CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Time passed slowly for Beatrice. Now back home from the hospital, she had several unanswered questions she wanted to address with the police about Alan’s so-called suicide. Chief Miller had let her read the suicide note. Making her way to the station, she was sent to Det. Fairchild’s office, as he was listed as the officer of record for the Wallace suicide.
Fairchild met her in the hallway and they exchanged pleasantries as he escorted her into his office. Closing the door behind him, he made his way around his desk as both sat down, “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? A glass of water perhaps?”
“No sir, I’m good.” Beatrice seemed tired and was clearly nervous.
“I just wish to say how sorry all of us here at the department are. Alan was a fine man.” Fairchild said as he put on his deceptive act of pretending to care.
“Thank you. Everyone has been so supportive; I am very grateful.”
“Now then, what brings you here today?”
“Well sir, there are just some things that don’t add up.” She pulled a small piece of paper from her purse.
“Such as?” Fairchild asked, not sure what she was up to.
“I just don’t believe it.” She blurted out through bloodshot watery-eyes.
Handing her his handkerchief, “Don’t believe what?”
“Alan never typed out notes or letters, he always did those by hand. His hand writing was very stylish and beautiful. Where did he get the typewriter, he didn’t keep one in the house? The note wasn’t even signed, and I don’t for one minute believe the story about the child and prostitute in another city. Something like that, I’m sure he would have told me. We were going to get married. I just can’t believe it.” She rattled on.
“Now Ms. Reid, how well do we really know someone these days? I’m just speculating here, but if Alan had been planning his own death, he had plenty of opportunity to type his note at the library where he worked. As for the child and prostitute, we have no way of verifying at this time whether there is truth to his story or not. Maybe he was truly ashamed as his note said. I don’t know. What I do know is, Troy Van Horn, the coroner, examined the scene, and performed an autopsy and determined it was a simple case of suicide.”
“But why would he take all his clothes off? Why would he want to be found naked? How many suicides have you investigated that the person took off all their clothes?”
“I’m sorry Ms. Reid, I honestly don’t know what to tell you. People who are about to take their own life usually aren’t thinking clearly; they are distraught emotionally, and people like that do all sorts of crazy things.”
“Alan wasn’t crazy!” She barked.
“I didn’t mean to imply he was, I was merely trying to explain to…”
“Why were his front and back doors not locked? He was a stickler for securing his doors and windows. He never left his doors unlocked, never.” The dam now broke; she was balling her eyes out as mucus and tears were gushing forth.
Fairchild just stared as the love she felt for Alan poured out in heavy cries and short, choppy breathes. Heaving at times as if she was about to vomit, he finally stood and came around his desk. Placing his hand on her shoulder in a gesture of mock sympathy--for deep inside he had only hatred and contempt for the dead man who violated his only flesh and blood--he gave her his insincere support.
As she finally started to settle down, Fairchild asked, “Would you like me to call Doc Otis, or I could even have an officer drive you to his office if you’d like?” His offer wasn’t for her wellbeing, he just wanted her out of his office, as he was now tired of having to continue this charade.
“No, no, I’ll be fine. I’m just so upset by what’s happened…uh, let me be on my way, I just need some rest. I’m just so tired, I know…uh, well, I’ll be going now,” She stood and ambled out without saying another word.
Fairchild returned to his desk and picked up the Saint Cloud Gazette; he started to read as if nothing had transpired. Tonight, he would sleep like a little baby nestled safely in the bosom of his mother’s arms.