“I’m not quite sure what to make of this,” he finally admitted. “The truth of the matter is, I really wasn’t involved in the Conner case. Whether intentionally, or not, Patch had me occupied with far more mundane matters.”
He paused, a faint smile again crossing his lips before he continued.
“When it came to anything of locally high profile—particularly in an election year—he was never one to willingly share any perceived limelight, even with his own staff.”
Though this statement struck David as being somewhat improbable, he acknowledged that perhaps it wasn’t totally beyond the realm of possibility. He accepted that the internal machinations within small town politics couldn’t be entirely ignored. Besides, unless this man was a gifted actor, he didn’t appear the least disingenuous.
Torres glanced at the few sheets a second time.
“And you’re telling me this is everything he received?”
“Afraid so.”
The officer pondered on this for a long moment before continuing.
“At the very least, Mr. Andrews should’ve automatically been sent a complete copy of the official autopsy report. That’s standard department procedure in any murder investigation. Patch knew that, yet there are only a few general references made to one. Multiple torture wounds to the body, chest and facial lacerations, missing fingers . . . Are you positive your friend never received—?”
“I’m certain,” David replied. “Maybe the question to be better asked here is whether a full autopsy by your local coroner was ever conducted.” He hesitated as Torres arched his eyebrow; then asked, “Do you personally know for a certainty one was even performed?”
At that moment, Marge entered without knocking and dropped the finished copies on the desk. Obviously now aware of David’s reason for being here, she cast him a cold and disapproving look. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes,” she informed them in a stern voice. “Is there anything else that you might want before—?”
Torres abruptly cut her off.
“Actually, there is, Marge.” His former sympathy for her was now clearly wearing a bit thin. “Bring in the entire case file on Peter Conner before you go. I want to see everything we have.” He glanced at David. “Mr. Manning and I will be here considerably longer than anticipated.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ten minutes later, Torres flipped through Peter Conner’s official file and appeared relieved when he found the coroner’s typed report. Yet within seconds of perusing it, his expression once again returned to one of mild bewilderment.
“Now this—this is definitely odd,” he muttered aloud.
“What is?”
“Take a look,” said the officer, passing the report across the desk without further comment.
David gave the stapled sheets a quick scan, trying to isolate what it was that disturbed Torres. When he got to the last page it became patently obvious. It wasn’t so much what the report contained—it was what it didn’t include.
“Is this all of it?” he asked. “The entire report?”
“Appears so.”
“I’m confused. Shouldn’t there also be toxicology results on Peter’s blood and organ tissues? If his case was being treated as a probable drug related murder, what possible excuse could explain why no samples were taken for analysis and corroborating evidence? Is this even remotely possible?”
“I’m puzzled, as well,” replied Torres. “I can’t explain it. Their absence is highly unusual.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine what Doc Farbie was thinking. Unless, of course . . .”
David waited.
“Unless what?” he finally prompted.
Torres hesitated before responding.
“I’d rather not start making rash conjectures without first digging out more facts—which I certainly intend to do, Mr. Manning.” He leaned back in his chair. “However, if you have any thoughts regarding this little mystery, I’m quite willing to listen with an open mind.”
David appreciated the man’s cautious tactic.
Truth be told, he was fast developing a liking for this meticulous officer.
“Well, for openers,” David obliged, “let’s say for arguments sake the coroner actually did perform all appropriate tests on Peter’s body. If those results came back positive for drug use—something I’d most vehemently challenge—that evidence would certainly be in here to re-enforce the official position of a drug deal gone horribly wrong.”
“Why do you say vehemently challenge?”
“Because I’ve known and admired Peter his entire life. We’re talking about a serious young man who didn’t even smoke cigarettes.”
“I see. And if the tests came back negative?”
“Then someone in this office had to have intentionally deleted them from the official report. The alternative, of course, is that the tests were never performed in the first place—which only raises another set of questions. If they weren’t done—something we both agree should’ve been standard procedure—then who in your department had the authority or influence to remove it?”
The younger man’s eyes narrowed.
“Either scenario, you must realize you’re pointing a finger at Patch.”
“Who else is there?”
Torres pursed his lips.
“So, what you’re suggesting in both is Patch—or possibly someone else—has intentionally manipulated evidence. What would be the motivation? Merely to strengthen a conclusion that this was purely a drug inspired crime?”
David lifted his shoulders.
“Is it so beyond the realm of possibility?” he asked. “You must admit that his declaring a murder case unworthy of further investigation after just a few weeks seems damned bizarre. You’ve worked under him for—what?—I’m guessing at least a few years?”
“Four now as Deputy Sheriff . . .”
“Okay, so if I’m completely off base, then convince me otherwise.”
David took the following interval of silence as a tacit agreement. He’d basically handed the officer the perfect chance to give a laudatory appraisal of Patch’s sterling character. Yet the opportunity to do so was allowed to slip away.
To David’s mind, this spoke volumes—and there could be only one logical conclusion. For reasons as yet unknown, Torres and the late P.T. O’Malley hadn’t been on the best of terms.
Torres now pushed back his chair.
“You’ve raised some interesting questions, Mr. Manning. Rather than continue speculating, I think it’s about time we sought some definitive answers.”
He glanced at his wrist.
“It’s not that late. What say I drive us over to Doc Farbie’s and see if we can resolve this?”
The Farbie home proved to be less than fifteen minutes away, located in what was clearly a mature residential area of town. A stone-faced, ranch style house, its wide driveway was paved in interlocking brick, its tailored yard attractively landscaped with established trees and flowering shrubs. Torres parked the police cruiser before an attached two-car garage, where he then preceded David to the front entrance and rang the doorbell.
The diminutive woman who answered seemed mildly surprised.
“Why, hello,” she said with obvious pleasure. “I don’t believe Gene was expecting anyone, Russell. Please, come on in. I assume you wish to see him on some official business?”
“If he’s free for a few minutes, yes.”
“No problem. In fact, your timing couldn’t be better. Another hour, or so, and you would’ve missed him.” She smiled. “Our plans are to eat out later this evening.”
“We won’t keep him long, Sandra, I promise.”
“Not to worry.” She glanced at the case folder in Torres’ hand and led them into the dinning room. “This will give you more space. I’ll tell him you’re here and leave you gentleman to your work.”
When her husband joined them—a trim, silver haired man in his late sixties—Torres introduced David and his reason for
being in Enid. To back this up, he produced one of the notarized copies made by Marge earlier that afternoon, allowing Farbie time to read through it.
When finished, the physician said, “If you wish me to discuss this case openly with Mr. Manning present, then I’d like to keep this for my records.”
“Certainly. I anticipated as much.”
The man nodded, apparently satisfied this legality was covered.
“All right, Russ, now what is it you want of me?”
Torres opened the folder and came to the point of their visit—that being the missing toxicology report from inside Peter’s official file.
“Knowing how scrupulously thorough you are, Doc, may I assume all standard tests were run?”
Farbie appeared marginally offended the question was even asked.
“Of course,” he stated unequivocally. “If you require verification, just give me a second. All of the individual case documents are kept under lock and key in my study.”
He returned moments later, handing over his matching autopsy report.
“As you can see, everything was done by the book. The young man’s tests came back clean, by the way—no evidence of any detectable substance abuse in his system, whatsoever. So if you were suggesting that I somehow failed to run the tests—or inadvertently overlooked attaching them to Patch’s copy—I can assure you that it was all given to him complete and without omissions.”
“My apologies. I didn’t intend for it to come across that way. Merely doing my job. But this raises another question that perhaps you can shed some light on. Looking back, can you think of any possible reason regarding this case that might’ve led Patch to delete this information from the departmental file?”
“If you mean intentionally . . . then no.”
There was a slight hesitation in the man’s measured response that David picked up on. And apparently so did Torres.
“Just inquiring, Doc, but can you recall anything—oh, let’s say somewhat different or even slightly unusual—in his attitude regarding this case?” Torres opened his hands and shrugged. “You’ve worked closely with him as the county medical examiner for a good many years.”
Farbie hesitated, his look pensive.
“Are—are we now speaking off the record?”
“Completely.”
“You know, there actually was something that struck me as vaguely odd, but it was more like an impression than anything else. Probably nothing of any real significance, mind you, but it did seem at the time as being somewhat peculiar.”
“How so?”
“Well, from the moment I was called out to officially view the body in situ, it appeared he’d already concluded what we had was a drug related murder—even to the point of trying to convince me of the same.” He paused. “But as I say, Russ, this was only my impression.”
Their meeting concluded, they went back to retrieve David’s car, both men agreeing to meet again at 10am the following morning. David wished to see exactly where Peter’s body was found and Torres was willing to oblige him.
As David drove to his hotel, he kept thinking of Doc Farbies’ parting words, pondering just what correlations could be drawn between them and the missing toxicology reports in Patch’s file. Though certainly not conclusive, one logical inference couldn’t be ignored—and he now wondered if perhaps Torres was also fast reaching the same conclusion.
He suspected so.
The accumulating evidence suggested Patch knew from day one that Peter’s brutal murder had absolutely nothing to do with drugs. But if true—short of some kind of personal involvement—what would’ve motivated him to attempt such a flagrant deception?
CHAPTER NINE
>The two adjacent, single-story buildings comprising En-Tex Environmental stood twenty-three miles due west of Enid. Centered in an otherwise barren landscape of privately owned property without any visible neighbors, both structures were amply enclosed by what looked at first glance to be standard, metal security fencing. Yet first appearances were deceiving. Not only was this wire barrier constantly monitored electronically to warn against intrusion, but there was also a cleverly disguised series of state-of-the-art motion detectors strategically placed outside its generous perimeter.
Security was of paramount importance.
It was well after sunset when Marino replaced the receiver on his private line in the smaller of the two buildings and reviewed his notes. His tail-man, Hogan, had done well, he thought, and there seemed little doubt that the man driving the Ford Edge SUV parked outside the police station that afternoon was in all likelihood the expected investigator from back east.
The probability appeared high.
Not only did the vehicle’s license plate confirm it as an out-of-town rental, but toward evening Hogan had had the presence of mind to discretely follow as Deputy Sheriff Torres drove the man out to visit with old Doc Farbie. By itself, this was far too coincidental not to be telling.
Time to dig deeper.
Marino turned to his desk computer and opened up a secured browser behind a masked proxy, launching a handy—but somewhat illegal—search plug-in granting him covert access to the state vehicle registration database. He then typed in the license plate number. Within seconds a name appeared on his screen. The rental vehicle was issued that afternoon at 3:44pm out of Del Rio International Airport to a David Manning.
He jotted the name down, seeking more information.
Since United Airlines was the only major passenger carrier servicing DRI, he switched over to yet another illicit venue at his means. Once hacked in, he then rapidly tracked the name Manning back to a flight originating out of Logan Airport in Boston—which in his mind made the eastern tie to Richard Andrews at Cornell University a reasonable certainty.
He eased back in his chair.
Okay. So, what if anything was to be done?
The answer, he concluded, was to simply adhere to his original plan and maintain a tight surveillance. His last instruction to Hogan was to wait at least another hour at the Clarion to ensure the man was settled in for the night. Let this Manning fellow poke around all he wished. Sooner or later—and hopefully sooner—he must eventually come to the inevitable determination that there was absolutely nothing to he learned.
How could it be otherwise?
The answer was that it couldn’t. With Patch out of the way, all of their tracks were safely covered, no untidy loose threads left to unravel.
Satisfied, Marino now lit a cigarette and punched the dedicated line to his people in the second building. Being by nature cautious, he made it a habit to regularly check the status of the next monthly shipment soon to begin its journey to Zurich two days hence.
He anticipated no delays—and found there were none.
They were right on schedule, progressing precisely as planned.
Always an early riser, David was up and into the shower at sunrise, not feeling quite as reinvigorated as he wished, but unwilling to lie abed unnecessarily. At best, his night’s sleep had been fitful, his subconscious mind working overtime with unanswered questions, all interlaced with distinctly troubling images.
Not unexpected, all pertained to the mysterious death of Peter.
On the previous evening, after a decent meal in the hotel restaurant, he’d phoned Elizabeth and filled her in on the limited progress of his first day—which in retrospect he felt to be fairly significant considering the surprise revelation that Sheriff O’Malley was no longer in the picture. As she well knew, he’d counted heavily on confronting him on the unusual handling of Peter’s case.
Now that opportunity was denied him.
He showered a full ten minutes longer than was his habit, using the hot spray and billowing steam to flush the cobwebs from his head. It seemed to work. What he needed was to establish a fresh perspective on all of this before again meeting with Deputy Sheriff Torres—someone his instincts told him just might become an invaluable ally in his investigation.
Only time
would tell.
He dressed and ordered up a pot of coffee, then pulled a pen and legal size pad from his briefcase and relaxed on the room’s couch.
Whenever faced with a particularly troubling situation, he found that sometimes the best way to try and prioritize his thoughts was to simply jot them down as they randomly came to him, regardless of how out of sequence they may be. More often than not his notes would eventually begin to self-organize into a logical course of action. With any sort of luck this technique might work for him yet again—or at the very least begin steering him in the right direction.
Unfortunately, it proved not to be a foolproof system.
Two cups of coffee later, he set his pen aside and flipped through his notes a final time with a slow shake of his head. The results weren’t anywhere near what he hoped. Vague suspicions, yes—but still far too little working information. So many questions remained to be answered.
He sighed and checked his watch.
It was 9:45, time for him to leave.
The drive west to where Peter’s body was found began in relative silence, Torres having admitted in advance that he wasn’t completely confident of his ability to identify the exact spot. Give or take within a few hundred feet, he speculated, was about the best he could guarantee.
Roughly twenty miles from Enid, Torres slowed and pulled his police cruiser onto a gravel road, then cleared the trip odometer on his dash, resetting it to zero. By the sketchy notations retrieved from Patch’s original case entries, the place they sought was now about eight miles away.
Making light conversation, David said, “You know, one of the things I meant to ask you about yesterday and never got around to was the cause and circumstances of Patch’s death. His obituary in the Enid Tribune seemed rather thin when it came to giving any real information.”
A faint smile came to Torres’ face.
“You noticed that, did you?”
The Emperor's Treasure Page 6
