Court Trouble

by Mike Befeler

  “Maybe,” one man in a torn, brown, bomber jacket said, looking up. “Got some change?”

  Mark dug into his pocket and came up with all his loose coins. Three hands shot out.

  He dispensed the money as if feeding parking meters.

  “Now what can you tell me?” Mark asked.

  The faces went blank.

  “Who has seen a man with a cross earring?”

  “Don’t know anyone like that,” the man in the bomber jacket answered, before he closed his eyes and leaned back on the brown grass.

  All the others turned away as well.

  Realizing he had struck out on any useful information here, Mark turned west and continued to negotiate his way along the mall. A group of people stood on the other side of Thirteenth Street, watching a street performer who could locate any town in the United States by zip code. Another group of street people sprawled against the side of a red brick building. Mark approached them.

  “I’m looking for a man: gray hair, a goatee and a pockmarked face. Wears a silver cross earring. Anyone seen him?”

  “Sounds like Old Mel,” a man in a colorful African robe said.

  Mark felt his eyes open wider. “Is he around today?”

  “Nah, haven’t seen him this week. But he usually turns up on Friday and Saturday nights. Likes to sit in front of Peppercorn. Got a quarter?”

  With all of his change gone, Mark pulled out his wallet and found a dollar bill and a twenty. He gave the man the dollar.

  “Where does Old Mel sleep?”

  “Probably by the railroad tracks out east near Boulder Creek. Nice wooded area to camp out.”

  Mark found no one in front of Peppercorn, so he meandered two more blocks and ordered a pepperoni pizza and beer at Old Chicago. By the time he started back, darkness had descended. Mark camped out on a wooden bench with a view of the entrance to Peppercorn. He watched the collection of college students, families, teenagers and street people stroll by for two hours. As the autumn evening turned cooler, he gave up and navigated back toward the parking structure. Two doors past the Cheesecake Factory, he cut through an alley. A form caught his attention. He stared. A man lay stretched out along the wall of one building.

  As Mark approached, he saw a wine bottle sticking out of a brown paper bag, torn jeans and a black sweatshirt. The man faced the wall.

  Mark cleared his throat.

  The man remained motionless.

  Mark looked around and saw no one else in sight. Gritting his teeth, he shook the man.

  A hand fluttered and a drunken voice said, “Go ’way.”

  Then slowly the man’s head turned. A gray goatee, pockmarks and a silver cross earring.

  Mark’s hand now clamped onto the man’s shoulder. “Are you Mel?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Thought you might like some wine money in exchange for answering some questions.”

  The gray-haired head poked up. “Yeah?”

  Mark reached in his wallet, took out the twenty-dollar bill and waved it in front of Old Mel like tempting a bull with a red flag.

  Mel made an inept grab for the money.

  Mark pulled it back out of his reach. “Something for you . . . after we’ve had a little chat.” He noticed an empty chain dangling from Mel’s other ear. “Where’s your other earring?”

  “Lost it.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you did the night you turned out the lights at the North Boulder Rec Center?”

  “Why should I?”

  “I thought you might like this twenty-dollar bill.”

  Mel grabbed again, but missed by six inches and flopped over onto the ground.

  Mark waited for Mel to right himself. “Answer my question. Tell me what happened the night you went to the rec center.”

  The man scratched his leg. “I remember that.”

  “First, who asked you to turn off the lights?”

  “Some guy gave me fifty bucks. Said he’d give me another fifty after I did it.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Never saw him clearly. Too dark. He only said his name was Manny.”

  Mark gave a start. “That doesn’t make any sense. It couldn’t have been Manny.”

  “What’re you talking about, man?”

  “You’re sure that’s the name he used?”

  “Gave me money and said someone would give me a ride over there. Told me to knock out the light in the parking lot and when I saw a fifth guy walk into the court to go inside and turn out the lights.”

  Mark heard a noise behind him. He turned as a fist crashed into the side of his face. He fell as a shoe lashed out at his stomach. Not his groin. Anything but that. Mark curled up in a ball as another kick glanced off his back. Then something hit his head.

  CHAPTER 20

  Mark awoke in a daze. He thought he might have to throw up. His head hurt. Where was he? He felt something unfamiliar in his hand. In the dim light he saw a handgun. Still disoriented, with his ears ringing, he sat up. The smell of smoke made him cough. As his eyes adjusted, he discovered a body sprawled out in front of him. Blood seeped from the forehead below gray hair. Mark remembered. Old Mel.

  Mark heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned to find a policeman pointing a pistol at him. “Put that gun down. Carefully.”

  Mark’s confusion increased. “I don’t know where this gun came from.”

  “Drop it right now.”

  Mark opened his hand and the gun clattered to the pavement.

  The officer kicked the gun out of Mark’s reach. “That’s better.” He got on his cell phone and called for backup and the EMTs.

  Mark put his hand to his forehead and felt a gash. He lowered his hand to his cheek and winced at finding a tender spot. He stared at his hand—covered with blood.

  “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “Wait a minute. You don’t think I did this?”

  “Anything you say—”

  “Something’s wrong here.”

  “You have the right—”

  “I was talking to Old Mel, and someone hit me.”

  “If you cannot afford—”

  “I’ve been set up,” Mark roared. “Look, someone hit me. I’m bleeding.”

  “I’ve called to have the EMTs come check you. You can decide at any time—”

  “Enough reading rights. Contact Detective Carl Peters. He knows me. Tell him to come speak with Mark Yeager.”

  Mark’s head buzzed. He couldn’t get through to this square-jawed fanatic with protruding brow ridges.

  “Before I search you, I must advise you of your rights under the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution,” the policeman continued with a level gaze at Mark. “You have the right to refuse to permit me to search you. If you voluntarily permit me to search you, any incriminating evidence that I find may be used against you in court, or other proceedings.”

  “You can search me. Just call Detective Peters.”

  “Please place your hands against the wall.”

  Mark felt two hands pat his back and waist.

  “Now put your hands behind your back.”

  Mark complied.

  He heard two clicks as the handcuffs closed around his wrists.

  Another policeman arrived and began putting yellow tape in a perimeter around Old Mel’s body. He opened a satchel and took out a swab that he ran over Mark’s handcuffed hands.

  Then the first policeman took Mark’s arm and led him down the alley. “This way.”

  Mark stumbled and then regained his balance. As the officer propelled him along, he staggered toward the street.

  “What about medical attention?”

  “It’s coming, sir. Right now I need you to stay in a safe location.”

  Mark ducked his head and dropped onto the hard plastic backseat of the police car. He watched car lights coming toward him as his head cleared. He squirmed unsuccessfully, trying to find some comfortable position in th
e cramped quarters.

  Shortly, an ambulance screeched to a stop, and two men got out. They spoke with the police officer, who then opened the back door of his car. One of the EMTs cleaned Mark’s forehead. He then cleansed the bruise on his cheek. Finally, he slapped bandages on his forehead and cheek. “Do you feel nauseous, sir?”

  “No. But my head hurts.”

  He flashed a light in Mark’s eyes. “Are you dizzy?”

  “Not now.”

  “We can take you to the hospital.”

  Mark remembered when he had been in the hospital for his prostate cancer surgery. He didn’t want to be anywhere near a hospital. “I don’t need that.”

  At the county jail the policeman removed the handcuffs. Mark took out his wallet to show his driver’s license and then watched as each inked finger made a mark on a card. After one more fruitless request to see Detective Peters, he was led to a holding cell and locked in with two other men.

  An unshaven, skinny detainee with a plaid shirt sat on a wooden chair. His companion, appearing to have a similar build to Mark’s and sporting an unkempt beard and tattoo of a snake on his forearm, sprawled out on a cot. Both stared at Mark as the door closed.

  The man in the chair laughed. “Welcome to the Boulder Ritz. You look like you got in a fight.”

  “Something like that.” Mark sat down on another wooden chair and placed his head in his hands.

  “Name’s Hansen,” the man in the chair said.

  Mark looked up. “What are you in for?”

  Hansen laughed again. “I tried to rob a Brinks armored truck. Screwed up and got caught.”

  In spite of the situation, Mark remained curious. “What went wrong?”

  “I’d been tracking the pickup and delivery routes between the Worlds Savings branches here in Boulder. Very predictable route. Earlier today I made my move. One of the guards hopped out with a sack. I jumped him and made off with the loot.”

  Mark pictured Hansen sprinting away with a bag of money in his hand.

  “Didn’t get very far. Cops stopped me two blocks away. Wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. Turns out the armored-truck guard was only delivering lunch to a friend. Inside the bag, the police found a roast beef sandwich. The story of my life. One to ten for stealing a roast beef sandwich.” Hansen shook his head. “Didn’t even have a chance to take a bite before a cop had handcuffs on me. Roddy here didn’t do much better.” Hansen pointed at the man on the cot. “Tell Newbie how you robbed a store.”

  Roddy yawned and sat up, rubbing the side of his face.

  “I set up the perfect crime. My girlfriend works at a convenience store. She showed me how to avoid being seen clearly in the cameras. Then one night, I came to the store and threatened her with a fake gun. She gave me all the cash in the register and told the cops she’d been robbed by a guy who looked like Elvis.” He scratched his stomach. “I planned to stay low for a while but met this other chick, and we skipped off to Colorado Springs. My girlfriend got pissed and told the police what had happened. Imagine that. Turning herself in just to get back at me. Never trust a broad.”

  Hansen eyed Mark. “So, what brings you here, sweetheart?” Mark leveled his gaze at Hansen. “Murder.”

  After a night of fitful sleep, Mark was escorted by a guard to a room and allowed to make a phone call. His head and cheek still hurt, but he decided he would live.

  “Ben, I need your legal services. I’ve been arrested. Come to the county jail to bail me out. Also, contact Detective Carl Peters. I’ve been trying to find him, but no one here will give him my message.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  While Mark waited, he reviewed the events of the night before. He had found Old Mel, and then someone snuck up on him, punched him in the face and hit him in the head with something. From the wound, it could have been a baseball bat, or as they always said on the crime shows, a blunt object. Had one of the suspects been following him?

  When Ben arrived, the desk sergeant led the two of them to a room for a private conversation. Ben wore his sweats, ready for their platform tennis game.

  “You look like you’re auditioning for the mummy. What happened to you?”

  “One of the suspects punched my cheek and hit me on the head.”

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  “No way. My face and head hurt, but I have a hard skull. I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me for a lifetime. I just want to get out of here.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “Did you see who hit you?”

  “Nope. Are you going to get me released?”

  “I had to argue with the sergeant to be allowed to use this room by ourselves,” Ben explained. “They haven’t set bail yet.”

  “Have you contacted Peters?” Mark asked.

  “I reached him. He’ll be here shortly. Maybe he can help speed along the process.”

  “I’m sure ready to leave this place. I’d rather be playing platform tennis than spending my time with felons.”

  “I wouldn’t care if I left you here, but we’d never find a replacement player for you at this late date,” Ben said with a chuckle.

  Mark gave him a dirty look.

  Peters arrived and asked Ben to wait outside the room. He whistled as he looked at Mark, sitting there. “You don’t look so hot. You have some serious bandages. What happened to your face?”

  “I was attacked in an alley.”

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  “No. I went through that with the EMTs last night. I have some bruises, but don’t need any further medical attention. I would be doing much better if someone had reached you last night.”

  “I understand you’re involved with another murder.”

  “I didn’t do it.” Mark glared at Peters.

  “I know that.”

  “What? Then why’d I spend the night here?”

  “I only received notification this morning. I checked into the situation and came as soon as I could.”

  “So, how do you know I’m innocent?”

  “They tested you for gunpowder residue and found minute amounts on your hand, providing enough evidence to hold you. But we know you didn’t fire the murder weapon. A witness saw another man club you and fire the gun. Then the shooter placed the gun in your hand, accounting for the trace of gunpowder residue left on you. Unfortunately, the witness was too far away to describe the murderer.”

  “And that whole routine with the police officer reading me my rights?”

  Peters shrugged. “He’s a new cop—been on the beat on his own for two weeks. He didn’t want to take any chance that something you said would be thrown out in court.”

  “So, am I free to leave?”

  “I can have you released in a few minutes, but first you need to answer some questions.”

  Mark sighed. “Okay. I’ll cooperate.”

  “First, what do you know concerning this latest murder victim?”

  “People called him Old Mel. A man hired him to turn out the lights at the rec center. Mel told me he never caught a good glimpse of the guy, who said his name was Manny.”

  Peters’s face revealed nothing. “Anything else?”

  Mark considered mentioning that Old Mel camped out in the woods near Boulder Creek on the east end of town, but decided to keep that to himself for the moment. “Only that he received a ride to the rec center. The attack came before I could find out anything else.”

  “And the attacker?”

  “I didn’t see him. When I woke up I had the gun in my hand.” Mark paused to think. “Has the gun given you any leads?”

  Wrinkles formed on Peters’s forehead and he tapped his fingers on his knee. “Actually, it has. But I can’t discuss it with you.”

  “Well, at least you know it doesn’t belong to me.”

  “What do you make of the vagrant’s statement that a man named Manny paid him to turn off the lights at the rec center?”

  “I’m puzzled by that
. Manny wouldn’t set up his own murder. Someone pretended to be Manny. I haven’t been able to make much sense of this whole situation. All four of the suspects have motives, and they all seem capable of having killed Manny and Old Mel.”

  “So you think one of the suspects in the Manny Grimes murder tried to pin this latest murder on you? Why would someone want to do that?”

  Mark looked sheepishly at Peters. “They know I’m still snooping around. I even talked directly with Howard Roscoe.”

  “Mr. Yeager, leave the investigation to us from now on. As you’ve discovered, you’re dealing with one violent person. Or more. You’ll only put yourself, your family and your friends at risk.”

  Guilty and furious, Mark said, “I hope you’re closer to solving this case than the Jon Benet Ramsey murder. Any progress?”

  Peters frowned. “I can’t share those particulars with you.”

  “Did you find out who wrote that threatening note to Manny that I left for you on the desk in his house?”

  “Yes, but I can’t comment further at this time.”

  “I know the note didn’t come from Howard Roscoe or Jacob Fish, so that leaves Lee Daggett or Ken Idler.”

  “Although I appreciate what you helped uncover in the Grimes files, we’ll take it from here.”

  “But you still haven’t arrested anyone.”

  “Not yet.”

  “In that case I’ll keep snooping. Other than receiving a knock on the head, what damage have I done?”

  Peters stood and stared Mark in the eyes. “The coroner has the body of one dead street person who might still be alive if you hadn’t been questioning him.”

  CHAPTER 21

  In addition to his cheek and head, Mark felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He sat in the chair in silence. The detective had nailed the situation accurately. Mark had only accomplished endangering his own life and contributing to the murder of Old Mel. Like his platform tennis partners, he should have butted out of the investigation.

  “Can I leave now?” Mark asked.

  “Sure. Come with me. We have some paperwork to process. Also, stick around town for the next week in case we have further questions. And I’d suggest getting your head looked at.”

  “I can manage.”