by Bill Capron
McMartin’s written asides had a different flavor; “Follow the evidence,” and “It’s an act,” and “Two dead women. Check on Rebecca Young’s death,” and “Hit him over the head with the evidence.”
The detective said, “So, no alibi for the time of the murder?”
He folded his hands on the table. “No.”
Simpson asked, “Your truck was seen at the motel, Mr. Morgan, at the approximate time of the murder. Can you explain that?”
He rubbed the short hair on his upper lip and watched the officer closely. He liked her bright blue eyes, the soft lips. She used the eyes to bring him back to the question.
“It must be a mistake,” he said.
McMartin asked, “Are you calling Bob Sunday a liar?”
He shook his head. “No, but I wasn’t driving it.”
The detective leaned into the table. “Good, then we’re all agreed. The killer used your truck, right?”
“Yes.”
Then, “Who else has the keys to your truck?”
He thought about it. “No one. I’m the only person who ever drives it.”
“So you have the only keys?”
He said, “Yes.”
“Where do you keep the spare keys?”
A quick recollection; “Mona used to have one on her key ring, but I took it back. I didn’t want her using the trucks.”
“She made no copies?”
He shrugged. “She could have, but she didn’t have a reason.”
“Would you notice if someone took your truck, Mr. Morgan?”
“Probably not. I can barely see it from my living room window. And it’s almost a hundred yards away. I wouldn’t notice if it was gone for a while.”
“I saw an alarm system sticker on the window. Any reason it wasn’t armed?”
Morgan smiled. “Because I don’t have an alarm.”
He noted how the sneer marked her pretty face. “You can’t afford a real alarm?”
He tried not to sound goody-goody. “No. If I have an alarm, sooner or later it’s going to go off, most likely by accident, and wake my neighbors.”
God damned self serving remark, he’s trying to establish his good character to us. “And you didn’t leave the feathers and the earring in the truck. Somebody set you up, is that it?”
He turned his hands palms up. “Look, I’m not blaming anyone. I don’t have another explanation. I didn’t do it.” He focused on McMartin as if they were the only people in the room. “I’m not that stupid. I am the obvious suspect. I’d need to be worse than stupid.”
Simpson interrupted the tete-a-tete; “Or so you might want us to think that.”
He turned black eyes on her. “Then I’d be too smart by half, wouldn’t I?”
McMartin continued, “Who knows you had a pistol in the truck?”
“I don’t know. You saw the NRA sticker in the back window.” He paused to think. “Anyone I’ve fished with would know.”
Simpson, a lifelong city girl, asked, “Why’s that, Mr. Morgan?”
The explanation was straightforward. “I fish in some pretty remote places. I want to protect myself from wild animals; four legged as well as two.”
From McMartin, “And you didn’t fire your pistol last night?”
He recalled the big black man using swabs to wipe his hands. “No. Don’t you people have some way of verifying that?”
The detective said, “You could have worn gloves, then thrown them away.”
It was his turn to sneer. “You mean toss the gloves, but keep the earring, and drop my gun at the scene?”
Simpson helped her superior; “The pillow could have absorbed the blow back, ma’am.”
McMartin hit him with another; “It’s your fingerprints on the gun. Only yours.”
She read a flash of fear.
“That’s not possible,” he said.
I’ve gotten through that shell. “Well, it’s true.”
There was a prolonged silence as Robin ordered his thoughts. “I don’t know why my prints are there.” The fingers of his right hand rubbed his lower lip as he puzzled it out. “Even gloves should have smeared my prints,” he said aloud.
Claim ignorance, but don’t make an outright lie. Yes, too smart by half. She changed subjects. “Let’s talk about motives, Mr. Morgan. Mona’s death saves you a small fortune; according to your vice president about three million.”
His head came up sharply. “You’ve spoken to Dick Kaye?”
“When we couldn’t find you, we tried your work.”
A petulant anger marked his voice. “He had no business telling you that.”
She leaned aggressively across the table. “He had no business not telling me.”
The anger was replaced by apology. “Of course, you’re right. Is three million a motive? No, it’s not.”
“Yes, but you see where we get motive?”
He nodded. “But it’s not important to me.”
McMartin kept at him; “But money wasn’t the only motive, was it? Your wife was into sex, Mr. Morgan, with other men. How did you like sharing her?”
He looked a little confused. “I didn’t share her.”
She tapped the table with a clear polished nail, but she didn’t take her eyes off him. “What do you mean, you didn’t share her? We’ve already found two men she’s had sex with, and we haven’t started looking yet.”
He explained, “I wasn’t one of them. I haven’t slept with my wife since we got back from our honeymoon. I haven’t slept with anyone since then.”
Incredulity infused her face and voice; “Yeah, right. You want us to believe you were celibate while your wife chased anything in pants, is that what you want?”
He leaned in, intense. “Think what you will. I was supremely embarrassed by the actions of my wife. Why would I copy them?”
Simpson made a note, “Wow.” She circled it, and then crossed it out.
The detective was skeptical. “I think you’re lying. If not Mona, then who. You might as well tell us because we’re going to find out anyway.”
He argued, “I don’t have a girlfriend. When I get my divorce …” His voice trailed off; “After the divorce I was …” He let it hang.
Another note, “He can start with me,” and then another cross out.
McMartin let her personal history interfere. “Right, you’re in control of those male hormones. Right?”
His smile was sympathetic. “You know the wrong kind of guys.”
Simpson thought, ain’t that the truth.
McMartin was impervious. “So you didn’t kill her because of the money. You didn’t kill her because of the men. You didn’t kill her because she was a bitch in heat. You didn’t drive to her motel. You didn’t leave the evidence in your truck. You can’t explain why only your fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”
The detective turned her head to Simpson. “Gee, Officer, we’ll never get a judge to put his rich butt in jail, not with all that against us.”
Returning to Robin, she canted her head, rubbed her lips. “What can you say in your defense, Mr. Morgan? Without something solid, you won’t be leaving the premises tonight.”
The door opened and a tall heavyset man in a rumpled gray suit entered the room. He was followed by a very short man, dapper in a pressed blue suit.
Maureen stood, surprised. “Mr. Morgan, this is Captain Hardaway, and assistant District Attorney, Jack Forde.”
No one made a motion to shake hands. The two men pulled chairs from the wall and took positions at opposite ends of the table.
The captain pushed the off button on the recorder. He spoke with a cigarette scarred voice; “Listen, Morgan, it’s obvious we got you dead to rights here. The DA says you can cop a plea. I mean it’s not like she didn’t deserve it.”
The detective jumped up and blurted, “Wait one minute here, Captain.”
The captain put her back in her seat with his eyes.
McMartin turned to Simpson with a w
ordless communication. They were both thinking the same thing; someone didn’t want the sex life of Mona Morgan investigated.
The diminutive DA spoke in a modulated tenor; “Mr. Morgan, we’re prepared …”
Robin didn’t wait for the spiel. “Mr. DA, I’m innocent, and I’m not copping a plea to anything. You can save your energy.”
The captain yanked on Morgan’s shoulder and got in his face. “Listen, you asshole, you’re looking at thirty years to life. Save us a little work and you’ll collect social security on the outside of a cell. Make us work for it and we’ll put your ass where the sun don’t shine for the rest of your life.”
Robin Morgan leaned towards the captain. “Keep your hands off me.” The captain stood and drew back his hand. “And if you’re thinking about smacking me, you’d better think twice. I’d make your life a hell you wouldn’t believe.”
He turned his eyes to McMartin. “Detective, I think this interview is over. I’ll take you up on that offer to call my lawyer.”
The captain sputtered, but Morgan didn’t turn his head. It was like the cop wasn’t there.
~ ~ ~
Despite his the ‘truth will set me free’ speech, Robin was worried; especially in the holding cell where he was one of ten suspected criminals. He listened to the cocky talk of plea bargains and revenge. And he was frightened by the sheer volume of evidence. Only his money stood between him and a ‘slam bam thank you ma’am’ trial with a one way ticket to prison; and even that might not be enough.
Robin realized that if he was the detective, he’d have his butt in jail too. But he had an advantage over the police; he knew he hadn’t done it, he knew the evidence was trumped up, and he knew there had to be a reason. He needed some shard of doubt for his lawyer, Judy Jacobs, so she could set him free. But what? He had nothing to tell her except “I didn’t do it.”
Judy was a senior partner of the law firm handling the sale of FindIt; she managed the criminal caseload half of the business. They’d been friends for twelve years, back to San Francisco when she was in her last year of law school. She helped FindIt with its first registrations and the like. Then she married a mutual friend, moved north and got successful. They stayed in touch, and when the sale came up, he went back to her.
His mind wandered between evidence and motives and memories of Mona; even self pity, how none of this would have happened if Rebecca had lived.
The guard tapped on the bars and motioned Robin to the door. He shuffled in the noisy leg chains. He put his hands through the opening in the door and the cuffs were put on his wrists. The door opened with a screech and the guard followed him down the dirty gray hall to the interrogation room. His leg chains were bolted to the floor. The guard took off the handcuffs and left the room. Robin put his hands on the table and stared at the mirrored wall.
~ ~ ~
McMartin watched Morgan, silent in his seat, eyes forward. She whispered, like he might hear her, “He doesn’t look so cocksure all of a sudden.” There was a thinly veiled satisfaction in her voice.
The officer’s tone was more normal; “That may be, but it was something watching him lay into the captain. Got him angry, and cut him off at the balls. I thought I was going into cardiac arrest.”
McMartin saw it from a less flattering perspective. “Typical male macho display. Didn’t do a thing but puff up his ego.”
“He wasn’t doing that.” Simpson came to suspect’s defense; “This guy’s brain isn’t wired that way. I don’t know if he murdered his wife, but outside of that one event, he’s a pretty good guy in my book.”
“Outside of a little murder?” she sneered.
It was becoming a theme; “Maybe she was a woman needing killing.”
The detective warned, “That’s not for us to decide.”
Simpson’s lips flattened, almost to a smile. “I know, but too often the really bad guys get off, and he seems so damned good.”
The irritation returned to the detective’s voice; “It’s an act. The celibacy is an act. The goodness is an act.”
The two women were standing. Diane turned her entire body to face her superior. “I think Robin Morgan was right about one thing.”
McMartin shifted nervously.
“You know the wrong kind of men.”
“I’m not letting him bowl me over with his charm.” Her green eyes challenged Diane. “Unlike you.”
Simpson wasn’t a girl to back down. “Are we seeing the same person, Detective? I mean, he’s in dirty orange canvas, he hasn’t had a bath yet, and if he’s acting about anything, it’s to cover the fear.” She leaned into the detective’s face and lowered her voice. “He’s got no charm, he’s in a bad place, and he remembers to be civil. We should not be afraid to do the same.”
McMartin leaned forward and stretched her body to get into Simpson’s face; her anger seethed beneath the surface.
Jack Forde stuck his head in the door; he, looked from one to the other. “Am I interrupting something?”
The tension left the women who parted like repelling magnets. “No.”
He grinned. “Good. Is our prisoner ready?”
The detective nodded.
“I hope you don’t let him bite off my head like the poor captain.”
McMartin said to the both of them, “We need to talk. We have a little problem.”
Chapter 5 - Thursday, June 22 - 2:30 pm
Robin scanned the faces of his interrogators. The DA was one of those short dynamos trying to make it to the top in a tall world. He was pugnacious and had a way of looking you in the eyes, not aggressive, but intrusive. He saw fairness in the face.
The officer, Diane Simpson, was tall and thin, very pretty, very young. He’d watched her making notes, writing more than he said. She believed him. At times she smiled with her lips in a straight line, almost in apology.
The boss, Detective McMartin, was older, five-four, redhead, a boyish body with breasts. She was as attractive as the officer, but the glint behind the green eyes was dominated by cynicism. Distrust never left her face, skepticism shadowed her voice. She didn’t think he was telling the truth; she thought he was guilty.
The DA opened, “Your lawyer hasn’t arrived yet, Mr. Morgan. Would you rather wait, or she can join us in process if that’s okay with you?”
He asked, “And the captain, or was he a one shot bad cop routine?”
Forde hit the stop button; “The captain’s meeting with the mayor. We’re safe.” He pressed the record button.
“Sure, we can talk for awhile. Shoot.”
McMartin recapped the previous session; the evidence, motives, opportunity, and Robin’s responses. She wrapped up with, “Did you know your wife was three months pregnant, Mr. Morgan?”
Another life gone.
“Mr. Morgan?”
“No,” he read her impatience, “and it wasn’t mine.”
She took a gratuitous dig; “You’re probably right, but we’re running a DNA sample anyway. According to you, you’re the only man it Portland it couldn’t be.”
His reaction was immediate; “That’s uncalled for. Mona didn’t deserve to die.” He searched for words that weren’t too hokey. “Neither did an innocent child.”
The detective plowed straight ahead; “So said wife is screwing half the town, pregnant with some other man’s child, and is getting ready to touch you for a cool three million. Anyone would have killed her. Why, she deserved killing!” She deflated at the end of her tirade and finished lamely; “Why, Mr. Morgan, you could have killed her to hide your shame.”
A cold look came to the prisoner’s face. He swept his hand around the room. “What do you call this, Detective? Can I be more embarrassed?”
The detective was dismissive; “An unplanned complication, Mr. Morgan.”
Simpson wrote in her book, “No. No. No.”
The DA cleared his throat. “Mr. Morgan, we’ve got the evidence. You had means, motive and opportunity. But none of us thinks this is first
degree murder. I mean, there are extenuating circumstances. The woman took you to the breaking point, and then she tells you she’s pregnant.”
Robin watched the DA’s eyes; something was wrong. Simpson wouldn’t look at him. The detective was swallowing her bile. Why? The DA suddenly looked like a used car salesman trying to unload a bad transmission. He sat mute.
The DA filled the void; “Look, it’s going to be a long, hard fought trial. You have resources that can keep us in court for years at great expense to the people of Oregon.” He paused for effect. “This is a one time offer, Mr. Morgan. The DA’s office will accept a plea of second degree homicide,” the next words came harder, “maybe manslaughter considering the circumstances. We could work a deal that had you free in eleven years.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he protested.
The DA was adamant; “It’s a one time deal. Here and now?”
Immediate, “No.”
“Damn straight the answer is no.” The short, stocky, prematurely gray woman burst into the room. She glared at the DA as she pulled a chair away from the wall. “And we’ll have no more of it.”
To Robin she said, “I’m glad you weren’t considering that offer.”
Robin couldn’t hold back a grin. “It never crossed my mind, Judy.”
He noted the smile on Diane Simpson’s eyes, but not her lips.
To the DA again, “You know, Jack, you got more guts than brains. If that offer’s good today, it’ll be better in a month. Right now, we’re out of here.” She put a firm hand around Morgan’s wrist. “I want to meet with my client; and I want the typed notes from both of Mr. Morgan’s sessions before we talk again.”
McMartin motioned to Simpson who left with the tape. To the lawyer, “My name’s McMartin. I’m the detective on this case.”
The lawyer looked her up and down. “I know who you are. I saw you on the television. Don’t get any ideas about getting famous on Robin Morgan.”
The detective colored a dark red.
Robin defended her. “Don’t go there, Judy. They’re only doing their job.”
