by Bill Capron
Robin backtracked; “Why are you out of jail so soon?”
He finished chewing his scone before he spoke. “The evidence. Like you, the evidence. There were some holes in it. My lawyer told me to plead guilty to a second degree charge, else it would be life. I thought I made the right choice.” Doubt momentarily clouded his face. “I did.”
Robin flattened the list of names and pushed a copy to Daniels. “This is everyone I know. The ones I’ve highlighted in yellow meet the criteria required to be the killer. I was wondering if any of these names look familiar?”
Daniels scanned the printout. “It’s been nine years. I have no friends left from that time, Mr. Morgan. If one of them had the same name, I probably wouldn’t remember it.”
Robin asked him to think about it, to recollect, to record the names of everyone he could remember. When Daniels left, Robin was still looking for the hard proof.
~ ~ ~
“Hi, Mom, it’s Robin . . . of course I’m okay . . . you and dad should stop believing everything you read in the papers . . . I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I was real busy . . . yes, I know it’s an adverb, really . . . it’s almost done with . . . yes, by Friday the whole world will know I’m innocent . . . you can go back outside then . . . trust me . . . the editor never liked me anyway . . . of course she’d say my wild youth led to this . . . it’s because I didn’t ask her to the prom . . .”
It went on like that until he cut her off. He should have called them earlier. He would make his apologies later.
He called Detective McMartin and waited on hold. “Hello, this is Officer Simpson. Can I help you?”
He disguised his voice; “I need to talk to McMartin.”
He heard a catch in Simpson’s voice; “Here she comes.”
“This is McMartin, how can I help you?”
“Detective, it’s Robin Morgan.” Silence; “I’m close to breaking this wide open.” More silence; “Detective, are you there?”
“Of course, Bob.”
He heard a man’s voice in the background; “Detective, we are in a meeting.” He sounded petulant.
Robin said, “I’ll be back soon. Thanks.”
Maureen heard the flight announcement for Newark in the background; Robin Morgan was stretching her trust to the max.
Maureen checked the status of the warrant to put locators on his vehicles.
~ ~ ~
Carla was already sweating when she got to the start. Peter, Canby and George gathered around her in the cold drizzle.
“Aren’t we waiting for Robin?” she asked.
“No,” George answered, “he’s in Maine.”
“Hey, guys, let’s get going before I cramp up.” She started at a slow jog, the men fanned out in a straight line, elbows almost touching.
“What’s he doing in Maine?” she asked.
His voice transmitted Robin’s certainty; “He’s on the trail of the killer.”
All heads turned to George.
“Well, out with it,” Carla ordered.
So George told them about Seattle, and the string of murders like clockwork over the last nine years, murders that started in Portland, Maine. Although the telling was as haphazard as his gait, he got it all out.
Canby, the ex-cop, was incredulous. “He can’t really believe that, can he?”
George nodded vigorously. “I think he’s really got it.”
Peter asked, “Who’s in Maine?”
George searched his memory banks, recalling Robin’s phone conversation. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, some liquor. Jack Daniels, that’s who. Seems he’s out of jail. Robin said he was the first one.”
The pace picked up.
Canby said, “It sounds foolish to me. And you, George, you shouldn’t be helping him jump bail.”
George acted dumb; “What jump bail?”
The ex-cop answered, “Leaving the jurisdiction, going to Seattle. It’s a crime.”
“When’s he coming back?” Carla asked.
George was breathing hard at the quickened pace. “He told me a couple days. I mean everything is so close together in the East, he can drive between these murders in a couple of hours.”
Peter weighed in, “It sounds like the man is seriously deranged.”
Canby said, “Amen.”
Peter continued, “I mean, he’s delusional. He’s going to hurt himself before this is over.”
George defended Robin; “But the evidence, Peter?”
The psychotherapist put on his professional voice; “Did you actually see the evidence?”
George shook his head.
“Sick minds construct their own realities. Take my word for it, Robin’s living in Lala-land right now.”
From Canby, “What should we do?”
Peter said, “He should be in custody before he hurts himself.”
Canby agreed, “Yeah, but I don’t want to be the one to turn him in.”
Their eyes settled on George.
Canby said, “George, you’re the one he put at risk. You should tell the cops.”
George shook his head like a dog, sending a spray of water. “No way, I believe him.”
They ran in silence for another mile before George broke off. A mile later Canby complained of a cramp and turned back. Carla and Peter picked up their pace, two same sized runners at a distance differentiated sexually only by their haircuts.
Chapter 17 - Wednesday, June 28 - 9:30 am EST
The lawyer met Robin at the gate. He moved forward and shook his hand. Hilger was very short, maybe five-four, balding, energetic.
Hilger scanned Robin’s face. “All you tall guys with beards look alike. Coming off the plane, you could have been David, but not up close.”
Robin nodded. “Yes, but we’re all tall, with beards.”
The lawyer led him to a silver Mercedes. “It’s my wife’s. She makes all the money, bottom feeding stuff, tobacco litigation, breast implants, cancer clusters, you know the stuff, bad science, good bucks. I defend the losers.”
“Maybe I can help you.” Robin expanded on what he told Hilger over the phone.
At a stoplight the lawyer turned to face him. “You’re not crazy, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
He pressed the accelerator. “I don’t think so either.”
At the prison Robin showed his driver’s license twice, but no one took notice of the name or the man. For the third time ever Robin was in a lawyer prisoner meeting room. The prisoner, David Jones, was a broken man. At six-four, he weighed no more than one-sixty, his hair and beard were white, his skin a mottled gray. His hands shook from palsy or Parkinson’s.
The lawyer warned Robin that Jones tried to kill himself a week earlier. When he introduced Robin, Jones lifted a hand and made reluctant eye contact. The lawyer then retold Robin’s story in his own sequence. He started with the murder, then described Robin’s process of enlightenment, stringing together the crimes, even making up a story about how Jones’ empty spot in the schedule was filled by further research.
Robin was surprised at how close Hilger came to details they didn’t discuss; but more surprising was the transformation of the man on the other side of the glass. His body straightened, the hands stopped shaking and color darkened his face. The guard tapped the outer glass when he started to stand.
Jones stammered, “Mr. Mor ... Morgan, which one am I?”
Robin knew immediately what he meant. “You were the seventh.”
He slapped the table. “I knew I wasn’t the first. I didn’t know what to look for. I didn’t know.” His eyes were bright in the dark room.
The lawyer blushed. To Robin, “David said the killer had done this before, that he was too good for it to be the first time. I never took it seriously.”
Hilger addressed his client, “I’m sorry.”
Jones was already past it. “How can I help you, Mr. Morgan?”
“Call me Robin.” The prisoner nodded. Robin unfolded the list o
f names. Hilger gave a copy to the guard who gave it to Jones. “This is everyone I know ...”
Jones interrupted him; “Randy, do you have our list? I did the same thing. I made a list.”
The lawyer said, “Right here, David.”
Hilger pushed the list in front of Robin.
He scanned down the hundred plus names with checkmarks for means, motive, and opportunity. His finger stopped. “This is a strange name, Vladanka Donevitch. Are you sure?”
The prisoner tapped his finger on the table. “It’s been a long time. You tend to forget people, especially when they weren’t real close.”
Robin nodded, but said nothing.
“What did I write in the notes?” Jones asked.
Robin read, “Fisherwoman, short, a bit on the masculine side.”
Recognition lit Jones’ face. “I remember. Vlad. She used to fish with my wife. I nicknamed her Vlad the Impaler because she always sharpened her hooks before they went out.”
“She was a woman?” Robin made it a question.
Jones scanned his memory. “I never checked. Had a woman’s voice, but a mannish look, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” Robin stood to end the meeting. “Mr. Jones, I hope you’re free soon. In fact, I expect it.”
The lawyer drove to the courthouse where his sister was a stenographer. They checked in New Jersey, then New York and Pennsylvania, and finally opened it up to the whole country. There was no Vladanka Donevitch.
“What’s it mean?” the lawyer asked.
Robin couldn’t help the grin. “It means she, he is the killer. It’s a made up name, and Mr. Hilger, I know where it came from.”
~ ~ ~
Robin was all smiles when he met Dick and Kathy at the Chicago airport. He’d had a ninety minute layover, but the flight was late and his stop was down to thirty minutes. They led him to a quiet corner from which he could see his boarding gate.
Kathy said, “You’re looking awfully relaxed for a guy who’s jumped bail.”
Robin waved it off; “It’s almost old news. Couple of days and it will be.”
She followed up quickly. “Then let’s hold off this decision until then. It can wait for your full attention.”
Robin looked to Dick who shook his head. He hadn’t told her about the murderer.
“No, Kathy, I’m going to be opening a Pandora’s Box real soon. The sale won’t be on my radar. We need to do it now.” To Dick, “So what’s our status?”
“We’re close. Kathy and I haven’t given an inch. King keeps pressing on having you as the titular head.”
“Even with my current woes?”
“Yeah, but it’s all a smokescreen. He wants a lower price, and you’re the only hook he’s got left to hang it on.”
Robin motioned him on.
“I told him no, no ifs, ands or buts, and,” he looked to his finance executive, “Kathy backed me up on it.”
Robin turned to her. “Thanks.”
She returned a wan smile.
He asked them both, “So, is that the last item we’re sitting on?”
Dick answered, “Well, like I said, King doesn’t really want you, he wants a better price. He thinks you’ll buy your freedom. Donald doesn’t want to pay list price, otherwise he thinks he got took. So he figures he has you in a bad place.”
Robin laughed, “How big a concession does he want?”
He looked at the scratchpad of notes. “Ten percent, and we can close today.”
To Kathy, “How long are we tied to our original offer?”
“Tomorrow. After that we can court other offers.”
“So let’s get it done, and no concessions. Dick, let him think we’re ready to shop ourselves again.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe we are. Anyway, I’m not here to make Don King feel good. We’re walking away with the last pot, or we’ll find a new game.”
~ ~ ~
Meg sorted the newspaper articles by date. It had the feeling of a class project with more than a grade on the line. She asked, “Where did we put the Cheyenne and El Paso newspaper articles?”
“They’re in the kitchen, under the coffee maker.”
Meg returned and slipped the articles in their time slots. “That does it, over thirty.”
Maureen cautioned her daughter, “Meg honey, it’s not proof yet,” read her face, “but it’s close.”
Meg got serious. “This is someone who’s pretty awful, isn’t he?”
Her mother nodded slowly. “The worst. When I put him away …” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t want to mess up this time.”
Meg voiced her fear; “What if he gets away?”
Maureen was confident, “He doesn’t know we’re onto him. If he has no reason to run, we can get him. We have to be careful.”
“What about the yellow VW? Is Mr. Sunday making any progress?”
Maureen shook her head. “Diane and Bob Sunday worked all day yesterday. No one on Morgan’s list has a yellow VW. We have over three hundred registered in Oregon since February.”
“Why February?”
“Before that he was working in Seattle and Spokane. I had to cut it off someplace.”
A little more querulously, “Does Officer Simpson like Robin Morgan?”
“Yes, I’m sure she does.” Where’s this leading?
“Does he like her?”
A knee jerk response, “Not in the way you’re thinking. She’s much too young.” The niggling fear showed on her face. “Meg, this isn’t something I want to …”
Saved by the phone; “Hello.”
Meg recognized Maureen’s captain’s voice.
“I think you should calm down, sir … who says Morgan’s jumped bail … I’m not going to respond to some baseless rumor … what’s the mayor doing getting involved with this … they want a meeting now … where … I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Maureen packed the file in her briefcase. When she arrived at City Hall she parked in one of the reserved spots. A guard walked towards her. She held up her badge and turned for the door.
God damn it, what am I going to tell them? I need one more day, maybe two.
She stood outside the conference room with her ear next to the door. She winked at the good looking young officer guarding the door. He blushed. The angry voices were only slightly diminished by the thick door.
Silence descended when she opened the door. The mayor’s aide for community affairs, Roger Bernhart was at the head of the table. The captain and DA Forde were facing her. Diane Simpson had her back to Maureen. She didn’t turn her head. Maureen took a chair, scanned Diane’s face. With looks men would never understand, the officer told her she had said nothing.
Maureen spoke first; “What’s the problem, Captain?”
He bit back his anger; “Bernhart here tells me the morning Oregonian’s going to run an article saying we’ve lost track of our suspect, that maybe he’s skipped bail.”
The aide interrupted, “The mayor is very concerned that we’re sending the wrong signals here. First you guys let this rich white murderer get bail, then you lose track of him. It’s bad for us. It’s bad for you.”
Maureen didn’t hide her contempt; “I’m not sending signals, Mr. Bernhart. If you politicians want to send signals, put on badges and do it yourself.”
She turned her anger at the captain; “And what makes you think we lost him, Captain? What’s the source of the rumor? And since when did we get into the rumor business?”
The captain exploded, “Now you listen here young lady …”
The officer who’d been guarding the door came in suddenly, apologized to the captain with a shrug and gave a note to Maureen.
“Now, you listen to me …”
But Maureen didn’t listen; she said, “Morgan is downstairs, and I have questions to ask him.”
She tapped Diane on the shoulder; “Come on, Officer, we’ve got work to do. I’ll call you in the morning, Captain.”
; Neither woman looked back.
~ ~ ~
Maureen nodded to Morgan. The detective pulled her notes from the briefcase, took the officer’s elbow, whispered in her ear, “I want you to review these with Bob Sunday. I want him in my office at seven.” She pushed the officer at the door.
“You,” she gripped his arm, “have a lot of nerve hanging me out to dry.”
He apologized, “I got here as soon as I could.”
She didn’t stop pushing him towards the staircase. “Come to think of it, what are you doing here?”
“I called your house. Your daughter said you’d been called on the carpet.”
“I’d give her hell, but you got us out of one sticky mess, so I’ll be thankful.” She paused as they stepped into the open air. “So you’re back. You learned something.”
He turned to face her. “I learned a lot, but I need one more day.”
She moved into his space and tilted her face up to him. “Tell me now. We can finish it for you.”
He got stubborn; “I don’t think I want anyone to finish it for me. I have one last thing to verify, and then it’s all yours.”
He’d earned some rights. “Call me in the morning, Mr. Morgan.”
“Robin.”
Big step time. “Okay, Robin. I’m Maureen.”
“Thanks, Maureen.”
Chapter 18 - Wednesday, June 28 - 11:00 pm
Robin grew up in a house in upstate New York where reading was the prime form of recreation, especially in winter. At the age of forty-five his mother took up writing and published ten books. But before she wrote, she read and read and read, and her seven kids consumed hundreds of books a year from a home library that never contracted in size.
Robin’s love was mysteries as he grew from the Hardy Boys to Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald, Ellery Queen and Rex Stout. As he grew older, his tastes became more catholic, but mysteries were what he loved. Even now he read one new mystery a month, plus one of his recycled favorites, and a new oldie perused from the vintage book stores.
The small reading room off the kitchen overlooked the pond and fountain. Two walls were covered by floor to ceiling shelves, most sized for paperbacks. There were two shelves with antique first editions he’d picked up over the years.
