If I were God, I know what the eleventh commandment would be: Thou shalt not kill before 8 a.m. on a Monday. ***<\/p>\n Twenty minutes later, I sat with Gleason in the identical interrogation room next door, except for Linda Dawson\u2019s husband Paul, sitting across from us. ***<\/p>\n I treated myself to two glasses of Chardonnay before bed. My thoughts drifted back to Linda Dawson as I fell asleep. A murderess or not? And Paul Dawson, the jealous husband? Paul Dawson\u2019s .22 killed Mr. Miller. But who\u2019s finger pulled the trigger? ***<\/p>\n I awoke thinking of the Miller case. I had motive, opportunity, a confession, but two suspects. ***<\/p>\n An hour later, Gleason strolled up to my desk where I sat, a huge grin on his face. \u201cWe have evidence in black and white,\u201d he said. \u00a0<\/p>\n [Image Credit : Photo by Nick Design<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a>]<\/p>\n Charles Spataro is a writer of mystery\/crime fiction novels as well as
+++++<\/span>That thought gave me no comfort on this sticky July morning as I climbed a long flight of steps hemmed in by white wrought-iron railings which led to the ornately-carved wooden door of a Greenwich Village brownstone. I wished I\u2019d stayed in bed with the AC on full blast.
+++++<\/span>I flashed my badge hanging around my neck on a lanyard at the uniformed cop blocking the door. \u201cDetective Pagano,\u201d I said, my Brooklyn accent asserting itself. He gave me the once over, his eyes searching me with the subtlety of an amateur pickpocket as they settled on my pride lapel pin I wore on my suit in honor of my late brother, a victim of a hate crime. A flash of disgust on his face told me sexual harassment lived to see another day.
+++++<\/span>The uniform stepped aside without a word. I pulled out my booties from the pocket of my suit and slipped them on my shoes. I grabbed latex gloves from my other pocket and pulled them on.
+++++<\/span>I made my way through the dim foyer, and into the living room, nearly tripping on a pair of Italian leather shoes. My vision adjusted to the lack of light, and the man who owned them sprawled on his back came into focus. A corpse is never a pretty sight, even a handsome one in his early forties with dark curly hair.
+++++<\/span>I crouched beside him. The three bloody holes in his chest was proof his life hadn\u2019t worked out the way he\u2019d planned. He wore an expensive suit, a blood-stained white shirt, black pants, and a shiny gold Rolex on his right wrist. In my head, the robbery motive went bye-bye.
+++++<\/span>The wounds appeared to come from a small caliber gun at close range.
+++++<\/span>\u201cGood morning,\u201d a voice rang out behind me. I\u2019d know Gleason\u2019s raspy caw anywhere. I glanced up and found him standing in the foyer, his six-four frame topped with a head of thick gray hair. \u201cYou\u2019re looking fine today, Detective, mighty fine,\u201d he added, eyeing the cut of my new charcoal suit I splurged on that cost half a week\u2019s pay.
+++++<\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re happy for a Monday morning,\u201d I said, grinning. \u201cI thought you were taking off today?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cAnd leave you on your own?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNothing I can\u2019t handle,\u201d I said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cYou took the call, you\u2019re the lead. I\u2019m here to help.\u201d He returned my smile.
+++++<\/span>\u201cMeet Mr. John Miller,\u201d Gleason said, pointing to the victim, then wiping his brow with the sleeve of his suit, though the temperature outside hadn\u2019t hit eighty yet. \u201cAn eyewitness across the street, a Mrs. Parry, called nine-one-one. She heard a shot and thought she spotted Mrs. Miller race down the steps and disappear toward Seventh Avenue.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cShe\u2019s not positive?\u201d
+++++<\/span>He shook his head. \u201cShe\u2019s eighty-two, bad eyesight even with glasses. She gave me a line on the Millers. He practiced law, and she owns the Shining Rose Real Estate three blocks away, near Sixth. They\u2019re childless. That\u2019s not all.\u201d Gleason kept me hanging for a few seconds. My partner loved dramatics. He\u2019s a stillborn actor, no matter how much he denies it. \u201cMrs. Parry thinks she heard the Millers fighting last night. A shouting match,\u201d she said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cThanks. I\u2019ll take care of Mrs. Miller and poke around here,\u201d I said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll finish up the neighborhood and see you back at the Six.\u201d Gleason disappeared from the foyer.
+++++<\/span>After partnering with him for a year and a half, I concluded he enjoyed talking to people. Sometimes I couldn\u2019t shut him up. He insisted on handling the canvassing because informing relatives of a death wasn\u2019t his favorite task.
+++++<\/span>I stepped past the corpse and took in the sunlit living room that looked like a photo from Architectural Digest. Intricate mahogany molding adorned the off-white walls where they met the ceiling and the floor. A crystal chandelier hung high above the antique oak flooring, while a white leather couch and a glass table with a pile of coffee-table sized books populated the center of the room.
+++++<\/span>The crime lab boys announced their boisterous arrival, hauling their equipment in while I searched the spare bedroom. Books lined two walls and a solid-looking black oak desk stood against another. I searched the desk piled high with papers and empty boxes. Nothing of importance. I ran a finger along a shelf and specks of dust danced in the air. They weren\u2019t clean freaks. Momma Pagano would stroke out.
+++++<\/span>I scribbled notes in my notebook, then checked the master bedroom. A different story in here. Clothes cluttered the floor and an empty wine bottle, an old lotto ticket, a set of car keys, a wallet, and other odds and ends covered the dresser. I thumbed through John Miller\u2019s wallet. Credit cards, driver\u2019s license, and two hundred in cash. Not bad pocket change. The money confirmed my earlier suspicion of ruling out a robbery, I checked the closets, and spotted only men\u2019s clothes. Divorced?
+++++<\/span>I checked the bathroom and the lone towel and toothbrush confirmed he lived alone. The rest of the house yielded nothing. No forced entry, no signs of a struggle, and a clean kill that lasted seconds. The crime lab boys were busy when I left.
+++++<\/span>I double-parked my Pontiac at the curb in front of the Shining Rose Real Estate eight blocks away and palmed the keys.
+++++<\/span>Peering through the tiny store front, I found a man sitting at a computer on a desk and two women standing over him. I pinned the willowy, sharp dressed woman with a short mane of blonde hair as the new widow. I walked in and flashed my badge. \u201cMrs. Miller?\u201d
+++++<\/span>They all looked up. \u201cYes?\u201d the blonde said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cI\u2019m Detective Pagano. We need to talk in private. This concerns your husband.\u201d
+++++<\/span>She brushed a wisp of hair from her perfect made-up face. \u201cMy husband, John? what\u2019s he\u2014.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cIn private.\u201d
+++++<\/span>She led me to an immaculate rear office with a white pine desk and comfortable-looking ergonomic chair.
+++++<\/span>I closed the door. I hated delivering bad news. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mrs. Miller. We found your husband John shot to death earlier this morning in your home.\u201d
+++++<\/span>I waited for her to collapse into her chair or faint, anything to tell me she harbored feelings for her late husband. She did neither at first.
+++++<\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not surprised,\u201d she said. \u201cSounds like his girlfriend got fed up with his shenanigans. Oh my God.\u201d Then she fell into the chair behind the desk.
+++++<\/span>Her tears came fast. I sensed she wasn\u2019t acting, and gave her time to compose herself. The clean office and pigsty house didn\u2019t jibe. \u201cI have a few questions for you, that okay?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She nodded.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhen did you leave him?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She wiped the tears from her eyes, the mascara blackening her face. \u201cWe haven\u2019t been living together since I filed for a separation six months ago. John inherited the brownstone from his mother. I moved to a loft on West 27th off Seventh Avenue near Carol, my secretary, the brunette outside.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYou mentioned his girlfriend. Do you know her?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNo, he refused to say.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhen did you last see him?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She breathed in deep before she spoke. \u201cLast night. We argued. He asked me to stop by the brownstone. He needed money. I gave him two hundred dollars, but he wanted more.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cA witness spotted you leaving your husband\u2019s house at seven this morning.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Her emerald green eyes grew bright, like a fire igniting behind them. \u201cI haven\u2019t been there since last night. Carol and I started working at six a.m. this morning on the new computer system. Ask her or the tech who\u2019s been here with us the whole time.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cI will. Did anyone threaten your husband recently?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Through her tears she asked, \u201cI threatened him with divorce, does that count?\u201d
+++++<\/span>I shook my head. Not in a court of law. \u201cYou mentioned he wanted money? For what?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cMy husband has a problem with gambling besides woman. He liked his drinks.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cHow about someone who\u2019d want to hurt him?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cOther than a girlfriend, I can\u2019t think of anyone.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cSorry for your loss, Mrs. Miller.\u201d I gave her my card. \u201cIf you think of anything. The coroner\u2019s office will call you.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Her sobbing subsided as I exited the office and spoke to Carol, Mrs. Miller\u2019s secretary, then to the tech separately. They corroborated Mrs. Miller\u2019s story. The jealous wife fell down a few lines on my suspect list. Real estate prices were up. A brownstone went for millions in this neighborhood. Did she hire someone to kill him?
+++++<\/span>Undecided, I returned to the precinct and tracked down Gleason to the cramped kitchen in the Detective\u2019s room, sipping coffee from his infamous emerald-green cup. I didn\u2019t like that devious smile of his.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019s the secret,\u201d I said, helping myself to a paper cup of coffee whose viscosity defied gravity.
+++++<\/span>Gleason chuckled. \u201cI love working with you, Antonio.\u201d
+++++<\/span>He knew I hated my given name. He liked the way the syllables rolled off his Irish tongue, his sense of humor sharp as always. Hell, he treated me like his own son. \u201cThe name\u2019s Tony,\u201d I said. \u201cEnlighten me.\u201d
+++++<\/span>His eyes lit bright blue. \u201cI\u2019ve done my good deed for the people of Manhattan.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cGleason\u2026\u201d
+++++<\/span>He shuffled to the sink and set his mug on the counter. \u201cA Linda Dawson confessed to killing our well-dressed Mr. Miller. Want a peek at her?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Gleason enjoyed teasing me. His idea of intellectual foreplay. \u201cWho\u2019s she?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cMiller\u2019s next-door neighbor. Ready?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cSure.\u201d Slurping the rest of the coffee, and burning the roof of my mouth, I trashed the cup and followed Gleason to Interrogation Room One.
+++++<\/span>I peered through the one-way at a hunched over bleached-blonde Linda Dawson, dressed for an evening out in tight black jeans and shiny black top at 10 a.m. in the morning. I pegged her at about my age, a young-looking thirty-five.
+++++<\/span>Her head perked up as we entered the room with its muted pale green walls and occupied by three chairs and a rectangular metal table bolted to the floor. We took seats opposite her at the narrow table. I introduced myself and Gleason did the same. Gleason recited her Miranda rights and told her we were being videotaped. She waved away the suggestion of a lawyer. She\u2019s either stupid, guilty, or a bit of both. Eyes red and puffy and her mascara beyond help, she avoided my gaze, as if embarrassed to find herself in a police precinct confessing to murder. I didn\u2019t blame her.
+++++<\/span>\u201cMrs. Dawson?\u201d She gave a noncommittal shrug. \u201cTell us what happened this morning?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Sniffling, she leaned forward and laid her arms across the table. \u201cAt 7 a.m. I took my husband\u2019s gun from the closet and knocked on John\u2019s door and I\u2026.\u201d She broke into a tirade of heaving sobs.
+++++<\/span>We waited for her crying to stop. \u201cI shot John, three times,\u201d she said. \u201cI hid the gun in a trash dumpster on Seventh Avenue.\u201d
+++++<\/span>I looked at Gleason. \u201cWe recovered a .22. I\u2019m waiting for the lab results.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhy did you kill him, Mrs. Dawson?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Her face didn\u2019t give anything away. \u201cWe\u2019ve been seeing each other, then his wife found out. He called me this morning and said we were done.\u201d Her words sounded rehearsed to me. An actress? She removed a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
+++++<\/span>\u201cAn affair?\u201d That fit with what Mrs. Miller mentioned about a girlfriend. Neither Mr. Miller or Mrs. Dawson were delinquent in the good looks department. \u201cHow long were you together?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cA year,\u201d Linda Dawson said, not a hint of shame apparent in her voice. \u201cIf I can\u2019t have him, then no one can.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Possessive woman. Did she want him that bad? A knock sounded at the door. Sal Davis, our newbie detective with a shock of bright red hair, stuck his head in and motioned to us.
+++++<\/span>\u201cExcuse us,\u201d I said, following my older partner into the hallway.
+++++<\/span>Gleason beat me to the question. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on, Davis?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cMr. Paul Dawson\u2019s downstairs. He wants to talk to his wife. The .22 is registered in his name. We nabbed him on a drunk and disorderly ten years ago.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cThanks,\u201d I said. Davis left us alone. \u201cThis puts Miller\u2019s wife in the clear. Dawson\u2019s wife covering for him?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Gleason\u2019s eyes brightened as he chewed on my words and his brow tightened. \u201cShe\u2019s hiding something. I\u2019ll put him in the box.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll meet you in room two,\u201d I said, because I had more questions for his wife.
+++++<\/span>Gleason nodded and headed to the room down the hall. I entered the interrogation room again and faced Linda Dawson. \u201cWhen did your husband discover your affair?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She sighed, leaned back in the chair. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t know, he wouldn\u2019t care anyway. He\u2019s busy with his precious consulting job.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat time did he leave this morning?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She hesitated. \u201cHe didn\u2019t. He went into work yesterday and said he wouldn\u2019t be home until tonight.\u201d
+++++<\/span>I pulled out my pad and scratched a few notes. \u201cThat unusual?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cHe\u2019s worked weekends half dozen times a year in the past.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Convenient alibi. \u201cWe\u2019re finished for now. You\u2019ll be escorted to a holding cell.\u201d<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>The .22 sat in a clear evidence bag in front of Gleason on the table as I strode into the room. \u201cI own the gun. I don\u2019t know how the gun founds its way to the dumpster.\u201d He ran a hand through his thick rug of curly brown hair. \u201cSomeone stole the gun last month.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cDid you report the theft?\u201d I asked.
+++++<\/span>\u201cI did. Check your files.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cWe did,\u201d Gleason said. \u201cNothing\u2019s been filed.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNot my fault you can\u2019t find the record.\u201d
+++++<\/span>I bit my tongue and wanted to knock the smirk from his face. I believe certain people are born obnoxious liars. \u201cHas your wife been acting strange the last few days?\u201d
+++++<\/span>He shrugged. \u201cLately, she\u2019s been moody, crying, you know.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cMr. Dawson.\u201d I took a deep breath. \u201cDid you know your wife had\u2014.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cAn affair? I\u2019m not blind. I love her. I\u2019d never divorce her.\u201d
+++++<\/span>From the look on his face, Gleason didn\u2019t think much of this man. \u201cYou knew Miller was having affair with your wife?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYeah. There were others.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cShe said you didn\u2019t know,\u201d I said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019d you expect her to say?\u201d Dawson shot back.
+++++<\/span>I agreed with him. \u201cDid Mrs. Miller know?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNo idea.\u201d The expression on his face turned to worry. \u201cAre you arresting me?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cWe\u2019re holding you until we clear things up,\u201d Gleason said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cLook, I agreed to talk,\u201d he pleaded.
+++++<\/span>We didn\u2019t answer and left him sitting, staring at the blank wall until Davis escorted him to a holding cell. Gleason started the paperwork for a search warrant for Mrs. Dawson\u2019s house. I dug up information on the Miller\u2019s brownstone. John Miller\u2019s name alone appeared on the title. His wife told the truth about the brownstone belonging to her husband. I called the computer tech service and verified that the 6 a.m. start time for the computer upgrade installation. Mrs. Miller\u2019s name fell further down on the suspect list.<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>I didn\u2019t sleep well.<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>By the time I dressed, I settled on questioning the local newsboy, Ralph Petersen. Gleason had given me his name yesterday. The kid might shine light on the dark corners where I couldn\u2019t see. One call confirmed Ralph went to school today. I called Gleason and I caught him in route to search the Dawson\u2019s place. We made plans to meet either at the Dawson\u2019s or later at the precinct.
+++++<\/span>I called forensics for the results on the gun before I left. Two sets of fingerprints, one too smeared for forensics, the other belonging to Paul Dawson. I stopped at the Sixth precinct and picked up the keys to the Miller\u2019 house for a second peek.
+++++<\/span>Half an hour later, I sat inside Chelsea High School, in the principal\u2019s office. The principal, Susan Howard, a forty-something in a business suit, acted like she\u2019d seen this before. She let us use her office and described Ralph as a fifteen-year-old straight-A student and a bit of a rebel.
+++++<\/span>The rebel description stirred memories from my high school days. They had told me I headed down a dead-end street. Here I am, past thirty, single with a career, but no marriage prospects in sight. I\u2019d wasted years dating, waiting to fall in love with the perfect woman, but that never happened. Not yet anyway.
+++++<\/span>The door opened and Ralph Peterson stepped into the room, followed by Susan Howard. Ralph fit the description of tall and handsome, but he needed a shave. His wavy, longish brown hair fell to his shoulders of his black t-shirt with a heavy-metal guitar band I\u2019d heard of but never listened to. Ralph appeared older, an easy eighteen.
+++++<\/span>Ralph settled into a chair beside me where I sat in front of Susan Howard\u2019s desk. He fidgeted, his one knee bobbing and his right hand tapping his thigh to music in his head. Not every day you get a visit by the NYPD. \u201cI gather your principal explained why I\u2019m here?\u201d Ralph glanced at her then at me. \u201cWhat time do you deliver the paper?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cStarting at six, before school.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cDid you see Mr. Miller yesterday morning?\u201d
+++++<\/span>His face went blank and he stared into space for a few seconds like teenagers often do. His knee stopped moving for a second.
+++++<\/span>I refreshed his memory. \u201cTwenty-six West Thirteenth. White wrought-iron railing?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cRight. No, I didn\u2019t.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYou delivered their paper?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cI did.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cDid you see anyone else? Any suspicious looking cars prowling the neighborhood?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNo.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cHow about Mr. Dawson? The Miller\u2019s next-door neighbor, one house over toward Seventh Avenue?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cOh them. Nope.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat time did you finish your route?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cSeven a.m.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Not talkative and his answers came fast. Nervousness will do that. \u201cOkay, thanks.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Disappointed, I left to meet Gleason at the Dawson\u2019s house. I caught him leaving the house.
+++++<\/span>I stopped in front of the stoop and watched Gleason trotting down the steps toward me. \u201cWhat\u2019d you find?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Gleason shrugged. \u201cNada. Want a peek?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cSure.\u201d Gleason handed me the keys. \u201cMeet you at the Six.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Gleason waved and walked away. I climbed the steps, unlocked the door and stepped inside the Dawson\u2019s house.
+++++<\/span>I started in the kitchen and worked my way toward the bedroom.
+++++<\/span>Neatness wasn\u2019t Linda Dawson\u2019s forte. Dirty dishes filled the sink and the kitchen table lay buried beneath a pile of clothes, an unread copy of yesterday\u2019s Daily News<\/i> rolled up in a plastic bag, a paper-clipped pile of coupons, and an empty glass whose contents had since dried. I thumbed through the pile of clothing. A black lace camisole on top of the pile with a broken strap caught my eye, as if ripped apart in a fit of passion.
+++++<\/span>I wandered into the master bedroom. His and her dressers side by side occupying the far wall, to the left of the king-sized bed. A fifty-inch TV overlooked the bed on the opposite wall. Mementos of their lives cluttered the dressers: a collection of ceramic animal statues, a gold-rimmed wedding photo, a jewelry box on hers while black and white photos, and a bunch of change crowded his. A replica of an old-fashioned radio sat centered on top of his dresser. I turned the radio on and loud rock music blared into the room. I switched the radio off.
+++++<\/span>The other bedroom turned up nothing. In the living room, I noted a projection TV, a huge CD collection, mostly easy listening, and an expensive McIntosh stereo rig. Paul Dawson liked to spend money as much as John Miller.
+++++<\/span>I walked outside and re-locked the door. I stepped next door, under the yellow crime scene tape, keyed the front door and stepped inside the Miller\u2019s house. I searched the kitchen and the den and even the bedroom.
+++++<\/span>I didn\u2019t like the narrative I saw. Something felt off. I needed to talk to Mrs. Parry before heading to the precinct.
+++++<\/span>Ten minutes later, I sat perched on a floral love seat opposite Mrs. Parry\u2019s in her cozy apartment, declining tea for the second time.
+++++<\/span>\u201cMrs. Parry, you spoke to my partner and said you witnessed Mrs. Miller running away from her brownstone yesterday, the morning Mr. Miller died. That correct?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She looked like my grandmother except my grandmother was heavier and wore black, never a floral housecoat like Mrs. Parry. I doubted there was an ounce of fat on Mrs. Parry. She adjusted her glasses whose frame matched the same shade of gray as her thinning bob of hair. \u201cYes, I heard a gunshot. I jumped out of bed and through my window saw her running away.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cWere you wearing glasses?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t when I go to sleep.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cBut you\u2019re positive you saw Mrs. Miller?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNo mistaking her blond hair. Who else would be running out of her brownstone? The gun shot startled me awake.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cOnly one shot?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYes.\u201d
+++++<\/span>John Miller\u2019s body bore three holes from the .22. \u201cYou wear a hearing aid?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cI own one but it never worked right, so I don\u2019t use it.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cDid you see anyone else outside this morning?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She shook her head. \u201cI didn\u2019t.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cThanks for answering my questions,\u201d I said, standing up. I refused a cup of tea for a third time and left. Lonely didn\u2019t describe her. Sad how people fell through the cracks when they get older.
+++++<\/span>Back at the precinct, Gleason waved me over to his desk as he hung up the phone. \u201cPaul Dawson wants to confess.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cGreat, two confessions,\u201d I said, plopping into the beat-up wooden chair beside Gleason\u2019s desk. Sometimes good news is harder to sort through than the bad.
+++++<\/span>\u201cNot really,\u201d Gleason said. \u201cI made a few calls to McPherson associates, where he works as a consultant. He worked late and stayed overnight at the Doubletree hotel on Fifty-first. I called the hotel. They verified he checked out this morning at 8:13 a.m., after<\/i> someone permanently checked out our Mr. Miller. He didn\u2019t murder Mr. Miller.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Protecting his wife? One confession and a false confession. \u201cI talked to Mrs. Parry. She wasn\u2019t wearing glasses or her hearing aid. She assumed the blonde woman running away from the Miller house was Mrs. Miller.\u201d
\u201cOr Mrs. Dawson, then?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYes. I\u2019m not buying that Mrs. Miller stole Paul Dawson\u2019s gun and shot her husband. How could she do that?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cDon\u2019t know,\u201d Gleason said. \u201cWant to watch Mr. Dawson give his false confession?\u201d
+++++<\/span>I sighed, and checked my watch for the time. \u201cI\u2019ll catch up. I\u2019ll run out for a bite to eat and need to make a phone call.\u201d<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>I didn\u2019t understand. \u201cYou\u2019re gloating.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cI explained the charges of perjury and obstruction for giving a false confession to Paul Dawson. He declined to confess.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s a relief.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cThen I went through a bunch of receipts from the Dawson\u2019s garbage can. We traced a garage receipt to the widow, Susan Miller, and her 99\u2032 Corvette she keeps at the garage that Paul Dawson paid for. Looks like they swapped partners. I\u2019m betting Linda Dawson shot Mr. Miller and dumped the gun like she said. Or Mrs. Miller stole the gun from Paul Dawson and shot her husband.\u201d
+++++<\/span>I shook my head. \u201cBut Mrs. Miller had an alibi, her secretary, and the tech I spoke with vouched for her.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Gleason sat down on the corner of my desk. \u201cOr they\u2019re lying.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNo. I verified the 6 a.m. computer upgrade appointment with the computer tech\u2019s company,\u201d I said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cThe blonde had to be Mrs. Dawson. We have an eyewitness and the murder weapon.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cDoesn\u2019t make sense,\u201d I said. \u201cMrs. Parry claimed she spotted Mrs. Miller running out<\/i> of the house. If you were mad enough to shoot someone, would you walk inside the house and shoot him? Why not shoot when he opened the door?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Gleason shrugged. \u201cIf I didn\u2019t want to wake the neighbors, I\u2019d shoot him inside.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cNot if you were angry, and the person you loved spurned you minutes before with a phone call?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Gleason\u2019s eyes narrowed. \u201cOkay.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cUnless Mr. Miller invited the killer inside?\u201d The adrenaline rush made me jump out of the chair. Got you. I hated being lied to. \u201cWe need to take a run at Linda Dawson again,\u201d I said.
+++++<\/span>\u201cSure,\u201d Gleason agreed.
+++++<\/span>\u201cI need to make some more phone calls. I\u2019ll catch up to you in room one.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Half an hour later, we sat opposite Mrs. Dawson again in Interrogation Room One. My gut feeling said that with a prod, the truth might come spilling out. What an optimist. I had to try something. I lied. \u201cRalph spilled everything to us,\u201d I said. Linda Dawson\u2019s eyes dimmed at the news. I went for the kill. \u201cTell me, Mrs. Dawson, how long after you broke up with John Miller did you start seeing Ralph?\u201d
+++++<\/span>She spat out her words. \u201cWhat? He\u2019s a boy. That\u2019s ridiculous.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYour husband\u2019s an easy listening fan?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cSo?\u201d
+++++<\/span>I told her what I surmised. \u201cThe radio in your bedroom was tuned to a rock channel, but I found easy listening in your CD collection. And Ralph delivers the paper in your neighborhood. I called the Daily News<\/i> ten minutes ago. You don\u2019t pay for delivery, but a copy of yesterday\u2019s paper sat rolled up in a plastic bag on your kitchen table. Care to explain?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cOh. Ralphie\u2019s a nice boy. He drops off an extra paper to me sometimes for free for the coupons.\u201d Gleason nor I said a word. She filled in the silence. The interrogation technique came in handy.
+++++<\/span>\u201cHe\u2019s been giving me free papers as a favor to me for a while.\u201d She lowered her voice, letting us in on her secret. \u201cDon\u2019t tell on him, he\u2019ll get fired.\u201d
+++++<\/span>I did find a stack of coupons on the table. \u201cHe slept over and before he left to do the route the next morning, you ended your affair. How am I doing?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Mrs. Dawson jumped to her feet, the anger visible on her face, looking for a fight. \u201cYou\u2019re crazy.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cSit, please.\u201d I said, my voice a whisper. I wasn\u2019t giving in to her. She glared at me and Gleason but then obeyed.
+++++<\/span>I continued. \u201cRalph came back before finishing the route to plead with you, didn\u2019t he? The Millers are the last stop on his route. I called Mrs. Parry. Ralph delivered her paper yesterday. I searched the Miller\u2019s house and didn\u2019t find yesterday\u2019s Daily News<\/i>. Their Daily News<\/i> sat on your<\/i> kitchen table. Why give you Monday\u2019s paper for coupons? Coupons come out on Sunday, not Monday. Ralph lied to me about delivering the Millers\u2019 paper.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Her total demeanor changed as if she\u2019d discovered she had a month to live. Tears welled in her eyes. \u201cI slept with him twice. My God, how\u2026\u201d Her shoulders heaved, and she broke down into long, rhythmic sobs. More tears ran down her face. \u201cRalphie didn\u2019t understand. He thought he loved me. I told him to find someone his age, to remember our time together. I didn\u2019t think\u2026\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cHe\u2019d kill Mr. Miller?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cJohn called me this morning. Ralphie assumed I\u2019d gone back to John Miller. I swear I didn\u2019t. Ralphie knew about the gun. He went crazy and grabbed Paul\u2019s gun from the closet. I ran after him. John opened the door. Ralphie stepped inside his house and I heard three shots. Ralphie must have run out the back door. I found the gun and wiped the fingerprints and dumped the gun in the dumpster on Seventh Avenue.\u201d
+++++<\/span>The image of the ripped camisole came to me. Youthful inexperience? \u201cI found the ripped camisole on your pile of laundry with a broken strap. Ralph do that?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYes. He\u2014he\u2026.\u201d She burst into more tears. Were the tears for Ralph or herself?
+++++<\/span>\u201cAnd your husband?\u201d Gleason put in. \u201cYou knew of Susan Miller and your husband\u2019s affair?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYes,\u201d she said, failing to hold back her tears.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhy lie for Ralph?\u201d
+++++<\/span>Her tears stopped. \u201cDon\u2019t you see? He did it for me? I had to protect him. My husband doesn\u2019t love me like that.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s ironic, Mrs. Dawson,\u201d I said. \u201cYour husband lied about the gun being stolen and almost confessed to murder because he loves you.\u201d True love like that was elusive. She didn\u2019t know how lucky she\u2019d been.
+++++<\/span>A look of disgust appeared on Gleason\u2019s face as he dashed from the room to pick up Ralph. Davis entered the room. Linda Dawson\u2019s tears were getting to me. I wanted out of there. \u201cDetective Davis will escort you to call your lawyer. Care for a cup of coffee first?\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cThanks.\u201d
+++++<\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re welcome,\u201d I said, exiting the interview room to retrieve her coffee.
+++++<\/span>Linda Dawson gave Ralph the only thing she had to offer, but that wasn\u2019t enough. Sometimes memories are never enough. And sometimes love kills. I headed for the coffee pot. It sure did.<\/p>\n![\"Facebook\"](\"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-content\/plugins\/social-media-feather\/synved-social\/image\/social\/regular\/48x48\/facebook.png\"\/ "\\"Share")
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\n\t\t<\/div>\n
\nshort stories and is a member of SinC, ITW, and MWA. He traded his
\ncareer as a research mechanical engineer for that of a writer and a
\nbookseller of modern first editions and lives on the eastern end of Long
\nIsland, New York.<\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\t\t<\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n