by Una Tiers
Maybe we would go over to the army navy surplus store for matching camouflage clothes later in the afternoon. I offered to treat him to lunch, thinking he would prefer a raw steak eaten under a bridge by the Chicago River. Timothy said that he didn’t want to walk around while he was holding the sprays.
I felt the same way.
“You never know,” he said.
“No, you never do,” I agreed although I was sure that we were talking about different things. I tried to reimburse him, but he said the spray was his treat. It’s nice to have friends who buy you weapons.
Timothy left my office after glancing left and right. My new accessory frightened me, so I gingerly placed it on a shelf until I could find a safer place to store the thing. The music from Mission Impossible was playing in my memory.
Claude wandered into my office as soon as my heart rate went down and immediately zeroed in on the pepper spray. He picked it up and tossed it in his hand, testing the weight.
“This is a nice compact one, you should practice getting it out of the holster and directing the spray a few times so that you get used to it. If you want to depress the nozzle do it outside and remember the stuff is real powerful and often has more than pepper in it. When you practice outdoors, first determine the direction of the wind so it doesn’t carry the spray back at you.” With that, he walked casually out of my office.
I wouldn’t need to check the newspaper, I knew there was a full moon.
As soon as I wasn’t afraid to touch it, I would place the pepper spray in the locked drawer. Maybe I could wrap it in a towel or plastic bag and put it at the back of the filing cabinet. It probably wasn’t allowed anywhere respectable. I’m sure it wasn’t going to pass through a metal detector. It would have be my office security system.
Claude’s comments peppered my imagination. I watched him a little more than before and thought about Paul’s paranoia. Was he spending more time studying at the office? He continued to promote all kinds of file manager software and backup systems for my computer, all of which I declined because I hate to learn new programs.
His newest habit was to stop by my office to say he was here or to say he was leaving. Locking the door seemed a real big deal as well as a report of who else was in the office. Before this seemed conscientious, but now it had dryad overtones.
Claude continued to ask about going to bar groups with me, but now he was looking them up on his own and asking if I needed a ride. To put a little distance between us, I cut back on some meetings and lied about going to others. Personally I was disappointed at my reaction.
As the bizarre day was winding down, I was relieved to see David leaning against the doorway. I brightened up anticipating a normal conversation about murder.
“Ms. Gavelle.”
When he called me Ms. Gavelle, it was usually not a good sign.
David quickly launched into an explanation that the only liquor at the judge’s place was vodka. Had he mixed up my questions? I asked about the booze available at the club where the judge’s night reception was held, not at his house. And at his house, Bob said there was no liquor although I saw a bottle of vodka in the freezer the day I was snooping.
When his pager went off so did he, insisting I walk him to the door to make sure that it was locked. His little temple veins were winking at me so I agreed. He left me staring at the door in confusion. It was hours before I guessed this was either a really clever red herring or another petal in the ‘he loves me not flower.’
Bright and early the next morning, the realtor called and reported the painters and cleaning crew were done at the judge’s condominium. She asked that someone inspect the work before the open house.
This was a subtle reminder about payment for the contractors whose bills would undoubtedly be on the kitchen counter. I decided to check out the work since so much confused me and my concentration needed to be reset. As I was getting the keys out of the file, Claude walked in.
“Hi, anything for me?”
Before I thought, I spoke, “Not unless you want to see some painted walls.”
“No problem, why don’t I take care of it for you?”
“I promised to do this,” I answered. “Besides you should study, and I need a break.”
“I’m ready for a break too, my head hurts. And I have my Uncle’s car again today. What if I drive you over?”
I laughed, because he sounded like a typical law student. Paul’s suspicions faded. As a rule I’m a loner, so when someone wants to be friends, it’s unusual for me. On the few occasions when I work with other people, it seems more like play than work. Sadly, I confuse working relationships with friendships.
Claude offered to pull the car to the side street so Paul wouldn’t see us. I grabbed the garage door opener.
There were only two or three cars in the condominium garage when we pulled in. Since people who live in the suburbs drive downtown to work, maybe people who live downtown drive to work in the suburbs.
As we walked to the elevator, my heels echoed and Claude’s crepe souls squeaked in accompaniment. Claude’s eyes seemed to dart around every corner, making me wonder if garages made him nervous too.
Inside the judge’s unit everything smelled fresh and clean. It hid the awful truth of what had happened there. The furniture was gone and the carpeting had been removed revealing a beautiful hardwood floor.
“Fiona,” Claude called from the kitchen. He came out holding one of the larger Abraham Lincoln pictures accompanied with a bow and a note: ‘For Fiona, Nothing but the truth, Bob & Family.’ Personally, I would have signed Abe’s name. Claude handed me a set of invoices for the work.
Walking through the rooms, I inspected the paint job. It was flawless. When Claude asked how things looked, I jumped.
“You seem nervous, is it because of the murder?” Claude asked.
“You knew about that?”
“A murdered judge, are you kidding? Everyone talks about it at school.” He paused, “Our criminal law professor had us pull cases on poisoning to test our research skills.”
“What did you find?”
“Women prefer it as a murder method.”
I blinked and conjured up an image of Judge Dorothy, wearing goggles and a white lab coat. She hovered over a table with steaming, bubbling test tubes, mixing a poison peanut potion from an old family recipe.
“Any other generalities?” I inquired.
“Just that victims usually know the perpetrator.”
Perpetrator? Claude must watch television when he should be studying. I couldn’t criticize him, I found a stash of old TV programs on VCR tapes in my aunt’s basement and had been watching them while I used the treadmill.
When we finished he said he had to hustle to get to his next class on time. He dropped me off at the office and as I saw him turn the corner I realized my Abraham Lincoln picture was still in his car.
Back at the office I tried to list all of the clues and made checkmarks next to the ones that could be red herrings, which was about half of everything that David offered. Still, he was the only one I could safely talk to about the whole matter.
None of the judge’s children ever mentioned the murder. Was that because of the stigma that spills over to those around the victim?
Back at the office, I drafted a letter to the Aunt with the invoices for the work at the condominium.
Lilly left a message that her aunt was having a few tests at the hospital. I left a message for Bob that I could come to the hospital if necessary. Bob left a message declining my nice offer.
For a moment I reconsidered Judge Curie as a suspect. He was at the reception. And, our last call had ended with an admonition about being careful. He convinced the family to hire me, an inexperienced lawyer who was a fan of his.
Briefly I considered his children as suspects. Bob wasn’t that far away in Milwaukee the night of the reception and seemed to have money problems that would have been at least temporarily resolved with inheritance. It
seemed suspicious that his father was receiving an award and he didn’t attend the reception.
Since his daughters were twins they could make an interesting alibi for one another. The motive would be to receive their inheritance sooner rather than later. It would also eliminate the chance the judge would need nursing home care and exhaust his estate, leaving nothing to the children. It would also eliminate the chance of him getting married and leaving part of his estate to his new spouse. He was married twice before.
These arguments didn’t even convince me. His children had law degrees and could amass their own fortunes. There was nothing to suggest some horrible childhood incident that would warrant murder, I think it was called patricide.
If money was at the root of this, maybe the judge loaned that mysterious $85,000 to one of the kids to buy a house. That would explain the lack of records, since parents and children often operate on a handshake basis. Bob put the documents in the trunk and dilly dallied on selling the car. Was that until he had time to sort through them? He probably didn’t count on my efficiency or dumb luck.
Maybe the judge made some kind of loan document or documented the loan in a newer will than the one we found. Then the child who murdered him removed the paperwork, destroyed the will and filed a very old will to throw us off the track and to inherit an equal share of his estate.
My favorite theory was the bribery issue. Someone tried to bribe the judge, who refused and was eliminated so he wouldn’t blow the whistle. That kind of fit with the sad political aura of Chicago, Illinois.
The only tie in to the bribery answer was David’s early mention of the FBI. I missed the news that night because we were at Navy Pier. The internet didn’t have anything about them in connection with this case. I decided to take the direct approach.
The FBI has offices in Chicago, conveniently located in the Dirksen Federal Building in the loop. I asked to speak to the agent in charge of the Judge Laslo King case and to my delight was connected quickly.
“This is Special Agent Sam Fou, how can I help you Ms. Gavelle?”
He recognized my name. It took me a few heartbeats to absorb this and continue.
“I’d like an update on your investigation into the Judge’s murder.”
“Detective Giovanni said that we would hear from you.”
“He did?” Maybe this wasn’t a red herring.
“The background information you gave him about probate, the funeral and the reception has helped our investigation. Let me ask you, did you ever remember who was talking about his heart at the funeral?”
I was more than a little surprised. “No, sorry it’s all a blur for me.”
“You know, Ms. Gavelle, we’re all concerned for your safety and think that a low profile would be a really good idea. We’ll get this guy.”
“A low profile?” I repeated.
“For instance, it’s a good idea that you are attending less bar group meetings during the investigation. It’s also best for you not to go to lunch or meetings with people, lawyers you don’t know. And certainly you wouldn’t discuss the matter with anyone other than our office or Detective Giovanni.”
“You seem to have a lot of information about me.”
He ignored my observation.
“Please keep in mind the murderer could be someone that you know or see in court, at a committee meeting or a health club. Maybe someone will try to make friends with you, or stop by your office unexpectedly. Has that happened?”
My mind turned to Steve’s unannounced visit, but I dismissed it.
“There isn’t anything in his paperwork about this.” He didn’t ask about files I created like my little murder charts.
“You know that and we know that…” He trailed off to let me figure things out.
“Was that what the break in was about at his condo?” I asked.
“It’s possible. The judge was notorious for note taking. We have to assume he had notes on our joint matter and those notes haven’t been located. Maybe you’ll run across something that someone else would rather not be found.”
I was stunned, so much of the judge’s paperwork was missing. This bordered on client information so I didn’t think I could say more to him about it.
“Ms. Gavelle?”
“I’m sorry it all seems too dramatic.”
“You mean it’s not what you expected in probate?”
“No.”
“Keep in mind if anyone shows unusual interest in the file, call us.”
“You don’t think someone will come right out and ask me.”
“I don’t think they’ll be that direct. They may just talk around the murder to see how much you know. You have to be careful with all the new people that you’re meeting. Think about it, if he left notes somewhere, you are one of the people who would have access to them.”
“Okay I see your point.” This guy seemed friendly on the surface. I still didn’t have much trust to place in his corner. And, I wasn’t certain I agreed with his theory, it seemed too farfetched. Still I know I’m often not suspicious enough and end up on the naive end of things and evaluations of people.
“Is there anything else that I can help you with Ms. Gavelle?”
“Can you tell me anymore about your investigation? Or should I be combing the materials a little closer?”
“About the investigation, no, we don’t talk about pending investigations. I don’t think you’ll find anything in his papers at this late date. If we learn of anything that would jeopardize you, we’ll take appropriate action.”
“You mean bodyguards like Starsky and Hutch with makeovers?”
No response, apparently his education lacked standard classic cops and robbers television shows.
“You know if you see anything that looks off center in the probate department you could call us,” he added slowly.
“For instance?”
“I think you’ll notice if something seems out of sync. Trust your gut feeling.”
“We’ll see,” I said laughing to myself. That’s probably what got King murdered.
He seemed to sense that he lost me.
“Would you like copies of the news releases? I realize you weren’t home to catch the news the night the announcement was made. They probably don’t go beyond what you already know. I’ll ask that you not copy or distribute them. We are still hoping to salvage our investigation.”
It had to mean his investigation was about bribery or corruption. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t give me more information. Of course I wasn’t exactly sharing everything either.
Thanking him I was ready to hang up when he added. “Ms. Gavelle?”
“Yes?”
“Feel free to call again if anything attracts your attention or if you can’t reach Detective Giovanni.”
It was several days before I realized how often he mentioned that I could call him. At the same time, he shared David’s feeling that I had to be very careful.
A half an hour later Annette handed me a plain white envelope, with no return address and no name of the delivery service.
“Fiona, this was just delivered. The delivery man said you were waiting for the documents.”
“Great thanks.”
“He wasn’t from any of the the services we use.”
“Maybe it’s a smaller messenger service,” I offered.
“You know he wasn’t wearing a uniform and didn’t ask for a signature and seemed…”
“What?” I asked politely, wishing she would finish and leave so I could open the envelope.
“Furtive,” she answered.
“Probably a new company, thanks Annette.”
Did Annette expect college graduates to deliver packages?
She left with a quizzical look. I wondered if she was going to report me to Paul. Maybe I was being overly sensitive but I had a sinking feeling I would be practicing law in the law library with Steve before very long.
The plain envelope had copies of two news releases. T
here was no new information.
I checked the internet to learn more about the Greylord Investigation. The articles weren’t extensive, but I did learn the bribes clustered around traffic, divorce and criminal cases. There was no mention of the probate court. A lot of lawyers and judges were involved. The pattern was embarrassing. Maybe I would head over to the library to look at the newspapers on file.
If Judge King was investigating a bribery issue and the bad guys found out, this wasn’t going to turn out to be a crime of passion but a murder to cover up another crime. Maybe my time reading Sherlock Holmes stories would help me find the answer after all.
Bribery seems risky with a lawsuit beyond the issue of getting caught. If a person bribes the trial court judge, the losing side could take the matter to the appeals court. There the error might be corrected.
On the other hand, appeals cases are extremely expensive and time consuming. Many litigants stop after the trial level to avoid more wear and tear and expense. Still, things get personal very quickly in the legal system. It’s often hard for me to try to represent my client without getting a little emotional or over involved. And many appellate cases are over issues that are eclipsed when you compare them to what the cost of continued litigation would be.
The last really big probate case that went to the appellate court was about the football dynasty, the Halas family, owners of the Chicago Bears football team. Then there was the Wrigley gum case, but they were both a long time ago and Judge King was not involved in either case.
For a while I considered the areas of probate that might provoke deadly vengeance. Wills contests seemed the most likely culprit. It would seem that the opposing party would be the target of wrath and not the judge. Still, I shouldn’t expect rational crazy behavior from a killer.
Maybe the whole judge/lawyer or judge/judge angle was a red herring. Poisoning a judge at a reception where there were all judges and lawyers in attendance would be a good way to focus attention on the judges and lawyers. Was it one of the waiters that David had been unable to interview? Was the reason something unrelated to court altogether? Was this an argument over a woman? Was it a fight that started in a saloon?
