19
Malthouse wasn’t a man who read the newspapers very often, but when he walked past a newspaper seller who sold the USA Today calling, “Another man dead in the TRS case,” Malthouse couldn’t resist buying one. At home he immediately read the article on the front page. Lieutenant Leonardo Taoldo from the Federal Arson Detection Bureau had been found dead in his home. A photo of the man accompanied the article. Half way through the copy he picked up his mobile and rang Detective Wolters number.
“Sarah Wolters.”
“Hello, Malthouse here. I’m just after reading about Lieutenant Taoldo.”
“What are you talking about?” Sarah asked.
“You don’t know he’s dead?”
“No, tell me how do you know? Sarah asked.
“There is a press release in the USA Today, quoting suicide,” Malthouse answered.
“But if you ask me, he isn’t a man who does something like that.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust the situation?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know I’m not a doctor.”
“Who found him?” Sarah asked.
“The police, they were about to pick him up, to arrest him on suspicion of conspiracy, it says in the paper.”
“The police, you mean the FBI?”
“Well, there is nothing about the FBI mentioned,” Malthouse said.
“Was he married”? Sarah asked.
“Yes his wife Amanda was brought to the hospital for shock treatment. They assume she’d seen the whole thing.”
“Is she still there?”
“I don’t know but I can give you the address,” Malthouse replied.
Sarah Wolters first checked the hospital, where Amanda Taoldo had been brought. However she was sent home several hours after the event. One of Amanda’s sisters had picked her up and brought her to her bungalow in Adelanto. There was no way Amanda wanted to return to her own home. There were too many memories haunting her. Sarah showed her badge at the hospital, in an instant the receptionist gave her the address of Amanda’s sister.
Standing at the front door, Sarah took off her hair band. She shook her hair loose. She knew when her hair hung free she looked older and therefore wiser. She was one of the lucky women, if you could call it lucky who didn’t seem to age. One reason for this was she’d never smoked. She pushed the door bell and waited. A woman with short blond curly hair answered the door.
“I’m sorry to bother you Mrs. Baltwin. My name is Sarah Wolters and I am a detective at the LAPD. I’d like to ask your sister a few questions.”
Amanda sat on a red leather chair, her face and eyes were of a similar color. She loudly blew her nose as Sarah approached her. Her eyes stood alarmed.
“This is Detective Wolters,” Amanda’s sister said. She bent down and put an arm around Amanda. She leaned with one bottom on the arm of the chair in an attempt to comfort the woman in pain. Sarah could see the likeness in their faces. She estimated Amanda being the older sibling. But when disaster strikes the younger sister has to take charge and console the other; taking the role of the parent when they can’t be present.
“I can come back another time,” Sarah said. “But I’d rather do this now while your memory is still fresh.”
“I will never forget what happened,” Amanda replied.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” Sarah asked. At the same time she took the liberty to sit down on a red leather two-seater across from the women.
“Tell me in your own words what happened,” Sarah said after she’d taken a note book and a pencil from her breast pocket.
“A masked man entered our house and shot my husband.”
Sarah’s eyebrows frowned when she heard this. The newspaper article in the USA Today didn’t mention anything about a murder, according to the reporter it was a suicide.
“Wait a minute; I thought you were with the police?” Mrs. Baltwin asked. She looked distrustful at Sarah. “It looks to me you just heard for the first time John was murdered.”
“I am with the police, but they don’t always tell me what’s going on.”
“Let me see that badge of yours,” the sister demanded.
Sarah grabbed a small dark blue cover from her handbag and gave it to Mrs. Baltwin. “Feel free to call the number on it, ask for Lieutenant Dupree.”
The sister studied the contents of the plastic cover for a long time and then gave it back to Sarah. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“You’re alright,” Sarah said. “Can you describe the person who attacked your husband?”
“He wore a mask, a black one which covered his face except for the eyes,” Amanda answered.
“What was he wearing? By the way are you sure it was a man?” Sarah asked.
“Hundredth percent, a woman doesn’t walk with a swagger. He was dressed black. His whole outfit was black even his trainers,” Amanda answered.
“No markings?”
“Not that I know off. Everything went so fast.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No.”
“How did he get into the house?” Amanda’s sister asked.
“I opened the door after he rang the bell; next he pushed himself past me in the hall. He pushed so hard, I fell to the floor.”
“What happened next?” Sarah asked.
“I yelled as loud as I could to warn my husband.”
“Where was your husband at that moment? Sarah asked.
“He was taking a shower upstairs and I ran after the intruder.”
“Why didn’t you ring the police,” Amanda’s sister asked. She was still sitting on the side of the chair, but her arm was no longer around her sibling.
“I don’t know, I guess I was confused,” Amanda stared at the wooden floor.
“Then what happened?” Sarah asked. She noticed Amanda did her best not to make eye contact. She didn’t know whether the woman was shy or had something to hide. But it stunned her how remarkably fast the woman recovered from the emotional state she’d been in.
“I saw Leo standing on the landing, the intruder shot him where he stood. I locked myself in one of the bedrooms and waited.”
“So you didn’t see what the intruder did with your husband after he shot him?” Sarah asked.
“It is clear he staged the suicide and left,” the sister said. She gazed irritated at the Detective. She gave a sigh letting Sarah know she was tired of all the questions.
“Has anyone else from the police been to the house to check for forensics or ask you questions?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Amanda replied.
“Nobody has approached us yet, except for you,” the sister answered.
Sarah had no idea why Amanda Taoldo had lied to her, but lied she had. The wife of the lieutenant might have been in a shock after seeing her husband killed, but for some reason she had either left out information or had changed the facts. The question was why did the woman lie, what did she have to gain by it? Had there been an intruder or perhaps someone she’d invited into the house. Did her husband get into a disagreement with him? Or had Taoldo committed suicide like it said in the newspaper? Could the woman be ashamed?
*
Detective Sergeant Garnham was one of the men on Peter Black’s list to interview. The detective had a busy life and therefor it had taken a lot of persuasion from his senior college Santovitz to actually get an appointment with the man.
Peter took place on a red leather sofa in Dana’s diner across the police headquarters. This was a convenient place to meet for the detective he only had to cross the road. Garnham looked different than Peter had imagined him. The stocky man seemed all but friendly to him. Bushy eyebrows didn’t help this feeling. He looked tired. He took a seat across from Peter and studied the menu card.
“Did you order yet?” Garnham asked. His voice sounded rather squeaky and somewhat like sandpaper.
“Yes, I’m having an Irish breakfast and tea. I hope you don’t mind me recording this interview?” Peter presented a rectangular device and placed it on the table.
“Looks like one of those blue boys,” Garnham commented.
“It is you can even download films or books on it.”
A waitress came over with Peter’s breakfast and to take Garnham’s order.
“I don’t understand how you can eat that stuff.”
“It’s an experience which goes back many generations. But let us start with the interview I know your time is precious, detective. Did you know that one of your former army mates is the owner of one of the biggest pharmacy labs in the States?”
“You mean Frank Clark? Yes I do indeed, but if you want to know how he did it, I have to disappoint you. My guess is he pushed some buttons here and there, licked a few heels and married a tycoon’s daughter.”
“My information doesn’t mention he has ever been married. What I do know is that he is in Jamaica at the moment. You don’t happen to have an address or phone number of him, do you?”
“I don’t know why I should. I detest the man; I give this information for nothing to you because it’s no secret.”
“What could he possibly have done to make you talk like this?” Peter asked between two bites of toast and black pudding. The detective struggled with a Panini filled with a tuna salad.
“Let’s just say he’s a bastard, but he wasn’t the only one, they all were.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“You know it is in desperate times you learn who you’re real friends are. I learned this quite late in life but it’s never too late to learn. I guess you remember the Gulf War in the early 90’s. For most soldiers Operation Desert Storm was the final month of their tour of duty. But not for me, for me the war went on for many weeks after it was finished.”
“I read you were captured by Iraqis.”
“Yes, but that was only the beginning of the shit I got myself in, or shall I say those bastards of a Clark and his dog named Tobias.”
“He’s another one who didn’t do so bad for himself after he left the army!”
“If you asked me they shared a bed together. Did you know Clark never married and he has been photographed holding a young man’s hand?”
“Could have been his son,” Peter said.
“Impossible, the boy was a Muslim. He claims he’s a Christian, but after Iraq I know better. He’s as much a terrorist as Saddam Hussein.”
“That’s very strong accusation.”
“It’s true. Somehow we’d managed to break out of the house in which we were held prisoners. When I think back on how easy it all went I realize I should have been more on my guard. I saw them driving away with Martin Jacobs in a battered Mercedes. I hid between the rubble of the houses. It took all my courage to show myself out in the open and risk to be shot, but I had no choice. I put myself in full view, waved and even shouted to get their attention. The car didn’t stop; they drove of as if I didn’t exist.
Before I knew I was surrounded by men in traditional dress, there was no escaping them. Again I was forced into the back of a truck and brought to an unknown place. I had no idea where I was any more. We passed several checkpoints during the ride. The truck stopped in a small village down in a valley. This time I hadn’t been blindfolded, only bound by my hands, so I was able to see the mountains. For a moment I thought I was in Afghanistan, back in Helmond.
It seemed to me everything in the village including the inhabitants had been frozen in time. Women made bread outside their huts. You couldn’t call the dwellings they lived in a house. They were just sitting on the ground, in the dust, children played around them. What struck me especially was that some of the women didn’t wear a burka but only a head scarf. I wondered if I was in a rebel village. Some of my hope to survive returned.
A couple of men escorted me to one of the shacks. I used my best Arabic to ask one of them the name of the village. I was answered with a slap in my face. It didn’t hurt, but I saw the women laugh. I knew when a man gets hit in the face it is meant to embarrass him. Not such a friendly bunch, I thought.
Inside the shack I was allocated to my own private room. I can tell you prisoners in this country live in luxury. I had to use a dirty matrass which lay on the floor. A blanket full of holes to cover my bones lay in a corner. There wasn’t even a bucket to relieve myself in. The men pushed my inside, locked the door and left. Oh, I forget, the shack had also a window, with glass, the size of a toilet window.
The days weren’t too bad; I could see out the window and take in the view. However the nights were freezing. Did you know it gets 10 or more degrees below zero over there?
Each morning I received a bowl of what looked porridge to me and a bottle of water. I wondered where they bought the plastic bottles. In the beginning I gathered they’d give me another bit of food and drink in the evening, but I was wrong. One bottle of 500 ml. water had to last me 24 hours. Imagine if you had to live on a bowl of porridge a day. After a week on the diet I became so hungry, I could eat anything, which I did. The shack didn’t only house me, but also vermin like spiders and the occasional rat and mouse. I can tell you when you’re desperate you’re able to catch those bastards and eat them raw.
Nevertheless, I won’t keep you any longer. I’d turned into a living skeleton before a troop of the Coalition forces freed me.”