“I answered your ruddy question. Now, get out.”
Ruddy? Tsk, tsk. Such language from a respected medical man. “Have it your own way, Bob,” I said, only I didn’t leave the chair. Instead, I pulled a blank subpoena from my inside jacket pocket and started filling in the empty spaces. After my conversation with the receptionist, I thought it’d be wise to bring a few, just in case.
Dr. Holyfield, who was standing now, asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Preparing a subpoena,” I answered. “I’ll take it to the Dakota County sheriff, and he’ll take it to the Dakota County attorney, and he’ll take it to a Dakota County judge, who will stamp his approval on it, and by this time tomorrow you’ll be answering questions before the Dakota County grand jury. Ever been to Dakota County? Nice place. Long drive, though. I hope you don’t have anything planned for the day.”
Dr. Holyfield considered my words for a moment, and I wondered if I had overplayed my hand. A private investigator issuing subpoenas? Yeah, right, happens every day.
“I don’t have time for this,” he declared and moved back to his chair. “Ask your questions and be quick about it.”
“I already asked one,” I reminded him, making a production out of returning the subpoena to my pocket, trying hard not to smile in triumph.
“Five months,” he answered.
“Did it begin before Alison was married?”
“No. We had met at several health-related functions prior to her marriage,” he answered as if he was discussing a brake job. “However, we did not become … involved … until much later. Not until after her wedding. I don’t know what drew us together. Perhaps we both needed to spend time with someone who understood our problems. Alison had come to the conclusion that marrying Stephen had been a dreadful error, and at the same time I was having serious misgivings concerning my own marriage. Originally, that’s all we did: spend time together, go places, go to the zoo—I’ve lived in this state my entire life, and I had never been to the Minnesota zoo. We did not become intimate until several weeks had passed. I’m guessing we were both caught up in a fantasy that our lives were somehow different when we were together—there was no Stephen, I had no wife. In our fantasy, we were starting over, beginning our lives anew, with no attachments, no past to encumber us. Alas, it was only a silly fantasy and it ended. It ended all too soon.”
For someone who had refused to speak with me until I leaned on him, Dr. Holyfield was surprisingly forthcoming. I encouraged him, yet I didn’t trust him.
“How did the affair end?” I asked.
“Stephen found out and threatened Alison with a divorce.”
“I’d have guessed she’d have welcomed a divorce.”
I thought I detected just a smidgen of regret when Dr. Holyfield answered, “No.” But I could’ve been mistaken.
“She came from a family that was vehemently opposed to divorce,” he continued. “She had been brainwashed long ago into accepting the fallacy that she was married forever.”
“How ’bout you, Bob?”
“When Alison informed me that our involvement had to cease, I came to the realization that I owed it to myself to rescue my own marriage, and I pledged myself to that goal.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Save your marriage.”
“Unfortunately, no. My wife also learned about the affair. I understand a friend told her all about it. Our divorce was final just over seven months ago. It was acrimonious, as you might expect. There was a great deal of name calling, finger pointing, and suspicion. When it was concluded, my wife had custody of my children, my house, two cars, several IRAs, and an enormous alimony and child-support settlement. Prior to the divorce, I had made several unwise investments, so there wasn’t as much money as she expected, or she would have taken that, too. As it was, I was forced to undergo an audit; she claimed I had hidden a substantial amount of our financial assets. The court concluded that it was merely one of her unfounded allegations.”
I didn’t do the polite thing and tell him I was sorry. I wasn’t. Instead I asked, “Was your divorce final before or after Alison disappeared?”
“Before.”
“Did you try to contact her after the divorce?”
“Certainly.”
“And how did she respond?”
The good doctor shrugged. “The sun had set on that relationship.”
“Oh?”
“As I recall,” he said, looking up at the ceiling, “her exact words were: ‘I do not believe the resumption of our relationship at this time would be productive for either of us.’”
“Her exact words?”
Holyfield nodded.
“How did that make you feel?” I asked.
He shrugged again.
“I would think you’d be pretty upset,” I told him. “After losing your wife and children, after being put in debt for the rest of your life for wanting her. Yeah, I’d be pissed off.”
“To be honest, I was relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“I had just survived one relationship. I was unprepared to leap into a second.”
“Yet you contacted her,” I reminded him.
He had nothing to say to that.
“Where were you the night Alison disappeared?”
“I’d need to consult my calendar,” Bob said.
“Why don’t you do that,” I encouraged him.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why bother?”
“It might supply you with an alibi.”
“For what?”
Was he purposely being obtuse?
“For the murder of Alison Emerton,” I answered too loudly.
“What makes you think she was murdered?”
That one caught me right between the eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“What makes you think she was murdered?” he repeated.
Dr. Holyfield smiled, and in that smile I saw his intentions. He was giving me a preview of his defense.
“What do you believe became of Alison?” I asked, the dutiful straight man.
“Alison was greatly disappointed in the life she was living with Stephen,” he answered. “I have no doubt that, given her intelligence, her drive, her beauty, she naturally hoped to achieve more.”
“More?”
“More money, more prestige, more power, more adventure, more … I once told her that the hardest lesson an individual can learn is to be content with who they are, to accept themselves for who they are. Alison was not prepared to do that. That’s probably why she left.”
“Left?”
“Do you always ask one-word questions, Holland?”
The sonuvabitch had turned the tables on me. Now I was the student, and he was the teacher.
“What do you mean, left?” I asked again.
“I believe she decided to become someone else.” He smiled some more. “I appreciate that there are several unanswered questions concerning the circumstances of her disappearance. However, that does not alter my theory. In fact, I can appreciate how the difficulties she was forced to endure during those dark days might have motivated her to leave.”
“Leave for where?”
Dr. Holyfield merely shrugged.
“Why didn’t you inform the police of your theory?” I asked.
“I am under no obligation to do so. If Alison wants to start her life over, I say good luck.”
I left Robert Holyfield’s office exactly fifteen minutes after entering it, feeling I had been played like a Stradivarius. Anne Scalasi would have been appalled. Still, what would she have done differently? Dr. Holyfield had readily admitted to having an affair with Alison, and he confessed that the affair had contributed to his divorce, to his losing nearly everything he owned. And he had admitted that Alison had blown him off when he had attempted to resume their relationship. However, he couldn’t have killed her for rejecting him because, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Alison is not dead. Goodness gracious, no. She’s pumping gas in Fayetteville, Tennessee, at a service station owned by Elvis Presley. And, as implausible as it might sound, that argument could just as easily be applied to Irene Brown’s defense. Or Raymond Fleck’s. Or Stephen Emerton’s.