It Shouldn't Happen in Coleman

“This was bound to happen,” Jasper Baker said, as he stood over a dead body, scratching his shaved head.  Baker was a police officer who patrolled the streets of Coleman, a tiny town located just 35 miles east of Nashville.

“Why do you say that?” asked Mike Lizanic, a detective assigned to the county prosecutor’s office. Lizanic was an experienced homicide detective with a dozen years under his belt. He was a no- nonsense guy, but he had a well-deserved reputation for being as polite as he was cautious. “You knew this guy?” He sipped the coffee he picked up at the coffee shop near his house. It was lukewarm already. He hated that because a good dose of caffeine in the morning always helped him think clearly. 

“Everybody knew Dean Mincher,” Jasper said. “But nobody liked him, that’s for sure.”

“Is that so?” the detective asked. He squatted down to the body and looked at what was left of the man’s chest. He’d been blasted with a shotgun, no question about it. At first glance, it seemed Mincher had been dead for only a few hours. Lizanic noted that Mincher had a deep scratch on his left arm, maybe a day or two old. “Why didn’t anybody like him?”

“He used to be our mayor, maybe fifteen-twenty years ago. He made a lot of enemies. When he lost his re-election campaign, he got bitter. Of course, he didn’t get but 250 votes, and about 4,000 votes were cast.” Jasper looked around the sparse living room of Mincher’s house. The place hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. A six-foot-high stack of pizza boxes stood against one of the walls.

“That doesn’t explain why someone would want him dead, though,” Lizanic said.

“Nope, it sure don’t, but Mincher was the type to show up in a bar, or even a fast food joint, and get into an argument with somebody. He drank a lot of whiskey, you know?”

Lizanic took notes. There was, in fact, a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table with blood spatter on it. Next to the bottle were four unused shotgun shells, but no shotgun in sight. “Do you have any ideas about who might have done this or why?”

“Me? No. I’m just saying he wasn’t well liked.”

Lizanic had CSI staff come in and check the place for evidence. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t find any fingerprints they could use. Whoever did this had been careful. Mincher’s small, two-bedroom house sat on four acres that bordered open land on all sides. Whoever shot him wasn’t concerned that someone might hear the gun blast. Mincher’s Toyota Camry was parked next to the house. In the back seat of his car, there was a sawed-off shotgun that had not been fired recently.

Later, during a local news report, the mayor of the town asked viewers for help. “If you happened to drive by Mr. Mincher’s house at any time during the last 48 hours and saw someone walking on the property, or maybe a car driving onto or off of his property, call us. We are looking for leads.” His request generated one possible lead.  A man called the detective bureau shortly after the newscast and told them he’d driven by the Mincher house around 4:30 that morning. There was what appeared to be a sedan parked at the driveway’s entrance. It was too dark to notice the make or the color of the vehicle.

Lizanic watched the telecast from his desk, having returned from the crime scene, and shook his head. “A long shot if ever I heard one,” he said to no one in particular.  Dean Mincher was twice divorced and had no children. He had been managing the meat department at the local Kroger store. His first wife moved somewhere out west years ago. His second wife, LuAnn, still lived in Coleman and was now married to the local undertaker. 

Lizanic, a slim man who stood 6’ 3” and kept his weight down, finished his third cup of coffee. He was ready to get back to work. He decided to start with the people Mincher worked with. The Kroger store manager, Rudy Stone, set him up in a small conference room on the second floor and asked him to keep his interviews as brief as possible. “We are the busiest store in Middle Tennessee,” he said. “Don’t have a lot of time for things like this.” The manager confirmed that Mincher could be difficult to manage. “The guy was 61 years old. I figured he’d retire soon, so I put up with him. Truth be told, he was really good at his job.”

Store employees, especially the ones that worked for Mincher, were not shy when it came to describing their former boss. One woman, Nora Cotton, said, “I’m 34 years old. I have a husband and two children. That never stopped Mr. Mincher from hitting on me though.” She paused and took a sip of Coke. “He would say the most awful things to me. He could be very lewd. If my husband knew about that, he would have killed him.”

“You never told your husband?”

The woman looked at the detective. “I wasn’t kidding. My Jimmy would have killed the man.”

“Are you sure he didn’t know?”

“I’m sure.”

Lizanic wondered about her choice of words. Was she unaware that she just turned her husband into a suspect? He decided to let it go for now, but he made note of what she said.

The other employees made a point of telling Lizanic that Mincher wouldn’t be missed. The man was respected for his knowledge as a butcher, but not well liked. He was described as cranky all the time and he drove them hard. One guy added at the end of the interview, “If you want to find out who killed him, look at the people who run this town.”

“What do you mean?” Lizanic asked.

“I mean town employees, people who serve on committees. They all hated him. He had a sharp tongue and didn’t mind using social media to burn these people. He was nasty, man.”

Lizanic spent an hour going through Mincher’s Facebook and Twitter posts. It was true. He did have a sharp tongue. He seemed to have a special hatred for one of the planning commissioners, a man named Bob Smithson. He’d seen the Smithson name driving down the town’s main road, but couldn’t quite remember where. He was on his way back to his office when he passed the funeral parlor with Smithson’s name on it. He looked up the funeral parlor number and called. “Smithson’s Funeral Home, this is LuAnn speaking.” The hair on the back of Lizanic’s neck stood up.

“Good morning, this is Detective Mike Lizanic. Forgive me for asking, but were you formerly married to Dean Mincher?”

“Why yes, I was. How can I help you?” Mrs. Smithson was sitting at her vanity combing her salt and pepper colored hair.

“You’re aware he was murdered early this morning?”

“This is a very small town, detective. Everybody knows Dean is dead. In fact, his body will be delivered here eventually, I’m sure.” Still looking in the mirror, she adjusted her stylish eyeglass frames.

“Were you on good terms with your ex-husband?”

“I doubt anyone in this town was on good terms with him.”

“I’d like to speak to you and your husband. I’m parked right outside. Is now a good time?”

“I wondered when you would call. We have a service for a long-time resident starting in about ten minutes. Perhaps you could come by later this afternoon?”

“I’ll be there at three. Will you and your husband both be available?”

“I think so detective, but you’re wasting your time. We don’t know anything about Dean’s passing.”

“I’ll see you at three,” Lizanic said.

It was just before noon, so Lizanic drove to the town hall to speak to Debra Jaworski, a young woman enjoying her job as a town manager. “Detective Lizanic, thank you for stopping by. We’re a small town and people here don’t get murdered. They just don’t.”

The detective looked at her, no expression on his face. He knew it was pointless to state the obvious; that it did happen. “Do you know of anyone working for the town that might have had a disagreement or a feud with Mr. Mincher?”

She shook her head no. Her phone rang and she picked it up. “Tell him I’ll call him back in a few minutes.” She ended the call and said, “Dean Mincher was a royal pain. He was always showing up at board of commissioner meetings and planning commission meetings with some criticism about how the town was run. We just let him talk. We have a four-minute limit on citizens’ comments. He used up every minute, every time.”

“What kind of complaints?”

“How we spend our money, zoning ordinances, developments we might be considering, traffic, our roads, our streetlights, everything.”

“You’ve seen Mincher’s social media posts, accusing Bob Smithson of taking payoffs?” Lizanic asked.

Jaworski grinned and then, unable to help herself, started to laugh. “Bob Smithson is a stick-in-the-mud sort. I can assure you there is no truth to Mr. Mincher’s silly claims. Bob is a straight arrow, if ever there was one.”

“I see. I heard Mincher lost his re-election bid by a landslide. Do you know what was behind that?”

“A landslide is putting it mildly. But that was twenty years ago. I wasn’t here then. If you want that story, you need to talk to Jerome Peterson, the guy who beat him.”

“Where can I find Mr. Peterson?”

Jaworski put her index finger on her lip. “He still owns the liquor store. It’s called JP’s Wine and Liquor. Right down the street.”

“I’ve seen it. Thanks.”

Lizanic drove to the liquor store and found Jerome Peterson. “Detective Lizanic, nice to meet you.” Lizanic shook the man’s outstretched hand. “Debra called me. Said you might be headed this way.”

“How did you know it was me?”

Peterson grinned. “She said you were tall and had a mustache. I took a wild guess.” He motioned for them to sit on bar stools he had in the corner of the store. “Dean Mincher wasn’t a bad guy before he became mayor. He was very active in town events. His wife, at the time, smoothed over most of his rough spots.”

“Would that be LuAnn?”

“Yep, it would. But when he became mayor, Dean made a lot of enemies. He won the first time by promising he could attract some big businesses that would bring in more tax revenue. In turn, he said he would lower our real estate taxes.”

“That didn’t happen?”

“I’m afraid not. What he did was to drive out a couple of businesses he didn’t like, factories that employed a lot of people.”

“How did he manage that?” Lizanic was taking notes.

“He got the tax rate for these businesses increased enough for them to leave. He said they would be replaced by bigger and better operations. No dice on that either.”

“Why would he do that?”

Peterson looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Some of us think he tried to shake them down, if you know what I mean.”

“Did anyone in the town suffer substantial losses because of what he did?”

“Yeah, a lot of people lost good jobs, but that was twenty years ago. I don’t think people wait twenty years to settle a score, do you?”

Lizanic smiled. “Not often, but sometimes they do. Is there anyone in particular I should speak to?”

“You’re asking me if I know anybody that would murder out of revenge. I don’t. I think you need to look closer to home,” Peterson said.

“Meaning?”

“From what I heard; the way he was killed, sounded like it was personal. Who knows? He was very good at getting under a man’s skin, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Was he close to anyone? Did he have a girlfriend, maybe?” Lizanic asked, shifting in his seat.

“Come to think of it, probably not. He just pissed people off. Maybe he went too far.” Peterson stood up and stretched. “Since you’re here, take a bottle of Jim Beam, on the house.”

Lizanic said no, and left.

He arrived at the funeral home a few minutes early. Bob Smithson greeted him at the entrance. “Listen, I know why you’re here and I want you to know, I had nothing to do with Dean Mincher’s death.” Gray hair carefully coiffed, he was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt and black tie. “He was a miserable bastard, mistreated LuAnn their whole marriage, but he wasn’t even worth the steel pellets it took to kill him.”

“He was very hard on you on social media,” Lizanic said. “Innuendos about you being paid off by developers, suggestions that maybe you overcharged people for your services. That kind of thing can get under a man’s skin.” He fiddled with the car keys in his pocket, a habit he was trying to break.

“Oh, it did, yes sir. But I assure you, I’m not a fool.”

“How about Mrs. Smithson? How did she handle the attacks?”

“Better than I did actually. She knew who and what he was.”

“If you had to guess, who do you think might want him dead?”

Smithson turned his head toward the viewing rooms, both empty. “I deal with death almost every week. It’s never pleasant. I’ve worked on bodies where I thought maybe something didn’t look right. I mind my own business. I have no idea who might have wanted to harm Dean. When they bring him in here, I won’t want to prep him, but I’ll take a deep breath and do my job.”

“When is his service?”

“His remains are supposed to arrive today. If that happens, his service will be tomorrow morning at ten.”

The next morning, dressed appropriately for a funeral service, Lizanic showed up and took a seat off to the side, catty corner to the casket. He watched as people came in to pay their respects. He saw nothing really unusual. Town officials were there, a brother, who flew in from Cincinnati, his only living relative, and some co-workers from Kroger.

When the woman who complained about Mincher’s lewd behavior came up to the casket, Lizanic took note of the fact that she was walking with her husband, who had his arm around her. He could see now, that dressed nicely and wearing makeup, she was very pretty. She had an interesting face, not quite symmetrical, but that seemed to make her more attractive. She glanced at the deceased, who was wearing a cheap blue suit, and turned away. But her husband was staring hard, his eyes narrowed. He looked angry. There was no other way to describe it.

Rather than take a seat to wait for the service, the couple turned and headed for the door. He followed them. “Mrs. Cotton?”

She turned to look at him. “Oh, detective, this is my husband, Jimmy.”

Before Lizanic could say anything, Cotton looked at him and said, “We got nothing to say.” He put his arm around his wife again and guided her to their car.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cotton, but I couldn’t help noticing that you looked angry, looking at Mr. Mincher.”

“Maybe I just have a headache. Ever think of that, detective?”

Lizanic knew it wasn’t the time, and certainly not the place, to push this guy. He would need to learn more about him first. “I hope you both have a pleasant afternoon,” he said.   

When he walked back into the funeral home, the service was just starting. Mercifully, it was short. He saw Rudy Stone, the Kroger store manager, walking out after the service and fell into step with him. “Nice service,” he said.

The manager looked at him. “It was short enough. Now I can get back to work.”

“I have a question about Nora Cotton. Did she ever file a complaint about Mincher’s behavior, along the lines of sexual harassment?”

“No, but…” Lizanic kept walking with him and Rudy continued, “I did have to talk to Dean about his behavior with women a couple of times. Did she say something to you?”

“She did. Had you heard anything about him harassing her?”

“Never actually saw anything, but we all knew. He had a real thing for Nora.”

Lizanic touched Stone’s arm and the men stopped walking. “Is it possible something was going on between them?”

“I seriously doubt it, but you never know, do you?”   

The detective nodded. “I just met her husband Jimmy. Seems like a nice guy. Where does he work?”

“He’s the gym teacher at the regional high school. Why?”

“Did he know that Mincher was harassing his wife?”

“I have no idea. The guy has a temper though.” The manager lit a cigarette. “Oh, but wait a minute. I went to high school with Jimmy. Trust me, he’s not the type to kill anyone.”

Lizanic went directly to the regional high school where Jimmy Cotton worked. He showed his badge at the front office and walked to the gym. He found Nate Cannizzaro the school’s other gym teacher. School was out, but Cannizzaro was putting equipment away. The detective explained who he was and what he was working on. “I have just one question, Mr. Cannizzaro. Was Mr. Cotton aware that his wife was having trouble with Mr. Mincher?”

Cannizzaro, a short, well-built man, would never make a good poker player. His face showed what he was thinking, immediately. He nodded. “Yeah, Jimmy talked about it. He told me he knew something was bothering Nora. My cousin works at Kroger, so I told him I would ask her about it.”

“What did she say?”

Cannizzaro started bouncing a basketball. “She said that asshole was harassing Nora and nobody was doing anything about it.”

Lizanic motioned for the ball. Cannizzaro threw it to him. “Did you tell Jimmy what your cousin said?”

A forlorn look came over the gym teacher’s face. “Yeah, a couple of days ago. I screwed up, didn’t I?”

“Too soon to tell,” Lizanic said. He bounced the ball back to Cannizzaro.

That night, he drove to the Cotton home and rang the bell. “Jimmy Cotton answered the door. “What do you want?”

“Do you own a shotgun, Mr. Cotton?”

“We all own shotguns around here.”

“Right. May I see yours?”

“You have a search warrant?”

“No, but I can get one.”

“Do that.” Cotton closed his door.

Lizanic wasn’t actually in a hurry to get the search warrant. He took note of the two vehicles parked in the Cotton driveway. Both were sedans.

The next morning, the detective started the day at the office. Sitting at his desk, he sipped his coffee, while he reviewed his notes, trying to decide if he had missed anything. Asking people for their whereabouts in the middle of the night didn’t make much sense.

Coleman was such a small town. It seemed like everyone was connected in some way. He thought about LuAnn Smithson. Checking public records, he saw that she and Mincher had divorced about five years ago. She’d married Bob Smithson three years after that. He wondered whether Mincher’s nasty remarks about her husband, Bob, might have stirred something in LuAnn. Killing her ex for it though, seemed unlikely. Whoever did it, had put plenty of buckshot in the guy at close range. Nothing was taken from the house. It wasn’t a robbery. Mincher had been standing, so it was likely he knew, or even expected, his assailant. The shooter had enough sense to leave nothing behind.

What was missing was a motive. He decided to talk to Nora Cotton again. He drove to the store and arranged to interview her again. “What do you want now?” she asked. Her white apron was stained with blood from the pork and beef she worked with all day long.

“I need to ask you a few more questions about Mr. Mincher. You told me he verbally harassed you in a sexual way. Did he ever touch you?”

She reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Once. He and I were alone in the meat locker one day. This is very embarrassing, detective.” She shifted in her seat. “I was there first. He came in behind me when the others were at lunch. I went to leave right away. As I was walking past him, he squeezed my boobs.”

“Then what happened?”

“I told him to stop. He laughed and said, ‘You liked it, Nora. Admit it.’” Just before I got to the door, he said, ‘It’s only a matter of time, girl, me and you.’”

“Did you tell your husband about it?” Lizanic asked.

“No, like I told you he would have killed him if he knew. I didn’t dare tell him.”

“Did you report it to management?”

She shook her head, no. “It’s a small town, detective. It would have gotten out. You know that. And I need the job.” She was crying softly now.

“One last question. It’s very important. Did you tell anyone about it?”

“I told one person, a lady from church, who used to teach me at Sunday school. She teaches my two boys now.”

“Who is that?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Lizanic considered telling her that other people who worked there were aware of her problem. If she knew that, though, she would feel compelled to quit and she needed the job. Also, he knew it would be easy to find out who taught Sunday school to her children.

He let her go back to work and met briefly with Rudy Stone. “Where does Mrs. Cotton go to church?” he asked.

“She and Jimmy go to Coleman Methodist. Half the town goes there,” Stone answered.

Lizanic drove to the church and found the minister, an eager middle-aged man, who wore his hair long, perhaps hoping to appeal to the teenagers in his congregation. “Good day to you! How may I help you today?”

“Are you the church’s pastor?” They were standing in the hallway that led to classrooms.

“Last time I checked, yes. I’m Paul Witt.”

Lizanic introduced himself and told Reverend Witt what he wanted.

“Let’s take a look. Are you investigating the demise of Mr. Mincher?”

“That’s right.”

The pastor led the detective to his office and invited him to sit down while he checked his records. “Here it is. The Cotton boys are taught by Mrs. Smithson, LuAnn. Is that helpful?”

“I understand Mrs. Smithson taught Sunday school to Mrs. Cotton back in the day.”

The reverend smiled. “Nora is Mrs. Smithson’s niece. I tell you this only because very few people know that. LuAnn’s sister, had a child out of wedlock. That is what we used to call such situations.”

The detective thanked the pastor and went to his car where he placed a call.   

“Smithson’s Funeral Home, how may I help you?” It was a woman’s voice.

“LuAnn Smithson, please.”

“Is that you again, Detective Lizanic?”

“It is. I want you to meet me at the town’s police department in thirty minutes. We need to talk.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s possible today, detective. Perhaps we can set something up for tomorrow?”

“Mrs. Smithson, I need your help and time is of the essence. I’d rather not have to drive you all the way to the county office, so meet me at the police department. It won’t take long.”

“Well, if it won’t take long, can’t you come here to the funeral home?” she asked.

Lizanic allowed a bit of steel to come into his voice now. “Be at the Coleman police station in 30 minutes.” He hung up and drove to the station. The police chief had no trouble making the interview room available. He asked if he could sit in on the interview. Lizanic said, no, but promised to fill the chief in on what he learned.

“You think maybe she did it?” the chief asked.

“I don’t know. I think maybe she knows who did it, though.” In fact, the detective wasn’t sure about anything. “Do you happen to know what kind of vehicles the Smithson’s own?”

“Yep, they have a black Cadillac and a silver SUV.”

Mr. and Mrs. Smithson arrived on time. Lizanic thanked them for coming and then informed Bob Smithson that he would be speaking with Mrs. Smithson alone. “Well, maybe she should have a lawyer present then,” Mr. Smithson said.

“Your call.”

“I’ll be fine,” LuAnn said.

They walked into the interview room and the detective sat opposite where she sat. “May I call you LuAnn?”

“Sure.”

“LuAnn, tell me about your marriage to Dean Mincher. What was it like? Why did you divorce? Things like that.”

“I think it’s fair to say that Dean caught me on the rebound. He was very charming. I knew he wasn’t going places, career wise, but he was active in politics and I thought maybe he could do something good in that area. We got married after dating for just nine months.” She looked at her fingernails, which were immaculately polished. “I helped him get elected mayor not long after we married. It was a very busy time. We didn’t actually spend much time together. After the election though, we had more time and his behavior changed. He could be emotionally abusive. He started to drink too much. Way too much. Does that give you the picture, detective?”

“It helps. Was he faithful to you?”

“I doubt it. But I never caught him.”

“Was he ever physically abusive?”

“One time. That’s when I went looking for his first wife. She was living in New Mexico. She told me some stories. That’s when I decided to divorce him.”

“What kind of stories?”

“I’m not talking to you about that, detective. I wish you would get to the point.”

Lizanic tapped his pen on the desk. “I spoke to Mrs. Cotton this morning.”

“Oh, is that what this is about? I assure you, I kept what she told me in the strictest of confidence. I never even told Bob.”

“Nora Cotton is your niece, correct?”

LuAnn blinked several times, staring hard at the table. She looked up and said, “That is a private matter, but yes, detective, she is my niece.”

“Did you tell Jimmy Cotton about the incident?”

“I did not.”

“Did you discuss it with Dean?”

LuAnn visibly blanched. “That worthless son of a bitch wasn’t worth talking to.”

“Do you own a shotgun, Mrs. Smithson?”

“Yes, three of them.”

“Did you shoot Dean Mincher?”

“Oh! Don’t be ridiculous. Are we done?”

“For now. But I’ll need to see your shotguns.”

“You can discuss that with my lawyer. This conversation is over.” With that, she got up and walked out.

Lizanic was stuck. Certainly, he didn’t have enough evidence to charge LuAnn Smithson with murder. The motive seemed thin. Would she actually murder her ex-husband simply because her niece had told her a story about an incident at work?

He decided to talk to Jimmy Cotton again. He waited for him to get out of school. Cotton saw him as he was walking to his car. He picked up the pace, hoping he could drive away before the detective reached him, but Lizanic called out to him. “Mr. Cotton, we need to talk.” That brought Cotton up short.

“What do you want?”

“Where were you the morning Dean Mincher was killed?”

“Home or at work, depending on the time.”

“Can your wife verify that?”

“I’m sure she can.”

“Were you aware that Mincher tried to take advantage of Nora?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jimmy, this is not the time to play games. It isn’t going to help you, trust me.”

“Yeah, I knew. But I didn’t kill him. I was planning on giving him a good beating, but I didn’t get the chance.”

Lizanic nodded. “Okay, Jimmy. I’ll be in touch.” His instincts and experience were telling him that Cotton wasn’t the type to blow someone away. He’d get more satisfaction out of administering the beating he mentioned. Lizanic had seen the man’s muscles tense when he spoke about it.

Still, he felt he should follow up on Jimmy’s alibi. Just after seven o’clock that night, he drove to the Cotton home to talk to the couple. This time, Nora answered the door and let him in. Her two boys, ages 7 and 9, were sitting on the couch.  

“Mrs. Cotton, this shouldn’t take long,” he said. “I need you to verify your husband’s whereabouts on the morning Mr. Mincher was killed.”

She looked down at her bare feet. “He was here,” she said, barely above a whisper.

The older boy, sensing that his father might be in trouble, spoke up. “My daddy was here, watching us. I know because I got up and went into their bedroom. I asked him where Mommy was.”

“Be still, Marcus,” Jimmy said.

“Where was your Mom?” Lizanic asked.

Marcus looked at his father. He was catching on now and a tear began to roll down his cheek. “In the bathroom?”

Lizanic turned back to Mrs. Cotton, who was also crying now. “Did you go to Mincher’s house that morning?”

She nodded her head yes, just as her husband was saying, “Nora, don’t say anything.”

“Mr. Cotton, do you want to take the boys out for ice cream? Nora will be here when you get back, I promise.”

“No, the boys are going to bed early. We can talk right here.” He sent the boys to their room. They went quietly without protesting.

The detective felt something he’d heard about before, but had never actually experienced. He wished he didn’t know who committed the crime. He suggested they sit on the front porch.

“Nora, I need you to tell me exactly what happened between you and Mincher.” He turned to Jimmy and said, “I need you to just listen. Can you do that?”

Jimmy let the air out of his lungs. He nodded. “Yeah.” He was tearing up too. Lizanic had too much experience to shed tears, but he was sure he could cry if he let himself go. He knew the Cottons were good people.

“He got me cornered in that meat locker,” Nora said. “He was rough. He pulled my pants down and exposed himself. Said our time had come.”

“What happened next?”

“He reached for me, but I hit him with the first thing I could grab; a meat hook. I only grazed his arm, but it stunned him, I guess. I pulled up my pants and ran out of there.”

“You sure you hit him with the meat hook?”

“Yes, his arm started bleeding,” Nora said, her tears flowing freely.

“Do you remember which arm?”

“His left, I think.”

“Think for a moment. Are you sure?”

She closed her eyes, picturing the scene. “Yes, it was his left arm.”

Lizanic remembered seeing the deep scratch on Mincher’s left arm. “Okay, what happened after that?”

“The only thing that happened was I saw him when I clocked out. He had a homemade bandage on his arm. He looked at me and said, “Next time, darling.”

“When did you see him again?”

“I called in sick the next day. I didn’t see him again until I went to his house that morning.”

“Did you go there with the intention to kill him?”

“No, I went to tell him if he didn’t leave me alone, Jimmy would kill him. I tried to warn him.”

“What did he say?”

“He laughed. And said, ‘I thought you finally came to your senses, doll.’” She took a deep breath. “That’s when he grabbed my arm and said we were going to finish what we started.”

“Is that when you shot him?”

“Yes.” She was nearly hysterical now. Lizanic gave her a moment.

“Did you bring a shotgun with you?”

“No.” She was sobbing now. “There was a shotgun sitting on his coffee table. I just picked it up and pulled the trigger.”

“How did you know it was cocked?”

“I didn’t know. I just pulled the trigger. It almost knocked me down.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

“I threw it in a dumpster behind the strip mall. The one that has the drugstore.”

Detective Lizanic gave the Cottons the phone number of an attorney who had an excellent reputation for handling difficult cases like this one. Nora Cotton was arrested and spent the night in the county jail, but she made bail before noon the following day. Lizanic couldn’t be sure, of course, but he was confident a jury would be sympathetic to Mrs. Cotton’s plight. He was right. A year later a jury acquitted her of the charges. It helped that Mincher’s first wife flew in from New Mexico and testified about her ex-husband’s abusive behavior. To the detective’s mind, justice was done.