by Matt Coyle
“I don’t expect you to believe me.” This time he didn’t hold my stare. His eyes fell, but it didn’t read as deception. It read despair and resignation. “I don’t know when she did it or why she did it or if she did it alone. All I know is the sock was planted.”
“Okay.” I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the wooden shelf below the glass, two feet from Randall’s face. “What about the blown alibi at the movie theater? The jury didn’t buy your lawyer’s story in closing arguments that you fell asleep in the movie and slept through the broken projector interruption. Especially after you had just bought a Coke and popcorn from the snack bar.”
“That’s not what happened.” Randall wouldn’t raise his eyes to meet mine. “My lawyer convinced me not to testify after I told him what really happened.”
“And that was?” I had gone from a one percent chance that Randall was innocent before I arrived at the prison to close to fifty after listening to him and watching him. Now my belief bottomed out again.
“I…I used to have a thing for Kirsten Dunst.” Eyes still pinned to the floor, he ran his free hand over a tight prison buzz cut of black hair. “I was a dorky eighteen-year-old with hormones raging who’d never been with a girl.”
If Randall’s freedom hadn’t been on the line, I would have asked him to stop talking right there.
“I saw her in the movie and she kind of got my motor running.” His pale prison face glowed pink. “So I…I…went into the bathroom…”
“And jerked off.”
“Yeah.” He wouldn’t look at me.
Whether the story was true or not, I now understood why Randall’s lawyer didn’t put him on the stand. Sexual pervert. Lack of impulse control. Risky behavior. Not the qualities you wanted to showcase when the defendant was on trial for a rage murder. Still, something didn’t ring true.
“When I was eighteen and in the pole position, it didn’t take me fifteen minutes to finish the race.”
“I’m glad you can make a joke with my freedom on the line.” Randall finally looked at me and the shame turned to anger. Not homicidal anger, just everyday pissed-off anger.
“You can take offense, but you haven’t answered my question. What took so long?”
“I made a mess on my jeans right in the crotch. I washed it off and spent the next twenty or twenty-five minutes trying to dry my jeans with paper towels. I didn’t want to walk around looking like I wet my pants.”
Better a lack of bladder control than impulse control. But, taken by itself, the story sounded plausible for a hormonally out-of-control eighteen-year-old. Unusual, but not unreasonable.
“LJPD surely tested your clothes from that night for blood. Traces of semen would have shown up under an ultraviolet light. Why isn’t it in the police report?”
“They probably left it out because they didn’t find blood. The lab report is in the discovery documents. Ask Mr. Buckley.”
Even if it was, it didn’t mean the semen was from that night. And if the semen was from that night, Randall still could have murdered his family. Yet, an embarrassing story to make up. Randall could have told me he stayed up all night high on cocaine the night before and slept through the movie. At least as plausible as the semen story.
“Why did you tell the police the movie let out at 12:30 a.m., when it was really 12:45 a.m.?” I asked.
“I didn’t check my watch. I was in the bathroom during the projector breakdown and didn’t know about the delay. I just assumed the movie let out at the normal time.”
Back to fifty percent.
“Did you steal jewelry from your mother and money from your father?” One last barrier to hurdle to get Randall above fifty-fifty.
“You mean the night they were murdered?” High eyebrows.
“Anytime.”
A long silence that answered the question. I waited to hear if his words matched his silent response.
“I was a pretty horrible kid before my family died. Prison has made me a better person and I’m thankful for that. Ironic.” Sad eyes stared past me. “I stole from both of them, but never admitted it. I was supposed to go to Stanford in the fall. Dad told me he wasn’t going to pay my tuition and that I had to move out of the house by the end of summer. Told me he was going to dissolve the trust he had set up for me. Pretty simple motive for murder, huh?”
Tears pooled in his eyes.
“Did you kill them, Randall?”
“I wanted my dad dead. I fantasized about it for weeks. But I didn’t do it. I could never do that. I wish he and my mom, and Molly—” His voice cracked and tears broke loose when he mentioned his sister’s name. “I wish Molly could see the man I am now. I miss her so much.”
He set the phone down and put both hands to his face and sobbed. I let him cry. An emotion he could never show outside the visitor room. Finally, he wiped tears from his eyes and picked up the phone. “Sorry. Sometimes it sneaks up on me.”
“No need to apologize.” Randall was either San Quentin’s version of Tom Hanks or he was telling the truth. “How did your father and grandfather get along?”
He wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his blue prison shirt. “Pretty well, except the last year…that my dad was alive.”
“What happened to put them at odds?”
“I don’t know, but something changed between them. It was sad.”
I stood up. “Take care of yourself in here, Randall.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find the truth.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I called Buckley from the airport.
“You still on board, son?” He sounded like it mattered.
“You have the discovery documents from the first trial?”
“I don’t have them here. My two first-year associates are going over them at the University of San Diego’s law library. Don’t have room for everybody at the office. What do you need?”
“Have them check if LJPD found semen on Randall’s pants the night of the murders.”
“Semen? Why the hell for?”
“I’ll explain later.” I checked the time on my phone. “My plane doesn’t take off for a half hour. Call me when you find out.”
I called Bob Reitzmeyer.
His greeting, “Thought you were on vacation.”
“Kinda, but I have a question for you.” Mostly true if visiting San Quentin could be considered a vacation. “When you investigated the thefts at the Eddington house, did you notice anything unusual about Randall’s bedroom?”
“You didn’t drop the case?” Annoyed.
“Still making up my mind.” If Bob didn’t corroborate what Randall had told me, I might go Hamlet one more time. “Was there anything unusual about his room?”
“I’m busy, Rick.” Sharp edges. “I don’t have time for games. What do you want to know?”
“Was his room messy or neat?”
Silent. Either in thought or letting the steam build. “Neatest room I’ve ever seen for a teenager. Doesn’t mean he didn’t slaughter his whole family.”
But it was one more nudge to make me believe that maybe he didn’t. Unless he had a maid who did all the work, Randall had told me the truth about being a neat freak. Maybe the rest of his story was true too.
“Thanks, Bob.”
“The next time you call, it had better be about LJI business.” He hung up.
Bob had been short with me before, but never angry. He’s always seemed to cut me slack because he’d been my father’s partner. The reins felt tight now. And brittle.
My phone rang before I could contemplate what my latest decision may have cost me. Buckley.
“Sure as shootin’, there was semen on Randall’s pants.” A chuckle. “Pardon the pun.”
“Thanks, Buckley.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means that I’m still on the case.” Another call beeped in my ear. “Gotta go.”
I hung up and answered a number I didn’t recognize.
“Did
you talk to the Cowboy Lawyer yet?” A salt gargle of a woman’s voice. Moira MacFarlane.
“I’m staying on the case.” I doubted she liked sugar coating on bad news. “Sorry.”
“You’re a bigger asshole than I thought.”
“Maybe, but I could use your help tonight. Get you a few hours of work and then maybe more down the line.”
“Fuck you, Cahill. I don’t need your charity.” She hung up.
That went about as expected.
I pulled out the canvas gun case from under my bed. It had two years of dust on it. I’d never fired the Ruger .357 Magnum inside the case. I’d killed a man with another gun. A man who’d murdered three people and almost made me number four. The man with the dead black eyes staring at nothing forever, who invaded my dreams and robbed me of sleep almost every night. I killed him in my dreams just as I had in real life, but he wouldn’t stay dead. He’d rise up and point his gun at me and I’d freeze. He’d pull the trigger and I’d wake up tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.
I’d been a cop long ago and had seen death up close. Gangbangers lying dead in front yards after drive-bys. Homeless bodies twisted by rigor in fetid alleys, already on their final journey home. An eight-year-old boy bleeding out in my arms. All the deaths had bothered me, and some brought nightmares for a while, then went away.
But I hadn’t caused those deaths. I hadn’t taken the one thing from someone that you can’t give back. Two years ago, I hadn’t had a choice, but the nightmares reminded me that I’d still played God.
I hadn’t touched a gun since the night I killed the man. I never planned to again, but tonight I needed one for insurance. I unzipped the case and pulled out the weapon. It felt heavy. Heavier than I’d ever remembered a gun feeling. I sighted it on the door handle of my bedroom with my finger against the trigger guard.
Images of the dead man in my nightmares flooded my head. Me shooting him. A slight tremor filled my hand and my breath double-pumped.
I put the gun in my coat pocket and hoped I wouldn’t have to use it tonight. Or ever again.
I entered The Chalked Cue at 9:30 p.m. The biker bar where Steven Lunsdorf supposedly confessed to Trey Fellows that he’d killed the Eddingtons. The bar looked about the way it sounded. Long, chipped, wooden slab for a bar. Leather-clad hard men and hard women on stools hunched over it. A few scattered tables. Old-fashioned jukebox in the corner playing Steppenwolf. Three pool tables and a shuffleboard in the back. The stench of spilled beer, sweat, and testosterone hung in the air like invisible smog.
My leather bomber jacket didn’t match the room. But that was okay. Better to be seen as a civilian than as a rival biker. Although, I wished Moira had taken me up on my offer. A suburban couple taking a walk on the wild side. Most of the other jackets had “Raptors” across the back above a picture of a velociraptor dinosaur sporting leather and sunglasses. Some of the younger men had shaved heads. The older ones mostly had long hair and long beards. But this wasn’t a ZZ Top audition. Swastika and SS tattoos ran down exposed arms and necks. Some made of dark-blue ink, the fingerprint of the California prison system.
I scanned the bar and the bar scanned me. Conversations died and hard-pebbled eyes in the mirror behind the bar challenged me. I put my hand in my jacket pocket and fingered the Ruger .357 Magnum like a two-year-old clutching his blankie in the dark. But a two-year-old never had to worry whether he had the nerve to fire a gun at a human being.
Steven Lunsdorf had had a shaved head in the five-year-old booking photo I’d seen in the report Buckley had given to me. Five years was plenty of time to grow out his hair and sprout a hillbilly beard, but none of the eyes in the mirror looked familiar. Trey Fellows wasn’t in the bar either. That made things easier. I wasn’t ready for Lunsdorf yet, and didn’t have to worry about Fellows accidently giving me away to the bikers.
I grabbed an empty stool at the bar where it L-ed off to the right and ordered a Budweiser. I really wanted a microbrew, but when in Rome—or SoCal redneck heaven. The bartender had brown hair pulled back in an unmade bun and a leather vest over a black Harley Davidson t-shirt. She gave me the same eyes that still stared at me in the mirror.
The eyes gradually left me and the conversation volume rose to match the music from the jukebox. I kept to myself and drank my beer like I belonged, even though everyone in there, including me, knew I didn’t. The bartender came by with round two and a tiny smile.
“If you’re working undercover, you haven’t quite pulled it off, Five-Oh.” There was a lot of cigarettes and gin in her voice, but she had a nice smile. Ten years ago she must have been a looker. Before life on the back of a motorcycle.
“I’m not a cop.” I smiled, but kept it low wattage in case her boyfriend was in the bar. Didn’t want a barstool upside the head.
“Oh, you just play one on TV?” Her smile was bigger now and she leaned in just a bit. Maybe her boyfriend wasn’t there tonight, or maybe she was in between. “You look more sports bar than dive bar.”
“Just bad genes. I’m actually waiting for a friend.”
“What’s his name?” She glanced down the bar, either to check drinks or make sure no one was looking. “I’m here five nights a week. If he’s a regular, I’ll know him.”
“Trey Fellows. He’d stick out like a sorer thumb than me here. Blond dreadlocks, skinny, talks like a surfer.”
“Sure, I know Trey. A little goofy, but a nice guy. Seems like a strange match for you, though.”
“Well, you never can tell with friends, can you?” I raised the wattage and leaned in a bit myself. “I know him as a surfer who likes to get high, and you know him as a dude who hangs out in a biker bar a couple times a week.”
“No. I guess you never know.” She straightened up to leave.
“After you make your rounds down the bar, why don’t you come back here with whatever you like to drink and pour me one too.”
She squinted down one eye and looked just over my shoulder. “Well, okay. But I can tell you it ain’t going to be a Bud. Get your wallet out and find the big bills.”
I made a move like I was going for my wallet. She laughed, then started her way down the bar.
I was wrong about the gin. She came back and set down a bottle of Courvoisier VSOP and two snifters in front of me. I’d eat the beers, but the Courvoisier was going down on an expense report.
“Cognac seems a little out of place here,” I said.
“You mean like a cop-looking guy in a biker bar?” She poured us each two fingers.
“Touché.”
She raised her snifter. “To old friends who never show up and to new friends who do.”
“New friends usually trade names.” I raised my glass and clinked it off hers. “Mine’s Rick.”
“Sarah.” She took a drink and I did the same. Smooth, hint of vanilla, expensive. “You got a last name, Rick?”
“Cahill. You?”
“Lunsdorf. Sarah Lunsdorf.”
The police report on Lunsdorf had him as single, never married. But it was five years old. I shot a quick glance at Sarah’s ring finger. Empty.
“Trey’s mentioned a Lunsdorf he knows a couple of times. Scott. Or maybe Steve?” I took a sip of the Courvoisier and studied her over the rim of the snifter.
A quick blink, then deadpan. “Steven. My brother.”
“Trey said he shoots pool here with him sometimes. In fact, he said they got pretty drunk together here last Monday night.”
Sarah’s eyes looked down to the left, and she hesitated just a fraction before she spoke.
“Oh? I don’t remember seeing them together.” She set her snifter down and studied me. A crooked smile split her lips.
She was lying. The body language, the hesitation. It was enough. Fellows and Steven Lunsdorf had been together in The Chalked Cue last Monday night. I’d gotten what I’d come for. Time to leave with the lead.
“Thanks for the drink, hon.” She picked up the bottle of Courvoisier. “Hey, I take a sm
oke break in a couple minutes. Care to walk me outside?”
I’d gotten what I’d needed tonight, but I might need Sarah down the line. “Sure.”
I left the rest of the Courvoisier in the glass. Two beers and an ounce of cognac in less than an hour. I’d blow over the legal limit if I got stopped. No need to push my luck.
I watched Sarah make her rounds and chat casually with the leather-clad men. I caught more eyes in the mirror. These belonged to a massive head full of black hair and beard. It sat atop shoulders that would have fit right in among the Sierra Nevadas. A scar slashed across his eyebrow. These eyes didn’t challenge, but looked away when I held their gaze.
Two minutes later, I escorted Sarah out the front door. She’d put on a leather coat collared with fake fur and lit up a cigarette.
“Can you walk me around the back, hon? The owner doesn’t like us smoking out front.”
Something flipped over in my gut. The ancestral echo of fight or flight that was built into our DNA back when we were both hunter and prey. The world went modern, but the DNA stuck around to warn us that life was still dangerous.
“I really have to—”
The click of a double-action revolver behind my head silenced me and the rest of my world.
My mouth went dry and my underarms wet. Time stopped and the metallic click of death reverberated throughout my body.
Two years ago the man in my nightmares had pointed a gun at me, and I’d killed him to survive.
Two pairs of hands grabbed my arms from behind and pushed me forward before I had a chance to reach for the Ruger .357 in my pocket. Sarah led me and my invisible escorts into an alley behind The Chalked Cue. The only light came from a low crescent moon and the cherry of Sarah’s cigarette. The hands shoved me up against a dumpster and patted me down. A hand ripped the gun from my jacket pocket and another one grabbed my wallet from my pants.
“You always come armed to meet a friend in a bar?” Sarah asked.
“In a bar like this.” I should have brought ten of me in full riot gear.
“At least you told the truth about your name.” The sound of exhaled smoke. “Rick Cahill, private investigator.”
