Samuels set the phone down, put his feet up on his desk, and reflected on the phone call from Miss Pomeroy. It certainly could be a lead in the case, although Christianson was very much alive at the time of the incident Miss Pomeroy spoke about. But it might certainly be a key in the Afrika Bailey shooting. “Uhm,” Samuels hummed to himself.
“Uhm…what’s that all about?” Marshall asked, coming up behind Samuels. He placed his jacket on the back of his chair and sat down. Samuels remained cool, kept his feet on top of his desk until Marshall stared him down, and then removed them.
“Got an interesting call a moment ago. And you won’t believe what about.”
“Shoot. Give me the four-one-one,” Marshall said.
Samuels gave Marshall the low down just as Miss Pomeroy had told it to him. Marshall’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead when Samuels got to the part about Sheila and Christianson having a fight at her condo and that gunshots were heard.
“Get your coat. We’re going to the campus to interview the lovely Ms. Sheila Atkins. I’m anxious to see how much flirting she’s going to do this time.”
Samuels laughed. “She was a looker.”
“She ain’t the kind of woman that’s gonna look at a white boy; especially you. Even if she did, you wouldn’t get to first base. I can tell Ms. Sheila Atkins the future Ms. Sheila Billops is a feisty one. Back in the day, we’d call her a brick house with nothing but fire and desire.”
“How did you get that welt on your face, Marshall?” Samuels began to laugh again.
“Shut the hell up, Samuels,” Marshall billowed. “It’s none of your business.”
Before Samuels could shoot off another word, Detective Chad Smith bounced into the corridor where Marshall and Samuels stood.
“What is it, Smith?” Marshall asked.
“Ballistics ID’d the prints on the gun found near Christianson’s body.”
“Well, don’t just stand there; tell us who they belong to,” Samuels pushed.
Smith’s nostrils flared and he gave Samuels a don’t work my nerve today look. “There may have been several people who handled the gun. Christianson’s prints were definitely on it. Ballistics was able to get an ID of a fingertip that didn’t belong to Christianson but did belong to Raphael Bailey.”
“Who’s Raphael Bailey?” Samuels asked.
“The father of the kid…the cheerleader that got shot,” Marshall offered. “Smith said earlier that the Bailey woman picked the gun up on the day of the murder. Could be…she showed it to her husband, which would explain his fingerprint on the gun but it doesn’t explain how Victor Christianson’s fingerprints got on it.”
“Yeah, his prints were all over the gun like he had a good grip on it,” Smith continued. “Only thing, the fingerprints were smudged by something—maybe someone was trying to conceal their prints.”
“A third person,” Marshall said. “Thanks, Smith. We’re on our way to question another person of interest who I believe is indirectly linked to this case, and then we’re going to make a visit to see the Baileys.”
“Here’s the address for Mrs. Bailey,” Smith said, handing the paper with the information on it to Marshall. “I’ll keep you posted if anything else comes up.”
“Do that,” Samuels said, getting in the last word.
58
Butterflies flitted about Sheila’s empty stomach, causing it to rumble every two minutes. Police were scattered throughout her section, collecting what they called possible evidence and interviewing members of the administration. They had yet to ask her any more questions, but she was grateful. It might have been that what she offered to the black and white detectives earlier had been enough.
Unable to concentrate on her work, Sheila got up to go use the bathroom but was happy to see Phyllis as she rounded the corner. With the back side of her hand, Phyllis shooed Sheila back to her seat as if she had been sent to deliver a secret message for Sheila’s ears only.
“What’s up?” Sheila asked, her nerves getting the best of her. “I can’t think with all this extra activity going on around here.”
“Girl, they’re questioning everybody about Victor’s behavior in the last few weeks. Hmph, I’ve got nothing to say because I don’t know anything. Not a thing to tell.”
“I keep thinking about what happened at the house. What if he died from one of the bullets I clipped him with?”
“Sheila, you’re going to worry yourself to death. Victor would have been laying on the sidewalk if you had inflicted any bodily harm on him. If I recall, your beautiful walls have now become