False Witness

by Scott Cook

  “Duh. How could I know what his voice sounded like if I’d never heard it? Earth to Sam.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Back in October. I was in the newsroom one night when he called in looking for Alex. He wasn’t here, so I took down Tom’s message. He was definitely not a bass. I would have remembered that.”

  Sam frowned. His brain was trying to knit something together, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was just yet. “When exactly was this?”

  “The date? I don’t know, it’s not like I marked it on my calendar. Would you mind telling me why this is such a big deal?”

  “Was it close to October 10th? Like, within a week of the murder?”

  Tess plucked at her top lip for a moment. “It had to have been; Alex got his first call from Ferbey on October 2nd. The call I intercepted was two or three days before the murder. I distinctly remember thinking afterwards how creepy it was to have talked to someone right before they were killed. Sam, what’s going on?”

  I swear it felt like the floorboards were vibrating.

  He had the audacity to go and lose his cell phone.

  Giddy-up, ah-oom, papa-oom, papa mow mow.

  The dark outline of a picture was starting to take shape in his mind’s eye, and it was making his pulse quicken. It might be nothing, but then again, it might be something. What to do with it? There were only two people in the newsroom Sam trusted: Shippy and Tess. But Shippy was management, and management had a natural instinct to appropriate anything of value from the workers and send it up the food chain, so that everyone could put their fingerprints on it. That left the gorgeous redhead seated next to him right now, snapping her fingers in front on his eyes.

  He grabbed her hand mid-snap. “Okay, I get it. We need to talk about something.”

  Sam could practically see the smartass remark forming on her lips, but she stopped short as she watched him scan the area around his cubicle. No one was within earshot at the moment. “You’re serious,” she said. “What’s this about?”

  “I need you to keep this to yourself. Can you do that?”

  Tess scoffed. “Are you kidding? I kept quiet about Kathy, didn’t I? And I’m on the politics beat – I don’t write a tenth of what I actually know. I live most of my life off the record.”

  Sam breathed deep. He was about to take the biggest risk of his career. If it panned out, he would be famous. If it didn’t, the best scenario he could hope for was massive humiliation. Worst case, he would lose his job. The more he thought about it, the worse it sounded. But he wasn’t going to stop now; no guts, no glory.

  He fixed his eyes on Tess’s and lowered his voice. “Tom Ferbey was definitely a bass. His wife said so. She went so far as to compare his voice to Barry White’s.”

  “Well, the man I talked to on the phone definitely didn’t sound anything like Barry White. Not even close, and I’m absolutely positive. So who’s right?”

  “I think we’re both right, and there’s only one way that can be possible.” Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The man you talked to wasn’t Tom Ferbey.”

  #

  Two hours later, they were working on a team pitcher in a corner booth of a strip mall pub, a few blocks from the Chronicle. The bartender had been slowly increasing the volume of the music over the past half-hour to drive away the lingering after-work crowd and welcome the Thursday night party crowd. That suited Sam just fine. The last thing he wanted right now was to be overheard.

  “There’s a possibility we may be overlooking,” Tess said, dropping the stringy remains of her last chicken wing in the plastic basket in front of her. She had polished off two dozen of them, a fact Sam found both endearing and mildly disgusting. “I hate to say this, but Kathy may have been lying to you.”

  Sam shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? It’s Occam’s Razor. You know, the simplest answer is usually the right one?”

  “I know what it means. I may have gone to community college, but I’m not a moron.”

  Tess took a swig of beer from her mug. “You’re too sensitive about that, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know, I need therapy. Look, if you had been in that room with Kathy Ferbey, you’d know she wasn’t lying.”

  “Of course not.” Tess raised an eyebrow. “And I’m sure she never faked an orgasm with Tom the Bassman, either.”

  Sam drained his glass and poured the remains of the pitcher into it. A little buzz always helped him think. “The woman was barely holding it together, Tess. I could see it in her eyes. But just for the sake of argument, let’s say she’s an incredible actress and she had me fooled. What possible reason would she have to lie about something so trivial? I mean, it’d be like lying about his shoe size, or his middle name. What would be the point?”

  “Okay, okay.” She raised her hands in defeat. “But you can’t blame me for thinking the way I do; I spend all day around politicians, remember.”

  “And let’s not forget the fact that, according to Kathy, Tom lost his cell phone the week before he was killed. That’s key. When you put the two things together, you’ve got the beginnings of . . . I don’t know, of something.”

  “But you yourself said his phone was logged as evidence in the trial; forensics found it in his pocket when they picked up his body. The prosecutor used the phone records to corroborate Alex’s testimony that Ferbey had called him four times to talk about the Roses’ warehouse. A major blow to Hodge’s defense, if I recall.”

  Sam sighed and sat back in the booth, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and listening to the thumping pop music. Exploding patterns of light went off behind his eyelids, running together to make new shapes, always changing, always in motion. “Therein lies the rub,” he said finally. “If someone else was using his phone, how did it get back in his pocket? I’m still working on that one.”

  “Until you’ve got it, the theory doesn’t hold water. This is why it’s easier to believe Kathy was lying.” Tess saw his mouth open to speak, and she cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m not saying I believe that, I’m just saying that’s how it would appear to an outside observer.”

  “All right, let’s forget about how the phone got in Tom’s pocket for now. We can safely assume that Tom had no knowledge of what his phone was being used for, or who was using it. So, in fact, Tom never actually spoke to Dunn.”

  Tess interrupted. “We don’t know that for sure. Maybe the call I intercepted was a prank. Maybe someone stole Tom’s phone, made the call, and then put the phone back.”

  “Why would someone be so stupid? Don’t you think Dunn would have noticed if he was suddenly taking to Han Solo on the phone instead of Darth Vader? Besides, he never mentioned anything to you about a prank call, did he? And Dunn never actually got the chance to hear Tom’s voice in person. Hodge shot him before he could speak.”

  “Mm,” she grunted. “Still . . . ”

  “Kathy said Tom’s phone was missing for a week before he died. That means, for your theory to hold up, Tom must have been lying to Kathy about losing it. That makes no more sense than Kathy lying about Tom’s voice.”

  Tess scowled. She was on the ropes now. “All I know is it’s awfully convenient that she’s on her way to the other side of the world right now and can’t answer any questions.”

  “You could say the same thing about Dunn and Leslie Singer,” Sam said. “I can’t blame them. If I was on the Wild Roses’ radar, I’d be checking into a mud hut in Borneo right about now.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re talking about, though? If we go ahead with this, we’re waving a huge red cape in Rufus Hodge’s face. I’m not prepared for that.”

  “Neither am I. That’s why we have to keep this as quiet as possible.”

  She finished her beer and let out a sigh that turned into a belch. “Why don’t we call your cop buddy, Flowers? Maybe he can help us.”

  Sam frowned. “I’d rather not.” He told her about his
last conversation with the constable the previous week, about the price on Rufus Hodge’s head, and how he’d lost a significant portion of the esteem he’d once held for the big man.

  Tess looked slightly green after hearing the full story. “Jesus,” she breathed. “So who can we trust?”

  “We?” Sam’s eyes danced. “Are you saying you’re actually going to come with me down this rabbit hole?”

  She grinned. “Don’t get cocky, Walsh. You needed my help to get this far, remember? If I hadn’t read your story, we wouldn’t be here right now. We’re partners in this thing – whatever the hell it is.”

  Sam sat back and stroked his chin. “Woodward or Bernstein?”

  “Do I look like Dustin Hoffman to you?”

  “No,” he said, the back of his neck suddenly warm. “You definitely do not look like Dustin Hoffman.”

  Tess eyed the door wistfully. “I wish Alex was here.”

  Sam’s stomach dropped. “Why?” he asked, sounding a little testier than he’d wanted to.

  “So he could help us figure this thing out. Just like Kathy Ferbey. We can’t ask them questions if we can’t find them.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  She leaned in close. Over the speaker, one of the Barenaked Ladies was singing about how it had been one week since his significant other had laughed at him. “You can be really stupid sometimes, you know,” she said, but Sam thought maybe there was a little less go-to-hell in her smile than usual.

  “Hey, I never claimed to be a genius.”

  “So you’re not a genius, but you’re not a moron, either. What does that make you?”

  He drained the last of his beer. “Very, very confused,” he said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Eddie Spanbauer drummed his fingers on the side of his thigh, next to the glossy black baton that hung from his belt. He had to piss like a racehorse, and the bundle of live wires in his gut wasn’t helping things. But he had to wait until he knew Rufus Hodge was safely locked in his cell. If anything happened to the ugly man next to him with the scars and the high forehead, Eddie’s life as he knew it was over. Not that anything would happen to Hodge here in the corridor, unless one of the guards lost their shit and made a run at him, which was about as likely as Hodge sprouting wings and flying himself to freedom.

  He fidgeted with the cool smoothness of the baton as Hodge moseyed slowly in front of him towards his cell. The weapon had been Eddie’s best friend for the seven years he’d been a correctional officer at the Badlands Institute for Men. It had settled hundreds of disputes and misunderstandings in that time, bruised countless ribs, shut off just as many windpipes. It was his trusted partner, more reliable than the overweight colleague standing in the guard’s box at the other end of the corridor watching them walk, or any of the other guards he worked with.

  Hodge finally reached the opening to his cell. It was a windowless segregation unit, designed specifically for the inconvenience of the Institute’s most antisocial guests, and lacking in almost all of the amenities that were found in the rest of the prison. The eight-by-eight room was home to a rusting cot with a mattress that reeked of urine and sweat, a stainless steel toilet and sink, and a plain square table bolted to the wall. And, of course, Rufus Hodge.

  Hodge, a good four inches taller than Eddie, looked down at the guard with a grin as he entered his cell. The bruises along Hodge’s hairline had faded to a dull Dijon color, almost imperceptible now against Hodge’s tanned skin. His scruff had thickened to a true beard since he’d arrived at the Badlands almost two weeks earlier.

  Hodge glanced at Eddie’s baton. “I heard you liked big sticks,” he said mildly.

  Eddie felt hot blood rush into his cheeks. His right hand instinctively gripped the baton, then released it just as quickly. He heard Jason Crowe’s voice in his head: Anything that happens to him is going to happen to you. And then, for good measure, your wife and your boss are going to get an anonymous e-mail with a video file attached. The rat-faced kid at the bar had been wearing a spy camera somewhere on his shirt, and had recorded everything that happened, right up until Eddie hit him in the alley. Crowe had shown him the footage on a remote monitor as he sat helpless in the gravel – the lighting was shit, but there was no mistaking his face on the screen. Hey man, anybody ever tell you you look like that singer guy?

  Hodge entered the cell and immediately stood in front of the toilet, his back to Eddie. He unzipped his jumpsuit, and Eddie heard the unmistakable whir of urine hitting the bowl. The pressure in his own bladder was suddenly all-consuming.

  “Whooo,” the big man sighed as his wide shoulders slumped. “Nothing like draining the snake, eh, officer?”

  Eddie scowled and slammed the cell door into place. He nodded to the guard in the box at the end of the corridor, who turned a key in a console, activating the lock on Hodge’s cell. Eddie himself would have to exit the hallway through the guard’s box, which locked on both sides.

  He turned to leave; if he didn’t get to the john soon, he would wet his pants for the first time since we was a child.

  “Officer?” Hodge said from behind him.

  Eddie rounded on him, furious. “What?” he hissed.

  “How’s things?” Hodge’s smile was still in place, and under different circumstances, Eddie might have thought the man was still fucking with him because he could sense how desperately Eddie had to urinate. But Eddie knew better. He glanced down the corridor at the other guard, who was firmly absorbed in chewing off the ragged remains of his index fingernail.

  “They’re fine,” he whispered, not facing Hodge.

  “Cool,” Hodge answered quietly. “Piss off, then.”

  Eddie’s hand gripped his baton hard enough to turn his knuckles white as he speed-walked toward the guard box, and then the staff bathroom beyond it.

  #

  Later, Eddie sat in his section’s break room, chewing the tuna sandwich his wife had made for him, not tasting it. He had barely eaten in the four days since his encounter with Jason Crowe in the alley behind the Golden Cage; his guts felt like they were filled with wasps. He had dealt with pain before – karate matches, tumbling off his mountain bike in the foothills, more than a few inmates who had gotten a couple of shots in before he took them down – and laughed it off. Pain was a fact of life for a hard man like him. But this was something else. Someone had power over him, instead of the other way around.

  Just do what they want, he told himself for the hundredth time. It galled him to be under someone else’s thumb, but what choice did he have? Crowe had more than enough to ruin him. If the fucker fought like a man, things would be different. But no, Crowe needed two more men and a sneak attack to bring him down. And blackmail to keep him there. Fuckers.

  Eddie washed down the bite of sandwich with some Diet Coke, which brought an angry bark from his burning stomach. At least the conditions of the deal weren’t difficult. He was surprised, and more than a little relieved, that Crowe wasn’t looking for his help in engineering a prison break, the kind that Quebec biker gangs were notorious for. All Eddie had to do was keep the other inmates – and any guards who had a disposition similar to his own – away from Hodge until further notice. Not a problem, seeing as how Hodge was segregated, only mixing with the general population during meals and in the yard during allotted exercise time. The mess hall was under close watch by human eyes and cameras – all shenanigans were shut down immediately, and with extreme prejudice. In the yard, there were well-trained men with high-powered rifles on the surrounding walls. An inmate might be able to pull off an attempt on Hodge’s life out there, but they would be assured a bullet for their trouble. Whether that bullet was in the leg, the chest or the head depended on the skill and temperament of the guard who landed the first shot. With the mercury trembling in the upper thirties as they entered the height of summer, the temperament of the boys on the wall was less than jovial.

  Crowe’s other demand, however, had Eddie baffled. For whatever reason, Crow
e wanted Hodge to work in the Badlands’ laundry, which was nowhere near as secure. It was supervised from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon by one unarmed guard. The job currently belonged to Mitch Casson, the junior guy on the seniority totem pole, because most of the older guys saw it as shit duty. The place was always sweltering, even in winter, and nothing interesting ever happened. Eddie had read a newspaper interview with the president of his union once that claimed, on any given day, a prison guard can be a jailer, a butler, a social worker or a confidant. Eddie thought that was public relations horseshit. Maybe some of the newer recruits in the minimum security joints got into the gig to save souls, but the guards of the Badlands were here because they believed criminals were dangerous animals that needed to be caged. They didn’t want to spend their shifts daydreaming or texting their girlfriends.

  Casson observed the laundry from a raised platform next to the entrance. A closed-circuit camera mounted in a corner above the laundry door was monitored around the clock, as part of a bank of forty cameras set in various strategic positions throughout the Badlands. Eddie had never given it much thought before meeting Crowe, but he now realized the laundry was the least secure area in the prison, due to the one-man duty and the many blind spots the camera couldn’t cover. It was probably somewhere near the bottom of the union’s mile-long list of grievances, below overcrowding and lack of training, but above the outdated coffee machines.

  Eddie had offered this information and more to Crowe as the man and his two flunkies interrogated him in the alley (how Eddie wished that Darcy Flowers had been with him in that alley; then the outcome would have been different, by God). Crowe hadn’t seemed at all surprised that there was a bounty on Hodge’s head; he was more interested in knowing where the attempt to collect was most likely to take place. He simply rubbed his five o’clock shadow as Eddie told him about the laundry situation.