“I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.”
“It would help you get the cops off your ass. Any chance you can find him again?”
“I’m planning on going up there this weekend. I’ll try to track him down. I don’t like being a suspect.”
“No. I wouldn’t think you would.”
“Things went south at the station, too. They were getting complaints and losing advertisers, so they shut me down. People in town look at me like I’m a pariah. Some guys provoked a fight with me the other day. That’s how I got all this.” He pointed at his face.
“I was going to ask about that.”
“Yeah. It got ugly real quick. Three guys. I should have walked away, but they shoved Tina, and I went berserk.”
“You need to lay low for a while. Stay out of the limelight while the police track down the killers. The fact that you don’t have an alibi for all the murders is a concern. An unlikely coincidence.”
Jackson looked at his attorney suspiciously. “What are you getting at?”
“Just this: I don’t believe in coincidences. Never have. Neither do the police. So, whoever is committing these murders knew your schedule. They knew your girlfriend was out of town. They knew you were up at the cabin. They knew you used Trazadone. They knew the type of printers and paper your office uses.”
“Someone I know is doing this to frame me?”
“Something to consider,” his attorney replied. “For the next few weeks, you need to make sure you aren’t alone. If you are being framed, you need to make sure you have a solid alibi going forward. The best way to do that is to make sure someone knows your whereabouts at all times.”
“How am I going to do that and still keep a low profile?”
An awkward silence followed. It was all too surreal for Jackson. He was used to being in the limelight, but he had never been a suspect in a crime before. This latest suggestion floored him, but it made sense. If he could have an airtight alibi when the next murder took place, the police would have to back off and drop him from the list of suspects.
Steinhart had worked a ton of cases when he was in the public defender’s office, and not once had he dealt with a case in which a defendant had been or suspected he was being framed. They almost all claimed their innocence, though, and usually continued with that line of denial even after they were convicted. The possibility that his old friend was being framed was almost too much to believe. That only happened in crime novels, not real life. He had to believe that was the case here. The alternative was too much to consider.
A loud knock on the door ended their conversation. Jackson slowly rose from his seat and shuffled to the front door. He knew whom he would find there, and he wasn’t looking forward to what was about to take place. When he opened the door, there were a team of detectives and forensic investigators lined up behind Detective Stein.
Stein had a dour look on his face. “Mr. Jackson, we have an official search warrant now.” He handed Jackson the warrant. Jackson looked at it briefly and handed it to his attorney. Steinhart looked at the document and nodded to Jackson to let them in.
“Gentlemen, please be as neat and respectful as possible,” he said as the team filed in.
Steinhart and Jackson stepped aside and took a seat on the couch, out of the way. Stein and Baird stayed with them while the search took place. There was little talk between them.
When the forensic team was done, they left quietly. They had made sure to be professional and hadn’t torn the place up too much. Having an attorney present was certainly a plus. The took the bottle of Trazadone with them, but from where Jackson and Steinhart sat, it didn’t appear that the team had taken anything else with them. If they had, they had been careful not to tip their hand.
Stein and Baird followed the team out the door.
“I told you that you wouldn’t find anything here,” said Jackson from behind them.
“We aren’t done yet,” replied Baird without turning back.
Stein stopped and quietly said, “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Jackson, but the chief and the mayor insisted. I had no choice. Do us all a favor and find your witness up at the lake. Get us an airtight alibi, so we can clear you.”
“Yeah. I intend to.”
“I’d say that went relatively well,” said Steinhart when the two were alone again. “Remember what I said: For the next few days or so, make sure someone always knows where you are. And if they try to bring you in for more questioning, call me. I don’t want you interviewed without me there.”
“Sure.”
Harold reminded him again as he left to call him with any new developments, especially when he located his witness.
When everyone was gone, Jackson opened a can of beer and starting cleaning up the mess the investigators had left behind. It could have been worse—at least, based on TV shows he had seen. He called George.
“Can you meet me for a drink?”
“Sure, Bob. What’s up?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person.”
They agreed to meet twenty minutes later, at the Empty Glass Tavern. They arrived at about the same time and entered together. No one took notice of their arrival. It might have been because no one cared—or, more likely, because Jackson was wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. He didn’t take them off in the dark tavern. They easily found an empty table, and, although they didn’t know it, it was the same table at which Lane Stevens had his last fight with his brother. They each ordered a draft beer.
Over the next hour—and several beers—Jackson shared with George all that had gone on in the last two days, starting with the bar fight and ending with the search warrant and the police questioning him again. George was sympathetic and aghast over what Jackson had been dealing with.
Then came the various theories of who might be behind the murders and why. They each tried to played detective and were at a loss. But with all the theories they—and the beer—could come up with, they both came back to the one that suggested Jackson was being framed. And if so, who hated him that much? And why? George was clueless. He was a trusting person and couldn’t think of a single person that he had met during their years of doing the show whom he could conceive of doing something like this. But as Jackson laid out the case, it made sense. However, neither of them could come up with a single suspect.
“And yet,” said Jackson, “it has to be someone we know. Who else could pull something like this off?”
“No way it’s anyone from the station,” said George. He knew them all well; he had drunk and joked with all of them. Not only was he sure no one there hated Jackson enough to do this to him; he was sure none of them were capable of murder. To him, it had to be a stranger who was just using the show to identify victims.
“That doesn’t explain how they made sure I was alone during each murder. And don’t tell me they just happened to have the same printers as the station. It has to be someone we know.”
“Who?” said George as he slammed down another beer.
“Do you think Julia or Steve could be involved in something like this? Hell, they know my schedule, and if anyone knows about all the victims, it would be them. They keep all those records.”
“No way. I don’t see Steve killing anyone. I just can’t picture it. He’s too nice. Plus, he worships you. And I’ve never heard him say anything that would lead me to believe he has a violent bone in his body.”
“Okay. I see that. What about Julia?”
George laughed. “Sweet little Julia? No way. I don’t see her doing anything that physical or violent.”
Jackson tried to picture Julia swinging a hammer or a bat or whatever the press had said the killers used. And why would she frame him? He didn’t think she had as high regard for him as Steve, but he’d never noticed any signs of animosity, either.
Okay. Who else? “Jay?” He asked. Jay had shown disdain for Jackson on numerous occasions over the years. It didn’t make sense, since Jackson was a c
ash cow for the station. But, come to think of it, Jay seemed to resent Jackson’s success. And Jay rarely joined the team for drinks or meals, and he did seem standoffish. But murder? He just didn’t know that much about Jay. He was certainly strong enough to commit the murders. But why frame the station’s meal ticket? But as they talked, they couldn’t rule out Jay as easily as they had ruled out Steve and Julia.
They were both perplexed, disturbed, and overwhelmed. The beer didn’t do much to alleviate any of those feelings. In fact, it probably intensified their paranoia. Jackson looked across the table at George. Could he be involved? He hadn’t asked himself that question before. How could he suspect him? They had been close friends for years. But if he considered who benefited if Jackson went down, it was George. He would be the likely successor, and he was well-liked, and no one was more knowledgeable or competent. Jackson looked at his beer mug. It had to be the beer clouding his judgement. There was no way it was George.
“What about a rival station?” asked George. “It would explain motive.”
“Makes sense,” agreed Jackson. “But how do they know enough about me to frame me?”
“Okay, this is crazy, but bear with me. What if Julia or Jay were providing information to them without knowing what it was going to be used for? Hell, if we go down that road, it could be the janitor or the secretary.”
“That’s creepy, George. That’s, like, super-spy stuff.” Jackson took a slug off his beer and set down the mug slowly. “But, geez, it actually fits.”
Across from them were three loud men, sharing their third pitcher of beer. Jackson felt their stares and turned away. He had a feeling of déjà vu and didn’t relish the thought of a repeat performance of the other night. He pulled his hat down a little lower over his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the men staring more intently. Jackson had never seen the three men before, but he was feeling uneasy.
“Maybe we should finish this later. I need to get up to the cabin and see if I can track down my alibi for one of the murders.”
George could see that something had caught Jackson’s eye.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I’m getting a bad feeling. Like I’m going to have a repeat performance of the other night.”
“Okay. I’m ready to go. I shouldn’t be drinking this much, anyway.”
“Hey, I think that’s Bob Jackson over there.” The man who had been staring pointed toward Jackson and George.
“Who?” asked one of his companions.
“You know, the Consumer Champion guy. I heard he’s a serial killer.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
The men were drunk and weren’t trying to keep their voices down. Even over the din in the bar, George and Jackson could hear almost every word.
“I heard he lines up the victims and signals the killers with his radio show,” said the second man.
The third man was confused. “Who we talking about?” he asked, slightly slurring his words.
“Geez, Sam, are you even awake? Do you listen to the news or read the paper?”
“Fuck you. I read the papers.”
“I don’t mean the comics, you douche. You do know that there’s a serial killer running around Denver, don’t you?”
“Of course, I know. Everyone knows. You think he’s the killer?”
Jackson and George both tried to signal their waiter.
“Have another beer, dick-wad,” the first man said and shoved the pitcher toward him, spilling a little onto the table and his pants.
“Damn. What’d you do that for?”
Jackson kept an anxious eye on them as the waiter finally approached them. He said he would be right back with their bill.
“What’re you looking at?” said the first man, directing the question at Jackson.
This time, Jackson didn’t avert his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut as he considered his options. A response would undoubtedly start a fight but keeping quiet might embolden the jerk, thereby ensuing in a fight nonetheless. On the other hand, not every verbal altercation resulted in a fight.
Now, the man was pointing at Jackson as he raised his voice.
“He’s got a lot of nerve, showing his face around town,” he said as he rose from his stool.
A short man with thinning hair who was sitting next to the antagonist said, “Let it go, Charlie.”
Charlie was not inclined to listen to his companion. Alcohol had a way of doing that to some folks, and Charlie wasn’t what you might consider to be a happy drunk. His own life was a mess; he had a wife who was leaving him, and an unfulfilling job. Showing his machismo in front of his friends wasn’t going to change that—but then, nothing was. He shuffled over to Jackson’s table.
“Hi. I have a bet with my friends. Aren’t you Bob Jackson, the Consumer Champion?”
Jackson stared at him. In the old days, this might result in a request for an autograph or a selfie. But not now. The beer might have dulled Jackson’s senses a little, but he wasn’t stupid. He could see the man had anger issues. His only hope was that they could pay the bill and get out the door before trouble started.
George, on the other hand, was appalled at the story Jackson had told him and wasn’t going to allow his friend to take any abuse.
In his best, conciliatory tone, George asked the man what they could do for him.
“It’s just… I’ve never been in the presence of a celebrity before. Maybe I could get his autograph.”
“I don’t think now is a good time,” said George.
“Why not? Might be my last chance to get his autograph before he goes to jail.”
“Charlie, let it go,” said one of his friends, still sitting at their table.
“Come on back, man,” another of them pleaded.
Charlie responded to them without taking his eyes off Jackson. “Hang on, guys. What’s the harm? I’m just asking for an autograph.”
“Why don’t you listen to your friends?” suggested George.
One of Charlie’s friends had now joined him at the table. He tried divert Charlie’s attention away from Jackson. “Come on, Charlie. Let it go. Let’s have another beer.”
Charlie considered the offer briefly and decided against it. He leaned in close to Jackson and asked again, “What do you say? How about an autograph? Could be worth a fortune someday.”
Surprisingly, Jackson stayed calm. With the advice of his attorney to stay out of trouble fresh in his mind, he didn’t want to antagonize the guy into a fight. “Okay,” he said. “If I give you an autograph, will you leave us alone?”
“See Larry, if you just ask nicely, good things come to you.”
“It’s Charlie, right?” asked Jackson as he started to write on a napkin.
With a big grin on his face, Charlie said, “Just say: To Charlie, from your new pal, the Consumer Champion, aka the serial killer.” He laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder.
That was it for George. He rose out of his seat and stood face-to-face with Charlie. Charlie was a couple of inches taller than George and maybe twenty to thirty pounds heavier, but George was undaunted. As a mixed-race kid growing up in South Carolina, he’d had his share of fights with both the black and white kids in his neighborhood. He learned never to back down, and although he didn’t win every fight, he soon earned the respect of the other kids as a pretty tough fighter.
“You’re way out of line, buddy. I suggest you crawl back to your hole before you’re sorry.”
“Hey, boy,” Charlie spat out. “Shut the fuck up. No one asked your opinion.” Charlie wasn’t done yet. He turned toward Jackson. “You need your little nigger boy here to protect you?”
It wasn’t the first time George had been called “boy” or “nigger”. He’d even been called “cracker” on occasion. He could keep his emotions in check and always made it a point never to throw the first punch. Charlie was drunk, and if he did throw a punch, George felt he could easily dodge it and deli
ver enough damage to put him on the floor with ease.
But Jackson was enraged. It was bad enough that people were taking their hatred and frustrations out on him, but now, they had turned on his best friend. Throwing caution to the wind—along with his attorney’s advice—he flew out of his chair and pounced on Charlie. On a good day, Charlie might have blocked one of the punches, but drunk and sloppy, he was dead meat. Three punches—two to the face and one to the stomach—had Charlie on the floor with a split lip, moaning. The fight was over as soon as it began. Charlie had no desire to take any more abuse. He sat on the floor, wiping the blood off his lip and whining about the crazy maniac who’d sucker-punched him. Enough people had heard Charlie’s comments and took Jackson’s side. He had been provoked by the racist remarks and was justified in retaliating. Even Charlie’s friends reprimanded him for starting the fight as they helped him up. He had been out of line, and they had warned him to back off. He’d gotten what he deserved, and it would be best if he just let it go.
As they helped him back to their table, Jackson could hear him still whining. “Crazy bastard,” he said meekly.
“Shut up, Charlie. You deserved it,” said Larry. “Let it go.”
He did. The speed and ferocity of Jackson’s attack had shocked and scared Charlie. He wasn’t sure if he was dealing with a killer, but he found out quickly that he was dealing with a no-nonsense fighter. Between the beer and the bloody lip, there was no fight left in Charlie. He didn’t say another word as they paid their bill and left.
The bar manager, a long-time friend of Jackson’s, arrived after the fight was over. Charlie was leaving, and Jackson just shrugged as he dropped four twenties on the table. “Small misunderstanding about heritage, but it’s all straightened out now,” joked Jackson.
“Sorry. We’ll just be heading home now,” added George.
The manager just walked away, shaking his head. The last time there was a fight at his bar, someone had ended up dead, and the police were still asking questions.
Jackson and George headed outside, and they both felt better in the fresh air. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
All In A Day's Work Page 26
