is the top dog in the Tennessee Department of Corrections. In other words, Tennison’s boss.
I end the call before the asshole can respond. There is nothing I despise more than self-serving public servants.
At the bank of elevators, I select the proper floor and wait.
I had to put off my cold visit to Melanie Hardeman.
The husband of Patricia Shelby called with a rather odd story about his wife.
His repeated mention of Fanning in the account pushed a visit to him above all else.
The whole story sounded strange, but the fact is that everything about this case is strange.
I didn’t call Liv. She’s doing what she has to do at the farm. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Let her work through this business with her father without interference.
Liam Shelby waits for me in the small lobby of the Maternal Special Care Unit.
Since his wife has so recently given birth, any illness potentially connected to that event assures she is admitted to this unit for care.
I have no idea what her rehospitalization has to do with Fanning or the case, but the whole situation sounded far too bizarre to ignore.
“Detective Walt Duncan,” I say as I extend my hand toward the man, who looks harried and exhausted.
He barely brushes my palm with his. “I wasn’t sure if I needed to call you but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t know what else to do.”
Since we have the lobby to ourselves, I gesture to the row of chairs. “Why don’t we sit and you can tell me what’s going on.”
We settle and he scrubs his hands over his face before he begins.
“Patricia had just put the baby down yesterday afternoon. This was after you and your partner interviewed her. I had noticed she, Patricia,” he notes, “hasn’t been sleeping.
Like at all. For days. So I urge her to take a nap while the baby is sleeping.
” He shakes his head. “I mean, the whole point in my taking this time off is so I can help her. But she acts like no one can touch the baby or watch the baby but her.”
Though I have no experience on the matter if new human mothers are anything like the mothers of any other living creature, I can see how they would feel extra protective of a newborn.
I say nothing, just listen.
“For the next hour,” he goes on, “she just walked the floor. Like she was trying to prevent herself from falling asleep. She kept going over to the bassinet and checking on Lily.” He flashes a pitiful attempt at a smile. “That’s our baby. Lily.”
“Pretty name,” I offer even though his wife told us this yesterday. The poor guy is way out of sorts.
“When Lily started to rouse, I went over to pick her up. Patricia had stalled at the front window and was just staring out like she’d fallen asleep with her eyes open.”
Not impossible. I’ve seen people do it.
“Suddenly, she whirled around.” Horror creeps over his face.
“She started screaming and ran at me. She snatched the baby from me and just kept screaming. Stuff like, ‘You cannot have her!’ And ‘Stay away from my baby!’ I was stunned. I tried to make her see that it was me. But it took like ten minutes for her to calm down enough to stop screaming at me.”
Again, I don’t really have any experience in the area, but in the early days of my career, I did respond to a domestic disturbance or two involving postpartum depression, where the new mother had a bit of a psychotic episode.
“Postpartum psychosis, they called it,” Shelby says as if he’d read my mind.
“How is she now?” I hope like hell our interview didn’t have any part in this.
“She’s getting back to normal. She’s still agitated. Nervous. Afraid like. But she recognizes that she flipped out and has apologized over and over. She wants to go home to Lily. Her mother is taking care of the baby while we’re here.”
“Would it be all right if I spoke to her?” I have a feeling about this. Might be nothing, but I need to see it through.
“Please do,” the husband urges. “It was after those questions about what she did over the weekend that this situation escalated. I mean, I’m not suggesting it’s your fault.
I just think it’s about the bastard who hurt her.
Maybe she needs some extra reassurance from you—the police.
This Fanning thing has pushed her over an edge.
Really, I think she started going downhill the minute he was released. ”
Shelby gets up and I follow. At the door to the room, he hesitates. “I hope this is the right thing to do.”
I nod. “I’ll make sure she understands we’ve got this.”
He opens the door and we step inside. Patricia Shelby’s attention shoots our way. She looks from me to her husband but says nothing.
I approach the foot of her bed, keeping a bit of distance. Her husband moves to stand at her side. She takes his hand, hers shaking as she does so. Damn, I hate she’s feeling this kind of vulnerability.
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Walt Duncan. You remember me? My partner and I spoke to you yesterday. We’re working the Fanning case.”
His name causes a wince, and I wish I hadn’t needed to say it.
“Your husband tells me you have some concerns regarding the situation.”
She looks to her husband then, and tears slip down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry for all this.”
He brushes at her cheeks, his face lined with concern. “Honey, you do not need to be sorry for anything.”
“He’s right,” I say. “You did nothing wrong. If our interview had any part in this, I am truly sorry.”
She shifts her attention to me. “No. It wasn’t you. It was me. And I did. Do something wrong, I mean.”
The unexpected statement brings the moment to a standstill with no one blinking or even breathing.
“Saturday morning,” she says, shattering the odd stillness, “I went to Dawson’s Detail Shop on Dickerson where he works.”
The husband’s face pales. “Oh my God, baby, what were you thinking?”
I want to tell him to be quiet, but I ignore him instead. “Where Fanning works?” Liv and I only just learned from the lawyer that the bastard has a job. In fact, Dawson’s was another of the calls I made after leaving Liv at her Subaru. No one there has seen Fanning since Saturday around noon.
“Yes,” Patricia says. When her husband starts to say something else, she holds up a hand to stop him. “That was my part. The thing I was supposed to do.”
No matter that my instincts go on point, I don’t ask what that means. She’s talking. I want her to keep doing that until she’s finished. The clarification that she is talking about Fanning is all I need at this point.
“I was supposed to go early, before the place opened, and spray paint the words ‘sick fuck’ on the front of the building.”
Her husband’s expression shows shock now, but thankfully he says nothing.
When a couple of beats pass with her saying nothing more, I prompt her with, “Were you able to accomplish this?”
She blinks and sets her gaze on me once more. “No. He was there already. Before anyone else. Almost like he knew I was coming.”
Shit. “Fanning?”
She nods. “He told me that I should go home and be a good girl or he’d be coming for my little girl next.”
“Oh my God.” The words come from the husband, who now looks aghast. “How did he know we were having a little girl?”
She shrugs listlessly. “Social media, I guess. We posted the gender reveal party months ago. It’s the only way he could have known.”
My chest hurts with the effort to breathe. This means he was keeping tabs on his victims via social media. The idea tears at my gut. Not really surprising but damned infuriating. “What happened next, Patricia?”
“I ran back to my car and rushed away.” More tears are streaming down her cheeks. “But look what I did.” She stares at me with such worry and fear, it makes my heart ache all the more. “He could come for our baby. And it’ll be all my fault.”
“First,” I say, “I’m putting a surveillance detail on your home.
He is not going to get your baby or you.
” I turn to her husband. “Call home and let the grandmother know that an officer will be there soon.” Then I shift back to Patricia.
“I understand why you felt compelled to do this. Really, I do. And you have every right to hate this man and want to force others to see what he is.”
She swipes at her damp cheeks. Her husband has moved to the other side of the room to make the call.
“I wish he was dead,” she admits, her voice quavering.
That makes two of us, but I don’t say this.
“I have one more question, Patricia.” I approach this cautiously. I don’t want to spook her or have her guard going up.
She nods as if she understands.
“What did you mean when you said that was your part, the thing you were supposed to do?”
She moistens her lips and takes a halting breath. “We all got together and decided something had to be done. Painting those words on the building where he works was my part. It was what I had to do.”
I struggle to stay calm on the outside. This is the break we’ve been waiting for. “What were the other parts, and who was supposed to do them?”
“I don’t know who was supposed to do what. I mean, it was all really secretive. I just know that the goal was to make it look like someone was warning him, and then he would disappear. The police would believe some vigilante took care of him.”
Oh hell. I hesitate, feel almost compelled to suggest we talk about her rights before going on. But I can’t. I have to know the rest. “Who else was involved?”
She looks to her husband. He is back at her bedside and has reached for her hand.
“All of us.” She bites her lip for a moment. “His victims.”
“Mario Sanchez?” I ask.
“Detective,” the husband interrupts before his wife can answer. “I think my wife has said all she needs to say without a lawyer present.”
“Thank you,” I say, rather than argue. I have what I need for now. “You’ve been more help than you realize.”
On the way out, I make the call for a surveillance detail on the Shelby home. Then I head home myself.
I won’t call Liv about this. Let her do what she must.
I have to find Hyatt and Reeves. With the two unreachable for so long, there’s no question in my mind that they have either taken Fanning or are his victims . . . again.
Either way, this is not going to end well.