David Bishop - The Original Alibi

*

By eight-fifteen, Fidge’s children were off to school and by eight-thirty I had shared pleasantries with his wife, Brenda. I love that woman. Not in the I-wish-she-were-my-wife kind of way, but in the, I’m-glad-she’s-my-best-friend’s-wife kind of way. She wasn’t gorgeous, but she was sensuous and she loved that big galoot. Fidge had the largest feet of any man I’d ever known. He wore fifteen double EE shoes. I’ve often told him that when he walks he should use those red flags that trucks hang when hauling long loads. His other distinguishing characteristic was a pencil-thin mustache, the kind worn by Boston Blackie, the fictional jewel thief and safecracker who became a private detective in books, movies and a television series. Blackie got a renewed dose of fame in a Jimmy Buffett song, “ Oh I Wish I Had a Pencil-thin Mustache, the Boston Blackie kind, then I could solve some mysteries too. ” I doubt it was because of his mustache, but Fidge had solved some mysteries too.

While Fidge and I slathered a couple of bagels that Brenda put on the table, he confirmed that Chris Timmons, known in police circles as Chunky, still ran the outside lab the department sometimes used for overflow DNA testing. I could have found that out without going to see Fidge, but I thought we should touch base on his investigation into the murder of Cory Jackson and mine into Ileana Corrigan, the law’s hook into my Eddie Whittaker assignment.

“Yeah,” Fidge said, “the department made the connection between the dead Cory Jackson and his past role in being the claimed eyewitness to the murder of Ileana Corrigan. We just don’t see a link there. Jackson was discredited over ten years ago as a witness against Eddie Whittaker. If somebody out there had gotten pissed about that, they would have put Jackson down a long time ago. I mean, he’s been right here in plain sight all these years.”

He got up and kissed Brenda, then got the coffee pot and two cups from the cupboard and came back to the table, while asking, “You agree, don’t you?”

“I guess. According to his half brother, Jackson does have some history with drugs.”

“Also gambling, small change stuff, but we confirmed he owed the bookies some money. Nothing much, more likely kneecaps, not kill-ya money. Still, you can never be certain about that stuff. The bookie could have rubbed him out to make the point to a bigger better with a bigger past due balance. The Jackson homicide is going through the motions, but we’ve found nothing and even the effort’s fading.”

“Shouldn’t be that way,” I said, “but with the case load you guys carry it happens.”

I went on to tell Fidge about the two million dollar shakedown of General Whittaker to buy Eddie’s original alibi. Fidge hadn’t known it, but he had always wondered about the synchronized timing of the witnesses against Eddie. His arrest, quickly followed by three witnesses who stepped up a few days later to put Eddie in that restaurant, out of the range of the murder, all followed neatly by his subsequent release.

Fidge stroked his chin like he always had while sifting information. I had forgotten about him doing that, but surviving over time is what makes something a habit. “Could Jackson and Tommie Montoya have cooked this up on their own to shake down the general? If so, Montoya might have dropped Jackson to get the entire take for himself, and to eliminate the only person who could rat him out?”

“On paper that could work, but no, I’ve spent time with Montoya, he’s definitely not bright enough to develop the shakedown, likely Cory Jackson isn’t either. If these two guys had raked in two million in cash, there’s no way they could have sat on it and stayed in their dead-end lives for the past eleven years.”

Fidge nodded. “I remember Cory Jackson from back when he claimed he saw Eddie kill the Corrigan woman. That dunce was incapable of brainstorming a fast food dinner, let along that kinda shakedown. He had a taste for drugs then and owed the bookies now. He couldn’t sit on that size bundle for eleven days let alone years.”

“I still feel like someone’s missing from the game, but I can’t put anyone in the empty chair.”

“You still picturing mystical poker games with empty chairs?”

“It’s a way of saying there may be a player we haven’t identified.”

“So, whatdaya got for Chunky?” Fidge asked, while Brenda put her hand on his shoulder to lean in and refill our cups. Talking cases in front of Brenda was nothing new, as a homicide cop’s wife she knew to keep quiet about what she heard.

“You got me to thinking when you said the department ran a paternity test to be sure Eddie was the father of Ileana Corrigan’s unborn son. It got me wondering if the general is his daughter’s poppa.”

“Really? You got anything saying he isn’t?”

“Nope. Just trying to match up my thises and thats. You know the dance. To be the poppa, the general would have procreated late in life-”

Brenda interrupted to ask how old the general would have been.

“Mid fifties,” I answered.

“No problem,” Brenda said, again proving that when it comes to anything related to giving birth, women know more than us guys. At least they think so. And they’re likely right.

“Still,” I said, “I want to nail it. In those years, the general’s ex-wife had a rep for being a frisky woman, by the general’s own description. I think he’d know. Trying to sneak anything past that old soldier is like trying to sneak a fresh chicken egg past a possum.”

“You got what you need for the tests?”

“I think so. When I researched modern DNA testing for a novel last year, I read that they can do them within a day now. True?”

“Yeah. Chunky charges extra for quick results. If he gets it before noon, next day end of business is about as fast as it can be done.”

*

After stopping to see Chunky, which first required we share a cup of coffee and some reminiscing, he committed to having the DNA done by the time he closed tomorrow. I told him I’d be back then at five.

From the car, I called Axel. He and Hillie were at the Sea Breeze Manor assisted living facility. The place also had a convalescing wing which had been built while the five old soldiers had still been living in the assisted living section. The general had contributed enough that the wing was named The Whittaker Building. Axel had checked out the Sea Breeze and the place had a top reputation. All their rooms were rented and they had a waiting list. It was an independent operation run by the owner. I’m guessing the families of the residents liked being able to go directly to the owner. Axel put Hillie on the phone when I asked how it was going.

“Hi, Mr. Kile.”

“How’s it coming, Hillie? Are you able to work with their records okay?”

“Oh, sure. My dad had so many different small business clients that I think I’m familiar with about all the popular accounting software programs. This one’s a snap. Mr. Morrissey, the owner, had his bookkeeper up and quit on him last Friday. It’s actually easier not having someone looking over my shoulder explaining things I don’t need explained.”

“Is it all … checking out?”

“Yeah. I spent a couple hours looking at the records Charles put together at the Whittaker house. Man, that’s some house, Mr. Kile.”

“You were saying, Hillie?”

“It’s all like what you expected, Mr. Kile. The general paid everything. No one else paid anything.”

“What about visitors for those men, any records identifying them?”

“I don’t know. I’m just into the financial records. But I know Axel’s been chatting it up in the restaurant with the staff and other residents. The owner here thinks the world of the general so after Charles called him, Mr. Morrissey is letting us see whatever we want. The restaurant’s in the assisted living wing. It’s the biggest part of the place. Axel walked over here to tell me you were on his phone. Maybe he knows something. I’m about done. I’m taking notes. Two of the five died about six years ago. One died three years ago, then another about two years back. After that, Mr. William Branch, the last of the five died about a year ago. I hope you’re not expecting me to bring you anything of importance cause I’m not finding any of that. You wanna talk with Axel? He’s still here.”