by John Misak
piss off. He ran with an elite crowd on that list, but I figured he would probably laugh if I ever told him about it.
When we walked into the room, Jacob was busy listening to interrogation tapes from another case. Jacob did this for two reasons. One, if he heard anything really out of line, he notified Geiger. And two, he had an uncanny ability to notice slight changes in the tone of someone’s voice, and could tell they were lying. He’d give this information to the detectives, and they’d go and press the witness or suspect further on that subject. It worked pretty well, and a lot of us wondered how the hell Jacob did it.
He turned around when we walked in the room, acknowledged our presence, and turned back to his equipment. Speaking of his equipment, my earlier descriptions were only physical. His stuff looked like common consumer electronics, but he had overhauled just about all of it, to the point that I wouldn’t even dare to try and listen to a CD on his system, for fear that I might cause the Russians to launch a nuclear attack on Antarctica, or something like that.
Bach played softly on the small portable unit he had in the corner. I knew it was Bach because I had made the mistake of saying the same song was by Mozart the week before, and Jacob went into a long lecture about the differences between the two men, ranging from height, food preference, to their music. He was quite a knowledgeable guy, Jacob, but most of his expertise fell into what I considered useless knowledge.
Geiger flipped Jacob the tape when he turned back around. “Pop this in, and let me know what you think of its quality.”
“It’s an answer machine tape,” Jacob said.
“Yes it is. The one with what we think are Ron Mullins’ last words.”
That fact made Jacob hurry a little. As a computer buff, he knew of Ron Mullins. Anyone who had a computer on his or her desk knew the man’s work. Someone with an affinity for computers either saw him as a hero or villain, depending on their operating system preference.
“You want computer analysis, or just a quick judgment on whether or not it’s been tampered with,” Jacob asked.
“I don’t think it’s been tampered with,” Geiger said. He paused for a moment, then said, “Better check it,” he added.
Jacob played the tape, both through two little speakers on his desk, and the headphones he perpetually wore on his head. The band was nearly invisible in his thick hair, but the earpieces were huge, covering his ears and almost all of his sideburns.
While we listened to the tape, I tried to concentrate on the sound of Mullins’ voice. From what I know about suicides, when the person has come to the conclusion that they are going to kill himself, they become calm, comforted. There is no distress in their demeanor. But, then again, I hadn’t spoken to, or heard the recorded voice of, a suicidal person who has made the final decision. My gut, however, told me that Ron Mullins’ distressed voice did not belong to a suicidal man but instead a scared one, perhaps a little angry, too. Definitely angry, I thought. And I wanted to know why.
“I’m doing it to help undo the damage to what Dad started,” Geiger said, when the tape finished. “That’s the most important part of the whole tape. You guys get anything on that yet?”
“No,” Rick said. “We haven’t gotten the chance.”
“That part bugged me too. If we find out what that is, we have almost everything we need, in a sense,” I said.
Geiger nodded in agreement. “We have to find out what his father was in to.”
“Mullins’ father founded the business,” Jacob said, taking the headphones off. “They started in the late sixties making computer components out of a warehouse on the east end of Long Island. From there, they decided to custom build mainframes and desktops, but the market really wasn’t ready yet. Sam Mullins then decided to take on a partner, for financial reasons. Holden Chapman, a Wall Street broker, became interested in Sam’s company, and the two became partners sometime around Watergate. They fought often, but they ran one hell of a company. Mullins saw the declining profits in hardware by the early eighties, and decided to go into the software end. He groomed Ron as a computer programmer, and the kid produced at the age of seventeen, coming up with an office suite that, with only simple code changes, could run on both an Apple and a PC. Apple was still a force to be reckoned with during the mid-eighties, mainly because so many people had bought them, and the cycle of buying a new computer every two years hadn’t developed yet. People thought they would keep their computers forever. Sam Mullins brought innovations to almost every aspect of computer software, from fighting piracy to Internet encryption, all with the help of his son’s expertise. Both Sam Mullins and Holden Chapman died within two years of each other, both by heart attack, leaving Ron, and Holden’s son, Harold, in charge of the business.”
Like I said, the man knew a lot, and if not for the fact that I worked on this case, I would find all of his information useless. But, he did save me a lot of research with that diatribe. I looked over at Rick, who had been jotting all of this down, trying to keep up like a student trying to take notes in a fast-talking teacher’s class. I wondered if he was going to raise his hand and ask Jacob to repeat part, or all of what he said.
“Impressive,” Geiger said. “What do you know about Chapman?”
“Not too much. He really didn’t start taking an active interest in the business until after Sam Mullins died, and his father’s health started to deteriorate. He handles much of the corporate aspect of the company, though it has been reported that Mullins is even better at that part.”
“How do they get along, compared to how their fathers did?”
“Pretty well, from what I have read. I think they learned from watching their fathers argue all the time.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Where’s the partner?” Geiger asked.
“In Amsterdam. Expected home tomorrow.”
“Damn. I’m sure I’ll hear from his lawyers soon too. This is getting more and more difficult.”
I had nothing to say to that.
“What do you think?” Rick asked Geiger.
“About the tape?”
“About whether it came from a suicidal man, or not,” Geiger said.
“Tough one to call. Evidence points either way. On the surface, it sounds like a suicide note, but there seems to be something else lying underneath. It could be nothing.”
“How do you want us to investigate? Should we go in with the assumption that this was a suicide, and try and prove that, or should we look for another angle?”
“Don’t go in assuming anything. And keep your eyes open for all angles. Once you speak to the partner and the wife, some things should become a little clearer. Or, if our luck continues, everything will get even cloudier.” He looked to Jacob. “Make me two copies of that tape. I want to send one to the Captain, and keep the other for myself.”
“No problem.”
Geiger walked toward his office. “Don’t forget, I want a report from you two as soon as possible. And get over to Mrs. Mullins’ house. I want you to try to get something out of her, even if the lawyer is present. No one’s telling me how to run my department.” He meant Agnelli, I figured.
“Yes, sir,” Rick said.
I moved over toward Jacob. “Make me a copy too, okay?”
“Sure.” He pulled me closer. “This is no suicidal man. Trust me on that. I know what that sounds like.”
I didn’t ask how he knew. “Any way you can get more out of that tape? Ambient sounds that might lead to a better understanding of the accident?” I asked.
“I was just about to do that.”
I tapped my cell phone. “Call me as soon as you find out. And tell no one about it until you speak to me.”
He nodded.
Rick, still busy jotting things down into his trusty notepad, looked up. “What should we do first, the report or the visit to Mrs. Mullins?”
“Well, the report will have a lot more information in it after we speak to her, won’t it?”
�
�Yes.”
“Then we might as well get all the information we can.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“And one thing,” I said as he pulled the keys from his jacket, “I’m driving.” I snatched the keys out of his hand.
“Jesus,” he said.
“He ain’t got nothing to do with it.”
Six
This drive was more tolerable than the others. I drove. I didn’t drive too often, mainly because I didn’t have a car. Didn’t need one. Most New Yorkers, city people I mean, will expound on the lack of a need for a car like they were talking about their kid. Sure, cars are really the most important status symbol in America. Forget houses, Rolex watches, Hugo Boss or Canali suits, the car is the epitome of status symbols. Judging from the automobile I drove, I was a nobody, but I borrowed a personality from time to time. A cop personality, but a personality nonetheless.
When I did get the chance to drive, I drove at insane speeds. I tailgated, wove in and out of traffic, and rarely, if ever stopped at stop signs or red lights. People may attribute this to my being a cop, and being able to get away with it. Not true. I drove like that before I became a cop, and putting on the badge didn’t change things, for better or worse. That’s how I drove. I couldn’t wait until I became an old man. No one likes an insane-driving old man. Well, no one likes old men at all, but I think my point is clear. If it isn’t, go into your toolbox, take out the hammer, and smash it just above your eyeball. That
