by Randy Alcorn
“Keep talking, Suda,” Sarge said.
“So I wait and make sure no one’s in the room. I back out of the closet, looking like I’d just stepped in, and start examining the floor. Phil, the criminalist, walks in and gives me a funny look. We start talking; then I work my way out to where you were.”
“I was right. You didn’t sign in because you were already there.”
“But I didn’t kill the professor.”
“Sure.”
“He was already dead. It’s the truth.”
“As opposed to the lies you told us before?”
“Give her a break,” Chris said.
“I’ll give Kimmy a break after I hear her next story. The one where she broke into my house, drugged my dog, and planted illegal bugs.”
“I’m sure,” Sarge said, “you had good reasons for doing that too?”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you,” Suda said.
“The truth?” Sarge said.
“Now seems like a good time to mention that when you ran from my house after planting the bug, I followed you to your car. You were parked on Albers, north side of the road facing east. You hopped in the car, did a U-turn, and headed west.”
“But … if you saw me, why that drama with your dog going after me?”
“Because I couldn’t prove I saw you. And Mulch deserved some payback.”
“I didn’t hurt him.”
“You hurt his pride. He’s sensitive.”
“He liked the hamburger.”
“He likes it better when it doesn’t knock him cold.”
“Suda, you’ve really dug a hole for yourself,” Sarge said. “What made you decide to go to Chandler’s?”
“Before you tell another lie,” I said, “I should point out that we saw you go to the 7-Eleven on 162nd and Stark at 2:40 a.m. on December 4. And we saw the man you met.”
Suda’s stormy eyes looked frostbitten. Her face fell in surrender. She turned to Sarge. “I don’t think I should say this in front of everybody.”
“Doyle, get out,” Sarge said. “Shut the door behind you.”
Chris moved to the door, slothlike.
“Gives you time to make the chess team reunion,” I said.
“We’re not finished, Chandler,” Doyle said, pointing his finger at me.
“You going to gang up on me with three other pawns?” I looked at him sympathetically. “If it makes you feel any better, Kimmy’s meeting with the guy in the 7-Eleven wasn’t a date.”
He slammed the door. The window shook.
“Maybe I need a lawyer,” Suda said, “but here it is. Lennox asked me into his office a couple of weeks ago. He said he’d been examining the Palatine case. He had me scared. I thought I’d been found out—about being at the murder scene. Anyway, he said Chandler had become the investigation’s focal point, the main suspect.”
“He said that?” Sarge said.
“He mentioned there was evidence, you had no alibi, and you’d been drinking and angry that night. He asked how good I was at getting into a house and planting a surveillance device. I told him I was good. I asked if it was legal. He claimed he had a court order.”
“Ask to see it?” Sarge said.
“I’m supposed to ask the chief of police to prove he’s not lying?”
“What you did was a felony.”
“When I’m ordered to do it, in the line of duty, as part of an investigation … by the chief of police?”
“Anything else you’ve done I should know about?” Sarge asked.
She shook her head.
“What about photographing the dead professor and giving the picture to the Trib?” I asked.
“You still on that?” she said. “I didn’t have my camera. And if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have used it. A flash in a dark house at night? With a body on the floor?”
“Then who took that picture?”
“How should I know?”
I nearly mentioned the bugs she planted at Lou’s Diner but restrained myself. That was my hole card.
“You’re dismissed,” Sarge said to me.
Suda stood up.
“Have plans this evening?” he asked her.
She nodded.
“Cancel them. I’m not done with you.”
It was a long day, but I’ve seldom had a birthday present better than Mulch going after Kim Suda’s pant legs.
I left downtown for the second time and picked up Mulch from Carp’s house, where she’d baked him pizza snack muffins. His eyes begged me to marry her.
“Any developments on the professor’s picture in the Trib?” Carp asked.
“Kim Suda swears she didn’t take the picture and didn’t give it to Mike Button. At first I assumed she was lying, but she admitted other things. Why deny that one? But if it wasn’t Suda or me or you or Hatch or the patrol guys or the criminalists.”
“There’s one person you’re forgetting,” Carp said.
“Who?”
“The killer. The killer took the picture.”
“Yeah, he took the picture from the mantel. I’m talking about the photograph of the professor’s body.”
“So am I,” Carp said. “I mean the killer was holding the camera—he removed the photograph from the mantel, laid it on the floor, then snapped that photo of the professor’s body. And he’s the anonymous source who got the photo to Mike Button.”
I started to argue. I stopped. A minute of silence later I said, “Pizza’s on me. Ice cream too.”
She said she was teaching a class at Portland Community College but took a rain check. I hoped she wouldn’t forget.
We stopped at WinCo. Mulch stayed in the car. Generally he’s banned from public places where there’s food. Once I brought him into the Fred Meyer grocery section wearing a green jacket, undercover as an in-training guide for the blind. But it was samples day. After a few incidents, one involving a roasted chicken, they asked us to leave.
I picked up a tub of Breyers cookie dough ice cream. We were going to celebrate.
I pulled up to the old brownstone and thought I saw a window blind move. Not again. I pulled my Glock and quietly moved to the front door. Mulch picked up on my mood and slunk along next to me, growling softly.
I turned the handle. When I realized it was unlocked, I whispered in Mulch’s ear, “Get ’em,” and pushed the door open. Mulch bounded in, growling ferociously.
As the door opened I heard a loud noise and pointed the Glock toward it. I heard screaming and flipped on the light to see the faces of two men and one woman, and someone else on the floor with Mulch on top of him. It was then I realized what I’d heard. It had been the word surprise.
Jake pulled Mulch off Mr. Obrist, gave him a cookie, and immediately he calmed down. (Mulch, not Mr. Obrist, who needed more than a cookie to calm him.)
As I holstered my gun, Clarence showed me the Flyin’ Pie pizza and an ice cream cake from Baskin-Robbins: Jamoca Almond Fudge. I grabbed my sack from the porch and quickly buried the cookie dough in the back of the freezer, where it would remain hidden for at least a day.
Mrs. Obrist led her husband home, saying something about cardiorespiratory issues. Jake explained that when he and Clarence got in, Mr. Obrist came over, thinking the house was being invaded. So Jake and Clarence had invited them to the surprise. In retrospect, they realized it hadn’t been a good plan.
Jake and Clarence sang “Happy Birthday” to me and didn’t sound too bad. Maybe it’s all the singing they do at church.
At nine I thanked them and told them to get home to their families. After they left, Mulch and I finished off the ice cream cake. It was my birthday, and I was determined to leave no evidence.
Fifteen minutes later I heard something on the porch. I opened the door with my right hand, holding the Glock in my left.
“Happy birthday, Daddy,” Kendra said.
She held out a box that said TCBY. “It’s a yogurt pie, mocha almond. It has only half the calories of ic
e cream.”
“Yeah, ice cream’ll kill you,” I said. “Hey, say hi to Mulch while I take this into the kitchen. Be right back.” I ran in, grabbed the Baskin-Robbins box, stuffed it in the garbage, and ran water over the four bowls.
Kendra and Mulch and I had a great time in the living room over mocha almond yogurt, which was surprisingly good.
“Since it’s only half the calories,” I said to Kendra, “I guess I can eat twice as much.”
It was smooth sailing the whole evening. I didn’t ask anything about how cows feel about yogurt. Kendra gave Mulch his own bowl. Afterward he curled up at her feet. It was my happiest birthday since Sharon died.
TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 12:45 P.M.
It’s hard to work on the detective floor when you figure the killer’s within sixty feet of you and can walk by anytime and see what’s on your computer screen or listen to your conversations. That’s why Lou’s Diner had become my honorary office. I’d had several meetings in other booths, in light of the bugs, but for today’s meeting with Ray Eagle I deliberately chose our booth. I had prepped him ahead of time so we shared the same script.
“I think I’m being followed,” I said to Ray.
“I’ve been looking over my shoulder too,” Ray said. “If somebody planted a bug in your living room, there’s no telling what else they’re doing.”
“I didn’t want Clarence and Jake here. I’m going to give you some sensitive information. Once you see what it is, you’ll know what to do with it.”
“How sensitive?”
“It includes thirty pages of police department records.”
“No joke? Where is it?”
“Couldn’t bring it here. Somebody may realize the records were copied. If I was caught giving them to you, we’d be dead meat. If we’re being followed, they could apprehend us on suspicion of a felony—divulging classified information. Internal Affairs would crucify me.”
“So how am I going to get the papers? You come to my house? I go to yours?”
“Not with possible tails. And either of our houses could be bugged—in my case rebugged. Here’s how the pros do it. We meet somewhere we’ve never been. We both make sure we’re not tailed, or that we shake the tail. That’s a lot easier after dark. Let’s meet tonight, 1:30 a.m.”
“Could we make it a little earlier?”
“Midnight’s as early as I’ll go. You know that big white building on 55th and Hawthorne, on the hill? The mansion?”
“The one they made into a seminary?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Western Seminary.” I pulled out my Thomas Guide and pointed. “There’s a back parking lot right here on the corner of 57th and Madison. You can get in from either street. Nice hedge for privacy. Easy access but inconspicuous. Nobody’s there at night. I’ve scoped it out. Just drive in and I’ll be waiting. Shouldn’t be chained, but if it is, park on 57th in front of the chain. I’ll get out and hand you the documents.”
“Isn’t this a bit cloak-and-dagger?”
“Look, I’ve got lab reports, department e-mails, evidence incriminating Brandon Phillips and Kim Suda. This is hot stuff. If I was caught giving you police info, I’d lose my job in a heartbeat. And you’d lose your license.”
“It’s worth the risk?”
“I’ve done night exchanges before. Just can’t let anyone know where and when. We’ll be okay. Don’t make copies of what I give you. After you’ve gone over it, burn it. Shredder’s not good enough. They know you’re helping me and might be sorting your trash.”
“I feel like we’re in a movie,” Ray said with a sly smile.
“Can’t use our cars. I’m borrowing a friend’s black Cadillac STS, four door. You got somebody’s you can use?”
“Going fancy? Well, my brother’s got a silver BMW 530i, four door.”
“Perfect. Midnight tonight. Whoever gets there first, stay in the car until the other arrives. I’ll get out and hand you the papers; then we’re gone.”
“We really have to do it like this? Not a quick transfer at a public place?”
“Trust me.” I winked at Ray. “I know what I’m doing.”
47
“Bear in mind one of the phrases in that queer old legend and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers of evil are exalted.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 2:00 P.M.
SERGEANT SEYMOUR told me he’d given Kim Suda a stern warning. There’d be an investigation.
“You believe her?” he asked me. “The part about the chief?”
“I saw them together. And I saw an e-mail she sent to him confirming that she’d done a job for him. That same night she planted the bugs at my place and messed with Mulch.”
I handed Sarge the e-mail printout.
After rereading it a few times and bawling me out for holding it back, he said, “Why would Lennox risk his career?”
“Maybe he thinks his career is over if a police detective’s guilty of murder. What’s more important to him than anything else?”
“His image.” Sarge scowled.
“So if the evidence makes the chief look really bad, that might explain his obsession with a cover-up. I think he’s desperate to come out of this thing intact. And he’s arrogant enough to think he can get away with it.”
“I don’t care if he’s not available,” I said, in the privacy of Sarge’s office, which he loaned me for a half hour. “Tell him it’s a call from the police department. You have caller ID? Check where I’m calling from. Portland Police.”
“I’d need to give him your name,” she said.
“Tell him I’m an informant. Anonymous. I’ve got incriminating information he’ll want to have. Tell him if he doesn’t get it from me tonight, I’m giving it to the newspaper. And it’s not going to make him look good.”
Amazing how placing an anonymous phone call from the police department can make a political VIP who was “absolutely unavailable” instantly available.
I finished the call by telling him, “I’ll be driving a silver BMW 530i, four door. You come to me. I’ll roll down the window. Now listen, I want you to hand me twenty sheets of blank eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper in a plain brown envelope.”
“But why—?”
“Never mind why. In exchange, I’ll give you a file of information that’ll show you what they’ve been doing under your nose. Got it?”
Five minutes later, I made a second call, finally talking my way through to the man I wanted. “Never mind who this is. I’m a police insider, and I’ve got a major story. Involves mishandling of the Palatine murder investigation. Ollie Chandler’s a jerk, and this’ll take him down.”
“Why are you calling me? I can give you the names and numbers of—”
“It’s you or it’s nobody. You know that mansion on 55th and Hawthorne, on the hill, the one they turned into a seminary? There’s a back parking lot, quiet and inconspicuous, off 57th and Madison. I’ll meet you there at midnight. Come by yourself.”
“Many people work for me. I’ll send one of them.”
“You do and he’ll get nothing. If it’s not important enough to show your face, I’ll give it to a TV station. You can watch it on the news. I’ll spread the word you turned the story down. I’ll be driving a black Cadillac STS, four door. Dim your lights. Don’t want faces visible.”
After a long pause he said, “All right. I’ll be there at midnight.”
The man once known as William Palatine thought he was having a nightmare. After the disturbing phone call that had changed his evening plans, he’d been at his desk, alternating between correcting papers and playing solitaire, when he heard the knock. He shouldn’t have trusted him.
He remembered the agony of his death. But why was he still conscious? He was a materialist. Nothing exists but natural phenomena. The mind was merely the brain. Man was but an animal. God was a myth. There was no life after death.
It hit him like a sledgehammer
: “Nietzsche was wrong. God’s not dead. He’s alive, and I must answer to Him.”
He saw the deceptions he’d told. He saw the faces of girls he’d seduced. He saw their shame. He saw their tears, their violated trust, their regrets. In one case, he saw her death.
He felt the full weight of guilt he’d guarded himself from. His only prayer had been answered: He didn’t want God, and God wasn’t here. Palatine had chosen this misery.
It turned a screw into his aching head. The hell he’d laughed at was now his residence. He knew, intuitively, that it always would be. The era of choice was past. This was the era of consequence.
Where were Hobbes and Sartre and Heidegger now? Where were Hume, Schopenhauer, and Camus? Where was Bertrand Russell? Their thoughts had been magnificent, captivating, compelling.
And, in the most important respects, wrong.
William Palatine’s identity as the brilliant philosophy professor meant nothing here. The oppressive terror of utter aloneness descended on him like sharp talons.
The torment was in knowing it could have been avoided. There’d been a lifetime of opportunity to seek and knock and ask, to examine the evidence, to find the truth. But that life was over, and with it, opportunity. What he faced now was not life but mere existence, in torment.
He’d made his living speaking great ideas to students. Some of the ideas were true. Many weren’t. Had he suspected it before? He’d been part of a grand scheme of deception, orchestrated by powers who’d first deceived him then used him to deceive others.
He wanted the opportunity to talk his way out of hell. He’d always been good with words. But eloquence meant nothing in a place where truth was known and unchallengeable.
In philosophy classes he had ignored or mocked—depending on his mood—the claims of Jesus. One thing he’d never done was to teach those claims, letting students investigate and draw their own conclusions. No, he’d stood between them and the truth, dealing them his prepackaged suite of conclusions. They wouldn’t have to think. He’d done their thinking for them.
William Palatine had argued persuasively that God did not exist.
Bible? Myth.
