Chapter 16 — Pick your poison.
Joe rubbed his forehead wearily and tapped the photo on the computer screen. "That was not what I expected," he sighed. An ATM camera had captured an image of George just after leaving work from the night of the murder. That confirmed what she'd told them already, but the girl was smiling and brushing her hair back from her face, and wearing the shirt that had been dug out of Nancy's flower bed.
Frank was silent, his fingers tented together as he stared at the picture. Then he glanced at his brother. Joe sported the same dark circles under his eyes that Frank had seen in the mirror as he shaved that morning. The night shifts in the car outside Nancy's house had been long, followed by an early call at the station that the lab reports on the dog, knife, and shirt had come in. And just as they'd sat at their desks with the largest coffees sold at the shop on the corner, an officer had sent over the picture of George.
"She and Fernandez have to be in on it together," Frank finally sighed, before taking a long swig of the coffee. "Option one," he said, setting the cup down, "George is in way over her head. Maybe she was helping Marisol like she said. Fernandez comes looking for her, there's an argument, he kills Marisol and George is just in the way, close enough to be covered with blood. Fernandez threatens to do the same to her if George doesn't help him cover it up. But when Nancy is implicated George doesn't know what to do except confess."
Joe made a face and took a sip of his own coffee. "I'd buy that up until the end. That feels weak. If George is going to bother to confess, why doesn't she just tell the truth? How about option two — George is still into Fernandez, sees an opportunity to cut out her competition. She kills Marisol and then Fernandez helps cover it up. She only confesses after she realizes she inadvertently implicated Nancy."
"I don't think she's callous enough to just kill her competition," Frank argued, shaking his head.
"So maybe she didn't mean to," Joe offered with a shrug. "Maybe they had a fight and it got out of hand. Let's get Micah back in here and see what else he might have to say."
A tech from the forensic lab approached with a file. "Detective Hardy, here are those lab reports."
"Thanks," Frank and Joe said in tandem.
The tech laughed and dropped the file on the desk between them. "I'll let you fight for it. But nothing too surprising here. Blood on the knife and shirt match the victim. We couldn't pull any DNA from the shirt to compare to a suspect. Dog was killed with sleeping pills."
Joe grabbed the folder and flipped it open as the tech walked away. "Maybe we can check for a prescription. What are we looking for?" He ran his finger swiftly over the form. "Here, Zolpidem. And looks like there was some hamburger meat in his stomach contents. At least the little guy just went to sleep after a full meal. I'll see if any of our suspects has a prescription for Zolpidem."
He turned to his computer and Frank called dispatch to send a car to find Micah Fernandez and bring him in. Then he began scrolling once more through the images from the crime scenes. Photo after photo clicked by of the alley behind the dry cleaners, the store itself, the store after the robbery, Nancy's yard, Nancy's house…
Frank stopped on a photo of the kitchen, studying it. The shot was taken from the living room, looking at the small dining nook, windows to the backyard beyond. Her table was a small, square maple affair, a potted plant of some kind sitting in the middle and a forgotten mug at one place. The curtains on the windows were starched and white, hanging crisply, and cushions covered with a striped fabric rested on each seat. He smiled. It looked like a grandma's kitchen. Part of him had wondered if that last incident in the interview room had been enough to make her completely back away from this fledgling…whatever it was. But then she'd responded to his text with that hint of vulnerability. Part of him had wanted to march right into her house and announce he was going to sit right there in that living room until she felt safe. So the rational side of his brain had to admit that Joe and Chet were a hundred percent right to call him on the carpet over how he'd been behaving. If anyone under his command had acted this way over a potential suspect he would have had them suspended.
He slowly moved through the pictures, the living room confirming the cozy, old-fashioned feel of the house. There were throw pillows and a thick blanket tossed over one end of the sofa. No magazines that he could see, but several newspapers and piles of books. He could easily imagine her curled up there with one of her cups of tea. When he got to the bedroom he forced himself to turn his cop brain back on and just focus on anything that might be pertinent to the case. And there on the nightstand he saw something he didn't want to see — a prescription bottle of some kind. It was too small to see the label clearly, but the bold name of the medication printed at the top looked to him like it started with a Z.
Reluctantly Frank picked up his phone and called Detective Sanders in the forensics lab. "Emily," he said sharply, "I need you to analyze one of these photos in the Marisol Williams case. Photo number 371. I know we're limited on how clear we can make an image, but could you try and see if we can get any more information from the label on the prescription bottle. Thanks."
As he hung up the phone Joe spun in his chair. "They've got Fernandez," he said, drumming a satisfied rhythm on the edge of his desk. "Let's see what he's got to say about all this."
Micah Fernandez was clearly coming down off of something as he sat there in the interrogation room, humming to himself and tapping the edge of the table agitatedly. Frank laid the photos out of the dog and the murder weapon. "Why don't you tell us what happened to Marisol?" he asked in a light, conversational tone.
The young man peered at the photos and then gave Frank a skeptical look. "That's not Marisol," he said belligerently. "That's a dog."
"Yes, I was aware of that," Frank said dryly, eliciting a snort from Joe. "This dog was buried with the knife that killed Marisol."
"I already told you I didn't do it!" Micah snapped, slamming his hand down on the table.
"Yeah, you told us. The problem is, you were the last person to see her alive, remember? So were you and George Fayne helping each other eliminate the person standing between you two?"
Micah looked at him for a full minute in complete bewilderment. "George?" he repeated in a far off voice. "I haven't seen George since before I went inside. We were...friends, I guess. Her grandmother didn't like me, though."
"George told us that Marisol came to see her," Joe said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Said Marisol wanted help leaving you."
That statement earned an exaggerated eye roll. "Marisol would never leave," Micah scoffed. "She had it too good, had me wrapped around her little finger. I even started dealing to try and—" He stopped abruptly and glanced at each brother shiftily.
"Oh, please go on. It was just getting interesting," said Joe lightly. "You're dealing, you say? That's fascinating news. We will definitely come back around to that and will be very interested to get the names of your suppliers. But in the meantime, why do you think Marisol would tell George she wanted to leave? Or are you saying that George is lying?"
That far-off bewildered look returned to his eyes. "George wouldn't lie," he said softly. "Marisol must have wanted something…she had funny ideas sometimes…"
Frank rubbed absently at his chin as he studied the man. "Micah, why don't you tell us again about the last time you saw Marisol," he said.
Micah gave a loud sniff and scrubbed a hand across his face. "I only saw her for a second. I couldn't…couldn't look at her like that."
Joe sat up in his seat and shot Frank a look. "Yeah, I'm sure it was awful," he said. "What did you do?"
"Wrapped her back up," he shrugged. "She'd brought her in that shroud thing."
"Help me out here, buddy," Joe said, leaning forward. "Who brought Marisol wrapped up in a shroud?"
"Well, it had to be that detective, right? The one that was looking for Marisol. Her husband died in that accident."
"You're saying Nancy Drew killed Marisol and brought her to you?"
"I didn't see her, man!" Micah burst out. "I come home and Marisol's in the middle of the floor like some mummy! But who else would want to do this to me?! It has to be revenge!"
"Why kill Marisol?" Frank asked in a low voice. "You were the one driving the car. You were the one who went to prison."
"She probably thought I'd get blamed," he said piteously, sniffing again. "But I was too smart for her."
"Oh?" said Joe, eyebrows arching upward. "How did you outsmart her?"
"I looked her up online, found that dry cleaner's address and took Marisol's body there," Micah said, his voice taking on a self-righteous tone.
"Yeah, you're a real asset to the city, Mr. Fernandez," Joe sighed, gathering up the photos. "Just make yourself comfortable while we call someone from Narcotics to talk with you about your new business venture."
Frank leaned tiredly against the wall outside the room. "What do you think?" he asked Joe.
"His apartment is on the ground floor," Joe said thoughtfully. "It would be easier for someone Nancy's size to drag a body in there, than hoist it up into a dumpster. And I believed him when he said he hadn't seen George in a long time."
Frank's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. "Emily, what did you find out?" he said, not bothering with any sort of greeting.
"We were able to pull a few letters off the label," her voice chirped in his ear. "The medication name is most likely Zolpidem, a sleeping pill. We got the Z-O-L and part of what looks like a P. It could possibly be Zolmitriptan, which is used to treat migraines, but I really think that fourth letter is a P and not an M. Plus, as you saw in the tox report Zolpidem was found in that dog."
"Ok, thanks," Frank said, nodding, even though she couldn't see him. "Any luck with the patient's name?"
"Last name was Fayne, F-A-Y-N-E. First name is not clear. Rounded letter, could be C, G, O, Q, or even possibly a D."
"Got it, thanks again, Emily." He ended the call and exhaled. "There's a prescription bottle for Zolpidem in Nancy's bedroom," he said to Joe, who raised his eyebrows so high they were lost under his hair.
"But the prescription is made out to either George or her grandmother," Frank added.
"Ok, let's go talk to George again," Joe said. "Iola checked in at the front an hour ago. Whatever they're going to say, they've surely decided it by now. We can pull Nancy in later."