Death Penalty (20 page)

They took poor Becky away, first to have nitrate tests done to show if she had fired a weapon, then fingerprints, and then to the county hospital to discover any injuries, or lack thereof, that might later influence the case.

Stash assured me Becky would be inviolate from questioning unless I was present. His word, I knew, was good.

The medical examiner didn't spend much time on the body. He didn't have to.

He pulled off his latex gloves and smiled at me.

“You're getting faster, Charley. You didn't used to beat the cops to the scene in the old days.”

“New management techniques. Computers. They work wonders.”

He chuckled, then looked at Stash. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

Stash smiled, or what passed for a smile. “Go ahead. Charley probably knows more than we do anyway.”

The doctor shrugged. “Six shots, six hits. At a carnival she would have won a prize.”

“When you say ‘she' I presume you're just picking a convenient pronoun out of the air?” I asked.

“C'mon, Charley, this isn't a courtroom. I looked at the weapon. It's an old purse gun, .25 caliber, six shot clip. The old ladies' gun, as they used to call it. Hardly better than a BB gun.”

“It did the trick, though,” Stash said.

The doctor nodded. “Yeah. I won't know for certain until I cut him up but I think that one of those shots just over the right eye probably did the killing. Based on the angle, I think that puny little slug just flew right past the occipital cavity and blew out his brain stem. That's just a guess, but I'll find out.”

“The other five shots were for insurance,” Stash said, taking out a cigarette.

“Whatever. In any event, he's dead. I'll do the autopsy in the morning and fax a copy. The lab work will take longer. Any hurry on this one?”

“Not on my part,” Stash said, looking at me.

I shook my head. The doctor waved good-bye.

The detectives and the evidence men continued working as Stash guided me into the small kitchen.

He finally lit the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “What's the background here, Charley? There's no reason to hold back. I'll know everything by morning.”

He was right. I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Did you recognize her, Stash?”

“Sure. She's a waitress up at the inn. Lovely person.” He grinned. “And a hell of a good shot, too.”

“Howard Wordley, you obviously know.”

He nodded. “He's a fixture. I should say, was. I haven't gone to a benefit or a public party since I got up here that
he wasn't glad-handing the people. He sold a lot of cars that way.”

“Did you like him?”

Olesky shrugged. “Hey, he immediately knew I couldn't afford a Mercedes or any of his other fancy wagons so I became a nonperson. That's probably why I didn't burst into tears when I first saw him there dead in the chair.”

“Remarkable restraint.”

The meat wagon crew carried out their cargo, and most of the detectives, except a handful of technicians, had gone.

“So, Charley? Tell.”

“A few weeks ago Becky Harris came to my office. She wanted me to check on a complaint she had made to the police against Wordley. She claimed rape.”

Those eyes of his became a little less sleepy.

“You'll see the pictures, Stash. Wordley goddamn twisted her head off. Came within an inch of killing her. That's not my opinion, that came directly from your police doctors.”

“Who was the officer in charge?”

“Sue Gillis.”

“Sue's very good, very competent. What happened?”

I sighed. “Like most cases, there were a few flies in the ointment.”

“Like what?”

“Becky Harris was Wordley's lover. At first, he was taking her up to Port Huron, buying her dinner, and getting some good old motel passion in exchange for the turf 'n' surf.”

“Then?”

“Then old Howard decided that doing all that was a waste of time and money, so he insisted on a nice quick economical oral act of love in the inn's parking lot. No mess. No unnecessary time loss.”

“Ah, I admire an organized man. Then?”

“One night Becky somehow sensed that the romance had gone out of their relationship. She refused the usual service.”

“And that's when he twisted her head off?”

“Right.”

“She made a formal complaint?”

“She did. Wordley retained the famous Victor Trembly, the Clarence Darrow of Port Huron.”

“Getting him as your lawyer is an admission of guilt right there.” Olesky smiled.

“Anyway, after consulting with Trembly, Wordley said Becky was a prostitute and that he paid her twenty dollars for each service performed. He said, on the night of the injury, she wanted more money and that when he refused she came at him with a knife and that he strangled her to save his own life.”

“Had he been cut?”

“No.”

“No knife produced?”

“None.”

“So?”

“By the way, Becky had been arrested and convicted for accosting and soliciting in Cleveland ten years ago. She said it was a mistake and I believe her.”

He chuckled. “You would.”

“We went to consult with your new boss.”

“That asshole. If he even lasts until election, it'll be a miracle. What did that master intellect have to say?”

“Despite the photos and the rest of it, he would not issue a warrant, even for assault.”

“How come you didn't go to the papers, Charley, and take that asshole's skin right off?”

“I didn't need to. I painted a picture of every feminist in the county carrying cards and marching, coming down to the office to perform ritual castration.”

“They'd never find anything to cut, but go on.”

“He then agreed to prosecute, at least on assault.”

“So?”

“Wordley, coached by Trembly, sought out Becky and persuaded her—even gave her a ring—that he truly loved only her, and soon, he didn't say how soon, he would jettison the current Mrs. Wordley and then the two of them could drive through blissful life together in his always-newest model Mercedes.”

“And she believed him?”

“Must have. She dropped all charges.”

“Did you talk to her after that?”

“No.”

Olesky watched the last technicians pack up and leave. We were alone in the small house. Only a scout car and two bored officers sat watch outside. Someone had removed Wordley's Mercedes. A few people, even though it was late and the action was over, still hung around, watching from porches.

“What do you think happened here tonight, Charley? I mean, off-the-record?”

“Just two lawyers schmoozing, or are you trying to see what kind of a defense I might come up with?”

“A little of both.”

There was no harm in it, since I had no defense. Maybe talking might help me think up one.

“We both know that new lovey-dovey relationships, especially those inspired to keep one party out of jail, never work, generally, right?”

He nodded slowly.

“My guess is that things were coming apart and old Howard wanted to go back to the quick blow job routine.”

“So?”

“Tonight she said no, and remembering what happened the last time, she was afraid that this time she
would really be killed. As a precaution she stuck the old gun in her pocket, just in case. And, like a nightmare, it did start happening all over again. He spoke the same threatening words to her, and when he started to get out of the chair and come after her, she fired.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, as a matter of fact, she was too upset to really tell me what happened. This is strictly what I'm surmising happened.”

He walked into the little living room. There were a few bloodstains in the chair, the usual chalk marks and police tape, but everything else was just as it was. Of course, Wordley was gone, too.

“Let me give you my guess, okay?”

“Go ahead.”

He gestured at the room. “Hey, admit it. No signs of a struggle, no knife or other weapon laying on the floor or anything like that, right?”

He walked to the chair. “Wordley, as fat as Santa, you recall, was wedged into this old overstuffed chair. Except that he was dead, he looked happy as a clam to me. His little feet dangled, they didn't even quite touch the floor. I'm on the short side myself, so I notice things like that. In other words, Charley, he didn't exactly look like he was in midattack.”

He sighed, looking down at the chair. “Look, Becky Harris is a nice woman, aging but she still has that big dream, the dream of holding hands in the sunset with someone who loves her and takes care of her. Nothing wrong with that. A lot of women have that dream. Men too. Her problem is she hooks up with Wordley, who's a world-class user. But even knowing that, she tries to keep the dream alive. It happens all the time, Charley, we both know that.”

He slowly shook his head. “Even after he hurts her physically, she can't let go of that dream. So she goes on
seeing him, hoping somehow it will still all come true.”

He looked at the chair as if he could still see Wordley sitting there. “The way I see it, this little prick picks tonight to end the romance. He waltzes in here, sits right there and tells her they're through.”

Stash seemed almost lost in himself. “She probably would have accepted that, given time. If he said he was going back to his wife, or something like that. The dream would have been damaged but not destroyed, not crushed.”

He turned and looked at me. “I figure, and it's only a guess, that Wordley had another babe and that he announced this charming piece of news tonight. Probably a younger woman. Becky might even know her. Women who dream, at Becky's age, Charley, can turn dangerous no matter how soft or tender they might be inside. Getting tossed over is one thing, getting tossed over for a younger woman, that's the spark that ignites the dynamite.”

He looked again at the chair. “My guess is that she blew. No words, no tears, just fucking pure animal rage. She went to the bedroom, fished out the gun, and came back in here and blew his philandering ass away. She probably didn't say a word while she did it, just kept working the trigger.”

I laughed. I hoped it sounded genuine. “It's time you come out of the prosecutor's office and join us on the other side of the table. We're the story weavers, Stash. But frankly, for your sake, I hope you come up with something better than that by the time of the trial.”

He shrugged. “As I said, just a guess.”

It was as if he had talked to Becky Harris directly.

I was impressed. I hoped I didn't show it.

He walked me out.

“Nice night,” he said. “I'd invite you for a beer, Charley, except I know you don't drink.”

“How about coffee?”

He shook his head. “Not at this hour. I don't sleep so good as it is.”

The two scout car cops were watching us.

“Doesn't that bother you, Stash?”

“What?”

“Being seen talking with the opposition?”

“I'm honest, Charley. People know that. Judges, lawyers, most everybody. When you earn a reputation like that, it's like a shield. I can do things, talk to people, go places, and nobody even questions it.”

“You sure?”

He smiled. “Goddamn right, or I wouldn't do it.”

“What are you going to charge Becky with?”

“I won't know until later. Right now, it looks like first degree.”

“But—”

“If it's like I think it is and she stepped into the next room to get the gun, that's premeditation.” He smiled. “Anyway, it is for starters.”

He got in his car and started it.

“Keep your shield up, Stash.”

“It's always there.”

“Tell me, Stash, do I have a similar shield?”

He looked at me closely and then spoke.

“With me, you do. But, frankly, Charley, given your reputation, I'm in the minority.”

FIRE ALARM, SHIP SINKING, AIR RAID
. I couldn't tell which until I woke up. The ringing, of course, was my bedside phone. I glanced at my watch. It was just eight o'clock.

I lay there for a moment wondering if I had dreamed the whole thing. Perhaps Howard Wordley was on his lot selling the latest BMW to some Port Huron fat cat.
Maybe Becky Harris was working the morning shift at the inn, serving up tons of bacon and eggs. Life, Like coffee, perhaps was percolating right along for them both.

If it had been a dream it had been very real.

I picked up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Charley, this is Sue. I just got into the office. My God, what a terrible thing to have happen. The report says you were the first one on the scene.”

It was, obviously, no dream.

“Charley, they want to assign me to the case.” She sounded frightened.

“You work sex crimes,” I said, coming awake, “not homicides. Why?”

“Because of the previous case, the one Becky Harris dropped. They want me to work with Morgan and Maguire.”

I thought of the two old detectives, both retired from Detroit homicide, both looking and sounding like kindly grandpas, but both with the hunting instincts of cobras.

“I talked to Stash Olesky last night. I presume he's in charge of the case for the prosecutor?”

“Yes.”

“They're all good people, Sue. What's the problem?”

“I would think that was obvious.”

“In what way?”

There was the kind of pause that's often called pregnant.

“If you can't see the way, perhaps there isn't a problem,” she said sharply.

Although I knew it would offend her, I laughed. I couldn't help it.

“Look, it may be funny to you—”

I cut her off. “We are seeing each other, Sue. As long as everyone connected with the case knows that, I see no problem. Is that what you mean?”