Read Online Dearly Departed by David Housewright - Free Book Online
Authors: David Housewright
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him. Anger and frustration creates a tense atmosphere, and a witness, sensing those emotions, will tighten up and shut up. It’s a problem I’ve grappled with most of my career. It’s the reason why Anne Scalasi conducted most of our interrogations while I stood in the background, looking surly.
“Mr. Emerton?” I finally asked, rapping softly on the open door and addressing the man inside.
“Aww, man!” he said, tossing a pencil on a map spread out on his desktop. “Not again!”
“Sir?”
“You’re a cop, ain’tcha?”
“Private investigator,” I replied and showed him my photostat.
“You work for that insurance company, don’t you?”
I would have told him no if he had given me the chance, but he didn’t, so I figured what the hell.
“What more do you guys want from me?” he continued.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning your wife’s disappearance.”
“More questions? Christ, that bitch is gonna haunt me forever, isn’t she? Aww, man, I’m tired of it. I’m just so fuckin’ tired of it.”
I tried to mask my disapproval of him, convinced people would not say such stupefying things if they could hear the sound of their own voices.
“We can speak another time,” I suggested, although I made no move to leave.
“No, no,” he answered, waving me toward a chair. “Now’s as good a time as any.”
Stephen Emerton was not the sharpest knife in the drawer by any means. Insulting a murder victim in front of an investigator wasn’t the brightest thing a suspect could do, for example—it tends to arouse suspicion. Still, he was tall and handsome and splendidly tanned; he looked like someone who measured his biceps twice a week. I could see how a lonely young woman might find him attractive. And then there was the paper displayed in frames behind him. Diplomas from the University of Minnesota. BA. MA. And a certificate declaring his membership in Phi Beta Kappa. Only he didn’t speak like a key holder. He spoke like a guy who spent his spare time calling talk radio programs.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Emerton told me. “It’s just that I am sick and tired of answerin’ questions about my wife, okay? I mean, I have problems of my own, okay? I can’t sell my house unless I practically give it away. The insurance company won’t pay off on my claim; one day it’s because without a body I can’t prove Alison is dead and the next it’s because they think I killed her—shit, make up your mind. And my friends, suddenly they’re all too busy to check out a ball game or go out for a beer, and you know why. It’s because of Alison, damn her.”
I felt the anger start in my stomach and work up. I fought to keep it down.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Emerton continued. “I’m sorry she’s dead. But hell’s bells, man, give me a break. People make out like she was Mary Poppins or somethin’. She was cheatin’ on me, you know? Forget that sexual harassment shit. She was sleepin’ with that little jerkoff, and when he started gettin’ serious, she burned him. That’s why he did her, man. Any idiot can see that. It’s not like she didn’t deserve it.”
I envisioned Alison’s photograph, which was sitting on the front seat of my car, and thought about the expression on her face, the look of incredible despair in her eyes. Then I thought about how much fun it would be to pop Stephen Emerton in the mouth. I stood up.
“What? You leavin’? I thought you had questions to ask.”
Self-control. You need self-control in my business. I reminded myself of that as I moved to the large map hanging on the wall, a map of the seven counties that make up the Minneapolis–St. Paul metropolitan area. About two dozen pins were stuck in it. Red flags were attached to the pins.
“What do these represent?” I asked.
“Targets of opportunity,” Emerton explained. “Quick lesson: A female mosquito—the female mosquito is the only one that bites, did you know that?—a
“Mr. Emerton?” I finally asked, rapping softly on the open door and addressing the man inside.
“Aww, man!” he said, tossing a pencil on a map spread out on his desktop. “Not again!”
“Sir?”
“You’re a cop, ain’tcha?”
“Private investigator,” I replied and showed him my photostat.
“You work for that insurance company, don’t you?”
I would have told him no if he had given me the chance, but he didn’t, so I figured what the hell.
“What more do you guys want from me?” he continued.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning your wife’s disappearance.”
“More questions? Christ, that bitch is gonna haunt me forever, isn’t she? Aww, man, I’m tired of it. I’m just so fuckin’ tired of it.”
I tried to mask my disapproval of him, convinced people would not say such stupefying things if they could hear the sound of their own voices.
“We can speak another time,” I suggested, although I made no move to leave.
“No, no,” he answered, waving me toward a chair. “Now’s as good a time as any.”
Stephen Emerton was not the sharpest knife in the drawer by any means. Insulting a murder victim in front of an investigator wasn’t the brightest thing a suspect could do, for example—it tends to arouse suspicion. Still, he was tall and handsome and splendidly tanned; he looked like someone who measured his biceps twice a week. I could see how a lonely young woman might find him attractive. And then there was the paper displayed in frames behind him. Diplomas from the University of Minnesota. BA. MA. And a certificate declaring his membership in Phi Beta Kappa. Only he didn’t speak like a key holder. He spoke like a guy who spent his spare time calling talk radio programs.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Emerton told me. “It’s just that I am sick and tired of answerin’ questions about my wife, okay? I mean, I have problems of my own, okay? I can’t sell my house unless I practically give it away. The insurance company won’t pay off on my claim; one day it’s because without a body I can’t prove Alison is dead and the next it’s because they think I killed her—shit, make up your mind. And my friends, suddenly they’re all too busy to check out a ball game or go out for a beer, and you know why. It’s because of Alison, damn her.”
I felt the anger start in my stomach and work up. I fought to keep it down.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Emerton continued. “I’m sorry she’s dead. But hell’s bells, man, give me a break. People make out like she was Mary Poppins or somethin’. She was cheatin’ on me, you know? Forget that sexual harassment shit. She was sleepin’ with that little jerkoff, and when he started gettin’ serious, she burned him. That’s why he did her, man. Any idiot can see that. It’s not like she didn’t deserve it.”
I envisioned Alison’s photograph, which was sitting on the front seat of my car, and thought about the expression on her face, the look of incredible despair in her eyes. Then I thought about how much fun it would be to pop Stephen Emerton in the mouth. I stood up.
“What? You leavin’? I thought you had questions to ask.”
Self-control. You need self-control in my business. I reminded myself of that as I moved to the large map hanging on the wall, a map of the seven counties that make up the Minneapolis–St. Paul metropolitan area. About two dozen pins were stuck in it. Red flags were attached to the pins.
“What do these represent?” I asked.
“Targets of opportunity,” Emerton explained. “Quick lesson: A female mosquito—the female mosquito is the only one that bites, did you know that?—a
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