Material Witness

I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but I did it anyway

We arrived at the police station. I jumped out of the car and opened the door for Mary Wilson. Danny scooted across the seat and exited behind her. With a hand on her elbow, Danny walked her into the station. I followed. Danny led her straight to an interrogation room.

“I’m Detective Bill Maxwell,” I said. “Would you like something… a Coke?”

“A Sprite if you have it, please?” she said, with unexpected calm.

I left her sitting in the chair facing the mirror and closed the door. Joining Danny in the observation room, we watched her for a moment. She was relaxed with her hands folded on the table. She was neither staring into the mirror nor avoiding looking at it. She knew we were watching.

In the early hours of the morning, Oscar Cross had been murdered in the Riviera Hotel. His room had been cleaned-out; only a woman’s dress and shoes remained. We had yet to figure out how a woman left the room in her underwear without being noticed. Forensics found a fingerprint on the room’s door handle which had been identified as belonging to Pamela Cross, a local prostitute. Examination of the hotel’s surveillance video revealed a woman matching Pamela’s description following Mr. Cross from the lobby bar to the elevator where both got off on the sixth floor. There was no other evidence of either of them.

Our working theory was that the prostitute had robbed and murdered Mr. Cross.

“Do you think it’s her?” Danny asked. We had spotted the woman matching Pamela’s description leaving the hotel an hour earlier. We had followed her to a local drug store and approached her as she left the store. She identified herself as Mary Ann Wilson, but had no identification. She agreed to accompany us to the police station for identification.

“I think she’s definitely the woman in the elevator with Mr. Cross,” I said. “But, she is not Pamela.” I held up Pamela’s driver’s license photo to the glass and compared the faces. “Her face is a very strong resemblance, but she is too tall and skinny,”

“She does look to be the woman who got off the elevator with Mr. Cross,” Danny said, studying a still shot from the surveillance video. “And, we caught her leaving the Riviera. We have cause to hold and question her.” He drew a breath. “She could quickly rise to the status of number one suspect.”

“I’ll get Susan Howe to fingerprint her,” I said. The existence of Pamela’s fingerprint was less than conclusive; there was no way to know how old the fingerprint was and, being a prostitute, she had probably used half the doors in the hotel at one time or another. Yet, Ms. Wilson had a clear connection to the victim.

I left to get Ms. Wilson’s Sprite and to call Susan. I waited outside the interrogation room. When Susan arrived, I opened the door.

“Sorry for the delay, Ms. Wilson,” I said. “We’re going to fingerprint you now.” I didn’t offer her a chance to refuse.

The woman held out her right hand as though she’d been through this before. Susan used her electronic machine to scan Ms. Wilson’s fingertips.

“Bill, I’ll call you in a minute,” Susan said, and left.

I gave the Sprite to Mary and sat in the opposite chair. She sipped the drink; she remained relaxed. Clearly, she was practiced at sitting in an interrogation chair. Everyone was nervous and fidgety when they sit in that chair for the first time. Most people are nervous every time, but she was simply waiting. This was not her first time.

“Why are you out and about with no ID, wallet, or purse?’ I asked.

“Just running a quick errand. Didn’t think I’d need it.”

My phone rang. The caller ID indicated that it was Susan. “Hello.”

“She’s Mary Wilson,” Susan said, and added, “She received a Nevada driver’s license when she moved to Las Vegas six months ago, but she doesn’t own a car.”

Turning to Ms. Wilson, I asked, “What did you say your full name is?”

“Mary Ann Wilson. I live at 900 East Desert Inn Road, Apartment 440. I’m a substitute schoolteacher.”

This information matched that from Susan. Additionally, Susan said Ms. Wilson would have black hair and dark brown eyes. She would be 5’5” tall, and weigh a thin, one hundred and fifteen pounds. This woman matched the description. Despite Susan’s report that Ms. Wilson had no arrest record — not so much as a jaywalking ticket — her sedate demeanor convinced me she was not a simple schoolteacher.

I decided to question her, going backwards in time. This is where most people make missteps in a fabricated story. “What were you doing in the Riviera?”

“What do you mean? You… you found me at the drugstore.”

“Yes, but you were in the Riviera. Why?”

“I, uh, live a few blocks from The Riv and it’s a convenient place to get a cab.”

“Why did you buy this?” I put the bag from the drugstore on the table.

“It’s rather personal. Read the label. That’s why I bought it.”

“Hump.” I had read the label, but that didn’t tell me why she would want to induce diarrhea. She was not old enough to be a candidate for a colonoscopy. And this preparation was to be used the day before a colonoscopy. Tomorrow was Saturday, and no clinic would be performing such a procedure. “Perhaps you could daintily elaborate?”

“I wanted to clean myself, er, out. The guy I was with last night… he wanted, uh, he did… Well, you know.” She shyly shrugged. “I wanted to clean myself out, as I said.” This made her nervous. For the first time, she squirmed in the chair, genuinely uncomfortable.

“You’re saying, that you had, uh, anal sex?” I pressed hard, using this unpleasantness to my advantage.

“Yes,” she stated, and her composure stabilized.

“Last night, were you and a friend having sex in the Riviera?”

“Uh, yeah.” She stated without explanation.

“What floor were you on?”

“The sixth floor.” Ms. Wilson had just confessed to being at, or at least very near, the scene of Mr. Cross’s murder.

“Do you know this man?” I slapped the photo of her and Mr. Cross in the elevator onto the table. She studied the picture.

“No,” she answered. She ignored her own image in the photo.

She was much too cool considering I had just shown her a picture from the night before — a picture I had no reason to have.

“But, you were with him in the elevator.” I tapped her image on the photo.

“I don’t want to answer any more questions. I want to leave.”

She was very well versed in the law. This, along with her cool practiced poise in the interrogation room, convinced me even more that she was not a schoolteacher.

“I’m sorry. That’s not going to happen. You are not under arrest. You are not a suspect in a crime.” I picked my words carefully. For the moment we were only considering her as a possible witness to the murder. “But, by your own admission, and by my evidentiary support, I have determined you to be a material witness for the crime I am investigating. I’m sensing that you know what a ‘material witness’ is. Therefore, I can hold you for questioning in relationship to this crime, for which I know…” I left a pregnant pause hang. “I know you to have knowledge until the moon turns into green cheese or you answer my questions; whichever comes first.”

“I see,” she said, remaining as cool as a cucumber. She folded her hands and rested them on the table. She stared at me. She was careful to ignore the mirrored window behind me.

“If you lie, I will have cause to arrest you for obstruction of justice. Understand?”

She sucked in a deep breath, and said, “I don’t know the man. He got into the elevator with me. We got off on the same floor. I don’t know him and never saw him again.”

“Why were you on the sixth floor?”

“That’s were my friend’s room was.”

“Please, let’s dispense with the bullshit. I know an awful lot about what was happening on that floor last night. I don’t care if you were turning tricks. I want you to tell me the fucking truth.”

“I’m not a prostitute. I like to have a good time, and if guys want to give me money, I don’t refuse. I had met a guy earlier. He was married and didn’t want his friends to see him with me. So, we went up separately. I don’t know his name either, and I don’t remember the room number. He was standing in the hall waiting for me when I got off the elevator. That man,” she pointed to the photo, “got off at the same time. I didn’t pay attention to where he went.”

“And this morning?”

“My friend had an early flight. He left me in the room. I slept late. As I said, I don’t know what time it was when I left, but there were cops in the hall. I wanted to avoid them, so I simply ducked down the stairs.”

“What time did you meet your friend in the bar?”

“It was not at the bar. He was playing craps and winning. He won a lot and called me his Little Good Luck Charm. He gave me some of his winnings, and I was very grateful. I’m not sure of the time when we went upstairs; there are no clocks in the casino.” She drew a breath. “In the morning, there was a knock, that’s what woke me up. I thought it was the maid. The guy was supposed to put the do-not-disturb sign out, but I guess he forgot. Anyway, I didn’t answer, and the maid did not come in.”

“You didn’t hear any gunshots, women screaming, or other noise in the hallway?”

“No, it was pretty quiet. Like I said, we were pretty busy.”

“Okay, wait here.” I wondered how a backdoor entry into that slender butt would feel.

Stepping out of the interrogation room, I conferred with Danny in the observation room.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Her story seems to hold together, but it’s too damn odd,” Danny said. “I think she talks like she’s a cop. She knows too much about just exactly when to tell the truth, and when to lie. I think she knows what happened on that floor. Notice how she never once asked what crime you were investigating? More to the point, I think she clearly knows what we already know, and what we don’t.”

“Yeah, but do we have reason to hold her any longer?” I asked.

***

Alone, I dined on my usual meal in the Peppermill coffee shop. After dealing with the paperwork, it was late — after eight in the evening. The waitress put the plate holding my burger and fries on the table.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she said and walked away. She had a nice walk. I made a mental note to look at her name tag when she returned.

Chewing my third bite of burger, I look up and saw a familiar face. A young woman with raven hair walked slowly around the corner. The woman continued along the booths seemingly not noticing me. Then, she spotted me. Mary Wilson, wearing the same jeans and blouse as earlier in the afternoon, halted beside my booth.

“Hello,” she thought about her words for a moment. “Are you working?”

I swallowed the bite of hamburger, saluted her with my beer bottle, and took a swig to clear my throat. “No, are you, uh, busy?”

“No.” She leaned against the table for a heartbeat and then took a step away.

It was possible that we could spontaneously cross paths. We both lived within walking distance of the Peppermill. However, the coincidence seemed to be a bit of a stretch for the imagination to absorb.

“Ms. Wilson, care to join me?” I gestured to the opposite seat of my booth, intending to see what she was up to.

She scanned me from head to toe. “Sure,” she warmly said, and sat.

The waitress returned and offered her a menu, but she declined it, saying, “Cheeseburger, American, all the way, with fries and a bud light.”

Apparently, she was also a regular; perhaps this was a spontaneous moment. Without writing it down, the waitress departed. I hadn’t looked at her name tag.

Mary Wilson smiled. “Bill, call me Mary, since you aren’t working.”

I smiled. I wouldn’t be dining alone after all.

We chatted about the weather and the agony of dealing with tourists until her food arrived.

While we ate, she asked, “So, what kind of detective are you, and what happened to the man in the elevator?”

I was a bit surprised. In my head, I replayed our conversation at the police station, and concluded that I had not told her the case details. However, I considered she could be cagily covering her tracks.

“I’m a homicide detective, and he got himself killed,” I answered, and watched her reaction.

“Oh,” her eyebrows shot up. She paused to sip her beer, but never took her eyes off of me. “Last night… on the sixth floor?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t discuss the case details,” I declined to answer. She was still a material witness and could become a suspect.

“Sure. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you.”

“Maybe we’ll find something that you can help with. We have only just begun our investigation.” I wondered if I was warning her.

After we finished eating, we relaxed with another round of beers.

“Shall we split the tab?” she asked, when the waitress laid only one bill on the table.

“Sure.”

She pulled a twenty from her pocket; she was not carrying a wallet or purse. “Add the change to the tip.” She exited the restaurant, but stood on the curb. “Goodbye,” she said, when I followed her outside.

I watched her walk toward the taxi stand. Again, I imagined what her skinny butt would feel like. I trotted to catch up with her.

“Wait, can I offer you a ride home? 900 East Desert Inn Road — that’s the Crystal Court Apartments — right?”

She smiled over her shoulder. “Yes, thank you very much.”

We rode the short distance in silence. When I parked in front of the apartment building, she didn’t get out.

She turned her torso sideways in the car seat. “Bill, I have a six pack in the refrigerator. Would you care to have one or two?”

“Yes, I would love that.” It had been the wrong thing to say, but I had said it. At the moment, we had nothing but the coincidental picture of her in the elevator to tie her to Mr. Cross. At this exact moment, she could not be considered a witness, but I knew this was the sort of thing that could get me fired. I pulled the car away from the curb, and she directed me to the building’s underground parking area. As we walked, Mary slipped her soft, warm hand inside mine. My subconscious knew I was being played, but I could do nothing to stop it. I didn’t want to.

In the apartment, she directed me to sit on the sofa, while she retrieved two beers from the refrigerator. She sat beside me. We sipped in silence. She wouldn’t say anything, and my brain could find no words to express my thoughts.

She sat her bottle on the coffee table. She tilted her face upwards. Her mouth opened slightly — invitingly. I delicately kissed her. She snuggled into my arms. We kissed again — French style. Our tongues did a quick dance.

I was unsure exactly how it happened, but we were in our underwear lying on her bed when we finished the second round of beers. My mind drifted to the possibility of experiencing anal sex for the first time; there had been plenty of time for her to clean herself out. However, I didn’t have any intention of giving her any money.

She rolled me onto my back, and mounted me, cowgirl style. My bulging hard-on was snug between her thighs, pressing against the cotton crotch fabric of her panties. Her mouth joined with mine, and our tongues silently entwined.

I unhooked her bra. She let it fall away and leaned down until the tip of her breast grazed my lips. I sucked on her hard nipple. Her thighs pumped against my firm member. It found its own way through my boxer’s fly opening. After several more minutes of kissing and petting, she climbed up from the bed. I watched as she slid off her panties. From the drawer of the bedside table, she retrieved a condom. She tore open the package. She put the rolled latex in her mouth.

I had never been with a professional girl before. While Mary might only be a semi-pro, she was very experienced. My brain was not sure what to think about what was happening, but it was irrelevant. My cock was taking the lead.

Tugging on my shorts, she pulled them down to my ankles. With a yank, she tossed them on the floor. Kneeling between my legs, she hovered her face over my skyward-pointing johnson. She kissed the tip, tasting my precum. Her lips opened and engulfed me. Her tongue caressed the sensitive spot under the tip. I was completely unaware of how she unrolled the condom onto my shaft, but moment later, there it was.

She really knew what she was doing.

She slowly sucked for a minute, then said, “I know it’s, oh, so old fashioned, but missionary is still my favorite.” She crawled up beside me.

“Hmm,” I sighed. I rolled on top of her.

She spread her thighs open and pulled her knees up.

I gently — as slowly as I could possibly contain myself — entered her warm, snug, wet entrance. With any luck, this would be more than a one-night-stand. I would ask for a flip-side entry another day.

Her feet caressed the backs of my knees as I began my rhythmic thrusts. When her hands held my rib-cage, I raised up on my elbows to look into her face.

Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was open.

I watched her stretch back, exposing the rosy blush forming along her neck and shoulders. I had heard about this blush that women had just before orgasms, but I had never seen it. This is for real, I thought to myself.

Her heels enthusiastically pressed harder against my thighs. She tried to pull me in deeper. When she moaned, “Harder, please harder.” I lost my battle against the rising tide of my climax. I pumped my seed inside her.

She had sensed that my efforts were coming to an end. Her legs pulled me deep a moment before she groaned out, “Oh god, yes…”

***

It was a joy to watch her the following morning. Mary was barefoot, wearing pink sweatpants and an oversized flowered T-shirt. The word ‘PINK’ was written in red lettering across the butt of her pants. I watched as she sang and danced while cooking our breakfast.

She performed the opening dance routine from Hairspray as she brought two plates with waffles and bacon from the kitchen to the table. I sat, wearing a smile and my boxers.

She stepped into the shower after breakfast, my eyes drifted down to her shapely bare butt. Mary resumed singing. I stepped into the shower behind her.

I took the bar of soap from her hand and washed her back. Well, it was more of a massage. She alternated humming and singing as I worked my way down from her shoulders to her bottom. I knelt down, eye to eye with her beautiful curves, as I washed her legs, all the way down to her feet. I paid particular attention to her tiny toes before coming back to her derrière.

She opened her thighs and arched her back to press her soft bottom toward me. I gave her a light spank and she giggled. The bar of soap slipped from my hand. My fingers parted her cheeks and stroked her interior. She stopped singing, and began to moan as my fingers thoroughly cleansed her tight-puckered entrance. I knelt down to kiss her bottom. A moment later, she turned around, and I washed her swollen lady parts. I kissed her inner pink folds. My fingers slid into her moist channel and found her G-spot. Teasing this hidden pleasure spot, I simultaneously sucked on her clit. She quickly surrendered to her climax. Her pussy gripped my fingers as she silently orgasmed. Her body’s muscles clenched and released as waves of pleasure rippled through her core.

A minute later, after she recovered from the spasms, she bent over to retrieve the dropped soap. She washed and kissed her way from my shoulders to my awaiting manhood. After cleansing my cock and balls, she took me into her mouth. She sucked, while her hands reached around to soap my backside. A few moments of sheer pleasure later, my cum burst into her mouth. She swallowed all that I had.

After dressing, I discovered that I had missed a phone call from Danny. He had left a voicemail, but the message only told me to call him back.

When he answered, I said, “Hey, you rang?”

“Yeah, where are you? I’ve been pounding on your door.”

“I’m not home at the moment. What’s up?”

“Yeah, I know that now. Get your ass back home,. We’ve work to do!”

I wondered if Danny would comment when he noticed that I was unshaven, and wearing the same suit and tie that I had worn the previous day.

I placed my hand on the doorknob, but Mary stopped me from turning it.

“Bill, you are coming back, right?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. I don’t know how long this will take. It could be a very long day, but I will be back. I promise.”

“I know what you want,” She flashed a smirk. “I saw the gleam in your eyes when I first mentioned it. So…” She gave me a teasing kiss. “Tonight you can come in the backdoor.”

She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed me, a long, deep kiss that would bring any sailor home from the sea. I prayed the forensics team would not find evidence connecting Mary and Mr. Cross.

Somehow, I vowed we would make this odd arrangement work.

The End

Copyright ©2022 by Mark S. R. Sterling All Rights Reserved