“I’m pretty busy,” he says, pushing his way past me and parking his machine in the hallway.
“Please?”
Something in my voice strikes home because he stops.
“Look, Erik, I’m just trying to figure out the facts here. I’m not making any judgments, I’m just gathering information. I want to find out who did this to Shannon.”
He turns to face me and I see the faint sheen of tears in his eyes. “I didn’t kill her,” he says in a low voice. “But I sure as hell would love to kill the bastard who did.”
“Then talk to me,” I plead. I gesture toward the ENT room and he walks that way, his head hung low. Once we’re inside he sinks into a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
I lean against the wall and give him a minute to collect himself. Then, as gently as possible, I say, “Talk to me Erik. Give me your thoughts on all of this.”
He looks up at me with a surprised expression.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head and smiles. “I was expecting more of a third degree, not a request for my thoughts.”
I shrug. “I figure you knew Shannon better than anyone else and might have some insight into what was going on in her life recently.”
“First tell me honestly. Do you think I did this?” He is watching me closely, no doubt to gauge the sincerity of whatever answer I give him.
“No, I don’t,” I answer without hesitation, looking him straight in the eye. “I’ve known you since grade school and I can’t imagine the guy I know you to be doing something like this. But I’m well aware that people keep secrets, dirty little secrets that hide aspects of their personalities and lifestyles that most people will never know. I’ve been fooled by people who were much closer to me in life than you are, so let me caveat my answer by saying that I’m only about ninety percent sure you didn’t do it.”
He considers my answer and nods. “You’re right. Everyone has secrets. Just when you think you know someone . . .” His voice trails off and we exchange knowing glances. Erik, like everyone else who works at the hospital, is well aware of my recent history with David and it seems that the destruction of our respective marriages has created an odd sort of bond between us.
“So tell me your thoughts,” I say again. “Why would anyone kill Shannon?”
Erik shakes his head and stares miserably at his feet. “I wish I knew. The only person I can think of is this shrink she was dating. He strikes me as a shady character but I realize I’m biased.”
I nod thoughtfully, acknowledging his prejudice. “What is it about him that you don’t like, other than the obvious?”
Erik shrugs. “He’s got veiled eyes. You know what I mean, the kind of eyes that always look like they’re hiding something. And he never answers a question directly. Instead he always asks another question.”
This doesn’t surprise me and I’m not sure I agree with Erik’s assessment. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors in general are trained to answer questions with questions. It’s a standard tool taught in Psych 101. What Erik is interpreting as veiled eyes may simply be Nelson’s attempt to look objective and impassive when others are talking to him.
“How long had Shannon been dating him?”
“A couple months, I think, but I can’t be sure.”
“Did she share any thoughts about him with you?”
He looks sheepish. “We didn’t discuss him much. I admit I had a tendency to get rather, um, emotional whenever the topic arose.”
“Understandable,” I say. Then I quickly shift gears on him. “Shannon was shot with a .38 and Detective Hurley says you own one.”
Erik nods. “They came early yesterday morning and tore my place apart looking for it and any other evidence.”
“Did they find any?”
“How could they? I didn’t do this, Mattie.”
“So where is the gun?”
“I left it with Shannon.” He pauses and lets forth a pained, ironic laugh. “I figured she could use it for protection since she was living alone. She said she was afraid of the stupid thing and would never touch it, but I left it with her just the same and suggested that she get some lessons on how to use it.”
“Do you know where she kept it?”
“Last time I saw it, it was in the spare bedroom closet.”
“When did you last see it there?”
His brow furrows as he thinks. “I’m not sure. Several weeks ago, I think. I came by to pick up some of my clothes and I saw the box in its usual spot up on the shelf.” He pauses a moment and then asks, “Do you know the time of death yet?”
“It looks like she was killed around eight P.M., give or take a couple of hours.”
Erik’s shoulders sag and I know he comprehends the significance of this finding. “It doesn’t look good for me, does it?” he says, looking utterly miserable.
“There’s no hard evidence pointing to you. Everything is circumstantial and it’s still pretty early in the investigation.”
His expression brightens for a second, but it’s short-lived because the door to our room opens and I turn to see Hurley standing there with a couple of uniform cops.
“Erik Tolliver,” Hurley says, “you are under arrest for the murder of Shannon Tolliver. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . .”
As Hurley recites his Miranda warning, the two cops approach Erik, who willingly succumbs to being handcuffed. He mutters an acknowledgment of his rights when asked, then allows the officers to steer him from the room. I watch as he’s paraded through the ER, looking ashamed, humiliated, and completely without hope. The ER staff and patients watch in silence, but I can tell they are all mentally rehearsing their respective recital of the events for later.
My heart goes out to Erik and, as the cops lead him out the doors toward a waiting patrol car, I give Hurley a dirty look. “That was tacky. Couldn’t you have done this somewhere other than his place of work? And aren’t you being a bit premature?”
“Not at all,” he answers. I expect him to look smug but seeing the effect Erik’s arrest has had on me, he looks sympathetic instead. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I think he means it.
But it doesn’t change the facts, and after seeing the pathetic look of dejection on Erik’s face, I’m more motivated than ever to get to the truth.
Chapter 12
After saying my good-byes to the ER crew, I head for my car, knowing what I have to do next but dreading it. Erik is going to need a lawyer, a good one, and I know one of the best: my brother-in-law, Lucien. Unfortunately, being a good lawyer doesn’t require charm, finesse, or good taste, and Lucien is a shining example of this fact. He behaves like a sexist pig and lacks any sense of tact or political correctness. He is famous, or perhaps infamous, for his free use of words like poontang, diddlywhacker, and rib bumpers. Once, at a party David and I had, Lucien vocalized his fondness for women who cater to fast-food restaurants because, “we are what we eat and that means they’re all fast, cheap, and easy.”
I’ve never understood what my sister, Desi, sees in Lucien, though as far as I can tell he is a faithful and loving husband despite his belief that developing a hard-on is a form of personal growth. He is also a wonderful father to his daughter, Erika, and his son, Ethan, who despite some odd idiosyncrasies are both bright, sweet kids. Twelve-year-old Erika seems to have inherited her father’s flair for attention-getting behavior, a trait she exhibits through her appearance rather than her speech. Her clothes are typically dark, mismatched, and oversized, and her hair color changes on a regular basis, ranging from raven black to hot pink. Ethan, who just turned ten, is brilliant but far less outgoing and flamboyant. Desi calls him her mini nerd. He prefers to hole up in his room alone much of the time, though that might be because no one else wants to go in there. The kid is enthralled with bugs of all kinds and his room holds a creepy but fascinating collection.