Matters of Doubt

by Warren C Easley

  He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, and kept them averted. In the glare of the klieg lights he looked haggard, older. “We found the murder weapon. It was a big honking screwdriver, and it had your boy’s bloody prints all over it. He did the deed, Claxton.” Then he added, “I’m sorry about tonight. We did what we had to do.”

  I didn’t speak. He was asking for my understanding, but I couldn’t give it to him. I knew he was right, but every fiber in my body was repulsed by the brutality of what I’d just witnessed. Next to the singular horror of that act, the question of justification seemed silly, irrelevant.

  When they finally released me that night, I combed the village for Archie. I was really beginning to worry when I heard someone say from behind me, “Hey, mister, this your dog?” I turned around and there he was, standing next to the woman I’d seen on crutches, wagging his stump of a tail. She said, “All those gun shots scared him, I could tell. He’s been hanging out with us. He’s mellow now.”

  Archie’s ears were down, and he whimpered softly as I kneeled and pulled him in for a hug. I thanked her, clipped his leash on, and headed for the car. Arch jumped into the back seat, lay down, and put his nose between his paws. I got in, and that’s when the emotional shock hit me. I sat there in the darkened car. My ears still rang from the gunshots, and the acrid smell of gunpowder lingered in my nostrils. Picasso’s blood stained my clothing, my shoes, and my skin. I was all business and efficiency back there, but now I started to shake, the tremors starting in my gut and rippling up through my chest. They seemed to carry the energy from my body, and when I stopped shaking I felt exhausted. Then my eyes filled, and I wept silently. I wept for Joey and for Picasso. I wept for all the desperate, cornered people in this city. And to my surprise, I wept for cops like Scott and Jones, the people we call on when our frayed safety net unravels.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “How is he?” Anna asked, rushing into the waiting room at Emanuel Legacy. I’d called her just before leaving Dignity Village for the hospital and told her to meet me there. The waiting room was brightly lit, too bright, and deserted except for a young couple huddled in a corner, speaking Spanish in hushed tones.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “They won’t tell me a damn thing.”

  “Hold on. I know an ER doc here. I’ll see if he’s working tonight.” She headed for the entry to the emergency room suite.

  I sat back down, then got back up. My mind ricocheted between fear about Picasso’s wound and the apparent discovery of the weapon used to kill Mitchell Conyers. I got a drink at the water fountain, picked out a six-month-old Sports Illustrated from a stack of magazines, and sat back down again. I tossed the magazine aside before even opening it and scratched my head with both hands. The shooting kept playing over and over again in my mind—Joey crumpling face-first in front of me, Picasso falling on top of him. That smug look on Jones’ face before the arrest kept coming back, too. I wanted to prove him wrong in the worst way, but like a trickle of oil into a clear pool, doubt had begun to cloud my thoughts. No judgments, I told myself. Wait till you speak to Picasso.

  Anna returned ten minutes later looking grim-faced. “The bullet shattered his right humerus and cut his brachial artery,” she said. “He’s in emergency surgery. They’re trying to save his arm.”

  I sucked a breath involuntarily at the last words. “What are his chances?”

  “Fifty-fifty. It’s a hideous wound. All bullet wounds are.” She eyed my bloodstained clothes. “Who got to his pressure point?”

  I dropped my eyes because I couldn’t shake a feeling of guilt for reasons I couldn’t fathom. “I did, but it took me a long time to find it.”

  “That saved his life.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Wait. My friend said he’d update me when Picasso’s out of surgery.”

  We sat down on a couch, and the next thing I knew a cell phone was buzzing some classical music riff. I opened my eyes and realized my head was leaning on Anna’s shoulder. I sat up and glanced at my watch as she answered her phone. I’d been out for over an hour. It turned out to be one of Anna’s nurses, who called to say she was going to be late in the morning. We wandered over to the cafeteria and got coffee. She asked me a lot of questions about Picasso’s new legal reality, and I had very few answers. Truth was, his legal prospects were terrible, but I wasn’t about to tell Anna that, nor did I admit to the seed of doubt that had sprouted in my mind.

  A second call came in at a little past 1:00 a.m. After several “uh huhs” and “I sees,” Anna said, “Thank you, Shawn,” snapped the lid of her phone shut and turned to me. “He’s out of surgery. He’s got a steel bar and eight screws holding his arm together now. It went okay, but he’s not out of the woods. He’ll probably need more surgery before this is over.”

  “Can we see him?”

  “No. He’s in recovery now, under armed guard. We might as well go home, Cal.”

  I walked Anna to her car and watched her drive away. When I got back to Caffeine Central, I was surprised to see her Volvo parked in front. She rolled down her window as I approached and gave me a sheepish smile. “I was thinking maybe you could use some company tonight.”

  I said, “I only have one bed.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  We made love that night with an urgency that surprised us both, I think. Afterwards, Anna sat up, pulled a sheet over her breasts, expelled a long breath and said, “God, that was good. Where have you been all my life?”

  I sat up next to her and chuckled. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  She took my hand in both of hers, pulled it to her mouth and kissed it. Then she sighed deeply. “God, I feel guilty now. The world’s so damn conflicted, you know? People suffering at the same time that people are immeasurably happy. I don’t get it. Never have.”

  I turned, kissed her eyes, and placed a finger to her lips. “Shhhh. Don’t spoil it, Anna. Happiness is rare. Take it when it comes.”

  She was gone the next morning before I got out of bed. I called the hospital and was told Picasso was in guarded condition and that visitors were not allowed. I wanted to do something about Joey—like call his family—but I didn’t have any information. I decided to wait on that until I talked to Picasso. I leashed up Archie, and we took a long run along the river while I tried to decide what to do next. It was cold that morning with angry gray clouds clumping to the north like wet cotton.

  One thing was clear—now that Picasso was arrested, I could no longer represent him. I knew an attorney who might be willing to step in, but money would be an issue. Would he take the case for the publicity? After all, it was going to be a blockbuster when it came to trial. I didn’t feel much urgency on this since Picasso wouldn’t be arraigned until he was out of the hospital, and I knew Scott and Jones would be placed on administrative leave until the shooting was thoroughly investigated. Portland had had several controversial police shootings in the last couple of years, and I was sure City Hall would be anxious to prove that Joey’s was a righteous kill.

  Despite the grungy weather, the river walk was jammed with energetic Portlanders. Arch and I threaded our way through long boarders, spandex-clad bikers, and other joggers. What the hell should I do now, I asked myself? I felt stretched between two murders eight years apart with no solid connection between the two. Hired to find Nicole Baxter’s murderer, I liked Hugo Weiman for the crime. But without Maria Escobar’s cooperation, my case was as leaky as a fishnet.

  I’d been sucked into the vortex of Mitch Conyers’ killing. Thanks to Bambi, I knew Conyers was blackmailing someone. Who, and for what? My best guess was it had to do with Nicole Baxter’s exposé. It was a potential connection between the two crimes, and it had vanished along with her eight years ago.

  There was the shock jock, Larry Vincent. Was he Baxter’s target? Had Cynthia Duncan dug up anything on that creep y
et, I wondered? There was also the fight between Conyers and his stepbrother, Seth Foster, that Bambi told me about. Jessica Armandy had to know about this and probably other things, as well. But she wasn’t about to talk to me.

  By the time Arch and I turned around at John’s Landing, my head felt ready to explode. There was another option, of course—one that had worked its way out of a dark corner in the back of my mind. Simply go home. Cut my losses. After all, I was no longer Picasso’s attorney, and this so-called case was costing me money I didn’t have. The thought had a certain appeal, but I set it aside, at least for the time being.

  I called Central Precinct when I got back to the apartment. Neither Scott nor Jones was available. No surprise there. I wound up with the precinct chief who grudgingly agreed I could see Picasso the next day at ten, provided the hospital cleared it. My voice mail was jammed with calls from reporters asking for statements and interviews. I listened to a few of the messages, then deleted the whole lot. At 9:00, I switched on Larry Vincent, that gun-toting, God-fearing defender of the common man.

  He got right to it. “Good morning Portland. I have an exclusive for you today. Last night, Portland’s finest stood tall. Six police officers were dispatched to that great bastion of the unwashed, Dignity Village, to arrest Daniel Baxter, better known as Snake Boy. Snake Boy, you will recall, is the prime suspect in the murder of Mitchell Conyers. During the arrest, Snake Boy along with his dirtbag buddy, also a resident of the village, started a gunfight. I’m happy to report they were both cut down in a hail of gunfire. The accomplice is dead, and Baxter’s in the hospital. We thank God that none of the officers was injur—” I switched the radio off. Compared to Vincent’s voice, fingernails on a blackboard would sound like Mozart.

  I called the attorney I had in mind for Picasso and left a message for him to call me, then spent the next two hours trying to do some work—the kind that actually brings money in.

  At eleven thirty, I walked over to the Zenith headquarters on Ash Street. I blew by the receptionist like I knew what I was doing and found my way back to Cynthia Duncan’s office. She looked up from her laptop. “My God, Cal. I just heard about Daniel. Is he alright?” Her eyes dominated her face—big, luminous saucers full of worry and concern.

  “He’s alive, but his right arm’s severely injured. It was touch and go last night, but it looks like he’ll be okay.”

  “Thank God.” She noticed the bandage on my ear. “Were you injured, too?”

  “No. I banged my ear up, is all. Come on, I’ll tell you about what happened last night over lunch. I’m buying.” This girl needed some nourishment.

  She took me to a little joint on Third called the Bijou, the kind of place you know is good from the friendly buzz of the crowd and the delicious food smells. I ordered the roast beef hash, and Cynthia asked for a side salad. Out of frustration, I said, “Don’t you ever eat?” Which, of course, was a big mistake even though I said it with a smile.

  She shot me a withering look. “The salads here are very filling. You know, Americans eat way too much. It’s a national epidemic.”

  I nodded agreement and began describing last night’s events. When I got to the bloody screwdriver with Picasso’s prints on it, Cynthia shrugged and said, “I figured Daniel might have done it. That son of a bitch Conyers had it coming, believe me. You’re going to get Daniel off, right?” For her, it seemed, the question of guilt or innocence was irrelevant. If Picasso had done it, then he had done society a big favor.

  Her comments did nothing to assuage the doubt that had sprung up in my mind, but I kept my mouth shut. I asked her about Larry Vincent. She took a small bite, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and pushed her half-eaten salad away. “Oh, you mean the guy who’s given a whole new meaning to the term scumbag?

  I smiled and nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t bring this up until I’d finished eating. I was stymied until a source of mine in the legal community tipped me off about a disgruntled paralegal. Turns out she was fired by the attorney who handled the thing for Vincent.”

  “Who’s the attorney?”

  “Alan Prescott, you know, of Prescott, Brady, and Brown.”

  I nodded. I knew Prescott by reputation. A “go-along to get-along” type who handled a lot of old-money clients in and around Portland.

  “Anyway, she gave me a sense of what happened. Even she didn’t know that much. The Vincent family used a thirteen-year old to babysit the kids occasionally. The girl was brilliant, beautiful, and physically mature beyond her years. Larry Vincent becomes a kind of mentor for the girl, whose family life is in disarray, and you guessed it, he begins to have sex with her. This lasts four or five years until the girl’s mother finds out. Enter Prescott. A deal is struck, which pays off the mother, pays the girl a monthly sum, and covers her college expenses. In exchange, mother and daughter agree not to press charges and to maintain strict confidentiality.”

  “Mom agrees so her daughter won’t get dragged through the courts.”

  “That’s a charitable view. If it had been my daughter I would have cut off Vincent’s balls with a razor.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a shotgun.” We had a head-shaking laugh before I added, “Your source didn’t give you a name?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “How do you know she’s telling the truth?”

  “She told me she did some of the legal research for the case and typed up parts of the agreement. I believe her.”

  I laid my fork across my plate and leaned back. “Losing your reputation, public humiliation and condemnation, loss of your livelihood—pretty good motives for murder, I’d say.”

  Cynthia eyes grew wet, and her jaws flexed as if she were grinding her teeth. She’d have used that razor, for sure. “So, you’re saying Vincent killed Nicky to silence her, then maybe he killed Conyers, too, because Conyers was blackmailing him all these years?”

  “If Nicole really had him in her crosshairs, I’d say you could be right. Trouble is, I don’t have a damn thing to connect him to either one of them except an entry in Nicole’s planner for a meeting the week after she disappeared.”

  Cynthia dabbed at her eyes, looked down at the mascara on her napkin and swore, reminding me of Bambi. Then she looked up at me and nodded. “So what else can I do, Cal?”

  “You’ve already done a lot. It would be nice to know the name of the girl Vincent molested.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m on it. I’m going to expose that bastard. If you nail him on a murder charge, that’s frosting on the cake.”

  “Look, Cynthia, I don’t need to tell you this could get dangerous. Who knows what you’re up to besides your source?”

  “Just my boss.”

  “Good. Be careful who you talk to, and keep me in the loop. I’ll do the same.”

  I walked Cynthia back to her building, then headed for Caffeine Central. I should have felt good about the meeting, but versus the overwhelming case against Picasso, trying to implicate Vincent for either killing looked like a steep climb—Everest, maybe. Would the view be worth the climb? I wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Picasso was asleep when I entered his room. The sight of him caused my chest to tighten. His face was drawn, the skin so pale it had a bluish tint. His lip and eyebrow rings had been removed, and the colorful bands of the coral snake coiled around his neck seemed somehow muted. His right arm was heavily bandaged and elevated in a sling device that held it off the side of the bed. His left arm had an IV drip and pulse monitor attached. He must have sensed my gaze, because his eyes slowly opened. In a weak, raspy voice he said, “Hey, wassup, Cal?”

  “Not much. How’re you feeling?”

  His eyes welled up. “How’s Joey, man? I can’t get a straight answer around here.”

  I couldn’t believe no one had leveled with him. “H
e didn’t make it. He died at the scene. I’m sorry.”

  Picasso nodded, and a single tear broke loose and worked its way down his cheek. The tear was on the edge of his jaw when he said, “I knew it. I can still hear the shots. Jesus, how many times did they shoot him?”

  “Eight, by my count.”

  “Trigger happy bastards.”

  “I’m as angry as you are, but the truth is, Joey made the call. Once he raised the barrel, they had no choice.”

  “What the hell was he trying to do, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure we’ll ever know. Talking about his experiences, then seeing you get arrested seemed to push him over the edge. I think it was suicide by cop.”

  Another tear broke loose. “Suicide?”

  “Yeah. I think Joey just couldn’t cope, so he baited the cops into killing him.”

  I pulled a chair up to his bed and sat down. We talked about Joey, and he gave me the name of Joey’s wife in San Francisco. I promised to contact her and offer our condolences. Then I glanced at my watch. “They only gave me half an hour. The cops arrested you because they found a screwdriver with your bloody prints on it. I need to know what happened. The truth this time.”

  Picasso closed his eyes for a few seconds. His dark lashes looked like fine brushes against his pale skin. “Shit, I figured they’d find it all along. After I pulled Conyers out of the pool, I saw the screwdriver on the deck. I recognized it in a heartbeat, man—it was mine! I just stood there for a minute gaping at it. I couldn’t believe it, but there it was. My old screwdriver with paint all over the handle, and blood, too. I knew I’d be toast if I just left it lying there. So I pried the cap off one of the gate posts in the back and dropped it in. You showed up right after that.”