Second Hand Smoke: Blood on Wolfe's Words

by Bill Capron

  God, doesn’t anybody who knows this guy dislike him. Instead she said, “Maybe he was defending his honor when he killed her.”

  Meg answered, “No, he wouldn’t.”

  Maureen countered, “Well, you should have seen him dress down the captain. Robin Morgan is not some innocent softie, Meg.”

  “She didn’t say he was a patsy.”

  Even as the words formed on her lips, they didn’t sound right; “Well, he’s going to have to prove his innocence.”

  Meg looked afraid. “Mom, you’re not going to railroad him, are you?”

  “Of course not, Meg,” but for a brief moment she wondered; “I’m going to follow the evidence.”

  And therein lay the crux of her problem, the evidence.

  Chapter 6 - Friday, June 23 - 5:00 am

  Where am I? The bed was unfamiliar, the sounds and smells unnatural. The morning sun suffused light through windows he couldn’t see. Next to his head blue ink bled through the last gray paint job, ‘Get me out of here,’ was all it said. My feelings exactly.

  The man in the upper bunk shifted his weight, creaking the springs.

  Engage your brain. He was the one person who knew what didn’t happen. And based on the quantity and quality of the evidence, a lot of planning went into putting him in jail.

  Maybe Mona was killed to get me. But why? To remove the most likely heir and put themselves in line; that could implicate only his parents or siblings. Not possible; and, again, too smart by half.

  Maybe someone at FindIt. He understood the motivation of money, but who would profit? The only thing the murderer accomplished was to put the sale at risk. Kathy Senn didn’t want to sell, but he’d known her forever; and she loved him.

  Anyway, why set me up? Why not kill me? If someone was going to accept the risk of murder, why not murder Robin? It was obvious the person who planned this could have killed him at any time.

  So Mona was the target. Was it a whacko prostitute killer, or jealous lover, or spurned lover wannabe? But that would have been a spur of the moment or fit of rage kind of murder. That wasn’t what happened.

  Maybe she was killed for him? He knew women like Kathy who could have killed Mona for what she’d done to him, but they wouldn’t point the finger of blame at him.

  Maybe the ex-husbands? One of them might not have taken her philandering ways as philosophically as he had. But why wait? And why set up her last victim, a comrade in arms?

  Why would anyone set me up? He couldn’t get his mind around it. That Mona was murdered wasn’t so hard to understand. That he was framed as the killer had to have a reason.

  His thinking brought home one sobering fact. The police had the right man, and they would look no further. It was be up to Judy and Bob.

  Bob Sunday? Could Bob be the killer? His right hand caressed the edge of his mustache. His good friend Bob. He was uniquely positioned to make it all work. He knew Mona, and of course Robin. He was at the motel. He was the only witness to Robin’s alleged presence. He could have done it, but he had no motive. Maybe Mona created a motive. Maybe she seduced him. Maybe she threatened to tell his wife. Maybe he had no way out other than throwing the suspicion on Robin. The ex-cop would know how to do it, how to play the police, how to use the evidence, how to find Mona, and how to keep tabs on Robin.

  He pressed his palms against his eyes. No, Bob, don’t let it be you. It was too obvious. The police must be following up on it too.

  Whoa! Don’t think like that. The police have the guilty man. They don’t know it wasn’t him. They followed the evidence. Sure it was a little staged, the criminal a little inept, but when the forces of justice careen down an unobstructed highway of conviction, it’s easy to ignore the unmarked exits.

  Tell Judy. She’ll find another detective.

  He wanted to defend himself; he had the motive, saving his own life; and he had the means, a brain capable of sifting the facts, many known only to him. All he needed was the opportunity.

  ~ ~ ~

  Judy thought Robin looked a bit dilapidated. It wasn’t that he was always neat, or composed, or anything concrete she could point to, but Robin Morgan had a backdrop to his personality that didn’t fade. There were no facades to pull down to reveal the schemer within. She knew who he was, and at some level she couldn’t quite put her finger on, like his hanger-on girls, she too loved him.

  Robin took a deep breath and straightened himself in the chair. He said, “I have to take time to remember who I am in here; it’s like watching the movie of someone else’s life. I remind myself not to be scared that it could go on forever.”

  Judy came up with platitudes like some major league rookie; “We’re working to get you out, Robin. You have to keep your chin up.”

  “Oh, I like that, that’s a big help. I’ve always wondered what criminal lawyers say to their clients.” Robin smiled, the tension was broken. “Speaking of jail, how’s that wayward son of yours doing? I might need some lessons on what to do in my cell.”

  Judy grabbed eagerly at the mundane; “Thankfully he’s not in trouble again, and as far as I can see, he’s not using. But how’s a mother to know? Wally spends more time keeping track of Barry.”

  Other people’s problems were almost a relief. “He’s led you a merry chase. It’s great how Wally takes on the responsibility. Most second husbands,” she held up three fingers, “third husbands wouldn’t bother with past progeny.”

  “He’s a gem, but enough about me and mine.”

  He leaned towards her with an earnest look on his face; he verbalized his thoughts; “Judy, it’s easier to talk about you than me right now. It’s not because I’m ignoring on my problems, it’s more for mental relief. I’ve got this horrible feeling …”

  Judy’s look was expectant. “Yes, well I may have some good news there.” She rifled through the pages in front of her. “Buried on page nineteen is one surprising tidbit of information.” She split the pile of paper and scanned the page. “It seems the police have too much evidence.”

  He tilted his head to her. “What’s that mean?”

  “There’s another print on the gun, a palm print. Did they take your palm print?”

  “Yes, yesterday in the interrogation room.”

  “Well, this errant palm print they got, it’s on top of one of your finger prints, and it’s not yours.”

  Robin controlled a rising excitement. “The killer?”

  Judy held up both hands. “Slow down. The police think one of their own people contaminated the evidence. They’re testing everyone in the evidence chain.”

  He squeezed out, “And?”

  She leaned in and whispered, as if it was a secret between them. “It’s not a cop. I hear they’re checking the ME’s staff, and the hotel employees.”

  He recalled the words written on the wall; “Can you get me out of here?”

  She put a hopeful smile on. “We have a shot. With any luck, you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight.”

  “What about Bob Sunday?”

  Judy looked confused. “What about Bob Sunday?”

  “Have they taken his palm print?”

  “I don’t think so …” A light dawned in her eyes.

  Robin continued, “I don’t want to think that it is Bob, but he’s the only person I can think of who could have made it happen. If it’s not Bob, let’s clear him right away.”

  “He has no motive?” Her tone made it a question.

  Robin shook his head. “We don’t know that yet.”

  “I’ll talk to the detective, McMartin.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The captain was in a foul mood. “I must have missed that class when I was a rookie. So when did you start working for the defense, Detective?”

  Jack Forde came to her support; “It was a good idea, Captain. Better now than later.”

  Keeping his eyes on his detective, the captain continued, “Yeah, well if it was such a good idea, we should have thought it up ourselves.”

&n
bsp; Maureen spoke, “I slipped up.” He looked a little more mollified by her acceptance of blame. “I mean, Jacobs was right, it could have been Sunday. It was easy to put him in the role of perpetrator.”

  “And?”

  She shook her head. “Not his prints. We’re still checking on the motive side, but initial reports say no.”

  The DA added, “The defense did us a favor. They could have waited for the trial, when the trail was a lot colder.”

  Hardaway directed his question at the DA. “So why didn’t they? We’d have looked like real Bozos in court.”

  McMartin accepted the barb without flinching. The captain didn’t like women on the force, but he had to admit Maureen McMartin had steel in her spine. He took the edge off his remark by smiling at her. He liked it that the smile made her flinch.

  Forde went on, “Notwithstanding Bob Sunday, the palm print puts a big crimp in the evidence.”

  “Bastard would have saved us a lot of effort if he’d taken the damned plea bargain.” The memory reddened his skin.

  He asked Maureen, “Can we work around it?”

  She tapped the thick report. “We’ve got a ton of evidence, but we don’t know how the gun was compromised. Still, the evidence should have him back behind bars by next week.”

  The captain didn’t like what he was hearing. To the DA, “Does this mean Morgan’s going to walk?”

  The DA held him hands palms up. “It’s in the report. We know Jacobs saw it. I mean, she told us to check Sunday’s palm print. Yes, the judge will set bail.”

  The captain was worried. “If he decides to run, we’ll never find him. I mean, he’s got resources, right?”

  The DA was more sanguine; “We’ll get a very high bail.”

  Maureen picked up from there; “We’ve frozen his bank and brokerage accounts. He can still use them as collateral, but it’ll take time to get through the red tape.”

  Hardaway nodded. “That’s good. We could overturn the bail decision before he gets out?” He made it a question.

  She nodded her agreement. “We have a shot, sir. Everything we learn adds to the evidence.”

  The captain pulled on his ear. “I’d still like to know where that print came from.”

  Forde said, “Amen.”

  The captain asked, “Have we given up on the plea bargain?”

  The DA shook his head. “No way that is going to happen. We’d have to drop it to manslaughter. He’d probably do no time once Jacobs got through with us.”

  Maureen interrupted the DA, adamant; “That’s not right.” She turned to Hardaway. “Captain, we can make this case. If he killed his wife, he’s going to prison.”

  Hardaway turned his eyes to her, boring in. “If?”

  She pushed back from the table, putting distance between them. “Well the palm print adds some uncertainty, sir.”

  “Detective, I can understand our questioning whether the DA can get a conviction. That’s law enforcement these days. But,” he pointed a finger at her, “I’ve read the report, and Morgan killed his wife. You’ve done a good job so far. You let the rest of the world doubt, but take my word for it, you’ve got the right man.”

  “I agree,” she said. I agree. I agree. I agree. I hope I’m right.

  Chapter 7 - Friday, June 23 - 4:00 pm

  The guard rapped the bars. “Mr. Morgan. Time for your hearing.”

  It was a first for him, calling a prisoner Mister, but it seemed the right thing to do. He’d read it in the paper, ‘the Svengali-like CEO of FindIt.’ A reporter used the word after trying to get dirt from his employees. He called them followers, unwilling, even off the record to say one negative word about their boss. John Martin had no problem understanding it; if Morgan had been his commanding officer in Vietnam, the soldiers would have followed him up that hill instead of hanging back waiting for their bastard lieutenant to take a bullet so they could return to camp.

  He watched Robin deal with Jack. It was new to him, but he wasn’t lost, he wasn’t scared. Morgan did what had to be done and earned Martin’s respect. And they all knew how he’d dealt with the captain, a hard, honest man, but needing his comeuppance.

  Who’d have thunk it, a prisoner with mystique.

  Robin was led to a changing room where he found his suit and matching shoes, socks, shirt and tie; not what he’d have choosen. He’d say something to Judy, but she’d ignore him; Judy believed in the importance of little things.

  When he was dressed, the guard put on the manacles and attached the chain to his waist. He led Robin through a series of gray hallways to a secured elevator and rode with him to the seventh floor where he handed him off to the sheriff.

  “Good luck, Mr. Morgan.”

  The sheriff’s eyes widened.

  Robin said, “Thank you.”

  He was led to an eight by eight room with a polished wood table and comfortable chairs. Judy entered from the side door, patted his shoulder, and took a seat across from him. Her hair was dotted with a fine mist.

  She asked the sheriff to remove the manacles, which he did.

  To Robin, “In fifteen minutes we’ll be in the courtroom. We’re the third case on the docket. There’s about a million members of the media in the audience, so no matter what, keep your cool.”

  He smiled.

  “They didn’t find an owner for the palm print, so we’ll get bail. We don’t know how much it’s going to be.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  She averted her eyes. “Nothing. We’re covered.”

  She’s done something stupidly maudlin. “What happened with Bob Sunday?”

  She shook the mist from her head. “Negative on the palm print. Ditto for his wife. They’re still checking, but it’s a dead end.”

  His relief was genuine. “Good. I don’t want to be trading places with my friends.”

  Judy drummed her fingers while Robin concentrated on his hands in his lap.

  He broke the silence; “This is what it comes to, close friends with nothing to say to each other.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve got a ton of small talk, but I don’t think you want to hear it.”

  Fear tinged his voice; “Judy, I’ve lost my freedom, and I’m a little bit frightened. I need some sign that the world is still a normal place.”

  So she talked like any Friday night over drinks. Her daughter’s second marriage was into its third year, and her grandson was using e-mail to cadge help with his homework. Judy’s husband was in Seattle visiting his children. The kid who mowed her lawn had moved away and she couldn’t find a replacement. She needed oral surgery on her upper molars. She’d stopped wearing high heels because of corns.

  When she finished her monologue, he said, “That was normal enough. Thanks, I needed that,” and they both laughed.

  When she asked, “So what’s new with you,” they started laughing all over again.

  Then he told her about his new roommate, about the lackluster interior decorating, and the wonderful new friends he was making. He finished with the recurring plea, “So what I need is for you to get me the hell out of here.”

  The sheriff knocked on the door. They followed him down another rabbit warren of hallways to queue up with ten other lawyers and their charges. They were ushered into the courtroom to the front row. There were six armed sheriffs in the row behind them.

  Robin felt his face redden.

  The cavernous room was a hundred feet across, with the judge’s bench high in the center. Twenty feet in front of it were tables for the prosecution on the right, and the defense on the left. The gallery seated two hundred, and it was packed. Robin recognized some of the newsmen, even one national reporter for ABC. He wanted to think of them as vultures, but they were people doing their jobs; the jobs of vultures. The cameras were set against the back walls.

  Judy and I are the Christians. We have the lions, the crazed spectators. All we need is Nero to sit in judgment.

  He saw a hand wave; it belonged to Kathy S
enn. She stood and thirty others stood with her. He waved back, hiding competing emotions of embarrassment and thankfulness.

  He turned his face to the front when the clerk called out, “Oy-ye, oy-ye.” The judge was a tiny gray-haired woman. She looked like she’d been eating lemons.

  Robin focused on the proceedings. The first man, a thick bodied black with a tattoo around his neck and manacles holding his hands to his waist was arraigned for assault and rape. The prosecutor said he’d committed the crimes while out on a ‘ridiculously low’ bail for a previous rape. Robin could feel a tension between him and the judge, like she was that judge. It was pop psychology, but he read her concern for the suspect, that he was society’s fault. She wanted to set bail again! But the cameras were there. He was a small fish, and this was her moment. Bail was denied.

  The second defendant was a car thief caught in the act by the owner who, brandishing a gun, held him until the police arrived. It was his fourth car theft this year. The DA wanted the man held until Monday to make an impression. The judge released him on his own recognizance, and then she asked the DA if the car owner’s gun was registered.

  Robin saw McMartin and Simpson standing near a side entrance. They had their heads together. They could be two pretty women discussing husbands, boyfriends, children, school. When Robin’s name was called they returned their attention to the judge.

  Flash bulbs lit up as he made his way to the defense table.

  The judge asked the DA why a capital offense suspect was not manacled. He said it wasn’t necessary. She said it wasn’t his courtroom. She ordered the sheriff to put on the manacles.

  Robin kept his eyes on the judge. Good theater for the media. Great chance to show how tough she is on crime, especially for rich white males.

  The DA spoke first, laying out the case against Robin. He finished by saying the evidence was voluminous and conclusive, and that bail should be denied.