Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3)

by Margaret Truman

  “What plans?”

  “First, we’re conferencing this morning about the abortion matter. I intend to see that a free choice means something in this country, even for poor women. Afterward I shall resign from the Court and spend whatever time I have left alone, what’s left of my peace of mind intact. My resignation from the Court will coincide with my action for divorce from you.”

  “Well, Temple dear, I surely wouldn’t fight either decision. I would only expect my fair share as a dutiful and loving wife for more than five years.”

  He managed to hold his anger in check as he slowly crossed the room.

  “I’ll fight for what’s mine,” she said.

  He paused, turned, leaned on his cane. “Cecily, for the past six months your every move has been noted by a firm of private investigators—”

  “You had me followed? How tacky, Temple.”

  “Yes, I agree, but sweets to the sweet. Well, like they say, have a good day.”

  He took his coat from a hall closet, put it on and stepped out to the front of the house, where Karl waited behind the wheel of a shiny red Cadillac. Conover said nothing as he settled into the back seat and looked at the house. Cecily stood at the window. “So damned beautiful,” he murmured. “Damned is the word…”

  As Karl drove off, Martin Teller pulled up in his car. Conover looked at him, turned away and closed his eyes. Karl glanced in the rearview mirror. Conover often fell asleep on the way to the Court, which was fine with Karl. He didn’t like talking to the old man.

  Teller rang the bell. A housekeeper answered it, took his card and returned a few moments later. “Mrs. Conover will see you,” she said in an Irish brogue.

  Cecily was seated at the breakfast table in the sunroom. “Good morning,” she said. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I appreciate you seeing me like this, Mrs. Conover. Usually I try to schedule things further in advance but I needed to talk to you today.”

  “My pleasure, sit down.”

  Teller, who’d given his coat and hat to the housekeeper, took the chair that had been occupied by Justice Conover.

  “Any progress on the case?” Cecily asked.

  “It never works fast, Mrs. Conover. You go day by day, put a piece together now and then, here and there. If you’re lucky you end up with enough of the puzzle to recognize the face.”

  “I see. Well, what can I do for you?”

  The folds of her robe had fallen open and the upper part of her breasts was looking at him. He looked away as he asked, “Why did you bring me your husband’s gun, Mrs. Conover?”

  “I told you why. I was afraid. Temple had threatened me with it—”

  “Because of Clarence Sutherland?”

  She began an answer but he cut her off. “Look, Mrs. Conover, I’m a cop but I don’t enjoy poking into people’s personal lives. What people do is their own business, unless it affects me, my job… Your relationship with Clarence Sutherland had nothing to do with me personally, but it might with my murder investigation. Did you have an affair with Sutherland?”

  “Yes.”

  “That simple.”

  “What else do you want me to say?”

  “I guess I’m used to people beating around the bush over questions like that. Okay, let’s get back to you turning in your husband’s weapon. You say you were afraid of him using it on you. Is that the only reason?”

  She opened her eyes wide, started to say something, then cried softly, a perfect teardrop running down each rouged cheek. “Excuse me,” she said, standing and getting a tissue from a table. She dabbed at her eyes, wiped her nose and sat down again. “I suppose you deal with weepy women all the time in your profession.”

  “Sometimes,” Teller said, waiting for the act to finish.

  She looked down at her lap. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Detective Teller.”

  “Well, you’re only human.”

  “Yes. I’m sure you’ll understand why when I tell you what I’ve held back.”

  “I’ll try my best, Mrs. Conover.”

  “I delivered the gun to you because… because my husband murdered Clarence Sutherland.” (No change in her tone of voice.)

  Teller looked around the room, ran his finger under his shirt collar. A very cool little lady. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say, but I am.”

  “Proof?”

  “If you mean did I see him do it, no. Did he tell me he did it? Well, not exactly, but he surely hinted at it enough times.”

  “Why do you think he did do it, because of your affair with Sutherland?”

  “Of course, that, but Clarence’s rise to power inside the Court, his success, the offer to him of a job on President Jorgens’s staff… they all contributed—”

  “Sutherland was offered a job in the White House?”

  “Yes, in so many words. It wasn’t definite, but he was very excited about it.”

  “What sort of job?”

  “Something to do with legal affairs, I guess. Imagine, someone that young going up so fast. My husband couldn’t bear it. It ate away at him like a cancer—”

  “Because a young man was getting ahead?”

  “That young man had slept with his wife, Detective Teller.”

  “Are you willing to testify that your husband killed Clarence Sutherland?”

  “How testify?”

  “Make a formal statement. If you do, it at least will be enough to ruin him, even if it doesn’t stick in court. It’ll be front page in every newspaper in the country, the world. Sure you want to do that to him, Mrs. Conover?”

  She drew a deep breath, rubbed her forehead. “This may be hard to swallow, I know… after what I’ve said and done, but I care about Temple… I really do… but if you lived with a person you knew in your heart had killed another person, well… what would you do?…”

  “We’re talking about you, Mrs. Conover. Is there anything else you can give me by way of proof?”

  “I’m afraid not, but I’m sure if you question him it will come out… I wish I could be more helpful. I’m trying… this is very difficult, as I’m sure you understand…”

  “Oh, I think maybe I do, Mrs. Conover. And thank you.” He stood up and extended his hand.

  A thin smile crossed her lips. Her robe had fallen even further open, one bare leg now dangled over the other. “Please keep in touch,” she said. “This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever faced in my life, and I’m not an especially strong person…”

  “I’m sure… well, thanks for your time. And have a good day…”

  No sooner was he gone than she picked up the phone and dialed her husband’s office. Laurie Rawls answered. “Miss Rawls, this is Mrs. Conover.”

  “Good morning,” Laurie said. “How are you?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry, anything I can do?”

  “Yes… Justice Conover is on his way to the office. I would appreciate your not telling him that I called.”

  Silence.

  “Miss Rawls, of all the clerks my husband has had work for him, you’ve always been my favorite. I don’t wish to sound as though I’m, so to speak, currying favor, but it happens to be true.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I am. Why do you ask, Mrs. Conover?”

  “Miss Rawls, let’s talk woman to woman. I’m sure you’re aware that certain… tensions between Justice Conover and myself have existed during our relationship—”

  “Mrs. Conover, I’m not sure whether this sort of conversation is appropriate. I—”

  “Please, hear me out. Things have reached a very bad point… I’m even afraid for my safety—”

  “Again, I think that—”

  “Miss Rawls, there’s a file in my husband’s office that relates to me and our marriage. I’m at my wits’ end. That file contains, well, what could be damaging personal information about me. I suppose there h
ave been times during my marriage when I might not have been quite as careful as I should have been… Miss Rawls, I need that file.”

  “Mrs. Conover, Mrs. Conover I couldn’t—”

  “Please, I’m begging you. I understand your position, but you must understand mine too. I’m talking to you not as an employee of the Court. I’m talking to you as one woman to another…”

  “Mrs. Conover, I sympathize with you, but it’s still out of the question. I have no idea what file you’re talking about, and I don’t want to. I’m a clerk on this Court. That’s a position of unique trust, as you know. I can’t compromise it for any consideration, regardless of personal feelings,” (which include not liking you, lady).

  The importuning abruptly stopped. “All right. You will forget that I called?”

  “I can assure you of that. It never happened.”

  “Thank you.”

  Laurie heard the phone click on the other end, slowly hung up, leaned over and looked down at a red file folder on her desk. She opened it and, once again, looked at the many pages lying within. On top, the very top, was a picture of Cecily Conover entering a motel with Clarence Sutherland.

  ***

  Karl pulled the Cadillac up in front of the justices’ entrance to the Supreme Court building. His passenger, Senior Justice Temple Conover, appeared to have slept throughout the trip.

  Karl got up and opened the back door. Conover did not move. “Justice Conover,” he said. Still no reply. He reached inside, gently shook Conover’s shoulder. It was only then that he noticed that the justice’s tongue protruded at a peculiar angle from a mouth twisted grotesquely. He stepped back as the judge slumped toward the door, his head coming to rest over the curb, his red woolen scarf dipping into stagnant water in the gutter.

  Sic transit gloria mundi, Judge Conover might have said, if he were talking.

  CHAPTER 27

  Some twenty minutes later a detective assigned to the Sutherland case walked into Martin Teller’s office. “Did you hear, Marty?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Justice Temple Conover had a stroke right in front of the Supreme Court.”

  “I just left his house… Dead?”

  “No, but close. In a coma.”

  “Where’d they take him?”

  “Capitol Hill, on Mass.”

  “Have somebody monitor his progress,” Teller said. “And round up everybody for the meeting.”

  Teller and four detectives sat in his office, three coffees, one tea and one chicken soup. They reviewed the Sutherland case from the beginning, each man contributing what information his area of investigation had uncovered. There wasn’t all that much, and Teller knew it. He sat with his feet up on his desk and twisted his toes in his right shoe. The inner leather lining had split and curled up in the front of the shoe. “Excuse me,” he said, removing the shoe, pressing the lining flat, then quickly slipping his foot inside. “That’s better,” he sighed. “Okay, let’s go over the logs from the surveillance.”

  A detective picked up a thick sheaf of papers, handed portions of it to the others, “I’ve got the log on Justice Poulson.”

  “Go ahead, read,” Teller said. “And everybody listen up. If something rings a bell, yell.”

  The detective recited the entries on the first page of the log on Poulson, stopped and laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Putting a tail on the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You could get arrested for that.”

  “Just read,” Teller said. He hadn’t lightly made the decision to put a twenty-four hour surveillance on three Supreme Court justices. But what else could he do? And Dorian Mars had added to the squeeze when he said during one of their 9:00 A.M. meetings, “Marty, all the line is out. Unless we get a fish on the hook damn soon we’re all going back on foot patrol.” To which Teller had replied, “What if it’s a big fish, Dorian?” And Mars had said, “Just as long as the net we use is strong enough.” And Teller had said, “There’s plenty of fish in the sea, Dorian. Too damn many.” And the conversation had ended with Mars, lover of the extended metaphor and cliché, saying, “Then stop trolling and get out the harpoon.”

  Justice Poulson’s movements under surveillance didn’t provide much. He divided his time between home and the Court, with time out for two speaking engagements in Washington, one in Virginia and three visits to the White House.

  “Is that a lot of visits for a Supreme Court Justice to the White House?” Teller asked.

  The detective shrugged. “Why should it be? They’re top guys in the same business. Telling the rest of us what’s up.”

  “What about Childs?”

  The log on Morgan Childs’s movements were also not especially revealing.

  Pretty much the same for Temple Conover, except that the officer assigned to cover Conover had made a note that it was his opinion that Mrs. Conover was also being followed. He’d asked whether someone from MPD was on her case and was told no.

  “You didn’t have a tail on her, did you, Marty?” one of the men in his office asked.

  He shook his head. “Maybe her husband had her followed.”

  “From what I hear about her, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea,” someone said, which started a series of lewd comments about Cecily Conover.

  “Knock it off,” Teller said. “Let’s get on with the rest of them. What about Dr. Sutherland?”

  Sutherland’s surveillance log was read. The detective reading the log said, “The doc makes house calls at the CIA. Makes sense, a shrink making house calls to the crazies at Central Intelligence.”

  Teller scratched under his arm and lit an odious clove.

  “Come on, Marty, please.”

  “Hold your breath if you don’t like it… Let’s look at this a minute. Why would he be going to the CIA?”

  “Maybe he’s a spook. Remember those stories a couple of years back about all the strange drug experiments the CIA was into? Lots of doctors involved, if I remember right, civilian doctors… maybe he was one of them.”

  “Go back over those stories,” Teller said. “See if he’s mentioned anywhere.”

  When they’d finished with the logs, Teller asked for a review of background checks on the suspects.

  The voices droned on, and Teller found himself at one point on the edge of nodding off. He struggled against it, even resorted to digging a fingernail into the palm of his hand. His mind wandered—the last opera he’d seen, Puccini’s La Fanciulla del West, “The Girl of the Golden West,” which he hadn’t liked… a former girl friend calling and suggesting they get together for “old times’ sake,” which he’d declined to do… the lyrics to “You’re the Top,” which he’d forgotten while trying to sing it at Club Julie… bills that were overdue… his younger daughter, she’d come home and told her mother everything. She was planning to marry the father of the child as soon as he finished college, which was two years down the road. She planned to have the baby, live with her mother and find a job until the wedding. Teller had asked his former wife for the young man’s name. She reluctantly gave it to him on his promise that he wouldn’t call and make trouble. “I saw his picture,” she said. “He’s blond, adorable…” “Wonderful,” Teller had said.

  He came out of his reverie as the detective reading from the report said, “There’s this one year while Poulson was sitting on the Court of Claims that’s hard to nail down.”

  Teller sat up. “Why?”

  “Well, he took a year’s leave of absence and according to what I can piece together, used it to write a book.”

  “What kind of a book?”

  “About suing the United States government. It’s a textbook.”

  “Was it published?”

  “Sure. I got a copy. You approved it on my expense sheet.”

  “What’s this court about?”

  “It only hears cases against the United States, I’m told.”

  “So what’s so strange about that year? He takes a leave
of absence and writes a book.”

  “Right, but he didn’t stay at home to write it. The first four months of the year he sort of disappeared.”

  “Sort of?…”

  “Yeah, his family was home, but he holed up in a place called Sunken Springs, Delaware.”

  “Why? Do they own a summer place there?”

  “No.”

  “Where did he live in Sunken Springs?”

  “Nobody seems to know. Four months later he comes home and goes on with his work on the book. Then he’s back on the bench, the book’s published and everything else is laid out clean for the record.”

  “Check it out.”

  “How?”

  “Troll the waters. Let out all the line. Use a strong net…”

  “Huh?”

  “Just do it, Maurice.”

  He spent the rest of the day rearranging his flow chart, taking phone calls and thinking about his daughter, and about Susanna Pinscher…

  He stopped in a music store on the way home and bought the sheet music to “You’re the Top,” committed the lyrics to memory over a dinner of frozen Welsh rarebit, toast and bacon, talked on the phone with someone from MPD who reported that Justice Conover was still in a coma and might not survive, took a nap, then went to Club Julie, where he sang loud and bad until the wee hours.

  CHAPTER 28

  News of Temple Conover’s stroke permeated every corridor and filtered through every door, open and closed, in the Court. His secretaries, Joan and Helen, cried, as did a black cleaning woman who said, “Lord have mercy on him.” Conover had been the Court’s leading champion of minority rights ever since coming to the bench

  A conference that had been called for that morning by Chief Justice Poulson to discuss Nidel v. Illinois was delayed an hour. When it was finally convened in the main conference room, Morgan Childs was absent. Justice Tilling-Masters asked where he was.