Silent House, page 7
"Found it on social media," Finn explained, still focused on the picture. "It's the most recent one I could find." He seemed restless, his fingers tapping rapidly on the phone screen.
"Alright, got it," Sheila said, committing Dell's features to memory. She glanced at Finn, who continued to fidget with his phone even after putting it away. His jaw was clenched, and he kept stealing glances at the entrance of the bar.
"Something wrong?" she asked, concerned.
Finn shook his head, forcing himself to look relaxed. "No, everything's fine."
Sheila wasn't convinced but decided not to push him. Instead, she turned her attention back to the task at hand. Whatever was bothering Finn, they needed to find Dell Dempster first.
With Dell's face etched into her mind, they exited the car and approached the bar. Inside, they would question the suspect and hopefully find a lead in the Hubbard family murder case.
"Ready?" she asked Finn, who seemed even more on edge than before.
"Sure," he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
As Sheila reached for the door handle, Finn hesitated, his hand hovering above his sidearm. She looked at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation.
"Look, I made a promise to myself not to go into a bar again," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
"Why?" Sheila asked. Even as she asked the question, however, she knew the answer was obvious. There was only one reason a man like Finn would make a decision like that.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's complicated, okay? It's...not easy to talk about. Suffice it to say that I try to stay away from places where the liquor is flowing freely."
Sheila knew better than to push him further. She could sense the pain he was trying to hide, and it wasn't her place to pry. Instead, she said, "You really don't have to do this, you know. I can handle Dell alone."
"No," Finn insisted, his jaw clenched. "I'm not letting you face a dangerous suspect by yourself. I can do this."
"Alright," Sheila said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Just focus on why we're here. We'll get in, talk to Dell, and get out. Okay?"
He nodded. "Okay."
As they stepped through the door, the atmosphere inside the bar enveloped them. The smell of stale smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scent of beer-soaked wood. A few patrons slumped over their drinks, their faces barely visible under the dim lights. A jukebox in the corner played a slow country tune, giving the room a melancholy feel.
Finn's eyes darted around the room, avoiding the rows of liquor bottles that lined the shelves behind the counter. He swallowed hard, his breathing shallow. Sheila could see the strain in his posture but also the steely determination not to give in to temptation.
"Hey there," the bartender called out, a forced smile on his face as his gaze lingered on Finn's crisp uniform. "What can I get you two?"
"Nothing for me," Finn replied a bit too quickly, glancing away.
The bartender raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough. No drinking on the job, am I right?" He chuckled a little too forcefully.
"Thanks," Sheila said. "We're actually just looking for someone." She glanced around the room, her gaze seeking out the man from the picture on Finn's phone.
"Best of luck to you," the bartender said with a tight smile, turning his attention back to wiping down the counter.
Sheila scanned the dimly lit bar, taking in the motley assortment of patrons nursing their drinks in the early afternoon. A flicker of movement near the back caught her attention, and she spotted a group of men huddled around a corner table. There, at the center of the raucous laughter, sat a man who matched the image of Dell Dempster from Finn's phone. His unkempt beard and greasy hair framed a flushed face, his eyes glazed over with intoxication.
The men surrounding him were a mix of rough-looking characters—some sporting tattoos that snaked up their arms, others with scruffy beards and worn clothing. It was evident that this wasn't their first round of drinks, given the collection of empty glasses scattered across the table and the boisterous atmosphere they'd created.
"Looks like we found our guy," Sheila whispered to Finn as she subtly gestured toward the table. Finn nodded, casting a wary glance at the group before steeling himself for the confrontation.
As they made their way toward Dell, it became apparent that he was in the middle of slurring out a joke, his words barely coherent. "So, this guy walks into a bar with a set of jumper cables around his neck…" His friends chuckled, anticipating the punchline even as Dell struggled to deliver it.
Finn interrupted before Dell could finish, causing the laughter to die down and all eyes to turn toward them. "Excuse me, are you Dell Dempster?"
Dell squinted at Finn and Sheila, a puzzled expression on his face. "Yeah, I'm Dell. Who're you? What do you want?" He took a swig from his beer, not bothering to hide his irritation at being interrupted. "I'm just having a drink with my friends here, not harming anybody."
Finn's gaze darted between Dell and the empty glasses strewn about the table. "Seems like you're having more than just 'a drink,' don't you think?" he remarked, his tone dripping with disdain.
Sheila could see the tension in Finn's posture and knew that being surrounded by so much alcohol was taking its toll on him. She also knew they needed to keep their focus on Dell and get the information they came for before things spiraled out of control.
"Look, we're not here to cause any trouble," she said, attempting to placate Dell. "We just need to ask you a few questions, and then we'll be on our way."
Dell ignored her, however, and stood up, swaying slightly as he drunkenly told Finn, "Listen, buddy, I have the right to drink as much as I damn well please. It's none of your business."
Finn's eyes narrowed, but he didn't back down. "What's got you drinking so much? Guilty conscience?"
One of Dell's buddies, a burly man with a scruffy beard, took offense at Finn's words. He got up from his seat and shoved Finn hard in the chest. "You can't come in here and harass us for no reason!" he snarled.
Finn stumbled backward but quickly regained his balance, shoving the man back with equal force. "Back off," he growled, his eyes flashing with anger.
At that moment, Dell and his other friends rose from their seats and attacked Finn and Sheila. Sheila's instincts kicked in as she ducked, narrowly avoiding a glass bottle swung at her head by another one of Dell's friends. She delivered a swift punch to the man's gut, followed by an uppercut to his chin. He staggered back, surprise etched on his face, before she landed a final roundhouse kick to the side of his head. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Sheila's eyes darted from the fallen man to Dell, who was taking advantage of Finn's momentary distraction to land several punches on him. One of Dell's buddies had a firm grip on Finn from behind, making it impossible for him to defend himself effectively.
"Enough!" Sheila shouted, her voice filled with authority and determination. She charged at Dell. As she reached the drunken perpetrator, she threw a powerful right hook that connected with Dell's jaw, snapping his head back and causing him to stumble.
Finn used the opportunity to drive his elbow into the gut of the man holding him, forcing the air out of his lungs and loosening his grip. He spun around, delivering a solid punch to the man's face and sending him reeling backward.
In the meantime, Sheila continued her relentless assault on Dell. She landed a swift knee to his midsection, causing him to double over in pain. With Dell hunched over, Sheila executed a perfect roundhouse kick aimed at his temple. Her foot connected with a resounding thud, and Dell crumpled to the ground, dazed.
Finn, having subdued his attacker, joined Sheila as they stood above the barely conscious Dell. Their chests heaved with exertion, adrenaline coursing through them both.
"Alright, Dell," Sheila panted, kneeling down next to him. "You're under arrest." She pulled out a pair of handcuffs and began to secure them around Dell's wrists.
"Wait, what?" Dell slurred, his eyes struggling to focus on Sheila. "I never even met the Hubbards!"
Finn's voice was cold and unyielding. "We never mentioned the Hubbards. So what makes you think they're the reason we're here?"
CHAPTER TEN
Sheila handed Finn an ice pack, which he pressed to his bruised jaw with a wince. "You okay?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
"Fine," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Looks like you bruised your knuckles pretty badly."
She shrugged. "Better bruised knuckles than a bruised face."
They were in the sheriff's department break room, a cramped space filled with the aroma of stale coffee and the hum of an ancient vending machine. A few mismatched chairs circled a small, worn table where officers took their breaks or ate quick meals between shifts. The overhead fluorescent lights cast an unflattering glow over everything, accentuating the tiredness on Finn's face.
As Sheila studied Finn, she couldn't help but worry for him. She hadn't realized he had a drinking problem, and now she found herself wondering how the incident at the bar had affected him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked cautiously, unsure how to broach the subject. "What happened at the bar, I mean?"
He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. "We need to focus on the investigation," he said. "Dell's waiting for us."
Sheila knew Finn was deflecting, but she didn't want to push him too far. Instead, she nodded and followed him out of the break room, hoping that at some point he would trust her enough to open up about his demons.
As they entered the interview room, the first thing that struck Sheila was the pungent smell of alcohol lingering in the air. The small, windowless room was sparsely furnished, with a metal table bolted to the floor and three uncomfortable-looking chairs. One wall was dominated by a large mirror, behind which she knew officers could observe the questioning.
Dell sat slumped in one of the chairs, his unkempt hair hanging over his bloodshot eyes. His face bore several superficial injuries, a mixture of scratches and bruises from the bar fight, and he seemed to be nursing the after-effects of too much alcohol. Despite his disheveled appearance, there was something pitiable about him that tugged at Sheila's heart.
Finn leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as he stared coldly at Dell. The tension was palpable, and Sheila could sense Finn's simmering anger beneath his calm facade. She decided it would be best if she took the lead in the questioning.
Pulling out the business card for Aegis Exterminators, the company Dell worked for, Sheila placed it on the table in front of him. She watched as his bleary eyes struggled to focus on the card. "Do you recognize this?" she asked.
"Of course," Dell slurred, gesturing vaguely at the card. "It's my company."
"Right," Sheila said, nodding. "We found this outside the Hubbard family's house." She paused for a moment, letting the information sink in. "I'd ask if you know who we're talking about, but you already mentioned the Hubbards back at the bar. Tell me, how did you know we were going to ask you about them?"
The dim lighting in the interview room cast a shadow over Dell's bruised face, making him look even more haggard and beaten than he already was. Sheila could see him wince as he shifted in his chair, nursing the various scrapes and cuts that littered his body. The stifling air was heavy with the smell of alcohol, an unpleasant reminder of their earlier encounter at the bar.
"Murders like this," Dell said with a dismissive wave of his hand, "they're all over the news. I figured you'd come looking for me sooner or later." His words were slurred, but there was a sharpness to them that caught Sheila's attention.
"Why would we question you about them?" Sheila asked.
Dell hesitated, then finally muttered, "Because I was at their house."
Sheila leaned forward, intrigued. "When?"
"A week ago," Dell replied after a moment's thought, his eyes darting around the room nervously.
"What were you doing there?"
"Roy Hubbard called me," Dell explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "Said they had a termite problem. Real bad one, too—they were eating through the floorboards in the kitchen. He wanted me to spray the whole place down with termite killer before it got any worse."
Sheila glanced over at Finn, who remained silent, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. Turning her gaze back to Dell, she asked, "And did you?"
Dell shook his head. "No, I didn't. Never got the chance to."
Sheila leaned in closer, her eyes focused on Dell's every movement. "What are you talking about?"
Dell rubbed his bruised wrist nervously. "I did a walkthrough to see the extent of the infestation. Then, after a left—well, that was when things got interesting."
Sheila studied him, waiting.
"Okay, so I was leaving the house, right?" Dell began, clearing his throat as he recalled the events. "I got into my car, started it up...and that's when I heard something moving in the back seat."
Sheila watched as Finn uncrossed his arms, intrigued by Dell's story. She could tell that he, too, sensed there was more to this than met the eye.
"Go on," she said.
"Before I knew it, there was a knife pressed against my throat," Dell continued, swallowing hard. "The guy told me not to turn around, and I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. I thought I was done for, you know? Like, I was about to be murdered or something."
"Must've been terrifying," Sheila said, studying him carefully. He seemed to be genuinely upset at the recollection—either that, or he was an exceptional liar.
"Terrifying doesn't even begin to cover it," he admitted, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "But then something weird happened."
"Weirder than having a knife to your throat?" Finn asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Way weirder," Dell said. "The guy tossed a stack of bills onto my lap, just like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "Asked me if I knew what it was for."
"Did you?" Sheila asked, her heart racing at the implications of Dell's story.
"Course not. So he told me. Said he wanted me to tell him about the layout of the Hubbards' house. And I did, 'cause what else was I gonna do with a knife at my throat?"
"And then?" Finn asked, a note of skepticism in his voice.
"Then he said he wanted me to rob the Hubbards," Dell explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "And if I did it, he'd pay me double the money on my lap. I agreed – I would've been an idiot not to – and he just...let me go."
Sheila leaned forward, her eyes locked on Dell's. "So, did you go through with the robbery?"
Dell shifted uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding Sheila's gaze. "No, I didn't," he mumbled. "I went to the house the next night, looked around a bit, and then...I chickened out and left. And I haven't heard from that guy since."
Finn studied Dell for any sign of deceit. "Why didn't you report any of this to the police?" he asked, his voice stern.
"Because," Dell hesitated, swallowing hard. "I was afraid they'd make me give up the money if I told them what happened."
Sheila frowned, but she couldn't deny there was a certain logic to Dell's reasoning. She decided to change the subject. "Where were you last night, Dell?"
"Last night?" He paused, thinking. "I was at my cousin's birthday party. It was over at his place, a few blocks from here."
"Anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?" Finn asked, still skeptical.
"Of course!" Dell replied defensively. "My whole family was there—my cousins, my aunt, my uncle. Even some neighbors dropped by. You can ask any of them. They all saw me there."
"Did you leave the party at any point during the night?"
"Only once," Dell admitted. "I stepped out to grab some ice from the corner store. My cousin ran out of it, and we needed more for the drinks. But I wasn't gone more than twenty minutes, tops."
"Can anyone confirm that?" Sheila asked, her tone softer than Finn’s but no less probing.
"Yeah, uh, the cashier at the store probably remembers me. I'm a regular there. And my cousin—he noticed when I got back with the ice."
Finn uncrossed his arms and exchanged a glance with Sheila. It sounded like a solid alibi—assuming it held up, of course. They'd have to look into it.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Dell," Sheila said, trying to keep her voice steady and calm, even as her heart raced with the implications of everything Dell had just told them. She stood up from her chair and motioned for Finn to follow her out of the interview room.
"Can we talk for a minute?" she asked him once they were alone in the hallway, the door closed behind them. She leaned against the wall.
"Seems like Dell's innocent," Finn said, his brow furrowed in thought. "Assuming his alibi isn't just a load of crap. The more interesting piece is that it appears the killer may have used him to case the Hubbards' house."
Sheila could feel her stomach twisting into knots as she considered what that meant. The killer had been calculating, using someone else to gather information before launching a carefully planned attack on the family. It made her feel sick to think about it—the cold, brutal efficiency of it all. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.
"Whoever did this," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, "they knew exactly what they were doing."
"Right," Finn nodded, his face grim. "I should call Natalie, fill her in on what we've learned."
"Let me do it," Sheila said, her concern for her sister rising to the surface. "I need to check up on her anyway."
"Sure thing. I'll get the numbers of Dell's witnesses, see if they can substantiate his alibi. See you in a few." He re-entered the interview room, closing the door behind him.
Left alone in the dimly lit hallway, Sheila pulled out her phone and dialed Natalie's number, her fingers shaking slightly as she did so. The phone rang and rang.
"Come on, Nat," she whispered, willing her sister to answer. But the call went to voicemail, and Sheila felt a cold dread wash over her. Something was wrong—she could feel it in her bones.
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