Sign Off

by Patricia McLinn

  He truly was a political pro. Not only had he shared the limelight, but he timed it perfectly to allow Diana to focus on each of the other men—briefly—before he called the camera back to himself by concluding, “Which adds to our determination to bring to justice the murderer of Deputy Redus.”

  “You would agree, then, that it is in the best interests of the community to ensure that someone who had motive, means and opportunity to murder Deputy Redus answers questions concerning the murder?”

  My peripheral vision caught a small motion from Hunt’s hand to my right. It was quickly stilled, and he made no sound. But I suspected the county attorney had just hit the accelerator on his brain to come up to speed.

  “Absolutely, Ms. Danniher. We owe it to this fine community as well as to that young man and his family—and the law enforcement family, too.”

  I nodded, not quite able to bring myself to thank him. “So, the first question to clear up is if you knew Redus was taking bribes to falsify arrest reports before he used that ploy to blackmail you into giving him the job here at the courthouse?”

  “I did not give him the job or arrange . . .” He’d started with the automatic denial of political wrong-doing, then he spotted the criminal wallop within the question.

  He gobbled. Sounds came out, but no words.

  “Redus had you where he wanted you. And he was not discreet or subtle. You had to get rid of this blackmailer—there’s the motive, Judge Claustel.

  “Opportunity? That’s easy. You arranged to meet him on Three-Day Pass Road to make a payment.

  “Means? Redus’ own shotgun. You probably casually asked to take a look at it, he handed it over, then you used it to crush his skull.

  “After that, it was simply a matter of pushing his truck over the edge. Problem solved.”

  “This is—you can’t . . .” Words were coming now, though nothing coherent.

  “Except it wasn’t problem solved, was it? Not when Redus’ truck was found. Did Mona Burrell call and tell you she’d put together the pieces and knew what you’d done? Did she try to cash in, just as Redus had? Leaving you right back where you were before.

  “That must have been a bad moment. But now you knew how to handle a blackmailer, and you acted quickly. At the trailer. With Redus’ gun.”

  “Wait a minute,” Widcuff said, a plea rather than a command. The sheriff definitely wasn’t up to speed yet.

  But Judge Claustel was getting there fast.

  “Are you—you can’t be accusing me?” He gave it the full judicial treatment.

  “I am.”

  “That is outrageous! You cannot make such accusations with impunity, reporter or no reporter.” Not bad. That almost sounded genuine.

  “Of course you will say that.” I nodded understandingly, then hit him fast. “Do you also say you didn’t attack me in the KWMT tape library?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Weak—the weakness of a guilty man.

  “I suppose it was Thurston Fine who told you I was looking up the arrests Redus had made. You wanted to prevent me from finding out—”

  “You are making totally unfounded accusations.”

  “Would you care to show us your shins, Judge Claustel? Whoever attacked me will have spectacular bruises from crashing into the file cabinet drawers.”

  “You’re crazy.” That sounded as if his lips had gone stiff.

  “It was little things, including the attack on me in the library. A scattering of chips that only formed a mosaic after a good bit of moving the colors around. One of the last pieces came an hour ago. The morning he died, Redus met with you in your office, didn’t he? That’s when he told you about his plan to confront Burrell. He was sure you’d protect him from any consequences of a run-in with Burrell. That’s probably when you saw your opportunity.”

  “That proves you’re crazy. Redus was in my office that morning, but just to bring me papers from Ames, here. Ask him, ask my assistant.”

  Moving only my eyes, I saw Hunt, staring at the judge, give a short, jerky nod. “I did ask Redus to drop off some papers after he said he was going to the judge’s office next. I don’t know how long he stayed.”

  That still left the door wide open, yet Claustel seemed to take energy from it.

  “Redus never mentioned Burrell,” he said strongly. “And you will regret this absurd grandstanding. I’ve given you enough rope, and now you’ve hanged yourself, just as I knew you would. You went too far back east—I knew that must be why they drove you out. And now you’ve done it here. This is the end of your career.”

  I didn’t let him throw me off my narrative.

  “You were patient. Careful. Never greedy. You didn’t want money to throw around. You wanted the control. For your career. For your prestige. You never made anyone feel pressured. Just a political ally repaying a favor.

  “I’m talking about the selected, subtle manipulation of the law that you practiced in order to have important people in the county owe you big favors, so you were sure to continue as political kingmaker. Maybe add a little extra income to your judge’s pay. Help pay college tuition for Frank. The trip to Europe.”

  “More accusations with no proof. I hope you are getting all this on tape, young woman,” he said to Diana, “because it will make a defamation case laughably easy.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll agree, you were very careful. But Foster Redus wasn’t. That’s why I can’t believe you voluntarily took him in as a partner. No, he must have caught on to what you’d been doing, yet lacked the proof. Then, once he came across your son and poor Rog Johnson, he had you. And he was going to ruin it all, wasn’t he? Because he didn’t want just a little power among political allies, he wanted money. A lot of money. So you shut him up. Permanently.”

  “I did no such thing!” Claustel turned to the man beside him. “Bob, I demand you do something about this.”

  “Before you do, Sheriff,” I said, “answer one question. Did Ambrose Claustel order you to burn Foster Redus’ files?”

  Widcuff’s mouth closed, then opened again. It remained that way for a full three seconds before a sound came out. “He said . . .” The sheriff swallowed. “He said it’d be better politically to bury those ashes.”

  Now Widcuff was staring at Claustel, too.

  I added more pressure on the judge. “Redus squeezed you for all he was worth, didn’t he? And he used the one pressure point you couldn’t withstand—your son’s homosexuality.”

  “You shut up! You shut your damn mouth, you bitch!”

  Wheezing, he started to rise, but Sheriff Widcuff put a beefy arm across his chest like a bar. The judge seemed to shrink, but the sound of his labored breathing remained. The same sound I’d heard in the KWMT library.

  “Turn that thing off!” He stabbed a finger toward the camera.

  I nodded to Diana. She nodded back, as arranged.

  She turned off the camera, took it down off her shoulder, then fiddled with her bag on the table, switching on the small camcorder she’d carefully arranged inside. The quality wouldn’t be much, but the content might make up for that. Even if we couldn’t ever use it on air.

  “I know you’ve been asking questions about my son.” No political smile now. “Asking your dirty questions. Trying to dig up dirt. You have no right to bring your sleazy muckraking here. My boy’s done nothing wrong.”

  “I agree he’s done nothing wrong, but you were afraid other people wouldn’t agree if they knew Frank is gay, so you did something wrong. Very wrong. Redus came across Frank and Rog Johnson. When he brought Frank home that night and said he’d tell the world that your son was gay unless you danced to his tune, you agreed.”

  Claustel stared at his hands, clenched hard on his knees. He said nothing.

  “Rog Johnson’s father couldn’t offer Foster Redus anything he thought was worth taking except money. Rather than have his family be blackmailed and fearing they’d be shamed if Redus talked, Rog killed himself. He
thought it was the only way to keep from hurting his parents.”

  I leaned forward, trying to see the man’s face. “I don’t believe the Johnsons would agree that that was a secret worth their son’s dying for. Was it a secret worth killing for, Judge?

  “The secret Redus discovered and used to blackmail you into taking him in as a partner. Until you killed him up at Three-Day Pass in November. You thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t, was it?

  “Mona was out looking for Redus that night. She’d have driven right by Three-Day Pass Road at least twice. She saw something—saw you. Not enough to realize right away. But then, when Redus’ body was found, it was enough, wasn’t it? Just enough to try blackmailing you, and there you were, right back the way you’d been with Redus. So you used the same solution. Scheduled her right in after your appearance at O’Hara Hill, and killed her, too.”

  His hands opened from fists and he straightened his back. He’d been near the breaking point, but now he was backing away from it, gathering himself.

  “All to hide your son’s secret.”

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I’d counted on hitting him between the eyes and having him go down for the count.

  “I won’t stay here and listen to this.”

  He stood, and so did I, then everyone else. I took a step closer to the door. I couldn’t stop him from leaving, but I could slow him long enough to take one last swing.

  “Bank accounts will show the money trail. And there’ll be physical evidence. Nature took away a lot of the evidence at Three-Day Pass, but there’s a lot for the forensics guys to work with on Mona’s murder.”

  Just the words conjured up the image. The blood stiffening in the blonde hair, the spattering across the spider web, the reddened reflection in the glass of the open window. And that scent of her perfume. Stronger now.

  His face was pale, except for his bulbous nose. But Judge Ambrose Claustel hadn’t given up. “This would be laughable if it weren’t so serious. But it is crazy. You’re crazy. You have no proof.”

  “There’ll be proof. You know what they say—that no murderer can help leaving something of himself at the scene or taking something away. And you were stuck there longer than you’d expected, weren’t you? Because you had to hide when Mike and I showed up, hoping we’d leave so you could get away. Were you planning how you’d kill us, too, if we found your hiding spot? After two murders, what’s two more? But every second you stayed there added to the evidence the experts are going to find. Fibers and threads and dirt and fingerprints and residue from—”

  “I have never killed anyone in my life.”

  It stopped me for an instant, that judicial voice ringing out in the small room.

  “Yet you’re not denying the official misconduct or—”

  “You will never make that stick.” His gaze swept the room in an echo of his magisterial command. “You don’t think I’d survive this long as a politician if I didn’t take precautions, do you?”

  He strode to the door, then faltered at the sight of Deputy Richard Alvaro on the other side of the threshold. “You need to come with me, sir.”

  Claustel spun back to face us. “Hunt?” he demanded.

  Ames spread his hands. “We can’t just ignore this, Judge.”

  Claustel squared his shoulders and marched off, with Alvaro just off his shoulder.

  As I turned back, I caught a speculative gleam in Ames Hunt’s expression as he gazed around the room, following the same path Claustel’s gaze had.

  Possibly sensing my attention, Ames met my look. He tilted up one eyebrow, and I was certain he was wondering the same thing I was—what precautions might the judge have taken?

  “I’ll be damned,” Widcuff told the room. “I’ll be damned to hell and back.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “All right, everybody out,” the sheriff ordered.

  “Aren’t you going to secure the office?” Paycik demanded.

  Widcuff’s face turned red. “Don’t you try to tell me my job, young man. I’m going to take this key—” He turned the large old-fashioned key and put it in his breast pocket. “—and keep it right here.”

  “That’s all? You’re not going to—” I’d gotten close enough to Paycik to elbow him in the side.

  He glared at me, but he shut up.

  I wish I could say the same for Ames Hunt. “He’s got a point, Sheriff. You really should call the state boys in immediately. There’s no way you can handle this case. Why the evidence . . .”

  “This is my county. My county!” The sheriff’s face would have done a pomegranate proud. “I’ll handle this case. And every bit of evidence. Just you wait and see.”

  I don’t think any of us jammed in that hallway doubted that Widcuff would handle the evidence. The question was what would be left when he was done.

  * * * *

  Widcuff at least kept up appearances to the point of having the courthouse locked up behind us as our group trailed along the path to the jail, with Diana filming all the while.

  When Widcuff barred Diana, Paycik and me from entering the jail, we went into overdrive. With the light fading fast, I did an off-the-cuff setup in front of the jail so we had it in the can . . . in case.

  The in case was if Haeburn was too stupid or too pig-headed to send a decent station camera for Diana to use. We debated long and hard about how best to handle it. A two-thirds majority (Diana and I) voted Mike should be the one to pitch the situation to Haeburn, while we covered the jail.

  He gave in with ill will. Then proved us right by returning within an hour with the camera, plans for a live shot via point-to-point wireless—no satellite van for KWMT—a field visit from Audrey Adams (who would oversee the live shot at the studio end), bags of takeout to sustain us, and entertaining descriptions of Fine’s epic hissy fit.

  Mike also had a couple of tidbits only for Diana and me—he’d gotten hold of Diana’s trusted tech Billy, so there were Fine-proof copies of all the footage from inside Claustel’s office, and he’d called a contact with the state bureau of investigation.

  Audrey was nervous, but competent. We hashed out the details the best we could without knowing what was going to happen. When she returned to the station, she sent Jenny to us as a runner for whatever we might need.

  The next three hours were typical reporting: Extended periods of boredom while we made dozens of phone calls that garnered no new information, interspersed with rare, frantic bursts of activity. The bursts of activity included, first, the arrival of a lawyer Mike recognized, and, second, a man we filmed entering the jail on general principle, and discovered later was the judge for a neighboring county.

  “Why a judge?” I demanded. Not for the first time. “It’s double murder—Claustel’s got to be held without bond.”

  “Don’t count anything out in Cottonwood County,” Mike said.

  We set up lights and did our checks before ten to be ready for the live feed. A dozen or so citizens gathered around, attracted like moths by the lights.

  Needham Bender from the Independence arrived with plenty of questions, which we did not answer—not until after the live shot—and news that he’d been called and told to be at the jail for a big story.

  Then, three minutes before the hour, a deputy I didn’t recognize came out and said the sheriff would be making a statement in a few minutes.

  So, Widcuff wasn’t as stupid as he sometimes seemed. We’d have to play his statement live. We certainly couldn’t go on with our live piece in front of the jail while he was standing on the steps making his statement.

  He emerged two minutes after the hour. He started on a preamble about justice, Cottonwood County and a boy who’d grown up to be sheriff of the greatest county on earth. Not only was it the worst bit of live TV news ever, but it threatened to cover our entire newscast.

  Mike was on the phone. Diana was shooting. Bender was watching Widcuff with the amused tolerance of a journalist whose deadline was days away.

/>   Oh, hell.

  I stepped into the glare of the lights, snatched the microphone clipped to a stand in front of Widcuff, and cut in, “Sheriff Widcuff, is it true that Judge Ambrose Claustel has been charged with the double murders of Deputy Foster Redus and Sherman resident Mona Burrell?”

  I don’t know which flustered him more—the question or the gasp from the spectators. I pushed the mic up toward Widcuff’s stuttering mouth.

  “That’s . . . I mean to say. Charged? Very serious . . . Investigating. Looking very closely.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Mike coming, turning off his phone with one hand and reaching for the microphone with the other.

  “Sheriff Widcuff, KWMT has learned that you are releasing Judge Claustel on his own recognizance tonight despite these desperately serious accusations and growing evidence against him.”

  This time the gasp came from me. “Releasing!”

  “Is this true, Bob?” demanded Bender.

  “How do you explain this to the citizens of Cottonwood County, Sheriff Widcuff?” pursued Mike.

  Widcuff might have melted into a stuttering mass right there on the jail steps if not for an alert citizen among our live audience.

  “There he goes!” shouted this unidentified observer. “It’s Judge Claustel going out the back of the jail!”

  Sure enough. There was the bulky form of the judge, accompanied by the lawyer who’d arrived earlier, scuttling across the grass toward the parking area that served both the courthouse and jail.

  The chase was on.

  To her everlasting credit, Jenny grabbed the stand of lights, and ran with them as far as the tether would let her. Which wasn’t far. Bender huffed along, but had the presence of mind to keep snapping flash photos. Diana did a sprint that no human being carrying a TV camera should ever have to do. I stayed with her.

  But the honors went to Mike Paycik. Despite his bum knee, he actually had his hand on the car door before Claustel pulled away.