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She points to a bank of computers to the left with a sign over them "Public Data Base Access" without even looking up. There is a well worn laminated sheet next to each computer with instruction on how to access the data base.
Frank looks it over and begins to peck the keyboard. Long gone are the days of a "skirt" going and pulling the file for you.
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Standards are dropping everywhere,Frank lamented silently as he was pointed toward the Public Area. Used to be, I'd show the lady my badge, she'd be happy to get my damn files. But no badge, not anymore. He knows how to operate a computer, of course, but he'd much rather not. The force had assigned him younger partners as the world went digital, or whatever the hell they call it. They'd taken care of this sort of thing while he taught them the finer points of detecting, such as the various methods available to the discerning officer who wishes to beat the confession from a known rapist without allowing any tell-tale bruising. Sure, it didn't stick, but Lord Almighty, the truth is the sweetest sound of all, even if it's being whimpered by a coward and sodomite.
He sighs as he reads the simple instructions next to the computer thoroughly, then remembers that the only reason he's doing this now, is that he was remiss in his duty before. His resolve renewed, he settles to his task, looking into Mr. Wright's family, his properties, and information regarding the home itself...
Use Database
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Frank finds the information with not much difficulty. It's not like it's classified or encrypted or anything. He finds only one entry that hits even close to the mark. The person he finds is an Ex-Mrs. Wright, a former spouse of the deceased.
Name: Tamara Owens A.K.A Tamara Wright A.K.A. Tamara Simmons
D.O.B: 5-20-1961
Status: Married - Samuel Owens
SSN: xxx-xx-xxxx
Residence: 336 Burton Street, Carson City, NV 89706
Known Phone Numbers: xxx-xxx-xxxx
Carson City. Capitol of Nevada. The Silver State. It was a solid two and a half hour drive through the desert and around Lake Tahoe.
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Frank copies the former Mrs. Wright's information into his notepad, feeling pleased with himself for wrangling what he needed to know from the cold grip of modern technology. Fifteen years ago, I woulda just told Carleen what I needed to know, and she'd have brought me the files AND made me a cup of joe while I waited. Progress, my wrinkled white ass.
He pushes his chair away from the station and leaves the building without further delay. He's looking forward to a drive down across the desert; Sacramento's polluted air and high humidity are uncomfortable for old bones like Frank's.
He gets in the old Dodge and removes his cell-phone from his jacket. The oversize buttons and large, bold type are distinctive of models made for the elderly. It had been a over-the-hill gag from his protege', Detective Angelos, but Frank had taken it seriously, thanked Angelos, and promptly recycled his old phone.
As enthusiastic as he was to hit the road, it would be a helluva drive if it turned out the former Mrs. Wright, now Mrs. Owens, wasn't home, or had moved again, or simply wouldn't talk to him. He consulted his notepad and dialed her number, and as the phone rang, he considered whether he'd try honesty again, or if misrepresenting himself was more likely to get him in the door...
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The line picks up. At first Frank can hear nothing but rustling, and then - "...bababa WaaaaIIII *giggle* Ablawhawhablaaaa"
He hears footsteps in the background, then faintly "Gina NO! Get mommy's phone out of your mouth."
Some more rustling, and Frank can only assume the receiver is being wiped off. Then a woman's voice comes over the line "Hello?"
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It'll have to be the truth, because I may not get information relevant to his death otherwise, he finally decides.
Frank sighed as he listened to the infant playing secretary. He and Marge had no children, because she had had an operation when she was young that resulted in a barren womb. They talked about adoption, but with the dangers of his job....
From time to time, he'd find catalogs for baby clothes and furniture tucked into drawers or buried in piles of his auto and gun magazines, and his heart would break for the woman who meant so much to him...
..."Oh, hello. Is this Mrs. Tamara Owens? My name is Frank Rizzo. I am the detective who worked Bill Wright's, your ex-husband's, case. Please accept my condolences. The timing was unfortunate, with 9/11 going on, and I believe this was closed prematurely. Would you be willing to meet with me so I can ask you some questions about Mr. Wright?"
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The line is quiet for a moment, then the woman sighs "This is Tamara Owens. I was married to Bill, but we divorced two years before he got himself killed in that stupid washing machine. Look, I've got two kids to look after and my husband is worthless. I really don't have the time to be meeting you anywhere. I don't really know what else I can tell you about Bill, anyway." She doesn't seem to want to cooperate. Nothing new for Frank.
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No one ever wants to talk to the police, given the choice, least of all one without a badge, Frank thinks glumly, but she hasn't actually said 'no' yet. Worthless husband, hmm? His pension isn't much, but he's starting to feel desperate. There was something about this particular case that bothered him for reasons he couldn't fully articulate, and he knew that the sleepless nights wouldn't end just because no one would talk to him...
"Listen, I can understand that you're very busy, and this is ancient history for you," he says sympathetically. "So I'm willing to pay you for your time. Tamara, I'm telling you that I've come to believe that this was no accident. Please, help me find out what really happened to Bill. Just sit and talk with me for an hour, and I'll pay you two hundred dollars. That's a lot of money just to answer some questions."
C'mon...
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The line is silent, then Tamara sighs again - more deeply this time. Finally she says "Oh, alright. For Bill. I live at..." she goes on to give the same address that Frank had found in the records. "How does tomorrow afternoon sound? My oldest will be home and she can watch the baby while we talk."
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"Thank you very much, Tamara, tomorrow afternoon sounds fine. I'll call when I arrive in town." He wants to ask her to get together any of Bill's effects she might have received, but doesn't want to push his luck. He'll wait until they're face to face, and it'll be harder for her to say no.
Still, plenty for me to check on here before I have to hit the road. He knows he's going to have to stop in at the precinct and ask Bobby to check out to let him run the guy's credit card, bank statements, phone records...Wife said they'd been divorced for two years before his murder. What was he doing in between, and who was he doing it with?
Before the station, though...Frank thinks of another, small angle he can check out. Frank fires up that cranky old Dodge engine and drives to the library. Maybe Frank was wrong, and sensible ol' Mr. Wright had simply taken out a Guinness World of Records book and decided to try some crazy stunt. If only. That reminds me...I have to ask Tamara who Bill's doctor was, and his medical history.
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