The Case of the Missing Department Head

by David Staats

  The same administrative imperative to centralization and consolidation which has transformed so many public schools into large, prison-like facilities warehousing hundreds and even thousands of students also operated in the planning and development of the Justice Complex, so that any kind of public office, administration, or authority which was even remotely involved with the court system was now housed in the Justice Complex. This included the County Prosecutor’s Office. The co-location of the prosecutor’s office and the courts in the same building perhaps did not have a salubrious effect on the public’s perception of the impartiality of the justice dispensed at the Complex, but an intangible factor like that was not considered by those who planned the project.

  Friday afternoon, gray-visaged Dure with his shrewd hazel eyes was sitting in the cafeteria of the Justice Complex, which was in the basement, negotiating a plea bargain with a junior prosecutor. A television monitor was mounted on the wall not too far away, blaring news from the Vulpex News Service. This noise meant that their conversation was private, because the din from the television drowned out their words to anyone more that a few feet away.

  “You want to try this case?” said Dure. The tone and lilt of his voice made the sentence mean: Are you really sure you want to do something so foolish as to take this case to trial?

  The prosecutrix, a Ms. Wallace, was a woman in her late twenties with a long neck and long, wavy brown hair. “Yeah. Yeah, I want to put this guy away.”

  Dure's dour expression did not change. He stared off past her into the distance for a long moment. “So far,” he said, “he has refrained from filing a criminal complaint against her. If she continues to press, he may change his mind.”

  Ms. Wallace’s upper body swung back and forth slightly, like an inverted pendulum.

  Dure continued, “The guy is sitting at the dinner table. She, in an unprovoked attack, smashes a wooden chair over his head. When he recovers, he picks her up and heaves her bodily out the window – a first floor window, she only fell about four feet into some bushes. They both had to go to the hospital. As far as I can tell, they don’t want a divorce, although if you press this matter, you may cause a divorce. As I said, he could press charges against her as well.”

  “So . . .?”

  “So . . . reduce the charges to a misdemeanor. That’ll send the case from Superior Court to the Family Court. That’ll get the case off both our desks – and it’s a Family Court matter anyway.”

  “Then, according to you, your guy could still file felony charges against the wife.”

  “We could come to some agreement about that.”

  The prosecutrix said nothing for a moment. On the television, an advertisement concluded and local headlines came on. “Essex County police are investigating another beheading,” said the news anchor. “According to police spokesman, a woman was discovered in her driveway, decapitated, at around 6:30 this morning. Melinda Erdody has more on the story.” The picture changed to that of a reporter holding a microphone in a suburban development. “John, I’m here in a development called Hickory Heights in front of the house where a woman’s decapitated body was discovered early this morning.” Behind the reporter, a typical two-story suburban house could be seen with police tape surrounding it. “I’ve been talking with Carole Quentin who is the neighbor who discovered the body and alerted the police. What did you see this morning?” The reporter pushed the microphone in the face of a middle-aged woman. “We’re just all in shock,” said the woman. “I was out walking the dog and I saw this body lying in the driveway. So Shatzi – that’s my dog – and I went to look, and I saw . . . oh, it was just too horrible, and I immediately backed away. I had my cell phone and called 911.”

  Dure's eyes were intent on the television screen while Ms. Wallace was saying, “I’ll talk to my victim. See what she says.”

  Finally Dure turned to address his interlocutor. “Rather than risk putting two people in jail with felony convictions and causing a divorce, might make sense to let the Family Court sort it out.” He slapped the table with the flat of his hand and stood up. “Let me know soon,” he said. He nodded to Ms. Wallace and walked to the stairwell and went up to the first floor and went out of the Justice Complex.

  Once outside he called his regular investigator. “Kurt? . . . Yeah. I want you to find out what you can about a murder that happened this morning. . . . Yeah, in Hickory Heights, victim a woman. Canterbury Police are investigating. . . . Okay, thanks.”

  5.

  Tuesday morning at 9:18 Kara answered the telephone. After speaking briefly to the caller, she put him on hold and called Dure on the intercom. “Walter, Rod Preston would like to speak with you.”

  Two minutes later, Dure crossed the hall and leaned into Ralph’s office. “Ralph, we have to go down to the police station.”

  Ralph’s wide, round eyes asked why.

  “Houlihan’s under arrest,” said Dure, “and charged with the murder of his wife.”

  * * *

  At the police station, the duty officer knew Dure. He asked what Houlihan had been charged with.

  “Murder first degree,” said the officer.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Not at this time. You know how the system works,” answered the officer gruffly.

  Ralph was offended at the lack of deference shown to Dure. To get to see their client, they had to go through the same rigmarole as anyone else.

  After a long wait, a police officer led them to an interview room in which they had already put Houlihan. There was a small, plain, gray metal table with no drawers and three cheap chairs with molded plastic seats. On one wall was what looked like a one-way mirror. The flooring was of aged and discolored linoleum tiles. Several semi-circular dents were in the floor as if something heavy had been dropped.

  Houlihan had stood up when they entered. He was wearing the same kind of faded jeans – except without a belt -- and worn flannel shirt as he had worn to the initial interview in Dure's office. They might even have been the exact same clothes. His head jutted forward maybe a little more than the last time they had seen him and his face expressed anxiety; but the hint of a smile kept flickering on and off his face, like a light bulb with a loose connection. The officer left and they sat.

  “They’re not supposed to monitor attorney conversations,” said Dure, “but let’s assume that they are. So, don’t tell me anything that would be incriminating. Keeping that in mind, tell me what happened.”

  “I signed a confession,” said Houlihan.

  Dure said nothing right away, but stared with his glowing eyes at Houlihan. Under this glare, Houlihan dropped his gaze as if he were a teenager who was disappointed to find that his clever joke has not gone over well with the adult on whom he had tried it out.

  “You will please to recall that I advised you not to discuss the case with anyone,” said Dure at last.

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Houlihan gave up the point easily.

  “That included especially the police,” said Dure

  Houlihan nodded, hope fading from his eyes.

  After a long moment of silence, Dure said “Why?”

  “They were going to charge Liam. I’m old anyway. It doesn’t matter that much.”

  “But you didn’t think Liam had done it?”

  “No. No, sir.”

  “But you thought they would be able to convict him, even though he hadn’t done it?” said Dure

  Houlihan began to talk volubly, rationalizing what he had done, and as he talked, he pursued his thought until apparently even he recognized that his reasoning was weak, so he kept circling back to his starting point; and when he finally wound down, like a top running out of momentum, Dure told him to keep his voice down and began to question him in an orderly fashion.

  He had been driving back to Canterbury from his expedition to gather witnesses for his alibi, as Dure had instructed him to do. (It almost seemed like he was setting up a rationale to blame Dure for what had happe
ned.) He was on eastbound Route 22, just a couple of miles from home, when his truck ran into a ditch. (How did that happen? Houlihan didn’t know, wasn’t sure.) The police came. One of the investigating officers had been at Houlihan’s house in a peripheral role during the investigation of his wife’s death. He recognized Houlihan and struck up a friendly conversation. After a bit, the officer steered the conversation onto the topic of the death of Houlihan’s wife, then suggested, in a friendly way, “Whyn’t you come down to the station with me. You could clear up a couple of things, maybe help us to solve this case . . . find out who murdered your wife. You want us to find that out, right?”

  So Houlihan rode with the officer to the police station while his truck was towed away. At the station they had questioned him about his son, did he know his son’s whereabouts at the time the murder was committed? Wasn’t it true, as the neighbors had informed the police, that his son did not get along with his parents, especially his mother? There had been shouting matches; wasn’t his son bitter? Hadn’t he moved out of the house?

  How do you know that he didn’t do it? the police had asked over and over. You weren’t with him at the time. Gradually they built in an insinuation that the only way he could be sure that his son didn’t do it was that he knew that someone else did it.

  They showed him a paper which they claimed was an arrest warrant for his son. They wanted to be sure, however, before they arrested him, and to be fair, they were checking with the father to make sure they weren’t making a mistake. It was all a matter of getting to the truth and shielding the innocent.

  The interview went on for hours, with two different detectives coming in and out of the room. They asked him about life insurance and he told them of a $750K policy on his wife, but Houlihan stressed that he was the beneficiary, not his son.

  They went over the facts of the crime, the lack of any motive for anyone else, the lack of any sightings of a stranger, and finally made it look like there were only two possible suspects, Houlihan or his son. If it’s not you, they said, then it must be your son. It has to be one or the other. “A red sports car was observed leaving the scene on Friday. Your son drives a red sports car doesn’t he?”

  The one detective was grudgingly sympathetic. Domestic violence happens, he said. They see it all the time. I mean, some of these women deserve it. There could be justification and mitigation. So he drew out from Houlihan some episodes where his wife had been cruel and actually violent. See, said the detective, you’re not the first. You know how those women get off from murder charges by claiming domestic violence? That can work both ways. Probably a judge would be sympathetic, but only if you come clean and admit the truth.

  If Houlihan would admit the truth, he could clear his conscience, it would be taken into account favorably by the court, it would put his son in the clear, the police would respect his honesty, do what they could for him. The charges could be plea-bargained down to manslaughter. Houlihan began to consider the idea.

  The other detective previewed what a trial would look like, the publicity that probably would result, the kind of evidence the prosecution could put on, the severity of the court against defendants who stubbornly refuse to admit their crime and show remorse.

  Finally, said Houlihan, it made sense just to end the matter, get it over with. So he agreed that he had done it. His primary motivation was to protect his son. He figured he could explain to his son that he hadn’t really done it and why he had confessed.

  He thought that when he agreed, that would be the end of the questioning, but it wasn’t. First, he had to repeat his admission in front of both detectives. Then they began to question him about the physical evidence and ask him how he had actually carried out the killing. Houlihan just agreed to whatever was plausible, because at that point, he just wanted to get it over with. They wanted to know where the head was. Houlihan said he didn’t know, which really caused the one detective to go ballistic and the other to act most concerned. This occasioned another long session of questioning, at the end of which Houlihan said only that he couldn’t remember.

  The detectives weren’t happy with that either, so they kept at him. Finally, just to get to the end, so Houlihan claimed, he said he had put it in a black plastic trash bag and taken it to the county landfill. It was too late to do it on Friday, he said, so he did it Saturday morning.

  The police were satisfied with this and put together a statement. They got a videographer in the room. But now Houlihan balked at the black plastic bag business, and ironically, the police were now tired and worn out. Just to get the confession signed, they took that part out. Houlihan read the statement in the presence of the two detectives and the videographer.

  When it was all over, they let him make a phone call, which was when he had called Dure.

  At the end of Houlihan’s story, Dure stood up, but did not make as if to leave. “Do you want me to defend you?” he asked.

  “I’ve signed a confession. Doesn’t that mean it’s all over?”

  “Not necessarily. . . . Did you murder your wife?”

  “No, but I guess I did now.” said Houlihan.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean I said I did it. You can’t take that back, can you?”

  Dure made a grimace and looked away from Houlihan. After a moment he turned again to him and said, “Long story short, the prosecution has to prove its case. If you did not in fact murder your wife, there is a chance that we can prevent that proof, even against your confession.”

  “Then I didn’t do it.”

  Dure regarded him closely. “I don’t know whether I should keep you as a client or not. You don’t follow my advice.”

  Houlihan was staring at the floor with a deep frown on his mouth. His jaw quivered.

  “You know the judge still could give you the death penalty. Even with ten years of appeals, you’d still be only, what? sixty?”

  “Sixty-one,” said Houlihan. He put his face in his hands. After a moment, he sat up. “I didn’t think,” said Houlihan. “I was tired, confused. I wanted to protect my son.”

  Dure turned away and walked to the door of the little room. He put his hand on the door knob, paused, and turned back to look at Houlihan. “It is exceedingly difficult to help clients who ignore my advice.”

  “No,” said Houlihan. “I want you to represent me.”

  “Would you like time to think it over?” said Dure “I can go away and come back later.”

  “Don’t be so harsh. I made a mistake. Don’t abandon me.”

  Dure came back from the door. They talked for some time about things not directly related to the case. Probably Houlihan did not recognize that Dure was testing him, trying to make sure that he knew his man. Dure did not want to take on a hard case if it was going to be a situation of his being exploited by a lying client.

  Before leaving Houlihan, Dure said, “Do NOT talk to anyone about this case. Even though you are in jail and even though you have signed a confession, DO NOT TALK with anyone. That includes any cellmate you may have. At this point, your case is not entirely lost, although it is a hell of a lot rougher than it was, but if you go blabbing any more, it may put the case so far behind the eight ball that nothing can be done. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!”

  As Ralph was driving Dure back to the office, he wanted to discuss the case, even though Dure seemed thoughtful, or glum, or brooding.

  “You really think he’s innocent?” began Ralph.

  It took a moment for Dure to respond. “I don’t know,” he said, as if the question were absurd. “There is evidence from which one could conclude that he murdered his wife.”

  “So, what’s the point of defending him?”

  Dure gave Ralph a look. “In the first place, he did not actually murder his wife unless a jury says he did. In the second place, it is necessary to preserve our liberties that the government be made to prove a defendant’s
guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. In the third place, even if he is convicted, the matter of penalty will be an important contested issue. And lastly, without representation, he will sit in jail, whereas if I can get him out on bail, he could help prepare his defense.”

  Ralph did not have an answer to any of this, so he launched into his theory of the case. They were sitting at a light. “I was thinking myself,” he said, “that it might have been either Houlihan or his son. I mean, who else had a motive?”

  Dure said, “The only way to win this case now will be a successful Motion to Suppress the confession. If the confession stays in the case, it will no longer be sufficient for us to merely make the government prove its case. The confession will do that. We would have to prove that someone else did it, which right now looks like a tall order.”

  “And neither of them has a good alibi,” said Ralph.

  6.

  Dure woke around 5:20 the next morning from a restless sleep. He got out of bed and padded to the work desk in his bedroom. He began writing down ideas on a yellow legal pad for his Motion to Suppress, and noted the evidence he would like to have in support, if it could be obtained.

  After showering, he mechanically ate breakfast, while keeping his yellow pad next to his plate and jotting ideas as they occurred to him.

  At the office, mid-morning, Liam Houlihan, accompanied by Ralph, came in with two large department store shopping bags – full of cash. They went into Dure’s little conference room and dumped one bag out on the conference table. It appeared that all the bills were twenties. It took most of an hour to count and re-count fifty stacks of 100 bills each.