by Moulton, CD
Stedmann looked shocked, then wary. “It’s not so much ... it got away from all of us, but we go on with it. I don’t have the least conception of why.” Clint let it pass, mostly. He acted like he was thinking of something else, which relaxed Stedmann.
“Boredom. You thought it would put some new excitement in your lives, it did for a little while, now it’s just as boring as everything else,” he replied in a disinterested manner.
“Could be. What do you think will happen? Not that I care much. It’s just another something that happened. I’m sort of like standing to one side and watching a bad TV flick. Nothing will change except I’ll sit in some cell until I die or something. All of us have millions, but can’t even buy one lousy day of difference.”
It sounded rehearsed. Clint had read some psychology books when he was first learning the detective thing. This was almost like it was a memorized rote passage from one of them. The distached personality. Sociopathic. Good Ol’ Stedmann was about to learn something about Panamá ! That kind of psychobabble didn’t have much weight in court here. He wouldn’t get a term in a psycho ward, then be released in a couple of years as cured.
Would it give him a minute of excitement to learn another plan was flawed by a small detail that could smack him in the puss? Hard?
“That doesn’t work here. No bleeding heart `Oh, The poor dear! He wasn’t responsible for what he did because his father molested him when he was just nine years old!’ or `His mother cut off the boob too soon,’ or that kind of thing. You’ll get the max. You might have gotten the minimum sentence, six years, if we didn’t find out about the others. The police here don’t throw up their hands and say there isn’t enough proof like some other countries – for gringos. They’ll do it to a gringo. We don’t kid ourselves about the old `screw the gringo’ being alive and well in Panamá.”
“Yet you work for them?”
“I work with them. That doesn’t apply to the ones of us who live like they have some respect for the people here. Too many gringos have an attitude. They’re snobs with a rotten attitude and no one’s going to appreciate that. This has nothing to do with anything. It’s just an explanation about what you misjudged.”
“So? What do you expect from me? Some kind of confession to make it easier for you?”
“They don’t need confessions. It wouldn’t change anything. They have all the proof they need to convict or they wouldn’t have arrested you.”
“I can see problems in court. They can’t prove I wasn’t run off the road and crashed.”
“Oh, that. They have four witnesses working a couple of hundred meters from there who will testify there was no truck, plus the traffic coordinators for the Ojo de Agua project have watchers to guarantee that their own fleet doesn’t exceed the rules. They note every truck that passes. There weren’t any, much less a Walker sixteen. You also have the fact that Stenson was dead before the crash. Baseball bat is the probable cause. The ME states very plainly that the head injuries were absolutely and positively NOT caused by contact with a flat windshield. You’re gone for that.”
“I guess I’ll need a really good lawyer.”
“If you find one who’ll take your case you’ll find that he or she is definitely not a good lawyer. The good ones refuse unwinnable cases. You aren’t allowed a lawyer by law here. This ain’t Texas.”
He looked at Clint with a deeply thoughtful expression mixed with a bit of fear and/or shock. Maybe Clint had given him a few seconds of emotion, even if it was only fear.
He sighed and nodded. “I’m through talking. I have to think this through. I very seldom make blunders on this order – if what you say is true.”
“Your choice. You know damned well it’s true. You figured them for a bunch of, as you said, yokels. They’re very efficient cops. They do their job and do it well, but shy away from publicity that turns cops into public figures or TV heroes. That always leads to an inflated opinion of themselves that soon turns them into worthless excuses for cops.
“You may be able to get a high-priced lawyer, don’t mistake that, but it’ll be for the money. He or she or they won’t make an iota of difference in your case. Theatrics and tricks don’t work in this system. It’s more likely to get a lawyer barred from practicing. They do it on TV, of course. It impresses the marks.
“In short, they’ll present a huge bill for all the writs and proofs and such they had to research at two or three hundred bucks an hour – and they spent fifty hours this week on your case alone. They tell other clients much the same thing, the socalled hours spent determined by how much money you have. They can end up spending a hundred fifty or two hundred hours per week exclusively on individual client’s cases. It’s hard to relate that to the fact that their clients almost always seem to lose because it was a hopeless case from the first.
“Good luck! You’re damned well going to need some!”
He merely looked interested. “And you can help shave some off the sentence if I give you some information.” It was a positive statement.
“Not a chance. They don’t work that way. If they have you as solid as they have you don’t get any deals. You may be able to get some favors from the court later, after conviction, to make things a little easier. Even that’s marginal. The rules are the rules. Martinelli is cracking down hard on corruption so that’s damned iffy. You aren’t going to be able to buy a life of ease in the pen here.” He started looking through papers in his briefcase.
“I’ve found that to be true. We couldn’t get anything from people we have in the past. They say things are different and we’ll have to wait for the next president. They’re sure two in a row won’t be the same. The next one won’t be richer than Midas and will be corruptible. It’s the way things have always been here.”
“Oh, yeah. That bunch of asses in Changuinola.” Clint acted like he was looking for something that wasn’t there.
“The Flores were always a source of help in arranging special permits and such. Fanny always came through when it came to avoiding taxes and fees. Give her five hundred bucks and save five thousand.”
Clint repressed a smirk and managed to look totally disinterested. “Well, guess I’ll be going. I was here from personal curiosity more than anything else.”
“I think I’ll study a bit of the law here. They let me have my laptop and the laws are all on the net under public property regulations.
“I won’t find much to help, huh?”
“Probably the opposite. If you’re subject to deeper depression than you’re living in anyway I would say not to do it. In your case I doubt it would make any difference.”
He nodded and offered his hand. Clint grinned and shook it. When he left the room he handed the recorder that was sitting right there on the table from the first to the officer and said there were some damned good evidentiary details about two lawyers and a woman in Changuinola. It was enough to apply as proof of petty corruption and bribery. How did you manage that?”
“Judi told me why I never seemed to get straight answers from people in instances like this. Call it misdirection.”
He got a look like this guy thought he was as crazy as Stedmann. He talked with the capitan for a few minutes, then headed for his hotel. He knew the one – ones – he had to check from ‘way back. He called Judi to say, “Thanks! It works!”
“You never make any sense. I take it your case is solved?”
“I have the direction to go. I think I’ll solve it now.”
They chatted a little while, then Clint went to dinner and some talk with people he met. He ran into a girl he had spent time with in Bocas Town so spent most of the night at her place.
In short, it was a great night!
Times Past
Clint got into David at four, so went directly to Dave’s apartment there instead of the Pension Costa Rica. Dave had given him the keys and wouldn’t be in town for a few days. He’d gone to Las Tablas. Clint could use the computer there. It was online and very fas
t. He’d found what he had to know to dig back to where this started, hopefully. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Sergio had given him some ideas.
Manny!
He called Manny Mathews and asked if he had learned anything more. Other than that the group kept a very low profile and were into a lot of legitimate business in the states – and that an inordinate number of the partners died in socalled “accidents” – not much. There was someone behind it they couldn’t find. Nobody was connected to the syndicates in the states in any way.
“Check on Donald Fielding. Him and Faith Richards, nee Faith Newsom. I think they’re the two who came up with this insanity.
“Oh! You weren’t in on that! I guess you know they’ve arrested Stedmann and charged him with murder.”
“Judi told me. She said you were going to try to get him to say something. Did he?”
“Oh, yeah! Two or three somethings. At least three scumbags in Changuinola are going down on corruption charges. Fieldman is one of the starters of this game if not the only starter. I have to find out what kind of relationship he and Newsom had going.”
“Faith Richards lived with Stedmann for a short while in California. Carmel. Spent a lot of time in LA. Pretty well kept their noses clean. I’ll check on Fieldman. LA?”
“Yeah. He’s a genius control freak. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”
“Fair enough. How are things otherwise?”
They chatted for a few minutes, then Clint went to the computer and started searching for anything to do with the group, but particularly on Fieldman and Faith Richards.
He didn’t find much about Fieldman. For someone as powerful as he was supposed to be he kept off the net.
Money. He made damned sure he wasn’t on any internet files. Probably used aliases for most of his deals.
Faith Richards. She was with Stedmann in LA for a couple of months in 1994, hot and heavy, then suddenly married Richards, a friend she met through a friend. Skinny was that she had an abortion a few days after they were married. They seemed to get along well and were in several businesses together. Richards introduced her to Fieldman. Interesting. 1997. She worked with him and her husband in a business deal and socialized a bit with him, but not much was known about it, only that the three went to dinners and theaters and such together about once a month. He had degrees in everything from psychology to business law. He had worked for a short period with an advisory and referral psychological clinic that specialized in schizophrenia and sociopathic personalities. There was no more than the fact he had worked there available. It didn’t say what his specialty was or even if he had one. There was a short note that he was used on the relocation project (?). The group was formed in 1998.
Okay. Fieldman was the main manipulator. He had the resources and the knowledge. He could find members through some kind of relocation program. He could manipulate those kinds of people very well, thank you. People who lacked emotions could be conned into this kind of game. They felt nothing and spent their entire lives trying to find a way to experience an emotion. They could be very good at faking emotional responses. That was a survival trait.
How much of it was him alone and how much of it was from Faith Newsom being a master manipulator?
Clint had never met Faith Newsom. All he knew was that she was a knockout sex queen type who could act like an airhead, but who was actually far more than average intelligent.
He could meet her. It would have to be in Panamá City. Was that going to be necessary?
If he wanted some kind of clue to answer the questions it would.
He sighed and packed for the bus. He would be there in the morning, manage to meet the whole bunch there, then would, maybe, have an answer or two.
Clint slept on the bus. He got off for a few minutes at the Santiago terminal, used the rest room and got a decent meal, then went back to sleep when the bus started on the last half of the trip.
He got into Panamá City at a little after eleven and went to the Hotel California. He had, for once, had the sense to call and reserve a room. He went to the bar to talk with some people from Bocas Town, then turned in. Pancho told him where they were staying, the Hotel Europa, when he called to chat. He would manage to be in the restaurant at eight in the morning when they always had breakfast. The Europa was only a couple of blocks away.
It was a pleasant enough night. Clint wondered about the world and how strange reality could be. Here he was, involved with a bunch of certifiable lunatics running some kind of murder game and wasn’t even kept awake by those facts for ten minutes. He knew how sick it was. Maybe he was a little short in the emotional part himself – no. He felt very deeply about a lot of things and life was often exciting. He didn’t need to search for what was wrong with him, though he knew damned well he had his own shortcomings.
Despite all that, he woke up very refreshed. He strolled around from five thirty when he got out of bed and ten ‘til eight when he went into the Europa’s restaurant to order an omelet and a lot of coffee.
Clint had studied passport photos of most of them. They didn’t show much, but enough that he could identify them. Harry and Faith Richards came in a few minutes before Gloria Stenson and Anne Haverton. Clint could see why she was always described as a knockout. She was, but in a slightly (deliberate) cheap way. Anne was rather pretty for a fifty-something woman, as was Gloria.
Donald Wentworth came in last and went to the table where Anne and Gloria were seated. He looked around the room and noticed Clint, who had spoken to him in the morgue in Changuinola. He nodded, said something to the women, then came over. Gloria had seen him when Donald pointed him out and had waved half-heartedly.
“Hello. Faraday, isn’t it? We spoke a moment in that hospital thing? Donald Wentworth.”
“Yes. I remember. I hope you aren’t being too inconvenienced with this mess. I can’t believe Stedmann thought he could get away with something like this. I came here to speak with him. He didn’t have a whole to say, but we have most of the story about your group through the normal police methods.”
“You find us strange, don’t you?”
“People involved in that kind of game strange? Whatever gave you that idea!?”
He didn’t react. He looked thoughtful, then, “So Mark told you about it?”
“No. He wouldn’t. It’s obvious as hell when we start checking on you as a group. The blood trail is quite something. The pattern is blatant when you have enough facts on the table.”
He nodded. “Stedmann was killing us off, I think. Maybe it was a game to him, but not to the rest of us.”
“He wasn’t even in Mexico for Truman and Smart or in Costa Rica for Stenson. That won’t fly.”
He looked a little uncertain. “Then more than one has to be behind it. Who do you think it is?”
“I said it won’t fly. The ones in on it from the first, except Fieldman (he looked like he’d been slapped when Clint used that name), who wasn’t there for any of them weren’t there for some of the ten or so murders. Faith, Stedmann and Fieldman were the originators, but you all got into it with your eyes wide open. I imagine only a few wives or husbands or whatever could be ignorant of it. Maybe that’s why Wanda had to go. She caught on.
“What happened? You were in Mexico where Truman and Smart got wasted and she began asking questions?”
He looked grim. He turned his back and went back to the table with Anne and Gloria. He got into an intense conversation with them. He soon went to the Richards’ table to say something to them that included some arm waving. They looked over to see Clint unconcernedly eating his cheese omelet. Faith got up and came over. Harry came a few steps behind her.
“Hello. Clint Faraday isn’t it? I’m Faith. Faith Richards.
“What is this conspiracy idea you told Donald about?”
“What theory? I didn’t say anything about any conspiracy theory. I only said I knew a little about your game, that it’s obvious when you have enough of the facts before y
ou. I wondered if you were in on it with Fieldman or are just another person he was using.
“Actually, if you’re in on it you’re being used. He’s ‘way out of your league.”
She looked thoughtful. All of them had that one down pat. Clint wondered if it was an instinctual reaction or practiced.
“I’ve wondered about that myself. It was all a sort of mutual idea, I guess you’d say. Several of us, some who aren’t here anymore, were in a group and wanted to find something to make a boring life a little exciting.
“Mr. Faraday, we don’t bother anyone not in the group. That’s always disaster!”
“Frank Carlysle was in the group? I don’t think so.”
“And it was a disaster. What he had was easily explainable as having something to do with a standard kind of doctor/patient confidentiality explanation. It could have been passed by as a fantasy, not a reality. That was what started the problems with the group.
“A man named Bernard and his wife were the cause of Carlysle’s death. They’re still around so we fear them and try to avoid them.”
“I see. They were also responsible for Wanda Wentworth?”
“As I see it, yes. We’re never sure. It makes the game a little more exciting. Mark was a fool to do anything that would make it plain who did what to whom.”
“I see. You still think it’s a matter among your little group and no one else – even with the examples of Carlysle and Wanda.”
“Wanda? What has that got to do with it?”
“She was never a member of your group. The police think that Donald killed her because she found some very incriminating things.”
She studied him for a few seconds. They all seemed to have that one down pat, too.
“She was into blackmail.”
“I see. Only a total fool will try to blackmail a hit man.”
She let a grin escape. “How true. Are they going to let us go on soon? We haven’t done anything they can hold us for.”
“That’s up to them. They can hold you for as long as they like. This ain’t, as I explained to Stedmann, Texas.”
