Chapter 39

It’s a girl, Arrested for abuse, death, the letter, and my release from jail.

On a rainy day in September, Catherine Colleen Stevens arrived in our lives, kicking and screaming. Liz was unable to produce milk, so we fed her formula. Once we got our baby home, Liz began working out at a local gym while my mom watched her. Liz’s mood, well, it went downhill fast. She appeared to be going through Post-Partum Depression that started when she got home from the hospital. She barely spoke to me at all, and when I got home, she put the baby in my hands and went to bed. I was delighted and didn’t mind feeding, changing, and bathing my little bundle of joy.

After about three weeks, Liz stopped going to bed, and I thought she was working her way out of her depression, but she started sniping at me, making smart-ass remarks about spoiling the baby and ignoring her. So I got a babysitter, my momma, for the following Saturday night and took Liz out for dinner and dancing. That evening ended early because Liz flirted with every man who spoke to her, ring or no ring, and on the drive home, Liz was screaming at me, accusing me of trying to embarrass her because she was fat. I watched her weigh herself when she was dressing, and she was only five pounds over her pre-pregnancy weight, and I couldn’t tell where it was hiding.

Then, in November, her mood reversed one hundred and eighty degrees, and for three weeks, Liz was happy and loving and would hardly let me touch my baby at all. At night, our sex life was rekindled, and we were in love again.

Then the fourth week arrived, and after the second day of that week, I left home early, worked late, and even went in on Saturday. Liz acted like a raving lunatic when we were alone and sweet and loving when in the presence of others. I thought she was having an awful period, and when she became loving again, that convinced me that it had something to do with her period.

Three weeks of a loving and happy Liz and one week with the ‘wicked witch of the west’ happen twice more until the witch came to stay in late January. On Christmas Day at mom’s house, she was reticent, and later in the day, I tried to talk to my mom about Liz’s moods, and Mom was very cold to me.

I thought I had already seen the worst, but February and March almost convinced me to buy a gun and go into the mountains and end it all. Liz made me sleep in the guest bedroom, cut me off from sex with her, and said maybe ten words a day to me. Every Wednesday, as I walked through the door, Liz handed me Cat, and decked out in a slut costume, jumped in the Corvette she made me buy her and went partying with her two friends, the strippers.

Now how did I know that? Because Liz once told me the girls were off on Wednesdays.

I confronted her in late March, and that went south after I asked for a divorce. I offered her the house and everything I had in the bank, and she laughed in my face. Liz told me if I tried, I’d never see Cat again. She informed me about her new friends with police records who would slit my throat for a night of sex. I never said that word to her again.

I was seriously depressed by now, and people at work were noticing, including Dad and Uncle Bob. On the other hand, Mom barely spoke to me at all, while she and Liz were thick as thieves together.

Everything came to a head on a rainy Friday night in mid-April.

I worked late again, and it had been dark for an hour when I pulled into my driveway. I was not looking forward to another weekend of screaming and yelling. As I got out of my car, I noticed a police car parked in front of my house. Good old observant Marty, I didn’t see it sitting there when I parked.

As I walked into our mudroom leading into the kitchen, I heard voices coming from the living room. I hung up my coat, walked in, and saw Liz sitting on the couch, holding the baby while two police officers from the city of Greenville stood next to her.

“What’s going on? Why are the police here, Liz?”

The officers turned to face me, a female Sgt. to my left and a young man to my right.

“Is this your husband, Mrs. Stevens?”

“Yes, that’s him. He’s the one who hit me.”

Time stopped for me, and as Liz turned her head to address the Sergeant, I could see a bruise on her left cheek. The two officers stepped toward me, and the one to my right said something as they pulled my hands behind my back and handcuffed me. I became a little more aware of my surroundings when the police car hit a pothole in the road, and I realized I was handcuffed.

They pulled me out of the back seat and walked me into the police station, stopping at a counter with an open glass window. They emptied my pockets, laying everything on the counter in front of me, and a deep voice spoke slowly, “ISSS THISSS ALLLL OFFF YOURRR BEEELONGGGINGSSS?”

I just stood there in a daze until they marched me into a room with a plaque on the door that read ‘INTERROGATION 1.’ The officer put me in a chair, uncuffed me, and handcuffed me to cuffs attached to a metal ring bolted to a metal table. Then they left me alone.

‘Yes, that’s him. He’s the one who hit me.’ That’s what Liz said, and she had a bruise on her cheek. But it wasn’t there when I went to work, and I was at work all day, and I know I was at work because we had meetings and phone calls, and Carmen knows I was there late.

‘He’s the one who hit me.’ Why did my wife tell the police I hit her?

Eventually, I got tired of thinking and just stared at the light switch on the wall. At some point, minutes or hours later, the door opened, and a guy in a suit came in with a uniformed officer and started talking.

“My name is Detective Toler, and you’re under arrest for Domestic Violence. You have wah, wah, wah.”

I think he read me my rights, but I needed to know when did I hit her?

“When did this violence take place; what time today? She was fine when I left for work this morning, and the police officers were in the house when I got home at eight.”

“Your wife called 911 at 7:05 and told the dispatcher that you hit her and left, less than five minutes before she called. Now, why don’t you write a confession, and we can get you bonded out in time to get a hotel room?”

“I was still at work until seven thirty-five and was with two other employees in my office.”

I gave him both names and their cell numbers, and he left me alone with the officer. Fifteen minutes later, he returned with an angry look on his face. “No answer from either of them, smart ass. Now quit wasting my time and write a confession, and we can both get out of here.”

I just stared at him because I knew that sooner or later, they would talk to Carmen and Viktor. “I am exercising my right to remain silent. I do not want an attorney because I never hit my wife, and the safest place for me to be is locked up in the police station.”

He started yelling and banging his fist on the table, and I just stared at him. I guess he got tired, and he left. Shortly after that, two more guys in suits came and sat down facing me. The older guy on my left started talking loudly while the younger guy had a legal pad in front of him.

“My name is Lieut. Collier, and this is Detective Franks, Mr. Stevens.”

“Call me Marty.”

“You invoked your right to not speak to us but didn’t want a lawyer. Would you like to tell me what’s happening in your life?”

And since he asked nicely, I signed the waiver and told him about my day, working late with Carmen and Viktor, coming home to find the police in my living room, and hearing my wife accuse me of hitting her. Then I told the Lieutenant about my wife and her moods since my baby was born, and the detective stayed busy writing things down. I gave them the names and numbers for my alibi and my parents’ information. Then I answered why I would be safer locked in jail than free in a hotel room.

“Lieutenant, I finally realized that all of the evil Liz episodes that happened in my life could have been attempts to get me to blow up and hit her. I’m worth a lot of money, and she’s a beautiful woman. Maybe I am just a mark for a con woman.” I didn’t believe a word I said.

After taking my belt and shoes, they put me in a cell, and I laid down and went to sleep.

I woke up because a worker with a cart came by and handed me a breakfast tray. I took it and looked at my breakfast; runny scrambled eggs, soggy potatoes, two pieces of brittle bacon, two slices of burnt toast without butter, and a juice box. I was so hungry I ate everything, and it was better than most of Liz’s meals lately. Later that afternoon, after a PBJ lunch, I was taken back to the interrogation room, where Lieut. Collier and the detective were waiting.

“Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer?”

“I’m sure.”

“We still haven’t been able to reach your two coworkers, but your neighbors have described some of the loud arguments you and your wife have had. So what’s up with your mother? She talks about you like you’re an ax murderer, but your dad talks about you like you can walk on water.”

I explained to the Lieutenant what I had been going through the last year and a half. They put me back in the same cell, and I ate meatloaf and mashed potatoes before sleeping again.

The next day was the same, Sunday, I think, except the only visitors I had were the people bringing meals.

Monday, just before lunch was served, I was led out of my cell, except this time, I wasn’t handcuffed, and the officer took me to an office belonging to Lieut. Collier. He apologized for holding me for two and a half days until they finished taking statements from everyone.

“I’m sorry it took so long getting to the bottom of this, but your wife had a lot of accusations, and except for your mother, no one else could corroborate your wife’s story. I talked to Viktor and Carmen this morning, and they confirmed what time you left work Friday night. Both of them had gone out of town Friday night and left their work cell phones at home.”

“Your wife lied to us, bringing up previous injuries for which she had to seek treatment at different emergency rooms. We couldn’t find any record of her visiting the three local emergency rooms or any within fifty miles. You’re free to go, Marty. Two of my uniforms will drive you home because I want them to bring your wife in so we can have a chat.”

So I rode home in the backseat of the police car, but this time my hands were in my lap. When I opened the door, the sound of little Catherine crying her lungs out in her bedroom upstairs echoed around the house. I took the steps two at a time as I raced up the staircase, followed closely by the officers. My baby girl was standing up in her crib, and judging by the smell from her room, she had a full diaper. I picked her up and took her to the changing table.

“Shush, my little Cat. Daddy’s here. Yes, Daddy knows his girls’ upset.”

“Sir, is it all right if we check the house,” asked the male police officer?

“Sure,” I answered as I peeled her Cinderella PJs off so I could change her stinky diaper. She stopped crying and was trying to pick my nose as I peeled the diaper off. It was so full it looked like she had pooped twice, which meant, oh my god, where was Liz?

I used a half dozen wipes to clean her up, and saw diaper rash all around her front and back. I put a thick covering of Desitin on and cleaned my hands with a wipe before putting a diaper on her. Dressing her in my favorite yellow dress, I carried her through her doorway, intending to go downstairs to the kitchen.

“Sir. This door is locked. Do you have a key?”

“That’s the master suite; my key’s in my car, but the spare key is taped to the underside of the table drawer.” I pointed at the half table against the wall.

The female police officer I spoke to, Sergeant Miller, pulled the drawer out and found the key. I smelled something harsh and smoky when she unlocked and opened the bedroom door.

“Mr. Stevens, stay in the hallway.” That was the male cop speaking, Officer Jacobs, as they both pulled their weapons and entered my bedroom.

I didn’t follow them in; I moved over to see the bed. Officer Jacobs went into my walk-in closet on the right. Sergeant Miller was kneeling, looking at something on the floor on Liz’s side of the bed. I couldn’t see what she was looking at without going in. She stood up as Jacobs came out of Liz’s walk-in. They spoke quietly, and Officer Jacobs came out and guided me downstairs. I heard Miller talking, and she said something that sounded like 10-55 or 10-56, but I could be wrong.

When I got to the kitchen, I warmed a bottle of formula for my little Cat and carried her into the living room to feed. She had drunk about half her bottle when two men in suits came through the front door and went upstairs. She finished her bottle with a smile and gave me a couple of loud burps before I leaned back and rocked her gently in my arms.

Where was Liz? How could she go off and leave our baby all alone? I felt so tired. Maybe Mom would talk to me and come over. I went to the house phone and called Mom.

“Hello, Liz.”

“No, mom, it’s me, Marty. Liz isn’t here, and the police haven’t found her yet. Do you think you can come over and help me with Cat? Liz left her all alone.”

“How did you get out of jail?”

“Momma, they let me out because I didn’t do anything, and I had...” And I stopped talking when an ambulance gurney came through the front door and was carried upstairs by two EMTs, followed by a man carrying a doctor’s bag.

I started crying because I guessed what the police officers were looking at on the floor beside her bed.

“Momma, they carried in a stretcher and took it upstairs. Something terrible has happened, momma. Please come over.”

“We’ll be right over,” but she still sounded cold toward me.

I set the phone down and walked to the bottom of the stairs, looking up and seeing the stretcher and the two EMTs standing outside our bedroom. I looked outside through the open doorway and saw several police cars with lights on. I walked out onto the porch, and it was much worse than I thought. There were six police cars with lights flashing, an ambulance, and a van labeled medical examiner. Two officers were hanging yellow crime tape around the house, and another led a K9 dog toward my backyard.

I stumbled back inside and sat in my wooden rocking chair, trying to deny what I knew to be the truth. Someone was dead upstairs, and it had to be Liz. I don’t know how much time passed as I stared at the front entry before the stretcher came back down. A body was inside a sealed bag with a zipper, but I couldn’t see a face. I jumped up, clutching Cat tight, and staggered toward the entryway only to be stopped by Sergeant Miller.