One Husband Too Many

Detective Jake Munn has been on the force for nearly 30 years. The job is wearing him down, and his relationship with alcohol is becoming tenuous. When a man is murdered outside a bar in the east end during the wee hours of the morning, the interviews he conducts seem to suggest coincidence, something Jake's never countenanced. His job allows no room for attachment, but his emotions have been affected by the widow he encountered in his last murder case.

When he realized the reason the victim in the morgue looked familiar, Jake was not only surprised, but puzzled. He had seen the man in two photos, in two places. Coincidence was not in Jake’s lexicon. He had investigated and researched long enough to know a coincidence rarely, if ever happened.

This was not a coincidence. The man in the first photo he had noticed when he’d interviewed Elise six months ago – with two children – was not only the man Jake had visited in the morgue, but the man in the framed portrait in the house he had just left. Greg Dinas. Gregory.

Jake pulled the ignition key out of the starter and settled himself for a think. Greg Dinas was the father of the children in the house today, but also seemingly the father of two of Elise’s children. The second photo in Elise’s home pictured a different person, a man he knew was Rick Sheppard from the old case. He sorted through the facts “slowly”, he cautioned himself. He didn’t want to miss anything, and he was certain – though he’d never admit it – that his mental faculties weren’t as sharp as they’d been even a few years ago.

So, Elise had been married to Rick. He knew that. He had a notebook full of questions and answers to substantiate it and a photo with three kids. Got it. But was she married to the guy in the first photo, the one that featured two kids? Then, she and this Greg Dinas had split, maybe divorced and she married Rick Sheppard. It was the different surname that had previously kept him from unraveling the facts with his usual mental clarity. He had met Elise Sheppard – yep, that’s what he’d noted in his pad, his trusted ‘write book’ – but had she been Elise Sheppard previously? They obviously had been a couple, she and Greg, but were they married? He juggled the names back and forth in his head for a moment, then settled on the fact that names weren’t of much importance as it was the photos that held the fascinating information.

Elise Sheppard. Married to Rick, murdered; and previously married or partnered with Greg Dinas, also murdered. Suddenly, Jake wanted to believe in coincidences. He thought of how small and vulnerable Elise had seemed when he’d talked to her and how she had been preying on his emotions. Could that poor, beautiful woman have lost two loves in her life so savagely? If nothing else, it was unfair but, then, he knew full well that life was exactly that.

Jake didn’t want to allow himself to think further, trying to piece together what he already knew. Something was niggling at him, a feeling that – maybe – he could overlook the Elise factor and chalk it all up to coincidence. But the skilled detective in him prodded the beat cop he once had been, and both decided he’d have to speak with Elise again.

It seemed crazy. How would he broach the topic? “You seem to have been central in the lives of both murdered men? So? So what?” That sounded to him like a very flimsy opening gambit. Why would it follow that she was somehow connected to the murders, as she was to the men? Exactly why did he need to speak to her again?

Jake shook the thoughts out of his head. It may have seemed to him to make no sense, but he had every reason to visit Elise Sheppard – once Elise Dinas(?) – for clarification if nothing else. Yep. That made sense.

He returned briefly to the precinct intending to make his way through the mountain of messages and case files on his desk. As usual, some of the newer detectives wanted him to weigh in on their cases. After returning several phone calls, Jake played with the cover of the first file folder on his desk. He was always happy to help the young ones, but he couldn’t settle the bits and pieces in his head to give any of their cases his due diligence.

He had to follow whatever thread seemed to be unraveling in his latest case.

It was time to track Greg Dinas’s last few hours.

Jake drove the few blocks to “Arms and Amen”, the bar outside which Greg’s body had been found. He could have walked it, he thought, but the pounding in his head demanded otherwise. He couldn’t wait for the next beer and Jack wherever they were waiting for him. Alcohol. How much alcohol did Greg have in his system? He’d need to revisit Andy for more information that, he chided himself, he should have requested this morning.

He pulled his car into the alleyway behind the bar. There was just enough room to park even though a big fading sign read “No Parking. No Stopping.” Of course, that didn’t apply to him. He retrieved his emergency flashing light and put it on the hood of his car. That should advise any eager rookie to give it a pass. Jake closed the car door, looked up to the second floor of the building and squinted at the sun. He checked his breast pocket to ensure he had his notebook and pen, then tapped his side pockets in search of the glasses he now needed for reading. He was relieved he had remembered them today and reminded himself yet again that he should get another pair, if not a few, to keep in the various places he might need them.

He made his way from the alleyway and around to the bar’s heavy brown double door. It had surely seen better days. This whole section of the east side had seen happier times. Jake was surprised that the businesses in this area were still operating. They seemed hunched down under the weight of the apartments that occupied the second floor, and the stench of vomit and urine was usually unbearable. Jake didn’t notice the dilapidation of the entire street, as he was focused on the yellow tape cordoning off the spot where Greg Dinas’s body had been found. There was a uniformed officer at the entrance to the bar. Jake flicked his credentials at the woman, pushed open the heavy door and walked through..

‘Arms and Amen’, a rather desperate pun based on Shaw’s play ‘Arms and the Man’ delivered exactly what its exterior promised. The pall of detritus from human orifices competed with the pervasive smell of mould that seemed to imbue every surface and wall. There were three men sitting at the bar, and a couple at a table in a back corner. What sounded like eighties’ alternative rock played quietly in the background. The general atmosphere was stagnant, and gave the illusion of a bad trip backwards in time.

A youngish man, likely in his mid-30s, stood behind the counter, intent on the contents of the cash register. He didn’t look up when Jake entered, but glanced briefly with seeming annoyance when Jake took a seat beside the three men at the bar. The ‘bartender’ (Jake supposed) eventually fixed his gaze on the badge Jake displayed, and abandoned his perusal of the register, with a gesture that Jake read as “OK. I’m coming.”

“We’re not open today,” the man said.

Jake looked around at the customers in the room as if to say, “What about them?”

“They’re not customers,” Jake was told. “They’re family. We’re closed to outsiders.”

“It’s fine. I’m not here to bust anybody. I just want to speak with whoever was tending bar last night,” Jake explained. “Was it you?”

The man shook his head in the affirmative, but didn’t appear keen to pursue what he imagined was the line of questioning.

“Did you know the victim?” Jake began. Again, a nod indicating ‘yes’. “He was here last night. How long do you think that was?”

“We had two bartenders on last night. I wasn’t serving Greg’s table.”

“How well did you know the deceased?” Jake continued, somewhat taken aback by the familiarity.

“He was a regular. Poker night. Coming probably two years, or so.”

Jake took note of the information. “And, last night, were there any fights or disagreements in the place? Specifically involving the deceased?”

“Absolutely not,” the bartender replied. “It’s not that kind of place. We get class customers.”

Again Jake surveyed the room. “Yeah, it’s classy,” he said, hoping to convey sarcasm.

“Do you know what time Mr. Dinas left?”

“Like I said, officer…”

“Detective,” Jake interrupted.

“Yeah, like I said, I wasn’t serving that table. Maya had them most of the night.”

Jake gave him a probing look, and he continued, “He left before the game was over. Probably just after midnight. They kept playing for awhile after that.”

“Maya? Where do I find her?”

“She already gave her statement to the other officers. She’s got the day off. Like I said, we’re not open today.”

“Where can I find her? Maya?” Jake repeated.

The man fished under the counter and brought out a tattered black, once hard-covered notebook. He opened it and, without looking at it, told Jake her address. “But like I said the other officers already talked to her.”

Jake resisted the impulse to correct the bartender with “Detective”, but realized it was just his pride that was piqued. This guy didn’t care what he was. He just wanted him gone, that much was obvious.

As he stood up to leave, Jake noticed the full bottle of Jack Daniels behind the man’s head. The bartender followed his gaze and asked, “You want a shot, officer?”

Did he? He certainly did, but managed to say, “Can’t. On duty.”

When he was outside, he walked over to the cordoned-off area, then stood and looked at it, noting the blood stains and the place markers the Forensic team had left.

“Nothing more here,” Jake muttered to himself. He looked at the page in his ‘write book’ where he’d scribbled the address for ‘Maya’ and thought desolately about the Jack Daniels’ bottle. “I’ll get a bottle on the way home,” he promised himself, immediately remembering he’d also promised himself no hard liquor. Too many of the old guys wound up with a bad liver and mandatory attendance at 12-step meetings. He didn’t want to end up like them.

Maya Rosenberg lived a 25-minute drive from the bar. Jake contemplated how long it might take her to get to work on public transit. Could be a couple of hours. He had a lot of respect for people in service jobs, especially those living from paycheck to paycheck and surviving mostly on tips. His daughter, Cassie, had worked as a server to top up her allowance during her college years. Jake remembered how disillusioned she’d become, not only with her own job and subsistence living, but with the economy that thrived on the back of the poorer classes. All these years later, she was a Legal Assistant at one of the city’s more prestigious law firms, making enough money to raise her two daughters. Of course, she had child support income that helped them live a decidedly comfortable life. He wondered if she still felt the same about the poor working class as she once had.

Jake rang the doorbell in the lobby of Maya’s apartment building. The place was rundown and, like the bar, was well past its glory days. A woman’s voice answered immediately and agreed to let him in. When she opened her door, Jake asked, “Do you always let people in like that?”

“I knew you were coming,” she replied. “Mike called me from the bar.”

“So you know why I’m here,” he began.

“Of course I know,” Maya quickly responded. “I’m not an idiot.”

“No, of course not,” Jake said, then asked, “Do you know what time Mr. Dinas – the deceased – left the bar last night?”

She nodded ‘yes’. “And he was a regular, most nights. Never missed a poker game, at least as long as I’ve been there.”

“So, can you remember what time he left?”

Maya reminded him of a yappy Chihuahua. She cracked her gum as she spoke, and seemed nearly apoplectic about being interviewed. She seemed to spit out every answer.

“It was probably around midnight. The game wasn’t over, which was kind of odd.” She glanced at Jake, who nodded and waited. “Yeah, I don’t remember him ever leaving early like that.”

Jake took note of her recollections. “Was there anything else odd about him…his mood or how much he was drinking?”

“Well, he wasn’t winning.” She was definite about that. “I wasn’t paying too much attention but, when I brought their two beer pitchers to the table one time, he was on his cell phone. I think he left just after that. Probably didn’t want to pick up the tab for the round.”

“Did you overhear anything he said on the call?” Jake asked.

“Nah. Not really. But he didn’t seem real happy. Likely ‘cuz he was losing pretty bad. At least that’s what I thought.”

Jake had finished taking notes and thanked Maya for the information she’d managed to give him.

“Yeah, OK,” she said, gesturing him towards the door. ”Happy to help. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

“What?” Jake asked.

“A guy getting murdered right near the bar like that. I’m gonna start looking for another job. That place gives me the creeps now.”

“Well, thank you for your time,” Jake repeated as he began to walk back down the hallway to the elevator. The apartment door slammed loudly behind him.

It hadn’t been the most successful day. Jake had got very little new information from his interviews. But he had connected Elise Sheppard with the two men. The two dead men. Murdered. That fact sat in his mind like a grenade ready to be hurled.

He did have one new piece of information. The victim had a phone call just before he left the bar. It was unlikely he had been calling someone. Was the phone call he obviously received the reason for his early departure?

Jake made a mental note to get Greg Dinas’s cellphone records. That last call might be important. Maybe he was going to meet someone before his run-in outside the bar? Or maybe it had been the killer who called? Or maybe he was completely off base? This case was getting interesting.

He had planned to go back to the precinct and face the mountain of paperwork that never seemed to get smaller. But Jack Daniels was whispering requests in his ear, no matter how hard he tried not to block him out.

“Just this time. After that, then only beer from then on,” he thought. It seemed like the responsible thing.