The lawyer slid a printout of my shot of the fleeing Mercedes across the desk in front of me. “Given the confusion you've described,” he said, “gunshots, people falling down on the sidewalk, your galloping out into the street to take this photo, how can you be so certain that this is the car the woman you claim you saw running from the store got into? Or for that matter, that it was even a woman?"
I didn't even bother trying to answer that one. I just shook my head. Lawyers and their “damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't” questions. Some combination of the Socratic method and Johnnie Cochran.
Through the glass partition over the lawyer's shoulder, the squad room was buzzing with activity.
Lenihan, doing a two-fingered hunt-and-peck on the keyboard of a small-screened computer that may have been an antique, was taking a statement from Daniel Bittamann.
Two desks over, Lenihan's partner, who looked a bit more proficient on the keys, was interviewing the elderly couple who had been knocked to the sidewalk outside the boutique.
On the far side of the railing that separated the squad room from the waiting area, three more witnesses, in varying pantomimes of impatience, were pointing at their watches as they complained to a third plainclothes detective.
A fourth detective was trying to separate two men who were jabbing fingers at each other and shouting loudly enough to make Lenihan look up from his struggle with the keyboard. He got up from his desk and went out through the gate to help pry them apart and get them settled down on opposite ends of a long wooden bench.
Impatient with my silence, the senator's attorney said, “We are waiting for your answer, Ms. Dymond."
"It'll be the same as the answer I gave you the last two times you asked the question, Counselor. I'm certain the person who ran out of the store was a woman, and I am positive—” I slid the printout back across the desk to him. “—that this is the car she drove off in."
"I don't know how you can be so positive. Is this the only photograph you took?"
"Yes."
"Then you have no picture of a woman, or anybody else, for that matter, getting into this car?"
"No. That shot of your client's wife's car is the only one I had time to get."
"Uh-huh, that's what I thought. Mrs. Wellington readily admits she was driving up Newbury Street today. But she was not in the Chic Boutique this morning, didn't even make any stops anywhere near that store. My point is, in all the confusion, you obviously darted out into the street with your little camera phone and snapped a picture of the wrong car, Ms. Dymond. All you have here is a picture of Mrs. Wellington's car as she drove by the store."
There was a thin film of perspiration on Captain Torres's brow. He tugged at the knot in his yellow silk tie, pulled a matching handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his navy blue blazer, and dabbed at his forehead. He cleared his throat and gave the lawyer an apologetic look. “Dymond wasn't the only one who witnessed the woman running from the store,” he said. “If you could just have Mrs. Wellington come down here to the station and..."
The attorney cut the captain off and scowled. “We are not going to allow you to drag the senator's wife down here so you can parade her in front of these, these—” He turned and pointed out through the glass partition. “—these witnesses. This affair has already upset her so badly that they had to call in the family physician. He had to sedate her. She's resting now, and when the doctor says she has recovered sufficiently for you to come over and speak with her—in my presence, of course—we will get in touch with you."
The captain looked ill, and when he spoke, his voice had the brittle sound of someone tiptoeing across political eggshells. “The senator's wife has my deepest sympathies, but there has been a fatal shooting here, and there are..."
The lawyer held up his hand and interrupted Torres again. “When she is well enough to speak with you, we will get in touch with you. So unless you plan to charge her with something—and before you even think about pressing any charges, I strongly suggest you consider the professional and political consequences of..."
This time Captain Torres held up his hand and interrupted. “Just a minute, Counselor.” Then to me, “I think we're through with you for the moment, Dymond. Stay in touch; I will be speaking with you again."
"Be a lot easier to stay in touch if you gave me back my cell phone."
Torres gritted his teeth. “Lenihan has your phone. Tell him I said to give it back to you.” He pointed at the door. “Now, outside, please."
I got up and walked out the door.
* * * *
Lenihan had finished with Bittamann. He waved me over and pointed to the chair by the side of his desk. I went over and sat.
"How's it going inside?"
"I don't know. The senator's lawyer is doing everything he can to keep Torres away from Mrs. Wellington. Looks like Torres may have to back off for the moment. Wellington sure seems to carry the big stick around here."
"Oh yeah, we know all about the clout he's got in this town. This isn't the first time he's run this play on us."
"You mean this has happened before?"
"Sure has. She's got a string of shoplifting complaints longer than one of the senator's speeches."
"She's a klepto?"
"Yup. And every time there's a complaint, Wellington gets it squoshed and hushed."
"Squoshed? I don't think there is any such word."
"Sure there is. I just said it."
"There's squished and squashed, but I'm pretty sure no squoshed."
"Luke told me you could be a pain about stuff like that."
"Luke? You mean Lucas Claymore?"
"Yeah, him, Sergeant Lucas Claymore. I asked around about you and found out you were on the job for a few years, rode with Luke out of the A-1, so I gave him a call."
"And?"
"And he said you were okay, a real pain in the ass sometimes, but okay."
"I'll bet Luke didn't really say that—the ‘pain in the ass’ part, I mean."
Lenihan almost smiled.
"Well, squish, squash, or squosh,” I said, “this one won't be that easy to hush; somebody died this time."
Lenihan looked over at the captain's office. “Maybe.” He looked back at me and frowned. “What do you know about Bittamann?"
"Bittamann? Not much. I just got this gig a couple of days ago, and Peterson is the one I dealt with at Chic Boutique. Dan seemed competent, but I got a sense he held some sort of animosity toward Peterson. After the shooting this morning he said something about Peterson not being able to call him Danielle anymore."
Lenihan arched his eyebrows. “You didn't know he was gay?"
"Who? Peterson?"
"No. Bittamann. That was his partner over there—” He nodded toward the now empty bench on the other side of the rail. “—the young guy doing all the hollering while you were in with the captain. Bittamann called him from here to let him know where he was and what happened."
"So who's the Peter Griffin look-alike he was trying to skewer with his forefinger?"
"Peter who?"
"Griffin,” I said, “You know, Family Guy?"
"Oh, that guy. Never watch it. But the guy Bittamann's partner was screaming at is Alexander Damon; he's the New England district manager for the Chic Boutique chain. Called him in to let him know that as of eleven o'clock this morning, his Newbury Street store had become a crime scene on account of the manager getting shot."
"Looked like the two of them were gonna go knuckle-city for a minute there,” I said. “What was that all about?"
"Long story. But from what I can gather, Bittamann and Peterson both had been working at the Chic Boutique forever. And while Bittamann worked his butt off, Peterson was habitually late, called in sick a lot, and managed to be somewhere else whenever there was any heavy lifting to do. Meanwhile, Bittamann worked days, went to Northeastern nights, and wound up getting a degree in business administration. So when the old manager retired last year, Dan figures he'
s a shoo-in for the job.
"Thing is, he knew from the get-go that Damon was a raging homophobe, so at work at least, he stayed in the closet."
"Let me guess,” I said, “Peterson found out Bittamann was gay and leaked it to Damon."
"You got it. Nothing Mister Damon could do about it, though. Afraid someone'd slap him with a discrimination suit if he canned Bittamann, so he just passed over him and made Peterson manager. Bittamann's partner knows that's what happened; that's what he was screaming at Damon about. Telling him this all happened on account of him being prejudiced about Dan being gay and not makin’ him manager."
"Not a bad motive for murder,” I said.
Lenihan did his arched eyebrow thing again. “What, the partner comes into the store in drag, shoots Peterson, runs out, and jumps into the senator's wife's car and makes his escape?"
"No.” I shook my head. “But..."
"Besides, six witnesses say that at the time of the shooting he was in the bank on State Street where he works."
"So you did check him out."
"Yeah. And he doesn't own a gun either. At least not legally. Neither does Bittamann. But guess who does?"
I glanced over at the captain's office, where a heated discussion on politics and the law was still boiling over, then back at Lenihan. “The senator's wife owns a gun?"
"Wow. Luke said you were pretty smart for a girl. You're right again. She's got a legally registered .32—one of those cute little PPK Walthers, like Double-Oh-what's-his-name used to carry in those spy movies."
"The PPK's a semiauto,” I said. “They find any expended brass on the scene?"
"Yup. Where the carpet meets the wall under the jewelry display. One .32-caliber ACP cartridge casing."
I must have scowled.
"Something about that bother you, Dymond?"
"Yes,” I said. “That and a couple of other things that have been rattling around in the back of my mind since this morning. Is the Crime Scene Unit still over there?"
"Nope. CSU called in an hour ago. They've sealed the doors and locked up for the night."
"What do you say you and I go over and take a quick look around?” I said.
Lenihan pulled a face, shook his head, started to say no, then glanced over at his partner, who was interviewing the last of the witnesses. “Jonesy, you need any help finishing up?"
Without looking up from the keyboard, his partner shook his head. “Uh-uh. Almost done here."
"Okay then,” Lenihan said, “see you here first thing in the morning. Think I'll shoot over to Newbury Street and take a quick look around."
* * * *
"How d'ya turn on the lights?"
Lenihan and I were standing inside the front entrance of the Chic Boutique. In the soft amber glow from the streetlights out front, we cast long shadows down the length of the floor.
"The switches are on the back wall,” I said. “I'll get ‘em."
I followed my shadow to the back of the store, turned on the lights, and walked back to where Lenihan was standing by a crude outline of Peterson's body traced out on the carpet in chalk.
He crossed his arms. “Okay, Dymond, you're on; what is it seems to be buggin’ you about how this thing went down?"
"According to Bittamann,” I said, “a shoplifter over there at the jewelry rack takes a five-finger-discount on a necklace, looks up and realizes Peterson's bagged her, and takes off for the front door. When Peterson runs back here to stop her, she pulls out a semiautomatic—” I cocked my thumb and pointed my finger at Lenihan's chest. “—shoots him, and runs out the door. Good so far?"
Lenihan nodded. “Uh-huh."
"Fine. But since all stock semiautomatics eject spent shell casings to their right, how come the brass CSU found was over there—” I bobbed my head to the left. “—under the jewelry rack? Shouldn't it have been somewhere over there on the right, near the opposite wall?"
"Yeah, I asked the CSU guys about that."
"And gals,” I said.
"What?"
"And gals. CSU guys and gals."
Lenihan rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yeah, right. Well, the CSU guys and gals said the powder burns indicated the muzzle of the gun was only inches away from Peterson's chest when it was fired. They figure maybe the casing bounced off some part of his outstretched arm, which deflected it off in the opposite direction."
"Possible, I guess. What did they have to say about the way he landed?” I turned and pointed to the outline of the body. “On his back with his feet toward the front of the store. If he was shot in the chest by someone running toward the front entrance, wouldn't he have gone over backwards and landed with his head toward the front of the store?"
He nodded. “I asked ‘em about that too."
"And?"
"And the guys and gals of CSU said the two were close enough when the shot was fired for the shooter to have bumped into him and spun him around as she ran for the door. Or maybe he didn't go down immediately after she shot him, and she shoved him aside and ran by."
I looked down at the blocky outline of the body and shook my head. “I don't know, Sergeant, that's an awful lot of maybes."
"Yeah, I thought it was a lot of maybes too. You got any ideas on this, I'm listenin'."
"All right,” I said, “let's try this."
I walked around and stood behind him so I was facing the back of the store.
He turned around and faced me. “Didn't Bogie and Bacall do something like this in To Have and Have Not?"
"Not quite,” I said. “She went all the way around. Now suppose I'm still the shooter, but facing this way toward the back of the store, and you're still Peterson, but now you're facing the front. I shoot you—” I did my finger thing again. “—bang. Now the brass, ejected to the right, lands over there by the jewelry rack where they found it, and you go straight over backwards and hit the deck with your feet toward the front of the store—” I pointed to the chalked outline of Peterson's body. “—like that."
Lenihan scowled. “If that's the way it went down, Bittamann sure is ass-backwards confused."
"Or lying,” I said. “And a couple of other things have been bothering me since this morning.
"I know there was a lot of confusion, the woman bolting out the door, people screaming and getting knocked down, the shot echoing back and forth between the buildings, but every time I rerun the scene in my head, it comes out the same way. I could swear I heard the gunshot a half a second after she came charging out through the door, not before."
I could almost see the gears meshing and the cogs starting to turn behind Lenihan's eyes as he gazed off at some spot a million or more miles beyond my right shoulder. He finally focused and said, “Anything else, Slim?"
"Slim?” I shook my head. “You have to stop sitting up nights watching those late movies. But, yes, there is something else."
"Don't know what you're talkin’ about. I never watch late movies. And what's the something else that's bothering you?"
"This may seem like nothing, but when I ran into the store this morning, Bittamann was coming out of the back room with his cell phone in his hand. But when I asked him if he'd called 911, he said he had and that he'd used the phone in the back room."
"So?"
"So I'm having trouble picturing him picking up the phone in the back room and keying in 911 with his cell phone in his hand."
"Now that's one I can check on,” he said.
Lenihan took the phone off his belt and thumbed in a number. “Yeah, Lenihan here. I wanna check the dispatch log on the origin of the 911 on the Peterson murder this morning."
Silence.
"No, not tomorrow, now."
More silence.
"Okay, thanks."
He closed his phone and clipped it back on his belt. “The 911 didn't originate from the landline here at the store. It came in from Bittamann's cell phone.” He turned and looked back toward the stockroom. “So if he didn't go back in there to use the ph
one like he told you, what was he doing back there?"
We both headed back toward the stockroom at the same time. Lenihan was about to step through the archway, with me right behind him, when we heard someone walk up to the back door outside and stick a key in the lock.
I took a quick swipe at the switches, dousing the lights, and we each ducked back behind the wall on opposite sides of the archway.
* * * *
The back door opened and closed softly.
A beam of light danced briefly down the showroom floor and disappeared as someone with a flashlight slipped into the back room.
There was a short metallic screech of something scraping on the concrete floor.
Lenihan slipped over to my side of the archway and whispered, “Lights."
I hit the switches and followed him into the back room.
On his knees at the end of a row of metal lockers he had pulled away from the wall, a wide-eyed and startled Daniel Bittamann snapped his head around and gaped at us. He had a flashlight in one hand and the stainless steel pistol he had fished out from behind the lockers in the other.
Lenihan was pointing an ancient .38 revolver at him. “Nice and easy, Bittamann, put the gun down."
Bittamann looked terrified. He froze, stared at Lenihan, and did not move.
I stepped around Lenihan so Bittamann could see me and quietly said, “Dan."
He turned his head and looked at me.
"Put the gun down on the floor."
He looked down at the gun as though he'd forgotten he had it in his hand, then placed it and the flashlight on the floor.
Lenihan said, “Good, now hands behind your back."
Lenihan holstered the .38, handcuffed Bittamann, and helped him to his feet. “I'm placing you under arrest for removin’ a police seal and entering a posted CRIME SCENE—DO NOT ENTER area, and for tampering with evidence. Now ya got a right to stay absolutely silent here, on account of anything you say can and more than likely will be used against you in a court of law."
AHMM, December 2006 Page 11
