Drummond sobbed for a whole minute before confessing, “Yes, I shot Scott, but I did nothing to Hatchett. I want my attorney.”
“Mr. Drummond you are under arrest on two counts of assault with a deadly weapon,” Bridge said. “Formal charges will be filed by the State Attorney General.”
The interrogation ended, and a guard escorted Drummond to a holding cell. Hank met Alicia in her office. “That went well for a while,” Hank said. “I noticed that Drummond said there wasn't anything in Hatchett's mouth. So how did the napkin get there, assuming he's telling the truth.”
“Good point.” Alicia said, “I'll keep that in mind.”
“Interesting how many people hated Hatchett. What's next on your agenda?” Hank asked.
"Hard to say. I think you should leave in case my boss finds you here. I'll let you know what happens. Sorry," Alicia said.
"I understand, thanks for sharing. Good luck," Hank said, leaving the office.
Late that afternoon Alicia called Hank to share recent information. “Hi, Hank. Since you've been so involved with this case, I felt you deserved more information.”
“That's very nice of you. So what happened?” Hank asked.
“Drummond's attorney, DeKnopple, met with me and Assistant Attorney General Boswell in the AG's office. DeKnopple complained that this was psychological torture. He protested that the interrogation was not to determine the truth or get the facts. Since he wasn’t present for the questioning of Drummond, it sounded like the intention was to force his client to confess to doing it in the way they figured he did it. The detectives were the ones that force-fed him the information about the Hatchett stabbing. Drummond never offered them any information.”
Alicia described that they promised Drummond he would go into the judicial system with a lesser charge if he confessed that he committed the murder. She informed him of the details of DeKnopple’s conversation.
“This entire case went off the rails from the moment these two agents decided that Mr. Drummond's guilt. It was a long two hours where my client was without representation. All I could hear throughout those taped two hours was that they would give him help if he confessed. Then he apologized, bowed his head and cried aloud, 'I never thought of the consequences.' That is not an adequate confession for stabbing Hatchett. He was referring to the confrontation with Mr. Scott. I want Mr. Drummond arraigned soon, and bail set at a reasonable amount.”
“Wow, Alicia, you must have memorized what he said, great memory,” Hank said.
Alicia paused before admitting, “Thanks, I have above average memory retention. To continue, Drummond got charged with attempted murder before the court hearing this afternoon. Drummond , locked up for fifteen hours before Superior Court Judge Janet Kenton-Walker heard DeKnopple's motion to suppress the confession. Bail and release of his client got denied, with the court date scheduled for three months away. That's about all I have to share with you now.”
“I appreciate you keeping me in the loop. What about Stan?”
“Cordero left for South Lake Tahoe to serve Stan Klein with an arrest warrant and help by the Placerville County Sheriff's Department,” Alicia said. “He'll get interrogated in the morning. We also used a warrant to search Stan's room at his mother's home. A few pieces of his uniform clothing got taken for analysis by CSU.”
“That surprises me. If the vest hadn't been Stan’s, I never would have suspected him. I hope he has the answers you need.” Hank took a deep breath, “Considering the sequence of events leading to Hatchett's stabbing, I need to consider Stan's involvement. I'll email you a summary of my thoughts when I have it done; assuming you're interested.”
“I’m interested, but exhausted, and need to get home. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow when we have Stan here.” Alicia said in a low tone.
“Sounds good. I don't want to miss that. Let's hope you can solve this. Thanks for sharing. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” Alicia said.
THIRTY-SIX Thursday, December 12
Hank arrived at Alicia's office before nine carrying two fresh brewed lattes from the espresso cart next door. “Good morning, Alicia. I've got lattes for us,” Hank said, handing her a cup.
“Ah, perfect. You always do the right thing,” Alicia responded, taking a sip. “Yum, delicious.” Hank thought her gaze at him lasted longer than usual. The conversation moved on to business.
She filled Hank in on the morning's procedure. “We’ll see Stan as soon as he's in the interview room. But first I want to share what our team has learned about the suspects. Stan was a star wrestler in 150-pound class while in high school. He’s also a Judo black belt. Average GPA. Stan received an assault charge, a year and a half ago. He got into a fight over money owed to him. The case never went to trial, so he didn't serve time. From what we’ve learned, he has a hot temper.”
“That may explain how he overpowered Hatchett,” Hank said, frowning.
“The Sherrif's Department collected his clothes CSU found Hatchett's blood was on Stan's shoes and shirt cuffs.” Alicia checked her notes. “Stan's epithelial cells were also on Hatchett's collar and throat.”
Hank looked surprised. “That means he's our guy.”
“Yes. From the photos taken on the train, it shows that Stan left the bar at 12:01. Photos also show that Stan got back to the Silverado bar at 12:18, and Drummond was at the Silverado bar at 12:13. These times got verified by Chloe Martin, the Franciscan Wine rep who assisted at the bar.”
“That is more time away from the bar than Stan's claim. I find these times support the event timeline of the murder,” Hank said, looking at his notes. “I wonder how Stan can explain his involvement.”
“Let's see what he has to say. You can watch with Austin. We'll talk when it's finished,” Alicia said, smiling at Hank as she exited her office.
“Mr. Klein, our conversation is being recorded,” said Agent Bridge. “This is Agent Christopher Bridge of the Bureau of Investigation. Today's date is Thursday, December 12th. The time is at 10:32 A.M. In attendance is Agent Alicia Tomlinson. She and I will interview Stanley Klein. His last name Klein, K L E I N, the first name Stanley, S T A N L E Y. Date of birth May 23rd, 1993. Mr. Klein, you were advised of your rights when brought in for questioning, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. Why am I here?”
“Answer my questions,” Agent Bridge said with intensity. “Are you willing to talk to us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We believe you stabbed Mr. Hatchett.”
“I told you what happened,” Stan said facing Tomlinson.
“Yes, you told us you discovered the body, but we have evidence you lied,” Tomlinson said.
“What evidence?” Stan asked.
“Your vest had his blood on it. How did it get there?” Bridge asked.
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie. It won't help you, Stan,” Tomlinson said. Her tone was firm.
Stan closed his eyes, then looked between Bridge and Tomlinson. “Have you got evidence against me?” Stan asked.
“Hank Carson noticed your left hand closed at the murder scene, as if you had an injury. Hold out your hands.” Bridge ordered.
Stan jerked his head toward Bridge. Seconds passed without a response.
“Now, hold out your hands,” Bridge yelled.
Stan stretched out both hands in front of him, palms down.
“Turn them over,” said Tomlinson. She looked at each hand.
After three weeks the small nick had healed. “How did you get this little scar on your index finger?” Tomlinson asked.
“Ah... I scraped it on a... nail or something in the garage a week ago,” Stan stuttered.
“Let's say we accept that then why is there Hatchett's blood on your clothes and shoes?” Tomlinson asked.
Stan hunched forward, his elbows on the table, his head rested in his hands.
“Come on, Stan. Tell us what happened when you got to the wine cooler,” Tomlinson said in a soft, soothing vo
ice. “We know you had an encounter with Hatchett, so explain what happened when you got to the wine cooler.”
Shrugging, he talked. “I opened the cooler door and saw this big man lying on the floor with a knife stuck in him. I freaked and raced to the men's room and nearly puked. I splashed water on my face and went to the bar to tell Jackson what I found. You know this.”
“The problem is you were away from the bar for eighteen minutes. Why did this take you so long?” Tomlinson asked.
He looked around the room avoiding eye contact with the agents. “Stan,” Bridge shouted.
Stan looked at Bridge. “I guess I took longer than I thought.”
“There's evidence you cannot dispute. The victim's blood on your clothing, and your DNA on him. So tell us what happened,” Tomlinson said. “You and I both know you're not telling us the truth.”
Stan hung his head. When he looked up, his expression was one of defeat. “There is an explanation. It was self-defense.”
“Look at me, Stan,” Tomlinson said. “Tell us.”
He looked at Tomlinson. “I opened the cooler door and saw this guy leaving the Men's room. He forced his way past me to steal a bottle of wine. I yelled at him to leave. He turned and took a swing at me, I ducked and punched him in the throat knocking him back against the wall. Then he grabbed onto a shelf where a knife was and came at me. I reacted and grabbed his arm and twisted it. He pushed toward me. I pushed back. He slumped to the floor. I saw the blood on my hands and kicked the door to close it as I went to the men's room to wash. It was self-defense. I didn't mean to kill him. Honest.”
“Why didn't you tell us this the first time?” Tomlinson asked.
“I was scared. I knew who Hatchett was, and I hated him, but I didn't mean to kill him.”
“You think a jury will buy this? I doubt it. You’ve had many opportunities to explain the death of Mr. Hatchett and your participation in what happened, with a lot of time to make up a story. You can tell your side in court, Bridge said, shaking his head.
“I guess I need an attorney.” Sobbing, Stan laid his head on his arms resting on the table.
Putting handcuffs on Klein, Bridge escorted him to a holding cell. Alicia and Hank returned to her office. With the case solved, Alicia called the Attorney General's office to inform them.
“What do you think of Klein’s story, Hank? Care to share your opinion?” Alicia asked.
“I believe Stan's first explanation of opening the cooler door and Hatchett forcing his way past Stan to steal a bottle of wine. Hatchett grabbed the knife and thrust it toward Stan who, using his Judo training and wrestling skills twisted Hatchett's arm around, and the blade entered Hatchett’s solar plexus and into his heart. Though his hatred of Hatchett made him fight back as opposed to disarming him.”
“Stan admitted this. So how did the knife get stuck in Hatchett's chest?” Alicia asked.
“Later, Drummond walked past the cooler and noticed the door was ajar. He opened it and saw Hatchett on the floor. He stepped in for a closer look and his right pant leg brushed against Hatchett's left cuff, thus transferring the dog hairs. Then he headed to the bar,” Hank paused.
“That fits,” Alicia said.
“This is when Scott saw Drummond going into the vestibule. Scott walked toward the open door and peered in. Recognizing Hatchett, Scott leaned over the dead man, pulled out the knife and plunged it into the breastbone. Scott got blood on his hand. He took a napkin off a shelf to wipe his hands. I guess he hated Hatchett so much that he stuffed the napkin into Hatchett's open mouth. While this was going on, Stan snuck past the cooler and raced to the bar while Scott stood over the body. During the time it took Stan to tell Crow about the dead guy and find Charles and me, Scott left the cooler, pushed the door closed, using his foot or elbow since his prints weren't on the door, washed his hands in the men’s room, and then went to the rear car. All this transpired within twenty minutes. Surprising isn't it?”
“You nailed it, Hank. The prosecutors will decide how to charge Stan. We are near to closing the case. Thanks for your help.” As if thinking of what else to say, Alicia added, “I’m happy with the time we shared.”
“Me, too, Alicia. I understand your conflict and just wish… well, you know things turned out... ah, never mind. Okay if I say goodbye to the team?”
She nodded her approval.
Hank said his farewells to the SIT Agents. Bridge announced that Donovan would recover from his wound and was thinking of applying for early retirement.
Hank returned to Alicia's office. “Alicia, thanks for letting me watch the interrogation. Would you be interested in joining me for a farewell meal?”
THIRTY-SEVEN Thursday, December 12
Alicia looked out to the squad room. Pushing her hair away from her face, she nodded. “Hank, I should... Okay, sure. I owe you that much. Let’s meet for lunch at Paesano’s in an hour.”
Alicia arrived shortly after Hank. She slid into the booth next to him and gave him a quick hug. “I'm glad you asked to get together. I want you to know I've enjoyed meeting you and I’m grateful for the help you've provided this investigation. More important is the care, love, and fun we’ve shared. You know how I feel about my career, and your understanding means more to me than I can explain. I don't want this separation to be a forever goodbye since I enjoy your friendship.” She grabbed his hand, “Oh, shit! That sounds like a get lost phrase. That's not what I mean.”
“I get it.” Hank returned the squeeze. The waitress arrived to take their order. They selected a medium Margarita pizza and two glasses of Chianti wine.
“To be honest, I’m more enamored with you than any woman I've known. You are beautiful, smart and an excellent manager. I'm impressed. And I love the time we've shared. I want you to be happy. Should I be fortunate to share your love and free time in the future, I will be even happier? Your happiness is my utmost importance. I trust and accept your decision.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Hank, you are such a wonderful man. I wish I knew what I want.”
The wine arrived, and they toasted each other.
“Will you meet with Dean tonight?” Hank asked.
“No. We are to meet tomorrow night. He gets in late and will stay at a hotel.”
Hank sighed. “This is up to you. The proverbial ball is in your court.”
“I don't know what will happen. The only thing I’m sure of is I love my career.” As she sipped her wine, she gazed into his eyes, “I enjoyed our times together, but I have no motive for getting married, or... I don't know what I want, yet I love you in many ways, but I cannot make any commitment.”
“I trust that you will decide what is best for you, and I will live with that.”
A tear pooled in one of her gorgeous eyes. “I hope so,” Alicia said.
The pizza arrived. Each lost in their thoughts, they ate. Hank suggested she come to Tucson or meet him on one of his assignments, maybe San Diego.
“That's not an option. I can't take time off for several months.
They finished the meal, exited the restaurant, followed by a warm hug and a gentle, caring farewell kiss. “Goodbye, for now,” Hank said, wanting to hold her forever.
At the motorhome, Hank packed up for the trip south to Santa Barbara. After completing his chores, he relaxed with a double bourbon. Forlorn, he talked to Molly, “What was my attraction to Alicia? Was she the first woman to capture my admiration? Was it her professional demeanor or was it obvious passion? Were her energy and intellect the attraction or her beauty and charm? Was my sexual attraction to her overpowering my brain? I know I respect her. My life was going well, so why am I sad?” He took a long sip of his drink. Molly nudged his arm.
“Okay, girl. There's more to tell. Alicia and I will not be sharing time together for a while, if ever. I'll miss our lovemaking encounters, our common interests, and the way we enjoy police work. We connected. I hope it was more than a brief fling. Am I becoming depressed again sin
ce my emotions became divided between sorrow and elation? Am I psychotic? Do I need to return to therapy?”
THIRTY-EIGHT Friday, December 13
Hank drove with care while not happy leaving Alicia. He felt relieved that the Hatchett case was almost solved. The last month had been a roller coaster of emotion. Getting back into investigating a case had been invigorating. Maybe he’d be happier as an investigative journalist or a private detective.
With Dean back in the picture, Hank didn't know what would happen next. With luck and persistence, Hank considered spending time with Alicia. Dean was the unknown part. He felt the loneliness creep into his emotions.
After their last meal, she'd whispered in his ear, “Drive safe. Love ya.” Hank couldn’t stop thinking about her while driving south on Interstate-5.
Comfortable driving the motorhome, Molly only required two ‘potty’ stops. They stopped in Fresno so Hank could have lunch with a few of his fraternity brothers. At five in the afternoon, they stopped so Molly could have dinner. She demanded dinner at five sharp.
They arrived in Santa Barbara and entered the Cabrillo RV Resort before eight that evening.
The resort was off the coast highway. Hank checked in and parked in the reserved space. The resort had a plethora of palm trees, a club house, laundry and a small swimming pool, like the one in Sacramento, with no other amenities of any consequence offered.
Walking along the beach with Molly, he breathed in the salty air and heard the soothing slap of waves hitting the shore. Out past the pier to the north, he saw lights reflecting off the calm darkening ocean water. The setting was beautiful because of the lights that shone from the Pacific Coast Highway. He longed to share this romantic dreamscape moment with Alicia. The rising moon above the mountains behind him cast gray shadows on the sand. To the southeast, a milky radiance created a black and cream scene above the coastal mountains, and the horizon lost somewhere to the west. Having to experience this wondrous place alone, he became depressed. In spite of being tired from the long drive, it was not enough to cause his unhappiness. He missed Alicia.
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