by Eskens,Allen
“I have it loaded on there.” He pointed at the computer. I can have someone from tech burn you a disc when they get here.”
“I appreciate this very much, Dan,” I said.
He lined the curser up on a play button and clicked it. “Enjoy,” he said. Then he closed the door, leaving me alone.
I watched for several minutes as men and women in scrubs moved from room to room at a casual pace, chatting and typing on computers at the nurse’s station. Nothing remarkable. Then, about seven minutes into the footage, a man entered the frame wearing a suit jacket, dress pants, and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, the bill of the cap casting a shadow over his face. The man spoke to a nurse who pointed at Orton’s door. The man then walked into Orton’s room, not removing his cap until it was too late for a camera to catch his face. There was something in his gait, in his avocado-shaped midsection that looked familiar. He could be any one of a million men, but I believed him to be one particular man.
Every few seconds, his shadow would brush across the floor outside Orton’s door. The man must be pacing in the room. He was anxious. Then, eighteen minutes into the footage, the shadow appeared at the door again and stayed there for a few seconds. I waited.
He walked out of Orton’s room, his hand fiddling with the bill of his cap until he fixed it over his eyes again. I hit pause and walked it back frame by frame. Click. Click. Click. The man lifted his cap. Click. Click. The bill of the cap cleared his forehead enough to show his face. I zoomed in and smiled.
I got you, you bastard.
I borrowed Dan Clark’s laptop, and walked to my car to retrieve the footage of Orton pouring gas on his girlfriend. Then I returned to the Burn Unit and with the flash of my badge, I strolled into Dennis Orton’s room.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “I asked for an attorney. They said you can’t talk to me.”
“Relax, Dennis, I’m not here to question you.”
I opened the laptop and popped the Holiday-store CD into the tray. My refusal to leave apparently took Orton off guard because I could see a hint of desperation pull at the corners of his eyes. “I’m not talking to you,” he said. “I’m not saying a word.”
“Then might I suggest that you shut the hell up?” I said. “Let’s get something straight, Dennis. I don’t want you to talk. Understand? Anything you say will get kicked out of court anyway. I want you to sit there and be quiet. I’m just going to play you a little movie. You’ll like it.” I cued up the footage of Orton pulling into the gas station. Then I gently placed the laptop on his stomach, adjusting the screen so he could see it.
“You see, Dennis, I don’t want you to talk because I don’t need a confession. I have everything I need right here. That minivan there?” I pointed to the screen and checked to see that he was watching the video. “That’s Pippi Stafford’s minivan. And that’s you getting out of the driver’s side. I guess you needed some gas, huh.”
Orton’s eyes began to grow large and his bottom lip took on a slight quiver. We watched as he pumped gas into the gas tank of the minivan.
“Dennis,” I said in a soft voice. “You know what happens next. Pippi is dead in the back seat. You choked her to death. You crushed her larynx. Did you know that? It takes a bit of force to crush a larynx—the kind of force that comes with rage.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, soaking into the gauze bandages covering his face.
Interviewing technique 101: first make the suspect believe you know everything.
“And there you go,” I said sitting up and pointing at the screen again. “You’re pouring gasoline directly into the back seat. You’re dousing your dead girlfriend’s body. You probably thought it was a perfect plan, but you’re really bad at this. You’re a complete dunce when it comes to committing murder. You couldn’t have made it easier for us if you tried.”
Orton watched the video and saw himself return the nozzle to the pump, get into the driver’s seat and drive away.
“You see, Dennis, gasoline is a . . . well it’s a gas. A fume. When you got back into that vehicle, you were dousing yourself with gasoline too. You just didn’t know it. You were done-for the second you lit that lighter.”
Second, make the suspect believe you sympathize—that you are on his side.
“And that’s why I know you’re not an evil man, Dennis. You were just reacting. You didn’t plan all this, I can see that. I don’t know what happened between you and Pippi—and I don’t want to know. Things get out of hand sometimes. We all do stuff we don’t mean to do. I get that. All we can do is try and do the right thing going forward.”
He was in a full-blown cry now, the flush of tears filling his eyes and spilling over in rivulets, spit collecting in the corners of his lips and snot seeping from his nose.
“You want to see it again,” I asked.
“No. Please, don’t.”
“Like I said, Dennis, I’m not here to get a confession. I don’t need one. Hell, we have video.”
I pulled the digital recorder from my pocket, turned it on, and placed it on the edge of the bed. Then I lifted the laptop from his stomach and click on the Burn Unit footage.
“But Dennis, I do have a problem you might be able to help me with. Has nothing to do with Pippi, but I could really use your help.”
“Help with what?”
“Yesterday, you and I had a little chat about what happened to Pippi. That’s when you told me that cock-and-bull story about the gangs. Now, I don’t want to rehash all that. I don’t want you to say a word about that. Am I clear?”
He nodded.
“We’re agreed about that, Dennis?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this morning I came back to chat some more and all of a sudden you wanted a lawyer. And that’s just fine. You’re entitled to have one. But what concerns me is why you changed your mind. Who told you to get a lawyer?”
With that, Orton’s eyes sharpened and he stopped crying.
“You see, I know who it was.” That was true. “And I know what he said.” That was not true.
I put the laptop back onto Orton’s stomach, being careful not to irritate his injured skin. I showed him the man on the screen. “I just want to understand why Lieutenant Emil Briggs would come all the way over here to tell you to lawyer up.”
Orton looked at the face on the screen, the picture zoomed in to its clearest resolution. There was no mistaking Briggs. Orton’s eyes danced back and forth between the screen and my face.
“And Dennis, I need the truth about this. You already know you’re a terrible liar. So tell me—what is your connection to Briggs?”
Orton looked at the ceiling and didn’t answer.
“Dennis, I said a bit ago that I don’t think you’re an evil man. I meant it. But this . . . this thing with Briggs . . .”
“I know I’m going to prison,” he said, somewhat out of the blue. I let that statement hang in the air while Orton gathered his thoughts. “And when they take these bandages off of me, I’ll see the scars of what I did. My face will be the face of a murderer. Every day when I look in the mirror, I’ll see the reminder of what I did, what I am. I’ve had to live with guilt before, Detective, and I know that I’m no good at it. I can’t live with this.”
“What’s that got to do with Briggs?”
Orton closed his eyes, as if pulling up a memory before he spoke. Then in a low whisper, he said, “Emil Briggs and I met in college. We were in the same fraternity. I was a couple years ahead of him, so we didn’t hang out all that much. To be honest, I thought he was a bit of a douche.”
Orton smiled and I wanted to tell him how accurate his assessment had been, but I held my tongue.
“After I graduated, I didn’t give him much thought. Never figured on seeing him again. Then about six years ago, right after I got the job as the Deputy Chief of Staff to the Mayor, Briggs shows up at my door. Wants to grab a beer. I thought what the hell. We’d do a little catching up, tell some s
tories about the good ol’ days. I figured that would be that.”
“I take it, that wasn’t that?”
“No, it wasn’t. As the evening wore on, he got weirdly serious and asked me where I saw myself in ten years. I told him that I would like to be on the City Council down the road, and who knows, maybe even run for mayor one day. Then he tells me about how he wants to move up through the ranks and become the Chief of Police. This is a guy, still wearing a patrol uniform talking about becoming the Chief of Police. I think: well it’s okay to dream, right?”
“But this isn’t just some idle dream for Briggs, is it?”
“No. It’s not. He had this whole plan worked out. You see, getting elected to the city council is a shoo-in if you have the Chief of Police on your side. He said that if he was the Chief, he’d back me up. In turn, I needed to use my influence with the Mayor to move him up the ladder.”
“That’s quite ambitious,” I said. “Lots of variables. Lots of things could go wrong.”
“But it was working. Briggs may be a douche, but he knows how to maneuver. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Orton gave a half smile and turned to look at me. “He was particularly worried about you, Detective. He said that if you ever wanted to challenge him, he’d have trouble.”
“He worried for nothing,” I said.
“That was Briggs, though. Always thinking six moves ahead.”
“And this morning, what exactly did he say to you?”
“He told me not to talk to you until he figured out how bad it was. He wanted to help me. He told me to sit tight and not give you any more rope. You see, Briggs owed me a favor—a big one. He came here to pay off that debt.”
“What kind of debt are we talking about?”
Orton looked away from me again, as if ashamed by what he was about to tell me. “You see, five years ago he invited me to go to WE Fest with him—his dime.”
“The country music deal up in Detroit Lakes?”
“Yeah. I thought, like me, he was a fan of country music, but that wasn’t the case. He just wanted to get away from his wife for a weekend. Chase some tail, you know? I hated that about him—he used me to cover for his infidelity. He didn’t even ask. He just assumed I’d be okay with that. What a dick.”
Orton looked at me, maybe seeking a sign that I agreed with him, which I did, so I nodded.
“And then, on the second night of the festival, he meets this woman, better looking than what you’d expect from Emil. And of course, he gives her a fake name, calls himself Joe something-or-other. They spend the day making out and drinking, and then Emil tells me he and . . . I can’t even remember her name anymore. Anyway, they decided to drive out to the country to find some privacy. About half an hour later, I get a call. There’s been an accident. He needs me to come get him. So I go and I find him standing beside the wreck of a black car. It’s down an embankment far enough that you can’t see it from the road. The woman is unconscious—in pretty bad shape. The car’s upside and she’s lying on the ceiling.”
“Who was driving?”
Orton gives me a look. “Who do you think was driving? He lied at first, but when I started calling 911, he stopped me. He said he’d been behind the wheel when they crashed. He wanted to leave her there. If the cops came and saw him all banged up, they’d do a deeper investigation with DNA and stuff. They’d know he was the driver. But if they found her alone, they’d assume she was driving and close the books.”
“You went along with it?”
“Worse mistake of my life . . . well until . . . you know.”
“Briggs was drunk?”
“Drunk enough to make it a felony.”
“Criminal Vehicular Injury.”
“That’s what he said. Before I got there, he had adjusted the seat and steering wheel and mirrors to fit the woman’s height. He cleaned her makeup off the passenger airbag and . . . and Briggs even smeared her face against the driver’s airbag. I can’t believe I ever went along with it.”
I could see a tug of emotion pulling at the corners of Orton’s mouth.
I asked, “Did the woman die?”
“No. I drove him about a mile away, sent him into the woods to wait while I called the ambulance. She was in pretty bad shape, but nothing permanent. The cops figured I was just a Good Samaritan passing by. When the dust all settled, the woman couldn’t remember much about the accident. She got convicted of a DWI even though she swore that some guy named Joe was driving the car.”
“And Briggs gets off scot-free,” I said.
“He cleaned the scene up pretty good, except . . .”
“Except?”
“I’ve never really trusted Briggs. As you probably know, he can be a real snake.”
“You have something?”
“When he called me from the accident scene, I didn’t hear my phone over the music so I didn’t pull it out of my pocket fast enough. He left a message. It’s short, but it’s enough. He gives his location. It’s his voice. He admits to being in an accident.”
“And you still have that recording?”
“I saved it on my computer at home—just in case.”
“Mr. Orton, do I have your permission to go to your home and secure your hard drive?”
“Yeah. My computer is under my roll-top desk. You have my permission.”
“Dennis, if you don’t mind my asking, why are you telling me all this?”
“Truth is, Detective, I don’t like Emil Briggs. For five years, I’ve had to live with what we did. That poor woman didn’t deserve what she got. He shouldn’t have put me in that position. And it never seemed to bother him. Not in the least. I should have cut the cord a long time ago, but I thought I might need him if I ever ran for City Counsel. I let on that we were friends, but deep down, I wish I’d never met the man.”
“The fact that you have a conscience about all this is a good sign, Dennis. I’m not going to soft peddle it. You’re going to have a tough go from here on out.”
“I really did love Pippi,” he said. “I would have walked through fire for her.”
I looked at his burns and bandages and wondered if he was trying to be ironic.
I stopped the interview. I had gotten what I needed on Briggs, although I violated Orton’s Miranda rights to get it. Everything he said to me would be kept out of any trial, but this wasn’t about a trial. I wasn’t there to gather evidence against Orton. His guilt was a foregone conclusion. My sole purpose for talking to Dennis Orton was to get the ammunition I needed to protect Niki. What I was doing might have been against the rules, but in my view, it was a long way from being wrong.
I shut off the recorder and was packing up Dan Clark’s laptop when Orton asked, “You see me as a monster, don’t you?”
“That’s not my call, Dennis. I just put the cases together.”
“Doesn’t matter. I am a monster. I killed the woman I love. You ever love someone so much that the very thought of living without her makes you stop breathing? Have you ever loved someone that much, Detective?”
I didn’t answer.
“I had this great evening planned,” he said. “Flowers, dinner, a concert. Then out of the blue, she tells me that it’s over. She’s been seeing someone else behind my back. I was blind-sided, didn’t see it coming. She said she loved him—not me.”
Orton turned his head away from me and stared at the gray sky outside of his hospital window. And when he spoke again, his voice barely rose above a whisper, and I had to lean in to hear him.
“I was so angry. I . . . I grabbed her by the throat. I wanted to stop her from saying those things. I wanted her to stop loving this other man. I squeezed and squeezed. I just wanted to stop the pain. And when I stopped squeezing, Pippi was dead. I watched her life drain away. I wasn’t out of control. I could have stopped, but I didn’t. I killed her to satisfy my own selfish needs. I can’t live with that.”
“You can live with it, Dennis,” I said. “You’d be amazed what a man can live
with.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he whispered. “But why would anyone want to live with that on their conscience?”
Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Thanks to Dennis Orton, I now held a grenade to use in my approaching knife fight with Briggs—not forgetting, however, that a knife could kill no matter how many grenades I held. The time had come to get comfortable in that mud pit where Briggs spent his days. Like Orton said, Briggs always thought six moves ahead. I need to do the same.
Some years ago, Boady Sanden gave me a book, a small treatise on ancient Chinese battle tactics called The Art of War, by Sun Tzu. I never turn down a gift, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why Boady thought I’d have the least bit of interest in battle tactics used before the invention of gun powder. After I read it, I understood. The ideas in that book reached far beyond the battle fields. I summoned my memories of Sun Tzu as I drove back to City Hall.
Six moves ahead.
When I got back to Homicide, I went to the evidence room and pulled a computer hard drive from a closed case that hadn’t yet been sent to the Archive Room. I peeled the evidence stickers off of the drive and slipped it into the side pocket of my jacket. Then I went to my cubicle and plugged my digital recorder into my computer to copy my interview with Dennis Orton. You can never have enough backups of something that explosive. I was just finishing with the copy when Niki walked in the office.
“Any luck finding Kroll’s voice,” I asked.
“It took a while but . . .” She pulled a CD from her purse and twirled it in her fingers.
“He talks? You can hear him?”
“Loud and clear. He doesn’t say a lot, but it’s good quality.” She handed me the CD.
“How’d your meeting with Farrah McKinney go?” Niki asked.
I opened the CD tray and laid Niki’s CD in the hole. “Zoya was terrified that she would be killed by a man named Mikhail. Farrah found a recording of Zoya saying that she wants to go home to Lida. Mikhail might be from there. Who knows, maybe he’s Russian mafia or something.”
