The Christmas Cookie Killer (10 page)

“Well?” Frank demanded. “Was the boy here when you

came in?”

Randall had to be in his midtwenties and probably didn’t

care much for being called
the boy
. Young men could be foolishly prideful about such things.

“He was here,” Sam said. “Don’t know who was more

spooked when we ran into each other in the kitchen, him or me.

But he dropped the glass he was carryin’ and it busted all to pieces, so you’d better be careful if y’all go in there. Somebody’ll need to clean up that broken glass.”

“I’ll do it,” Billie Hargrove said as she circled around Frank, Claire, and Randall. Frank and Ted’s younger sister gave Phyllis a nod as she passed by. Phyllis hadn’t seen Billie, or any of the Simmons children, for quite a while until this weekend, and hadn’t spoken to her for years.

The living room was crowded with people. Ted Simmons

stood there swallowing nervously, his prominent Adam’s apple
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LIVIA J. WASHBURN

bobbing up and down. Next to him stood his wife, a tall woman with short dark hair and glasses. Billie’s husband, a heavyset man with a toupee, looked like he wanted a drink. He licked his lips every few seconds. There were six or eight children in there, too; Phyllis couldn’t see well enough to get an accurate count of them, but their ages ranged from about ten to sixteen or seven-teen. The house felt crowded.

“All right, Randall,” Frank said. “Where have you been? It’s been months since you called.”

Randall shook his head without looking up. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

Frank reached down to grab his arm and haul him to his

feet. “Blast it, boy, you can’t talk to me like that!”

The sound of an approaching siren had been getting pro-

gressively louder. Now it was right outside, and it came to an abrupt stop. Randall was trying to pull away from his father’s grip when a sharp knocking came from the front door. “Police!”

a man’s voice called. “Open up!”

“Now you’ve done it,” Frank snapped at his son. “Now we

have to deal with the cops.”

Phyllis saw that wild fear flare in Randall’s eyes again. She had an idea of what was about to happen, but before she could call out a warning to Frank, Randall hauled off and hit him. The blow was an awkward one and not particularly powerful, but Frank appeared to be so stunned that his own son had punched him that he let go of Randall’s arm and took a step backward.

Randall turned and tried to run toward the kitchen, but Sam was blocking his way. At the same time, Ted Simmons jerked the front door open and said to the two police officers there,

“Help! My nephew’s gone crazy!”

The cops rushed in as various members of the Simmons

family hurriedly got out of their way. Both officers were young THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
• 75

but probably experienced enough to know how dangerous do-

mestic disturbance calls could be, and this incident gave the appearance of falling into that category. They were wary as they closed in on Randall.

“Get down on the floor!” one of them shouted at him.

“Down on the floor now!”

Randall darted back and forth, obviously still looking for a way out. One of the cops suddenly leaped at him, clamped a choke hold on him, and rode him to the floor. Claire Simmons screamed, “Oh, my God! Don’t hurt him! Randall, don’t fight them!”

But it was too late for that. Randall was thrashing around in the grip of the officer. The second cop joined in the struggle. He managed to get a knee in the small of Randall’s back and pin him to the floor long enough for the other officer to grab one of Randall’s wrists, slip a plastic restraint around it, and then jerk Randall’s other arm behind his back as well. A second later both wrists were caught in the restraints. Randall groaned and stopped struggling.

One of the cops climbed to his feet while the other knelt on top of Randall and started patting him down. “Listen to me, pardner,” he said. “You got anything in your pockets I need to know about? Any weapons or needles? I’m not gonna be happy if I stick myself on something.”

Randall started to sob. “N-no. Nothing.”

“You better be tellin’ me the truth,” the officer warned as he continued the search.

The other cop turned to the rest of the people in the

crowded dining room and said, “All right; somebody tell me what’s going on here.” He pointed to Frank. “You.”

Frank ran a hand over his pale, suddenly haggard face and said, “That’s my son, Officer.”

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LIVIA J. WASHBURN

“Is he drunk? Or on drugs?”

Frank shook his head. “I have no idea. I didn’t smell any alcohol on him. I . . . I just don’t know about the drugs. Today is the first time I’ve seen him in seven or eight months.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Too old to be considered a runaway, then. He got a history of erratic behavior? Mental disorders or anything like that?”

Claire said, “He’s not crazy, and he’s not drunk or on drugs!

He’s just scared; can’t you see that?”

Phyllis had to agree. Even though she was shaken by the violent behavior she had just witnessed from Randall, she had seen the fear in his eyes. Terror was more like it, she thought.

That was what had motivated him to try to get away from Sam in the first place and what had caused him to strike his father.

Randall was just plain scared out of his wits, and Phyllis had no idea why.

It was none of her business—unless Randall was the one

who had choked the life out of Agnes and then hit Phyllis on the back of the head. She glanced down at his feet, remembering that shoe she had caught a glimpse of. Randall wasn’t wearing dress shoes with black heels at the moment. He had on a worn pair of running shoes. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have been wearing different shoes the day before, at the time of the murder.

The second cop stood up, then reached down and grasped

Randall’s arms to pull him to his feet. That looked to Phyllis like it must have hurt, but Randall didn’t cry out or say anything.

“What happened? Did he just start causing trouble sud-

denly?” the first cop asked Frank. “Is he not supposed to be here? Did he break in?”

Before Frank could answer, the second cop said, “Wait a

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
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minute. Is this the house where that old woman was killed yesterday? It is, isn’t it?”

“That old woman was my mother,” Frank said stiffly. “And

yes, this is where she was killed.”

Phyllis’s attention went back to Frank. She glanced down at his shoes. They were black shoes, but they were worn and

scuffed. Quickly she did a survey of the other feet in the room.

None of them wore the heel she was looking for.

“Does this business with your son have anything to do with the murder?” the second cop asked.

“No!” Claire cried. “That’s insane. Randall loved his grandmother. He never would have hurt her.”

The officers looked at each other and seemed to come to

the same conclusion at the same time. “We better call this in,”

one of them said.

“Yeah,” the other agreed. He reached for the radio clipped to his belt.

Before he could use it, an attractive Hispanic woman in a long black coat strode into the living room. A badge was attached to the belt around her waist. The two uniformed officers looked at her, and one of them said, “We were about to call you, Detective.”

Phyllis figured the newcomer was the detective Mike and

Sarah had mentioned. Isabel Largo—that was her name, Phyllis recalled. She was a rather severe-looking woman, but she had an undeniable air of competence about her.

“I heard the call and recognized the address, so I came right over. What’s this about?” she asked the officers.

“We got a call that there was a possible burglary in progress at this residence,” one of the cops answered. “But when we got here it shaped up to be a domestic disturbance instead.” He pointed to Ted Simmons, who looked uneasy. “This guy said his
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LIVIA J. WASHBURN

nephew was going crazy. We came into the dining room and saw the suspect here jumping around like he was trying to get away.

We had to subdue him in order to place him in custody.”

“Did you see him actually do anything other than try to

flee?”

The cops glanced at each other and then shook their heads.

“Not after we got here.”

Phyllis looked at Frank Simmons. Randall had punched

him, and she imagined that Frank could swear out an assault complaint and make it stick. But if nobody said anything about the punch, the police might not have enough to hold Randall, unless they tried to make a case for resisting an officer.

Claire glared at her husband, and Phyllis would have been willing to bet that Frank wasn’t going to say anything about Randall hitting him. In fact, Frank said to Isabel Largo, “Detective, this is all just a big misunderstanding. This is my son Randall.

He has just as much right to be here as any of the rest of us. It’s just that we hadn’t seen him for a while and we didn’t know he was coming, so we were surprised when we walked in and found him here.” Frank swallowed. “We, uh, haven’t always gotten along that well, so there may have been a little yelling going on, but it didn’t mean anything.”

Detective Largo nodded slowly as she considered Frank’s

statement. Then she looked at Phyllis, Sam, and Carolyn and asked, “What about you folks? Are you members of the Simmons family, too?”

“No, ma’am,” Sam said. “We live next door. I’m Sam

Fletcher, and this is Mrs. Phyllis Newsom and Mrs. Carolyn Wilbarger.”

Recognition showed in Detective Largo’s dark eyes. “Ah.

You’re Deputy Newsom’s mother,” she said to Phyllis. “The one who was attacked by Mrs. Simmons’s murderer.”

THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE KILLER
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“That’s right,” Phyllis said with a nod.

“How are you feeling? No aftereffects from the assault?”

“No, I’m fine,” Phyllis told the detective. “We were bringing some cookies over for the family, and we sort of . . . walked into things.”

She was aware that Claire Simmons was watching her ner-

vously. Claire and Frank hadn’t said anything about that punch Randall had thrown—but Phyllis, Sam, or Carolyn still could.

“I’d planned to come by and ask you a few questions about the attack on you, Mrs. Newsom,” Detective Largo said. “I’d do that now, but I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait.” She turned to the officers and told them, “Take him out and put him in your car. Be sure and read him his rights. I’ll meet you at the station.”

“What . . . what are you doing?” Claire gasped.

“I’m placing your son under arrest, ma’am.”

“But why?” Frank demanded. “I told you; this was all just a misunderstanding. A family argument. We don’t want to press any charges against Randall, for God’s sake!”

Detective Largo shook her head. “This isn’t about that, sir.

Your son already has outstanding warrants against him for failure to appear and possession with intent.”

“Wha . . . what?”

“He skipped out on his bail and didn’t show up in court to be tried on charges of dealing drugs,” Largo said. She motioned with her head to the officers. “Take him.”

The cops flanked Randall, each of them gripping an arm,

and marched him out of the house, past the dumbfounded

members of his family. Claire began to weep. Frank looked almost too shocked to comprehend what the detective had just told him, but after a moment he awkwardly put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and tried to comfort her.

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LIVIA J. WASHBURN

Randall hadn’t said a word in response to Detective Largo’s accusation. He hadn’t claimed it was all a mistake or cried out that he was innocent. Instead his head had hung forward and his gaze had been directed at the floor like that of a defeated, guilty man, Phyllis thought. She understood now why he had tried so desperately to get away.

It appeared that Randall Simmons had a lot to run from.

Chapter 8

B
efore leaving to head for the police station, Detective Largo turned to Frank, Claire, and the other members of the Simmons family and said, “It’s your claim that you didn’t know Randall was going to be here?”

“It’s not
our claim
,” Frank said. “It’s true. We had no idea.”

The detective nodded. “I suppose there’s no need to bring up charges of aiding and abetting a fugitive, then. But if I find out differently . . .”

“There’s no need to take that tone, Detective. We’ve told you the truth. And I don’t believe for a minute that my son is . . .

is a drug dealer. I’m going to get him a lawyer—”

“You do that, Mr. Simmons. He’s going to need one.”

With that, Detective Largo turned toward the door. She

paused and added over her shoulder, “We’re going to need to get fingerprints from all of you.” She glanced at Phyllis. “That goes for you, too, Mrs. Newsom. We lifted quite a few prints from the house, and we need to match up as many of them as we can.”

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LIVIA J. WASHBURN

“We’ll ask the lawyer about that,” Frank snapped.

“I’ll be in touch.” The detective left the house.

Claire turned, buried her face against her husband’s chest, and wailed. Frank told her, “At least we know where he is now,”

but that didn’t seem to help much.

Phyllis approached them and said, “Frank, I’m sorry about all this. If we hadn’t come over here, the police might not have found Randall.”

Frank shook his head. “No need to apologize, Mrs. New-

som. The cops would have caught up to him sooner or later. You saw how he was. He was like a wild animal. He would have

fought back when they tried to arrest him and might’ve gotten hurt really bad. As bad as it is, this is better.”

“He . . . he’s innocent,” Claire got out between sobs. “I know he is.”

Phyllis wasn’t surprised that she felt that way; she was Randall’s mother, after all. But Phyllis couldn’t help but think again about how Randall hadn’t denied the charges.