He Said, He Said

HE SAID, HE SAID

Detective Terry Waits stood in front of the two monitors. Jordan Vance was in interview room one, and Zane McAllister was in interview room two. They’d both been found covered in blood, laying in an alley, dazed and bruised. EMTs had transported them—separately—to the hospital. After a few stitches, one head lac that had to be stapled together, and a couple of bruised ribs, they had been discharged and brought to the station by the cops who were first on the scene. Now they were sitting in her interview rooms, waiting to be interviewed.

What she didn’t know was why these two bozos were causing such a ruckus that the police had received three nine-one-one calls about a disturbance in the alley where the two men had been found.

Waits sighed. These were her least favourite cases—he said-he said, no cameras, no witnesses, no clear forensics—they were both beaten up pretty badly, both had physical signs that they had been fighting—scraped knuckles, bruises. Jordan Wilkes had a whooper of a black eye blooming on his face, a patch of hair had been shaved near the crown of his head, and Waits could see a bright white square of gauze covering the injury. Zane Carey had a split lip that was still oozing blood, and an angry looking knot on his chin. But there was nothing that clarified the story. One piece of wood and one switchblade knife had been found at the scene. She was waiting for forensics to identify any fingerprints on the weapons. Both men had been read their rights, and both had refused legal representation. In fact, Zane McAllister was a lawyer, and had decided that he was going to represent himself. What was that saying? A lawyer who represents himself had an ass for a client? Something like that.

She watched the monitors as Jordan Wilkes fidgeted, looking around. Zane McAllister, on the other hand, was leaning back on his chair, legs extended, like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

She sighed, and headed into interview room one.  

Jordan Wilkes

“I have no idea why I’m here. I didn’t do anything. I’m a victim. Zane just went crazy and attacked me!” Jordan Wilkes said emphatically, as soon as the detective entered the room. He didn’t like the way she just looked at him calmly. She should be uncuffing him and arresting Zane!  

She sat down, took out her notebook, identified herself and Jordan to the room. Then she looked at him, still calm, and spoke. “So, Mr. Vance, you know Zane McAllister?”

“Yeah. I do. He’s my step-brother. Why is that important? It shouldn’t matter whether or not we know each other.” He paused and looked at Waits. “Zane tried to kill me! He’s a menace and should be arrested!” he said, slapping his hands on the grey metal table. Well, he tried to. His hands were handcuffed, the chain wound through the metal bolt attached to the tabletop, so basically, all he could do was slap his fingers down. Less effective, yes, but he had a point to make.

“Mr Vance, what happened between you and Zane McAllister? How did the two of you end up bloody and bruised in that alley?” she asked, her face devoid of any emotion.  

Jordan didn’t like the way she was looking at him—like he was a child. He sighed dramatically. “Why aren’t you listening to me? Zane attacked me! He did this to me! He tried to kill me! He’s the criminal, not me!” 

“So, tell me what happened,” said Waits.

Vance shook his head and tried to raise his hands which caught on the steel bolt, preventing him from raising them more than a couple of inches. A look of anger crossed his face. “Can you uncuff me?”

Waits looked at him. “No.”

“Why not?”

She sat back in her chair and looked at him. “Well, you’re being held for aggravated assault, which is a violent offence, and you tried to swing at Mr. McAllister when Officer Hope brought you into the station.” She looked at him, again, like he was a child. “You can’t be trusted to not act violently. Cuffing violent offenders is procedure.”

He snarled at her. “I’m going to sue for unlawful restraint.”

Waits sighed audibly. “We are the police. This is what we do, both for your safety and ours. “Now, Mr. Vance, would you care to tell me how you ended up in the alley, covered in blood?”

“Lawyer,” he said.

Terry Waits

Well, that went well, Waits thought while sending off a text to her commander, informing her that Vance just called for a lawyer.  The fact that he was not at all forthcoming made him seem guilty as hell. But Waits knew better than to draw any conclusions before getting all the evidence. Sometimes the fidgety ones were just nervous, not guilty. She headed to interview room two.

Zane McAllister

Zane McAllister watched as Waits introduced herself, read the date and time into the camera, and settled into her chair. “So, Mr. McAllister would you care to tell me why you and Mr. Vance were fighting in the alley?” she asked.

“As you probably know, Jordan and I are half-brothers. We have the same father.”

“Mr. Vance told me you were step-brothers,” said Waits, looking down at her notebook to check.

A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “He says that because he hates that we are actually related by blood. Jordan is older, and his mother re-married after my father divorced her His step-father adopted him. That’s why we have different last names.”

Waits nodded, wrote something down, then looked back up at him. “So, can you tell me what happened in the alley?”

“Our father, Jacob McAllister, died ten days ago—car accident. Today was the reading of the will. I got the lion’s share of the estate, Jordan did not. Dad left him very little.” He looked at Waits. “Jordan was not happy with that outcome.”

She nodded. “Continue.”

“The accident killed both of my parents, Detective,” he said, his voice husky. “My mom and dad had a considerable estate. I was the only child from that union.” He let out an audible breath. “I was the primary beneficiary. Jordan felt that it should have been a fifty-fifty split.”

“Why wasn’t it a fifty-fifty split?” Waits asked him.

“I don’t know? I think Dad was tired of being the one to rescue him financially. Even though Jordan never called or visited Dad, I think Jordan felt that Dad owed him.” He paused. “Jordan was always hitting Dad up for a loan, and according to the lawyer, Mr. Tankiti, none of the loans were ever paid back. Dad kept all the IOUs. It was somewhere north of one hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Dad referenced that in the will. Jordan was pissed. He kept yelling about them being gifts, even though there was paperwork—signed by Jordan—saying otherwise. I got the bulk of the estate—house, cars, insurance, stocks, bank accounts. Jordan got fifty thousand dollars.”

“Can I ask how much your share was?” Waits inquired.

Zane shrugged. “About two-and-a-half million dollars, all in, from both my parents.”

He watched as she wrote that down.

She looked back up at him. “So, the fight was because Jordan felt the will wasn’t fair?”

Zane nodded. “After the reading, we left. I was parked behind Mr. Tankiti’s office.  Jordan followed me into the alley, yelling that I owed him. He picked up a two-by-four, and started swinging. Got me in the shoulder.” He wiggled his shoulder up and down and grimaced. “He tried to hit me again, so I kicked him, and he dropped the board. Then he started punching me. Got me in the chin. I punched him in the face. Then he pulled a knife out of his pocket. I think it was a switchblade or a flick knife. Anyway, he charged me with the knife.” He stopped and looked at Waits again. “Detective, I’m seven years younger than Jordan, and I’m faster. But when I saw that knife, I was afraid. I could see that Jordan really wanted to kill me. I picked up the board he whacked me with, and swung for the fences. I hit his knife hand, and he spun around and smashed his head on the side of a dumpster. There was blood everywhere. He tackled me, and I fell backwards and smacked my head on the ground. That’s when the police arrived.”

“Mr. McAllister, do you truly believe that your half-brother was trying to kill you in that alley?”

“Yes,” he said. “And I believe that he had something to do with the death of my parents.”

Terry Waits

Well, that was interesting.. She sighed and looked back at the two monitors. Jordan Vance’s lawyer had not arrived yet. She walked towards interview room one, turned the handle and walked in.

 Jordan Vance

Jordan Vance watched as the detective walked into the room. His face hardened. “I said lawyer. I’m not talking to you until he arrives.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Waits smiled at him. “That’s okay. I’ll do all the talking.” He watched her. She didn’t sit, she just stood, placing her hands on the table, leaning in. “I just spoke with your half-brother, Zane. He said you started the fight—that you hit him with a board, and pulled a knife. He said that he feared for his life. Tell your lawyer that the charges are going to be upgraded to attempted murder.” She turned to leave.

He tried to stand, but the restraints pulled at his arms.. “Stop! That’s bullshit! Wait!” he screamed, eyes bulging.

Waits stopped and turned to face him. “I can’t talk to you. You asked for a lawyer.”

“I recant. I want to tell you what happened! He plopped back down in his chair.

He watched at Waits turned and walked back to the table. “Okay, talk.”

He told her about the reading of the will, the outstanding IOUs, the fifty grand bequeathment, about how angry he was. He admitted that yes, he had followed Zane into the alley, and yes, he was mad. But he said that Zane taunted him.

“He called me a loser, and said that Dad never loved me, and that I was a disappointment. The bastard said that he was going to sue to get the money that Dad gifted me back, that he’d garnish my wages.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head. “I am not the fancy lawyer that Zane is. I don’t have the beautiful life, with the beautiful wife and the beautiful kids. I’m just a guy trying to get by. I’m a mechanic, and I have my own shop. That’s why I asked Dad for the money—so that I could open my own shop.” He sucked in a big breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, I resented Zane. He got a version of Dad that I never got—a patient, supportive Dad.” He looked at Waits, imploringly. “Who wouldn’t be jealous? His mom was a great mom. She was always nice to me. My mom, not so much.” Another head shake. “Anyway, he started pushing my buttons, and I snapped. I grabbed the board and went after him.” He looked embarrassed. “But he kicked the board out of my hand.” He held up the hand Zane had kicked, bandaged in a tensor wrap.

“Did you pull a knife on him?”

He looked ashamed. “I did, but only because he said he was going to kill me. He had the board, and was aiming for my head. I thought I was a dead man.” He stopped and looked up at the camera, then back at Waits. “Detective, I think he killed Dad and Emily his mom. I think he messed around with their car to make it look like I did it. And I think that’s why he wanted to kill me—because I know.”  

 Terry Waits

Well, shit.  

She was back out in the hall, looking at the two monitors. Her simple aggravated assault case had blossomed into attempted murder, and two first-degree murder cases if there was evidence that Zane’s parents’ car had been tampered with.  

She hated he said-he said cases.