Tussinland (9 page)

TWENTY

Paul really wanted to get to his house and show Detective Fagan the gun. Let him bring it to the lab or wherever and see if it was the weapon that killed Tina and Mark. Wanted to call out Miranda in front of the police and hopefully shake loose whatever the truth was about her involvement in the murders and her possible framing of him. He wanted to file a complaint against Reverend Fish and his cronies because there was no way they should be able to get away with what they did to him. Paul wasn’t going to get them back on his own. He was surprised to find that he believed in the system. He was certain the Modesto Police Department would take his complaint seriously and make things difficult for those religious homophobe nut jobs and Reverend Fish. He thought he could maybe even get a lawsuit out of it, and get some settlement out of that, which coupled with the money he was going to get from Tina’s insurance and pension, set him up nicely. Get him out of his mother’s house. Make it so he could get more custody of his kids.

That’s what he wanted to do. Instead, he wound up driving Logan Swift’s Ford pickup in the totally opposite direction with Logan sitting next to him pointing the shotgun at the side of his head.

“Uncle Paul,” Logan said, after they had driven north on McHenry until they were just about out of town, now surrounded by almond orchards on both sides of the road. “You need to calm down.”

“I
am
calm,” Paul said. “I was never
not
calm. I just want to go home. I need to go to my house. Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, Randa told me you were off to meet the po-po there waving this shotgun or some such shit. That’s like suicide by cop, you know? We couldn’t let that happen to you. No way, man.”

Just after Paul turned left off of Sylvan, Logan appeared next to him and used his truck to force him into the parking lot of a Baptist church. Paul had to slam his brakes and make a hard turn into the lot to avoid being hit by Logan’s truck. He parked and Logan parked just inches in front of him. As Logan jumped out and approached his passenger door, Paul thought about pulling into reverse to get away, but he was just too slow from drugs and pain. And, as usual, he was fascinated by what Logan was going to do next.

Which, this time, was to open the door of the Honda, grab the shotgun off the seat, open it up, take two shells out of his pocket, load each barrel, close the gun with a gangster-like flick of the wrist, and point it at Paul.

“Okay, Uncle Paul,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He motioned with the gun toward his truck. Paul looked at Logan and the gun, then out onto the busy street and raised his eyebrows like, “are you kidding me?”

“Please, dude,” Logan said. “You know I don’t want to shoot this thing and hurt you or your car and attract a bunch of attention, right? But I will, you know me. I’m a crazy Bosnian rape orphan and I’m out of control!”

Logan bugged his eyes out and cocked both barrels.

“Jesus,” Paul said. He gingerly got out of his car. He looked again at Logan holding the gun, and at the street and toward the church buildings. “Am I supposed to hold my hands up?”

Paul could not believe what was happening. It seemed so stupid.

“Naw,” Logan said. “Just get in my fucking truck and start driving. Go like back to McHenry and turn left, and keep going.”

Paul sighed and shook his head. He knew it was possible that Logan would shoot him, fuck him up good, if he thought that would be somehow following Miranda’s instructions. He knew she’d called him. He had no doubt about that.

TWENTY-ONE

Back at the house, Mavis, Miranda, and Officer Plant stood in Paul’s room. Plant had just looked under the bed and all they found was a plastic Walgreens bag containing an empty bottle of Extra Strength Robitussin.

“Dude,” Miranda said to Fagan, “We told you that we just saw Paul with the gun. He took off out of town, going east on Sylvan.”

Fagan looked at Mavis. He smiled.

“I thought you said you didn’t know where your son was, Ms. Love,” he said. “That the last you saw him he was sitting out there, in the living room, watching TV. Right?”

“Well…” Mavis said. “I told you several times now to call me Mavis.”

“Why don’t you take me out there and show me where you last saw him … Mavis.”

“It was after you called,” Miranda said. “He must’ve figured out you were coming and grabbed the gun and took off. He knew where we were. He was scared. And desperate. As you can imagine.”

“I hope that’s true,” Fagan said. “I wouldn’t want your gorgeous grandmother here to have to serve time on an obstruction of justice charge.”

Fagan and his colleague looked in Paul’s closet. A suit hung still covered by the dry cleaning plastic. There were two dress shirts, one navy blue and one white. Five or six black polo shirts. Two pairs of khaki pants. One denim jacket. On the floor was a pair of worn out and dirty white Nike cross training shoes, and black slip-on dress shoes in need of a shine. There was nothing else, the shelf above the hangers was empty.

The policemen turned to the small, three-drawer dresser—the only other object in the room besides the bed and cardboard box bedside table.

“Officer Plant,” Fagan said as he looked in Paul’s drawers at the four pairs of boxer shorts, a half dozen t-shirts, some shorts, and two pairs of socks. “What kinds of things have you had to arrest Ms. Fish here for? And Mr. Swift? What is the basic kind of fuck-up those two are involved in?”

“A couple months ago we got her on a DUI,” Plant said.

“Jeez,” Fagan said after closing the third drawer. “Is this everything that guy owns?”

“This is it, really,” Mavis said. “When he moved in here, he didn’t have much. Just came over in his car with a couple of boxes. He used to have tons of books, guitars, CDs, a house full of furniture.”

“What else?” Fagan said to Plant.

“Well, Logan Swift was hauled in for theft and burglary and possession of meth and heroin as a juvenile. He was constantly in and out of the Hall.”

“Is that right?” Fagan said.

“Since he turned eighteen he hasn’t been arrested, but we’ve had to respond to half a dozen or so calls to break up disturbances and fights he instigated or was involved in, along with Ms. Fish. These two are a pain in the ass. She’s always pissing someone off for something and then Logan ends up stomping a guy or a woman. He doesn’t care.”

“Most of those calls are just bull—”

“How did Mr. Dunn wind up in so much debt, single, living with his mother and with this decrepit collection of possessions?” Fagan asked Mavis.

“Well, I don’t know all the details. Tina left him to hook up with Mark Pisko after Paul quit his job at Turlock High School. She went a little nuts I think, was having some kind of breakdown. Her mother ended up filing some kind of motion to get full custody of their kids until they could go to court and sort it all out. As far as I know, Tina still hadn’t got them back. After about six months the house was foreclosed on and Paul just left everything behind and came here. That was six months ago. He was working briefly as a fry cook before he got injured.”

“When we picked up Miranda on the DUI,” Plant said, “Logan was the passenger. We found syringes under his seat, but no drugs in the car. I guess she pled guilty to the DUI and got off on the paraphernalia charge. We’re pretty sure Mr. Swift is still involved in meth and heroin.”

“Is that right, Ms. Fish?” Fagan said. He sat down on the bed facing Mavis and Miranda. “You and your boyfriend like to shoot up shit? You sure look like one of those skanks from down on south Ninth. I’d hate to be the lady cop that had to search your ass.” He looked at Plant. “God I hate fucking junkies.”

“Detective Fagan,” Mavis said. She sat down next to him on the bed. “Miranda has been in some trouble, mostly due to her relationship with her mother and father. She’s doing real well now and I can assure you she is not on drugs. Not at all. Isn’t that right dear?”

“Drugs are lame,” Miranda said. “Duh.”

Fagan looked down at Mavis’ cleavage. As he stood up, he blocked the others’ view of Mavis and ran his right hand across both her breasts, and gave her right nipple a little squeeze. Mavis made a small squeaky noise and smiled.

“Plant,” Fagan said. “Call into the station and put an APB out on Dunn and his vehicle. And mention he might be with Logan Swift.” He looked at Miranda. “I got a feeling he and this Miranda know something about what happened last night.”

TWENTY-TWO

When they were nearly to Riverbank and both sides of the road had turned from car dealers and fast food restaurants to vineyards and almond orchards, Logan lightly jabbed Paul with the shotgun barrel and told him to pull over into one of the orchards on the right.

“No way,” Paul said.

“Just make a right and go in between the rows, Uncle Paul.

Paul looked.

“But there’s no room.”

Logan cocked the triggers on the double-barreled gun.

“I promise you there is room. Do it now.”

Paul put on the brakes and turned. He tried to aim between the rows and not hit a tree.

“What the fuck?” Paul said. Low branches hit the windshield and the side of the truck. He had to roll up his window to keep from getting struck by a piece of almond tree. After about a hundred feet Logan told him to stop. Dust and dirt flew and the truck’s metal shrieked from scraping branches. His stomach and chest struck the steering wheel and he had to put his hand out on the dash to avoid hitting his head on the windshield. This caused his back to spasm.

“Shit,” he said. “My back! God damn it.”

“Sorry, Uncle Paul,” Logan said. He put the shotgun on the seat to his right and reached out his left hand and put it on the small of Paul’s back, on the left side. “Is this where it hurts?” Logan kneaded the spot.

“Yes,” Paul said. He was creeped out by what Logan was doing, but it felt pretty good.

“Is that better?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

“What are we doing? We can’t just sit here.”

“Sure we can, I’ve hid out in these orchards all the time since I was little. You just got to watch out for dogs.”

“Oh god,” Paul said. He looked. “I don’t see any.”

“Don’t worry, if one was nearby you’d hear it.”

“So what are we doing?”

“You really do need to chill, man. We’re waiting for Randa to call. It’s all cool.”

Paul leaned forward to let Logan really dig into his back. He moaned.

“I have some medicine that might help,” Logan said.

“Thank, God.”

Logan stopped rubbing Paul and dug into a Gold’s Gym duffel on the floor. He reached into a black plastic bag and took out a small paper sack and out of the sack he pulled a small clear plastic bag containing thick off-white colored powder. He took his Karambit out of a pants pocket.

“What the fuck is that?” Paul said.

“Oh, this? This is some of that good shit. Real good shit, amen.”

“What do you mean? What is it? Is it heroin? Fuck.”

“That it is, Uncle Paul. Best shit I ever took. Wait … that didn’t come out right.”

Logan pulled out a fancy wood container, the size of a large box of wooden matches. He pulled out a spoon, a needle, and a lighter.

“Don’t you have anything else? Like some Vicodin or Oxys?”

Logan looked at Paul and smirked.

“No man, that’s high school shit.
Junior
high school shit. This is the real deal man. Beats fucking Robitussin.” He grinned at Paul.

Paul looked at the drugs and the equipment. He pictured Logan reaching out and tying off his right bicep while holding the syringe in his teeth, then jabbing the needle into a vein inside his elbow. He saw blood go up into the syringe as Logan pushed in the plunger. Then Logan pulled out the needle, loosened the band, and rubbed his lower back again while they waited for the heroin to hit. He imagined the euphoria and the release, followed by a rapid-fire montage of images of him knocking knocking knocking on Logan’s door, looking sick and pathetic, with an empty wallet in his hand.

“No, I can’t go there man,” Paul said. “My life is fucked up enough.”

Plus he had a lot of shit to figure out. Like, who killed his wife? He noticed that since that morning he’d started thinking of Tina as his wife again.

Logan put his face very close to Paul’s. He stared into his eyes like he was searching for something.

“Okay,” he said. “Suit yourself.” Logan fixed his own shot. He took his knife and dipped it into the bag for some of the powder. When he dropped the baggie back into the duffel bag, Paul saw what looked like about a dozen brick-sized black bags of what he assumed was more heroin.

“Jesus, dude,” Paul said. “How much shit you got there?”

Paul smiled. Big. “A lot man, it’s what I call a shit load of shit.”

“What are you, rich? Or a dealer now? How come you got so much?”

“Let’s just say I was in the right place at the right time.”

“Where did it all come from, Logan?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“What? Did you steal it?”

“I said I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t tell anyone, or can’t tell
me
?”

Logan pondered this. He looked confused.

“Just don’t ask, okay?”

Paul nodded and watched as the young man, with no apparent embarrassment, unzipped his zipper, lifted up his butt, and pulled down his cargo shorts to just above his knee. He wore no underwear. He shoved the needle into a spot on his inner left thigh just to the right of his testicle, plunged, pulled out the syringe, slumped backwards. He didn’t pull his shorts back up. His balls were huge. So big they almost made his ample penis look small.

Paul watched as Logan’s eyes closed and he fell onto his left side, seemingly unconscious. Paul had to grab and move his head to keep it from landing in his lap. Logan’s hips pushed the shotgun to the floor.

“Logan?” Paul nudged Logan’s shoulder. Nothing. He breathed deep and hard so Paul figured it wasn’t an OD. But he really didn’t know anything about it. He’d never been around heroin before.

Paul waited a minute and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Still no messages. Jeez, you’d think someone would call to express condolences about Tina dying. She was his wife for six years after all. He thought he’d been running out of friends lately.

He clicked on ModBee.com. There was a new headline over the Tina/Mark murder article: “Estranged Spouse of Woman Shotgun Victim Prime Suspect.”

He forgot about his back, about Logan, about the shotgun on the floor as he read the updated article.

Jorge Rincon, the business partner of the man found shot dead early this morning along with his female companion, said today that Modesto resident Paul Dunn is now considered the chief suspect in the double murder by the Modesto Police Department. Dunn is the estranged spouse of victim Tina Dunn, the woman who had been living in the North Modesto home with the other victim, Mark Pisko.

“It was well known that Mr. Dunn was angry that his wife had left him for my partner,” Rincon said. “In fact, both Tina Dunn and Mark had taken out a restraining order against the man after he made threats on their lives.”

Rincon added that Dunn had large credit card debts and his house had recently been foreclosed. “It is my understanding since the divorce was not yet final that Dunn stood to collect a large life insurance policy and his wife’s pension upon her death.”

Tina Dunn was a 20-year employee of the Stanislaus County Clerk’s Office. The total amount of her life insurance policy and pension is not known at this time.

So far, the Modesto Police Department has not confirmed Rincon’s claims, though they admitted Dunn is a “person of interest” in the case.

“At this time,” said MPD Homicide Detective John Fagan, “we do not know Paul Dunn’s whereabouts and there is currently an all-points bulletin out on him and his vehicle.”

Fagan had no comment on Rincon’s further claim that the police knew that Dunn was in possession of the murder weapon.

“The location of the murder weapon is not something we wish to disclose at this time,” Fagan said.

The rest of the article was just a rehash of the information contained in the report from earlier that morning. Paul scrolled through and saw that they’d added an old photo of Pisko from his Fresno State days. He was glad to see there was no picture of him.

At the bottom, there were forty new comments from readers.

The first one from Jill Manakee, who Paul remembered as a co-worker of Tina’s from the county clerk’s office:

Our sweet Tina, taken too soon. RIP.

The next several were similar—posts from friends and co-workers. Paul knew all of them and he teared up remembering the beginnings of their marriage, the good times, when he went to parties and other events with some of the posters. Then, there was one from Tina’s sister, Megan:

Our family is devastated by this news. Tina was such a beautiful person and a wonderful sister. She was my guiding light, my rock. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.

This was strange to Paul since Megan barely spoke to Tina the entire time he’d known both. She came without her husband and children to their wedding reception (they’d eloped to Tahoe since it was Paul’s third marriage and Tina’s fourth) but didn’t bring a gift and left before they cut the cake. It broke Tina’s heart when she looked up from the cake-cutting and didn’t see Megan, and she cried half the night when she and Paul should’ve been celebrating. It all had something to do with an argument years before over some jewelry and clothes left by their dead grandmother. Paul could never understand the details.

Right after this comment, Megan added another:

I told her not to marry that SOB Paul Dunn. I’m not surprised at all that he killed Tina. I hope they find that bastard soon.

Then, in a reply to Megan’s post, Megan’s aunt Shirley added this:

We all knew Paul was some kind of loser. I heard he owed $100,000 on his MasterCard and his Visa cards and that he never paid a dime of their mortgage. Tina supported his ass while he got his teacher credential and he only lasted like three months when he finally got a teaching job. I hope he gets the needle.

Paul quickly signed on using his Facebook account and posted a reply to Shirley’s reply.

Funny Shirley that you don’t seem to remember that I worked part time jobs 25 to 35 hours a week the entire time I was getting my credential at night, except for when I had to do my student teacher hours, and I worked weekends. And Megan, WTF? Tina was your ‘rock?’ What a bunch of total BS.

Paul scrolled down and kept reading. There were posts from strangers condemning Paul and hoping he was found soon and punished. There were more comments from people who knew Tina. There were three or four from friends or people claiming to be close to Pisko. Paul was not popular. Again, he wondered where his friends might be. He tried to think of some and no names came up. Except one, and he really wasn’t a friend. Not exactly.

Paul looked over at Logan. His breathing had gotten shallow, but his color looked all right. He put his phone in his pocket. He opened the door of the truck as quietly as possible and, wincing from the pain, got out. He walked around the front and opened the passenger door. Logan didn’t stir. He reached in and took Logan’s backpack. He put it on Logan’s lap. He opened up the bag and exposed all the bricks of heroin. He grabbed his phone and took video of Logan and the pack. He shot close-ups of Logan’s face and of the bricks and the shotgun. After several minutes, he stopped filming, looked at the footage, and made sure it was saved. He looked at the shotgun and at Logan one last time before gently closing the door. Walked away as quietly as possible and limped toward the road as fast as he could.

The one person he thought he could still count on lived less than a mile away.