Dave Zeltserman - Bad Karma

“Betty gave me your name as, um, Bill Shannon,” he said, his large round eyes trying hard to squint. “Is that right? I can’t recall us agreeing to meet.”

“I’m investigating your daughter’s death. Your wife told me she’d call you and let you know I was on my way over.”

Gibson slapped his forehead in an overly exaggerated manner. “That’s right. Mindy did call. I’m sorry, I don’t know where my head’s at today.” He ushered Shannon to a chair, then sat behind his desk. Like his home, an expensive collection of abstract paintings were displayed on the walls, mostly what looked like sunsets with different shades of yellows, oranges and blues. Shannon picked up a framed picture from his desk of two girls holding hands, both blond and wearing party dresses, one several years older than the other. The older one was Linda, maybe at age thirteen. She was smiling in the picture but a solemn look in her eyes seemed to contradict it.

“Those are my two girls,” Gibson said. He pushed a hand through his hair, all the while maintaining a friendly smile. “I understand you came here from Colorado. I’m sorry, but I don’t know how we can possibly help you.”

“I’m hoping you can give me some insight into Linda.”

He tried squinting again, this time appearing more genuinely confused. “Why would that do any good? From what I understand this was a random act. That a psychopath broke into their apartment.”

“Who told you that?”

“Jim Munson. He’s a police detective here in Wichita who’s been contacting the Boulder police for me.”

“The Boulder police haven’t made a determination yet as to what happened. Do you mind if I tape record our conversation?”

Gibson had fallen into a funk, his eyes dazed as he stared at one of his sunset paintings. Shannon had to ask twice about recording their conversation before Gibson snapped out of it. He gave Shannon’s recorder a confused look before nodding and telling Shannon to do what he needed to.

Shannon placed the recorder on the desk between the two of them, turned it on and asked Gibson about Linda.

“What’s there for me to say? She was my little girl. I loved her with all my heart.”

“From the pictures I saw of her she was very attractive.”

He nodded, his solid jaw pushed out slightly. “Yes, she was.”

“Can you think of anyone here who might’ve been obsessed with her? Someone who might’ve followed her to Colorado?”

He shook his head.

“Never any problems with stalkers?”

“No.”

“Anyone you didn’t know show up at the funeral?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I was in no state of mind to notice something like that.”

“Anything odd occur at the funeral?”

Gibson shook his head.

“Any strange phone calls? Anything odd happen afterwards?”

Again, he shook his head. “Why are you asking this?”

“If it was a serial killer, he might have made an appearance at the funeral or afterwards. Sometimes that’s how they get their kicks. How did Linda get along with her sister?”

“She was four years older than Gloria, but they got along fine.”

“I’d like to talk with Gloria. Maybe Linda told her something she didn’t tell you or your wife.”

Gibson gave him a tired smile. “This has been very hard on Gloria as you could well expect, and my wife and I don’t want to upset her any further. I’ll talk to her. If she has any information, I’ll get back to you.”

Shannon nodded, took out a notepad and made a show of consulting it. “I understand Linda and your wife didn’t get along very well.”

“No, that’s not true.” He hesitated, put a hand up to his eyes and squeezed them with his thumb and ring finger. “Mr. Shannon, have you ever lost a child due to violence? You have no idea how difficult it is to cope with something like that.”

“I haven’t lost a child, but I have lost people close to me. I have some idea what you’re going through. Your wife, though, she made it pretty clear that she had no relationship with your daughter at the time of her death.”

“That’s Mindy’s way of dealing with it. Blowing up past fights and arguments as a way to emotionally protect herself. But trust me, my wife, in her own way, is in as much pain as I am over this.”

“She told me about Thanksgiving.”

Gibson’s head moved to the side as if he’d been slapped. “What did she say?” he asked, his voice pinched, not quite right.

“That your daughter made accusations against you and your wife. That things got ugly.”

“There were no accusations made,” he said slowly in the same pinched voice. “Linda was very good at pushing buttons, and that’s all that happened. When she wanted to she could have a cruel sense of humor.”

“Can I ask you what was said?”

He shook his head, his jaw pushed further out. “It’s not worth repeating.”

“How about telling me about Taylor Carver?”

“I didn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“Among other things, he was an opportunist.” Gibson checked a clock on his desk and told Shannon he had to get back to work. “I’m afraid this couldn’t have been very productive for either of us.”

“No, it’s been helpful.” Shannon reached for his tape recorder, but stopped himself, and made a further show of studying his notepad. After flipping through several pages, he asked, “Did you know a Candace Murphy?”

Gibson said he didn’t, which made sense since Shannon had made up the name.

“She was a friend of Linda’s. According to Candace, Linda was going to confront you and your wife over Thanksgiving about sexual abuse issues.”

Something flickered in Gibson’s eyes. Then he noticed the tape recorder and in a shaky voice told Shannon that he was lying.

“I’m not lying. If you need me to, I’ll get an affidavit from her, but I’m hoping-”

“You are lying,” he said, his voice more confident. He stood up, muscles bunching along his shoulders. “Get out of here now or I’ll throw you out.”

Shannon hesitated, hoping that Gibson would try something like that. He had had that hunch ever since he talked with Gibson’s wife, but when he saw that momentary flicker in Gibson’s eyes and heard the shakiness in his voice, he knew his hunch was on target. As he collected his tape recorder, Gibson warned him that he would sue Shannon for every cent he had if he ever repeated any of his scurrilous garbage. Shannon shrugged, told him he had a few thousand in the bank, and for Gibson to go for it. Fred Gibson stood rubbing his knuckles, but didn’t move as Shannon left his office.

Shannon stopped at the receptionist on his way out and asked if she knew of a good place nearby to get a piece of pie. She gave him an odd look, and he repeated himself. “I haven’t eaten anything all day and I’m in the mood for a good piece of apple pie,” he told her. She gave him the name of a diner a few blocks away, then checking her watch, asked if he’d like some company. “I haven’t gone on my lunch break yet,” she said.

“I’ll have to ask for a rain check. I plan to be meeting a few people.”

Detective Don Chase reached across the table and stopped the tape Shannon was playing for him and Wilson. “This is nuts,” he said, his face reddening with exasperation. “I still don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.”

Chase had one of those fireplug bodies; barely a neck, barrel-chested, and a thick trunk. Along with that he had a wide face that seemed stuck in a half scowl, half grin. He also had the same military-style buzz cut that Wilson had, which made Shannon wonder if the hair cuts were a departmental directive. There was something familiar about the guy that Shannon couldn’t quite put his finger on. Chase and Eric Wilson sat on one side of the booth while Shannon sat across from them. He held up a finger for Chase to wait while he chewed a bite of apple pie and vanilla ice cream, then said, “He sexually abused his daughter. I think that’s a good reason for your being here.”