Silent Witness

by Michael Norman

  “Down on the ground, face down,” I yelled. “Do it now.” He did.

  I grabbed the hand-held radio. “Shots fired, suspect down. Roll the paramedics, code three.”

  Within seconds, Kate and the others arrived. Ambrose and Plow were cuffed, separated, and placed in the back of two police cars. Barnes was moaning and seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. He was seriously wounded. Turner called for a life flight chopper while I went to work on Barnes. I thought he might be in shock. I elevated his feet and did the best I could to stop the bleeding. He was subsequently air-lifted to the University of Utah Hospital and rushed into surgery.

  My hands were sticky with his blood. They were shaking badly and I couldn’t make them stop. Kate walked over and placed her hands over mine, saying, “Whoa, Sam, calm down. Everything’s okay now. It’s over.”

  Of course, it wasn’t over. In a matter of minutes, the area was turned into a major crime scene complete with detectives, evidence technicians, photographers, and enough department brass from the sheriff’s office and Salt Lake City PD to hold a police convention. The only thing missing were the convention hookers. The press swarmed the place. Everybody wanted pictures of the grave. The story would lead on every evening TV news broadcast.

  During the next several hours, Steven Ambrose was forced to confront the sober reality that had it not been for the presence of Kate and me, he would have been killed and buried in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere. Barnes and Plow had calculated his demise in about as cold and calculated a fashion as humanly possible.

  What Anthony Barnes never expected was the double-cross by Rodney. He’d badly misjudged how far Plow was willing to go to hide the murder of Arnold Ginsberg to protect himself. Had things gone according to Rodney’s plan, Barnes would have joined Ambrose in the grave.

  Both men were booked at Salt Lake City PD and would undergo the same experience later at the jail. Plow immediately invoked his right to remain silent and demanded a lawyer. That wasn’t the case with Ambrose.

  Prior to the Ambrose interrogation, Kate and I met with Deputy District Attorney Megan Doherty to plot the interrogation. As the on-call deputy prosecutor, Doherty had to respond day or night to these kinds of incidents. I’d never met her, but Kate had worked with her on prior occasions.

  After conferring, we met Ambrose in the interrogation room. Doherty began. “Hello, Mr. Ambrose. My name is Megan Doherty. I’m a deputy prosecutor with the Salt Lake County Attorney’s Office. I believe you know Lt. McConnell and Detective Kincaid. If you don’t, you probably should. From what I understand, they saved your life tonight.”

  Ambrose nodded.

  “Let me explain what’s going to happen next. I’m going to make you an offer, and I’m only going to make it once. If you turn it down, it won’t be offered again. Do you understand?”

  Again he nodded.

  “My office intends to charge Rodney Plow with one count of conspiracy to commit first degree murder in the death of Arnold Ginsberg. We also plan to charge you and Anthony Barnes, if he lives, with one count of conspiracy to commit first degree murder and a second count each of murder in the first degree. In the state of Utah, each of these offenses is punishable by death or life in prison. We plan to pursue the ultimate penalty against all three of you.

  “Are you following me, Mr. Ambrose?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m confident with the physical evidence we already have, which includes your DNA on the victim’s clothing as well as what Mr. Kincaid saw tonight, that we’ll get those death sentences.

  “Are you interested in making a deal, Mr. Ambrose?”

  “Maybe. What exactly are you proposing?”

  “In exchange for your full cooperation in the investigation, including your testimony against Plow and Barnes, if he lives, we will allow you to enter a nolo contendere or a guilty plea to one count of second degree murder.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “Second degree murder carries a prison sentence of five years minimum and up to life. In your case, that means the death penalty is off the table. You will have to serve the five year minimum, probably more. Exactly how much more will depend on how you conduct yourself in prison and what you can tell the state parole board.”

  “Probably a lot more than five years,” I thought to myself.

  He sighed. “Will you guarantee this offer in writing?”

  “At the appropriate time, yes, we will. I want to emphasize that this offer is contingent upon your complete cooperation with Lt. McConnell and Mr. Kincaid. You must answer all their questions fully and honestly or we’ll walk away from the deal. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, Mr. Ambrose. We’re gonna leave the room and give you some time to think over the offer. We’ll return shortly.”

  As we stood, Ambrose said, “You don’t need to leave. I accept your offer, but I want it in writing.”

  Doherty shook her head. “I can arrange that while you talk with the detectives. Fair enough?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay,” said Doherty. “I’ll step out of the room and go prepare the offer. I’ll leave you to talk with the detectives.”

  Kate walked Ambrose through the Miranda warnings and then had him sign a waiver form. He gave us permission to record the interview. Kate began. “Let’s start at the beginning, Steven. Tell us how you became acquainted with Rodney Plow and Arnold Ginsberg.”

  I met Rodney at the health club maybe a year, year-and-a-half-ago. He and Arnold belonged to the club although Arnold rarely came in. I worked there as a personal trainer. I also operate a massage business.”

  “When did your relationship with Rodney become physical?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t exactly remember, but it must have been eight, nine months ago.”

  “Rodney came to your massage studio. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever give a massage to Arnold?”

  “No, I didn’t. I would have. He just never came in.”

  “And when did you and Rodney first begin discussing the idea of killing Arnold?”

  “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you jot down, but I’d say it was between three and four months ago.”

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “His, not mine. I’m not that kind of person.”

  “And what did you think when Rodney first proposed the idea?”

  “I told him I thought it was a crazy idea and that I didn’t want any part of it.”

  “How did he respond to that?”

  “At first he just laughed and told me to forget about it—that he was just kidding. But he never let it go. He’d always bring it up, over and over, until I realized one day, that the idea of killing Ginsberg didn’t freak me out any longer.”

  “What was in it for you, Steven?” I asked.

  “That’s the really funny part in light of what’s happened. Rod told me he loved me and that with Arnold out of the way, we’d be able to have a life together. He also said that with the money he stood to inherit, plus the insurance, we’d be set financially. We talked about moving to Hawaii or maybe Costa Rica. Some place warm.”

  “And you were in love with him?”

  “Absolutely, I still am.”

  “You mentioned insurance money. Tell us what you know about that?”

  “At first, I didn’t know anything. Then one night after we’d been partying hard and had gotten high, Rod told me there was a $500,000 term life insurance policy on Arnold.”

  “And I suppose he was the beneficiary of that policy?” I said.

  “What Rod said was that he’d taken out the policy himself, and forged Arnold’s signature on the application. I guess it was one of the those companies where you fill out an application and mail in your payment without ever having to take a physical.”

  “Do you know the name of the insuran
ce company?”

  “He told me once, but I don’t remember.”

  “Tell us how Barnes became part of the murder plot?”

  “I’m not really clear about that, but Rod introduced him to me. I just assumed they knew each other from the Lucky Gent. Rod hung out at the place.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “When did what happen? I don’t understand your question.”

  “Sorry. When did Rod first introduce you to Barnes?”

  Ambrose scratched his forehead. “About two months ago, I think.”

  Kate said, “Why do you think Rodney brought Barnes into the plot?”

  “Rod knew I was scared, and I guess he figured that I’d never be able to do it by myself. He told me more than once that Barnes was a tough, ex-military guy who had the stomach for it. He also thought there was no way anybody would ever connect him to Barnes.”

  “By ‘it,’ you mean that Barnes was a guy who had the stomach to carry out a murder-for-hire?”

  Ambrose winced. “Yes,” he said.

  “Who actually planned the murder?”

  “Rod and Anthony. By the time we sat down to discuss things, they already knew what they were going to do. Rod wanted the killing to look like Arnold had been executed—a lot easier to blame it on that crazy polygamist cult, the Bradshaws.”

  “What do you mean, blame it on the Bradshaws?”

  “After they pulled the armored car robbery, the one that Arnold witnessed, Rod saw a great opportunity. He figured that if we killed Arnold right before the scheduled court hearing for Walter Bradshaw, the cops would blame it on the Bradshaws. The timing of the murder also gave Rod a chance to work out his own alibi.”

  “Speaking of alibis, we assume your stay at the Snowbird Lodge was done to establish an alibi for yourself. Is that true?”

  “Yeah, I thought if Rod was going to all the trouble of making sure he had an alibi, I should probably have one, too. The Snowbird thing was all I could think of.”

  “What about the choice of murder weapons? Tell us about that.”

  “Not much to tell, really. Guns are noisy. Anthony wanted to use a knife. I couldn’t handle that, so for me, we settled on the tire iron.”

  “When you say, ‘we,’ does that include Rodney?”

  “Yeah, Rod was in it right down to choosing the murder weapons.”

  We were about out of questions, at least for this interview, when Vince Turner walked in. He handed Kate a note and whispered something in her ear. She turned off the recording equipment and turned to Ambrose.

  “Steven, you might be interested in this. It seems that Rodney is indeed, a Rodney. He’s just not a Plow. We just received a hit on Rodney’s fingerprints from the FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System. It seems Rodney’s real last name is Shields, not Plow. His California State prison identification number is 16745911. He’s got a fairly lengthy criminal record for check and credit card forgeries, theft, and a couple of fraud counts. One of the fraud cases earned him a sixteen month stint in the California State prison at Chino.”

  I shook my head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Chapter Fifty

  I drove home, slept a few hours, and was up in time to take Sara out to breakfast and then drop her at school. I was buried up to my neck in reports that needed to be written. I’d told Kate that I’d sit down first thing this morning and get them done. I promised I’d drop them at her office around lunchtime.

  At eleven o’clock, Burnham phoned. He was exuberant. He’d just received a message from his attorney telling him that the DA’s office had called with a plea deal. It seems that District Attorney Richard Hatch had decided to follow my recommendation. Terry had been offered a deferred prosecution for one year on a misdemeanor charge. If he kept out of trouble, completed alcohol counseling, and paid a significant fine, the case would be dismissed after a year. It was the best deal he could have gotten under the circumstances and one that might allow him to salvage his career with the department.

  I met Kate for a late lunch at the Market Street Grill in downtown Salt Lake City. I gave her my reports and told her the good news about Terry. “Has Cates been informed about the deal?” asked Kate.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything. You think he’s going to be pissed, don’t’ you?”

  “Don’t you?” said Kate.

  “Probably.”

  “Frankly, I’m a little surprised Hatch made the decision he did,” she said.

  “Me, too. I’m damn glad he did it, though. It restores my confidence in the system when I see a bureaucrat make the right decision once in a while instead of one based solely on political expediency.”

  Just then my cell phone rang. It was Benjamin Cates’ secretary. I had been summoned to a meeting with the boss. “I think he knows now,” I said.

  Kate looked concerned. “Call me as soon as you’re finished. I’ll be anxious to find out how it went. And Sam, be sure to wear your Kevlar vest when you go in.”

  “Very funny.” I kissed her on the cheek and headed out the door.

  ***

  When I was ushered into the conference room adjoining Cates’ office, a somber looking group had been assembled. Besides Cates, the party included the department’s administrative law judge, Rachel Rivers-Blakely, and Tommy Connors, the new Director of Institutional Operations at the prison. They looked at me like I was a death row inmate who had been fed his last meal and was ready to take that final walk down The Green Mile. Cates pointed to a chair directly across from him. Connors and Rivers-Blakely also sat across the table on either side of Cates.

  “Something very disturbing happened this morning, Mr. Kincaid, and I’m wondering whether you’ll be able to shed some light on it.”

  “I’ll be glad to try,” I said.

  “I received a call this morning from Richard Hatch. I was disappointed to learn that he had decided to ignore our request that Terry Burnham be prosecuted to the fullest extent possible, and instead, offered him some Mickey Mouse plea deal that sends exactly the wrong message to every employee in this department.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I lied.

  “I’ll bet you are.” He gave me his best stare, and I have to admit, it was intimidating.

  “Have you had a hand in this, Mr. Kincaid, either directly or indirectly?”

  So much for Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. It was a good, straight-forward question, and it deserved a good, straight-forward answer.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. I paid a visit to Richard Hatch myself.”

  “And when did you do that?” Cates asked.

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Before or after your visit with me?”

  I wanted to answer, just before you lied to me about whether you’d referred the case to the DA’s office, but I thought better of it. “Before,” I said.

  “I thought so. I did my best to keep you out of this for all the obvious reasons. You have a clear conflict of interest when it comes to disciplinary matters involving one of your own subordinates. And what’s worse is that this particular subordinate is also a personal friend. Isn’t that correct?”

  “He’s a friend, that’s true.”

  Cates took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, carefully regarding me before he spoke next. “Do you really believe, Sam, that your conduct in this matter was aboveboard and appropriate?”

  “I don’t know about the aboveboard part, but, yes, I think it was appropriate.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been at this job for a long time, Director Cates. I’ve seen just about every form of employee misconduct that can occur within the prison setting, from illicit sex, to drug dealing, all the way to murder. And I believe that the punishment should fit the crime. And in this case, it simply didn’t. I don’t know whether you want to hear it, but I’d be happy to elaborate on why.”

  “I don’t,” he said, curtly.
“I’ve always considered it inappropriate for law enforcement personnel to engage in the sordid business of plea bargaining. That’s not our job. Distasteful as it is, the practice is best left to the prosecutor. In every department I’ve ever run, I’ve required written policies and procedures that forbid my officers from engaging in plea bargaining discussions with the prosecutor’s office.”

  “It’s not a part of our P&P,” I said, “and it never has been.”

  “That’s about to change,” he said. “What I want you to understand, Mr. Kincaid, is that I believe your conduct in this matter is reprehensible. Further, I consider it disloyal to me personally and a serious breach of ethical conduct on your part. Therefore, I’m suspending you from duty for two weeks without pay beginning next Monday. I’m also ordering that a letter of reprimand be placed in your personnel file. You’ll be receiving all of this in writing from Rachel at the conclusion of our meeting today, including your administrative appeals rights. Do you have any questions?”

  “I think you’ve made it about as clear as you can.”

  He sat back and paused. I could tell he wasn’t quite finished with me. “Tell me something, Kincaid, how long have you been with the department?”

  “I’ve been in eighteen years, two months.”

  “I have an opening in our training division,” he said. “While you’re serving your suspension, I’m going to be giving serious consideration to your future in the department. What I want you to understand is that when you return to work, it might be in a different assignment. Will you be okay with that?”

  Was this a trick question? “I guess I’ll have to be.”

  “Yes, I guess you will. That’ll be all, Mr. Kincaid. Have a nice day.”

  ***

  I made two stops before going home for the day. The first was to the district attorney’s office and the other was to see Kate. I stopped at the DA’s office first. I thanked Richard Hatch for expending the political capital that it would undoubtedly cost him with Benjamin Cates regarding the Burnham affair.

  Next, I headed to the district court clerk’s office and found out which court had been assigned the case against Robin Joiner. That turned out to be Judge Judith Brown, or Judge Judy, as we affectionately called her. I figured since I’d already stuck my nose into the Burnham mess, and gotten roundly spanked for the favor, I might as well meddle in one more plea negotiation before Cates’ new policy went into effect.