I Scarce Can Die (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 5)

by Michael Wallace

  Gordon spread his hands slightly, as if to say, “Go on.”

  “The first is that he’s not swearing up and down that he’s innocent. He honestly doesn’t know.”

  “That was what impressed me,” Clarence interjected. “I’ve dealt with a lot of ex-cons, and the ones who are still conning you are absolutely sure of themselves.”

  “And the second reason?” Gordon asked.

  “Gary and Connie had a tempestuous marriage. They argued a lot, and the sheriff’s deputies were called more than once. But Gary says he loved her, and that even though they had huge arguments, even though they shouted and threw things, he never laid a hand on her in anger. That’s why he thinks he can’t have done it.”

  “On the other hand, to play the devil’s advocate, maybe he finally boiled over.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so.”

  After a silence, Gordon spoke again.

  “Something else I don’t understand about this,” he said. “I’d assume NGNC has its own people to look into cases, so why are you asking me to do it?”

  “Good question. When I went back to NGNC’s lead attorney to report on my interview, she shook her head at the end and said they couldn’t take the case because Gary didn’t insist on his innocence. With all the appeals coming in, they have to make decisions on which cases they take, and they hardly ever represent a prisoner who doesn’t affirm his innocence.”

  “I can see you’re puzzled,” Clarence interjected. “We — Melissa and I — read his behavior as psychologically true. But NGNC doesn’t want to represent someone unless he’s all in. From their perspective, they don’t want to invest hundreds, thousands of hours on a case, and have the client suddenly back out.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose,” Gordon said. “But if he’s not sure he’s innocent, why did he contact NGNC in the first place?”

  “He didn’t,” Melissa said. “The request to look into his case came from a woman named Nell Quinn. She lives in a town about 12 miles up the road from Dutchtown, and she’s known Gary since they were both little kids. She doesn’t believe he did it. . .”

  “And she’s in love with him,” Gordon said.

  “That was the impression I got, and it would have to be taken into consideration, certainly. I’m sure she’d be willing to talk to you.”

  “I’m sure she would, “ Gordon said, “but let’s cut to the chase. What, exactly, would you be asking me to do?”

  “If NGNC could be presented with strong evidence of a miscarriage of justice, they could still take up the case, even though Gary’s wobbly. If I had the time, I’d go up to Dutchtown for a couple of weeks and nose around, but classes are starting. And I can’t go at Christmas break because I have to be back East with my family. The earliest I could get there would be spring break, and only if nothing else came up. Time is of the essence; with each passing day, it gets tougher to compile accurate information. Elizabeth said you were planning a fishing trip in the next few weeks . . . ”

  “Probably the second half of October,” Gordon said. “I’m still talking to my friend about times, but he’s really slammed at work.”

  “That’s a lot sooner than I could get there,” Melissa said, “and a fishing trip would be a perfect cover for you to be in town while you’re nosing around and asking questions. And if you’re not going for two months, it would give us some time to have Gary contact people and ask them to talk to you.”

  “What, exactly, would I be looking for?”

  “Perhaps I can better answer that,” Clarence said. “In examining these cases over a period of years, NGNC and other innocence advocacy groups have found a number of common factors in wrongful convictions. There’s bad faith and fraud by police and prosecutors, to be sure, but that’s a small part of it. Most of the time, there’s just a jumping to conclusions. The police see a couple of things early that point in one direction, it makes sense to them, so they start focusing on that and downplaying or ignoring the facts that don’t fit their theory.”

  “Isn’t the defense attorney supposed to challenge that?”

  “In theory, yes. In practice, it doesn’t always work out that way. Incompetent defense counsel is also a major factor in wrongful convictions, and, in fact, one of the things we’d be asking you to do is look for that in the trial transcript.”

  “But I’m not an attorney.”

  “Granted. But you could be a juror. Look at the transcript and see if there’s anything that you, as a juror, would have liked some elaboration on. Something where you didn’t think the defense pressed hard enough.”

  “What else would I be looking for?”

  “Some of the more common problems in these cases are bad eyewitness testimony, bad expert testimony, witnesses who weren’t called when they should have been, questions that should have been asked but weren’t.”

  Gordon exhaled with a whistle.

  “That’s an awful lot to turn up in a week or so,” he said. “Especially if I want to get some fishing in, too.”

  “Look,” Melissa said, “we’re not asking you to be Perry Mason and produce a confession on the witness stand. Just nose around and tell us if you think there’s enough there to justify further investigation. Right now, you’re the only one who can do it. The question is, will you?”

  Gordon said nothing for several seconds, trying to convey the impression that he was thinking about it. In reality, the matter had been settled when Elizabeth had first asked him to have this meeting. Unpromising as the case appeared, he felt he owed it to her to help her friends.

  “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  “There’s just one thing,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “What if I do my nosing around, as you call it, and everything I turn up points to Gary Baxter being guilty as charged?”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen,” Melissa said. “But if it does, and we agree with you, we drop the case. And maybe Gary at least knows, once and for all, he’s doing time for a reason.”

  Friday October 16, 1998

  “I REALLY NEED THIS VACATION,” Dr. Peter Delaney said. “One of our surgeons is having nurse trouble, and it’s wreaking havoc on the entire practice.”

  “Really,” said Quill Gordon, keeping his eyes on the steep winding road ahead. “You mean the nurse isn’t doing the job?”

  “That’s not it at all. In fact, she’s doing the comforting the afflicted part very well. She and the surgeon are an item.”

  “Hmm,” Gordon said, swerving to avoid a fallen branch in the roadway. “But surely that sort of thing has happened before. Why is it such a problem now?”

  “His wife found out.”

  “Ah. And what does she do — the wife, I mean?”

  “She’s an attorney.”

  “He’s screwed.”

  “A divorce attorney, actually.”

  “He’s beyond screwed.”

  “So you would think. And so he would be, if she allowed the law to take its course. In that event he’d be hanging upside down in the town square, skin flayed off, and still writing an alimony check every month.”

  “Is that the voice of experience I hear?”

  Peter ignored the jibe. “Instead, she took matters into her own hands. Not a good idea when you’re under emotional duress.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Well, it started with several obscene phone calls to the nurse, along with some vandalism of the nurse’s property. But matters really came to a head when my colleague pulled down the covers one night and found a snake in his bed.”

  “Holy smoke! Was it poisonous?”

  “Thankfully, no.”

  “That’s a small comfort, anyway.”

  “It was a python five and a half feet long.”

  “Ick.”

  “My sentiments exactly. The bar association is moving to suspend her license. Though I must say, the joke
making the rounds in our office — and don’t take this personally, your father being a judge and all — is that the snake was acting out of professional courtesy.”

  “I saw that coming.”

  “The surgeon’s been sleeping in a recliner ever since, and professionally he’s worthless. He tried to go back to work two days after the python episode, but when he went to do a simple hernia, he began prepping the wrong side of the patient. One of the nurses questioned it, and he started shaking so bad, they had to call me in. He hasn’t worked since, and the rest of us are picking up the slack. This week, I did four surgeries over and above my caseload — and that was in four days. So that’s why I need a vacation.”

  Neither man said anything for a minute.

  “Can I ask a question, Peter?”

  “Always.”

  “Would any of your ex-wives have put a snake in your bed?”

  Peter thought about it.

  “Number three was vindictive enough,” he finally said, “but in fairness to her, I don’t think so. Arsenic in the soup would have been more her style. Did you know, Gordon, that in the mid-19th century, so many wives in England were poisoning their husbands that Parliament considered a law prohibiting women from buying arsenic?”

  “I did not know that. Did the law pass?”

  “No. They decided to liberalize the divorce laws instead, and that took care of the problem.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “But it goes to show you, Gordon. If women, who are supposed to be the fairer, gentler sex. . .”

  “Lady Macbeth excepted.”

  “If women can do such things to their husbands, is it any surprise that when something happens to a married woman, the police always zero in on the husband? I certainly would, and it’s why I think you may be on a wild goose chase trying to prove the innocence of Mr. . . .”

  “Baxter.”

  “Baxter. Right. Because the way I look at it, it’s possible that someone else may actually have killed her, but it’s almost impossible that someone else would have a better motive.”

  “Here’s the river,” Gordon said.

  After coming around a blind curve, the road had leveled out and was heading for a long bridge, with three-foot concrete guardrails on either side. There was a small turnout across the bridge, and Gordon pulled the Cherokee into it. No one else was around, and it had been three minutes since they’d seen another car on the road.

  “Might as well take a look,” Gordon said.

  They got out and stretched. It was cool and overcast, and the clouds hung low, clinging to the sides of the canyon above them. They walked out to the middle of the bridge, on a narrow sidewalk, and looked down into the crystal-clear waters. It was a freestone stream, more than a hundred feet wide, with riffles, pools and rocky banks partially overgrown with brush. In the flat water below the bridge, Gordon could see a brace of trout about 12 to 14 inches long, sitting near an overhanging bank, looking for food being washed down the current. One of the fish rose to the surface to chomp an insect the men couldn’t see. A truck rumbled behind them, shaking the bridge. When it had passed out of earshot, Peter turned to Gordon.

  “So this is the Bellota River.”

  Gordon nodded.

  “Named for?”

  “Bellota means acorn in Spanish. Farther down, where it flows into the Central Valley, it’s all oak trees so the name is no doubt descriptive. Funny, I haven’t gotten around to fishing it until now.”

  “The water levels look pretty good for this late in the season,” Peter said.

  “It should be perfect. There are two good things about being here this time of year. The first is that with the river lower, there shouldn’t be any whitewater rafters on it. That gets rid of one distraction.”

  Gordon paused to watch the second trout rise to a fly on the surface.

  “Looks like they’re taking both nymphs and dries,” he said.

  “And the second thing?”

  Gordon turned and pointed behind them, downstream.

  “Eight miles from here, the river runs into a reservoir. There are some monster Browns in there, and in October they move upstream to spawn. That means we have at least a long shot of catching a ten to 12 pound fish. Just one like that would make the whole trip worthwhile.”

  “Want to give it a try now?”

  Gordon looked at his watch and at the clouds.

  “It’s 2:45 now. We have to drive to Dutchtown, buy groceries and get set up at the house. Plus, I have my first appointment at 5:30.”

  “That’s right. You’re working. Who are you meeting?”

  “Joey Vargas. I’m told he was Gary Baxter’s best friend. Want to come along?”

  “Where are you meeting him?”

  “In a saloon, unfortunately.”

  “Why not? I can have a club soda and be the designated driver.”

  “The town’s so small we can walk. And we have more than a week after that to show the fish what we’ve got.”

  A gust of wind whistled through the canyon, and Peter drew his parka tighter.

  “All right,” he said. “Let the play begin.”

  A SOFT AUTUMN RAIN began to fall as they headed up the canyon. Coupled with the wind, it loosened dead pine needles and oak leaves from the trees alongside the highway. They showered down on the roadway, laying a carpet over the wet asphalt.

  Dutchtown was 15 miles up the road from the bridge where they stopped. Along the way, they passed campgrounds — full of people and laughter during the summer, but now empty, forlorn and closed for the impending winter. They passed a roadhouse that might have been a happening place 30 years ago but was now in such a state of disrepair that the wood boarding up the windows had rotted through. They passed three settlements of ten to 20 houses each, all of them across the river from the highway. Half the residences were summer homes, now empty, and only the lights coming through windows in a couple of houses, showed that the hamlets were not altogether deserted.

  When they rounded a curve and saw Dutchtown below and ahead of them, it seemed like a comparative metropolis. Gordon pulled off into a turnout so they could take it in. They could see a number of houses, most of them looking close to a century old. The more brightly painted ones stood out vividly against the hillsides, rendered drab by the rain and overcast. A white church with a three-story steeple dominated the skyline, and perched on a hill just above the town was a solid granite building that had to be either a school or a government facility. The turning of the leaves had begun, and there were pockets of color among the evergreens. Several houses, looking newer and larger, sat higher up on the hills, no doubt commanding a splendid vista of the town, the river and the canyon.

  “Looks like a New England village in the vale, doesn’t it?” Gordon said.

  “It was one of the first Gold Rush towns, wasn’t it?” Peter replied. “The early miners were probably trying to make it feel like home.”

  They got back on the road, and after a brief descent, found themselves on a flat, straight stretch of road several feet above the river approaching a left turn lane, with a sign pointing to Dutchtown. On the opposite side of the road was a small store and two-pump gas station called the Bellota Gas-n-Go. A hundred feet from the highway, they crossed a one-lane bridge leading over the river into town, turned right onto Main Street and drove two blocks without seeing another moving vehicle. They parked at the curb across from Dutchtown Realty. It was in a wood frame building, perhaps a century old, painted bright yellow, with a covered wooden sidewalk in front. The ground floor looked prosperous and well maintained, but the second story was shabbier and looked none too steady.

  “This is where we pick up the keys,” Gordon said. “You coming in?”

  Peter looked through the windshield at the rain, which was beginning to come down harder.

  “I’ll wait here,” he said.

  Gordon slid out quickly, looked both ways and walked briskly across the street to the shelter of the overhang.
He wiped his feet carefully and methodically on the mat by the door, then turned the knob and stepped inside.

  “I’m guessing you’re Quill Gordon,” said a woman seated at a desk by the left wall. “Carla Thibaud.”

  Gordon turned as she stood up. She was a few years older, probably in her mid-forties, with light brown hair held together in a bun and sleek rimless glasses. She exuded an attraction of professionalism that was accentuated by her white blouse, gray tweed skirt and sensible pumps.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “The pleasure’s mine,” she said, shaking his hand, and giving it the slightest bit of extra squeeze as she let go. “Welcome to Dutchtown. The Manning place is all ready for you and your friend. Will you be wanting two keys?”

  “Please.”

  She sat at the desk and began rummaging through one of the drawers. Gordon looked around the office. There was another desk, and the walls were decorated with a half dozen photographs of the area on warm, sunny days that seemed hard to imagine as the light faded on this sodden afternoon.

  “Here you go,” she said, setting the keys on the desk. “I checked it out a couple of hours ago, and everything’s in order. You’re paid in advance, so just sign for the keys and we’re set.”

  He signed and set the pen down.

  “It’s easy to find,” she continued. “Just ahead, Main Street curves left and goes up the hill, but keep going straight to the bridge over Dutch Joe Creek. On the other side of the bridge, turn left at the T intersection onto Soldier Street and go up about 200 feet. It’s number 124 on the left, backing onto the creek. Dutchtown Store is open until 7. It’s small, but well stocked, with fresh meat and produce. There are three places open for dinner tonight — the taqueria and River House, both on River Street, one block down toward the river, and Hammond’s Station on Union Street between Main and River. The Gas-n-Go on the other side of the river is the only place to get gas. Let’s see — anything else?”

  “No. No, I think you covered the essentials.”

  “Well, I’ll be here until 5:30 if you have any other questions, and in again at 9:30 tomorrow morning.”