Off the Beaten Path. John Schlarbaum
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Rodney continued on with his McDowell Murder Mansion speech. “Where was I?”
“A toaster was being beaten to within an inch of its life,” Ms. Vittles said.
“Yes, right,” Rodney began. “So, the next thing the woman on the phone cries out is, ‘He’s yelling something! Wait. He’s coming upstairs!’ Tragically, those were her final words. When we replayed the 911 call, in the background you could faintly hear the killer taunting the soon-to-be victim, ‘Come out and play, Lucy. You’ve had your fun, now it’s my turn. School’s out forever.’ A short time later, we heard a struggle as 24-year-old Lucy McDowell, the wife of Theodore’s great grandson Eric, was dragged from her bedroom closet. By this time, we’d dispatched officers in four cruisers to the residence. They arrived within minutes of the call coming in and were still too late to save her after being stabbed once through the heart with a kitchen knife.”
The bus was silent as we hung on Rodney’s every word. Somehow, this crime was more real than the others he’d talked about during the night. There was an edge to his voice that gave each detail extra weight. Maybe it was the brutality of the killing or that a young woman lost her life. I examined Rodney’s stone-etched face and saw an expression that wordlessly conveyed the truth of the matter at hand: this was personal.
“Was the killer in the house when the police arrived?” Mr. Married-Unmarried asked.
“I wish. It would’ve made this last case that much easier to close,” Rodney responded. “No, the killer escaped out a back patio door, presumably as the officers arrived on scene. There were a few drops of Lucy’s blood on the stairs and on the kitchen floor near the door.”
“Was Lucy a teacher or an Alice Cooper fan?” I said, taking up Rodney’s request to participate. “The School’s Out reference seems pretty specific.”
“As a matter of fact, she was an assistant at the nearby Dannenberg Public School’s kindergarten class,” Rodney answered.
“Huh,” Dawn said, glancing at me with a quizzical expression.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Rodney stated slowly.
“I guess I find it interesting she worked with little kids, instead of older students. I’ve always associated the song’s title and the phrase school’s out as being connected to high school or later years, not grade or pre-school. It would also date Lucy’s attacker age-wise.” Dawn paused, then asked, “Thoughts?”
Amazed again, Rodney said to me, “Does she help with all your files or just the tough ones you can’t figure out?”
Somewhere in that question was a backhanded compliment that didn’t sit well with me.
“Trust me, she will from now on,” I said as I put my hand in Dawn’s, now wishing to have this tour end sooner rather than later. I had no interest in getting into some stupid ex-cop pissing contest with Mr. Know-It-All here.
“What about Lucy’s husband? When did he arrive?” one of the solo unattached passengers asked. “Was he ever a suspect?”
Rodney flashed a thoughtful smile. “About an hour later, he did eventually come home, freshly showered and looking like a million bucks. He valiantly tried to portray himself as a grieving spouse and actually fooled quite a few people.”
“But not you,” the other solo passenger said.
“Not by a long shot. Steve can back me up when I say there are people in specific situations whose actions and words don’t line up.” I nodded in agreement, keeping my new vow of silence. “People with a guilty conscience either act too calm or too out of control, which in most cases comes back to bite them. You can’t blame them for trying. The problem is they’re not trained actors. They’ve never done this type of deception on such a large scale. Getting caught stealing a dollar from your mother’s purse isn’t in the same league as being a suspect in the coldblooded murder of your sweetheart. Dear old Mom will likely forgive you, regardless of what wild excuse you spin. That’s a parental job requirement. Unfortunately for Eric McDowell, I was his mom’s stand-in that night, and my job requirements are a bit different.”
“You said he arrived freshly showered? That was his first mistake,” Dawn commented, having taken no such vow of silence.
“One of many,” Rodney agreed. “Having the mistress secretary providing your alibi also didn’t strengthen his case for acquittal.”
I was going to jump in with a sarcastic, “Really?” when I noticed the married-unmarrieds catch each other’s eye and hold their gaze longer than normal.
Busted.
“Nothing too cliché about that scenario,” a male student scoffed.
This tawdry morsel of information unleashed a torrent of questions by the group:
“When did the affair begin?”
“Did Lucy know about the affair?”
“Were they getting a divorce?”
“Was the secretary arrested?”
“Did the mistress end up testifying against Eric?”
And lastly, from the other male university student came the gem, “Was the secretary hotter than Lucy?”
This abruptly ended question period, that and the fact that a distraught middle-aged woman was on the sidewalk screaming at the top of her lungs, while banging on the bus door with something metal.
“I’ve called the cops, Dutton! The real cops! The ones who know how to investigate a crime, unlike you and that moron Ingles!” We all slid to the right-side windows in time to see this loon using a can of spray paint to deface the large Tour of True Terror logo on the side panel. When the can was empty, she threw it against the bus and continued to yell at Rodney, and by extension, us. “Everyone in there should be ashamed of themselves, especially you Dutton, you money-grabbing sleazeball! How dare you bask in the glory of a case you got wrong? Eric is innocent. You knew it six years ago but railroaded him anyway!” As a police siren cut through the night air, our attacker kicked the door. “Get out of here and leave us alone!” she cried out, before stomping back to the mansion and slamming the front door behind her.
“You know the drill,” Rodney said to the driver. “Go up a block and park. I’ll smooth everything over and we’ll get everyone back to the kiosk as soon as we can.” He directed this last sentence to his stunned, yet still captive audience.
“Friend of yours?” I inquired, knowing our blue brotherhood connection allowed me to bust his balls without fear of any repercussions. As I expected, he laughed off my comment.
“I apologize for what happened back there,” Rodney said composing himself. “Although you were never in any real danger, I’ll gladly refund your money if you want. That woman is Debra Stanfield, Lucy’s mother, Eric’s mother-in-law. We have a troubled past that flairs up every once in awhile.”
“His mother-in-law believes he’s innocent? That’s got to be rare,” a female student commented. “Usually they hate their daughter’s husband.”
“I know, my mother-in-laws hated me,” Mr. Married-Unmarried chimed in, breaking the tension. “Together they would’ve found a way to plant that bloody knife in my work locker.”
“Again, I’m sorry you had to be part of this tonight,” Rodney said. “I’ll just be a minute with the officer and then we’ll get you back to civilization safe and sound.”
The moment the bus door closed behind Rodney, our group exploded in chatter, like a bunch of fifth graders whose teacher steps into the hall to speak with the principal.
“What’s your take on all of this?” Dawn asked me above the din of the other participants.
I glanced out the window to watch Rodney and the officer discussing the vandalized logo. “In every trial, there’s a winner and a loser,” I said.