Page 123 of The Woman Left Behind

THIRTY

The Pain Was Real

Harry

Late that same morning, after listening to some relief when Harry shared his news about meeting Lillian, Harry then got the kind of talking to he hadn’t received since he was about eleven from his father. This talking to was about Harry calling to share he was seeing someone he wanted his father to meet the day before her murdered parents’ memorial.

Onward from that, happiness from his brother, until Josh learned what was going to happen the next day, which meant Josh said, “Fuckin’ hell, Harry. Give a man at least forty-eight hours to find a babysitter.”

To which Harry told his brother they didn’t have to come, and they could meet Lillian later, maybe at Christmas.

And now Harry was again in the observation room at the station.

Rus was in interrogation along with Special Agents Patterson and Bakshi, Dern and Dern’s attorney.

“Now, weird thing is,” Agent Patterson was saying, “we’ve been on this,”—he looked to his partner—“what we got logged on this case, Fatima? Twenty-six whole hours?”

“Around there,” Bakshi replied casually.

Patterson went back to Dern. “Twenty-six hours. And in those twenty-six hours, we uncovered the fact that Gerald Dietrich made a bad investment, and to cover those losses, he made another one. It was the Great Recession. Shit like that was happening to a whole bunch of folks. But this put his boxers in a bunch, and they were squeezing his balls tight, especially considering he and his wife didn’t think that maybe, money was scarce all of a sudden, they might want to cut back on the Chanel and fresh-flown-in Maine lobster. I mean, you all got lobster right here in the Puget Sound. That’s a diss to the locals for sure.”

Dern sat there, working hard at keeping his face a mask of nothing.

Then again, Harry understood it would be difficult since he’d spent the night in a cell it used to be him who provided that accommodation, so he didn’t wake up in a good mood. And now he was being spoken down to by a special agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigations.

“This put them in a lot of debt. A lot,” Patterson stressed. “Though, the hefty insurance payment helped them out with that. Thing is, they seemed to get out from under it before they got that check.”

Dern said nothing.

“So, we’re looking at their finances,” Patterson continued, “and imagine our surprise, after that robbery but before they got their insurance payout, they suddenly have much less overhead. Now, this isn’t unheard of if you’re in financial straits, but a man and a woman gotta eat, and get their highlights touched up, and there were no longer any credit or debit transactions for things like groceries, gas, hair stylists and barbers, or meals out.”

“Maybe they went on a diet,” Bakshi suggested.

“Maybe,” Patterson said, his attention not leaving Dern. “Or maybe they were paying in cash.”

Dern looked to the table.

“Then, doing some more poking around,” Patterson kept at him, “we got a hit on a domestic dispute. Happened years ago. Years. Man brandishing a gun at his girlfriend in Olympia. Strange thing was, when they ran that gun, it wasn’t registered to him. It was registered to a Gerald Dietrich and reported stolen. When asked where he got it, he said he bought it from an online site. That site has since closed down. But we sent some agents to talk to this gentleman, and he changed his tune when the FBI knocked on his door. Suddenly, he remembered where he got that gun, and several others. And damned if the man didn’t describe the guy he bought the guns from as a man who looks exactly like Gerald Dietrich.”

Dern continued to look at the table.

“Now, you were here, working that case, my question is, how we got all this in a little over a day, and in that day, we also had a sleep, took a long drive, and personally, I accomplished a very gratifying shit, so how on earth did all of this slip right by you?” Patterson asked.

Dern’s attorney shifted awkwardly.

Dern didn’t move or speak.

“Now we got two dead bodies. A husband and wife. A father and mother.” Patterson’s tone was deteriorating. “A man and a woman who were just living their lives, paying their taxes, raising their girl, keeping their home, doing their jobs, and suddenly, their asses are hauled in by the local sheriff, aspersions cast on their characters for a crime it would be clear to any imbecile they did not commit.”

Dern reacted to that: he seemed in pain. Whether it indicated he carried guilt for what befell the Rainiers, or he understood at the very least, his reputation, which couldn’t stand another hit, was going to be tarnished beyond repair, Harry didn’t know.

But the pain was real.

“They went on the run, and gotta say,” Patterson didn’t let up, “I don’t blame them. The caliber of law enforcement in this county, I would have gone somewhere else to find help too.”

More reaction.

Dern’s face got red.

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