FIRST CASE - Novella (McRyan Mystery Series Prequel) (8 page)

Mac looked at the crime scene photos and in particular the pictures of Oliver. He had this nagging impression that given how the murder took place, the killer didn’t really know what he was doing. It was as if there wasn’t a plan. The first blow to the back of Oliver’s head was with something strong enough to stun him and knock him over but, according to the coroner’s report, it would not have been enough to kill him or even do any real damage beyond stunning him. It was Oliver hitting his head on the bumper that was fatal and that wound appeared to Mac as if it happened by chance or luck or even possibly bad luck. It would have taken real talent to have known that hitting Oliver from behind would have caused him to fall and hit the bumper. If the killer went for revenge, he would have used a tire iron or a bat if the plan was to hit Oliver from behind. Neither the evidence at the crime scene nor the wounds to Gordon Oliver revealed the use of any such weapon. The killer may have brought and, it appeared at this point, probably left with the weapon used to hit Oliver in the back of the head. But in the end, there was a definite lack of viciousness to the murder. It was almost as if it happened by accident.

Mac kept thinking that the killer knew Oliver well. Knew his habits, his routines, where he liked to hang out. The killer knew, had to know, that Gordon Oliver was granted the privilege of parking in the back at The Mahogany. That he would be there, that he would come out the back. Given what they knew of Oliver thus far, it struck him that somehow his murder tied back to the law firm. These were the only people who seemed to know him really well.

“It must be the law firm,” Mac muttered.

“Why?” Lich answered. Mac was so engrossed in what he was doing he didn’t realize his partner was back.

“How long you been back?”

“About ten minutes or so there, partner. I’ve just been sitting here watching you. You were so intensely focused I didn’t want to interrupt. So why is it the law firm and not some spurned lover or the lover of a spurned lover?”

“I’ve spent the last two hours running through the case. The angry boyfriend, fiancé or husband theory doesn’t add up for me.”

“At least not yet,” Lich cautioned. “Given how prolific our guy is, I’m sure there is a woman he bedded that we’ve yet to uncover.”

“I’m not dismissing it completely,” Mac answered. “There could certainly be someone out there we are not aware of yet. But even with that, I don’t buy the angry boyfriend angle anymore.”

“Why not? Seems that’s the one thing he was doing that pissed people off.”

“True.”

“So why the firm and not some jilted lover or boyfriend or husband or ex-husband?”

“Because of where he was killed, Dick. He was killed by someone who knew his habits, where he went, when he went there and that he would park his truck behind the bar. At this point, the only people who know Oliver well enough to know those things are the people at the law firm. I’m just thinking it has to be someone there and Oliver knows something, has something on someone, maybe he saw something that made someone need to track him to the alley behind The Mahogany for some reason. We find that, we find our killer.”

Lich sat down in the chair next to Mac’s desk. “Let’s assume you’re right, which I’m not completely convinced that you are, but let’s say you are. That means going deep, much deeper at the law firm. You may know this better than I but at least in my experience, law firms do not give into something like that willingly.”

“No, they’ll fight us because it probably means us getting into e-mail, files and all that stuff lawyers and law firms like to claim privilege over although that’s a bunch of bullshit,” Mac answered derisively, looking at his watch. “Look, it’s after six now so we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get with the County Attorney’s office to evaluate our more involved access at the law firm. In the meantime, we can go back to Oliver’s apartment and see if we missed anything. Then we can cover our bases and go to The Mahogany.”

“I can’t wait,” Lich sighed.

M
ac cut the crime scene tape covering the door to Oliver’s apartment and he and Lich walked in. Mac carefully dropped a backpack containing a picture camera and video camera on the floor. They both pulled on rubber gloves.

“So what are we looking for?” Dick queried, his arms folded across his chest, looking around the apartment.

“We’ll know it when we see it,” Mac answered as he walked down the back hallway to the bedroom. When they’d been to Oliver’s place the day before, Mac had given only a cursory look to the bedroom. Now he wanted to take a longer look. If Oliver had something to hide, perhaps he’d have hidden it at home and, in the absence of a home office, the most likely place to hide it would be in his bedroom. Mac stood in the doorway, hands on hips, surveying the landscape.

The bedroom was square in shape, probably twelve-by-twelve, with a long walk-in closet in the far right corner, wrapping behind the bathroom in the hallway. The room itself contained a queen-sized bed, walk-in closet and small Ikea three drawer dresser and nightstand. Mac started with the nightstand, which had a drawer resting over two shelves. The drawer contained a box of condoms, a spare watch, two pens and the remote for the small television sitting on top of the dresser. Next he moved to the dresser. The top drawer was the sock drawer, half athletic socks and the other dress socks. Underwear occupied the middle drawer and white t-shirts in the bottom drawer. He searched through all the drawers but all they contained were socks, underwear and t-shirts.

Next was the closet. While dress codes had relaxed at law firms over the years, litigators still needed to be ready to go to court at a moments notice. Gordon Oliver was clearly ready if that were the case. The man was a suit horse. Mac had recently bought five suits for work to go with the five he already owned. He figured he’d use the suits and sport coats he had to have enough variety in clothes for the job. Oliver had him waxed.

There were eighteen suits, ten sport coats, twenty-five dress shirts and ten pair of shoes. The guy worked long hours, made good money and was unmarried. He spent a good chunk of his disposable income on clothes.

Mac checked the pockets on the suits, coats and pants and didn’t find anything of interest. There were three storage boxes on the shelves above the hanger rod. He pulled them down and searched them. One had athletic equipment, spikes, a softball glove, softballs and two baseball hats. Another box contained what looked like law school papers, two appellate briefs for moot court competitions, a series of Oliver’s resumes and cover letters.

Mac opened another folder and chuckled. It contained form rejection letters from law firms. It was a right of passage in law school. Mac and his law school buddies used to hang the rejection letters up on the wall. They all said the same thing. We thank you for your application, your credentials are extremely impressive and you will do well in your legal career—
just not at this law firm
. He put the letters back and moved to the third box which contained personal effects, some photographs and financial information on his law school loans. As he looked through it, Mac didn’t find anything of interest.

Mac checked the bathroom quick, looking under the vanity. Other than a box of condoms, spare towels and extra bathroom supplies, there was nothing of interest. Walking back towards the living area, Mac opened the hallway coat closet. Inside he found two trench coats, a ski coat and a brown leather jacket. There were tennis shoes and some additional casual shoes on the floor. A box on the top shelf contained a collection of winter gloves and hats. Leaning in the back corner were his golf clubs and a softball bat. Otherwise there was nothing of interest in the closet.

Lich was looking through the kitchen cabinets when Mac walked back in and sat at the kitchen table. “I didn’t find anything in the living room obviously,” Dick said. “The kitchen doesn’t have anything either. Heck, half the cupboards are empty. Oliver didn’t have much in the way plates, glasses, things of that nature.”

“Single guy who works all the time, not a surprise,” Mac said, looking under the kitchen table. “He didn’t care much about how his place looked, smelled or was organized. I mean, he’s got this dirty toolbox sitting under the table. I mean, what’s he even… need… a toolbox… for?” Mac stared at the box. “Could it be that simple?”

“What?” Lich said, seeing the look on Mac’s face.

“You have to use all the tools in the toolbox,” Mac mumbled as he flipped the metal clasps loose and opened the toolbox. A dusty tray sat in the top with a few screw drivers, wrenches, tape measure and hammer. Mac pulled the tray out and looked into the box itself. “Huh.”

“What?”

Mac pulled out a yellow folder that was clasped closed. “Grab the camera out of my backpack.”

Lich walked back to the door into the apartment and grabbed the backpack Mac brought along. Dick pulled out the camera and snapped three photos of the envelope. Mac then opened the top and slid the contents out onto the table. There was a computer flash drive and copies of a death certificate, driver’s license and other various papers. Mac read through the documents and a smile crept across his face.

“What do you have?” Lich asked.

“Yahtzee.”

A
t 10:03 p.m., Mac pushed into the interrogation room with Lich, sat down at the table and looked across at his suspect.

“Why am I here?” Michael Harris asked.

“You tell me, Michael,” Mac answered acidly, dropping a stack of paper down on the table in the interrogation room, “Or should I say Jordan. As in Jordan Paris.”

You could have knocked Michael Harris a/k/a Jordan Paris over with a feather.

“You look surprised. Wait until you see what
I found
,” Mac added with dramatic flair. “You know what they say. You gotta use all the tools in the toolbox.”

In Gordon Oliver’s toolbox, Mac found a binder clip of documents that showed Michael Harris was in fact Jordan Paris and that the real Michael Harris was dead and had been for eight years. McRyan and Lich spent the better part of the last four hours putting it together.

Jordan Paris, who was now sitting across the table from them, graduated from the University of San Diego School of Law cum laude eight years ago. In his final year of law school, as required in California, he submitted his application to the Committee of Bar Examiners for the State of California. To be admitted as a lawyer in California, the applicant must be shown to be of appropriate moral character for the practice of law. Jordan Paris had a felony drug conviction from his sophomore year in college when he was running with a bad element. A drug sale went sideways, there was gunfire and one person was killed. Paris didn’t shoot anyone, was largely in the wrong place at the wrong time, but ended up with six months of jail time and a felony conviction. After his jail stint, Paris re-dedicated himself to his schooling and managed to fight his way into law school. While worried about getting admitted to the California bar, he thought with his clean last four years and good grades, he’d be able to show evidence of reform and rehabilitation. Then in the summer between his second and third year of law school, Paris was arrested for driving while intoxicated. His application was rejected by the committee as he was viewed as lacking the moral character for the practice of law. He filed an appeal, which failed. He would not be admitted to the practice of law in California.

Paris met Michael Harris while in his second year of law school. Harris was attending Thomas Jefferson School of Law in San Diego. The two ran into each other in the law library at the county courthouse. Paris could tell right away, Harris was a loner. Yet they struck up a friendship. When Paris was down on his luck, with no job, even fewer prospects and almost no money, Harris offered him the couch at his apartment. One month later, Michael Harris was killed in a car accident.

At the time of his death, Harris was just starting his own law practice, running it out of a run-down job share office with four other young lawyers. Harris was an only child and both his parents were dead. He appeared to be a loner and few people seemed to notice that he passed. When he died and nobody seemed to be missing him, Jordan Paris made a calculation.

Jordan Paris became Michael Harris, proving the Committee of Bar Examiners for the State of California correct about Paris’s lack of moral character.

Paris assumed his friend’s identity, moved to Florida and was admitted to the bar. After three years practicing in Florida, he moved to Illinois for two years and then had been at KBMP for the last two years. At KBMP he became the model senior associate, working almost exclusively for Stan Busch, trying cases and putting himself on a potential path to partnership.

Harris impressed Oliver. So much so that Gordon Oliver called a friend of his named Jane Phipp, who worked the career center at the Thomas Jefferson School of Law. Oliver raved to Phipp about Harris, how personable he was and what a good lawyer and mentor he was. Phipp related to Mac that she said to Oliver that she didn’t remember Michael Harris in that way and the two of them did a little more talking and corresponding and they realized they were not talking about the same person.

Oliver did what good young lawyers do, research. Mac had to hand it to him. Gordon Oliver pretty much had it all and was dead on based on what Mac and Lich had dug up in the last three hours.

Mac laid it all out on the table for Paris.

“This is not what you think, detective,” Paris pleaded. “I did not kill Gordon Oliver.”

“I don’t know, Jordan,” Mac replied casually. “It seems to me like you’ve got huge motive to have done so. Oliver figures out you’re not who you say you are, that you’ve assumed Michael Harris’s identity and that you’ve been practicing law under his name. He confronts you about it a day or two ago, threatening to expose you to the firm, the authorities and anyone else who would be interested. I mean, you’re finished but good. Before he does that, before he reports you, maybe he offers you some sort of alternative. Maybe he’s worried about the damage it will do to the firm, so he gives you the chance to come clean or maybe just leave town, a little get out of jail free card. Whatever it was, it doesn’t work for you. So you went to The Mahogany to confront him.”