daughter’s disappearance. Hopefully, with your help, they can put him in jail.”
“You’re right. I don’t trust him. But leaving my home! I’m not sure I could do that. Do you really think that’s necessary?”
Lisa said, “I do. And Helen, maybe if you go over everything with Detective Petersen again, it might give them something new to go on. There could be something you know that will help, something you didn’t think was important at the time. There must be, or your son-in-law wouldn’t be so concerned about you talking to us.”
Helen shrank back into the couch. “All right. I’ll talk to her.”
Maggie promised to be there soon. Things were happening quickly; Lisa thought the others should know what had developed. Eric picked up on the second ring.
He said, “If you can convince Helen to leave, we’ll have to make certain that she isn’t followed. I don’t think she should even go back to get her things. One of us can go over there and get them for her.”
“She called her sister in New York and made plans to go for a visit. We can get her on a plane tonight. Maggie’s going to be here any minute now to talk to her.”
“I’m on my way.”
31
Eric drove back to his office after he and Lisa had picked up suitcases and clothes for Helen, feeling relieved that the police were going to work the Emma Fischer case again, and even more relieved that Helen would be safely in New York, out of harm’s way.
At the office he found an urgent message from Jeff. When Jeff answered his phone, he told Eric the police had found his wife’s car.
Eric’s first reaction was concern that Jeff would end up in a jail cell as he had. “Do they want to question you again?”
“No, all they told me was that they found the car. They didn’t even tell me where they found it.”
“It’s time to get an attorney on retainer, my friend. They
will
question you again. Finding the car makes it look like she didn’t leave on her own. And they won’t tell you anything until the car is processed.”
“I drove around for days looking for her car,” Jeff admitted.
“Yeah, I know. I did some of that myself. Listen, Jeff, get an attorney on retainer—now.”
32
Although he preferred to think of her death as an accident, five years ago Eddie Wysecki murdered his wife. A diabetic, Rita had been prone to drinking in excess and forgetting to take her insulin. Eddie, who worked as a bartender, came home in the early morning hours after the bar closed and often found her in a drunken, diabetic stupor. The first time it happened he’d rushed her to the emergency room.
During one of their subsequent trips to the ER, the nurses instructed him on how to bring her back by himself. He listened raptly, even took notes. Eddie would have done anything to avoid another endless night in the ER.
As a young man, Eddie had been in and out of trouble, culminating in a two-year jail stint after a botched robbery. In prison, he’d had a lot of time to dwell on his life, coming to the realization that being a criminal wasn’t paying off. He didn’t have the necessary attributes for a successful life of crime—balls and intelligence. After prison, he worked dozens of crappy jobs, proving himself a good employee, then moving on to one a little less subservient. When he finally landed a job as a bartender in the corner bar near his apartment, he knew he’d found his niche. Both the hours and the atmosphere suited him.
Rita Claussen, a regular at the bar, was five years older than Eddie. A petite woman, she’d put on a few pounds over the years and wore her bleached blonde hair in a high concoction on top of her head, reminiscent of something from the ‘60s. He liked her bubbly personality, which became even more so as she drank. She often hung around till everyone else left, leaving with him after the bar closed for the night. An alcoholic, she nevertheless managed to get to work every day, where she held down a good
“You’re right. I don’t trust him. But leaving my home! I’m not sure I could do that. Do you really think that’s necessary?”
Lisa said, “I do. And Helen, maybe if you go over everything with Detective Petersen again, it might give them something new to go on. There could be something you know that will help, something you didn’t think was important at the time. There must be, or your son-in-law wouldn’t be so concerned about you talking to us.”
Helen shrank back into the couch. “All right. I’ll talk to her.”
Maggie promised to be there soon. Things were happening quickly; Lisa thought the others should know what had developed. Eric picked up on the second ring.
He said, “If you can convince Helen to leave, we’ll have to make certain that she isn’t followed. I don’t think she should even go back to get her things. One of us can go over there and get them for her.”
“She called her sister in New York and made plans to go for a visit. We can get her on a plane tonight. Maggie’s going to be here any minute now to talk to her.”
“I’m on my way.”
31
Eric drove back to his office after he and Lisa had picked up suitcases and clothes for Helen, feeling relieved that the police were going to work the Emma Fischer case again, and even more relieved that Helen would be safely in New York, out of harm’s way.
At the office he found an urgent message from Jeff. When Jeff answered his phone, he told Eric the police had found his wife’s car.
Eric’s first reaction was concern that Jeff would end up in a jail cell as he had. “Do they want to question you again?”
“No, all they told me was that they found the car. They didn’t even tell me where they found it.”
“It’s time to get an attorney on retainer, my friend. They
will
question you again. Finding the car makes it look like she didn’t leave on her own. And they won’t tell you anything until the car is processed.”
“I drove around for days looking for her car,” Jeff admitted.
“Yeah, I know. I did some of that myself. Listen, Jeff, get an attorney on retainer—now.”
32
Although he preferred to think of her death as an accident, five years ago Eddie Wysecki murdered his wife. A diabetic, Rita had been prone to drinking in excess and forgetting to take her insulin. Eddie, who worked as a bartender, came home in the early morning hours after the bar closed and often found her in a drunken, diabetic stupor. The first time it happened he’d rushed her to the emergency room.
During one of their subsequent trips to the ER, the nurses instructed him on how to bring her back by himself. He listened raptly, even took notes. Eddie would have done anything to avoid another endless night in the ER.
As a young man, Eddie had been in and out of trouble, culminating in a two-year jail stint after a botched robbery. In prison, he’d had a lot of time to dwell on his life, coming to the realization that being a criminal wasn’t paying off. He didn’t have the necessary attributes for a successful life of crime—balls and intelligence. After prison, he worked dozens of crappy jobs, proving himself a good employee, then moving on to one a little less subservient. When he finally landed a job as a bartender in the corner bar near his apartment, he knew he’d found his niche. Both the hours and the atmosphere suited him.
Rita Claussen, a regular at the bar, was five years older than Eddie. A petite woman, she’d put on a few pounds over the years and wore her bleached blonde hair in a high concoction on top of her head, reminiscent of something from the ‘60s. He liked her bubbly personality, which became even more so as she drank. She often hung around till everyone else left, leaving with him after the bar closed for the night. An alcoholic, she nevertheless managed to get to work every day, where she held down a good
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