Second Hand Smoke: Blood on Wolfe's Words

by Bill Capron

  He slammed the door on that with a matter of fact, “No.”

  She didn’t get angry. “You’re a man who needs friends, Mr. Morgan. Kicking sand in my face isn’t going to help you one bit.”

  He tested her patience; “Then I’ll be polite. No, ma’am.”

  He could see her counting to ten. “If you’ve broken the bail agreement, I’ll have you back in jail quicker than you’d ever believe. Is that understood?”

  “I hear you loud and clear. I’ll tell you more when I know more.”

  He pressed the off button and waved to the cop.

  A shiver raised goose bumps. She was right, of course; if anyone saw him, or recognized him at the airport, or if he’d had a car accident in Tucson, he’d be in jail. But defending himself was a risk, and it was going to get worse; and what alternatives did he have?

  No alternatives. What a laugh. You have lots of alternatives. You can let Judy set you free. It was the safe route. You could let Bob Sunday follow up on Smoke. You could be a spectator to your life.

  Robin Morgan should be paralyzed with fear, beset by indecision, overcome by dread, but he wasn’t. He’d been more afraid as an entrepreneur with fifty thousand in debt, forty thousand in payables, and no billings. He got by that, he’d get by this.

  Where to start? McMartin said they’d be on the front page of USA Today by Monday. He found the website, and from there the one year archive. He entered his charge card, then searched on the word ‘murder’ and came up with hundreds of hits sequenced backwards by date. He called each article up one at a time and scanned it; there were seventy-six full blown articles, some on page one, but most relegated to page two or three, a few further back.

  Four cases stood out, if only because of the physical characteristics of the alleged killers; they were tall; they had beards; they had money; the evidence was voluminous; and they never had an alibi.

  Didn’t anyone connect these stories? I mean, we look like brothers. He felt his face redden. Of course not, you idiot. He stapled the printouts together and started a file with his handwritten notes.

  In March, Jake Tarn of Seattle was arrested for the murder of his partner. Their insurance company had been on the verge of bankruptcy. Jake was pretty well off, but the demise of the company would have cost him everything. The policy on his partner would make the business whole. It was the prosecution’s sole motive. Bail was denied. Tarn was in jail awaiting trial.

  In December, Barney Cullen of Spokane was charged in the death of his ex-wife who was suing him for more child support based on the increased household income of his new wife, a prominent lawyer. All indications were she would win the suit, enough so that the new wife filed for divorce to protect her assets. Cullen was denied bail, and the trial was in progress.

  The previous September, Colby Corbin, a rancher in Boise, Idaho, was arrested for killing his daughter who had filed sexual abuse charges based on repressed memories surfaced by a psychotherapist. She was found dead, naked in his bedroom with her hands and feet tied to the corners of the bed, much like one of her memories. Corbin was appealing his death sentence.

  And lastly, the previous June, Bob Roberts of Billings, Montana, was in jail for killing his parents. The motive was an inheritance worth over twenty million dollars. He needed the money to cover margin calls that had gone south; he took loans against their assets the day after they died. He was now in prison for life.

  Are these murders connected? Beyond the coincidence of physical appearance? Maybe it was all in his head.

  Robin sensed a common thread, like the leit motif of a symphony. No, Robin Morgan wasn’t the only one. At four a.m. he fell asleep, dreaming of a deadly smoke moving westward against the wind.

  Chapter 13 - Monday, June 26 - 8:00 am

  The two women entered the police station under a single large golf umbrella held by the officer. They walked slowly, haltingly, fully engaged in conversation, oblivious to the chaos for the police station. McMartin and Simpson looked like actresses filming a scene for a crime show. A couple patrolmen waved to them, but their eyes were locked, their attentions focused.

  He watched the detective’s lips move in profile. “… feeling sorry for Morgan is not a reason to think he’s innocent …”

  “Detective. Officer,” he interrupted.

  Diane Simpson turned her head; she smiled with her perfectly straight, bright white teeth.

  Detective McMartin suppressed a surprising smile of her own. “So the wayward suspect returns to harass the loyal public servants.” The detective scanned his spiky head. “Working on a disguise, are we?”

  He turned his head and posed in profile. “It’s all right, isn’t it?”

  She laughed, almost friendly. “Yes, it’s all right. Thanks for letting us see the new you. Now how can we help you?”

  “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  Simpson put her left hand forward, like she was showing him, see, no ring. “Here, I only had a sip. I had too much with pancakes anyway.”

  He said, “Thanks.”

  To the detective, “I was hoping I could talk to both of you.”

  “What, halfway through our shift and we don’t look busy to you?”

  “No,” he laughed.

  Maureen turned to the hallway. Over her shoulder she called, “Well, come along then.”

  He followed her up the stairs with Simpson at his right shoulder smelling of lilacs. The detective checked a schedule sheet outside the small conference room and blocked out a half hour. She held the door open for Robin and the officer.

  She repeated herself, “So how can we help you?”

  How to begin? “I think I’m not the first.”

  The detective responded to the cryptic statement; “Not the first what?”

  He swallowed some air. “I’m not the first person this killer has set up.”

  Her question came out harsher than she intended; “What the hell does that mean?”

  Simpson scratched in her notebook.

  Robin reached into his jacket pocket and both women jerked back from the table. He didn’t notice. He straightened the folded printouts on the table.

  He was intent; he was selling; “Remember I told you that maybe there was no motive?”

  Maureen shrugged. “I though you’d discounted that.”

  He nodded. “Sort of, but I’ve been thinking.” McMartin rolled her eyes, but he talked through it; “Even if there was no motive, that doesn’t mean this was the first time. Maybe I wasn’t the first patsy. So I started looking for crimes like mine.”

  The women shifted in their chairs. He had their attention.

  “I found five.”

  Robin spread the five stapled sets. “The first one I found was in Tucson. I remembered it from a trip last year.”

  Robin quickly described each of the murders. He scanned their faces and watched initial interest turn from incredulity to something like pity.

  The detective interrupted him as he described the Billings murder. “Let me see if I have this right. The threads that connect these cases is that the evidence was circumstantial, the suspects protested their innocence, and they look like you?” She made it a question, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She turned to Simpson. “What would the captain do if we bought in on this? Laugh us off the force?”

  The officer nodded. “Yes.”

  She returned her attention to Robin; “So, that’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

  He watched her eyes.

  The detective averted her gaze. She interlaced her fingers and pressed her thumbs to her lips. “Well, you got diddly.”

  Robin stood. “Sorry I wasted your time, ladies.” He left the room.

  Diane Simpson wiped a tear working its way down her cheek.

  “Enough to make you cry, officer?” There was a barb in the question.

  She rose from the table. “Yes, detective, I marvel at your strength.” She slammed the door on the way out.

  Maureen reache
d across the table and slid the articles in front of her to arrange the pictures in a row. They looked like Robin Morgan, but so what? I need to be absolutely certain of his innocence before I can entertain an idea like this.

  And what’s with the snide remark to Simpson. It had all the earmarks of jealousy. Suddenly Diane Simpson looked like competition. She made a visible effort to shake a thought that went nowhere she wanted to go.

  Did I rush to judgment? I acted like a cop. I saw the crime scene. I collected the evidence. I made my case. But she knew better; there was the obvious answer, and she got the evidence to support it.

  Yes, that’s what I did, but was it wrong? It never seemed wrong before, but it was backwards. If it was science, it would be bad science, but it was normal police work.

  Maureen McMartin read the articles.

  ~ ~ ~

  They’re wrong! You’re right! Over and over, like a mantra. It wasn’t ready for prime time, that’s all. No, he hadn’t convinced himself before he took it to real skeptics. If one of his people did this on a prospect, he’d give them the same reception. Never again, not until even the detective couldn’t ignore the facts.

  Facts. No, he didn’t have facts. Yet.

  They’re wrong. You’re right. Robin turned into the main library as the drizzle turned into a cloudburst. On the second floor he hung his jacket over the microfiche reader and found the USA Today drawers. There were ten years of tapes. He started backwards from the Billings murder.

  It was slow going, looking at every headline, looking for key words, then moving on to the next day. He turned the wheel, scanned the pages, printed articles and made notes. In three hours he found seven more possibles.

  And there was a pattern. Portland to Seattle to Spokane to Boise to Billings to Cheyenne to Denver to Salt Lake City to Las Vegas to Tucson to Albuquerque to El Paso. It was a storm moving westward every ninety days. If the pattern held …

  Robin checked his watch, re-filed the tapes and left.

  Diane Simpson folded the Oregonian she’d been reading for three hours; she sat in the chair still warm from Robin Morgan. He thinks he’s innocent. I think he’s innocent.

  From the first moment she saw him, she didn’t think he did it. There was no rational basis; it was woman’s intuition. She didn’t need evidence; it was like religious faith. Suddenly she was shaken by the idea that the facts might support the faith.

  She called the detective on her cell phone. “Hi, I’m at the library. Robin Morgan spent the morning going through USA Today microfilms.”

  There was silence. She asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need you here, Diane. I’ve got Bob Sunday and,” there was a long pause, “I think it’s time we find that yellow Volkswagen.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Judy waved from the corner seat at Mario’s Pistolero, Italian-Mexican food. He wound his way through the lunch crowd. She nursed a highball. She gave him a tight, angry smile. He ordered a beer and hamburger. Her surly look deepened.

  He put an elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his fist. “So who pooped on your parade?”

  She tapped her watch. “You’re late. I liked the old anal retentive Robin.”

  He held his hands up in submission. “I’m sorry, the time got away from me.”

  She didn’t let it end there. “So where the hell have you been? I called all morning. You ever answer your messages?”

  He waved a free hand dismissively. “I’m doing research.”

  Suspicion clouded her face. “Anything I should know about?”

  He’d made one mistake with a premature release. “Nothing concrete.”

  Judy had been in criminal law for a long time; she didn’t trust her clients, even when they were friends. “So tell me about it anyway.”

  He stonewalled; “Not yet. I’m not ready.”

  His hamburger and beer arrived together. “You ordered for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you eating?” he asked.

  “No, and you better chow down. We have to sign those extradition documents in twenty minutes.”

  He spoke with his mouth full, “Great, I can go home.”

  She didn’t look forward to his new freedom. “Yes, but before that I need to spend some quality time with you.”

  He looked at his watch, a little too theatrically. “Not today. In fact, this week is out. How about we start in earnest next week?”

  She was more insistent; “I need your input.”

  He read the distrust in her face; she was right, of course. He was preparing a defense more daring and risky than any she was planning. So he put the right amount of concern slathered with obsequiousness into his lie; “You know everything I know. Next week I’ll be ready, but right now I’m focused on the sale of FindIt.”

  Relief relaxed the lawyer’s features. “That’s good, I like that. Okay, I move forward on the defense, you help Dick close the sale.” She waited for his eyes to meet hers. “I want you to stay out of trouble. That’s not so tough, is it?”

  Robin shook his head and lied, “No boss, not so tough.” He left a twenty and pulled her out of her chair. “Let’s go sign those papers.”

  ~ ~ ~

  From the DA’s office they walked to FindIt. Judy wrapped her coat against a cold wind Robin barely noticed and explained the operating rules of his new arrangement. He nodded, but he wasn’t listening. She turned back to the street as the elevator doors closed.

  Robin was in good spirits as he strode across the lobby. Libby, known affectionately as ‘Libby in the Lobby’, manned the receptionist desk. She was bent to the screen when he tapped the desktop.

  She talked without taking her attention from the screen; “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like someone, anyone, to show me a little love.”

  “Eek!” she screamed. “Oh, Robin, it’s so good to see you.” She jumped from her chair and raced around the desk to give him a hug. She pushed him back and looked him in the eye. “How much love do you need?” she winked.

  “Lots, and speaking of love, are Dick and Kathy in?”

  She nodded. “They’re fighting again.” It was a statement, matter of fact. She helped him off with the all-weather.

  He walked in through the open door. Dick smiled and waved a weary hand. Kathy’s look was more guarded, but she nodded a hello.

  Robin looked out at the roiling clouds. He asked the glum sun worshiping Southern Californian Kathy, “Will it ever be sunny again?”

  She pasted on a smile. “Who the hell knows? I’m considering suicide.”

  Robin pulled the rolled up business page from his back pocket and flattened it on the desk. “Good job on the news release.”

  She muttered, “Yeah, whatever.”

  To Dick, “You seal the deal?”

  “I closed it this morning, Robin. It was in my voice mail when I got in.”

  Robin tapped the paper. “I take it this good news got to Donald King already?”

  Dick laughed. “Yeah. His finance guy was sitting right there,” he pointed at the visitor’s chair, “when we took the message.” The smile turned to a grin. “Used the speaker phone. Got to tell you, he didn’t look too happy.”

  Kathy added, “He was in the process of complaining about the article, that we were trying to prod them with iffy sales. Bernie Jacobs said we’d won their Canadian operations too, same deal.” She laughed. “You’d have thought he was going to have a heart attack.”

  Dick leaned back in the large leather chair that used to be Robin’s; he said, “The only bone of contention we have left is you.”

  Kathy disagreed; “Robin, there’s something else to consider. Those contracts mean we won’t have a dip over the next year, even if the market softens like Dick thinks,” as if she’d ever believed it; “I think we should reconsider selling the company. Let’s treat the two hundred thousand as sunk cost and get on with being the industry leader.” She put on a wistful look.

  R
obin placed his elbows on the table. “No, Kathy, I’m done. You’ll do fine with King. Anyway, you’ll be a rich lady.”

  Resignation dominated her voice; “I’d rather be free. I don’t know if I can take the corporate yoke. Have you seen all the rules?”

  Dick laughed. “Kathy’s afraid some stupid clerk will be reviewing her outrageous travel and expense vouchers.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah, well you wait, Dick Kaye. When some payables clerk says you can’t spend six hundred wining and dining at Hooters, don’t cry on my shoulder.”

  Robin returned to Dick’s previous comment; “So what’s with my involvement?”

  Dick shrugged his shoulders. “Same old, same old. You’re the company, and without you there’s a lot more risk.”

  Robin leaned forward and jabbed a finger at him. “Dick, tell them I’m not even planning to be with the new company one day.”

  Dick started to protest.

  “No, not even one day. I’m out of the decision. Either through retirement, or god forbid, jail, I am unavailable.” He put both hands flat on the desk. “Tell King that if that’s not good enough, no deal.” He addressed the hopeful look in Kathy’s eyes. “You forget about it, Kathy Senn. I’m a bargaining chip.”

  Robin searched the eyes of his financial guru. To Dick he said, “Can you give us a couple of minutes. I need to talk to Kathy alone.”

  “Sure.” Dick closed the door softly on the way out.

  He sidled his chair next to hers and took her left hand in both of his. “You okay?”

  She spoke without looking at him; “You mean am I getting over you?”

  He watched her reddening profile. “Yes.”

  “No, I’m not.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “But I will be.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Thanks, Kathy.”

  He felt her wince.

  ~ ~ ~

  At the library, Robin found the number of Jake Tarn’s lawyer, Bob Goodwin, in a Seattle phone book. The lawyer said he’d set up a meeting.

  It took four intensive hours to get through the next seven years of USA Today. He had the pattern, every three months, meandering back in time west to east.