by Wayne Zurl
“So,” I said, wanting to hasten my flushing out process, “in declining your offer of career advancement, I ask you again to remember how I mentioned my suspicious nature earlier in our conversation. Before Travis’s visit to my office, and before your kind invitation to lunch, I accumulated oodles of suspects to consider. I don’t see many strong motives yet, but plenty of people to think about seriously. Now I ask myself new questions, and I ask them of you, too, sir. Did Travis have a reason to kill his father? A grandson is certainly someone to be protective of, isn’t he? You seem like a man who is very loyal and protective of his family.”
The Judge folded his arms, tucked his chin to his chest and looked up at me through his white eyebrows.
“At first impression,” I said, “Travis doesn’t seem to have the balls to kill a rabid skunk, but I’ve met other nonassertive people who killed someone for what they perceived to be the right reason. What would you think, Judge? You’re sitting in your chambers, and I’m asking for a legal opinion from a smart and experienced jurist. Do I have at least a reasonable suspicion here?”
“Sam, you’re backing me into a corner now,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Yes, of course, you’re right about Travis—not that he’s a killer, but he lacks the gumption God gave most men. Yes, you have a right to be suspicious about him, but I know you’re wrong. You’re no fool, so I won’t insult you and deny that I’d protect one of my own. Most men would, and I can do it better than most. If Travis killed Cecil, I’d probably throw the young fool a party. But Travis didn’t kill his father—move on.” He sniffed and shifted in his seat. “Next question.”
“I think we’re all in agreement that Cecil’s death is no loss,” I said, “to his family or to the world at large. But it’s also damned convenient at the moment for your daughter. If I were Pearl, I might be thankful someone took the bull by the horns and terminated one of my biggest headaches. My second person of interest today becomes Billy Joe here.”
Billy stiffened in his chair. The Judge slid a hand over the coffee-table top and placed it on the surface, closer to his assistant at the opposite end of the sofa. Billy relaxed a little.
“In your own words, sir, ‘He’s like a son to me.’ So why wouldn’t an adopted son help his surrogate father when help was needed most and the task seemed relatively simple?”
The Judge smiled a little, shook his head and said, “You think I had Billy Joe kill Cecil? Sam, I hope you’re not someone who puts much stock in ‘conspiracy of evil’ theories. If you were, I’d be disappointed.”
A good trick, I thought—make someone’s question seem stupid, and they might back off. But it’s only good if it works, and it never does on me.
“Your Honor, I wouldn’t be a good candidate for sheriff if I didn’t think of all the possibilities, would I?”
“Ha, ha, ha. Sam, you’re something else, you surely are. Well, good, good for you.”
Only three laughs. Had I lost my comedic appeal? Maybe not, he still smiled and looked cordial enough. Billy Joe, on the other hand, seemed not to like me at all.
I uncrossed my legs and sat forward in my chair.
“Your Honor, again I’ll say that I enjoyed meeting you both. I thank you for a pleasant and interesting afternoon, an excellent lunch and a most flattering and generous offer. I just can’t accept that sortie into the world of politics. It’s not my style.”
The Judge kept his smile even after I declined his offer.
“I also have to be honest and tell you that in my own way, I’ll continue to discreetly investigate this homicide. I would feel remiss if I didn’t. The director of the TBI will have to arrest me to stop that. But I doubt he could find a good excuse for doing so. I’d also be lying if I told you that I’ll forget what your daughter has done. I tend to have a long memory, and I may even harbor a grudge.”
Tipton’s friendly grin changed to a disquieting frown.
“However, I don’t let those hard feelings influence my decisions, and I don’t act on them with rancor. If I find the killer, I may have no reason to tell the world about Cecil Lovejoy. In that case, you have my promise, I will not.”
I stood up. So did Billy Joe.
Still seated, the Judge began laughing again. “Ha, ha, ha, ha. Lord have mercy, Sam, you are one straightforward and honest son-of-a-bitch. Honest to a fault.” Using his cane, he got to his feet. “It was my pleasure, Sam. Truly a pleasure. I’m sorry we couldn’t do business. Sorry for several reasons—not all of them selfish on my part either. If you don’t care, I’d like to do this again sometime. You’re good company, and I like to listen to a man who won’t pander to an old politico like me. I respect you, Sam. I surely do. You be careful out there.” He extended his hand.
He even gave me a friendly tap on the leg with his cane and told me to take care of myself.
What could he mean by, ‘Be careful out there’? It was a local expression. Or had he meant watch my back?
It would have been easier to just tell him what he wanted to hear and then go about my business as I saw fit.
Someday, I’ll stop at the Home Depot and buy a gallon of common sense.
Billy Joe and I walked to the front door. He opened it for me with all the courtesy of a diplomat. I looked at him, smiled, pointed my index finger at him and let my thumb fall like the hammer of a gun. Something Philip Marlowe called the gunmen’s salute.
Billy surprised me by offering his hand. We shook again. He didn’t try to crush me in his grip that time.
Instead he told me, “Good to meet you, sir. You were very nice to the Judge. Thank ya.”
Had Billy Joe Elam been sincere? Did that big, humorless guy like me? Or had he, too, implied to watch my ass because when next we met it wouldn’t be on such friendly terms?
I got back into the Crown Victoria. With the car still reasonably cool from the shade of the old oak tree, I switched on the ignition. It didn’t blow up, so I started the drive back to Prospect.
I had consumed a generous glass of scotch and two large glasses of wine, but I felt no effects from the alcohol. The underlying tension of my afternoon with Minas Tipton dissipated the warm glow I would normally be experiencing and left me wanting another stiff drink.
It was only four o’clock, so I’d return to work. It’s a good thing Bettye is nice to me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I hung my coat on the back of the office door and, like a little kid returning from a visit to Grandma’s, violently pulled off my tie to get some breathing room. I walked out to Betty’s desk and just stood there for a long moment. The silence seemed too much for her.
“Well? What happened when you met the Judge?”
“You know anything about a doctor named Faust?”
“No, I sure don’t.”
“How about a guy named Mephistopheles?”
“Good Lord.”
“A long time ago, a man named Goethe wrote a story about this Doctor Faust who met Mephistopheles. Later in the story, we learn that Mephistopheles is actually the devil, and he tries to tempt Faust with an offer of power and knowledge if he sells him his soul. Well, my dear lady, your man, Chief Faust, here, just met and ate lunch with old Judge Mephistopheles. It’s a good thing my heart is pure, and my soul isn’t on the auction block.
She tilted her head in a questioning way.
“Of course, it helps that I’m too damned lazy and don’t want to be the county sheriff.”
My last statement seemed to shock Mrs. Lambert.
“What do you mean ‘be the sheriff’?” she asked.
“He told me the sheriff’s job would be available in the near future. If I cooperated by leaving this murder investigation to the TBI, he’d say the word, and I’d be elected. How do you like them apples?”
“I’m afraid to ask, but what did you say?”
“I was polite, as usual.”
She made a face at that notion.
“And I declined.” I pointed an accusing finger at her.
“You really didn’t think I’d roll over and take a political job rather than doing my sacred duty, did you?”
She waited a long moment before answering. “Sam, I’m proud of you. I really am. I’m not sure many people would have done that. I am so proud of you.”
I’ve noticed when Bettye gets emotional her eyes take on an almost liquid appearance. It’s touching.
“That’s how I get to be every girl’s hero,” I said. “And besides, I like it here. I’m getting used to you as my partner. And why would I want to move into Maryville?”
She didn’t answer, so I moved away from my rhetorical question.
“Hey, something’s bothering me here.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Yesterday Travis told me he received reliable information that we were still investigating Cecil’s murder. He specifically said we were speaking with people. When you called the county court for the transcripts of that class action suit, one of the court clerks may have gotten word to the Judge. But how did anyone learn we were interviewing people? I doubt one of the women would complain. Or would they?”
Bettye shook her head and half shrugged.
“I’d also like to know how Judge Tipton knew so much about me—my background, from many years ago. He said Sergeant Elam did a background investigation. It would have taken Elam a month to collect the amount of knowledge he had unless someone gave him access to things I submitted with my application for this job. Do you think Ronnie would have sold me down the river if the Judge whistled?”
Bettye’s eyes widened, and she looked a little shocked.
“Oh, Sam, Ronnie Shields is such a nice man. I wouldn’t think he could do that. Do you really?”
“I don’t know what to think, kiddo. I would hope not. But, he’s a politician. I’d trust my medical insurance people before I’d bet on the integrity of a politician. How about Trudy Connor? She had access to my personnel file. Or Buck Webbster? He came out of the woodwork again and probably still has connections in this building. He owes someone for getting him off the hook in court.”
“I just don’t know what to say.”
“I guess any one of the City Councilmen could get that information to the old man. This kind of thing makes me wonder about this place.”
“Sam, I am so sorry. I hate to see this happen. I just hate it.”
“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll watch my back. Remember, as my good friend Woody Allen once said, ‘I’m not afraid of dying—I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’”
“What?”
“Oy, you should ask.”
She made another face at my Yiddish accent.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Sam, but do you mind if I say something?”
“Talk away. I rarely get angry when someone’s being honest.”
That was a lie, but I’m sure it made her feel better.
“I think you’re enjoying all this,” she said. “I think you like sparring with these heavyweights. You’re looking forward to beating them at their own game. It seems as important as finding the killer. Am I right?”
I took a moment to think about what she said. She may have been correct. Slipping back into a groove with me against the bad guy came naturally. And I couldn’t deny beating people like that would be fun.
“You could be right,” I said. “Some people who know the human psyche better than I have said I’m an adrenalin junkie. Years ago, I enjoyed bumping heads with nasty people. It seemed like a game to me. Maybe I am enjoying it now and shouldn’t be.”
“How about another question?” she said.
“Fire away.”
“You retired after twenty years. That’s a lot of time, but cops who get the good jobs stay around longer. You had a few good assignments. Why did you retire when you were only forty-six?”
“You’re asking a bunch of questions. Did that detective job go to your head?”
“You said I could.”
“Yes, I did. Okay, I’ll tell you my story. It’s long, so if you want a soda or something, now’s the time.”
She smiled and said, “I’m fine, an’ jest a-waitin’ ta hear what ya got ta say.”
“You don’t always speak with that much accent.”
She smiled again.
I shifted in the chair and got comfortable. “When I started out as a cop, I had intentions of staying on board for thirty-five years and collecting my three-quarters pay. But things didn’t turn out that way. I loved my first sixteen years. Then I started working for someone I ended up hating.”
My story got interrupted when the radio squawked.
“Five-zero-nine ta headquarters. I got a pickup of a minor 10-10 at the Git-n-Go parkin’ lot. No PI and no need for a wrecker. This is information only,” Harley Flatt said.
“10-4, five-oh-nine. I’ll put you 10-28,” Bettye answered.
She turned from the radio, smiled, and I continued.
“I used to work for what the newspapers called the highest paid police department in the United States. I could have fun and make a good salary at the same time. I always thought I was worth the money, but I’m prejudiced and egotistical.”
“You egotistical?” she said. “Surely not.”
“Don’t get smart. I do the jokes around here. Anyway, recently I’ve thought about one of the last things that happened to me before I retired, and it makes me wonder why I wanted to do this cop thing again.”
Bettye sat there, tapping a pencil eraser on her desktop, listening to my story.
“I set a record in New York State. As far as I know, it still stands. But with inflation and changing times, that may no longer be true. I could check, I suppose, but I’m not sure I really care. I was sued for two-hundred-million dollars. That’s millions, with lots of commas and zeros.”
“Lord have mercy.” She blinked several times. “I wouldn’t want that hangin’ over my head every mornin’.”
“Yeah, it sucked, but I wasn’t alone at the time. Two of the detectives who worked for me were also named in the suit. I came into the litigation as their supervisor—the guy responsible for them and the one who sanctioned their actions. Not to be left out, the list of respondents included the county executive, the police commissioner and everyone down the chain of command to the night janitor who emptied our trash baskets.”
“I guess somebody had a hungry lawyer,” she said.
“Yeah, Shakespeare hit it on the head.”
“What?”
“First thing we do, is kill all the lawyers.”
“Do you read Shakespeare?” she asked, aghast and wide-eyed.
“Not since I was a kid. Anyway, those big guys on the list were glad my two cops and I kept notes, had all our ducks in a row and knew how to testify in court. More than a hundred of the original 170 specifications were thrown out at the first examination-before-trial. Then, nineteen months and many depositions, hearings and court appearances later, the presiding judge dismissed the remainder of the charges with an apology to me and Detectives Martinez and McGovern.
“After that, our pensions, personal bank accounts and reputations were safe and sound. And my great metropolitan police department, the tenth largest in the country to be exact, was spared the expense of an unforeseen operating cost. I’m sure they could put the cash to better use—like a cocktail party for the chiefs.”
“Why did someone sue you?” she asked.
“The lawyer called it a violation of civil rights. That was a load of manure, but they tried going after us in state court rather than the usual way, through the Feds, because the plaintiff’s father, a real windbag with political horsepower, thought he could score easily in the county. He was wrong, and that’s one of the reasons I hate doing business with these petty politicians.”
“Oh, Sam. That’s awful. I’m so sorry,” she said, showing lots of compassion.
I had a great listener, so I kept my story going. “When I think back, I remember the brass at headqu
arters looking at me with an almost frightened look in their eyes. I had upset the apple cart. I was a nice guy, and a good cop, but during that ordeal I shouldn’t have expected any support or backing. It just wasn’t done.”
“They sound like lovely people.”
“They were a breed all their own. The only guy on my side—our side—was an over-the-hill, assistant county attorney who handled civil suits, notices-of-claim and wrongful death cases, most of which got settled out of court. After all that, I decided to retire with a bad taste in my mouth.”
“If that hadn’t happened, would you have stayed longer?”
“Probably. Who knows? But for my last four years, I worked for an imbecile, a guy who thought his law degree made him smarter than the rest of the world. But he wasn’t even a pimple on a good cop’s ass.”
She made a face at my remark, and another radio call came in.
“Five–eleven, headquarters. I’m 10-29 from that neighbor dispute.”
“10-4, five-eleven. Your number for paper is, 06-2349.”
“10-4,” Lenny Alcock said.
“Sorry about the pimple,” I said, “but it’s true. One pleasant thing happened though. I saw him get the sack a week before I retired. He had an appointed rank of deputy commissioner, so he was a free agent of sorts and could get canned at the pleasure of the county executive. And he did.”
“That made you feel good?” she asked.
“You bet. But I put in my papers anyway because I was tired and disillusioned with everyone and everything except the people I worked with. They were a good, loyal bunch. If I walked in one day and said, ‘Whoops, I think I just killed someone,’ any one of them would have said, ‘I’ll get a shovel, boss.’ They were a good bunch.”
“Good working with people you can trust.”
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“Thank you for telling me that, Sam. I hope you didn’t mind.”
“No, I didn’t mind. You’re my new partner, right?”
“I certainly am. And proud of it.”
“Good, I’m glad. You’re a good cop.”
I left Bettye to finish up the last of her day’s work and retreated to my office. I sat down and reconsidered the miserable idea I had a few minutes earlier. I knew my paranoia had slipped into high gear when I thought Bettye might have given my personal information to Judge Tipton.
I told her that story because she’d be the only one other than my wife to know about it. If something ever came back to me, I’d know from whom.
