Misjudged

by James Chandler

  “Why no, he did not.” She returned the smile. “Why are you interested? As I recall, you recently told me you probably weren’t ‘the right guy.’ Has something changed?”

  “My sources tell me he is a veteran. That could change the calculus.”

  “A veteran who maybe killed a lawyer.”

  “He hasn’t been arrested. And even if he ever is, the correct phraseology will be that he allegedly killed a lawyer—remember?” She smiled, so he continued. “And I’ve already told you I’m not going to represent the guy. I’d just like to talk with him, kind of on the down-low. My motto regarding vets is, ‘Give all you can, and then give some more.’”

  “He was fun, you know?” she said. “I remember him going off to the Marines and everything. Then I remember hearing he got hurt. Then he got back to town and, well, you know. . .”

  “No, I don’t. I’m not a local, remember?”

  “Well, he got back from the war and it’s just been one thing after another. Drinking, drugs, fighting—they say he’s just different. Poor Becky. It’s that way with a lot of these guys. We’ve been sending men and women over there for almost a generation.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry.” The silence grew uncomfortable. Sam was trying to figure out how to get access to the accused.

  “Janitors are invisible,” he mused.

  “What’s that?” Veronica asked.

  “Nothing,” Sam said. He wiped his mouth. “Just talking to myself. Interested in dessert?”

  22

  “Jensen, where the hell are you?” Punch asked. He’d finished his initial questioning of Olsen, and had him on ice.

  “I’m a coupla blocks off Main Street,” Jensen responded. “I’m waiting on a search warrant.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, near as I can tell, the landlord and tenant got into a dispute over the tenant not paying his rent or utilities.”

  “Sounds normal.”

  “Yeah, but here’s where it goes off the tracks: the landlord got tired of this guy not paying his utilities, so he cut the power to his apartment.”

  “Okay,” Punch said. Local landlords called the technique “self-help.”

  “So, the tenant, he snakes a power cable through his bedroom window, fires up his 2kw camping generator, and—voilà!—he’s got power.”

  Punch couldn’t help but smile. “So?”

  “Well, that was fine as far as it went, but because the apartment was in a four-plex, it wasn’t very long before the neighbors got tired of hearing the generator running.”

  “I can see that,” Punch said.

  “Yeah, so they tried to get the tenant to cease and desist, but he told them to get screwed.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yup. So, apparently, our guy was in his house smoking a little of the evil green weed, which I’m not sure really bothers the neighbors, but given his un-neighborly ways, they called us. We got here and the guy wouldn’t let us in.”

  “So, what’d you do?”

  “Well, we started talking with the guy’s mom, who answered the door. She took a swing at me, so we arrested her.”

  “Good.”

  “Then the guy’s brother and girlfriend drove up, so I went to speak with them, and they were drunk, so I busted her for DUI and him for possession, because he had a warrant out for his arrest. When I did the search incident to arrest, he had a little baggie of weed with him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah, except that when I was taking the brother into custody, he got to scuffling with me, and the dog he had on a leash bit me!”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “Yeah. So, we’ve arrested the guy’s mom, brother, wife, and dog.”

  “It’s like a George Jones song!”

  “I know, right? I think I’m okay, but the dog ruined my boot. Got teeth marks in it.”

  “Okay, well, hang tight and await that warrant. I’ll take care of things at this end.”

  “Wilco, boss. We spoke with the landlord, turned off the tenant’s unapproved power source, and are just waiting to search the house and arrest the dude.”

  “Okay. Keep me posted and be safe!”

  “Roger.”

  “Paul, what’s the matter?” Jeannie asked. “You’ve been short with the boys and short with me. I feel like you’re never home, and even when you are, you sit and look at your damned phone and ignore us.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just a little concerned.”

  “Talk to me, Paul. What is it?”

  “Well, with the oil and gas industry tanking, business is down. I’ve got secretaries looking at taking jobs with the state and county, because God knows they don’t have to worry about their overhead. Sonsabitches pay outrageous salaries and don’t give a thought what it does to guys like me. I just . . . I just don’t know how much longer I can continue to do this.”

  “Paul, we’ve been through this before. We’ll make it through this. We always have.”

  “Well, maybe,” Paul allowed. “But when is it going to get easy? I see people every day who have so much more than we do, who have worked so much less. It isn’t fair, damn it!”

  “Well, of course not. But just like you tell the boys, ‘Life isn’t fair.’ Right?”

  “I know, but goddammit, I’m getting tired of busting my ass just to put a roof over our head. At some point, don’t I have a right to enjoy my life?”

  “I thought you did. Enjoy your life, I mean.” She picked up a magazine and thumbed through it.

  “You know what I mean, Jeannie. I’m just saying that it’d be awful nice to be able to run my office without having to worry about making ends meet. And now, on top of everything, word is Sam is sniffing around, thinking about taking on that murder case.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Jeannie said. “He’s got to know that would damage your practice.”

  “I’m not so sure he gives a shit,” Norquist said.

  “Oh, Paul, I’m sure he does. After all you’ve done for him . . .”

  “He’s not like he was twenty years ago. He’s a different man nowadays. In fact, I’m not sure what he cares about.”

  23

  Tommy slumped in a tiny plastic chair, which, along with an identical chair and a gray metal desk, were the only pieces of furniture in the room. The walls were masonry, with a gray metal door at one end and a one-way window along the side. He looked around and shifted uncomfortably in the chair, awaiting Punch’s return. On the other side of the glass, Punch watched Tommy while he spoke on the phone with Jensen, who had called and demanded to speak with him.

  “Polson.”

  “Boss, we got more!” said Jensen.

  “More than the bayonet? What?”

  “This guy visited the emergency room on the Sunday morning after our victim got it.”

  “What was wrong with him?” Punch asked, feeling his stomach tighten.

  “Had a cut on his finger. Told the doctors that he had cut himself slicing limes,” said Jensen. “Docs say it took seven stitches to close a cut on his finger.”

  “Good job, Jensen. I’m about to talk to our boy right now. Let’s see what he has to say.”

  Tommy looked up from the chair when Punch entered the room. Punch walked over to the little plastic chair, and as he sat down, he extracted a small voice-activated tape recorder from his pocket.

  “Am I under arrest?” Tommy asked.

  “Not yet. You’re still free to leave at any time,” Punch responded. “I just want to ask you a few more questions. You still okay with me recording what we say here?”

  “No problem,” Tommy said.

  "Okay, we’re back on the record. Today is November 27. It is 1235 hours, and my name is Kenneth Polson. I am a detective sergeant with the Custer Police Department. I am in room number five with Thomas Olsen, whom I am questioning about the circumstances surrounding the death of Emily Smith. Mr. Olsen has agreed to answer questions and understands
that he is not under arrest and is free to leave at any time.” Looking at Tommy, Punch asked, “Mr. Olsen, did I accurately state all that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I’d like to ask you a few more questions, if you are okay with that.”

  “Sure. Like I said, anything I gotta do to get out of here.”

  “Okay, so, you knew her professionally?”

  “Yeah. I already told you that.”

  “Did you know her personally?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been in her house?”

  “No.”

  Tommy was not a good liar. “You sure?”

  “Well, maybe once or twice.”

  “Ever sleep with her?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Olsen, I’m going to advise you to be honest with me. Are you sure that you’ve never slept with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe you can explain why your DNA is in her.”

  “Say what?”

  “We found semen in her. Ran a check and it’s yours.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “No, I’m not. Remember when you were at Parris Island and they ran that cotton swab around the inside of your mouth? Well, they were collecting your DNA in case they ever needed to identify a piece of you on a battlefield somewhere. But it turns out it’s also handy to match your DNA to crime scenes. So, let me ask you again, did you ever sleep with her?”

  Tommy looked at his shoes for a long time. “Yes,” he said at last.

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  “Well, I didn’t want you to think bad about her. I didn’t want you to think she was a whore or something.”

  “So, in your mind women who sleep with guys are whores?”

  “Not in my mind, but I didn’t know what you thought.”

  “So, how many times have you been over to her place?”

  “Just the once.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Well, it was Halloween night, I guess. That’s why you’re asking me these questions, right?”

  “Well, that and your prints and your semen and the fact that you were seen there. So, the two of you had a thing going?”

  Tommy was still for a moment, thinking. Punch watched him closely. Tommy sat back in the chair, then shifted position, leaned forward, and put his elbows on the table between them. “Yeah, I was doin’ her. Does that make me a suspect?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don't mind. You just need to answer them. When’s the last time you had sex with her?”

  “I suppose it was Saturday night. You want to know how we did it?”

  “Not particularly—unless you’re gonna tell me that she liked it rough and with knives.”

  “What are you talking about? I ain’t no pervert, if that's what you're sayin’!” Tommy insisted. “You think I did it?”

  Punch stared at Tommy for a long while to make him uncomfortable. It was a standard ploy. “How well did you and Emily get along?"

  “We got along great.”

  “Then how come she’s dead?”

  “I have no idea. Look, we had a few drinks, we did our thing, and I left. The last time I saw her she was asleep with a smile on her face. And that’s the truth.”

  “About an hour ago, we found a bayonet in your garage.”

  “Of course you did. I brought mine back from the sandbox. A lot of guys did.”

  “Yeah, but the blade on yours has a chink in it and is covered with blood.”

  “What?” Punch watched as the color literally drained from Tommy’s face.

  “There’s blood on the blade,” Punch said, thinking Tommy looked genuinely surprised. “But then, you know that.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

  “You know if that blood matches hers, well. . .” Punch looked at Olsen, who was now pale. He decided to change tactics. “Where’d you get that cut on your finger?”

  “Me and Emily were making some drinks and I was cutting some limes and cut myself.”

  “Let me see that.” Punch held out his hand.

  “Sure.” Tommy extended his, palm up.

  “Looks like a professional job,” said Punch. “Where'd you get that done?”

  “At the emergency room,” said Olsen. “You can check.”

  “Already did. Just wanted to see if you’d tell me the truth. What time did you go to the emergency room?”

  “If you already checked, then you already know the answer to that question. Am I a suspect?”

  “Everyone is a suspect until I rule them out. But in all fairness, Tommy, you’re the only guy whose semen is in her, fingerprints are all over the house, and whose bayonet is covered with what I think we’ll find is her blood. And I’m asking you what time you went to the ER.”

  “I don't know, maybe 5:30 in the morning? I couldn’t get the thing to stop bleeding and I was going to the field that day, so I thought I’d walk into the ER before I went to work.”

  “When did you cut yourself?”

  “Are you listening? Because I already told you that I cut myself when I was cutting limes the night before.”

  “You took seven stitches—is that right?”

  “That’s what the doc said, yeah.”

  “You cut yourself sometime during the evening, and then waited until 5:30 the next morning to get the stitches put in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t believe you. That had to be a serious cut.”

  “You ever seen that gal? Because if you did, I can tell you that if she was willing there’s no way that you would leave before you tapped that. Ain’t no way I was gonna leave unless I was bleeding to death. I put a Band-Aid and a piece of hundred-mile-an-hour tape from a roll she had in her garage on it real tight to stop the bleeding. No way was I walking away.”

  “Did she agree to have sex with you?”

  “Absolutely. It was her idea. She had her own mind; she knew what she wanted.”

  “Did you two have an argument?”

  “Absolutely not. Everything was good with us.”

  “Ever sleep with her before that Saturday night?”

  Tommy looked at the floor for some minutes before answering. “I don’t want to answer that question.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m getting divorced. Answering that question might get me in trouble.”

  “Tommy, we are investigating a murder. It’s possible that if you were arrested for this crime and convicted, the State of Wyoming could seek the death penalty. I guess I’m not sure what could be more troublesome than that.”

  “Yeah, well. I didn’t kill Emily. But I did screw her, and if my old lady finds out she’ll probably hose me in my divorce.”

  “Let me ask you a couple more questions. Then we can get you out of here.” Punch softened his tone. “I know you’ve got things to do.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talking with you. I think that I’m gonna need a lawyer before I answer any more questions.”

  “Tommy, you’ve already told me that you were in her house, that you had sex with her, and that you are probably the last person to see her alive. I have your blood on the scene, your fingerprints in her house, your DNA in her and on her, and what I think is her blood on the murder weapon, found in your garage. What else can you tell me that I don't already know?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Look, because you are technically not under arrest, you really don’t have a right to a lawyer. Just answer a few more—”

  “If I ain’t under arrest, then I can leave, right?”

  “Does that mean that you do not want to answer any more questions at this time?”

  “Yeah, that's what that means. I want a lawyer.” Tommy stood. “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

  “Fine. It is 1255 hours, and at the request of Mr. Olsen I am terminating this interview.” Pu
nch picked up his tape recorder and turned it off, then put it in the pocket of his suit jacket and stood up. He looked at Tommy. “This would go a lot easier if you would cooperate.”

  “I’ve said enough. I told you I didn’t do it. I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer.”

  “Okay, give me a minute. Gotta out-process you. You know how the government is.” Punch turned and exited, closing the door behind him.

  Tommy was alone in the room. He looked around, sighed heavily, and put his head in his hands. “What in the hell have I gotten myself into?”

  Punch had walked directly into the adjoining room and was looking through the one-way mirror. “A helluva mess, is what he’s gotten himself into,” he said to Jensen, who was back at the jail.

  “You gonna hold him?”

  “No, let him go. I’m gonna talk with Ann. I’ve got enough for an arrest warrant, I think. But just to be sure, I’ll run it by her. Don’t want to screw this up. Meantime, you keep an eye on him.”

  Time had dragged on and on while Ann waited for Rebecca to decide. It seemed simple enough: Rebecca wouldn’t touch it—a case like this would draw far too much press attention. Lose this case and the voters would show you the door. This one would be delegated.

  Mike wanted no part of it; his health was bad, and even if it wasn’t, this case was way out of his league at this point in his career. She’d watched him over the years; he was fine driving deals and maybe prosecuting the occasional possession with intent to distribute, but a death penalty case would be more than he could handle. Besides, his appearance was terrible—Rebecca wouldn’t want an obese, obviously unhealthy man serving as the “face” of her office for the weeks the trial would take. The real question was how to get Cathy out of the picture, and soon. With her gone, Ann would be next in line, leaving Rebecca with a stark choice: go out of town for “assistance,” and thereby tacitly admit the office wasn’t up to the job, or appoint her to try the case. She needed to move quickly; the rumor on the street was that Polson was close to making an arrest.

  She thought it over for a moment, then made her decision, picked up the phone, and dialed. “I’ve got some information for you. When can we meet?”