Silent Witness

by Michael Norman

  “The Lucky Gent.”

  “The gay bar, huh.”

  “One and the same I’m afraid.”

  I looked at Kate. “You thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “Probably,” said Kate. “What are you thinking?”

  “Until now, we’ve been operating under the theory that the Ginsberg killing was the work of Bradshaw’s religious followers. That made sense when you considered the facts: Ginsberg was about to become a star witness in the armored car robbery; his testimony would have helped convict Walter; and he was murdered just hours before his scheduled court appearance. It seems like such a good fit.”

  “Not anymore,” said Kate. “Now we’ve got a direct link to Ginsberg’s killer in the form of a gay, ex-military man with no known ties to the Bradshaw family or their church. It stinks of the bereaved partner, Rodney Plow, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. Your hunch about Rodney may have been right all along. What’s still missing is anything connecting Anthony Barnes with Rodney Plow.”

  “Not for long,” said Kate.

  ***

  Robin Joiner had been here once before. Joey had brought her here for a romantic getaway on her last birthday. They had spent the night. She recalled that Joey seemed deliberately vague when she’d asked him who the cabin belonged to. Now she understood why.

  The old house, located high in the Wasatch Mountains, served as a hideout for the Bradshaw clan and probably belonged to a polygamist or someone sympathetic to the cause. It was a small log cabin situated a couple of hundred yards off the paved road. It afforded maximum privacy because it was surrounded by a thick canopy of mature evergreens. Unless you knew where to look, the turnoff down the single track dirt road was almost impossible to see. Access during the winter would probably require skis, snowshoes, or a snowmobile. It was a perfect place for anybody on the lam.

  Since her arrival, she and Joey hadn’t exchanged more than a few words. He tried, but when his clumsy attempts were met with silence, he quickly moved on to other priorities. He was clearly preoccupied, but with what, she wasn’t sure.

  While she wasn’t restrained, they kept a close eye on her. She slept on a single bed in one of two small bedrooms. Joey and Albert slept on mattresses on the floor. She had been allowed outside for two short walks, each time escorted by Joey. She considered making a run for it but thought it unlikely that she would make it as far as the paved road. The potential consequences of a failed attempt scared her. She didn’t believe that Joey would hurt her, but she was unsure about the others, particularly the Allred brothers.

  Joiner watched and listened. She picked up bits and pieces of conversations. There was an energy among the four men, a sense that something important was about to happen. In an instant she realized that the Faithful were about to engineer the escape of Walter Bradshaw from prison.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It was late in the afternoon by the time Kate and I left the Matheson Courthouse with a signed copy of the search warrant. We drove the few short blocks to the law firm of Smith, Samuelson, and Wood.

  Getting our hands on Ginsberg’s estate information had suddenly become a priority. If the estate left significant assets to Rodney, it could provide a strong motive for Ginsberg’s murder, particularly in light of Plow’s adulterous behavior with his personal trainer, Steven Ambrose. Ambrose had become a person of interest in the case, someone we needed to find out more about.

  Greg Samuelson met us in the lobby of the law firm. He accepted service of the warrant and flashed Kate his best smile. He was a good looking guy, probably in his early forties, with a full head of dark hair. He wore a designer suit that would probably have cost me a month’s salary. I figured that nobody had teeth that white without spending a grand per for expensive veneers.

  “Gee, Kate, I’d hoped you would accept my offer of drinks and dinner. Remember what I said—everything’s negotiable. You might not have needed this warrant.” He paused, waiting for a response.

  Kate indulged the silly shit with a flirty grin of her own. “Sorry, Greg, the warrant seemed a lot safer.” That comment produced another slick, if patronizing grin. I, on the other hand, recalled Shakespeare’s well worn line, “First let’s kill all the lawyers.”

  Samuelson ushered Kate and me into a posh conference room that appeared to serve as a law library. He put one of his assistants to work copying everything in the file. Ten minutes later, he poked his head into the room to inform us that his assistant would join us momentarily with the required documents, and that we were welcome to use the conference room for as long as we liked. He also told us that he was available to answer any questions that we might have about the estate.

  The estate documents included a will, a revocable trust, and miscellaneous correspondence between Ginsberg and Samuelson. We both read the file until Kate glanced up and said, “Interesting stuff, huh.”

  “I should say. It appears that Rodney was set to receive a very nice inheritance package until just a couple of weeks before Ginsberg’s murder. Then it changed abruptly.”

  “I’ll make you a bet that the estate changes will conform to Susan Fleming’s report to Ginsberg concerning Rodney’s infidelity. I’d bet that that changed everything.”

  “I’ll pass on the bet, thank you very much, but I don’t think there’s any question about one thing: If Rodney had been a good boy, he stood to inherit the Salt Lake City house, a condo in Santa Fe, and a significant amount of cash.”

  “I don’t see anything in the file that indicates whether Arnold and Samuelson discussed the reason for these changes to his estate,” said Kate.

  “Let’s get him back in here while we’ve got the chance and ask him,” I said.

  Kate was reading from the trust. “Other than several small donations to groups like the Gay-Straight Alliance and the ACLU, it appears that the chief beneficiary is now Ginsberg’s brother in New York.”

  “I didn’t see anything in the file indicating whether Rodney had received the bad news,” I said. “That’s something else we need to ask Samuelson.”

  Samuelson joined us in the conference room. “Did your client ever discuss the reason for the recent changes he made to his estate?” asked Kate.

  Samuelson paused, apparently trying to remember. “As best I recall, Arnold did not give me any specific reasons for the changes. And unless a client wants to go into that, I typically don’t ask. It’s none of my business, and the few times I’ve gone down that road with other clients, I feel like I’m in the wrong business. Some of this stuff needs to be processed with a shrink, not a lawyer. I do seem to remember having the impression that all was not well between my client and Mr. Plow. But Arnold never got specific. In some ways, he was a bit reclusive.”

  “Have you heard from Mr. Plow regarding the contents of the Will and Trust?” I asked.

  “No, I haven’t, and that’s a little unusual, although I suppose it’s possible that my client had the discussion with Mr. Plow prior to his murder. Why go through the humiliation of making an appearance at the law firm if you’ve already been given the bad news?”

  ***

  On the way back to the police department, Kate and I discussed what we’d learned.

  “Frankly,” said Kate, “I’m a little concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “In a nutshell, motive. Had Ginsberg not changed his estate, Rodney would have had ample incentive to want to see him dead, particularly if a new lover had entered the picture.”

  “And now?”

  “That motive’s gone, particularly if, as Samuelson suggested, Rodney had been told that he was out of the Will.”

  “Good point. What you’re saying is why kill Ginsberg absent a financial payoff of gargantuan proportions?”

  “Exactly.”

  “People kill for a variety of reasons, Kate. Assuming Plow had been told, maybe anger or a desire for revenge took over. In any event, we don’t have
to prove motive.”

  “True, but it’s a lot stronger presentation to a jury when you can show it. I’ve always been uncomfortable with a murder investigation when I can’t come up with the why.

  “Can you work late with me tonight? I could use the help.”

  “I think so. Let me give Patti a call to see if I’ve got any fires burning in the SIB. And then I’ll have to call Aunt June. I’m on doggy-dad duty tonight, but maybe I can get a stay of sentence.”

  Kate was smiling. God, the woman had a great smile. “What’s on tap for tonight?”

  “I’ve been assigned to be Bob’s personal trainer. We’re scheduled for our first two-mile walk this evening.”

  “You mean Bob the Bassett Hound?”

  “None other. The poor, little dummy doesn’t know it, but he’s now on a diet. Aunt June and Sara have worked out an exercise schedule for him, complete with weekly weight loss goals, with yours truly nominated as drill sergeant.”

  Now Kate was really laughing.

  “Keep it up,” I said, “but remember that if you do join the Kincaid family, it could be you exercising Bob the Bassett Hound.”

  “No thanks. I think that duty is better suited to your personality type.”

  “Screw you. Speaking of which, if I do stick around tonight, do you think we could go back to your place later and mess around?”

  “I think that can be arranged. Let’s call it payment for services rendered. And guess what? You won’t even need a two-thousand dollar suit or veneered teeth.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I called home and managed to get a one day reprieve from my duties as Bob’s personal fitness trainer. Aunt June went along easily. Sara took a little extra convincing.

  Kate and I took a few minutes to check messages from our respective offices. For me, it turned out to have been one of those rare days in the Special Investigations Branch where nothing of significance happened. I’d received two calls, one from Terry Burnham and the other from Susan Fleming, the knock-out PI. I had a good idea what Burnham wanted. Fleming, on the other hand, was a different story.

  I dialed Burnham’s home number and didn’t get an answer. The call kicked into his voice messaging system. The fact that he wasn’t home, or just not answering, worried me. Maybe he was out some place with his face in a bottle, or perhaps he was sitting home alone in a drunken stupor. Christ, I was worrying about him like he was my child instead of an employee. If time allowed, I decided to ask Kate to stop at Terry’s house so that we could check on him.

  Fleming’s office phone rang several times without answer before it forwarded to another number. A couple of rings later, she picked up.

  “Hello, Sam, thanks for getting back to me. I wonder if we might get together. There’s something I need to speak with you about.”

  “Can we do it over the phone?”

  There was a pause. “I’d rather not. Could your spare a few minutes tonight?”

  “Well, I’m tied up at the moment. I’m not sure how late I’m going to be. Can you tell me what this is all about?”

  “Your child custody lawsuit,” she replied, without hesitation.

  She had my undivided attention. “How did you find out about that?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Okay, but this will have to be fast because I’m working tonight. How about Squatter’s Brew Pub on 300 South, in say, fifteen minutes?”

  “That works for me,” she said, and disconnected.

  I left Kate at her office, promising to return shortly. I arrived at Squatter’s ahead of Susan Fleming. The place was noisy and jammed with after-work revelers. I found a couple of seats at the bar and ordered a draft. Minutes later, Fleming walked in and took a seat on the bar stool next to me. Every guy in the joint had turned his head to gape. She ordered a glass of house Pinot Noir.

  “Not a beer drinker, huh?”

  “Once in a while, but not that often,” she replied.

  “I don’t mean to be short, but I’m really pressed for time. Tell me how you learned about the lawsuit?”

  “Sure. I received a call from a lawyer in Atlanta asking me to spy on you. I believe he represents your former spouse. Small world.”

  I nodded. “And he specifically wanted you to do what?”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Well, in these types of cases, it’s all about suitability. Which parent will be able to provide the best environment to raise the child? Like it or not, that includes character issues, morals, that sort of thing.”

  “In other words, this attorney wanted to hire you to look around and see whether you could dig up some dirt in my personal life, like who I might be sharing a bed with, that sort of thing.”

  “Personal life or career.”

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I wasn’t available and recommended somebody else for the job.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “You mean turn the job down or recommend somebody else to do it?”

  “Both.”

  Fleming shrugged. “Want a straight answer?”

  “That’s always the best kind,” I said.

  “When we met the other day, I thought you were cute. Figured maybe we could go out some time. Spying on you in a child custody case probably wouldn’t endear me to you.” She was smiling.

  I smiled back. “You’re right about that. I appreciate your letting me know. If it’s not a trade secret, can I ask who you recommended for the job?”

  “Larry Holding. He’s a former Kearns cop. He went private several years ago after assaulting the girlfriend he was seeing on the QT behind his wife’s back. Kearns PD didn’t like that very well and canned him.”

  I took a gulp of my beer. “Sounds like a real charming guy. How do you know him?”

  “In this line of work, it’s a pretty small world. We have monthly PI luncheons where we network and mostly talk shop. Occasionally, we refer business to one another. So, Mr. Kincaid, are you footloose and fancy free, or spoken for?”

  “You don’t waste a lot of time, Susan. Truth is, I’m spoken for, but if anything changes, I’ll definitely give you a call.”

  She sighed. “The good ones are always taken, or so it seems. Mind if I ask who the lucky young lady is?”

  I started to answer but she interrupted. “Never mind, I think I know.”

  Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

  “It’s that female cop you were with the other day, McConnell. Am I right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “The way you looked at each other. It was obvious.” She handed me a business card with her home phone number written on the back.

  We finished our drinks and got up to leave. I picked up the tab. It was the least I could do for the tip Fleming had provided. We promised to stay in touch. As I turned to go, she said, “Sam, just so you’ll know, Holding drives a late model, silver, Ford Explorer.”

  I thanked her again and headed back to Salt Lake PD to meet Kate.

  Chapter Thirty

  Kate and I sat huddled in the conference room adjacent to her office on the second floor of Salt Lake PD headquarters. She wanted to know all about my meeting with Susan Fleming. I filled her in.

  “Are you a little surprised that Nicole would hire a PI to snoop around in your life?”

  “Hurts my feelings, actually, particularly to think Nicole might be behind it. It feels more like something her father would think of, and probably be willing to fund. I’d like to think Nicole doesn’t even know about it, but that’s probably being naïve.”

  “Think we should do anything about it?”

  “What’s to do? I think we just go on living our lives. We’ve got nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Are you going to say anything to Nicole?”

  “I doubt it—might as well let’em think they’ve got a well guarded secret. I will
tell my lawyer, not that there’s anything she can do about it.”

  We turned our attention back to the case at hand. We studied flip charts taped to the walls containing investigative leads, various case theories, and an organization chart of the Reformed Church of the Divine Christ. With the recent revelation of a possible gay connection to the murder of Arnold Ginsberg, the case had taken on increased complexity.

  “While we were in Ogden this afternoon, I received a call-back from the Army, a Major Lungren, regarding Barnes and his general discharge,” said Kate.

  “And….”

  “Seems that he got the general discharge as a result of his overall service records, which wasn’t very good, and, get this, because he was found in violation of the military’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy.”

  “The fact that Barnes is gay should come as no big surprise considering where he’s employed. The bigger question now is what does it all mean? What’s your take, Kate?”

  “At first glance, it all points to Rodney Plow. But, what if our assumption is wrong?”

  “Meaning….”

  “What if Ginsberg’s murder, while connected somehow to the gay community, has nothing to do with Rodney Plow?”

  “Possible, I suppose. You’re suggesting that Barnes, and an unknown accomplice, killed Ginsberg for some reason that has nothing to do with Rodney.”

  “Yup. We need to find out whether Barnes and Ginsberg were acquainted. It’s certainly possible they knew each other because they both hung around the Lucky Gent. We just don’t know. More importantly, how are we going to find out?”

  That gave us both pause to stop and think. Finally, I said, “This might be a long shot, but I used to have a gay snitch in the prison population who frequently provided good information about things going on inside. I was always amazed at what other guys would tell him or what he’d overhear. He was one of the best snitches I ever had.”

  “Is he out?”

  “Yeah, he paroled about a year ago.”

  “You think he’d help us?”

  “Don’t know. I’m not even sure I can find him. As I recall, he paroled to Salt Lake City. He hasn’t returned to prison, I do know that. He talked about applying through the Interstate Compact so he could move to California, but I don’t know that he ever did it. Want me to look into it?”