“In here,” he said to Tom Randall, opening the door to the interview room and motioning for him to go inside.
Randall was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, with light brown hair and a friendly, open face. Wearing a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, Levi’s, and loafers, he smiled nervously when he saw the people assembled in the room. He wasn’t tall, but he was extremely stocky. His arms were solid muscle, his legs as thick as tree trunks, and his shirt strained over the front of his chest. Winters had no doubt that Randall could do some serious damage if a person pushed the right button.
“Have a seat,” Winters said, taking a chair at the table. “This here lady is Holly Oppenheimer,” he said, tilting his head toward a woman standing against the wall in the back of the room. “She’s one of our hardworking D.A.‘s.” Holly was dressed in a short black skirt and a long red jacket. Her shapely legs were one of her finest attributes, and she never failed to display them. Her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, her forehead prominent, and her blond hair was styled in soft curls that spilled forward onto her brow and grazed the back of her neck.
“This fine gentleman over here is Frank Minor,” he continued, “the supervisor over the homicide division.” Minor was the new breed of cat at the Houston D.A.‘s office. Harvard grad, family money, young, ambitious. He dressed in Brooks Brothers suits and power ties, seldom smiled, and would jump through a plate-glass window if it would advance his career. Winters had to admit he was shrewd, though. The man had listened when Winters had come to him, asking that they reopen a sixteen-year-old case when everyone else had laughed in his face. Minor was known around the agency as “the Harvard Prick” or “the Uppie Yuppie,” and everyone knew Holly Oppenheimer despised him. Winters, however, was beginning to see him as a stand-up guy.
“Okay, Randall,” the detective said in his gravelly voice, “why don’t you begin by telling us where you’ve been for the past sixteen years.” After all these years, Tom Randall, the man Winters had always thought of as the state’s primary witness, had finally reappeared. The day after the fire, Winters had spoken to Randall and he had indicated that Stella was responsible for setting the fire. The D.A.‘s office had accepted the case for prosecution and Stella had been arrested. When Randall fled town a week later, however, the state withdrew the charges against Stella. Without Randall’s testimony, the district attorney’s office decided, there was not enough evidence to go forward.
Patrol had stopped Tom Randall two days before on a routine traffic violation, and then discovered the old bench warrant for failing to appear on a subpoena as a material witness in the Cataloni homicides. Winters had become so excited when he heard the news, he’d almost peed in his pants. The Cataloni murders had haunted him for sixteen years, more than half of his twenty-seven-year career. He’d almost been ready to give it up when he had seen Stella Cataloni on television during the Pelham proceedings, and then when Randall had surfaced, he had decided there was still a chance to put this one away.
Randall was staring at him, a blank expression on his face. “And you know,” Winters said, “while you’re at it, maybe you can explain for these good people how come you didn’t respond to that subpoena.”
“Look,” Randall said tensely, “I didn’t know you guys had a warrant out for me. I moved away, that’s all. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t even know you were looking for me.”
Winters smacked his lips. He hated liars. Sometimes he thought he could even smell them, and right now the room was getting pretty stinky. “That really isn’t true now, is it?” he said slowly. “I spoke to your parents five, six years ago, and they said you knew all about the warrant. You just didn’t want to deal with it, so you made yourself scarce.”
Randall was blinking repeatedly. Beads of perspiration had popped out on his forehead and upper lip. “After the fire and all, I decided to move to Nebraska. That’s not exactly a crime.”
“I see,” Winters said, “and you never came back to Houston, not even to visit your parents and kin?”
“All right,” Randall said, capitulating. “You got it right the first time. I didn’t want to deal with it, so I split.”
“So you did know we were looking for you?” Winters said. “I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here, but even though you moved away, you did speak to your parents on a regular basis, right?”
“Yeah,” Randall said, staring down at the table, “I knew you were looking for me, but I didn’t think it was such a big deal. I mean, I certainly didn’t think you’d still be interested after all these years.”
“Well,” Winters said, removing his Stetson and fanning the air with it before placing it back on his head, “murder is a pretty big deal, son. Two people died in that fire and we’d like to know what happened.”
Randall’s head jerked to the side, checking out Oppenheimer and Minor before he turned back to Winters. “Isn’t there a statute of limitations or something?”
“Not on homicide,” Winters said, arching a bushy eyebrow. “Let’s start with the day of the fire.”
“I have to get back to the school,” Randall said, leaping to his feet. “I just moved back to town. I’m the new football coach at St. Elizabeth’s. We’re supposed to be having practice right now.”
Winters just glared at him.
“Fine,” Randall said, slumping back down in his seat, his face now flushed with anger. “If I lose my damn job, you can support my fucking wife and kids.”
“Why don’t you just tell us what happened?” Winters said calmly. “Then you can leave and conduct your football practice.”
Randall pulled his collar away from his neck. “Hey,” he said, “it was a long time ago, and I don’t have such a terrific memory.” His mouth tightened and he leaned over the table. “Stella Cataloni put you up to this, didn’t she? You know how many years that bitch has been telling lies about me? Shit,” he went on, relaxing, “I saw her on TV the other day, though, and she looked pretty good. I mean, right after the fire, I said damn, this gal ain’t never going to look normal.” He issued a good-old-boy laugh, slapping his thighs. “I never thought someone I once fucked would become so famous, though. Guess that makes me famous too, huh?”
Both Winters and Minor chuckled at his vulgarity. Holly gave all three men a scolding look and they quickly fell serious. Even though he was not very bright, Randall had an easy, affable way about him that the men found hard not to like.
“Let’s get back to the night in question,” Winters said. “Were you inside the Cataloni residence the night the fire broke out?”
“Yeah,” Randall said, dropping his head and then peering up at them like a chastised child. “You know I was there … I’m being a man here, guys. I’m ready to get this stuff off my chest.”
Winters snapped to attention. Holly pulled up a chair and took a seat at the table. “Start with the night of the fire and tell us everything that happened. Do you mind if we record your statement?” she said, seeing Winters’s tape recorder in position on the table.
“I thought you were already doing that,” Randall said. “Sure, record whatever you want. I don’t have nothing to hide. If you want, you can even give me a lie detector test.”
“Were you the father of Stella’s child?” Holly asked. With her full breasts and long legs, the Houston prosecutor had no trouble turning heads, but her lips were slightly too narrow and her nose too sharp, making her face sometimes appear pinched as it did at that moment.
“I already said I fucked her,” Randall said.
“Isn’t that the same thing as admitting I fathered her kid? I mean, when you fuck someone, that’s generally what happens.”
Winters snickered under his breath.
They made their way through the preliminaries and finally focused on the night of the fire. “Stella insisted I go with her to tell her parents she was knocked up, see. Man, things were good back then,” Randall said, his eyes glazing over with fond memories. “I was the star quarterback at
St. Michael’s, and had a shitload of friends. The day before the fire, they told me my football scholarship to Notre Dame had come through. I had no idea what I was going to do. You know, Stel was pregnant.”
“Life’s a bitch,” Holly said, not nearly as impressed with Randall as the men seemed to be.
“So we go to her house and tell her mother,” Randall continued. “She took it pretty well, but the old man wasn’t home from work yet. He was a building inspector and straight as an arrow. I once told him I swiped a weather vane off the top of the school, and he reported me to the principal. Can you believe it?”
“Go on,” Winters said. “Try not to take so many side trips, Randall. Remember, your wife and kids are out there waiting,”
“Well, if I remember right,” he said, “Stel was in the kitchen with her mother. I heard the old man’s car out front and went to the window to make sure it was him.” He looked around the room. “I was plenty nervous, let me tell you. I was able to defend myself, but Stella’s father was one of those wiry little wops that could beat the shit out of you if he wanted to. He was out there with some guy, screaming and yelling about something. When he got excited, he generally started rattling off all this stuff in Italian and throwing his hands around.”
Holly cut in, sensing a lead. “Did you know the person her father was arguing with? Had you ever seen him before?”
“Nah,” Randall said, shaking his head. “He might have been a neighbor or something and they were fighting over the dog. The Catalonis’ dog always crapped on the neighbor’s yard.”
“You didn’t understand anything the men were saying?” Holly asked.
“I think I heard him call the guy a no-good crook or something,” he said, “but Stella’s father called everybody a crook.” Randall cleared his throat and then continued, more focused now. “When he came in and I saw how riled up he was, I thought we should tell him another day, but Stella’s mother ran out of the kitchen and told him practically the second he walked in the door. Man,” he said, making a little whistling sound, “was he pissed. He just blew. Bang, you know, and he was screaming at me like a maniac. He demanded that I marry Stel, but hey, I wasn’t ready to get married and raise a kid. Then he said no daughter of his would ever have an abortion. He managed to slug me a few times, and I started slugging him back. Before you know it, we were rolling around on the floor and Stella got in the middle of it, catching a few punches from her father that I think were meant for me.”
His voice softened and he eyed Holly across the table. “That really hurt Stel, you know. I don’t think her father had ever hit her before. They were close, see, and she’d gone to him thinking he’d understand and help her.”
“What happened then,” Holly said, “after you told him?”
“I left,” Randall said, “but then I got to worry that her father might rag on her some more, so I walked around the house, trying to find a way to get back in. Finally, I saw a window open that went into the basement and got in that way. The stairway leading from the basement opened up right next to Stella’s bedroom, so I just snuck into her room and locked the door behind me.”
“Was Stella in the room at the time?” Holly asked.
“Yeah,” Randall said, “and she was hot. Boy, was she hot. Stel had some temper.” He paused and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “We were just sitting there talking, and all of a sudden she leaps out of the bed and starts going off about her father and what a bastard he was to hit her. She was holding her stomach and crying. Maybe he really hurt her, you know. Hitting a pregnant woman in the stomach isn’t too healthy. I was a kid back then, so I didn’t know about those kind of things.”
Was she having a miscarriage?” Holly asked. You know she lost the baby, don’t you?”
“I heard,” Randall said, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. Then he just sat there staring out over the room.
“When did the fire break out?” Winters asked.
“I’m going to tell you,” Randall said. “Can’t you give a man time to think? This is serious shit we’re into now. I’m trying to get it all straight in my mind.” He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Then a few moments later, he put his hands over his face, finally dropping them and straightening up in his seat. “Okay,” he said, “you want to know the truth, right? What really happened that night. Well, you want it, you’re going to get it.” He took a deep breath and then spat it out, his speech rapid-fire now. “Before I knew it, Stella grabbed something off the dresser and ran down the hall. If I’d known she was going to set her old man on fire, I would have stopped her. The next thing I knew, the whole house was burning and everyone was screaming. You know, things were out of control.”
Holly looked over at Minor, then quickly turned back to Randall, trying to keep her astonishment off her face. “Stella set her own father on fire? You’re certain, absolutely certain? These are serious allegations, Randall. For all we know, you’re the one who set the fire.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” Randall shouted. “See,” he said, “that’s why I had to come clean. I knew Stella was trying to pin this on me. For years she’s been trying to track me down. Why do you think I split and never came back to Houston? Damn, woman, this is my hometown. You think I wanted to live in fucking Nebraska, all the time looking over my shoulder, terrified Stella would haul my ass into court one day and try to frame me for killing her parents?”
“Did you see her actually set her father on fire?” Holly asked. “Maybe the fire was an accident.”
“I heard him screaming,” he said, his eyes flashing. “I didn’t see it firsthand, but I heard it. He was yelling, ‘No, no, no,’ and saying Stella’s name. Sure sounded like she set him on fire. When a person runs out with lighter fluid and matches in their hand, and the next thing you know, you smell flesh burning and hear the guy screaming, I think you can assume that person did what they set out to do.”
Holly’s jaw dropped. “You saw lighter fluid and matches in her hand?”
“That’s what I just said,” he tossed out, slouching lower in his chair.
“When did you see the lighter fluid and matches?” Holly said. “Where did she get them? Is that what she picked up off the dresser?”
“Stella was a majorette, see,” Randall said. “She twirled those batons that are set up like torches. She always had lighter fluid or gasoline or something around, and everyone has matches. Stel used to collect them from restaurants and keep them in a big bowl on her dresser.”
“How did you get out of the house?”
Randall thought for some time before he resumed speaking. “I could have just dived out the bedroom window,” he said, “but I had to do something to try to save them. I found Stella’s brother in bed where he’d been sleeping and carried him out on my back. I couldn’t find Stella or the others. The smoke was too thick and the flames were really blazing. I knew if I went back in the house, I’d be burned to a crisp.”
“So,” Carl Winters said, “you’re the one who called the fire department?”
“Hey,” Randall said, “who the hell knows after this many years? I did whatever I was supposed to do. When there’s a fire, you call the fire department.”
“I see,” Winters said, knowing Randall had actually fled like a coward. When the fire department had finally been notified by a neighbor, they arrived to find Stella and her brother unconscious on the lawn, Randall nowhere in sight. Whereas her brother had miraculously escaped injury, Stella had been severely burned, and her life had hung in the balance for days following the fire. But Winters had always believed she was responsible. He knew it took a personal connection to set a human being on fire.
He also suspected that there were things going on between Stella and her father that no one knew about. An incestuous relationship would certainly have given a desperate young girl a motive for murder, particularly if she had gotten herself knocked up by her boyfriend and incited her father’s wrath. She could have
been afraid her father would retaliate against her once Randall left. And then again, Winters told himself, she could have gotten pregnant specifically to get back at her father. So she kills him, thinking it will look like an accident, foolishly thinking she’d have time to get her brother and mother out of the house.
“Let’s back up a little bit,” Holly said, a questioning look on her face. “If Stella’s father was arguing with someone earlier in the evening, possibly he was the one who set the fire.”
“There was no one else in the house,” Randall explained. “I came in through the basement, see. The lights were all out, and to the best of my knowledge, Stella’s parents were upstairs in their bedroom sleeping.”
“Where was Stella’s room?” Holly asked. “Did she share a room with Mario?”
“No,” he said. “Both of their rooms were downstairs, on opposite ends of the hall. This wasn’t a mansion, you know. It was a small place. If a person so much as hiccuped, you could hear it all over the house.”
“When you went outside the first time,” Holly said, wanting to be perfectly clear on this, “was there a car in the driveway other than her father’s car?”
“No,” he said. “You can ask me all the questions you want, but I’m telling you no one else was in that house.”
Trial by Fire Page 3
