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Chapter 31: Bernie is Fed
Old Tom lowered his head in shame, then slowly raised it again, his weathered face flushed with emotion.
"He never brought a single cent home, and he almost sold Matia to Rose Street!" he said, his voice cracking as he pointed toward the window with a trembling finger.
"What kind of man sells his wife to a place like that!"
His voice grew louder, more desperate. "He only knows how to gamble! If I hadn't visited Matia regularly, that worthless gambler would never have known if she died alone in that house!"
"So what if I slept with Matia! I can take care of her! I can give her a real home! I won't throw away every dollar at the gambling table like he did!"
Old Tom's breathing became ragged. "You think he cared? He actually invited me to move in with them!"
The more he spoke, the more agitated he became. He lurched to his feet, stomped his boot hard against the floorboards, then let out a broken, pathetic cry and collapsed back into his chair.
Mrs. Wilson heard the commotion from the kitchen and hurried out, her flour-dusted apron still tied around her waist. She wrapped her arms around Old Tom's shoulders, kissing his forehead and murmuring soft reassurances until his shaking subsided.
Theodore and Bernie exchanged a meaningful glance across the small room.
After coaxing Mrs. Wilson back into the house, she'd been ready to chase the detectives away, Old Tom's emotions finally settled. When he spoke again, his voice was low and gravelly.
"We had an arrangement. I gave him 200 dollars every month to help take proper care of Matia."
He stared down at his calloused hands. "That day I went to him wanting a divorce, for her sake. He refused outright and demanded I pay 400 each month instead. Billy happened to be there when we were talking, and Hank..." Old Tom's jaw tightened. "Hank even asked Billy if he wanted her, said he could have her for 300."
"I couldn't help myself. I hit him. We started fighting right there, with Billy trying to break us apart."
Old Tom's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "A few days later, he was dead. I had moved out after the fight, but then... then I moved back in."
Bernie's expression hardened with disapproval. "What you did is no different from going to Rose Street," he said curtly, then reached for his handcuffs. "Now you need to come back to the station with us."
Although the source of the deceased's unexplained income remained a mystery, it wasn't necessary to solve every puzzle to catch a murderer.
In this case, Old Tom possessed both motive and opportunity. The pieces fit together with uncomfortable clarity: a crime of passion, possibly premeditated, committed by a man with the physical strength and intimate knowledge needed. He knew Hank's routines, could easily lure him out, and had ready access to tools like hammers.
Combined with Old Tom and Matia's sordid affair, the murder's logic lay exposed before them like an open book.
When they returned to the station, Sam still hadn't come back from his rounds. The large office held its usual collection of dedicated detectives working late into the night, their desk lamps creating pools of yellow light in the otherwise dim room.
These night owls looked up from their paperwork when they saw the trio escorting a suspect, and a few appreciative whistles echoed through the space.
Bernie personally handled Old Tom's intake, filling out the booking forms with methodical precision before escorting him to the interrogation room.
It wasn't until the heavy door closed behind him that Old Tom seemed to realize he wasn't just helping with their investigation, he was their investigation.
The sound of fists pounding against the interrogation room door echoed through the hallway, accompanied by Old Tom's increasingly frantic protests that they had the wrong man, that he hadn't killed anyone.
Bernie strode over and spoke through the door in a tone that brooked no argument: make another sound, and they'd move him to the detention cell. The pounding stopped immediately.
They waited another hour for Sam's return. When he still didn't show, they briefed the duty detective and headed home for the night.
The next morning, all three reconvened at the station. Sam was practically vibrating with excitement about their suspect, and both he and Bernie were eager to begin the interrogation immediately.
Theodore, however, felt they should first organize their latest findings. A clear summary would help eliminate distractions and allow them to make a sound judgment about the case.
Sam spread Hank's pay stubs across the desk. "Base salary of 300, plus night shift differentials and overtime, he was pulling in between 330 and 350 each month."
The amount seemed reasonable for an experienced oil field worker.
"But here's where it gets interesting," Sam continued. "I talked to plenty of workers who gamble regularly. According to them, Hank was losing over five hundred a month."
Bernie immediately pulled out his notes from yesterday's casino visit, adjusting his glasses as he read. "The casino's records confirm it. Hank was losing at least 300 dollars there every month, sometimes his entire paycheck in a single night."
The three men stared at the numbers. Hank's monthly gambling habit was consuming between seven hundred and a thousand dollars.
For context, the average oil field worker earned around 200 dollars monthly. Even an experienced hand like Hank, with Foreman Roy's favor, couldn't realistically earn more than 350.
The workers they'd interviewed yesterday had been playing with chips worth ten or twenty dollars at most, small-time gambling that matched their modest paychecks. They'd hover around tables, watching carefully before placing conservative bets.
This was a far cry from the generous, almost reckless spending the casino server had described.
Where was Hank getting the extra money?
The question hung in the air like smoke. Theodore found his gaze drifting toward the interrogation room where Old Tom waited.
What had seemed like a straightforward case was suddenly clouded with doubt.
Bernie was quiet for a long moment, then clapped his hands decisively. "Let's set this aside for now. We'll get our answers from him."
They spent the rest of the day taking turns in the interrogation room. By evening, they had nothing to show for it.
This was unprecedented. The unusual situation even caught Captain Wenner's attention, and the other detectives in the office had started a betting pool on when Old Tom would crack.
Given Theodore's previous success rate, the most optimistic bet was two days. Nobody wagered on "never."
Wenner called the three of them into his office to assess the situation and helped expedite a search warrant.
The next morning, search warrant in hand, they drove toward the oil field.
Sam was noticeably cheerful during the ride. When Theodore asked why, Sam mentioned that his mysterious partner was finally returning to town.
As Sam talked about his partner, his usual reserve melted away slightly, and he became almost chatty.
Bernie listened with visible irritation, his mouth twitching. Finally, he cut in forcefully: "What exactly should we be looking for?"
Sam's enthusiasm dimmed. "The murder weapon?"
"What kind of murder weapon?" Bernie pressed. "We don't even know what the murder weapon is."
"Maybe we could take all of Old Tom's tools back to the lab," Sam suggested tentatively. "Test which ones could leave similar wounds."
Theodore shook his head. "They use standardized tools, purchased in bulk. Even if we find the right type, we can't prove it belonged to Old Tom specifically."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the car.
"There's also Billy," Theodore said finally.
When the other two looked at him expectantly, he continued: "Old Tom mentioned Billy was present during his fight with Hank."
"Are you saying Old Tom isn't our killer?" Bernie asked.
Theodore shook his head slowly. "Maybe we should bring Mrs. Wilson in for questioning too."
This time both Bernie and Sam stared at him in bewilderment. Neither could tell whether Theodore believed Old Tom was guilty or innocent.
They reached the oil field quickly. Foreman Roy emerged from his trailer to greet them, wiping grease from his hands with a stained rag.
After examining the search warrant, Roy's face paled. "The murderer's on my crew, isn't he?" he asked in a hushed voice.
When the three detectives remained silent, Roy became agitated. "I knew it! I damn well knew it!"
He led them nervously toward the equipment shed, talking rapidly. "All our tools are centrally managed. Every morning before shift, workers sign them out here, take their toolboxes, then return them at day's end. We check for damage or missing items before logging them back in."
A guard stood outside the tool shed, straightening when he saw the group approaching. Roy acted as though the man was invisible, continuing his nervous commentary as he retrieved keys from a wall hook and unlocked the door.
Since it was mid-morning, the shed stood empty, all tools already distributed to the work crews.
Roy walked in circles for a moment before the obvious struck him. "Oh. Maybe you should come back after the shift ends?"
Theodore held up a hand, stopping Bernie and Sam from responding. He studied Roy for a moment, then shook his head. "That won't be necessary."
He picked up a toolset from a corner pile. "This will do. Could you have someone prepare some mud for us?"
Roy blinked. "Mud?"
Theodore nodded and walked past him out of the shed.
Roy's authority was evident, he quickly summoned two workers to mix wet clay to the proper consistency. Theodore methodically tested each tool against the makeshift target, striking the mud with measured force.
Soon, familiar marks appeared in the clay surface.
Theodore examined the tool in his hand: a pipe wrench.
Bernie and Sam crowded closer to look. Theodore handed them the wrench and gestured for them to try it themselves, to feel the weight and balance.
Before either could get excited about their discovery, Theodore borrowed pipe wrenches from two different workers and created identical marks in fresh clay.
Three perfect V-shaped indentations lay side by side in the mud, mocking their hopes for a breakthrough.
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