Tussinland (3 page)

SIX

The Reverend Pete Fish pulled his black Mercedes sedan into the used car lot out on Crows Landing Road. It was seven a.m. and the sun was already high and bright. The dash gave the outside temperature: 78 degrees.

Jorge Rincon waited for him next to a 2001 Nissan Sentra ($1999). Big unlit cigar in his mouth. Hands behind his back. Rincon’s face was in shadow from his wide-brimmed hat so Fish couldn’t sense the man’s mood. Fish called and arranged this meeting, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared to death.

He parked a couple of feet away. As soon as he slammed his door shut he felt metal on the back of his neck.

“What the fuck,
pendejo
?”

Reverend Fish put his palms up about chest-high and started to turn around. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized the pistol in Rincon’s hand: A Sig Sauer P239 Tactical. A beautiful weapon—the same gun he’d tried to get Rincon to sell him a couple weeks before. Fish knew guns. And he knew that Rincon liked to shoot people when he was pissed off.

“Don’t you move, Rev,” Rincon said. “Put your hands on the roof.”

Fish complied.

“Did you do it?”

“No, of course not, Jorge.”

“But weren’t you there, you and your wife and daughter and that crazy Logan Swift? Trying to make a buy or whatever the fuck that was about. What kind of reverend deals in guns and now fucking drugs?”

Rincon pushed the barrel of the gun harder against Fish’s neck.

“No, not last night. We were there the night before and Mark decided he didn’t trust me and kicked us out.”

“That’s because he was fucking smart. Told me you brought one of your fucking guns to the meeting. What was that shit about?”

“Just trying to be careful. He wasn’t supposed to see it.”

“Didn’t know you were such an outlaw badass, Reverend Fish. What’s the name of that church of yours again, ‘The First Church of the Colt .45?’ ”

Fish looked at the ground. He lips moved.

“So tell me who killed my partner and his idiotic wife. And stole all that product I hadn’t even paid for yet.”

“It was Paul Dunn.”

“The fuck?”

“My wife’s brother. Tina’s husband. He killed them because she left him for Pisko.”

Rincon took the gun off of Fish’s neck and stepped back. “No shit?”

Fish turned around. Rubbed his neck. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“That pussy? He came and threatened Mark a couple months ago. We thought it was so funny. Laughed in his face right in front of his wife.”

“I guess he finally got pissed enough. We heard he got a shotgun a couple of days ago.”

“Why’d he steal the dope? He’d never know what to do with it.”

“Maybe he hoped to make it look like a robbery? I don’t know.”

“Where is he now?”

“In jail. They took him in about an hour ago. Just for questioning we think. Police found out that Pisko and Tina’d put out a restraining order on him for the threat.”

“But that was just to fuck with him. Mark wasn’t scared of that
maricón
.”

“His mother called my wife after they picked him up, she said they knew about the threats and since he was an estranged spouse he was the most likely suspect. You know.”

“Still, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure, it does, happens all the time.”

“I saw the bodies, Reverend. I just don’t see this Paul Dunn doing something like that.”

Fish looked at his shoes. His lips moved rapidly.

Rincon tucked the pistol in his pants at the small of his back. Stared at Fish. “You keep me informed,” he said and walked into his office.

SEVEN

Nearly an hour passed as Paul wrote up the previous day on the pad. He wondered what his mother was doing. Wondered why Fagan hadn’t returned. Hadn’t eaten since the wings and he was starving. He’d DVR’d
Longmire
, his new favorite show, the night before and he really wanted to watch it. Didn’t think they were allowed to just hold him for this long. It had to be illegal. He was close to asking for a lawyer. Plus, he wanted to know who the hell
did
kill Tina and that asshole Mark Pisko. He tried not to cry again.

He got up and walked to the door. Turned the knob. Wasn’t locked. As he pulled it open, Fagan rushed in carrying a manila folder. The policeman opened the door so hard onto Paul that the back of his legs struck the side of the table and he kept going and fell over onto the other side. His back seized up and he lay there for a moment unable to move.

Fagan stood over him.

“I told you I have a back injury,” Paul said. “Shit, I think you fucked it up even more. What’s wrong with you?”

Fagan picked Paul up like he was nothing and slammed him back down into the chair.

“I know you did this, you sonofabitch.”

Paul
really
thought it might be time for a lawyer.

“I’ve been doing a little research,” Detective Fagan said. “Want to know what I found out?”

Fagan took off his suit jacket. Hung it up by a hook on the door. Blue dress shirt soaked with sweat. Walked over and sat on the table so he was practically sitting in Paul’s lap. Planted his huge legs on each side of Paul’s chair and used his feet to drag the chair closer.

Paul looked at the camera and at the mirror.

“What? What are you looking at? You think someone is watching us? No one is watching us.”

The policeman’s body odor was foul. His breath was even worse.

“You know why no one is watching us? Because no one gives a shit.”

Fagan stared.

“And you know why no one gives a shit?”

“Why?”

“Because you aren’t shit. That’s why. You are just about the worst thing a person can be. A murderer.”

Paul felt enveloped by Fagan’s body, by his smell, by his hatred. The floor disappeared beneath him.

“Don’t you want to know what I found out?”

“Okay.”

“I had a nice long talk with your mother. Such a charming woman. She told me that you have a lot of financial obligations. Alimony, child support, etc. Isn’t that right?”

Fagan brought his face even closer to Paul’s and stared.

“I said, ‘is that right?’ ”

“Yes! That’s right.”

“Your kids’re living up in Shasta with their mother?”

“Yeah. So?”

“She says you never see them. That you have them every other weekend but don’t even bother.”

“It’s a long way off! I just need to get over this injury and get some stuff together and I’ll start seeing them again. When I get my own place and some money I’m going to petition the court for more custody and I’ll bring them back here more often.”

“According to Mavis,” Fagan said, “you could’ve fought them moving all the way up there. She didn’t get it. I don’t get it.”

“Yeah, whatever. I do my best.”

“Really? Your best seems pretty half-assed to me, asshole. Your mother also told me you got yourself into some credit card debt. She doesn’t know how much it is because you refuse to tell her but she says your phone rings off the hook from collection agencies. She also said you were running out of money from your little worker’s comp scam and that you’re behind in your rent. You really are a fuck-up, aren’t you? Can’t even afford to live at your mommy’s house and can’t get your shit together enough to be a proper father to your children. I got the feeling Mavis was a little ashamed of her son. What do you think of that?”

Paul didn’t answer. How do you answer such a question? Sure, he’d maxed out his Amex, Bank of America Visa Card, Chase Visa and Master Cards, and his Discover Card. He owed a lot, too, about eighty thousand. So what? Lots of people were in that position, especially with the shitty economy and all the foreclosures and unemployment. Didn’t make him a murderer.

And the thing about never seeing his kids. What Detective Fagan didn’t get was how expensive it could be to fight an ex-wife who hated you and who had some pretty good reasons to keep you away from the kids. At least he thought about it all the time and felt like total shit about it. Wasn’t that something?

“Then I did some digging into your precious Tina and do you know what I found out?”

“What?” Paul said.

“That you’re still the beneficiary to her life insurance policy at her job, which was for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’ll also be entitled to survivor benefits from the money in her pension fund, in the form of a lump payment or as a monthly annuity. Since Ms. Dunn had worked twenty years for the county, it adds up to quite a bit of money coming to you—possibly several hundred thousand dollars. How do you like that?”

Fagan leaned back.

“That is what we in the law enforcement business call motive, Mr. Dunn. Not only were you clearly pissed at your wife for leaving you, and at Mr. Pisko for taking her away, but you stood to gain handsomely from her death.”

Paul hadn’t even thought about the life insurance and pension money. He wondered if he was really entitled to it.

“And, now, as far as opportunity goes, I’m pleased to report that the time of death is most likely sometime between six and eight p.m.—the time you were out eating chicken wings and shit.”

Fagan picked up the notepad and studied it. “I don’t care what it says here, I don’t care what we find on the surveillance cameras or in the receipts and records of any of these places. I think you had plenty of time to drop in at the Pisko house. Just around the corner from Walgreens isn’t it?”

Paul could not stop the tears.

“Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of fucking murderer. Stop it stop it stop it! What the fuck are you doing? This is crazy! I didn’t kill them. I would never kill them. That’s not what I do. That is not my world. Can’t you see that? I’m just some … regular person. I belong out there.”

He pointed to the door.

“Can’t you see who I am? What I am?”

Fagan stood and moved over to the other chair on the other side of the table. Paul sobbed. Didn’t look up.

“Grab the pen and paper shithead. You’ll feel a lot better after you confess.”

“Isn’t there someone else I can talk to?”

“What, like the ‘good cop?’ Is that what you want? Sorry, that’s only on TV. I’m afraid all you got is me.”

“How about a lawyer then?”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“I don’t have one, at least not for this kind of shit.”

“Then who the fuck’re you gonna call?”

“I thought you’d appoint one for me, a public defender. You know, like you say in the Miranda rights. Or at least give me a chance to find one.”

“I haven’t read you your rights. That’s only if you’re arrested.”

“So I’m not under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then I want to leave.”

“You can’t. You’re being detained.”

Paul felt certain Fagan had to arrest him to keep him there, even to detain him. Decided to demand that he let him leave, see what he’d do. What did he have to lose? Shit. He didn’t want to get arrested. Saw an image in his head: dressed in an orange jumpsuit in a large cell, surrounded by inmates all taking turns hitting him in the face while giggling. He had to get out of there. But, if he stayed, he’d demand a lawyer, someone to help him.

“Arrest me or let me go,” Paul said. 

They stared at each other. Fagan looked at the mirror and nodded his head. It was slight and almost imperceptible, but a definite nod. What the hell?

Seconds later a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Fagan said.

Another plainclothes cop stuck in his head.

“Detective Fagan, could you come out here real quick? It’s important.”

“Hold on one second,” Fagan said to Paul. He turned to go.

“I need to leave,” Paul said. He began to stand. Fagan lurched at him quickly while bringing his right fist behind his head. Paul sat back down. What else could he do? The guy scared the shit out of him.

Fagan returned just a couple of minutes later. Holding a cell phone. One of those huge Samsung Galaxies.

“Hold still,” he said. He pointed the phone at Paul and took his picture. Turned the phone around and stabbed it with his index finger until he saw the image. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to go.

“I’ll be right back.”

This time when he left the room, Paul heard the lock click. Fagan was gone about ten minutes. When he came back, he was smiling. He sat down, this time all the way across the table. He seemed less stressed, less pissed. Relaxed, even.

“Mr. Dunn, do you own a 1988 Honda Civic?”

“Yes.”

“Is it silver?”

“I’m pretty sure you know that. But, yes.”

“And is that the car you were driving around last night back and forth from the bank to Wing Stop to Walgreens, etc?”

“Yes, it was.”

He leaned back.

“Guess what?” Smiling.

Paul just looked at him.

“I just spoke with a witness that identified you as the man who parked a vehicle in front of Pisko’s place at just after 7:30 last night. The sun was going down but it was still light. This witness saw you then enter the house carrying an object that was the approximate shape and size of a sawed-off shotgun. A few minutes later, this helpful citizen heard four loud explosive sounds, after which they saw you walking out the side gate, still carrying the object. You were then seen leaving in your car.”

Something wasn’t right.

“What do you think of that, Mr. Dunn?”

“Nothing.”

Paul didn’t get it. How could someone be so sure of this? Especially since it wasn’t true?

“Ready to confess now?”

He pushed the paper and pen Paul’s way. Paul pushed the pad back.

“No.”

Paul knew Fagan was lying. He was so sure Paul’d done it that he thought he could trick him into giving up. Paul’d seen this a thousand times on
The First 48
and on
Dateline
. Fagan figured that if he was guilty, the trick would probably work. Especially on a guy like him who wasn’t a regular criminal used to dealing with the police and all their bullshit.

“You’re lying,” Paul said. He stood up. “I have to leave now. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I need a shower.”

Fagan slumped in his chair. He sighed.

“This is such bullshit,” Paul said. “Is this how it works? You just take the most likely suspect and brutalize them into confessing and if that doesn’t work you make up some witness? Is that what you call police work Detective Fagan?”

“What makes you so sure I’m lying?”

This time Paul stood over
him
.

“Because I wasn’t there,” Paul was really screaming. “Because I DIDN’T DO IT. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

“Okay, okay,” Fagan said. “Calm down. Jesus. Calm down.”

All of a sudden everything was different. The detective changed, transformed, right before Paul’s eyes. He didn’t seem to hate him now. His face was no longer red, and it was softer, friendly almost. This is what happens, Paul guessed, when a person goes from being seen as a criminal to being seen as just another regular citizen. A victim even. Fagan seemed to look sympathetic—like they were on the same side.

Paul sat down.

“I had to try,” Fagan said. He shrugged. “Christ, not only do you fit the usual profile—financially troubled angry spouse and all that shit—you even
look
guilty. When we came to the door this morning you looked at us like you’d been
expecting
the police to show up and take your ass away. I thought I had a slam dunk. Shit.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Man, what a relief. But, still, Tina was dead.

“So, seriously, you don’t think I’m a suspect anymore?”

Paul could see Fagan thinking, like he was considering just what to reveal.

“Oh, you might’ve done it, I guess. You are still a … person of interest.”

“I hope you stop finding me so interesting.”

“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Really”

“Thank you.”

Then, Paul really started crying. Didn’t want to, but the weeping just came on uncontrollably. The kind of tears where the shoulders shake and your chest heaves up and down.

“I’ll be right back,” Fagan said.

By the time he came back with a box of tissues, Paul’d stopped crying.

He wiped his face.

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to kill Tina Dunn or Mr. Pisko?” Fagan said.