Alicia informed Hank that the recovered bullet went to the Crime Lab for testing.
An hour later Scott awakened, and Alicia could talk again to him for a few minutes. “Mr. Scott, can you tell us about being shot?”
“He found me,” Scott's eyes closed, and he mumbled.
“Drummond?”
“Yes. He told me he'd searched the internet and found my house.”
“When did he get there?” Alicia wrote each response while recording the interview.
“Around eleven o'clock. He said he had the money. We argued, and he hit me. I fought back and got shot.”
“He would pay you? Why?”
“I saw him near the wine cooler.”
“What were you doing there and when?” Alicia asked, glancing at Hank with a questioning look.
“I was walking to the restroom and looked toward the Silverado car. I saw Drummond going through the vestibule. He saw me.”
“What did you do next?”
“I looked into the wine cooler room and saw Hatchett on the floor.”
“Did you open the door to the cooler?” Alicia was expressionless as Scott answered.
“No, it was open.”
“What did you do?”
“I went the other way. Oh, shit! He tried to kill me.” The monitor beeped. Sweat formed on his brow as he became agitated.
A nurse rushed in, ordering everyone to leave.
Alicia, Bridge, and Hank went to the waiting room.
“Have we got this wrong? Was it Drummond who killed Hatchett and then went after Scott to shut him up?” Hank asked the group.
Neither Alicia nor Bridge replied.
“Chris, get an officer detail to guard the room and watch for Drummond. He may try again if he thinks Scott is alive. Meet me back here around nine in the morning. I'll talk with the doctor and see if I can talk to Scott later. Not much else we can do here.”
“I'll do that, boss. You get dinner, please.”
“Thanks, Chris. I'm fine. See you in the morning.”
As Bridge left, Alicia turned to Hank, “You too. I'll call you tomorrow. Thanks for coming by. I think we’re done for now.”
“How about we get dinner?”
“No thanks, not tonight. Go home, please. Take care of Molly.”
Alicia sounded exhausted Hank thought. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, but her attitude deterred him.
Tuesday, December 10
At eight-thirty the next morning, Alicia, Bridge, and Hank met outside Scott's room. Bridge identified the group to the officer standing watch outside of Scott's room.
“Before we go in I have information to share with you. I mentioned last week that Donovan went to Napa and talked to Mrs. Klein. She knew about the death of Hatchett and wasn't upset. Her husband owned an old diner in the Telegraph Hill area of Frisco. Hatchett gave the place a bad review making senior Klein so upset he had a heart attack and died. Stan blamed Hatchett.” Alicia whispered to the men.
“Klein had a motive. What do we do now?” Bridge asked.
“Let's treat Scott like he's the only suspect. If we can bring Klein in, we will deal with it then,” Alicia said. They entered the room.
“Mr. Scott, why did you kill Mr. Hatchett?” Alicia asked.
“I told you I didn't. Leave me alone.” He looked away from them.
“What did you do with the knife?” Bridge asked.
“Nothing. I told you that.”
“Why did you stuff the bloody napkin into Hatchett's mouth?” Alicia persisted.
“I didn't.”
“Then how did your blood get on the napkin?” Alicia asked.
“I don't know. I did nothing wrong.” He screamed, then coughed. Perspiration covered his brow and the front of his hospital gown.
Hank reflected on police questioning procedures. Bridge fed Scott the word 'stabbed,' saying the medical examiner had determined Hatchett got stabbed to death. According to conventional training manuals, the purpose of an interrogation is to get the suspect to incriminate themselves. Or, better yet, make a full confession. Confessions are the queen of criminal evidence, so Bridge did what he knew to do to get the confession he needed. Everyone in the room knew the medical examiner had stated the culprit used a kitchen knife to kill the victim.
"We know how he died, which is why we are here," Bridge told Scott.
As a former Los Angeles Police detective who interviewed thousands of suspects and trained countless detectives, Hank knew Bridge was on track to solve this case. In California, courts and judges take a dim view of false statements by detectives. While they have never said flat out, 'You cannot lie,' it's a negative factor with most jurors. The agents continued lying to Scott while accusing him of lying to them every time he said he didn't kill Hatchett. 'Maximization' is a technique many detectives use to convey to the suspect the hopelessness of their situation. It's meant to convince the suspect that continued denials will fail, and that a confession is an easier way out.
The Agents switched from maximization to minimization. Bridge stepped away from the bed.
Alicia offered Scott sympathy and played down his responsibility for what they accused him of doing. “You got shot. We understand your concerns and want to support you and your situation. But now's the time, to tell the truth,” Tomlinson said.
Scott looked at Alicia. His expression was slack, and his eyes were wet as he looked away toward the ceiling. “I noticed the wine cooler door was open. No one was around, so I looked in and saw Hatchett lying there with a knife in him and blood on his shirt.”
“Kurt, look at me,” Tomlinson demanded. “You're a caring person. Don't you want to have his wife know what happened to him?”
Scott looked away from the detectives.
“Why didn't you tell someone what happened while you were on the train?” Tomlinson asked.
He looked at Tomlison. “I was scared and confused. I guess I was in shock or something,” he replied with a sullen expression.
“No sense denying it. Tell us what happened. Look, Kurt, you can get out from under this,” Tomlinson said again in a calming tone. “Tell us what happened, and we will persuade the DA to reduce the charges to minor obstruction of evidence. That's the deal. You'll probably get probation.”
Scott broke down, whimpering. “I saw Drummond leave the car, and after seeing Hatchett, I assumed Drummond had killed him.”
“What did you do next?” Alicia asked. “People will be much more understanding if you come forward and say, 'I lost it, that's what happened,'” Tomlinson said.
Taking a deep breath, Scott admitted, “I stuck the knife into Hatchett's chest. After all, the asshole was dead.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Later that morning, after the doctor finished with Scott, Alicia and Hank revisited Scott in his room at the hospital.
“Kurt, how did you get shot?” Alicia asked in a concerned tone.
“He busted into my house and accused me of trying to bribe him for killing Hatchett.”
“Who was that?” Alicia asked.
“Drummond, who I argued with on the train.”
“What about?”
“He said I lied about one a restaurant I critiqued. He got pissed but walked away from me and headed out of the car.”
“What did you do then?”
“I waited a few minutes before going to the restroom.”
“What happened next?” Alicia asked.
“I told you I saw him leave the car, and I looked into the room to see Hatchett laying on the floor.”
“Okay. What did you and Drummond do at your house?”
“I told him I saw him leaving the cooler, and I accused him of killing that asshole. He said he saw Hatchett in the cooler room with a knife in him but didn't stab him. So said I was wrong, but I didn't believe him.”
“He slugged me and knocked me into my closet. I panicked and reached into my granddad's old ammo box sitting next to me. I pulled out the old gun and poin
ted at him. He said, ‘Don’t shoot.’ Then he rushed me. I pulled the trigger, but it didn't fire. He pulled the gun from my hand and pointed it at me.”
“So, when Drummond had the gun it fired, and he shot you?” Hank asked.
“Yeah. I thought I was going to die.” Scott whined and held his side. Scott turned away and refused to continue questioning.
At one-thirty in the afternoon, back at HQ, Alicia said to Agents Smith and Bridge, and Hank, “I’m leaning toward believing Scott. Michaels called in to report he went to Drummond's home in Davis but Drummond wasn't there. Mrs. Drummond didn't know where he was. 'He left early in the morning for meetings with clients,' the wife said. She wouldn't allow a search of the house.”
“Let's hope we find him and Stan Klein,” Bridge said. “Cordero will look for Klein on Wednesday evening at the restaurant where Hank said he worked. Let's hope Cordero will bring him in.” Bridge’s expression wasn't enthusiastic.
“Good. Okay, it's lunch time so let’s take a break,” Alicia said, nodding to each man. “Go grab a quick bite to eat.” She headed to her office.
“Will you join me?” Hank asked.
“No thanks. I have things to do here, and I'm not hungry,” Alicia said before waving him from the office.
Three hours later the BOLO on Drummond's car got spotted at a motel in Oakland, near the airport. At half past five Michaels, and Donovan met two Oakland Police officers at the Day Dream Motel where Drummond was.
After the call from Michaels, Alicia, Bridge, and Hank raced to Oakland. Bridge called Agent Carl George to meet them at the motel.
As they headed on I-80 Hank wondered if this scene would end as bad as the recent one he witnessed in Reno. Hopefully, no one would end up dead this time.
A SWAT unit and negotiator had arrived to get Drummond to surrender. At seven-twenty p.m. the police knocked on the door of room number one-fifteen. There was no response. The officer knocked again. The SIT team and Hank watched as the Oakland Police Tactical Negotiator called the room. Many minutes went by as the phone rang without a pick-up. At a quarter past eight Drummond answered the phone. The negotiating officer ordered him to come outside. Drummond replied, “Fuck you.”
The conversation continued for several minutes when a SWAT member gave another knock on the door, and a bullet went through the window and hit Donovan in his left deltoid muscle, and he fell to the ground. Michaels rushed to his side pulling him clear of further gunfire.
The EMT's ran over to Donovan and determined the wound was through-and-through with no bone damage. He got whisked away to a local hospital.
Hank, Alicia, and Bridge waited until Drummond left his room about thirty minutes later.
As they watched, Drummond opened the door to peek out. The SWAT team pulled him from the doorway, patted him and cuffed him. Bridge informed him of his rights. Being inebriated and near the point of passing out, Drummond was placed into the back of Agent Michaels' car where he passed out.
After ten o'clock Alicia said to her team, “Well, that's about all we can do tonight. Bridge, you and Michaels escort Drummond to Sacramento County Jail, take care of the paperwork, then call it a day. Thanks for the great work, guys. Let's go home.”
Hank followed Alicia to the car. “How about a drink in celebration?” he asked.
“Not tonight. I need a relaxing bath and rest. Besides, we've got a two-hour drive ahead of us. Thanks for asking.” Alicia started the car and drove to the highway.
“Can I come in tomorrow and watch the action?” Hank asked after a long, awkward silence.
“Sure. I'll let you know,” she replied without further comment.
On the trip back to Sacramento, there was little conversation. Hank couldn’t understand why she was so cold. A few times he wanted to ask her why her demeanor had changed, but he held back.
When they reached the headquarters building, Alicia said, “Thanks. Have a good night's rest. See you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Good night.” Hank said.
He left for the motorhome and Molly. Sadness settled over him as he doubted Alicia and he would share intimate times again.
THIRTY-FIVE Wednesday, December 11
Drummond sat in the interrogation room when Hank arrived at ten-forty-five a.m. Hank entered the video room with Austin.
Alicia and Bridge sat across from Drummond; there was no attorney present. Drummond was still under the effects of excessive drinking from the previous night. His head slumped to the table.
“Mister Drummond, wake up!” Bridge shouted.
Drummond jerked upright, eyes wide and bloodshot. “What?”
“We have evidence showing you attacked Mister Hatchett,” Agent Bridge.
“No way,” Drummond slurred.
“Yes, tell us what happened. Why did you kill Mr. Hatchett?”
“I didn't. I told you that.” He glanced at Bridge.
“What about shooting Mr. Scott?”
“It was self-defense,” Drummond said, his head dropping on the table.
“Pick your head up.”
Drummond looked up, in a daze.
“Please describe your meeting with Mister Hatchett.”
Drummond looked at Bridge. His head again dropped to the table.
“Drummond!” Bridge yelled at him.
“Huh?”
Bridge asked again, “Mr. Drummond, describe the encounter with Mister Hatchett.”
Drummond looked up, his speech slurred, “I saw this open door and a guy in a room with a knife in his belly. I recognized him as the critic who slammed some of my businesses.” His head returned to his arm on the table.
“Mr. Drummond.”
He raised his head as Bridge continued his interrogation. “Why did you stab him a second time?”
Hank noted the confused expression on Drummond’s face.
Drummond took a deep breath, looked around the table, and muttered, “I didn't.”
“Mr. Drummond, we have evidence that places you at the scene of the murder. Your DNA and fingerprints are on the knife,” Bridge said.
As if struck by lightning, Drummond sat back in his chair, his eyes wild. “How could you get DNA processed so fast? It takes weeks. I know, I watch TV!” Drummond objected, slurring his words. “I touched nothing, just walked by it and went to get another glass of wine.”
"Then why were we able to find hairs from your pug dog on his clothes?" Bridge asked.
"What? That's impossible. I didn't have my dog there."
"True, but the hair transferred from your clothes to the body," replied Alicia.
"Bullshit!" Drummond screamed.
“The dog hair transferred from your clothes to Hatchett’s,” repeated Alicia.
"Bullshit!" Wide awake, Drummond screamed louder.
“Yeah? Scream as loud as you wish, but we have a tight case against you. How does a first class ticket to death row sound? You could be sentenced to death row unless you confess right now!” Alicia said with heightened volume in her voice. Her cheeks flushed. Hank knew she was going in for the kill.
Drummond lunged over the table reaching out to grab Alicia. “You lying bitch!”
Bridge grabbed Drummond’s arm and threw him back into his chair yelling at the irate man. “Now you did it. You added a charge of assaulting a Bureau agent,” Bridge yelled and applied handcuffs behind Drummond’s back.
“Sit still and tell us what happened. NOW!” Alicia said.
Drummond sat eyes closed.
“What did you do next,” demanded Bridge?
“I saw that asshole slumped there with the knife in him.” He scowled.
“Did you see the napkin in his mouth?” Alicia asked.
“Huh? What napkin. His mouth was wide open as were his eyes,” slurred Drummond.
“What did you do then?” Alicia asked.
“I got out of there as quick as I could and walked to the next car. That's all.”
“What for?” Alicia asked.
�
�I went to get more wine.”
“Then what?” Bridge asked.
“I went to the front cars.”
“Are you sure it was the front cars?” Bridge asked.
“Yes, I told you this before. I met with Ted Baxter. Ask him. He’ll verify my story.”
“Mr. Drummond the evidence and situation point to you as the killer, we have you dead to rights. We know, and you know, that you killed David Hatchett.” Bridge placed a pad of paper and a pen in front of Drummond. “Here write everything that happened and why you killed Mr. Hatchett.”
Attorney Boswell, from the DA's office, entered the interview room and stood behind Alicia.
“I didn't kill the son-of-a-bitch,” Drummond said. His face was white, his eyes red, and he muttered under his breath.
“When we get fingerprint and blood evidence back from the lab, you could face second-degree murder. If you confess now and tell the truth about everything, we will recommend a manslaughter charge. If you cooperate, this could be your opportunity to save yourself,” said Boswell.
Drummond looked at the attorney. He became silent hearing the evidence against him. He hunched over, eyes closed, his breathing slowed as if he were falling asleep.
“Mr. Drummond?” Alicia asked.
“I would never kill him, even though I hated him,” Drummond mumbled. “The asshole was lying there with a knife in him. I laughed and left the area.”
“So what did you see?” asked Bridge.
“I told you. The guy was lying there with a knife in his gut, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear him talk his normal bullshit.”
“What was in his mouth?” asked Tomlinson.
“Nothing. It was open as were his eyes with a blank stare. I could tell the bastard was dead.”
The detectives turned to another method of extracting a confession, making promises and offering inducements. They told Drummond they could help him if he confessed.
"You did it," Bridge replied, in a soothing voice.
Killer On The Train Page 17
