“Is this the duty DA?”
“Yes. Scott Marino.”
“There’s been a shooting at Toussaint’s restaurant over on Benson Street. The lead detective, John Majewski, has requested your assistance. Can you get over there?”
“Sure, I’ll drive over now. I know the place.”
Scott turned to Jennifer and explained the situation. He would be back as soon as he could, but of course he didn’t know when that would be. This was all new. He had been duty DA only a few times before and had never been called for assistance.
Ten minutes later he arrived at Toussaint’s. The entire block had been wrapped with tape reading CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS and was overrun with police cars, ambulances, white-coated medical attendants, and uniformed officers. WSAN-TV had a van just outside the tape.
Scott showed his ID to an officer manning the perimeter and was directed to Detective John Majewski.
“I’m Scott Marino, assistant DA. I was called and told you needed some legal help.”
Majewski looked surprised, then said, “Yes, thanks for coming. We have one known dead, probably two. Robbery, homicide. Just as the robber was about to leave with the cash, a customer pulled a gun on him. Robber turns and fires multiple shots. Misses the customer who pulled the gun but hits a young girl and the cashier. Both have been removed to the hospital, but I’m pretty sure the young girl is dead. I don’t know the cashier’s condition—shot in the back of the head, so she’s probably dead too.”
Scott shook his head. “Sorry to hear that. What about the shooter. Do you have him?”
“No, and so far no clue to his identity or where he is now. Initially it was bedlam here, trying to find out what happened. I had someone call to see if DA assistance was available, because I know this will be a headline case. In this kind of investigation I like to have someone from the DA’s office nearby. I don’t want to be second guessed with a bunch of ‘why didn’t you call us’ questions from the DA. I’ve seen enough legal screw-ups in homicide investigations. And here’s the first screw-up tonight—I only wanted to know if someone from your office was available. Just wanted your cell phone number. Didn’t mean to call you out. Sorry.”
“It’s no problem, I understand. And now that I’m here, how can I help?”
“Well, for one, the dead girl’s father—Daniel Voss is his name. He went berserk—beyond anything I’ve ever seen. His daughter was on the floor, and he was on his knees next to her when the paramedics arrived. Her shirt was covered in blood. Unfortunately, a paramedic turned to him and said, ‘She’s dead.’ With that, he grabs the paramedic around the neck with one hand and starts pummeling him with the other. He’s a big guy. He beat on the medic pretty bad. Took three deputies to pull him off. Then he grabbed the cash register and hurled it to the floor, breaking it apart. We had to cuff him. I’m not sure how the DA would want to handle it—charging such a distraught person. That paramedic wasn’t the person who should have informed the father. And the restaurant owner said he didn’t want any charges filed about the cash register—probably covered by insurance anyway. So under the circumstances, I’m reluctant to charge Mr. Voss with anything. What do you think?”
“Where’s he now?”
“He’s cuffed, in the back of a squad car. I have someone watching him.”
“Was anyone else with him?”
“Yes, his wife. Pretty much in shock. She’s not cuffed, but we have her sitting in another patrol vehicle. I was over there just a few minutes ago. I tried to speak with her, but she was incoherent. We haven’t been able to get anything out of either one.”
“Where are the patrol cars?”
Majewski pointed to two vehicles in the restaurant parking lot. “She’s in the first one—alone, but there’s a female officer standing nearby.”
Scott walked over to the vehicle and introduced himself to the officer. Then he slowly opened the door.
“Ma’am, I’m Scott Marino with the District Attorney’s office. I am so sorry for what happened tonight.” He did not get a response and did not expect any, but he continued. “I would like to call someone for you. Do you have a close relative, or perhaps a pastor, minister, or priest?”
She looked up at him with reddened eyes. She took a deep breath and in a barely audible voice said, “Yes, I would appreciate you calling my pastor.”
“His name?”
“Pastor Linn Fisher. I have his number here.” She reached into her purse, found a small phone booklet, and handed it to Scott. “He knows me. He buried our only son.”
Buried her only son? Scott hoped he had misunderstood what she said. “Your husband is in the vehicle next to you. I’ll try to contact Pastor Fisher immediately, and as soon as he arrives, I’ll bring him over. Do you need anything while you wait, perhaps some water?”
“No thank you,” she said, as she closed her eyes and laid her head back on the head rest.
Scott gently closed the door and used his cell phone to call Pastor Fisher. He explained the situation, and the pastor said he would come immediately. He then approached the officer assigned to watch Daniel Voss and introduced himself as from the DA’s office.
“We’ve had no problems since we put him in the vehicle,” said the officer. “He just sat there and sobbed for a few minutes, then got real quiet. He hasn’t moved in a while.”
“Any reason why I can’t speak with him now?” asked Scott.
“You’re the DA. You tell me.”
“Sure—it’s OK,” said Scott. He smiled to himself. Good retort by the officer, he thought.
Voss was seated in the back seat, on the passenger side of the vehicle. His large frame took up half the rear seat. Scott slowly opened the door, and Voss turned his head to face Scott. There were fresh scratches and bruises on his face. His eyes were red and his cheeks were wet. The handcuffs made it impossible for him to wipe his face.
“Mr. Voss, I’m Scott Marino with the District Attorney’s office. I am very sorry for what happened here tonight. Your wife’s in that car to your left. I just spoke with her, and she asked that I call Pastor Fisher. He’s on his way now. Is there anything you need, something to drink … water?”
Voss replied in a soft voice. “The man who did this—do they have him?”
“I’m not sure. I just arrived and don’t have all the details. But I assure you if they don’t have him, they soon will.”
“You’re promising me that?”
“Mr. Voss, that’s a promise. We’ll get the man who did this.”
Voss turned his head from Scott and closed his eyes. Scott shut the door and went back to see Detective Majewski.
Scott found him standing outside the front entrance of the restaurant, speaking to another detective. He waited until Majewski looked his way before speaking.
“You asked my thoughts on charging Voss. I agree there’s really nothing to be gained by charging him with anything related to his conduct tonight. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to be the prosecutor taking it to a jury. I’ve called their pastor, Pastor Linn Fisher, and he’s on his way over. When he gets here, I suggest you take the cuffs off Voss and release him—we can charge him later if something comes up to change our minds. I’m sure Pastor Fisher will help in getting Voss and his wife safely home. I think they are in a condition to at least give you an ID statement now, but I expect you’ll have to wait to get a more complete picture of what they saw.”
“Sounds good to me. We won’t charge him. At least not now. If the paramedic presses the issue, we can revisit it.”
“Any leads on the robber?”
“Nothing. The shooting took place in the cashier’s alcove away from the dining area. You’ve been in there?”
“Yes, a couple of times.”
“I’d invite you in for a view, but it’s pretty bloody right now, and we don’t want it contaminated before the forensic team arrives.”
“What do you know so far?”
“Not much. Apparently there were only five
people who saw the shooting and one, maybe two, are now dead. The only one who’s been able to tell us anything is the customer who drew his gun on the robber—and he’s still pretty much in shock. He says the robber came in while he was paying his bill and shouted at him to get down. He did, but for some godforsaken reason while he was flat on the floor, he pulls a pistol from a plastic case he was carrying, the robber sees him, and starts firing at him and randomly around the room. That’s all he can recall. He can’t even recall which door the robber left from—but it had to be the front.”
“Why would he have a pistol in Toussaint’s? Could he have been an accomplice?”
“Not likely. It was Troy Donaway.”
“The radio guy?” Scott recognized the name immediately. Donaway was an ultra-conservative syndicated talk radio host. Savannah station WSAN was his flagship station. He was a vocal NRA supporter and NASCAR fan, with a wide listening audience throughout Georgia and much of the South.
“Yep, that’s him. He said he was coming from a practice range in his Jeep Wrangler. It’s an open vehicle, and he didn’t want to leave the pistol unprotected, so he brought it in with him, in the plastic case.”
“Still loaded?”
“No. That’s what makes his action so weird. What was he going to do—scare a guy armed with a loaded pistol in his hand? If he had just kept down and quiet, the robber would’ve left with the money. No big deal. I don’t have a clue what he was thinking.”
As Majewski was speaking, a large forensic lab van pulled into the parking lot. He watched it until it parked just a few feet away. “I’m going to be here a while. I can’t think of anything I need from you right now. Why don’t you just give me your number—I’ll call if I need you.”
Scott pulled a card with his cell phone number from his wallet and handed it to Majewski. “Would you call me as soon as you have a preliminary report? I’m sure it will be big in the news tomorrow, and I may have to give the DA a briefing first thing Monday.”
“Sure, but it may not be much more than what you know now. Not much in the way of forensics that soon. But maybe we can find another witness or get something else from one of the Vosses. I’ll call you with what I have, sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks,” Scott said, and he walked to his car. He called Jennifer to tell her he would be there in about fifteen minutes, but he knew this would not be the romantic evening they had planned. He wouldn’t be able to forget what had just happened at Toussaint’s. The tragedy of the evening and the sadness he saw in the Vosses were beyond description. And the soft voice of Doris Voss kept repeating in his mind. Yes, he buried our only son.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
September 30, 2007
The Sunday’s paper front page read:
Fatal Shooting at Prominent
Savannah Restaurant
The article revealed few facts and did not list any of the names of the victims. It noted the investigation was ongoing but that the suspect had not been apprehended. And it noted that Toussaint’s had posted a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the perpetrator.
Detective Majewski called Scott around 3:00 p.m. Sunday afternoon. He had some additional details on the shooting, but still no suspect. He emphasized that his report was preliminary and far from complete, but he offered to provide Scott a copy.
“I’ll be here until about five,” said Majewski.
“Thanks. I’ll be right down.”
As soon as he returned to his apartment with the report, Scott began to examine it. There were numerous photos and diagrams, but the written analysis was short. The dead victim was a female, Angela Voss, age 18, of a Savannah address. The other victim, hospitalized in critical condition, was the cashier, Mildred Thompson, female, age 45. Troy Donaway, male, age 38, was listed as a witness, along with Daniel Voss, male, age 41, and Doris Voss, female, age 39. No other witnesses to the shooting were reported, but several restaurant employees on duty at the time, along with the names of restaurant patrons who heard the shots and observed the bloody scene, were listed by name and address as “potential contacts.”
The report contained verbal statements the Vosses had given to a detective, but those were very limited. They reported seeing a masked man and hearing him command them to “stop.” They saw a man on the floor trying to open a plastic case, but neither saw what was in the case. Then shots rang out, and Angela fell. That was all they seemed to recall. Neither mentioned the assaultive conduct of Daniel Voss after learning his daughter was dead, and the report only hinted at it.
Scott examined an eight-by-ten photo of the dark automatic pistol that Donaway tried to draw on the robber. A ruler placed alongside the pistol revealed that it was about seven and a half inches long. At the bottom of the photo a label read, “9mm pistol, SIG P226 Elite Model, with treaded barrel.” Scott had never owned a gun, but a fraternity buddy at the University of Alabama owned a 9mm Glock 17, and Scott had frequently joined him in shooting at a makeshift practice range on a back road near Lake Tuscaloosa. The pistol in the photo looked similar but not identical.
A second eight-by-ten photo showed a dark cylinder next to a ruler. The cylinder appeared to be slightly over seven inches long, an inch to an inch and a half in diameter. A label at the bottom of the photo read, “GemTech Tundra silencer.” Scott wasn’t familiar with silencers. In fact, he could not recall ever seeing one. He studied the photo carefully. Stapled to the top was a memo: “For follow-up of possible NFA violation. Also Georgia statute violation.”
Scott was curious. It was only four, and Majewski said he would be there until five. Majewski answered on the first ring.
“Majewski.”
“This is Scott Marino. I’ve looked over the preliminary report, and I noticed the memo attached to the silencer photo. Clue me in on what you have in mind.”
“Sure. We’re going to check and see if Donaway has complied with the National Firearms Act—NFA.”
“I’m not familiar with those requirements. What are they?”
“If you want to purchase a silencer, you have to get approval from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—the ATF. First, there is a pretty extensive application—photographs, fingerprints, pass a background test, and get the signature of the sheriff or chief of police. Moneywise, it’s only a two hundred dollar fee, which they call a transfer tax. We haven’t checked it out yet but will tomorrow.”
“And if he doesn’t have approval?”
“Then he’s violated Georgia criminal statutes by possessing the silencer. Pretty serious matter.”
“Felony?”
“Yes, felony. And he could be prosecuted under federal statutes also, though they may just let us handle it and be done with it.”
“What about the pistol. Any problem there?”
“No problem. NFA doesn’t impose any application requirements, and he showed us a concealed weapon permit. His problem is with the silencer—unless he has ATF approval and has paid his transfer fee.”
“Any idea how long it will take to complete your investigation? The shooting, I mean.”
“I don’t know, since we don’t even have a suspect. Could be weeks, months, years, or never.”
The conversation ended, and Scott took another look at the photo of the silencer. Majewski’s last words, “… or never,” echoed like an alarm through Scott’s mind as he recalled his promise to Daniel Voss. “We will get the man who did this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
October 1, 2007
Soon after arriving at work Monday morning, Scott called Moose. “Did you read about the shooting at Toussaint’s?”
“I did.”
“I was duty DA and got a call. I have a preliminary report and can brief you—I expect the DA will be getting calls.”
“I’m sure he will. Come on down, and I’ll check to see if he wants your report now.”
Scott picked up the report and went immediately to Moose’s new office. As Sco
tt entered, he was greeted with a clean and organized space, in complete contrast to the old storage room. On each wall were framed photos, mostly of Savannah’s parks and tree-lined streets. On the wall directly behind Moose’s desk were college diplomas, his Georgia Bar certificate, various college awards, and several photos of Moose in action on the football field.
Then something very special caught Scott’s eye: a large vase of roses on a small table just inside by the door. Scott sized them up—it seemed to be a dozen—a dozen white roses, and he could smell a special aroma. Or he thought he did. It seemed to be a combination of fresh roses mingled with the wonderful fragrance he remembered from Jessica’s first visit to his office.
Scott noted something else—the tarnished saxophone he had seen in the old storage room just a few days before. It had been cleaned and polished, and it was resting on a stand just behind Moose’s desk.
Moose hung up the phone and looked up at Scott. “That was the boss. He wants me to take the report now, then send it up to him. Take a seat.”
Scott handed the preliminary report to Moose and took a seat nearby.
“Give me a moment to look through it,” he said. “I may have a few questions.”
Scott used his time to make a visual reconnaissance of Moose’s new office. He was amazed at the transformation, which extended beyond the office environment to Moose himself. He was wearing a newly pressed and starched white dress shirt and a perfectly-knotted woven silk tie. His walrus moustache had been trimmed and groomed to a style made popular by Tom Selleck, and his hair no longer covered the back of his collar. The change was profound.
When Moose finally looked up from the report, he noticed Scott gazing at the pictures on a far wall. “How do you like my new office?” Moose asked.
“Very neat—very well done.”
“Mostly Jessica’s work. She’s been very helpful. Talked me out of staying in the old office. Insisted that I should move in here. She can be very persuasive.”
The Indictments Page 13
