“Okay, honey,” he said, “don’t touch the tape or you’ll get hit. Don’t touch the steering wheel, don’t play any tricks. If you reach for the door handle, who knows what might hit your head. Alright, let’s go.” He drove skillfully with his left hand, his right hand resting on the seat behind him, the leather-wrapped metal stick beside it. His gaze told Peggy he was as calm as he had claimed during his duty.
Slim drove to the curb in front of an apartment one block away from Adams Road and Elmore Road. “Stay put, don’t move,” Slim warned. Another car pulled up behind them. Peggy saw Butcher escorting Bill Everett, with Bill talking non-stop while Butcher seemed disinterested. The third man came up and briefly spoke to Slim.
“I’ll go check if it’s safe,” he said, “wait for my signal.” “Okay,” Slim responded.
Bill and Butcher entered the apartment; light shone from a first-floor window, the curtains quickly drawn to block the light. Seconds later, a flashlight beam flashed twice.
“Okay, honey,” Slim said, “let’s go.” He leaned over her to open the door and pushed her out forcefully. She desperately scanned the deserted street. Slim expertly grabbed her wrist, twisting it behind her back, causing her to step forward to alleviate the pain. Slim pushed her forward, the pain persisted.
Peggy tried to scream, but only muffled moans came through the tightly taped mouth. She almost ran to get some distance from Slim to lessen the pain on her wrist. She hurried through a dark corridor. The third man suddenly opened a door, clearly the driver of the other car. Peggy was pushed inside.
Slim threw her purse to Butcher. “Here.” He said. Butcher opened it, carefully examining her driver’s license and ID.
“Honestly, Butcher,” Bill said, “I don’t know her, she made an appointment with me—” Butcher was looking at Peggy’s driver’s license; he looked up, “Shut him up, Slim.”
“Okay,” Slim said, stepping forward.
“No, no, I’m innocent. She—” Bill started, but Slim expertly swung the metal stick, the odd clanging sound like a hand slapping a ripe watermelon. Bill’s eyes went blank, his head slumped, and he collapsed into the chair, looking terrified and nearly unconscious.
“No, don’t,” he cried out, “you can’t do this to me.” That odd clanging sound rang out again. Butcher didn’t even bother to glance at Bill; he looked at Peggy and said, “So, you work for the insurance company that insured Garrison’s jewelry for $250,000.”
Peggy pointed at the tape over her mouth.
“You just need to nod, no need to remove the tape,” Butcher said, his eyes cold. She still held her head high, refusing to submit. Butcher shook his head, and Slim approached her.
“When I ask questions,” Butcher said, “I expect answers. Slim’s very rough; he’s not very sympathetic to women, like to snakes. Well, as far as I know, you work for that insurance company, and Bill was negotiating with you to return the jewels, you would have him avoid prosecution and pay him about $30,000 to $40,000. Is that right?”
She shook her head.
“Loosen her up, Slim,” Butcher said, “she’s lying.” Slim tapped the back of her neck with the metal rod, just a light tap, but a sharp pain shot into Peggy’s head. She saw stars, felt a numbness, then the pain intensified. “I’m waiting for your answer,” Butcher said. She took a deep breath, fighting against the nauseating headache, then shook her head firmly. Slim raised his wrist, but then saw Butcher signal him to stop, a hint of admiration mixed with confusion in his eyes. “Holy hell,” he said, “this chick’s got some guts!”
Butcher turned to look at the unconscious Bill and said, “When he wakes up, we’ll have some questions for him. Someone told me directly that Bill was selling us out, and—damn it, that must be right.” “Should I take off the duct tape?” Slim asked. “Not yet,” Butcher said, “we’ve got all night. We—” A strange noise came from outside the apartment door, like fabric rubbing against it.
Butcher saw Slim move closer to the door, his right hand quickly reaching for the left lapel of his coat, but the rod attached to his wrist got in the way. With a “bang,” the door was kicked open and slammed against the wall. Detective Fred Nelson, holding a .38 caliber gun, assessed the situation. “Alright, you bunch of thugs,” he said, “you’re done.” He looked at Peggy sitting there with duct tape over her mouth. “I guess you were right this time,” he said. “You got mad and wouldn’t tell me where Bill Everett lived, but it just so happens someone did a routine check on him because of his record. “Line up against the wall, hands up. Whether you spend the night in a cell or on a marble slab doesn’t matter to me.”
Peggy sat in Detective Fred Nelson’s office. Sheriff Favell sat at one end of the large table, his eyes openly showing admiration for Peggy. Don Kimberly sat at the other end, and Nelson began his questioning. Peggy felt like a tightrope walker, carefully guiding them to conclusions to exonerate Kimberly from the murder charge, while having to conceal some clues she and Kimberly had hidden, and mentioning less of those Nelson had overlooked, as there was no need to embarrass Nelson in front of his superiors.
“Women,” Peggy explained, “often see things men don’t.” “In what aspects?” Nelson asked. “Well, like housekeeping, for example.” “Go on,” the sheriff urged. “This,” Peggy continued cautiously, “to understand how the murder happened, you have to put yourself in the killer’s shoes.” Sheriff Favell glanced at Detective Nelson: “Listen up, this won’t hurt you.” he said.
