A Killer's Touch. Michael Benson
Lee King was brought to the NPPD at 11:30 P.M., and put in an interrogation room. He sat in a corner, his hands cuffed in front of him, and told Detective Morales that he was born on May 4, 1971. King described the traffic stop and how Trooper Pope had repeatedly screamed, “Put your hands on your head” and “Where’s the girl?” The trooper, King noted, was angry, pushing King’s head up against the car, telling him that police had already been inside his house and had seen stuff.
King said he’d asked for a lawyer “all the way through” his apprehension, but he had been ignored.
Morales said, “When I got there, you were saying that you were the hostage.”
King said he remembered saying that to somebody and complained that he hadn’t been read his rights or given a chance to lawyer up.
Morales did read King his Miranda rights at that time, pausing after each line to verify that King understood what he was being told. King said he did, adding that he did not want to give Morales a statement. He just wanted an attorney—and he needed to use the bathroom. He was escorted out.
When King returned to the interrogation room, he was left alone until, around midnight, a cop King knew wandered into the interrogation room to “shoot the breeze.” When was the last time they’d seen each other?
King said, “About three years ago.”
“Still doing plumbing?”
“Yeah.”
“Here or up north?”
“Here. There ain’t nothing up north.”
“The last time I saw you, I think we ran into each other on the street. Didn’t you say you had a live-in girlfriend or something?”
“Yeah.”
“You were having some kind of issues that the cops couldn’t help you out with. What was that all about?”
“She took off in my car, went to Tennessee. Knoxville. I had to go all the way up there and pick it up.”
“How long did you date her?”
“Not too long.”
“What was her name?”
“Oh, shoot. Jen ... Jennifer, something like that. Amy, it was Amy Sue (pseudonym).”
“I remember a Jennifer. I don’t remember an Amy,” the cop said, nice and chummy. He asked the name of King’s ex-wife.
“Danielle.” He had been married to her for ten years, but she didn’t work. She just played games on the computer all day.
“Yeah, I remember when you first came down here, with the jet skis and everything. It was 2003. All the trouble and shit with your neighbors—that’s how I remember that stuff. So what have you been doing lately?”
“Not too much. Just hanging in there.”
“How’s everybody treating you? It was a madhouse when I showed up. I didn’t know what was happening.”
“When I first got pulled over, the friggin’ guy was mad or something. He wouldn’t let me talk. He’s just screamin’, ‘Where’s she at? We found duct tape.’ Like that. I tried to tell him my side, but he didn’t want to hear my side. ‘Just tell me where she’s at?’ I said I wanted a lawyer present.”
“Who was the cop talking about? I’m kind of lost.”
“I don’t know. I said I wanted a lawyer present, and he said, ‘You ain’t gettin’ one.’”
“He told you that? Wow.”
“I got bad luck. I ain’t pickin’ up nobody anymore.”
“Who’d you pick up?”
“Guy on the side of the road.” King told his story: The second the guy got in the car, he pushed King’s head down and threw a hood over his head. “I couldn’t even freakin’ move, man.”
“You look like you put on a few pounds since the last time I saw you. This guy must’ve been pretty big.”
“Between you and me, I’ve never been in a fight in my life. He was a jerk.”
The cop changed the subject: “Yeah, I remember Jen. I don’t remember no Amy.”
“Yeah, Amy was something else. They said she was on cocaine. I thought she was straight, turned out she was just out of detox. Met her through friends. I picked her up, went all the way up to Tennessee to pick her up. The only reason I got mad at her was she took the car.”
He said the house on Sardinia was the only place he stayed when he was in North Port. Although for a while, he was living in Homosassa, and then he’d been back to Michigan a few times, visiting his family.
“When was the last time you were in Michigan?”
“Three, four days ago. I got back Saturday.”
“So you just got back. How was it up there? Cold?”
“Ice-cold, yeah. I was looking for work up there, filled out a bunch of applications, but it’s slow right now. I got to see my kid. He wanted to stay up there, so I let him stay with my brother.” He explained that his house had no furniture. His furnishings were at an old girlfriend’s house. He didn’t want the drama, so he just left it. That was Jennifer, the one in Homosassa. “I figured I’d just keep walkin’.” She and his son didn’t get along at all.
After a pause, King said, “I was hijacked. Crazy shit. It was the worst thing.”
“Are they helping you out? Is that what you’re waiting on?” the cop asked.
“They read me my Miranda rights and explained what it meant.”
“You can do whatever you want. What is it you want to do?”
“I can just sit here all night. I can’t tell them nothing. I don’t know anything. I wouldn’t mind going home.”
“You got a girlfriend now? Got anyone waitin’ on you?”
“Yeah, Tennille. Met her because she played bingo with my mom. She wanted to move in, but I said I don’t want that right now. She’s pretty nice. She’s got no kids. But I been through a lot of shit. I just want to work.”
“You still having problems with your neighbors? I remember you used to have a real feud going.”
“No, when I wave, they wave. Just hi/bye. No problems anymore.” There had been someone coming into his house while he was away. There wasn’t anything to steal, so he didn’t call the cops; however, someone was going inside and doing whatever. The front door was always jimmied open. Probably kids.
The cop left. For a time, King was alone to ponder his dilemma. He sat motionless, with head bowed. When the cop returned, he brought King something to eat and some water. King was thirsty, but he didn’t feel like eating.
In the meantime, police had picked up Harold Muxlow and had questioned him at greater length about his cousin borrowing a shovel, and about the bound woman attempting to escape in front of his house.
Harold said he didn’t intervene because he didn’t think it was any of his business, that it was just another one of good ol’ Mike’s “crazy relationships.”
Then police had an inspired idea. They put Harold in the interrogation room—just the two of them—and taped the conversation with a surveillance camera.
“What the hell you doin’?” Harold asked King.
King said, “I got hijacked. I couldn’t, I tried to put 911 on the phone and everything. And here I am. I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything, or he’d’ve took everybody out.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know, man.