Dead Center ac-5

by David Rosenfelt

  She has no idea what to make of this, but she’s frightened by it anyway. “I’ll have to speak to Mr. Drummond.”

  I smile agreeably. “No problem. Just let me know when the information is ready, and I’ll come pick it up.”

  Marcus and I leave, and I call Sam Willis on my cell phone. He seems happy to hear from me, and even more so when I tell him i need his help. Sam is a computer genius and can hack his way into any computer worth hacking into. It’s not always legal, but very often necessary.

  Sam has helped me out with computer investigations in the past, and he enjoys doing so. He sees himself as Kojak with a keyboard. I always pay him for his efforts, but he would most definitely do it for nothing.

  Sam is also a master at song-talking, and since he does it at every possible opportunity, proudly describing my “Town Without Pity” conversation with Laurie would only set him off, so I don’t. Instead I tell him what I need, which is to hack into both Center City and Wisconsin state computers to get exactly the same information I just requested of the town clerk.

  “No problem,” he says. “When do you need it?”

  “Yesterday morning,” I say. “But if that’s a problem, I’ll take it last night.”

  “I’m on the case,” he says.

  “Can you do it without them letting you know you’ve been in their computers?”

  “Duhhhh,” he says, as a way of letting me know that he can certainly do that, and it was stupid of me to ask.

  “Gotcha,” I say. “Call me when you’ve made some progress, Sam…”

  “Hey, wait a minute, don’t get off yet. I haven’t talked to you in weeks.”a

  He’s right; I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to even contact any of my friends. “Sorry,” I say, “what’s doing?”

  “Things here are fine,” he says. “How are things in Wisconsin? Nice women?”

  “Nice women?” I repeat, to make sure I heard correctly. “Yes, very nice. Very nice women.”

  “That’s what I figured,” he says. “I mean, East Coast girls are hip, I really dig those styles they wear. And the southern girls with the way they talk, they knock me out when I’m down there.”

  “Bye, Sam,” I say, cutting him off before he can tell me that the Midwest farmers’ daughters will really make me feel all right. He is an incorrigible song-talker.

  Marcus and I no sooner arrive back at the house than we receive a faxed letter from Stephen Drummond, refusing our request for the information asked of the town clerk. He cites the town citizens’ right to confidentiality, which means he must think that I, having not gone to Harvard, am a legal idiot.

  I turn to Marcus. “Do I look like a legal idiot to you?”

  “Unhh,” says Marcus.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  • • • • •

  CALVIN HAS ALREADY prepared the motion, called a writ of mandamus, and we file it with the court less than an hour after receiving the refusal by Stephen Drummond to provide the documents. Included in the motion is a claim that the documents are crucial to our preparation of an adequate defense for Jeremy, and we have an expectation that this claim will prompt Judge Morrison to act quickly.

  He acts even more quickly than we expected and notifies the parties that he will hear arguments on Monday morning. That gives me an entire weekend to both prepare for the hearing and further familiarize myself with every aspect of the overall case. I’m also going to watch a significant amount of college and pro football. Laurie is working both days, so it will be a guys’ weekend, and I’ll be the only guy participating in it.

  I call my bookmaker back in New Jersey to bet on the college football games. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him in more than a month. “Where the hell have you been?” he asks.

  I can tell how concerned he is about my well-being, and it’s all I can do to hold back the tears. I place a bet against Wisconsin, sort of my way of getting back at the state for my confinement here. They’re playing Michigan State, but I would have bet against them if they were playing the Bonfire Girls.

  Of course, Wisconsin rolls up four hundred yards on the ground and wins 38-7, leaving me thoroughly depressed. The only thing worse that could happen takes place a few minutes after the game, when Calvin comes over and tells me that he’s taking me to a party. He’s dressed ridiculously in gold pants and a green shirt; a sense of fashion is clearly not a requirement for admission to the party.

  “A party? Are you insane?” I ask.

  “Come on, you’ve got to get in good with the jury pool.”

  He’s right, of course. It’s important that I reduce my posture as an outsider and become more accepted by this community before the trial. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  The party is at the home of Shelby and Tom Lassiter, and Calvin is going because Tom is a former client. Calvin informs me that it is something called hot-dish night, a traditional gathering to which everyone brings a hot dish, usually a casserole. The fact that we are bringing no such thing doesn’t seem to faze Calvin, so I’m fine with it as well.

  When we enter, I see that almost everyone in the house is wearing a green and gold outfit as flamboyantly ugly as Calvin’s. It looks like a leprechaun convention, but it turns out that it is in honor of tomorrow’s Green Bay Packers game; local residents like to dress in the team colors. As best as I can tell, no one is wearing shoulder pads or a helmet.

  Three women stand together off to the side, and they seem to be staring at us. I point that out to Calvin, who says, “Those are my three ex-wives. They call themselves the merry widows.”

  “But you’re not dead,” I say.

  He nods. “They live in hope.”

  Shelby Lassiter comes over to inquire as to whether we want a drink, though she doesn’t seem interested in what type of drink we might want. Moments later we are holding glasses of peppermint schnapps, which doesn’t taste half bad. I try to picture Vince and Pete back at Charlie’s drinking peppermint schnapps; they would sooner sip Dra?248-175?no on the rocks.

  The house we’re in is not particularly large, but people keep streaming in. Three couples come in together, probably in their late thirties, and look around the room, waving and nodding hello. I turn my attention away from them, but look back a couple of minutes later when I hear loud and apparently angry talking. I can’t make out most of what they are saying, but the word “murderer” comes through loud and clear.

  The rest of the people in the room look as if they are watching a tennis match, glancing first at the commotion, than at Calvin and me, and back and forth, back and forth. It’s making me uncomfortable, but Calvin seems unconcerned, even amused.

  “I’ve got a feeling there are detractors in our midst,” I say to Calvin.

  He nods. “Story of my life.” Then, “The tall guy that’s the most upset is Donnie Kramer. He’s got twin daughters at the university.”

  I understand immediately. “And we’re the defenders of a guy who slashed his daughters’ classmates to death.”

  He laughs. “Well, when you put it that way, I’m not that crazy about us either.”

  I find myself torn between wanting to leave because of the problems our presence is creating, and wanting to leave because the party is so insufferably boring. “I think we should go,” I say.

  “Leaving now in the face of this intolerance would violate every principle I hold dear,” he says.

  “There’s a late college game on ESPN,” I say. “And I’ve got a refrigerator full of beer.”

  “I’ll get the coats,” he says.

  Thus begins twenty-four hours of almost nonstop football watching and beer drinking. Calvin is the perfect couch potato companion; I even feel comfortable allowing him to handle the remote control. Higher praise I cannot bestow on a fellow human.

  But all good things must come to an end, and on Monday morning we find ourselves in the courtroom, prepared to argue our motion to get Center City to turn over the information we have
requested. At the opposing counsel’s table is not Lester, but Stephen Drummond.

  Drummond is smarter and taller than Lester, but Lester has a better case. As a smart lawyer, Drummond must know that, but he no doubt feels that he has to go through the motions for his client. His client is Center City, and that client wants to maintain its privacy.

  Morrison asks for oral arguments, and since it is our motion, I go first. For the record I list the documents we are requesting and then cite the Wisconsin Development of Public Access law. It is the state version of the Freedom of Information Act, and the writ we have filed basically insists that the government officials in Center City abide by it.

  While there is virtually no question that we will prevail as a matter of law, my greater concern is to get the documents immediately. “Your Honor,” I say, “Center City is basically a closed society. I have only been able to secure one interview with anyone in the town, and that was a supervised session. Yet the victims were from Center City, and it is crucial that I be able to examine various aspects of their life there. That task, difficult as it is, is made infinitely harder by our not even knowing who it is we’re not reaching. Yet the unlawful withholding of these documents does just that.”

  Judge Morrison asks Drummond to respond, and he stands to do so. “Your Honor, Mr. Carpenter refers to our community as a closed society. Yet I drove here from there this morning, and I did not have to pass through any gates or walls or fences to do so. I am confident the same will be true on my return.

  “I would submit to you that our society is not closed. It is private, and its people cherish that privacy. That has never been more true than now, when two of our children have been brutally taken from us. Now, when media people that had heretofore never heard of us shove microphones in our faces and ask us to proclaim our grief and anger.

  “Mr. Carpenter has a job to do, a job we respect, but our citizens have no obligation to help him do it. We ask that you preserve our privacy by denying his request.”

  It’s an impressive speech, but one that runs head-on into the law, which is firmly in our corner. Judge Morrison is thoroughly aware of this and rules in our favor.

  The crucial moment for us comes when Drummond asks the judge for injunctive relief, which would consist of his delaying implementation of his order so as to give Center City time to appeal to a higher court. This would effectively negate our victory, since an appeals court would not act nearly as quickly.

  The judge turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter?”

  “We are absolutely opposed to that, Your Honor, and we believe the law could not be clearer on this. In the interests of full disclosure, I should point out that if there is a delay in our receiving these documents, we will be seeking a continuance in the Davidson case of the same length as the delay.”

  Game, set, and match. There is no way that Morrison wants the Davidson trial delayed, and he turns Drummond down flat. He instructs Drummond to give the documents to the court clerk within seventy-two hours. The clerk will then examine them to make sure they comply with the order. Assuming they do, he’ll turn them over to us.

  Drummond does not seem crushed by the news, and after Morrison adjourns the session he comes over to me and shakes my hand. “Nicely done, Mr. Carpenter, but ultimately futile.”

  “How so?”

  “We are what we are, and no court can change that. So now you will know our names, just as we know yours. And you will know where we live, just as we know where you live.”

  That sounds vaguely like a threat, but I’m not at all sure. “Is that a threat?” I ask.

  He laughs. “A threat? Certainly not.” With that he gathers his papers and leaves.

  Calvin has overheard the exchange and comes over to me. “The scumbag was threatening you. You gotta tell the judge.”

  “There’s nothing he can do. It wasn’t that overt.”

  Calvin is incredulous. “ ‘We know where you live’ isn’t overt enough for you? He sounded like Michael Corleone.”

  I decide not to tell the judge, since there’s essentially nothing he can do. He might help in providing police protection, but if I want that, I can go straight to Laurie. My going to the judge might also get back to Drummond, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he frightened me, even a little. Which he did.

  Besides, I have Marcus, and I plan to ask him to watch over me even more closely from now on.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon visiting Jeremy at the jail and then taking Tara for a walk. I briefly wonder if I’m being unfair to Tara by keeping her in Wisconsin so long. Maybe she misses home, the sights and smells, and the neighborhood dogs. Maybe I’m being selfish assuming she’s happy just to be where I am. I make a mental note to speak to her about it.

  When I get home, I call Laurie at her office and ask if she’d like to have dinner tonight. She jumps at the opportunity but balks slightly when I suggest we go out to a restaurant. She’s still feeling uncomfortable with exhibiting our relationship publicly, so we compromise and decide on a restaurant in Warren, about twenty-five minutes away, out past Center City.

  During the ride I bring her up-to-date on our progress, or lack of it. I have no qualms about doing so; she can be trusted implicitly. Besides, we basically have the same interest: If there’s a bad guy other than Jeremy, we want to catch him.

  The restaurant is called the Barn and is just that, a fairly large, spacious barn converted into a cozy restaurant, with six wood-burning fireplaces positioned throughout and sawdust on the floor. I like it as soon as I walk in, and that feeling increases when I see the TV monitors along the walls showing basketball games. Add the jukebox playing U2 in the background, and it’s a fair bet that I’ve found my restaurant of choice in Wisconsin.

  Laurie is staring at me as we walk in, watching my reaction. When I notice her doing so, she smiles. “Not bad, huh?”

  There’s no way I’m going to admit that Wisconsin has anything worthwhile about it, so I say, “It’s not Charlie’s; I can tell you that.”

  “That’s my open-minded Andy. Wait until you taste the hamburgers and fries.”

  The waitress takes our drink orders and within minutes comes back with my Bloody Mary. It’s got three olives and a celery stick, not too spicy, exactly the way I like it.

  I order a burger and fries, and as is my policy, I ask the waitress to make sure that the fries are not only well-done, but so burned that they would have to be identified through dental records. I do this because many places have an irrational resistance to serving their fries extra crispy, and it’s necessary to emphasize it in this way to overcome that resistance. It doesn’t always work.

  It does this time. The fries are perfect, the burger is thick and juicy, the pickles crisp and delicious. Laurie continues to watch my reaction, loving every minute of it. “Admit it, Andy, this place is perfect.”

  “Perfect? You must be kidding. It’s filthy… there’s sawdust all over the floor.”

  But it really is perfect, and being here with Laurie makes it even more so. I can tell that she feels the same way, because we hardly talk through the entire meal. It’s a gift we’ve always had together, the ability to go long periods without saying a word yet remaining totally connected.

  After dinner we drive back to my house, take Tara for a quick walk, then settle down with a glass of wine and a DVD of Ray. I didn’t see it when it came out, despite the fact that I am a huge Ray Charles fan. Jamie Foxx’s performance blows me away, as it did everyone else.

  The movie ends, and Laurie takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom. It’s the perfect end to a perfect evening, and in the moments after we make love and before she falls asleep, Laurie says, “Andy, is there any chance this trial can last forever?”

  “I’ll just keep asking for continuances,” I say. “And even if we win, I’ll ask for a penalty phase, just for fun, to see what would have happened.”

  She smiles groggily. “Good boy.”

  •
• • • •

  THE PHONE WAKES us just before midnight. I answer it, and an official-sounding voice I don’t recognize asks for “Acting Chief Collins.” That’s quite a coincidence, since at this very moment I’m sleeping with an Acting Chief Collins. It’s a requirement for Acting Chief Collins and all other officers that they leave word as to where they can be reached at all times. It must be somewhat uncomfortable for her to have to leave my number, but she has done so.

  I hand the phone to Laurie, whose voice sounds wide awake and does not betray the fact that she has been sleeping. “Collins here.”

  She listens for a few moments, then says, “I’ll be right there.” She hangs up and immediately starts to get dressed. I like watching her get dressed; it’s my second favorite thing to watch, with her getting undressed maintaining a comfortable lead in first place.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Some kind of traffic accident. Car on Highway 11 went off the road.”

  “And the chief has to go out to handle a traffic accident?”

  She shrugs. “It’s a small town, Andy. And it must be a bad accident.”

  Laurie’s out of the house within ten minutes, and I’m back asleep within eleven. As I doze off, I realize that I might not be a good chief of police. If I got woken up by a call informing me of a traffic accident, I would tell them to call AAA and I’d go back to sleep.

  The clock says that I’ve been asleep for two hours when I hear Laurie come back into the house. She hadn’t said she was coming back, and I’m pleased that she chose to. I slide over to give her room to get into bed when I realize the person entering the house could be Marcus. I slide back, just in case.

  I turn on the light and am relieved to see that it is Laurie entering the bedroom. That relief is short-lived when I see her face; I know this woman well, and I know that something is wrong. Horribly wrong.

  “Andy, I’ve got something to tell you,” she says.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”