“Yes.”
Watty nodded curtly to Captain Powell and the others, then he disappeared down the hall-way, with Margie trailing fast on his heels. I could feel my ears glowing hot and red in the bright fluorescent lighting. Tongue-lashings should never be a spectator sport, and Detective Kramer was enjoying my discomfort.
Captain Powell, too, must have noticed the smug look on Kramer's face. “That'll be enough of that, Detective Kramer. Sit down, both of you, and let me know a little of what's been going on today. I don't want to have to wait for written reports.”
So I told them briefly what I'd learned from Freddie Petrie and Rex Pierson. When I started telling them about my Doghouse meeting with Maxwell Cole, Kramer began squirming impatiently in his chair. He was still operating under the illusion that Max and I were long-term best pals, but the captain knew better than almost anyone in the department that the connection between me and Maxwell Cole was anything but cordial.
“We knew, going in, that Max has been friends with Pete Kelsey for twenty years, and with Marcia Kelsey for a lot longer than that,” I explained. “Last night, after Kelsey ditched us at the house on Capitol Hill, Kelsey went to Max's house and asked to spend the night.”
“So your friend Cole was harboring a criminal,” Kramer said.
“He's not my friend,” I objected, “and he was doing no such thing. Cole didn't know what had happened over on Crockett, because Pete Kelsey didn't tell him. Cole knew nothing about our finding the gun, and he had no idea Kelsey was a fugitive.”
“And I suppose next you're going to tell us that Max had no idea about Kelsey's deserter status.”
“Actually, that's true,” I said agreeably. “He knew Kelsey, not Madsen, and Kelsey was a Canadian. Why should he think the guy's a deserter? The first Max knew about any of this was this afternoon.”
“Sounds to me like you blabbed everything you know. The entire city will be dissecting our case over breakfast and the morning P.-I. tomorrow. Terrific!”
Detective Kramer could piss me off in less time than anyone I know. My ears were no longer glowing, but I had an idea my blood pressure was sneaking up.
“Look, Kramer,” I snapped back at him. “It wasn't that kind of interview. You already know that Maxwell Cole is intimately involved with this case, that he's the one who introduced Pete and Marcia years ago. He's not going to be writing a story about this. His involvement here is strictly personal, not professional. I wanted some insight into their relationship, and Max gave it to me.”
When I realized I was defending Maxwell Cole in public, no one could have been more surprised than I was, including Captain Powell.
“Some relationship!” Kramer snorted. “That broad was screwing everything in pants and some that weren't. What he writes about that isn't going to help our case either. People will read about it and think her husband's a hero, that we ought to give him a medal.”
Captain Powell was losing patience. “You do have a point, Detective Kramer,” he said placatingly. “But from what you're telling us about the friendship between Cole and the Kelseys, it seems highly unlikely that Mr. Cole will put anything in his column that would in any way jeopardize the investigation. So are you two going to interview Kelsey now?”
“That was my plan,” I replied. “I don't know about Detective Kramer. You'll have to ask him.”
“I'm in,” Kramer said.
Powell turned to Kramer. “Oh, by the way, did you ever have a chance to tell Detective Beaumont about what the search warrant turned up this morning?”
With that one quiet question, Powell changed the entire tenor in the room, took me off the hot seat and put Detective Kramer there in my place. He was already squirming as he stammered his answer. “I tried, but like I said, I couldn't raise him on the pager.”
“What?” I demanded, enjoying the idea that Powell's knife could cut both ways. We'd been so busy discussing what I hadn't told Kramer that no one had mentioned what he might not have told me.
“A casing,” Kramer replied sullenly. “A .25 CCI-Blazer casing in the same underwear drawer where they found the gun.”
“That's not all,” Captain Powell prompted. “Tell him the rest.”
“And a pair of trousers, blue with light blue piping.”
“Chambers' uniform?”
Kramer nodded. “We're pretty sure. Charlotte Chambers' son is going to bring her down here this evening to see whether or not she can identify them.”
“Where were they?”
“Out in Mr. Clean's garage. The trousers had been freshly laundered, and the shoes had been cleaned and polished. The lab's checking the shoes especially for blood.”
“And then I have some additional news for both of you,” Powell put in. “The answer to the question of why there were two guns used instead of only one. The Browning jammed on that hollow-point ammo with only one shell expended, so the killer had to find himself another weapon. Chambers' .38 was the only one available.”
Powell finished and was quiet while I assimilated what we'd learned. “It sounds like a pretty tight case,” I said at last.
“Tight!” Kramer yelped. “It's not just tight, it's foolproof, open and shut. Kelsey had motive and opportunity both, we found the murder weapon and some of the victim's clothing in the man's house, so will you tell me why the hell desertion is the only damn thing on his booking sheet?”
“Because that's all we know for sure so far. How about if we go talk to the man and see if we can find out anything else.”
“Good idea,” Captain Powell said.
They brought Pete Kelsey/John David Madsen to one of the windowed interview rooms on the fifth floor. He was wearing jail-issue orange coveralls, matching slippers, and an air of stubborn determination.
“Good evening, Mr. Madsen,” I said cordially as he took a seat at the bare wooden table. “Is your attorney meeting you here?”
“I don't have an attorney,” he answered, “and my name is Pete Kelsey. That's what I want to be called.”
“But you have been read your rights, haven't you, Mr. Madsen?” I continued, pointedly disregarding his wishes. I wanted to put the man on notice that this wasn't a walk in the park and it was high time he paid attention.
“You know you have the right to counsel and if you can't afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you?”
“I already know all that. Just tell me what you want to know.”
“How long have you known your wife was having an affair with Andrea Stovall?” I asked bluntly.
“It's always been there, in the background. The security guard was a surprise, but I've known about Andrea from the beginning.”
“What changed?”
Kelsey/Madsen stared at me blankly. “What do you mean, what changed?”
“Just exactly that. Andrea tried to warn your wife that you were on a rampage because of something you'd been told. What did you know then, the night of the murder, that you didn't know before?”
Kelsey hunched his shoulders. “I didn't want all this to come out, to become so much public gossip.”
“What did you find out that night?” I insisted.
“That she was leaving me. After all these years, she had decided to go live with Andrea as soon as school got out.”
“How did you find that out?”
Suddenly a dam broke somewhere inside the man's previously unflappable calm. He buried his face in his hands. “Oh God, I didn't want any of this to come out. Why are you insisting on bringing it out? I knew it would hurt George and Belle and Erin if they ever found out the truth, and as long as Marcia kept her part of the bargain, it didn't matter that much to me.”
“You still haven't answered the question,” I insisted.
“A phone call,” he said.
“A phone call? You told us about some threatening calls, harassing calls.”
Kelsey shook his head. “I didn't tell you about this one, because I hoped you'd never find out about it. The call came on Su
nday night, quite a while after Marcia left.”
“Who was it?”
“A woman, I didn't recognize the voice, laughing hysterically. She told me Marcia was going to run away with Andrea, but all the while she kept laughing and laughing, like it was the funniest thing she had ever heard.”
“You're sure you didn't recognize the voice?”
“No. At first I thought it was Erin. I was afraid she was having car trouble and was calling for help, but it turned out not to be her at all.”
“So who was it?”
“I don't know. She didn't say. Wouldn't say, but what was scary was how much she knew, or seemed to know. She said Marcia wasn't working at all, that she was at Andrea's. She even told me where Andrea lived. In all the years, I've never known that, never wanted to. That's not all, either. She said that Marcia was going to break her word to me, her promise, and go live with Andrea.”
Pete had said the words in a rush, and now he was silent.
“Did she tell you anything else?”
“No. She couldn't.”
“Couldn't? Why not?”
“Because she was laughing, Detective Beaumont, laughing hysterically! I've never heard anything like it.”
“What did you do after the phone call?”
“What do you think? I went to find them.”
“Why?”
“To try to get her to change her mind, but she wasn't there. I tried the office first, then Andrea's apartment, and later I tried the school district office again. So then I went by the school district. Nobody answered my ring the first time, and when I went back the second time, her car was gone. Actually, it's probably a good thing I didn't find her.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't trust myself, Detective Beaumont. Because I might have killed her. I was right at the end of my rope. Later on, after I cooled off, I got to thinking that if the person who called was wrong about them being together at the apartment, maybe she was wrong about the rest of it too. Maybe Marcia wasn't going to leave me after all.”
Kramer was shaking his head in obvious disgust, but I didn't give him a chance to say anything.
“Why didn't you tell us any of this before?”
“I was hoping no one would find out, that what went on between Marcia and Andrea Stovall would be a secret that Marcia would take to her grave so no one else would have to be hurt by it. But that didn't work either. It was all over the paper this morning. I couldn't believe it when I saw it.”
“So how did the murder weapon get in your bedroom, Mr. Madsen?” Detective Kramer asked.
“I don't know,” Pete replied.
“And what about Alvin Chambers' trousers and his shoes?”
“What about them?”
“We found those in your house as well, out in your garage.”
“I don't know,” Pete began. “I can't imagine, unless somebody's trying to frame me.”
“Who would do that? Who would be interested in framing you for the murder of your own wife?”
“I told you, I don't know. It's a nightmare.”
“Tell me why you stuck it out with your wife for so long, Mr. Madsen or Kelsey or whatever you call yourself,” Kramer continued. “I sure as hell wouldn't, not under those circumstances.”
Pete Kelsey's eyes hardened. “We made a bargain, Detective Kramer,” he said. “I'm a man who keeps bargains.”
“Sounds like a hell of a bargain to me,” Kramer returned derisively. “What did you get out of it?”
Had I been Pete Kelsey, I think I would have tried to belt that smart-mouthed son of a bitch. Either that or I would have clammed up. Pete Kelsey did neither.
“It was good enough for me,” he answered softly. “I got what I wanted.”
“And what was that?”
Pete Kelsey held Kramer's eyes when he answered. “I got a family,” he said. “A family and a country.”
“Wait a minute. We already know you're John David Madsen, you already had both a family and a country, so cut the bullshit.”
“That's not true,” Pete replied. “When I met Marcia Riggs, I was a man without a country, a man who had cut all ties with the past and with my family. Marrying Marcia gave me both. I owed her for that, no matter what. It's a debt I can never repay.”
“You paid, all right, bud,” Kramer said under his breath. “You paid through the nose, and when you got tired of paying, you got rid of her.”
“I didn't,” Kelsey said, half rising in his chair. “I did not!”
Suddenly there was an urgent pounding on the door to the interview room, Kramer turned and opened it. Uncertain of his welcome, the evening desk sergeant stood warily outside the door. “Excuse me, Detective Kramer, but…”
“I demand to see my client,” said a confidently assertive voice. With that, Caleb Winthrop Drachman the Third stepped past the desk sergeant and Kramer and marched into the interrogation room as if he owned the place.
Cal Drachman, with his polka-dot bow-tied image is a young (thirty-five-year-old) rising star in Seattle's criminal defense circles. At least among those defendants who for some reason or other don't qualify for a public defender. Cal Drachman III is far too busy with his burgeoning practice and making a name for himself to ever consider working for free. You could rest assured that if Cal Drachman appeared in a case, someone was footing a considerable bill.
Cal stopped in front of Pete Kelsey and smiled down at him, holding out his hand.
“Cal's the name,” he said pleasantly. His off-hand demeanor made it seem as though interrogation-room introductions are entirely ordinary. In his kind of work, maybe they are.
“One of my partners is an old friend of your father-in-law's. He and Belle wanted me to come see how you're doing.”
“Fine,” Pete said, “but…”
“Are they treating you all right?”
“Yes, but…”
“Good. Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it.”
While he had been speaking to Pete Kelsey, he had been smiling warmly, but now, as Drachman turned back to us, the smile disappeared.
“I've only just now been called in on this case. Naturally, there'll be no more questions until I've been allowed to consult with my client. What are the charges?”
Drachman knew as well as we did what the charges were, but he wanted to hear it from our own lips. He wasn't going to stand for our skipping any of the required steps or empty gestures.
“Desertion from the United States Army,” I said.
“And when did this alleged desertion take place?”
“March of 1969.”
“My goodness, that's some time ago,” Drachman said, shaking his head. “Over twenty years. Surely the Army isn't still interested in pursuing this after all these years.”
“We've alerted the CID down at Fort Lewis,” I told him. “Someone from there will be in touch to let us know what to do next.”
Caleb Drachman smiled. “So that's all then? I mean those are the only charges against my client at the moment?”
“So far.”
“Very good. What's your name?” Drachman asked, looking at me through stylishly thin-framed horn-rimmed glasses.
“Beaumont,” I responded. “Detective J.P. Beaumont.”
“Very well, Detective Beaumont.” He frowned and scratched his head. “You're in Homicide, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“But my client isn't charged with any homicide, isn't that also correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Bearing that in mind, I'm sure you'll agree with me that since there's nothing more serious against my client than this twenty-year-old desertion beef with the Army, then it's perfectly feasible for Mr. Kelsey here to attend his wife's funeral tomorrow afternoon. I've been given to understand that those are his wishes.”
“I don't agree with anything of the kind,” I began, but Cal Drachman cut me off before I could go any further.
“Excuse me, Detective Beaumont. He has not been
charged with anything more serious than this. It's water under the bridge. I believe there's a good chance that the Army will decide to drop the charges altogether. If that happens, it wouldn't look very good if you had decided to keep him from attending his own wife's funeral, now would it? Now, I think that would seem downright criminal.”
Cal Drachman shook his head sadly and waved me aside. “You go on, now. I want to consult with my client. I'll let you know when he's ready to talk to you again. He won't be meeting with you without me, is that understood?”
In the old days, when I was a kid and played cops and robbers with the kids on my block, there weren't any lawyers in the game. Nobody would have stood still for being a lawyer; you were either a good guy or a bad guy. Some days the good guys won and some days the bad guys did.
I wonder if things are different now, if nowadays when kids play that game, there aren't some who actually want to be lawyers. If not, they're missing a good bet, because these days, it's the lawyers who call all the shots.
CHAPTER
22
We had sent Pete Kelsey back to the jail and were almost ready to go home when Richard Chambers and his mother showed up around seven. Richard was a lean, handsome kid with a short, military-style haircut and ramrod-straight posture. When we had last seen Charlotte Chambers, she had been weeping uncontrollably in the reception area of the medical examiner's office. If I expected a next-of-kin interview with a still-weeping widow, however, I was in for a big surprise. Charlotte Chambers wasn't crying anymore. She was mad as hell.
“It's all those women's fault,” she raged. “I know it is. It's their wickedness that caused Alvin's death. He should have done something to stop them. When he didn't, God punished him, plain and simple.”
“Now, Mother,” Richard crooned, patting her shoulder soothingly and trying to steer her away from the subject, but Charlotte Chambers wasn't about to be placated or diverted.
“You know it's true. If you ignore evil, it sneaks into you and starts eating at your own soul. That's what it does, you see. Alvin was infected by the evil around him, by the godlessness around him. That's why he's dead.”
Payment in Kind (9780061749216) Page 21
