Investigating a murder means pissing people off. Maybe you get to apologize later, but for the most part you interrogate people, suggest one form of involvement or another, and watch for their reactions to form instincts about who the bad guys are. If it works right, the practice points you in a direction that helps you close the case. Which makes pissing people off worth it.
I had just pissed off two ladies in a nice neighborhood, one who had recently become a widow and the other who had been cheat-ing on her husband. Now I was about to piss off the husband.
Arnold Locksmith and Security was on the edge of the wrong side of town. Not a place you’d want to leave your expensive car parked. It didn’t worry me. Nobody would steal my car. If any-thing, they’d leave me another one just like it.
The one-story building was a half block long and wide. Behind it a parking lot held about five vans with the company’s logo on the side, the same logo that decorated the front of the building over the main entrance. The logo was the only part of the busi-ness that looked elegant.
The receptionist greeted me with a nice smile. She was a teen-ager, maybe just out of school. Or a dropout. I showed her my badge.
“Whoa!” she said, even though I wasn’t moving. Except to put the badge away before somebody saw what it was.
“Can I help you?” Her name tag said Pamela.
“I need to see your duty roster, Pamela,” I said.
“My what?” You’d think I’d asked to see her underwear.
“Your log of when employees work and where they’re assigned. I’m investigating a murder.”
“Oh, you mean Mrs. Vitole’s husband?”
“That’s the one. Can I see the roster?”
“We don’t have one. Do you want to talk to the general manager?”
“Not yet. You seem like a bright girl. Maybe you can tell me. Was anyone in your company absent from work the day Mr. Vitole got shot?”
She typed on her computer and said, “Everybody was here that day.”
“Mrs. Vitole too?”
“Yes. Until the policeman came to tell her.”
That gave Stella an alibi. One less suspect.
“How about when somebody goes out. Without a duty roster how do you keep track of where everybody is?”
“We keep a record of the service orders.”
“Was Mr. Sproles in the office that day?”
She referred to the monitor. “No. He took one of the trucks out for a service call.”
“Can you make me a copy of the service order?”
“Sure.” She printed the document and gave it to me. I folded it and put it in my pocket.
“Is Mr. Sproles here now?”
“That’s the door to his office.”
“Thank you, Pamela,” I said.
I knocked.
“Come in,” a man’s voice said.
I opened the door and went into William Sproles’s office.
Sproles was middle aged, balding, and every bit the couch potato I saw from across the street the other day.
“You’d be detective Bentworth,” Sproles said. “My wife called and said you were at our house. Please sit. I wouldn’t want you to fall down in my office.”
He seemed pissed. She must have told him what I’d asked her.He didn’t ask to see my badge, and I didn’t offer it.
I sat in an uncomfortable folding chair, the best his office had to offer for guests. I guessed that he didn’t close many sales here.
“Mr. Sproles, where were you the morning Mario Vitole was killed?”
“I was here. Working.”
“Think back carefully, sir. That’s not what your girl Pamela said.”
“What Pamela said? How would she know where I was that many days ago? She can’t even remember where the coffee room is.”“She looked up your work orders. You were out on a service call.”
“Well, if you already know that, why ask me? I probably just mixed up my days.”
“Not many people would forget where they were when their neighbor was gunned down in front of their own house.”
He glared at me for a moment. “If you don’t have any more questions, detective, I have work to do.”
“One more. Did you see the picture that Vitole had of him kissing your wife in your doorway one day while you were at work?”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the affair that your wife was having with the dead man. I’m talking about the proof of that affair that Mrs. Vitole had and probably showed you. I’m talking about you not having an alibi for the time of the murder. Do you want me to keep talking?”
I really wished Bill Penrod was here. He’d have had this guy pissing himself to confess long before now. All I was doing was pissing him off.
“No, I don’t think you should keep talking,” Sproles said. “I think you should leave now. I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to you.”
He was right. Even if I was a cop, he didn’t have to talk to me. I wasn’t getting anywhere. But his reaction to the story about the affair was telling. He wasn’t shocked, surprised or outraged. The affair wasn’t news to him.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Sproles,” I said. I pulled myself out of the metal chair and went out and towards the main door. Sproles came out of his office and spoke to Pamela. He was probably chewing her ass about the service orders.
The next stop was the home of the customer on Sproles’s service order for the day of the murder. A lady came to the door.
“Good afternoon ma’am. I represent the Arnold Security company. This is just a follow-up courtesy call to make sure you were happy with our recent service call.”
“Service call? I don’t recall any service call.”
I showed her the service order. “Didn’t you have one of our technicians here to repair your alarm system?”
“No. I’m sorry, there must be some mistake.”
“Probably a clerical error,” I said. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
I returned to my car and left.
Sproles was caught in a lie. He wasn’t where he said he’d been that day. He’d probably fabricated the service order to account for his absence. Its relevance to the murder of his neighbor wasn’t clear, however. Many valid reasons could have a fellow taking time off work under false pretenses. Maybe he was interviewing for another job. Maybe he snuck away to go to a ball game. Or maybe he too had a lady friend on the side.
It’s a complicated world. Nothing is ever cut and dried.