Interrogation Room
Megan
Detective Jackson and I stopped in the center of the bank’s lobby.
The detective scanned the faces in the room. “Who’s in charge here?”
A fiftyish man in gray suit pants, a white button-down, and a striped tie lifted his hand. “That’s me. I’m the manager.”
I followed Jackson as she walked over to him.
“Got a room where we can speak in private?” she asked.
The man lifted a palm, indicating a room at the end of a short hallway. “We can use the conference room.”
“Great.” Jackson turned back to the employees. “Don’t discuss the incident any further until I get a statement from everyone.”
The bank employees murmured in assent.
The manager led us to the conference room. Jackson and I took seats on one side of the large oval conference table, while the manager sat down on the other. Brigit flopped down at my feet. I reached down and gave the back of her neck a nice scratch. It was a small gesture, less than she deserved and not nearly enough to show her how much I appreciated her. Having her by my side when I’d rushed into the bank earlier had made me less fearful and, without her leading me directly from the bank to the bus stop, it might’ve taken longer for us to figure out that the men who’d hijacked the bus were the same ones who’d robbed the bank. Dogs could put clues together that humans couldn’t. They were amazing, actually. Superheroes who wore fur instead of capes.
Jackson placed her laptop bag and notepad on the table and swiveled her seat slightly to better face the bank manager. “Tell me what happened.”
The man raised his palms. “All I know is that I was sitting in my office reviewing last month’s budget data when I heard a shriek from the lobby. By the time I stepped out of my office, the robbers were running out the door. I barely got a look at them.”
The detective twirled her pen in her fingers. “So everything you might be able to tell us would be secondhand information.”
“Right.”
“Do you know if the robbers went to three different tellers?”
“No. Just one. Grant Dawson. He was working the last window on the right, the one closest to the doors.”
“Got it.” The detective made a note. “Retrieve the security camera footage for me. And while you’re getting that together, send Dawson in, would you please?”
“Certainly.” The man left the room, leaving the door ajar.
A moment later, a twentyish young man with chiseled features, perfect teeth, and amber waves of hair stepped into the room. He looked like a modern-day Prince Charming. All that was missing was the white steed and tight breeches. He smelled good, too. Some type of spicy, woody men’s cologne. He wore the bank’s standard teller uniform, rust-color pants with an ivory dress shirt embroidered with the Cowtown National Bank’s longhorn steer logo.
“I’m Grant Dawson,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”
Jackson gestured across the table. “Please take a seat, Mr. Dawson. We have some questions for you.”
Grant slid into a chair and leaned back in a cool, comfortable pose, arms crossed loosely over his abdomen. The robbery didn’t seem to have shaken him up much. Hmm …
The detective launched into her questions. “The manager informed me that you interacted directly with the robbers. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I’d just finished cashing a check for the geezer on the scooter when some moron stepped up to my counter. He was short and dumpy and wearing cheap plastic sunglasses and a goofy snow hat with eyeballs on top.”
“Did you recognize him?” Jackson asked. “Has he been in the bank before?”
“I don’t know him,” Grant said. “Whether he’s been in the bank before I can’t say. I probably would’ve remembered someone wearing a stupid hat like that, but if he came in regular clothes he wouldn’t have made an impression.”
“Okay. So he stepped up to your counter. Then what?”
“He handed me this note.” Grant reached into the breast pocket of his dress shirt, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and tossed it onto the table.
Jackson reached out, pulled the paper toward her, and used the tip of her pen to carefully unfold it. I scooted my chair closer to her to read the note. The words were spelled out in letters cut from magazines. The note read:
DEAREST DICKLESS,
GIVE ME ALL THE $ IN YOUR DRAWER.
P.S. PUT A DYE PACK IN THE BAG & I’LL SHOVE IT
SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU’LL SPIT BLUE.
Some of the letters used to make the note were printed on thick, glossy paper, the kind used for magazine covers. Others had been cut from thinner newsprint paper, the type often used for grocery store circulars. The letters also varied in size, color, and shape. A red uppercase D on a circular white background. A lowercase green G on a square gray background. A black upper-case R on a triangular yellow background with the point to the right. Thin black trim appeared along the edge of the triangle’s upper and lower spans, as if the R sat in the center of a greater-than symbol.
“Dickless?” The detective looked at Grant and raised a questioning brow.
He rolled his eyes and waved a hand. “That wasn’t directed at me,” he said, as if the mere suggestion would be preposterous. “The guy probably came to my window because I had the shortest line.”
Jackson and I exchanged looks again before she returned her focus to Grant. “How many tellers were on duty this morning?”
“Three in the lobby,” he replied. “Two in the drive-thru.”
“How many were male?”
“Just me.”
“Yet you think the term ‘dickless’ wasn’t directed at you.” Jackson’s words were more of a comment than a question.
Grant raised a nonchalant shoulder. “If it was, it doesn’t fit.”
I made a note on my pad now. Confirmed—Grant has a penis. Unconfirmed but suspected—it’s tiny and overly manscaped.
Jackson tapped the end of her pen against her chin. “Was the guy wearing gloves when he handed you the note?”
“Mittens,” Grant said. “Mismatched ones. One was red and one was gray.”
Jackson made a note and continued her questions. “Did the robber who came to your window display a weapon?”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “He had a gun in the pocket of his jacket and he aimed it at me.”
“Did you actually see the gun?” she asked. “Did he remove it from his pocket?”
“No,” Grant spat. “But I wasn’t about to risk my life for a few thousand dollars, especially when it’s not even my money.”
Smart decision. Wannabe heroes often ended up hurt … or dead.
“Tell me, Grant,” the detective said. “Who doesn’t like you?”
He issued a snide snort. “Every other man on the planet. They know they can’t compete with guys like me.”
“Guys like you,” Jackson said. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
He gave her a patronizing look. “I mean guys with a face and body like mine.”
Seriously? Grant Dawson really needed to be taken down a peg or two.
Jackson closed her eyes for a moment. She was probably counting to ten herself. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “Who around the bank has a bone to pick with you? Who have you pissed off?”
I had a feeling that list could be very long.
“Last week one of the other tellers got mad when he found out I’d fooled around with his girlfriend. Like it’s my fault she wanted to trade up.” He rolled his eyes. “What a loser.”
Less than two minutes with this guy and already I didn’t like the condescending jerk. He wasn’t Prince Charming. He was Prince Charmless. “So, in your opinion, this other teller is a ‘loser’?”
Grant rolled his eyes and twirled a finger in the air. “Haven’t we already established that?”
My hand played over the baton on my belt. But as tempting as it would be to smack some respect into this arrogant twerp, doing so would only land me in hot water. I only liked to be in hot water if it was bubbly and scented with lavender. Besides, Grant’s judgmental comments might be intentionally harsh. It was possible he was trying to throw us off track.
Jackson tossed Grant a pointed look. “Just stick to the facts, son. Keep the commentary to yourself.”
The smile he offered was as insincere as it was condescending. “Whatever you say, sarge.”
Jackson remained calm. She had years of experience dealing with witnesses, many of whom were uncooperative and belligerent. No doubt she’d dealt with an occasional narcissist, too. “You said the other teller got upset when he found out you’d been seeing his girlfriend. How’d he find out?”
Grant raised a nonchalant shoulder. “I might’ve let it slip. But the guy totally overreacted. He even had the nerve to throw a punch at me.”
“He hit you?” I asked.
“No. He was on the other side of the counter. I pulled back and he missed.”
“He swung across the counter?” Jackson said. “Seems like his chances of hurting you were pretty slim.”
“That’s not the point.” Condescension virtually dripped from his words, as if he were speaking to the stupidest people he’d ever met. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward. “The point is he took it to a physical level. He tried to assault me, for God’s sake! Serena’s the one he should’ve been mad at. Not me. I didn’t owe the guy anything.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Sounds like you at least owed him an apology.”
Grant’s only reply was an eye roll.
I kept on. “I take it this other teller wasn’t working this morning?”
“Hell, no!” Grant cut me a look that was equal parts incredulity and derision, as though my question was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Chris got canned.”
“Chris?” I put my pen to my pad. “What’s his full name?”
“Christopher Vogel.”
“And the girlfriend?” I asked.
“Serena Herrera.”
Jackson and I wrote the names down before she continued. “You think Vogel could have been one of the robbers?”
“Could be. The guy standing at the doors was about his size.”
The detective eyed Dawson for a moment, her head tilting slightly as she appeared to be assessing him. “Who else have you had run-ins with?”
“There was a woman who came in last week complaining about overdraft fees assessed on her account,” Grant said. “She went ballistic, screaming and hollering like a crazy person. Security had to escort her out to the parking lot.”
“What set her off?” I asked. Could it have been your sparkling wit?
“Hell, if I know,” Grant retorted. “All I did was suggest she brush up on her basic math skills and she lost it.”
Jackson held her pen poised above her pad. “What was her name?”
“Yolanda Wilkes. I remember because I made a note of the incident in her account records.”
Both the detective and I wrote down this name also.
“Anyone else?” Jackson asked.
“A guy who came in two or three days ago claimed I’d shorted him a hundred dollars on a withdrawal.”
“Did you?” I asked.
Grant snorted derisively. “Of course not. I don’t make mistakes.”
Jackson skewered him with a look. “We all make mistakes on occasion, Mr. Dawson.”
“Well, I didn’t. The manager counted my till and it was perfect. Not a penny out of balance. I think the guy who said I’d shortchanged him was some kind of con artist.”
“You remember his name?” Jackson asked.
“Sure do. It was Arthur Scheck.”
“Any others who might have a bone to pick with you?” the detective asked.
“That’s all I can think of. Here at the bank anyway.”
There were likely plenty of other people outside the bank who found Grant Dawson less than appealing. I had a feeling he was at the top of more than one shit list.
“Is Serena here today?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
Jackson jerked her head toward the door. “Go get her for us.”
Dawson stood and walked out of the room.
Jackson shook her head. “That boy thinks quite highly of himself.”
“That’s for sure.” I glanced back at the names on my notepad. Christopher Vogel. Yolanda Wilkes. Arthur Scheck. “You think one of the people he named could be involved in the robbery?”
She raised a brow. “What do you think?”
“You’re going to make me reason it out myself, huh?”
“Consider it detective training.”
I mulled over the few details we’d collected so far. “The letter did seem to be directed to a male teller,” I said. “So holding up Grant c-could have been a personal, premeditated choice. Then again, the robbers may have simply cased the place earlier this morning, realized a male teller was working the window closest to the doors, and put the note together right before the robbery.”
Jackson pushed the paper toward me. “Is the glue fresh?”
I carefully picked the note up by the edges, held the page to my nose, and breathed in. Hey, my K-9 partner wasn’t the only one who could sniff out clues. My olfactory senses failed to detect the scent of fresh glue. I set the letter down and gave the red D and black R in “Dearest” a nudge with my pen. Neither moved, firmly affixed to the page. “The glue is dry.”
Still, that didn’t rule out the possibility that they’d prepared the note in advance and hastily added the greeting this morning. The smooth, flat set of the cut-out letters and the lack of telltale ooze around their edges told me the thieves had used a glue stick instead of liquid glue. Glue stick adhesive dried relatively quickly.
I continued to speculate out loud. “I suppose the bank robbers could be strangers, as Dawson claimed. But he seemed awfully calm for someone who’d just been robbed. You think maybe he’s in on the heist?”
The detective slid the note into a clear plastic evidence bag. “What I think, Officer Luz, is that anything is possible.”