It’s a tight squeeze. Old Mr. Chalmers, myself, and the audio technician are standing in Mr. Chalmers’ bathroom. The window is closed as it was on the night of the murder. I am standing in his bathtub and Chalmers is by the toilet. At fifteen minutes before midnight, we stare at each other. Nothing.
The technician says, “Just a blip. You would have to be a dog to hear that.” Five minutes later, at the time Chalmers would have been relieving himself during the commercial break, we all hear a pop, like a firecracker going off.
“That’s what I heard the night the boy committed suicide,” Mr. Chalmers says.
“Thank you, Mr. Chalmers. A fellow will come by in a few minutes and take your statement.” I step carefully out of the bathtub while the technician finishes breaking down his equipment.
As we leave the cabin and walk across the moonlit grass toward Jake’s cabin, a car pulls next to Jake’s truck. Just as I figured it would.
I stand outside the cabin with the driver. She is one of Spencer’s operatives. She says, “It’s all on video with a time stamp. I left here at eleven-forty on the nose, pulled onto her street, then turned around to drive back here. I did exactly the speed limit. I will start my statement and give Mr. Spencer a copy of the video.” If Brian took Becky home, they would have arrived seven minutes earlier than the 911 call.
Six minutes after midnight, a second car pulls in. Bill’s other operative gets out. “Eleven fifty-two, I departed Brian Yelito’s driveway and drove straight here as quick as I could. It’s all on tape.” He writes out his statement.
The timing lines up just as I suspected.
At twelve twenty, Wendy Gallo arrives.
“Thank you, Wendy. I know this is going to be strange, but let’s walk in.”
I follow her in. Bill’s female operative goes to the bedroom from behind us. We see an anatomically correct dummy seated at the dining room table. Its head is resting on the table.
“Oh my God, it looks all the same,” she says.
I touch my nose.
“Yeah, it smells the same. It smells like gunpowder.”
“Where was Brian standing?” I ask.
She points, and Bill Spencer moves into that position. The cameraman and audio-technician swivel their equipment towards him.
“What did he say to you?” I ask.
Wendy replies, “’I didn’t want to touch him. I think he’s dead.’”
Bill repeats, “’I didn’t want to touch him. I think he’s dead.’”
“And Becky?” I ask Wendy.
“She was bawling her eyes out in the bedroom.”
On cue, the female operative mimics the sound.
“Louder,” Wendy says. The operative complies.
Diane and the film crew stand in the living room as the operative wails in the bedroom. I note where Bill’s crime scene tech has already dusted for fingerprints and swabbed for DNA on the window, at both the top and the bottom. I see a race car pillow with two holes and goose feathers sprinkled on the floor between where the gun lay on the ground and the window.
It all fits, I think. Two shots. Awfully hard to shoot yourself twice.
I am seated in front of a desk at the Bantry Insurance Agency in town. The person who should be sitting on the other side has not arrived for work yet. It’s not quite nine. The darkening clouds outside tell me that the forecasted rain will come sooner than later. I am excited but relaxed. I know the whole story now and I am eager to tell it. I won’t be asking any questions or looking for any other answers. I am carrying a recording device to make sure there is no defense argument about entrapment.
There is a fancy sound alert/pepper spray combo in my purse in case something goes sideways. Erin gave it to me this morning. What a thoughtful daughter. She and the kids are doing their schooling at Grammy Strong’s house today. Darren and Wesley will join us later in the day. This is going to be a big day for a couple of reasons.
I examine the fire marks along the wall behind her desk. In olden days, a policyholder would place a fire mark on the front of their house. In case of a fire, the insurance company’s fire brigade would see the mark and try to put the fire out. If you didn’t have one, tough beans. Ken is a collector of these marks. When you work on old houses, you never know what you are going to find in the basement.
I was adamant to Diane that I was not acting on behalf of either the police or her. I had this visit planned since the day the goose feathers stuck to my skirt. I would have had this conversation eventually, but I hope that things will play out the way I think they will.
Becky walks in carrying a satchel and cup of coffee. “Hi, Mrs. Strong. Mrs. Bantry said you wanted to talk to me.” She sets the jumbo coffee down after a sip and sets her satchel on her credenza. I notice her blue eyes quizzically appraising me. She is wearing a matching blue dress and sensible shoes. A tiny gold cross hangs from her neck. “Did you find a car and want to get it insured?”
“Not exactly, Becky. I am here to fill you in on what happened to Jake and Brian.”
“The police arrested Jason Stillman. That’s old news.”
“First you told me that Jake killed himself rather than get married to Sharon the following morning.”
“Well, I guess I was wrong.” She reaches for her coffee and turns on her computer monitor.
Waiting for eye contact, I proceed. “I always thought that Jake was shot before the wedding on purpose. The shooter didn’t want Jake to get married.”
“Why would Stillman want to do that?”
“He wouldn’t, and he didn’t.”
“What are you saying, Mrs. Strong?”
“I am saying that I know who killed Jake, and I have a pretty good idea of who killed Brian.”
“Really, who?” Becky tries to remain cool and goes through her log-in procedure. I wait until I have her eye contact again. She is one cool customer. I can’t see her legs under the table though, but I bet her feet are tapping away.
“You made it obvious to everyone when you came on to Brian at the rehearsal dinner and then later at the cabin. The excessive drinking was just an act. You were just acting drunk. After all, Becky Steele would never make a play for Brian Yelito. He was a nice kid, but not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.” I tweak her by addressing her in the third person.
“What are you trying to say, Mrs. Strong?”
“What I am saying is that you were trying to make Jake Dawson jealous.”
“Why would I do that?” she scoffs, but she knows what I’m about to tell her.
“Jake never told Sharon who he was cheating with, but he swore that the cheating stopped and that it would not happen after they were married.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with me,” she says.
“Jake and Brian were best friends since kindergarten. They had few secrets between them.” I see that I struck a nerve as she props her elbows and tents her hands in front of her face. “Besides, you didn’t fool Barney Williams down by the river that night.” I am stretching here, but I score another point. “He didn’t want to get the Reverend Steele’s daughter in trouble.” This girl killed two of my students. Maybe I can play it rough too.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You don’t, Becky? After Brian left Jake’s cabin, you returned and pled with Jake to keep your secret relationship with him going. You had expected him to tire of Sharon and he would break the engagement, but he didn’t. When you threatened to stand on the altar the next day and out him as a cheater, he told you that Sharon and he would ask you to leave the ceremony. That infuriated you. Oh Becky, I remember how you were in kindergarten when you didn’t get your way. I know what your temper is like. When I talked to your father about this, he tried to turn it around that somehow things were my fault. So, when you lost your temper, you went to his dresser and took out Jake’s gun.”
“Nothing like that happened.”
“He was seated at the table when you came up to him in a rage and pressed the gun against his head and shot him. Only problem, it was on his left side, and Jake was right-handed.”
She sits back in her chair, shaking her head. “You’ve got it wrong, Mrs. Strong. I loved him. I would never kill him.”
Finally, an admission. “But you watch cable TV, and you know there was no gunshot residue on his left hand. But it was all over your hand.”
“No.”
“You took his hand and wrapped it around the grip. You couldn’t fire another bullet into his head, so you opened the window to shoot that bullet out the window, but you didn’t want it to make a big noise, so you went to the bedroom and grabbed his pillow.
She is pressing her hands over her ears. “That isn’t true. You’re lying.”
“You wrapped the pillow around his hand, and you pointed the gun and pillow towards the window, and you squeezed the trigger again. Bang!” I startle her.
“You’re crazy. I can’t believe you are accusing me of killing Jake.” The anger in her eyes reminds me of that day at the Dawson house after the burial.
“You took the pillow out to your car. Then you closed the window and called Brian.”
She stands behind the desk. “Get out. Get out now.” She is barely keeping it together.
“You convinced Brian to return to the cabin and to tell the cops the BS story that he drove you home, and that you had forgotten your purse and had to go back. That’s when you both supposedly discovered Jake dead. You told him to lie for you, that your father would never accept you being at Jake’s cabin alone. After all, you had to keep up your reputation as a good girl. It must be tough swimming in a fishbowl, Becky.” I play that card now just as I had hoped to.
She shrieks, “Leave now or I will…”
“What? Call the police?” I point to the phone. “Go ahead.” I get up and stand by the door. “One last thing, Becky. When Brian called you that day and said that he was going to tell me the truth about not taking you home that night, you couldn’t let him do it. That’s when you raced over to the auto body shop and tried to persuade him to not to tell me, and that got him killed.”
She opens the door to the office with all the composure she can muster. “You can’t prove a thing,” she says coldly.
“You’re right, Becky. I don’t have access to your phone records or that pillow. I still have more work to do. And I have a feeling the next person you will talk to will wear a badge and a gun.” I enjoy that last parting shot as I sail past her. She needs to feel vulnerable.
I weave my way through the busy office, phones ringing and people talking. They all probably think I was pairing my car and homeowner’s insurance for the discount. No one pays attention to me as I slip out the front door. The rain is coming down hard. Ten steps later, I am in the back of Spencer’s surveillance van, and he spirits us away.
From around the next corner, we take a wait and see position.
Diane is seated next to me. “Let’s hope this works,” she says, while Bill is watching two monitors closely.
“I am not sure she was listening at the end,” I say. “She was pretty upset.” It’s only now that my nervousness ramps up. I force my tightening chest muscles to relax. I take in deep, slow breaths. I only see stars behind my eyes for a second before returning to an alert yet calm state.
Two pole cameras are recording the back parking lot of the insurance agency. The images on the monitors in the van's rear are in hi-def color. We don’t have to wait long. Becky hustles out the back door of the agency, dodging puddles. We watch her look around for yours truly. Satisfied that I am not lurking in the shadows, she walks directly to the dumpster, lifts the lid, and leans her chest against the angled steel opening. I know from experience that it’s going to leave an ugly stain.
She pulls plastic bags and cardboard boxes from the interior and throws them on the ground. Then she backs away from the dumpster, clutching her prize.
Barney Williams appears in the upper left corner of the screen, while Detective Shafer appears in the opposite corner. A third uniformed officer moves in from a hiding spot behind the dumpster. Bill zooms in. Becky is clutching to her chest the practice NASCAR pillow we used the night before, along with a dirty orange rag borrowed from the body shop.
Like scared prey, Becky pivots as the officers close the distance around her. She tries to feint and get them to commit. Barney moves like a lumbering bear, and she tries to run past him. The former high school defensive end dives at her and tackles her around the waist. They roll around a bit, but he outweighs her almost three to one.
Becky’s hair is soaked, and her blue dress becomes saturated. All the cops drag her to her feet, then they handcuff her.
Barney leads her to his cruiser. It’s his collar. I am glad I called him from the cabin the night before to schedule the meeting between Rosenthal and Shafer in the wee hours of the morning. All nay-sayers are now yay-sayers. It’s a good feeling.
“Bingo!” Diane exclaims. “Thank you, Rebecca Steele.”