For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,57
Beckwirth Investments, identified his wife’s body late last night.
Madlyn Beckwirth had been missing since last Monday, when her husband filed a report with Midland Heights Police Chief Barry Dutton. An investigation into the disappearance by Detective Gerald Westbrook had proved fruitless until yesterday, when a Press-Tribune reporter received a phone call from Mrs. Beckwirth and traced her to Bally’s Casino Hotel in Atlantic City.
There is still no explanation for Madlyn Beckwirth’s disappearance, and no arrest was made in connection with her murder. Her husband was questioned last night, but was not held or charged.
“When a woman is killed, the first logical suspect, given no obvious outside motive, is the husband,” Dutton said last night. He added, however, that he knew of no evidence tying Gary Beckwirth to his wife’s death.
Prior to her disappearance, Madlyn Beckwirth had been receiving threatening phone calls tied to the mayoral campaign, according to Rachel Barlow.
Questioned about her disappearance yesterday hours before her body was discovered, Madlyn Beckwirth said only that she was “fine,” and would “be back in a few days.
“This really isn’t a big deal,” she said.
Gary and Madlyn Beckwirth have a son, Joel, who is 14. According to Milton Ladowski, the Beckwirth family attorney, the investigation into Madlyn’s murder will be conducted by New Jersey State Troopers, the Atlantic County Prosecutor’s Office, and the Midland Heights police.
The story went on to detail the political infighting in Midland Heights and the tension between Barlow and Olszowy, strictly because the night editor had asked me to include it. I thought the odds that Madlyn Beckwirth had been killed because of the mayor’s race in Midland Heights to be awfully long.
Of course, I had also thought Madlyn was a simple runaway wife who’d charge up the credit cards and be back in a few days. What I thought didn’t seem terribly relevant right at the moment.
The next morning, I got the kids out to school and myself out of the house as quickly as I could, successfully avoiding the inevitable phone call that would result when Milt Ladowski, the morning paper in hand, choked on his egg white omelet and decaffeinated coffee. I walked over to police headquarters and Marsha immediately pointed me toward Barry’s office.
“He’s in there,” she said. “He’s not happy.”
“You think I should have brought donuts?” I asked.
She shook her head. “You could bring the whole Drake’s bakery in there today,” she said. “Wouldn’t help you.”
I took a deep breath and knocked on Barry’s door. The guttural grunt from within indicated that I should enter, and against my better judgment, I did.
The first thing I saw in the office was the Press-Tribune on Dutton’s desk. It was turned to the inside page that my story on Madlyn had jumped to. Barry, reading half-glasses in his hand, was behind the desk, doing an imitation of a college professor in the body of an angry grizzly bear. His eyes were wide, and his hands were clenched. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him chewing through a two-by-four.
Westbrook, modeling the latest from the Andy Sipowicz Collection, sat to the left of the door. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the vestiges of a shit-eating grin on his face. He looked at me when I opened the door, but didn’t say anything. Barry barely got “shut the door” through his clenched teeth. I did as he said. I would have liked to have shut the door from the outside, but that didn’t appear to be an option.
I immediately saw a woman sitting on the table behind the door. She was in her thirties, attractive, and dressed in a very conservative suit—the kind Abigail wears to her office. Had to be from the county prosecutor’s office.
“Barry. . .” I started, but he shook his head vigorously and pointed toward the other chair in front of his desk.
“You don’t get to talk right now,” Dutton said slowly. “Right now, I get to talk.”
I nodded and sat.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing,” Dutton began, “printing information about an ongoing investigation in the newspaper?”
“I’m a reporter. . .” I began, but Barry shook his head again.
“I said I get to talk now,” he said more forcefully. “Not you. Aaron, I’m always open to you, and I don’t play the kind of games other cops do with the press. You know that.”