Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

by Michael Norman

  Although we hadn’t had time to discuss how best I could assist, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that McConnell would focus the investigation on anyone who might have wanted Levi Vogue dead. In reality, that might turn out to be a lot of people in our prison or parole populations.

  Chapter Three

  A member of the medical examiner’s office was busy examining the body as McConnell and I moved in for a closer look. The faint odor of urine and feces was unmistakable. Vogue was lying on his back with his left leg twisted under his body. White chalk had been used to trace around the prone figure. His dull, vacant eyes were half-open and staring blankly into space. The expression on what was left of his face appeared to reflect surprise rather than terror or fear, I thought.

  The force of the blast had blown away most of his jaw and mouth. One of his black penny loafers had come off and was lying next to the body. He was wearing an expensive Brooks Brothers gray suit. The white dress shirt was soaked in blood and covered a gaping wound in the upper chest area. A burgundy colored paisley tie had been stuffed into the suit coat pocket. A brown leather wallet was lying next to the body.

  The medical examiner, Harold Voddel, approached McConnell. “You’ve got a fresh kill here, Lieutenant, that probably closely coincides with the calls from the neighbors who reported the incident. There are early signs of postmortem lividity in the lower back and legs. His body temperature is down three degrees. It’s too soon for even early signs of rigor mortis. I’d estimate his time of death at about two hours ago. I’ll be able to tell you more precisely after the autopsy.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Look at the size of these entry wounds.”

  “This work was done up close and personal,” replied McConnell. “After the medical examiner gets him cleaned up, we’ll have a better idea about the angle of the slugs and the approximate distance from the shooter. Although it’s hard to tell with all this blood, there doesn’t appear to be any discernable pellet pattern around either wound.”

  After donning latex gloves, we carefully examined Vogue’s wallet and discovered that it contained several credit cards, but no cash.

  McConnell turned to Voddell. “Bag each item of clothing separately and give us an inventory of all the items on his person. We’ll hang on to the wallet.”

  “Sure,” grumbled Voddell. Kate appeared to be lecturing the young assistant medical examiner, and his tone of voice suggested he resented it.

  “Call me later this morning and let us know when you’re going to perform the autopsy. I’ll either attend personally or send somebody.”

  “Okay,” replied Voddell.

  “Did you search his car?” I asked.

  “Not yet. We’ll do that after the crime scene crew finishes processing it for trace evidence.”

  “Shall we take a look inside the house?”

  “Yeah. Let’s do that now. We’ll have to navigate around the lab crew.”

  The Vogue home was a fashionable two-story Victorian affair built in the early 1900s.

  The upscale Avenues section of the city had long since been declared an historic district. Aside from the homes, the Vogues had probably been attracted to the neighborhood by the eclectic mix of residents that included many of Salt Lake City’s politicians and business leaders.

  We walked around behind the house and entered the same way the killer had. One of the glass panels near the door handle had been broken. All the perp had to do was reach in and unlock the French doors. He would have been inside in a matter of seconds.

  McConnell wasn’t exaggerating when she said the place had been trashed. Books had been randomly pulled from shelves and scattered around. Almost all the decorations in the family room had been smashed, including some crystal pieces, and several expensive Lladros. Shards of broken glass and crystal lay everywhere.

  “You know, Kate, this break-in has a real amateurish feel to it—not the kind of job a pro would do.”

  “I had the same thought. It looks like the kind of random property destruction we see when juveniles pull burglaries and destroy lots of property merely for the hell of it.”

  While McConnell headed upstairs to inspect the second floor, I wandered back into the study and sat down in front of the computer. I know just enough about computers to get myself into trouble. I didn’t see any CD-ROMs; so I went straight to the hard drive. Nothing much out of the ordinary. There were several letters, mostly sent to family members; Vogue’s resume, and a number of routine parole board e-mails sent by the victim to various members of his staff. When I hit the icon for Quicken I discovered that the Vogues tracked virtually all spending in that program. I would remind Kate to arrange for a police computer specialist to download all the family financial records for review.

  I joined Kate in the upstairs master bedroom. The upstairs looked much the same as the main level—trashed. Mrs. Vogue had an expensive collection of fine jewelry. Some of it was stored in jewelry cases inside drawers that had been opened, with the contents left untouched. Several pieces were displayed in plain sight, on jewelry trees, located on top of one of the bedroom dressers.

  “I don’t get it. Why would a thief walk out of here and leave all the expensive jewelry behind?” said Kate.

  “Maybe Vogue interrupted the burglary before the suspect had time to gather up the valuable stuff.”

  “Possible, I suppose, but my gut tells me that when this thing finally shakes out we’ll discover that the burglary was a ruse designed to cover a planned hit—and quite possibly a hit carried out by one of your ex-cons.”

  One of my ex-cons!

  “Getting a little ahead of yourself, don’t you think, Lieutenant?”

  “Maybe. So indulge me for a minute, Sam. Parole board members decide the length of the prison sentence for each inmate, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I would think that would make some inmates angry enough to want to do bodily harm to the parole board member who dished out the lengthy prison sentence.”

  “Possible, yes, but not very likely. Listen, Kate, parole board members occasionally receive verbal threats from inmates. That comes with the job. But we’ve never had an incident where a threat resulted in an attack on a board member. That’s never happened in Utah or anyplace else that I’m aware of. That said, there’s a first time for everything.”

  “Do I get the feeling you want to turn this investigation away from the offender population in the Department of Corrections?” Her tone betrayed just a tinge of suspicion.

  We’re certainly getting off on the right foot, I thought.

  How not to sound caustic, a weakness of mine? “I’m not trying to steer this investigation in any particular direction, Kate, but I think it’s important to consider all the possibilities. Of course I hope the perp isn’t someone under our jurisdiction. We’ll have a serious public relations problem on our hands if the killer ends up being somebody recently paroled from the prison.”

  “Okay. Hypothetically then, tell me how this thing might have gone down if the perp was somebody from the prison population?”

  As I spoke, I considered the possibility that the killer might well be someone directly or indirectly connected to our offender population. “If the killer was one of ours, it could be a former inmate acting solo, purely for revenge. Or it could be some nut case with big-time mental health problems. We certainly have enough of them floating around. It might even be gang related.”

  “The gang possibility intrigues me,” said Kate. “Tell me more.”

  “If a prison gang was involved, it could have gone down in a couple of different ways. It might have been a called hit from a gang leader who is either in or out of prison. Or, one or more renegade gang members could have taken it upon themselves to exact revenge on a member of the Board of Pardons because they don’t like the lengthy sentences currently being handed out to gang leaders. It might even be part of an initiation ritual in which a gang member wannabe was ordered to do the killin
g as a part of being ‘jumped in’ to a particular gang. Those would be the most likely scenarios.”

  “Thanks. That was enlightening,” said McConnell.

  I couldn’t tell if she really meant it, or if she was patronizing me. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt for now.

  We had accomplished about all we could at the crime scene, so we agreed to meet at police headquarters for an early-morning strategy session.

  Chapter Four

  It took only a few minutes to drive from Vogue’s home in the Avenues to police department headquarters in downtown Salt Lake City. It was just after four. I made a quick stop at an all-night convenience store where I purchased several cups of burned coffee and a bag of doughnuts. What’s a meeting among cops without coffee and doughnuts?

  Kate McConnell was meticulous and well organized. I saw that at the Vogue residence. This meeting was going to be about reviewing the case and assigning each of us specific leads to pursue. We met in a small conference room adjacent to a much larger open area that housed a number of detectives. At this time of the morning, the place was as quiet as a morgue on Christmas.

  As I entered the conference room, McConnell and the nattily dressed young detective I’d seen at the Vogue residence were busy clarifying the rules of an office betting pool on the NBA playoffs. She introduced him to me. His name was Vince Turner.

  “This is how it works,” said Turner. “Everybody puts two bucks in the pot. Then each person guesses the game’s final score—say I pick a score of 102 to 98. That means the winning number for me is 200 points. Whoever hits the number or comes closest wins.”

  Kate seemed to be thinking. “Sounds good, but how do we settle ties?”

  “Besides total points, you also have to pick the winner.”

  “What if there’s still a tie?”

  “Then nobody wins and the entire pot moves to the next game.”

  Turner looked up at me and smiled. “There’s still time, Sam. Care to join our office pool?”

  “Sure. Here’s my two bucks.”

  Turner had just transferred to Homicide from the robbery unit. He was built like one of those guys who doesn’t have a job, but instead spends most of his waking hours at a Gold’s Gym pumping iron and admiring himself in the mirrors. His handshake sent a jolt of pain up my arm. I’m sure I heard bones cracking in my right hand. I wasn’t sure whether this was a greeting or the beginning of an arm-wrestling contest I would surely lose.

  I downed a lukewarm cup of coffee and a semi-stale doughnut while McConnell quickly got us on track.

  “Let’s take a minute and talk about what we know and what we don’t know. We know the vic was killed execution style in the driveway of his home with some type of shotgun. So far, we have no witnesses, no murder weapon, no suspect, and no physical evidence. We know the killing had a professional look about it, yet the burglary of the home appeared very amateurish.

  Turner interrupted. “So, you’re questioning whether the burglary was real, or simply a cover for a well-planned act of premeditated murder?”

  “That’s right. And we don’t know whether the perp was working solo, or whether others were involved. We don’t know how the perp got to and from the crime scene. And, perhaps most important, we don’t whether the victim and the perp knew each other. If we’re going to clear this one, we need to focus on who might have wanted to see Levi Vogue dead and who stood to gain from his death.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wise to eliminate family members and friends before we look elsewhere?”asked Turner.

  “Absolutely,” replied Kate. “Things like life insurance policies, trusts, and inheritances, as well as the stability of the marriage in general. And what about his relationship with his sons? We can’t overlook the possibility of a Menendez brothers scenario.”

  As much as I wanted to lay this whole ugly episode on the back of a disgruntled family member or friend, or perhaps a burglary gone awry, all of my cop instincts told me we wouldn’t find an answer to this puzzle by following either of those trails. I listened quietly as McConnell and Turner discussed the relative merits of how to pursue the issue of possible involvement by family or friends. Kate then asked for my input.

  “My recommendation is that you pursue three directions simultaneously. The first would be family member involvement. I’d run in-depth background investigations on all immediate family members as well as any friends or acquaintances.

  “I’d also suggest that somebody go to work with your burglary detectives, as well as those at the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office, and try to identify suspects who commit burglaries using a similar M.O. My sense is that this avenue is least likely to produce our killer.

  “Finally, I’d focus my attention on the possibility that Vogue was killed as the result of his work on the Board of Pardons. That would entail following any investigative leads related to our prison and parole populations. We’d probably need to go back over every parole case Vogue handled since his appointment more than five years ago, looking for any inmate who might have threatened him. In fact, we’d want to include any prisoner who ever threatened any of the board members.”

  “That’s a comprehensive approach and I like it,” said Kate. “Let’s give equal attention to the family/friends angle and the possibility that the murder was job related. How about if Vince and I pursue the burglary and family possibilities while you follow the employment trail.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  McConnell and Turner were paged by the lab technicians at the Vogue residence. They left me in the conference room with nothing better to do than snoop through Vogue’s wallet, which Kate had left on the conference room table. I put on the latex gloves and removed the wallet from its plastic evidence bag. It contained the usual Social Security card, Utah driver’s license, a plethora of charge cards, and several pictures of Margaret Vogue and their two sons. Looking into one of those little nooks and crannies, where normally a person wouldn’t place anything, I discovered a small yellow Post-it note with a faded telephone number penciled in. The phone number read 555-5484. I quickly jotted the number down and placed the Post-it back where I found it.

  Turner returned to the conference room and announced our first break in the case. “The crime lab team just discovered two fresh cigarette butts lying near the side of Vogue’s garage. Given where the killing took place, that would have been the logical place to wait.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “If we get lucky, those butts might yield a latent print or maybe even a DNA sample.”

  “Sam,” said Turner sheepishly, “I’m embarrassed to ask you this, but I’ve never worked a case with anyone from the Department of Corrections before, and I’ve never heard of the Special Investigations Branch. Could you fill me in on what it is you guys do?”

  “Sure,” I replied. “No need to feel embarrassed. In the SIB, we make it a practice to keep our heads down and maintain a low profile. We assist the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office in the investigation of crimes committed at the state prison either by inmates or employees of the department. We also assist federal and local law enforcement agencies with fugitive apprehension, drug trafficking at the prison, as well as solving crimes committed in the community when the offender is on probation or parole. And sometimes we conduct internal investigations involving prison staff accused of violating department policy. We used to be responsible for handling pre-employment investigations, but last year we managed to dump that job on somebody else.”

  Moments later, Kate returned, and our planning session broke up. I was anxious to get busy. McConnell had informed us that Margaret Vogue had been notified of the murder, and was making arrangements for a prompt return to Salt Lake City. Right or wrong, I felt a sense of personal responsibility for the murder. Had the SIB failed to do its job properly? Could this murder have been prevented with better intelligence information? It was a moot point now, but I promised myself that this case would not go unsolved.

&nb
sp; ***

  It was a little past six when I left police headquarters. I called home. I had agreed to take Sara to school on my way to work this morning. I wondered if she would remember my promise. On the third ring, a sleepy voice near and dear to me answered, “Kincaid residence, Sara speaking.”

  “Hi, Pumpkin! How are you doing this morning? You’re starting to sound so grown up when you answer the telephone.”

  “I know,” she wearily replied. “Daddy, did you forget that you were supposed to take me to school today?”

  “No, honey, I sure didn’t. But something came up at work, and daddy had to leave in the middle of the night while you were still sleeping. But guess what? I’m on my way home right now to pick you up. How does that sound?”

  “Yea, daddy. Can we stop at Daybreak Donuts on the way to school for some hot chocolate and a doughnut?”

  “Sure. I think we can manage that. You hurry and get cleaned up, and I’ll pick you up in about thirty minutes. And Sara, no arguing with Aunt June about what you wear to school today. You can’t wear the pink dress with the white tights again this week. They’re dirty, and besides, if you wear them again, people at school might think it’s the only outfit you own. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, a note of disappointment in her voice.

  “See you in a few minutes.”

  I knew the run home would be inconvenient. But I’ve also learned how important it is to Sara for me to keep my promises. It has been especially hard for her since the divorce.

  The divorce was amicable as divorces go, but Sara and I both attended family counseling for several months after the split. Aside from the usual problems common to most marriages, how do you tell an eight-year-old that her mom had grown tired of the full-time mother role and simply wanted to get out of Utah and back to her career? Nicole was a flight attendant when we met and has returned to the airline. She’s based in Atlanta, which puts her back in her Georgia roots, close to her parents, but a long way from Sara. She travels to Salt Lake City as often as her flight schedule allows. Because of Nicole’s frequent travel, we decided on joint custody with me as the custodial parent.