Chapter 10

 

Friday afternoon, I thumped my pen absentmindedly on my desk, mulling over what I knew about the Hutson case. When I swiveled around in my chair to look at Briceson, he'd been glaring at my back. “What?”.

“You're driving me crazy beating the desk with that pen.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about the case.”

Briceson said, “Got any ideas?”

“There aren't too many reason anyone would want to kill Alice Hutson. The woman was leading a respectable life.” I started to turn around, then whirled back. “Did you check the fingerprints on the answering machine yet?”

Briceson looked sheepish. “We've been so busy checking out suspects I'd forgot about it until this morning. Just came back from doing that. The machine only had Mrs. Hutson's prints on it, and on the call waiting button.”

“So I'm assuming you checked the message on the answering machine.”

Briceson looked puzzled. “I did, but there were four.”

“Oh, come on. The machine had the number one in the window,” I scoffed. “I'm sure it did.”

“I know it did, but there were four messages. You want to hear them?” Briceson asked, taking the answering machine out of an evidence bag.

“Yeah, I do.” The phone rang. I answered and find Doc Klink on the other end. I put his call on speaker so he wouldn't say anything that might alert Briceson to the fact I'm dating the coroner. “Hi, Doc. Briceson and I have been waiting for your call. The phone is on speaker.”

“I just finished testing the handkerchief and towel you brought in,” he said brusquely.

“And?” I said impatiently.

“The DNA testing came back the victim's and one other on the handkerchief. The material had spots of gun oil on it, but no blood or gun powder. A female diffidently wiped the murder weapon clean of her own prints but left them on the hanky.

As for the towel, it had male DNA on it. A man wiped the blood off the victim's hand and cleaned out from under her fingernails.”

“Thanks, Doc. That widens the field. We're working on a list of suspects that keeps getting longer. We'll see if we can get DNA samples from them to test for a match.”

After I hung up, Briceson crawled under his desk to plug the machine in. We listened to some clicking static as the answering machine reset. Briceson plopped in his chair and pressed the play button.

The machine’s coarse, computer female voice said, “Monday, June sixth. You have four old messages.”

Click. “Message left at three thirty p.m.”

“Hello, Grandma. This is Allen. I hope it's all right if I come visit this evening. It's been a while since I've seen you. I'll drop in around eight. I promise not to stay long. Love ya.”

Click. “Message left at four p.m.”

“Hello, Kitten. I hadn't heard from you for a couple days. Hope you're feeling better soon so we can get together. I miss you”

I recognized that voice. “That's the smooth butter won't melt in his mouth voice of Bradford Cummings.”

Click. “Message left at four forty-five p.m.”

“I'm just wondering how your feeling now, Alice. I had a good time the other night with you. Let me know when you're ready for company again. Maybe we can polish off the rest of that wine I brought over. See you soon I hope.”

Before the answering machine clicked again, I said, “That's Tom Ryan.”

“No surprise there,” Briceson said.

Click. “Message left at eight thirty p.m.”

“Hello, Grandma. This is Allen. Sorry about calling you back this late in the evening, but I changed my mind. I can’t come over tonight, and I didn't want you to sit up waiting for me to show. Something’s come up. I’ll get back to you in a few days when I can come visit. Love you. Bye.”

Click.

Next came sounds of whirring tape rewinding .

“If there were four messages why did the machine show just one?” Briceson asked.

I slowly wagged my head. Suddenly, I knew. “Briceson! One of those messages was the new message. After you listened to the messages, the new message became an old one, too. Which one was it?”

Briceson lifted one shoulder and put it down. “I don't know.”

“Why don't you? You're the one that fooled with the answering machine,” I accused.

“I don't remember hearing the voice say new message. You just listened to it, and you didn't hear the voice say that just now did you?”

“No, because you had already listened to the messages.” I groaned. “Now all of them are old. Has the number in the window changed to four?”

Briceson leaned over the answering machine. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Check out DMV for Bradford Cummings, his wife and Tom Ryan to see what kind of car they own,” I said.

“On it,” Briceson said as he typed the computer keyboard. “Bradford Cummings comes back as owning a 2013 black Cadillac and his wife owns a dark green crown Victoria ford. Tom Ryan owns a 2012 blue Sonata Hyundai.”

I said, “Now we know who three of the cars belonged to the nosy neighbor described. Bradford Cummings showed up first in his caddy. His wife came out next, Tom Ryan was next, and someone driving a red older model car with a bad muffler was last.”

“All right. Let's think about this. Alice Hutson must have listened to three of the early recordings. That would make them old. She couldn't have listened to the last call by Allan. She'd have been dead by then. So his call must have been the new one,” I reasoned.

“Sounds right. So who is Allan?”

“We best find out. I'll call Bill Hutson. Maybe Allan is his son.” I dialed the number on the business card Hutson gave me. While I waited for him to pick up, I put the phone on speaker.

“Hello, Hutson real estate and land insurance. Bill Hutson speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hutson. This is Police Detective Renee Brown and Office Briceson. We just listened to the messages on the answering machine. The calls came in about the time your mother was killed. Two were from concerned friends wondering how she was feeling. The third call was from Allan Hutson.”

“Allen!” Bill Hutson exclaimed disgustedly. A loud clatter sounded like he might have thrown a pen across the room.

“You don't sound like you care much for the man. Tell me about Allen,” I said.

“Allen is my brother Bob’s son. My nephew has a bad repetition. The only one in the family who has been kind to him is my mother. As his grandmother, she always wanted to think Allen would change. I told her not to encourage him to visit. All he ever wants is a handout to buy drugs with. I worried he might be dangerous if he was high sometime when he came to see her.”

“Did your mother always give him money when he asked?” Briceson inquired.

“I’d be the last to know. Once I made my feelings clear about Allen early on, Mom didn’t want to be lectured by me. So when he asked her for money she wouldn't tell me about it.

She didn’t approve of Allen’s lifestyle anymore than I did. She told me once seeing the way her grandson looked physically gave her a bad feeling. Some day we'd open up the newspaper to headlines about his death from some sort of drug deal gone bad or an overdose.

When he came really often, I think she gave him money, but Allen hasn’t been to see her for a long time as far as I know. I figured Mom must have finally told him she wouldn't give him anymore handouts. So he quit coming,” Hutson said.

I explained, “We want to question Allen. Any idea where we'd find him?”

“No, I haven't had contact with him in years. Maybe my brother, Bob, knows. I can give you his address if you want to check with him,” Hutson offered.

“That would be helpful.” I opened my desk drawer and took out a note pad. “All right, give me the address.” I recognized the residence in the ritzy side of town. “What does your brother do for a living?”

“He's an investment broker with an office downtown. He gets home about five thirty most nights.”

“You have his phone number at the office handy. I could call ahead and offer to meet him at his house,” I said.

As it worked out, I came back to the station after talking to Bob Hutson around eight p.m. Briceson had caught up on the case paperwork and was going back out to patrol the streets.

I asked, “Did you find a line on the where abouts of the grandson yet?”

“No, but Allen Hutson was in the system. Seems his last known address is an old one. He moves around a lot since he never pays his rent for long. Up and slips out in the night before the landlord can get the rent money out of him,” Briceson said. “How did you come out with his father?”

“He hadn't seen his son in a year or so he says. He wouldn't give his son money to support his habit, and Bob didn't think his mother did, either. If she had been handing out cash, Bob was sure his son wouldn't have asked him for a handout. As for if his son could have killed his mother, he was on the fence. He just wasn't sure what his son was capable of doing these days.”

“Do you believe the man?”

“I intend to give him the benefit of the doubt. Let's put it that way. He seemed forth right and what he said made sense to me.

Check with DMV to see what Allan drives.”

“I'm doing that right now,” Briceson said as he typed. “Here it is. His name comes back as owner of a 2000 red four door Toyota.”

I continued to puzzle out loud. “The car matches the last visitor that we know of. If Allen killed his grandmother and made the last call at her bedside, he might have thought that was a good alibi.”

“Exactly,” Briceson agreed. “That would be a good reason for him to clean off the button. Except what if Mrs. Hutson was the one who pushed the message button when she was getting ready for bed and didn't bother to erase the messages.”

“If she was alive, she'd have answered the phone to talk to her grandson the first time he called. Doc said seven to nine was the estimated time of death.” I continued, “Allen had a better chance of getting out of being a suspect if he hadn’t left that I can't come message. For some reason, he thought he needed an alibi.

I don't know if Alice Hutson slept with that gun on a regular basis, but she might have kept it under the cover, afraid of what shape her grandson was in,” I added. “If the man wore gloves and used his grandmother’s gun then put it back in her hand, we wouldn’t necessarily have thought of Allen right off without that message. He's now high on our suspect list.”

“We checked the slug to see if it came from her gun and it did,” Briceson added.

I hoped the officer was taking mental notes so he’d get better at his job. “Mrs. Hutson expected her grandson to give her an argument when she said she meant she wasn't giving him anymore money. She was worried enough about how the man would react she felt she needed the gun in bed with her for protection while he was there.

Mrs. Hutson was a caring grandmother. She might have pointed the gun at the man, but I don't think she could pull the trigger when her grandson got aggressive. Allen may have taken the gun away from her and used it on her. But that's only one scenario.

We have others we can place at the scene thanks to Mabel Baxter. The possible woman suspect is Gloria Cummings. She may have cleaned off Alice Hutson's hand with the hanky. We aren't sure which of the men cleaned the blood away with the towel. We need to see how many of the suspects we can get DNA swabs from without too much trouble.

Now I’m due a coffee break.” I looked at my watch and groaned. “It’s supper time already. I’m not on duty again until morning unless you absolutely think you can't get along without me. Got that!”

Briceson grinned. “Got that.”

I hoped Briceson took my strong hint and left me alone. Since I didn't have a date with Doc, I jogged in the park, slapped together a ham and cheese sandwich for supper and settled into my recliner with the cat mystery book.

I was thinking I should turn in early after I dozed off at the end of each paragraph numerous times when the phone rang.

Briceson said, “You might want to come to the station.”

“What's up?”

“A couple of DEA officers conducted a drug raid on the west side of town. They're bringing in some prisoners. One of them is Allen Hutson,” Briceson said excitedly.

“Those agents aren't going to let us close to that man until they're done with him.”

Briceson sputtered. He wanted to be ready to question Hutson when the DEA officers were through with the man.

I said, “Just let me know when they leave. I'm fine right where I'm at.”

Briceson didn't get the chance to call me back. It was near morning when the DEA officers left for a motel to get some sleep. He knew he'd better wait until I came to work at eight.