Sudden Death ac-4

by David Rosenfelt

  Calvin gives me a slight smile and wink, in the process telling me that I should discount everything Brenda is saying. But I actually think she’s probably right, as the police did as well. According to Calvin, the police did not appear suspicious of any of the group, and the case never went anywhere.

  I’m greatly relieved to hear what Calvin has to say; it’s not nearly the blockbuster that Vince led me to believe. When this breaks, if it does at all, my assessment is that it will be a twenty-four-hour story, ultimately going nowhere and doing no damage.

  My plan had been to visit with the local police in the morning and get whatever information I could from them. That no longer seems necessary and in fact could be counterproductive, calling more attention to a story that in no way incriminates Kenny. I’ll ask Pete Stanton to call them, cop-to-cop, and find out what he can.

  Now of course we have more time on our hands before our return flight tomorrow evening. I can’t go fishing because I didn’t bring any bait. I can’t go hunting because I left my twelve-gauge at home. I can’t farm the land because I don’t own any land and I never applied for a plow license.

  I guess I’ll just have to go to Findlay and check out Sandy Walsh.

  * * * * *

  WE FIND A HOTEL just outside of Findlay, no expensive minibar or robes in the bathroom, but clean sheets and a television that gets forty-eight channels, including both ESPN and ESPN2.

  Adam and I are tired, but we go out to grab a quick bite to eat. I’m forced to grudgingly admit that Laurie’s hometown is not totally without culture when we find a Taco Bell that’s open late. When Adam tells me he can charge it back to the studio, I order an extra grilled stuffed burrito to take back to the hotel.

  When I’m traveling, I usually call Laurie before I go to sleep, but I avoid the temptation this time. I don’t want to lie to her about where I am, and I certainly don’t want to tell the truth, so conversation at this point could be a little difficult.

  In the morning we have the buffet breakfast in the hotel. I try the fruit, which appears to have ripened about midway through the first term of the Clinton administration. The biscuits are the consistency of something Mario Lemieux would shoot from just inside the red line. But the coffee is good, and I’m able to use the time to tell Adam where we’re going.

  It’s the “why” I’m not quite so forthcoming about. I tell him I want to surreptitiously check out this guy Sandy Walsh, but I imply that it has to do with a case. Adam can hang out in town while I do it, and he’s not to say anything to anyone about it when we get back. I think he knows I’m full of shit, but he’s nice enough to just shrug and go along.

  Findlay is a small town but considerably bigger than I expected and much nicer than Hemmings. It has a four-block shopping area of treelined streets, where cars park headfirst at an angle. All in all, a nice town… a nice place to have grown up… I’m afraid a nice place to go back to.

  I was hoping for a lot worse. I was hoping there would be a sign when we pulled in saying “Welcome to Findlay, Pedophilia Capital of the World.” Or “Welcome to Findlay, World’s Leading Fungus Producer.”

  I’m feeling uncomfortable with this whole thing. Laurie’s actions remind me of The Wizard of Oz, like she’s going to click her heels and say, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” Which is bullshit, or Dorothy wouldn’t have run away from the dump in the first place.

  I ask Adam, “If Dorothy ran away from home because the dog catcher was going to ice Toto, how come she clicks her heels and goes back? And what happens to Toto when she gets there? Can we assume he gets a needle in the arm?”

  He has no idea what brought this on, but it’s about movies, so he’s into it. “You know something, you’re probably right. They should do a sequel, The Wizard of Oz 2: Toto’s Revenge.”

  “You should write it.”

  “Maybe I will,” he says, but I can’t tell if he’s serious.

  Once I leave Adam in the shopping area, I call one of the rental car offices that Sam told me Walsh owned. The office I reach is the one about five miles out of town. They tell me that Walsh is not there, but at the office in the center of Findlay. It turns out to be a few stores down from where I left Adam. I don’t even have to get back in the car; I just walk down the street and go in.

  My plan is to ask for him and then hit him with a diversion I’ve created about my company and its need to rent a large amount of cars in a small time frame. By presenting such a lucrative opportunity, I figure I can engage him in conversation, then see where it goes from there.

  I enter the small office and approach the counter, an ingratiating smile on my face. “Hi,” I say to the young woman, “I’m looking for a Sandy Walsh.”

  As I am saying this, I can see into the office behind her, where a man is sitting at a desk. He gets up and walks toward me, a little better-looking and in better shape than I would prefer. I was hoping for someone a little more on the grotesque side, with some open, oozing sores on his face.

  “Who shall I say is here?” the clerk asks.

  I’m about to tell her a made-up name when the man from the office approaches, extends his hand, and says, “Andy Carpenter?”

  This is baffling. How could he know who I am? Unless it’s from all those stupid legal cable shows I do. “Have we met?” I ask.

  He smiles. “No. Laurie told me you’d be dropping by.”

  So I’ve gone through this whole clandestine operation when Laurie knew all along that I’d go snooping around Findlay. Laurie is smarter than I am; the counter I’m leaning on is smarter than I am. “Well,” I say, trying not to appear pathetic, “I was staying in town, and I figured any old friend of Laurie’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Let’s go get a cup of coffee,” he says, and we go off to do just that.

  Within fifteen minutes of our sitting at a table in the local diner, probably twenty people come over and say hello to Sandy. He has a pleasant word and a smile for each of them; it’s apparent that this is a nice guy. It’s going to be hard to reconcile that with the fact that I hate him, but I think I can pull it off. Besides, I still have an ace up my sleeve, the knowledge from Sam that Sandy is married, though Laurie thinks he isn’t.

  We’re chitchatting away about a variety of subjects when I smoothly bring up the subject. “Are you married?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Not anymore. My wife passed away about two years ago. We were only married a year.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but I should add, “that I’m such an idiot.” Sam obviously saw a computer record of the marriage but never thought to check for a death certificate.

  He nods. “Thanks. It happened all of a sudden… brain aneurysm. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does.”

  Just when I’m positive I couldn’t feel stupider, a woman comes over and gives Sandy a kiss on the cheek. “You must be Laurie’s friend Andy,” she says, holding out her hand. “She told us all about you when she was here.”

  Sandy introduces the woman as Jenny, his fiancée. I smile through the pain; I can almost hear Laurie laughing at me from back in Paterson. It flashes through my mind that maybe I shouldn’t go back home at all, that maybe I can avoid humiliation by living the rest of my life in Europe or Asia or Pluto.

  But for now I just say my goodbyes, pick up Adam, and head for Milwaukee. I can decide where I’m going when I get to the airport.

  I opt for going home, and on the plane I have some time to reflect on what I’ve seen in Findlay. I’m sure it has its warts and problems like any other town, but it seems to be a nice place to live, in the classic “Americana” sense. I understand how Laurie must feel about it and how it must have felt to be ripped away from it.

  If those feelings are anything like mine for Paterson, I’m going to be sleeping alone pretty soon. Paterson is a part of me and always will be. I even like its idiosyncrasies, such as the fact that all its famous citizens are number two in what they did. Louis
Sabin, a Paterson scientist, invented the oral polio vaccine. It would have been a bigger deal had not Jonas Salk come first. Larry Doby of Paterson was the second black baseball player, three months after Jackie Robinson. Even Lou Costello, perhaps the most famous person from Paterson, drew second billing behind Bud Abbott.

  Laurie is at the airport to pick me up when our plane lands. My big-picture plan is to apologize and ask her forgiveness for my surreptitious meddling; it’s the nuances of the apology plan that I haven’t figured out yet. For instance, I haven’t decided whether to include pleading, moaning, whimpering, sniveling, and drooling in the process. I’ll have to see how things go and take it from there, but I’m certainly not planning to let things like dignity and self-respect get in the way.

  Adam says his goodbyes, and Laurie and I go to her car. Much to my surprise, she starts to bring me up-to-date on the investigation.

  “We’ve got good news and bad news,” she says. “Which would you like first?”

  “The bad news.”

  “I found a witness who heard Kenny and Preston arguing the night of the murder,” she says.

  “Has Dylan gotten to him yet?”

  She nods. “He has now. The guy was afraid to come forward. Didn’t want to become Kato Kaelin when the shit hit the fan.” She’s referring to a key witness in the O. J. Simpson case, who became the butt of months’ worth of late night jokes on television.

  “The good news better be really good,” I say.

  “I think it is. The witness heard the argument when Kenny was dropping Preston off at his house. He saw Preston get out of the car and Kenny’s car pull away.”

  She’s right; this is very good news. For Kenny to have committed the murder later that night, he would have had to come back. If he was going to do that, why leave in the first place? It doesn’t exonerate him by any means, but it makes it more reasonable to argue that someone else entered the picture that night.

  “Did he say what they were arguing about?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Not really… he just heard bits and pieces. And he didn’t actually see Kenny, but he ID’d the car. I wrote a full report; there’s a copy on your desk, and I have one with me.”

  This is such intriguing information that for a moment I forget the Findlay disaster. I’m prepared to bring it up when Laurie starts talking about this great walk and run she went on with Tara today. Is it possible she’s letting me off the hook?

  We get home without any mention of the dreaded F-word, which is how I’ve come to think of Findlay. Tara meets me at the door, tail wagging furiously and head burrowed into me to receive my petting. Her excitement at seeing me is something I never take for granted; it’s a gift to be loved this much.

  I take Tara for a walk and go back to the house. Laurie is in the bedroom, looking much as she did when I left, except for the fact that she’s not wearing any clothes. It’s a comfortable look, so I try it myself. I like it, so we try it together. It works really well.

  After our lovemaking my mouth decides to once again blurt something out without first having discussed it with my brain. “I was in Findlay,” I say. “I met Sandy Walsh.”

  She nods, though she seems slightly groggy and ready for sleep. “I know. He called me. He liked you a lot.”

  “And I liked him. But I went there behind your back to check up on him… and on you. I was looking for ammunition to use to keep you here.”

  “Mmmm. I know. Can we talk about this in the morning?”

  I’m anxious and nervous about this subject, and it’s barely keeping her awake? “Laurie, I’m sorry I did it. It was devious and petty, and you deserve better.”

  “It’s okay, Andy. I’m not angry with you. I appreciate what you did.”

  “Excuse me? Earth to Laurie, Earth to Laurie, come in please, come in please. Why aren’t you pissed at me?”

  She gets up on one elbow, apparently having given up for now on the possibility of imminent sleep. “Andy, you did what you did because you love me, because you don’t want to lose me. You also might be concerned that I could make a decision I’d regret. So what if you didn’t tell me about it in advance? What you did wasn’t terrible, nobody got hurt. All in all, it makes me feel good that you did it.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  A few minutes later my mouth opens up again. “Laurie, I’m not sure I can stand it if you leave.”

  She’s asleep. She can’t hear me.

  * * * * *

  TODAY’S A ROUGH day for Kenny Schilling. Not that there’s an easy day for him in County Jail, awaiting a trial that will determine if he’ll ever have another day of freedom. But today is the day of the Giants’ first exhibition game, and it’s a further, agonizing reminder to Kenny that he lives in a seven-by-ten-foot world, with no road trips.

  My arrival today is a welcome diversion for Kenny from the boring hours with nothing to do but lie around and worry, but he no longer has that look of hopeful expectation when he sees me. It’s gotten through to him that there are not going to be any miracle finishes here, no Hail Mary passes. If we’re going to prevail, it will be at trial, and the road is straight uphill.

  I ask Kenny about the death of Matt Lane, and his initial reaction seems to be surprise rather than concern. He tells pretty much the same story that Calvin told, though of course he claims to have had nothing to do with the shooting. In fact, he says, no one has ever even hinted at the suggestion.

  “They’re not saying I had anything to do with Matt getting shot, are they?” he asks, the worry growing.

  I shake my head. “The prosecution doesn’t even know about it yet, but they will. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, it won’t be a problem.”

  “I’m not holding back anything.”

  “Good. Then tell me about your argument with Troy Preston when you dropped him at his house.”

  This time the flash of concern is immediate and transparent. He tries to cover it, but as an actor he’s a very good football player. “I don’t remember no argument,” he says.

  I decide to take the tough, direct approach, not my specialty. “Yes, you do.”

  “Come on, man, we were just talking. It was probably about a girl… okay? No big deal.”

  “Who was she?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know… I’m not even sure it was about a girl. We’d argue all the time… it could have been about football. I’m tellin’ you, it didn’t mean nothing.”

  I can’t shake him, and he’s probably telling the truth, so I let it drop for now. If Dylan wants to, he can use his resources to run it down, then provide it for me in discovery.

  As I’m leaving the jail, I run into Bobby Pollard, his wife, Teri, and their son, Jason. Bobby’s been coming to see Kenny on a regular basis, and since the prison has not exactly been designed with the handicapped in mind, Teri comes to help him navigate the place in his wheelchair.

  “I was going to call you, but I figured I shouldn’t,” says Bobby.

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know… just to see how things were going. To see if I could help in any way. And I heard you went up to Wisconsin to see Matt’s father.”

  His knowledge of this surprises me. “How did you hear that?”

  “Old Calvin keeps in touch with some of the guys. You know, he tells one person, they tell another…”

  Teri smiles and winks at me. “It’s the old football players’ network. They spread the news faster than CNN.”

  “Did you know Matt?” I ask.

  Bobby nods. “I sure did. And I was there that day. I was with his parents when they got the news. It was the worst day of my life.” He points to his useless legs. “Worse than the day this happened.”

  I ask Bobby a bunch of questions about the day Matt was killed but get basically the same story. It must have been a hunting accident… nobody has any idea who did it… Kenny could never have done such a thin
g. I have no reason to believe otherwise, but it’s starting to nag at me a little.

  I also ask Bobby if he’d be willing to testify on Kenny’s behalf, mostly as a character witness, and he once again vows he’ll do whatever he can to help.

  Before I leave, Teri motions me to the side and talks softly, so that Jason can’t hear. “Jason wanted to see his ‘Uncle Kenny.’ Do you think there’s anything wrong with his being here?”

  I shrug. “I wouldn’t think so, if you answer his questions honestly about what’s going on. But I’m not the best guy to ask about how to treat a seven-year-old. I can barely take care of myself.”

  She laughs, and they go inside. I head back to the office for a meeting with Kevin, Laurie, and Adam. The trial date is starting to bear down on us, and we are way behind. Of course, I always feel we are way behind, and this time is no worse than most. What we’re really lacking is evidence to present in our client’s favor, which is generally a good thing to have.

  We discuss whether to hire a jury consultant, and even though Kevin is in favor of it, I decide not to. I find that I always spend a lot of time with them and then just go ahead and follow my own instincts anyway.

  Another decision to be made is whether to challenge the blood evidence. The Simpson trial and verdict have had an unfortunate effect, besides the fact that a double murderer was set free. It’s also made police far more diligent and careful in their handling of evidence, especially blood evidence. Kevin has gone over the collection done in this case, and there are no grounds on which to convince a jury that the lab reports are not legitimate.

  On the investigative front we’ve made gradual progress, but with few favorable results. All that is really left to do now is continue to follow up and talk to friends of Kenny’s and Preston’s, especially those people who knew them both. The pro football community is a large and close one, and that list is very long. The Giants, because of all the research they did on Kenny before the draft, have provided much of it, and it goes back to his early high school days. Pro football teams don’t like to make mistakes with first-round draft picks.