Ernie shook his head. It was also likely that in a matter of seconds O’Hara would have realized from her actions there was a possibility that Garrett and St. Claire were still involved, and, if so, then she wouldn’t back him up. If what O’Hara had really done was kill her lover, then O’Hara was going to end up on the short end. All Garrett had said so far was that she hadn’t seen the shooter. What a sick, twisted mess this is, Ernie thought.
The sound of his name startled Ernie, but not nearly as much as the face of the man who called out to him from behind the yellow crime scene tape. Tom McGuiness stood there wearing a dark windbreaker. His hair looked like he had combed it in a rush with his fingers. Aside from his surprise, the second thought that went through Ernie’s mind was that the defense lawyer didn’t look anything at all like he looked in the courtroom. He looked like a regular guy.
What the hell is he doing here? McGuiness was motioning for him to come over. What lawyer bullshit, Ernie thought as he made his way to McGuiness. Ernie thought with a flicker of satisfaction, Well, he won’t be collecting any more fees from St. Claire.
Ernie followed the lawyer to an area away from the circle of milling gawkers and crowd-control cops. “What are you doing here, McGuiness? Are you guys just like vultures and no matter where you are, you can just tell when something goes down that you can feed on?”
The defense attorney’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. Ernie could see that he had hit a nerve and that it stung. He regretted his comment. “I’m sorry. Long night. Look, what can I do for you?”
“Is that St. Claire over there?” McGuiness looked over toward the parking lot. “Did somebody shoot him?”
“That’s right. How’d you know?”
“Let’s just say I got a call. It doesn’t matter. Do you know who the shooter is?”
“If I did, I couldn’t tell you. Do you have something you want to tell me?”
“Look, Ernie, I know you guys think all defense lawyers are assholes.” McGuiness sighed heavily. “Just tell me. Did she shoot him? Did Garrett shoot St. Claire?”
What difference did it make? Ernie thought silently for a few seconds. “It doesn’t look like it. We’ll know more later. They’re still processing the scene. But I guess if anybody had a right to shoot the son of a bitch, she did.”
McGuiness replied carefully. “Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look, Ernie, I do a job. You do a job. Give me credit that I don’t always like everything I do either. Did you check her purse?”
“For what?”
“For a gun.”
“There was no gun in her purse and they’ve swabbed her hands but I’m guessing that no gunshot residue is going to show.” Ernie’s eyes fixed on McGuiness. “Don’t tell me you’re here to see if you can pick up a client?”
“Take a breath, will you?” McGuiness continued. “Just listen to me. I have to leave before the press sees me. I don’t want any connection to me. Just listen. She’s not being honest with you. And its time you woke up to that. She’s never been honest with you or Jamison.”
Ernie stepped back and started to turn away from McGuiness. He’d heard enough of that crap during the trial. McGuiness grabbed his arm. “Listen for a damn minute. I’m saying that St. Claire’s dead now, but even dead men still have the attorney-client privilege. So what I say to you stays with us. You can’t use it and I’ll deny it. Understood?
“What I’m trying to tell you is that there’s something here nobody’s seeing. I don’t know if she shot him or not, but I’m saying that I wouldn’t be surprised if she expected him to be here. You think about that. I can’t say a lot and I have to get out of here. But, Ernie, I’m not the asshole you think I am. Don’t think I didn’t know what St. Claire was. St. Claire scared me more than any client I’ve ever had.”
McGuiness walked a short distance away before turning his head. “Ernie? One more thing. Tell Jamison he needs to find out who Bobby Allison is. Got that? Tell him the one from the trial.” He turned his back on Ernie and walked away from the crowd.
Ernie stood in the shadows thinking, Bobby Allison? He looked over at the ambulance and the two figures outlined by the lights from the inside of the ambulance. Garrett was leaning against Jamison. Screw McGuiness. Now wasn’t the time to talk to Matt. He looked around for Pooch. One of the forensic technicians pointed and told him Puccinelli was looking at the victim’s car.
Ernie could see flashlights moving around a black sedan. He walked over. Pooch was fingering keys that had been pulled from St. Claire’s pocket.
“This is his car. It fits the keys. We’ll take the car downtown. I want to be there when we look through it.”
Ernie thought again about McGuiness. He pointed in the direction of Garrett’s car. “Maybe you should impound her car also.”
Pooch’s face was hard to read in the dark. There was a pause before he replied, “If you think so.”
It wasn’t lost on Ernie that Pooch didn’t ask why.
Chapter 41
It had been a long night for Puccinelli. After the coroner moved St. Claire’s body, he had left the crime scene to the forensic people. There were reports to write and he had to put the situation together in his head. He hadn’t made much progress. Now his third cup of coffee was cold. He rubbed his eyes. He was way too old not to feel the effects of all-night investigations, and he still had St. Claire’s autopsy ahead of him later that morning. Jamison and Ernie were going to meet him there.
There was a partial print on one casing that had been retrieved from the scene, but prints hadn’t been run yet. They were waiting for his directions. Pooch put the papers down and thought, That son of a bitch deserved what he got. Still, that didn’t mean somebody could just shoot him. His logical focus was still on Garrett’s father, and if the father did it, Puccinelli didn’t blame him. He would want to do the same thing. But after the father arrived at the crime scene, Puccinelli observed Mike Garrett’s stunned reaction for himself and decided to put off talking to him until later in the day.
But there were other things scratching at his cop instincts, things that were equally troubling, things he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet. Puccinelli had fired at enough targets in his life, both paper and human, that he knew whoever fired those shots was someone who knew how to shoot, someone who had likely fired at a lot of targets himself, both paper and human. The other thing that was nagging at his cop instincts was that the shooter’s hand had remained steady when he fired. A handgun wasn’t a rifle; if it was pointed a hair off, or if the gun hand trembled a bit, or if the shooter was too far away from the target, the more likely the shooter was to miss. For most people, Mike Garrett probably among them, handguns were really only effective close in. Shots fired from more than ten or fifteen feet, even for an experienced shooter, often missed their target in actual shooting situations. Human beings weren’t paper targets; they moved.
Only the most experienced shooter could hold a handgun steady enough in a shooting to place two rounds like that. Pooch’s instinctive reaction told him that it was someone with the trained reaction of a person who could fire a gun with focused intensity, a man who could pull the trigger with the deliberateness that disappeared from most men under stress.
Pooch experienced a sickening stab of denial. He didn’t want to know who pulled this trigger because he wouldn’t like the answer. There were only a few people he knew who could fire a Beretta or a Walther PPK with that kind of accuracy and they were all cops, and only one of those cops had any purpose being out there when St. Claire got shot.
As far as Puccinelli was concerned, St. Claire deserved what he got but he knew there was a big difference between what St. Claire deserved and what the law would permit. Whoever did this wasn’t going to be able to get away with arguing it was justified. The bastard deserving what he got wasn’t legal justification. The fact that the shooter left the scene also told Puccinelli that whoever k
illed St. Claire knew that what they had done wasn’t going to be excusable in the eyes of the law. In the eyes of gut justice maybe, but not in the eyes of the law. This had all the appearances of being what some cops referred to as .44-caliber due process—but in this case it was a .380.
Somebody would end up being St. Claire’s last victim, either for making the mistake of firing too soon or for taking justice into his own hands. Either way it wasn’t something Puccinelli could ignore, no matter how much he might agree with the result.
He picked up a routing memo for the forensic people, made a quick note, and walked it over to the detective division secretary. “Please give this to the lab.” He had asked them to leave fingerprinting the casings alone for the time being. At first he wasn’t sure why he did that. Maybe he didn’t really want to know. He realized there was no “maybe” involved; part of him dreaded getting an answer.
He headed over to St. Claire’s autopsy. Later he would have to talk again to Beth Garrett to get a more detailed statement. There were questions he wanted to ask, but he hadn’t wanted to ask in front of Jamison. They could wait. Maybe it was better to wait. It was evident that Jamison had lost his objectivity. For now he was expected at the coroner’s office. Usually Puccinelli hated autopsies but he had no qualms about seeing St. Claire on a steel slab.
At nine thirty in the morning Ernie picked Jamison up at his apartment for the trip down to the morgue. He still hadn’t said anything to Jamison about Garrett’s reaction at the crime scene, her rocking and cradling of St. Claire’s dying body. He’d been waiting for a good time, but from Jamison’s grim expression it still didn’t seem like that might be now either.
Besides, at the moment Ernie’s focus was on O’Hara. Personally at this point he really didn’t give a damn about Elizabeth Garrett, and what he had heard the night before hadn’t improved his opinion of her. He kept his thoughts to himself because he wasn’t sure where Jamison’s head was at.
Neither man said a lot as they drove to the morgue. Aside from the fatigue of being up most of the night, they were both absorbed in their own thoughts. After several minutes of silence, Jamison asked Ernie if he heard from O’Hara. Jamison said he had been calling but still hadn’t gotten an answer.
The only thing that surprised Ernie was how long it had taken Jamison to bring up O’Hara. Concealing his apprehension, Ernie told him he had finally gotten through and that O’Hara just said he was catching up on “a personal relationship.” Ernie regretted that he wasn’t being candid and rationalized it as being in O’Hara’s best interests. What Jamison didn’t know couldn’t hurt him—or O’Hara.
Jamison’s eyes narrowed slightly at Ernie’s explanation, but he kept to himself any questions he might have had about why O’Hara would miss this, the autopsy of the man who for almost two months had been their unrelenting focus, a man everyone knew O’Hara detested.
Ernie’s instincts told him that Jamison’s not asking more about his conversation with O’Hara was a deliberate decision. Both Ernie and Jamison could understand that everybody needed a little personal time, but everybody wasn’t O’Hara—absence didn’t fit with O’Hara. Then there was the secondary flash of cop cynicism. Maybe the kid knew more about this case than Ernie thought. Either way, he wasn’t going to push to find out what Jamison was really thinking. Once he opened that subject there would be no turning back for Jamison. He was relieved that Jamison remained silent.
During the drive Ernie did mention his encounter with McGuiness. Jamison seemed surprised by the unexpected appearance of the defense attorney’s seeking an off-the-record conversation. But, after all, it was his client—now former client—lying on the ground.
Aware that he was about to bring up a sensitive issue, Ernie hesitated before saying, “Amigo, McGuiness said some things that I didn’t understand. He repeated several times that she wasn’t what she seemed.”
“That’s it?” From the tone of Jamison’s voice it was clear to Ernie that Jamison wasn’t impressed by this information, but he went on. “McGuiness said something else, Matt. He said to tell you ‘Find out who Bobby Allison was.’ I don’t know what he was talking about. Do you?”
“Bobby Allison?” Jamison looked at Ernie with a puzzled expression. “In the trial there was a letter that St. Claire claimed Beth Garrett had sent him, but it didn’t have a front page. She said it had been written to a college boyfriend named Bobby Allison. I think St. Claire somehow got his hands on it and kept it all these years. It was just one more thing he used to twist everything.” Jamison lapsed into silence and dropped the subject. Ernie said nothing more until they got to the morgue, but he could sense that the information from McGuiness seemed to unnerve Jamison.
When Puccinelli walked through the swinging doors of the morgue the body of Alex St. Claire was stretched out on the metal table, the handsome patrician features sagging with the flaccidity of death. He approached Jamison and Ernie, who had arrived before him. “St. Claire hasn’t looked this good since the day we arrested him.”
Dr. Gupta stood next to the autopsy table. He was unusually quiet but everyone assumed that he wasn’t used to working on one of his own. The Y-shaped incision down the center of St. Claire’s body had been made after the wound tracks had been probed and photographed. Ernie’s only comment was that the grouping was good for what he guessed were “snap” shots, quickly fired rounds. Both rounds had torn holes right through the heart. The two .380 slugs were sitting in a stainless steel bowl. The pathologist straightened up and put down his scalpel.
Puccinelli offered his opinion. “I’d say the shooter was at least twenty feet away. He had to be closer than forty feet to make that shot with a Walther or Beretta, which is what I think he used. Since Garrett said she couldn’t tell much about the shooter I’d guess that he was still in the shadows, so more than twenty feet but less than forty. Still a hell of a good shot, especially with a second so close to the first. You’d almost guess it was a pro.”
Pooch’s eyes drilled into Ernie when he made that last comment. “So how come we haven’t heard anything from O’Hara? Not like him to miss something like this,” Puccinelli asked pointedly.
Ernie shook his head, avoiding Puccinelli’s direct gaze. “We think he’s with some woman. Couldn’t get anything specific out of him.”
Puccinelli nodded absently. His mind drifting back to speculation he really didn’t want to consider. He looked back at the two slugs sitting in the bowl. He looked at Ernie and caught him staring back at him before turning his head away. That brief exchange of glances between them told Puccinelli all he didn’t want to know. Cops acquired a silent language that they all shared. If he wanted a direct answer, now he knew he would have to ask. But he didn’t want to, and even if he did ask, he wasn’t sure he would get an honest answer. The thought began to burn a hole in his gut.
Puccinelli motioned Ernie to the corner of the autopsy room, pulling him aside away from Jamison. He kept his voice down and leaned in. “You suggested we have Elizabeth Garrett’s car impounded last night and you left without saying why. I’m going to have to go talk to her right after leaving here. I have a feeling you know more than I do.”
Ernie looked back over his shoulder. Jamison was talking to Gupta but he kept glancing over in their direction. Ernie kept his voice down also, waiting until Jamison’s focus moved back to the body. “Pooch, last night Tom McGuiness came to the shooting scene.” The startled expression on Pooch’s face told Ernie that he had caught Pooch unaware. Ernie did have a twinge of guilt. Withholding this from Puccinelli until this moment was inappropriate. They were in this together as investigators and they needed to share. “McGuiness said that we don’t have the whole picture on Garrett and St. Claire. He’s the one who tipped me that we needed to look in her car.”
“Why would he do that?” his voice came out loudly.
“Something I should know?” Jamison’s head snapped in the direction of the two men.
Ernie shook his head.
“No, nothing. Just a few loose ends.” His tone signaled to Puccinelli that this was a conversation that had to take place when Jamison wasn’t around.
On the trip back to the office, Jamison was unusually quiet. He was deep in thought. When Gupta had pulled the .380 slugs out of St. Claire, he had dropped them into the steel bowl with a sound that reverberated in Jamison’s mind. A Walther PPK fired a .380 slug. Cops carried nine-millimeter automatics. They didn’t carry weapons that fired a .380. But he knew someone who did.
Following the autopsy, Puccinelli hadn’t been in his office five minutes when Ernie arrived. “First off, Pooch, on McGuiness, I’m sorry I didn’t fill you in right away on his being out there.” He left the apology at that before continuing, grateful that Pooch was evidently willing to give him a pass. “McGuiness didn’t say much except that maybe we don’t have a complete picture of the relationship between Garrett and St. Claire. McGuiness isn’t stupid. I don’t think he believes winning is everything. I could tell he didn’t like St. Claire and it’s like he’s telling us that if we look deeper we may find the answers we need. So that’s why I suggested her car be impounded.”
Puccinelli seemed surprised. “So you want me to get a warrant for her car? And I’m supposed to say what to the judge?”
“You say that we don’t know who the shooter is. We don’t have the gun and she was the last person to see St. Claire alive. If we can’t get the warrant, then we ask her permission. But I’m not sure she’ll give us permission. Warrant first, okay?”
It was only a momentary reaction but Puccinelli caught the shift in Ernie’s eyes. Ernie was holding back just like a perp who was deciding how much to say in an interrogation. “And you’re not going to say anything to Jamison? You’re not going to tell him what we’re doing?” Ernie shook his head.
Fractured Justice Page 34
