The Strategist

by John Hardy Bell

  “And what do you think they were hiding?” Camille asked.

  “I started thinking about things logically, and asked myself why would the campaign manager of the city’s mayor and current U.S. Senate candidate be interested in financing a new technology that promised to revolutionize the way people voted? And why would he choose to keep his involvement in the project such a secret? Well, the obvious conflict of interest is the answer to the second question. As far as the first, the only reasoning that made sense was that Elliott Richmond wanted to create this technology so he could manipulate it. And what reason would a man whose wife is in the middle of a major election have to manipulate such technology?”

  Andy’s silence indicated that he had thrown the question back at Camille. Fortunately she already knew the answer. “Rigging that election.”

  “Yep. And this is the perfect avenue through which to attempt such a thing. A brand new technology, little regulation, especially considering that he’d probably bought off the entire Clerk and Recorder’s office, and not a single hanging Chad for anyone to analyze.”

  “Were you able to find any proof to support that?”

  “Had I not been frozen out of almost every file connected to the project I probably could have collected some.”

  “Did you communicate your suspicion to anyone else?”

  “Not to anyone here. But I had some questions for the good folks at Horis and Roth. Unfortunately I only got as far as Elliott Richmond’s unnamed liaison. Two weeks later, our contract was a vapor trail in the clouds. One month after that, a staff of twenty-eight dwindled to five. It completely decimated us. And since we haven’t been offered a single contract since, who knows how long the rest of us will last.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Camille offered, genuinely meaning it.

  “There are a lot of smart people here, so I’m sure everyone will land on their feet. Still sucks the way it all went down though. I guess that’s the price you pay for making a deal with the devil, huh?”

  Camille nodded, fighting back the urge to say more.

  “You know, I didn’t recognize you at first,” Andy said, breaking the silence that had momentarily settled over them. “I really did think you were an executive from Horis and Roth, albeit a casually dressed one.” His smile was genuine for the first time. “But as soon as you mentioned Julia Leeds and your connection to law enforcement, it all came together. I suppose it helped that you actually told me your name. Felt like a major-league idiot that I didn’t pick up on it sooner.”

  She couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t run in the other direction.”

  “Honestly, knowing who you were was the only reason I opened up. I am sorry about Julia.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You mentioned before that you thought her death was connected to this project, and by extension, to Elliott Richmond.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did she say that in the documents you mentioned? The ones she intended to make public?”

  “I really can’t get into the specifics of it. All I can tell you for now is that you’ve been very helpful to me.”

  Andy took a deep breath. “And that part about you protecting me should it come down to that?”

  “I meant it, Andy.”

  “Something tells me it’s going to come down to that.”

  Camille agreed, though she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Springwell Technologies doesn’t have anything to hide,” Andy confidently declared. “So if I have to tell this story again, I will. Should I expect the police to show up at our door after you leave?”

  “Let’s just say that for now I’m an army of one.”

  Andy extended his hand. “In that case, I only have one thing to say, and I mean this with a little bit of concern and a whole lot of sincerity. Good luck”

  Camille shook his hand, satisfied that she had gotten everything she came here for. Now that she had, she knew what her next move had to be. She also knew that it was Elliott Richmond, not her, who would need a healthy dose of good luck.

  CHAPTER 39

  The sight of Stephen Clemmons in handcuffs was as surreal as anything that Detective Sullivan had seen in her short law enforcement career. But judging by the looks of satisfaction on the faces Graham and the three others who were assembled for Clemmons’ first interrogation as an official suspect, hers was the minority opinion.

  The three men, all of whom would be watching the question and answer session from an adjacent room via closed-circuit monitor, were Lieutenant Hitchcock, Commander Oliver Brandt, and Denver PD Chief P.J Connolly. Hitchcock was the only one of the three who had done any actual leg work on the case. His stake in this interview was personal. Brandt and Connolly, on the other hand, were merely political figureheads whose presence was meant to give the proceedings more weight and legitimacy than they actually deserved. In Sullivan’s mind they had no business being here. She was probably alone in that opinion as well.

  The five of them huddled outside the interview room while Clemmons waited by himself inside. “I’m assuming he’s retained counsel?” Chief Connolly asked the group. A transplant from Philadelphia where he served as the city’s police commissioner for eleven years, Connolly’s three years as Denver’s top cop had been defined by his constant struggle to gain the confidence of the rank and file. Everything from his six-foot-five, two hundred and sixty pound frame, to the baritone voice that was peppered with his native Boston accent, screamed east coast bravado; and his abrasive, unapproachable style rubbed most in the department the wrong way. Even Detective Graham felt uncomfortable in his company. But he was Mayor Richmond’s most prized appointee, and as long as he stayed comfortably tucked inside her hip pocket, it didn’t matter one bit that ninety-five percent of his subordinates despised him.

  “From what I understand he has. Just not sure who it is or where the hell they are,” Graham offered.

  Sullivan noticed that his normally tight short sleeve pastel shirts were a little roomier these days, while the circles around his pale blue eyes were a little bit darker. Graham was never one to take care of himself with exercise or a proper diet, so she doubted his emaciated appearance had anything to do with a sudden lifestyle change. The Leeds case had affected him more than he cared to admit. The pressure for a swift resolution was unrelenting, and from the beginning, Graham seemed intent on shouldering the responsibility for that resolution all by himself. Now that the resolution he so enthusiastically lobbied for appeared imminent, Graham looked like a man who, physically at least, had nothing left to give.

  “Rumor has it that one of the attorneys at Brown and Wallace is representing him,” Hitchcock said, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than Graham’s.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Commander Brandt cried.

  Aside from his high profile position as the chief’s right hand and his rock-solid reputation as a tactical planner, Sullivan knew very little about Brandt. His day to day responsibilities centered around the SWAT and gang units and he rarely interacted personally with the detectives in homicide. Were it not for Lieutenant Hitchcock briefing him prior to this meeting, Sullivan felt confident that Brandt wouldn’t have even known her name.

  “As I said, that’s the rumor,” Hitchcock reiterated.

  “I guess we’ll find out if the douche bag ever shows,” Graham said with a sneer.

  Almost on cue, a good-looking kid with a long, purposeful stride and a perfectly tailored pin-striped suit approached them. He couldn’t have been any older than thirty, but as he met the collective stares of the city’s police chief and his four cohorts, he displayed the self-assurance of a man who was infinitely more battle-tested. He bypassed everyone, including the chief, and extended his hand to Graham.

  “Detective Graham, I believe we’ve met before. I’m Matthew Westerly from Brown, Wallace, and Epstein. You questioned me last week about St
ephen Clemmons’ association with Julia Leeds.”

  Graham’s sneer went away as he shook the attorney’s hand. “I do remember you, Mr. Westerly. As a matter of fact, I was meaning to call you to say thanks. You’re statement was quite helpful in getting us to this point.” The sarcasm in his voice was thick.

  “I’m glad you think so. But as far as I can tell, it’s that kind of circumstantial testimony that your case against Mr. Clemmons is predicated on. And if that truly is all you have, then his time in custody will be a lot shorter than you’ve led the public to believe.”

  “Our evidence is far from circumstantial, Mr. Westerly,” Commander Brandt chided.

  Sullivan shook her head. What the hell did he know about Clemmons or the evidence against him? “I’m Detective Sullivan,” she said as she extended her hand to Westerly. “This is Commander Oliver Brandt and DPD Chief P.J. Connolly.”

  “In case you were wondering,” a seemingly offended Connolly barked.

  “I know who you all are,” Westerly responded to the group, though his eyes were still locked on Graham.

  “Then why don’t you extend us the same courtesy, Mr. Westerly?” Sullivan asked in a polite tone she hoped would bring some measure back to the conversation.

  “I’ve been retained as Mr. Clemmons’ legal counsel.”

  Though Sullivan knew as much the instant she saw him, the look of astonishment on her face was difficult to mask. It was a look shared by the others in the group, most especially Graham. Sullivan could see the wheels turning in his mind as he tried to formulate a response. But it didn’t matter what Graham said, because he knew the same thing all of them did: Matthew Westerly’s presence was also a proclamation by Brown, Wallace, and Epstein of their belief in Stephen Clemmons’ innocence. And that meant the case against him suddenly got a lot weaker.

  “Now, as nice as our little meet and greet has been, I suspect my client is sitting in that interview room all by himself, and I’d like to spend a few moments with him before you begin with your questions.”

  Graham nodded at Connolly, Brandt and Hitchcock, and the three men made their way to the room where they were set up to watch Clemmons. Connolly glared at Westerly as he walked past, but the attorney, still eager to prove his mettle, didn’t flinch.

  “Right this way.” Sullivan pointed to the closed door in front of them.

  Westerly was the first to enter the room, with Graham and Sullivan close behind. Graham was halfway through the door before Westerly’s outstretched arm stopped him.

  “I need a few minutes alone with my client, please. And make sure they mute the camera audio until we’re done.”

  Graham said nothing as he backed up enough to allow Westerly to close the door.

  The rush of adrenaline created by Westerly’s arrival suddenly ebbed and Sullivan felt the need to sit. Graham, meanwhile, paced in front of the door with the pent-up energy of a boxer confined to his corner in the anxious final seconds before the bell sounded.

  “How are you doing Walt?” Sullivan asked, already knowing the answer.

  Graham shook his head. “These scumbags have the audacity to represent the man who murdered a partner in their own firm? What a joke.”

  But it wasn’t a joke. The impenetrable armor that was the case against Stephen Clemmons just showed its first major crack. And Sullivan knew, just as she had always known, that there were many more cracks still to be exposed.

  I told you so was the only thing she could think to say in response. But she wisely concluded that frosty silence was much more appropriate to the situation

  CHAPTER 40

  Westerly’s apparent strategy had been to put the two detectives on the defensive as quickly as he could. Thirty minutes into the interrogation, it became painfully obvious to everyone involved that his strategy was working.

  “I apologize if I’m a little slow on the uptake,” Westerly said as he combed through his notes with a feigned look of confusion. “But I’m trying my best to understand this. Your witness is awakened in the middle of the night by loud music, looks outside his window, and supposedly sees my client’s car in front of Julia Leeds’ house. The car idles there for upwards of two minutes with music blaring, before it finally drives off. Now, aside from the fact that the witness, according to his own initial statement, didn’t get a good enough look at the car to accurately describe the color, he also couldn’t provide a license plate number or a description of the driver. Am I right about all of this so far?”

  Graham seethed, but was otherwise quiet.

  “You’re correct so far,” Sullivan reluctantly answered for him. Her cell phone buzzed inside her jacket pocket. She quickly silenced it.

  “So did it ever strike either of you as odd that Mr. Clemmons would drive to the victim’s house, theoretically to kill her, and then announce his arrival to the entire neighborhood with this loud music before he could even accomplish his objective?”

  “It certainly struck me as odd,” Graham sharply responded. “Stupid actually. But in my line of work I see people do stupid things on a daily basis. Maybe your client can better explain it.”

  Clemmons rolled his eyes. “I can’t explain it since I wasn’t there.”

  “There you go, detective. My client wasn’t there.”

  “Give me a break. I could have my witness back in here in an hour. We’ll see what happens when he gets a look at your client in person.”

  Westerly smiled. “You do that, Detective Graham. While you’re at it, tell your witness to bring the video of Mr. Clemmons entering Julia’s house, because absent that, a grand jury will laugh you right out of the courtroom.”

  Clemmons leaned in toward Westerly, almost whispering. “Did you tell them about the starter?”

  “The what?” Sullivan asked.

  “Detective Graham, I understand that you took pictures of my client’s car after you and Detective Sullivan visited his house.”

  “That’s right, as did the CSI techs the day of Julia’s murder.”

  “Did you take pictures of the interior?”

  Graham hesitated before answering. “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “Because on the morning after Julia’s murder, shortly after patrol officers from the DPD visited his house for the first time, my client came out to his car to discover that the ignition housing had been busted and a screwdriver inserted in the starter. It hadn’t been that way when he came home from work the previous evening.”

  Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling us your car was stolen, Mr. Clemmons?”

  Clemmons looked at her with the same pleading expression he gave her as she left his house. “It had to have been. No other explanation.”

  Sullivan turned to Graham. “Was there any mention of this in the evidence summary?”

  Graham laughed. “So you’re telling us that someone stole your car while you were sleeping? And this person’s joyriding expedition just happened to take them to Julia Leeds’ house the night she was killed? Is that the official defense?” He looked at Westerly, then at Sullivan. “Why am I the only one laughing at this?”

  “Because the rest of us understand that it isn’t a laughing matter,” Westerly said.

  Graham rubbed his temples, his laughter giving way to frustration. “Someone steals your car, makes a stop at the victim’s house less than two hours before the medical examiner speculates she was murdered, then parks the car back in front of your house the next morning without you having any knowledge that it was gone. Yeah, I’d say that’s a real laugh riot.”

  “Before you impounded the car, did you dust the interior for prints?” Westerly asked with a sigh.

  “Standard procedure,” Sullivan quickly answered. “The only driver’s side prints that came up belonged to Mr. Clemmons.” She was prepared to continue when the vibration of her cell phone stopped her. This time she pulled it out of her pocket and checked the number. Her breath caught when she saw the name Camille Grisham flash across the screen.


  “Why didn’t you mention all of this when we first talked?” Graham asked Clemmons.

  Sullivan held her breath as she waited for a voice mail notification. There wasn’t one.

  “Would you have believed me if I did?” Clemmons shot back.

  Graham leaned back in his chair and smirked.

  Clemmons nodded. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “It would have been in your best interest to do so,” Sullivan said, putting her cell phone back in her pocket. “It isn’t really up to you to determine what useful evidence is and what it isn’t. Had you told us right away, we would have had more time to pursue any relevant leads related to your car, provided there were any.”

  Graham rolled his eyes. “Please, Chloe. You and I both know there weren’t.”

  “And that closed-minded attitude has been your problem, detective,” Westerly charged.

  “And stupid conspiracy theories have been yours, counselor.”

  Sullivan raised her hand and was preparing to make a plea for calm when her cell phone vibrated for a third time. When she saw Camille’s name yet again, she could no longer ignore it. “I’m sorry Walt. I have to take this.”

  Graham’s eyes grew wide. “Right now? Who is it?”

  Sullivan left Graham’s question hanging in the air and silently excused herself from the room.

  She hit the redial button as soon as she stepped outside. Camille answered on the first ring.

  “Detective Sullivan?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “I’m glad you called back. I apologize for blowing up your cell phone, but I had to reach you.”

  “Well that’s pretty obvious. I had to walk out in the middle of an interview with Stephen Clemmons and his attorney, so this had better be important.”

  Sullivan could hear Camille’s breathing deepen.

  “It is, even more so now that I know where you just were. We both know that you are holding the wrong man in custody. You may not have believed in my theory about Richmond, but I’m telling you he is the one responsible, and I have more proof now than when I last saw you.”