“Check the steering wheel and door lever for prints,” Jackson said. She held up the plastic piece. “But see what you can get from this first. It belongs to one of the men we’re looking for.”
One of the techs whipped out a small plastic evidence bag and held it open while Jackson dropped the funnel-shape thing into it. “We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve got anything,” he told her.
We thanked the men and returned to my patrol car. In ten minutes, we pulled up in front of Arthur Scheck’s home, the left side of a long-neglected duplex. The yellow paint had faded to a dull, urine color and at least half of the evergreen bushes in front of the place failed to live up to their names, instead sporting dead, reddish-brown needles.
I left Brigit in the cruiser with the windows cracked and followed Detective Jackson up the sidewalk to the front porch. The curtains were open on the window that flanked the porch, giving us a bead on a television tuned to an episode of Pawn Stars. The open blinds also meant anyone who’d been in the room would have seen us pull up to the curb. I only hoped there weren’t three men crouched below the window ready to open fire on us.
While I kept my fingers near the gun at my waist and my eyes on the window, Jackson raised a hand and rapped forcefully on the front door. Rap-rap-rap-rap.
A few seconds later, a woman dressed in a wrinkled pink nightshirt emerged from a hallway and lurched into the living room. Judging from the wild mess of coppery hair on her head, her droopy face, and her haphazard gait, we’d woken her from a nap. She stopped for a second or two when she saw me watching her through the window, her expression puzzled. She continued on to the door, and we heard the sounds of her fighting the deadbolt. “Give me a second!” she called through the door. “This lock is stubborn.”
We turned ourselves sideways on either side of the doorframe, making ourselves smaller targets just in case the woman was pulling a fast one. There was a thud as she apparently threw herself against the door on the other side, then a shlick as the bolt slid aside. She opened the door wide and kept one hand on it while resting the other on the frame. “Hello,” she croaked, following her words with a throat-clearing cough.
“We’re looking for Arthur Scheck,” the detective said.
The woman glanced over at a mantle clock on the fireplace: 2:07. “You just missed him. He leaves for work at one thirty. What’s this about?”
“Who are you?” Jackson asked, ignoring the woman’s question.
“His wife,” the woman said.
Jackson’s eyes roamed over the living room. “Anybody else live here with you two?”
“No. Only me and Arthur.”
“You look like you were sleeping.” I pointed to the television. “Why is the TV on if you were in bed and your husband’s not home?” Could it be that she was lying to us and he was actually hiding somewhere in the house?
“For safety reasons,” she said. “I work nights and sleep during the day. We keep the television on so it sounds like someone’s home.”
Her explanation sounded reasonable. She’d also offered it without hesitation, a sign that it was the truth.
“Where does Arthur work?” Jackson asked.
“He’s a bus driver for the Fort Worth school district.”
That explained the commercial driver’s license.
I chimed in again. “When did you go to sleep?”
She raised a shoulder. “’Bout seven this morning.’”
“Have you been asleep since then?”
“I was asleep until you knocked on the door,” she said, impatience creeping into her voice now.
Jackson picked up my line of questioning. “So you can’t verify for certain whether your husband was actually here during the morning hours and whether he just left for work.”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. Rather than respond to Jackson’s statement directly, she asked, “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” the detective replied.
Scheck’s wife sighed. “He’s out on his route by now, and he’s not allowed to use his cell phone while he’s driving the kids. Best I can tell you is to call the school bus depot. They can get in touch with him by radio.”
I jotted down the number for the depot as she rattled it off.
“One last question,” Jackson said, gesturing for me to pull out my phone. “Do you know what this is?”
I pulled up the pic of the plastic funnel-shape piece and held it at eye level for Mrs. Scheck.
She stared at the screen for a moment, but there was no flicker of recognition. She raised a shoulder. “Is it a mouthpiece for some type of musical instrument? Maybe a trumpet?”
Given the flimsy plastic material, I doubted it was substantial enough for a real instrument. But I supposed it could belong on a toy. Could the robbers have young children?
We thanked the woman for her time and returned to my cruiser. While Jackson called the school district’s bus depot, I let Brigit out of the car to relieve herself and gave her a fresh drink of water. “There you go, partner.”
Once we were back in our places, Jackson turned to me. “He’s already out on his route, but his supervisor gave me a list of the stops. We should be able to catch him.”
She directed me to drive to the Ryan Place neighborhood, where we parked and waited at a corner. Brigit stood in her enclosure in the back, watching out the window as two frisky squirrels chased each other round a yard and up a tree. She gave a soft whine.
“Sorry, Brig,” I told her. “No squirrels for you today.” Or any day for that matter. I knew the dog had predatory instincts, but that didn’t mean I had to let her terrorize innocent squirrels.
A few minutes later, a big yellow school bus lumbered around a corner a couple blocks down and headed our way.
Jackson put her hand on the inside door handle. “Let’s roll.”
I climbed out of the car and followed her. The two of us stood waiting to the side as the bus pulled to a stop, the air brakes giving off a loud hiss. The tall door swung open with a squeak and five high school kids climbed off. Before Scheck could close the door, Detective Jackson put a foot on the bottom step and looked up at the driver. “Come on out here a moment, Mr. Scheck.” She waved him down with her hand.
A moment later a man in his early thirties climbed down the steps and onto the curb. He wore rubber-soled loafers, khaki pants worn thin from numerous washings, and a faded green button-down shirt. The button on the left side of the collar was chipped. His brown hair was cut short and his face was clean shaven. Despite the bright sunshine, he wore no sunglasses. Hmm …
Dozens of pimpled faces pressed to the bus windows as Scheck looked from the detective to me and back again. “What’s this about?”
“We have a few questions for you,” Jackson asked. “Can you tell me where you’ve been today?”
“Today?” he repeated. “Well, I ran my usual bus rounds this morning. Finished up around nine thirty and went on back home. Stayed there until it was time for me to get back to my afternoon bus rounds.”
Several clicks sounded as students released the window latches, followed by the shhht of windows being slid down. A number of teens leaned out the windows, hoping to eavesdrop on our conversation. I shook my head and motioned upward with my hand. Most of them pulled their windows closed again. The few who didn’t scrambled to close theirs when I took a warning step closer to the bus.
“You didn’t go anywhere else?” Jackson asked Scheck once we could speak privately again.
“No.” His eyes narrowed and a vein popped out in his neck. “Why?”
Jackson paused a moment, probably debating how much to tell the man. “There was an incident at a bank today. We’re trying to figure out who might have been behind it. One of the tellers indicated you two had a run-in recently.”
“A run-in?” Scheck snorted. “Are you talking about that pompous prick at Cowtown Bank who shorted me a hundred bucks?”