Deception (16 page)

12

“A man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic. A fool takes in all the lumber he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out. For every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
A S
TUDY IN
S
CARLET

T
UESDAY
, N
OVEMBER
26, 3:00
P.M
.

I VISITED
Paul Frederick’s apartment, with Detectives Karl Baylor and Tommi Elam as my tour guides but found nothing helpful. The neighbors testified that Frederick would hang over the edge of his deck, spying on people with his binoculars. He’d often do it at night. This time he’d leaned too far.

Yeah, right.

As I waited for the elevator on the ground floor of the Justice Center, Clarence walked in the front door. I held the elevator for him and prepared him for our appointment by saying, “You can learn a lot about someone by studying their computer.” We exited on floor 14, entered detective division, and this time turned right, away from my workstation, to computer forensics. There we met Detective Julia Stager.

“The professor visited plenty of raunchy websites,” Stager said. “He thought he’d erased them, but we can pull up everything. Keep that in mind, gentlemen. There’s no such thing as a private moment.”

She handed me the list.

“Palatine searched for the kinds of things you’d expect a philosophy teacher to search for. And he also entered lots of names to search for phone numbers. Ninety percent of them were women’s. Sometimes he reverse searched, entering phone numbers to try to identify the name.”

“Someone he contacted might’ve had a motive,” I said. “Or a boyfriend.”

“Or husband or brother,” Clarence said. “Or father.”

“Given his indiscretions, he made some enemies.”

“The sites marked were in his favorites folder,” Stager said. “Here’s an unlikely one.”

“Bill’s Fountain Pen Page?” I asked.

“Yeah, and two sites about collecting fountain pens.”

Manny had told me he’d found a dozen fountain pens in Palatine’s office at the college and even more at his home, in a shoe box. Plus those three I’d found in his desk.

“Not many people use fountain pens anymore, do they?” Clarence asked.

“The professor did. Which means I’ve developed a keen interest in fountain pens.”

W
EDNESDAY
, N
OVEMBER
27

The next morning I asked Clarence to meet me at Lou’s at 7:30 a.m. before sitting in on his first detectives’ meeting at nine.

Before the pancakes and western omelets were served, and after Clarence had rolled his eyes at “Puff the Magic Dragon” and put in a request for the Supremes, I said, “There’s something you need to hear before you come to the meeting. I’ve been thinking about Paul Frederick. You know how he said the man at the door gave the professor something or was holding something up for him to look at, like a little poster?”

“Yeah?”

“I think he was showing him ID.”

“What kind of ID?”

“Well, who shows ID to gain entrance?”

“Cops?”

“Or FBI. Arson investigators. Someone associated with law enforcement. Not that long of a list.”

“Are you saying … the killer could be a cop?”

“Killers can be anybody with a motive, and cops have motives just like everybody else. If the guy was holding up ID and it persuaded the professor to let him in the door, it could’ve been a cop. Let’s go back to our original question of why someone would kill Frederick,” I said, as “Puff” gave way to “My World Is Empty Without You.”

“If he thought Frederick told us something incriminating. Or that he could?”

“Right. But what puzzled us is how would he know what he said to us?”

“He wouldn’t. It was just you, me, and him. Unless … a bugging device?”

“I considered that. But how would he know to plant one in the first place? How else could he find out?”

Clarence shrugged.

“Didn’t you take notes?”

“Sure, but nobody saw them. You playing ‘blame the journalist’ again?”

“You’re certain your editor didn’t see them? Carp? A custodian looking on your desk?”

“I keep them in my briefcase. It’s with me at all times.” Clarence pointed to his black leather case, which looked like it had come off the assembly line that morning.

“Do you take it with you when go to the bathroom?”

“Of course not.”

“Does it have a lock?”

“Yes. But—”

“You don’t use it, do you?”

“No reason to.”

“Unless you’re carrying eyewitness testimony in a murder case.”

“You think someone at the
Trib
is the murderer?”

“No reason they couldn’t be. I’ll grant you it’s unlikely. Unfortunately, there’s another possibility.”

“What?”

“I took notes too.”

“What did you do with them?”

“What I always do. Gave them to Mitzie in the secretarial pool so she could type them for me.”

“You think the typist is a killer?”

“This typist is sixty-four years old and weighs a hundred pounds. But someone could see it on her desk when she steps away. People pass by her desk all the time.”

“Not people off the street,” Clarence said. “It’s pretty high security.”

“I’ve thought about it. We’ve got custodians. Maintenance staff. Secretaries. And of course … cops.”

“You think …?”

“Mitzie types it into the system. She saves the file on the server. She e-mails it to me. And to top it off she gives me a hard copy. That’s how I like it. My notes of the Frederick interview might have sat for hours on Mitzie’s desk. But even if she typed them right away, one of the detectives could’ve accessed the file or hard copy.”

“But … one of the detectives?”

“Why not? Someone knows Frederick saw some things. They kill him to shut him up or keep him from remembering something critical. Dead men don’t pick you out in a lineup.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” Clarence said, leaning forward.

I got up and pressed a few more rose-colored buttons, invoking the artistry of Herman’s Hermits and the Dave Clark Five.

We no longer had to whisper once we were under the melodious strains of “I’m ’Enery the Eighth, I yam, ’Enery the Eighth, I yam, I yam.”

“It’s a hypothesis. Unfortunately, it’s holding up. Think about how much time this guy spent at the crime scene. Who would take that risk? But if a guy had his police monitor on, he’d know exactly when dispatch called for patrol. He could be out of the house in a heartbeat. Hey, even if he was found at the scene, he could tell patrol he heard it on his monitor and was nearby, so he came to check it out. If you’re a cop, you can do that.”

“But—”

“Consider the phone call to my house from the professor’s. My home phone’s unlisted, but all the homicide detectives have it. He uses official ID to get Palatine’s door open. He has access to the information Frederick gave us and knows he might ID him. He can enter Frederick’s apartment the same way we did—by showing his badge. Only a handful of people could’ve read my notes and learned what Frederick told us. And most of them are homicide detectives.”

“You really believe one of the detectives killed Professor Palatine?”

Hearing Clarence say it made it seem more real. More frightening.

“You have no clue how badly I want to be wrong.”

Clarence and I walked single file through detective division, since no aisle is wide enough to accommodate us side by side.

“Team meeting’s once a week,” I said. “We update each other on our cases. Compare notes. Helps to have a fresh perspective.”

“We do that at the
Trib
sometimes. Call in other reporters and pick each other’s brains.”

“That must be slim pickin’s.”

When we walked into the conference room, Detectives Brandon Phillips, Kim Suda, and Chris Doyle were already there. They were huddled, but the moment we entered, Doyle stood and headed for the coffee.

Tommi Elam walked in behind us, smacking her bubble gum louder than any forty-two-year-old should. Tommi’s chin and nose don’t quite match, but it’s a good chin and a good nose. She’s not beautiful, but she’s cute. A little sister type. She’s big sister to her partner, Karl, who’s ten years younger. Her gum cracking reminds me of a gangster’s girlfriend in a B movie. But she’s the most likable person in homicide.

Tommi walked toward Clarence. Heavy makeup surrounded her left eye, which was puffy and bloodshot. The lower eyelid showed underlying red and purple. I’d noticed this late last week. If it was still this bad, I’d hate to have seen it when it happened.

“I’m Tommi Elam,” she said to Clarence, sticking out her hand like she was chairperson of the homicide Welcome Wagon.

“Clarence Abernathy.”

“The columnist. That’s what I thought! That piece you wrote on volunteerism in the inner city?”

“Yes?”

“It was excellent.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“It’s great to have you here, Clarence. Let me know if I can do anything for you.” Tommi sat in front.

“She’s a compulsive liar,” I whispered to Clarence. “She’s in therapy.”

He gave me his look.

“Here comes Karl Baylor, Tommi’s partner,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll introduce himself to you. He’s a Christian, so you two might understand each other.”

“Clarence Abernathy, right?” Baylor said, smiling broadly. Ten seconds into the conversation he was calling Clarence “brother,” in the Christian sense I suppose, since Baylor’s white as I am. This guy pushes my buttons. He should either have something done to his teeth or stop smiling so much. He always has to let people know he’s a Christian.

“Don’t we have the greatest view of the city from up here?” Baylor gushed like a tour guide.

His voice irritates me. It’s like his diaphragm needs a larger outlet than his throat affords. It’s always spurting out words in loud, spasmodic bursts of dogmatism.

“Welcome to the inner sanctum, Clarence.” It was Jack Glissan, offering his hand. He waved to Noel, his partner, over by the concessions. “I’ll have a Sprite.”

“Sure,” Noel said, then looked at Clarence and me. “Get you guys a soda?”

“I’m good,” Clarence said.

“Coke,” I said.

“Coca-Cola?”

I nodded, smiling at the blend of personalities that make up our homicide department. I felt guilty for suspecting them.

Manny walked through the doorway, looking for a seat by himself. He took the second seat from Bryce Cimmatoni, which guaranteed the seat between them wouldn’t get taken. Who sits between two megagrouches?

Sergeant Jim Seymour stood behind the flimsy wooden podium. Things started to quiet.

“What’s he doing here?” Doyle asked, pointing at Clarence.

“You’ve probably heard,” Sarge said, “Clarence Abernathy is observing the William Palatine murder investigation. Part of the arrangement Chief Lennox made with the
Tribune
is for Abernathy to attend this meeting, but only while it’s pertinent to that case.”

“Great,” said Suda, with a fake good-natured tone.

“Yippee,” said Phillips, not bothering to fake the tone.

Tommi grinned and rolled her eyes at Clarence, like “this is the sort of stuff we have to put up with every day.” Her makeup under her tender left eye was wearing off.

“No offense,” I whispered to Clarence, “but cops are as fond of the media as a Frenchman is fond of deodorant.”

“So we’ll start with the Palatine case. Chandler?”

I handed out notes, summarized what we’d found, the limited lab results, witness interviews, the options we were considering. Naturally, I didn’t say what I was
really
thinking about the killer’s identity.

“Manny and I are open,” I said. “Suggestions?”

“It’s obvious,” said a face grooved by time and trouble. Cimmatoni’s jaw is so solid it doesn’t move when he talks. He looks as if he could bite off a steel rod like a pepperoni stick. His voice is huge, the sort ancient orators must have used to speak on hillsides to a thousand people. Too bad Cimmatoni usually says nothing worth listening to.

“What’s obvious?” I asked.

“It was a transient. A street person.”

“We know what a transient is,” I said. “Didn’t you say the same thing when the priest was murdered by that CEO?” That got two chortles, a guffaw, and a giggle.

“Transients are your default murderers, aren’t they, Cimma?” Doyle asked.

“Half our unsolved crimes are probably transients. Could be a gang member, but they’re too obvious. Probably four dozen transients with digs within a quarter-mile of that house. I’ll lay two to one on a transient.”

“I’ll put down twenty bucks,” I said.

He looked like he didn’t believe me, but I didn’t take it personally. He hadn’t believed anybody for a couple of decades.

Phillips was looking over the notes I’d handed out. “Why’d he turn blue?”

“The killer injected him repeatedly with ink,” I said. There was a low whistle and some grimaces. “Summary of the toxicology report’s on page three. Blue fountain pen ink.”

“Traceable?”

“We’re working on it.”

“The noose?” Sarge asked.

“A special rope sold in nautical supply stores, used mostly for tying boats. But unless it’s a recent purchase, or he used a credit card or made a cash purchase in a store where there’s a security camera …”

“Once you get a suspect,” Doyle said, “take his picture to boating stores.”

“A suspect would be nice,” I said.

“Transient,” Cimmatoni muttered.

“Rope important or just a diversion?” Suda asked.