by Rick Mofina
“Grace?” Perelli repeated, “are you ready to go at him?”
She closed Cooper’s file and nodded, recalling the advice Lynn Mann gave her over the phone from the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s office. “Play it by the book, Grace, by the book.”
Grace inhaled. Every time they stepped into the interview room to work on a suspect, the lying game started.
“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there, that’s not my gun, knife, club, whatever. I wasn’t there, ask my sister brother mother father daughter son friend or the dude who left town yesterday. I saw this guy running away. He was a tall, short, fat, skinny Hispanic Asian, black, white guy—like eighteen to fifty years old, man. Find him.”
But if Grace was lucky, physical evidence, solid physical evidence, could help her leverage a confession.
Upon entering the small room, Perelli set the Seattle Mirror on the table, spun it round so Cooper could see today’s article.
“You’re famous for what you know, Coop,” Perelli said.
Cooper didn’t respond. Clearly police made him uneasy.
“We need your help,” Grace indicated the article, “to see that the right thing is done for Sister Anne.”
Cooper considered things, then nodded.
“Good, thank you. But before we go further,” Grace said, “I have to tell you that you have the right to remain silent and anything you say can—”
“What’s this? Are you charging me with something?”
“No, John,” Grace leaned closer, “we’re not charging you with anything. We need your help and we’re required to follow procedure and advise you of your constitutional right to refuse to help us find the truth about Sister Anne’s murder.”
“You’re ex-military, Coop,” Perelli said. “You know regs.”
Coop knew a lot of things. He weighed his situation for several moments. Then he shrugged, inviting Grace to resume advising him.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish one. Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?”
“I understand.”
“Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”
“I’m good. I don’t need a lawyer. I get it. You brought me here because you need my help to find this guy?” Coop tapped Jason’s article in the Mirror.
“We need your help,” Grace said, “to learn the truth about what happened.”
“Want me to look at a sketch or something?”
“This.” She opened her folder and slid an eight-by-ten full-size color photo of the knife. The murder weapon. “Ever see one like that before? It’s fairly unique with the maple leaf symbol.”
“Sure, it’s like the one I saw that guy take from the shelter.”
Grace slid a second photo, a series of enlargements showing shoe impressions in blood, and the alley behind the town house near the bush where the knife was found.
“These impressions are like fingerprints and they were made by Sister Anne’s killer. And see this,” Grace slid another photo, a file photo of a standard pair of tennis shoes standard-issue only by the Washington Department of Corrections. “These are the kind of shoes the killer wore. Guess where we found shoes like these?”
Cooper’s face whitened. He’s eyes moved along every photograph Grace had set before him and suddenly realization rolled over him.
“Now the lights are coming on, aren’t they, Coop?” Perelli eyeballed him, then slammed his hand down on the counter. “We got them from your little penthouse under I-5. Shoes just like the ones her killer wore, Sergeant!”
Cooper shook his head.
“Somebody put them in my cart a long time ago. I don’t even wear ‘em. I’ve got a lot of gear there.”
Perelli’s metal chair scraped and tumbled as he stood to lean into Cooper, drawing his face to within an inch of his.
“Don’t lie to us,” he whispered. “Make it easy on yourself. Be a man and tell us exactly what happened.”
Cooper’s eyes widened as he stared at the pictures.
Perelli righted his chair and sat in it.
“John,” Grace’s voice was almost soothing, “was it a sexual thing, or an argument? Did you follow her to the town house to talk to her? Maybe something was troubling you and she said something that triggered all the bad things that happened to you? John, it’ll help you to tell us now. So you can get help, John.”
“You owe it to your buddies,” Perelli said, “to their memory, to do the honorable thing, here.”
Cooper shot Perelli a look. Grace sensed something was seething just under Cooper’s skin.
“John, look at me,” she said. “Just tell us what happened.”
Cooper went back to the pictures. It seemed as if a monumental sadness washed over him. Tears welled in his eyes as he shook his head.
“I loved her.”
Grace nodded encouragement.
“I would never hurt her.”
“We know, John,” Grace said. “Was it an accident?”
“I don’t know. I mean,” he swallowed, “sometimes, I black out.”
Grace exchanged a quick glance with Perelli.
“We know. It’s in your records,” Grace said.
“I didn’t hurt her. I couldn’t hurt her. I don’t think I hurt her.”
Cooper thrust his face into his weathered hands and released a deafening cry of anguish.
“I want a lawyer.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cooper’s call for a lawyer took it all to the next level.
Grace alerted Lynn Mann at the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s office. Lynn called the Office of the Public Defender on the fourth floor of the Walthew Building.
The OPD scrolled through its network of public defense agencies contracted to provide legal services. Most had conflicts, so the staff sped through the list of assigned attorneys. Next up for a felony: Barbara North, a criminal defense lawyer with Acheson, Kwang, and Myer.
The call caught her on her cell, driving from court to her son’s soccer game.
“The nun murder?” Barbara repeated into her phone while at a red light. It had started raining and she switched on her wipers. “Sorry, I didn’t get that? He’s an indigent street person? Lives under I-5. You mean the guy in today’s paper?” She scrawled notes, willing the light to stay red. “Sure. I’ll take it but I have to make a few calls. Tell Lynn I’ll meet her and Detective Garner at Homicide just as soon as I can get there.”
The rain would cancel soccer.
Barbara called her older sister, Mary, and asked her to pick up her son. He wouldn’t complain about hanging out at his aunt Mary’s. She was a better cook.
“Could be a sleepover, Mary.”
“Catch a big case?”
“The biggest.”
As Barbara drove, she probed her briefcase for today’s Mirror. It took four red lights to absorb every detail on the Cooper story. She was a quick-thinking Harvard grad whose passion for law had not waned, despite the disillusioning realities of everyday jurisprudence. She’d handled a number of homicide cases, domestics, drug murders, but never one that had played out on the front pages.
Within forty-five minutes, Barbara found herself in a secured room, contending with the smells of fried chicken, potatoes, Italian salad dressing, and Cooper. As he ate behind the bars of a holding cell, she worked at the small table asking him questions, writing notes on a yellow legal pad, consulting copies of files, reports, and statements she’d requested from Lynn and the Seattle PD.
“So, do you think they’re going to charge me with something?”
“We’ll know soon enough. Just try to take it easy.”
Barbara left the room to meet with the detectives, their sergeant, and Lynn Mann, a deputy prosecuting attorney. Lynn was a
veteran of DOP, King County’s homicide response team. Lynn was beautiful. She also had fifteen years’ more experience than Barbara.
“Here it is,” Lynn said. “Your client has a troubled history, with a few violent incidents. He has been known to argue with the victim in front of witnesses at the shelter. Your client had access to the murder weapon, a knife from the shelter. Your client is in possession of shoes consistent with impressions found in the victim’s blood and at the location where the weapon was recovered.”
“But you haven’t charged him,” Barbara said. “You don’t have a time line and anyone putting him at the scene.”
“We’ve got a compelling case going,” Perelli said.
“What you have is reaction to public pressure.” Barbara tapped her pad with the point of her pen.
“He’s had access to the knife and he’s grappling with psychological anguish,” Grace said.
“Which is the case with about half of the hundreds of regulars who go to that shelter. Your case is so circumstantial as to be nonexistent.”
“At his encampment,” Boulder said, “we found other knives consistent with knives belonging to sets at the shelter.”
“Circumstantial,” Barbara said reaching for the Mirror. “Look, Mr. Cooper’s indicated that he witnessed a stranger at the shelter arguing with the victim and stealing a knife. Did you even pursue this avenue of investigation?”
“Isn’t it funny,” Perelli said, “how people with such critical information go to the press first, to put it out there, before coming to us? That’s what guilty people do.”
“Detective, my client pushes a shopping cart through the streets of this city and lives under a freeway.”
“That doesn’t make him stupid and it doesn’t rule him out,” Perelli said.
“Dom,” Grace said, “Barbara, we have pursued that avenue and have already eliminated a number of potential suspects.”
“The shoes are damning,” Lynn said.
“The shoes are state-issued only by DOC. As I understand, my client has no criminal record. He’s never been arrested. He’s never served time. And you are all well aware that all state-issued clothing is marked with an offender’s DOC number. I believe with shoes, it’s inside the instep of the right shoe.”
“That mark has been removed, carved out,” Perelli said.
“My point exactly. My client states the shoes were dropped off near where he stays, which means anyone could have had access to them. The fact that you didn’t need a warrant to seize establishes that his ‘residence’ is actually public property.” Barbara reached for the file on the shoes. “Did you contact DOC and see if shoes this size have been reported missing? You know all state-issued clothing must be turned in before offenders are released?”
“We have,” Perelli said. “They’re checking. Still, doesn’t mean Cooper didn’t pick them up somewhere.”
“Exactly. Virtually all of Cooper’s possessions have been previously owned by other people. Again, the man lives on the street, on public property. So how can you tie these shoes to him, beyond all reasonable doubt? How can you connect him to this crime in any way?”
Grace took stock of the others.
“There are ways. And we can get started on them if your client will cooperate.”
Barbara experienced a twinge of unease.
“What ways?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Showtime.”
Kay Cataldo put down the phone and turned to Chuck DePew.
The two forensic scientists had been waiting and watching local news on a TV in an empty meeting room down the hall from the Homicide Unit. Garner had summoned them and now it was time for them to do their thing.
“They’re bringing him to us now,” Cataldo said.
She and DePew went to work in the room, making preparations, moving chairs to create a large comfortable space. Within minutes the chime of cuffs, shackles, and a belly chain preceded Cooper’s arrival.
“Mr. Cooper,” Cataldo said as Barbara North, Garner, Perelli, and the others took places around the room, “I’d like you to sit in this chair and be comfortable.”
Clasping his hands together to ease the pressure of the handcuffs, Cooper took stock of the room, the people, and the chair while Cataldo and DePew tugged on latex gloves.
“Please sit down, sir. This won’t take long.”
Cooper looked at Barbara, who nodded to him before he sat.
Cataldo and DePew began unlacing his boots.
“Sir, are these boots the footwear you wear most often?” Cataldo asked.
Cooper nodded.
“Now, on the table, you see several sets of footwear taken from your location under the overpass.” Cooper scanned them, observing the evidence tags. “Can you please tell us what sets among them you have worn most, or still wear?”
Cooper extended his chin to a pair of worn boots and DePew placed his hand on them to confirm the correct ones. Cooper nodded, DePew made notes, put the boots in a paper bag, then did the same with the boots they’d removed from his feet.
Cataldo then removed two pairs of woollen socks. Cooper’s bare feet were in good shape. He bathed every other day at the Mission, near Pike Place.
DePew then reached for a box that was the size and shape of a take-out pizza box cut in half. He opened the lid. It was filled with blue impression-casting foam.
“Now,” Cataldo said, “I’m going to take your right foot and guide its descent into the foam. I want you to press as much as I tell you, so we can get a clear cast.”
Cooper cooperated.
Cataldo repeated the process with Cooper’s left foot.
DePew then closed the boxes, recorded information, and helped Cataldo collect the boots they’d taken from Cooper and the second pair he’d indicated he’d worn.
“Sir, which other shoes would you like us to replace on your feet?”
Cooper nodded to another set of worn boots and Cataldo helped him slip them on after replacing his socks. Then she prepared to leave with DePew.
“So what’s next? How does this work?” Barbara North asked.
“Like fingerprints, footprints are unique,” Cataldo said.
“Okay…,” Barbara said.
“It’s pretty much accepted that no two people have the same, identical foot shape, or the same weight-pressure patterns. The differences are reflected on the wear of the insole and the tread and wear patterns of the outsole.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“We’re going back to the lab to analyze these casts. We’ll compare them with the boots Mr. Cooper wears, and we’ll compare them with our analysis of the DOC tennis shoes that are consistent with the impressions at the crime scene.”
“This technique is widely known in forensics,” DePew said. “It’s called barefoot morphology. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police developed it.”
“That’s fine. However, my client has said that he’d recently discovered that the tennis shoes had been placed in his shopping cart. They’re not his and he’s never worn them,” Barbara said.
“Then the evidence should support him,” Cataldo said.
As Garner thanked Cataldo and DePew, Barbara looked at Cooper for a long, uncertain moment. This was not going to get any easier for him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
On Barbara North’s advice, Cooper had agreed to take a lie-detector test.
It would be conducted by Seattle Detective Jim Yamashita, who entered the room carrying his polygraph equipment in a hardshell case.
Soft-spoken and bespectacled, Yamashita was a reserved, slightly built man, who could be taken for an accountant rather than one of the country’s top polygraphists.
His hobby was cryptography.
His expertise was truth verification.
Over his sixteen years in detecting deception, he had pointed detectives in the right direction on countless major investigations. He also was involved in ongoing research to refine and improve his p
rofession.
In court, Yamashita was a prosecutor’s dream.
Before starting, he met privately with Garner and Perelli to be briefed on their case. Then he prepared Cooper, explaining the process of a polygraph examination.
“The results of the examination are not allowed as evidence in court in most jurisdictions. So, this is really just a tool, Mr. Cooper.”
“I’ve explained that to my client, Detective,” Barbara said.
Yamashita smiled, then tried to put Cooper at ease with his machine—a new standard five-pen analog that he swore by. It would use instruments connected near Cooper’s heart and fingertips to electronically measure breathing, perspiration, respiratory activity, galvanic skin reflex, and blood and pulse rate, recording the responses on a moving chart as he answered questions.
Yamashita would pose the questions, then he’d analyze the results and give Garner and Perelli one of three possible outcomes: Cooper was truthful, untruthful, or the results were inconclusive.
“Please understand that I am aware and expect you to be nervous. Everybody is and I account for that.”
Then Yamashita asked Perelli to bring a more comfortable cushioned chair into the room. He seated Cooper in it and connected him to the machine. Yamashita started the examination with routine establishing questions, requesting that Cooper answer “yes” or “no.”
“Is your name John Randolph Taylor Cooper?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born in Kent, Washington?”
“Yes.”
“Did you serve in the U.S. armed forces in Iraq?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
There was a long silence as the five ink needles scratched the graph paper.
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yes, in combat.”
“Answer yes or no, please.”
“Yes.”
“Do you reside under Interstate 5?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a job?”
“No.”
“Do you often visit the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter?”
“Yes.”
