“He had good reason. I tried for a five-year stretch on sentencing. He got nine months. And disbarment, which he ultimately got reduced to five years’ actual suspension from the practice of law.”
“A slap on the wrist,” says Claude.
“He doesn’t see it that way,” I say.
Claude is quiet for the moment, lost in contemplation as if he’s fitting together the pieces of some puzzle.
“Sonofabitch,” he says. “We’re supposed to be a team. Then I open the paper and find out you’re keeping things from me.”
I’m in Emil’s office with Claude. Johnson’s holding a folded newspaper that he slaps on the desk in front of me.
“It makes me look like a fool when I have to read stuff like this in the newspaper. Reporters call me and I don’t know what the hell they’re talkin’ about.”
There on the front page of this morning’s Times is a sidebar to the story about Iganovich’s arrest in Canada, a two-column headline:
AUTHORITIES SEARCH FOR
SECOND COPYCAT KILLER
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”
“I didn’t learn about it myself until an hour before I flew to Canada, two days ago,” I tell him.
“Still, you coulda called me,” he says. “There are telephones between here and Canada, or hadn’t they told you?”
I read the first graph of the story while Emil’s chewing on my ass.
DAVENPORT—Sources close to the investigation of the Putah Creek killings disclosed today that they are now operating on the theory that a second killer, a copycat, is now at large and may be responsible for the murders of Abbott Scofield and his estranged wife, Karen. Scofield, a professor at the State University, was found murdered along with his former wife early last week. Their nude bodies were discovered by two teenagers hunting along the Putah Creek, the scene of four earlier killings involving university students. According to highly placed sources, police are now pursuing theories of a second killer due to discrepancies in the physical evidence found at the scene.
Fortunately for us these “highly placed sources” have drawn the line at divulging the specific evidence in question. As I read I cannot believe that Kay Sellig has had anything to do with this. I wonder who else in her shop may have known about our conversation. Then I think. True to her word, Sellig had faxed a copy of her report to my office while I was away in Canada. It had lain faceup on my desk with a pile of other papers for two days in my absence. Any of a dozen people could have seen it lying there, could have read its contents.
“Next time you have information,” he says, “you tell me. Understand?”
I look at Emil, but do not even give him the satisfaction of a grudging nod. Johnson is, at heart, a bully. He is pressing the outer limits of his authority right now, testing to see if I will genuflect. I have not.
“And another thing,” he says, “we won’t sit still for any crap about waiving the death penalty.” Claude has told him about our conversation with Jacoby up north.
“What the hell are we supposed to tell the families? Some pin-striped ninny in Washington signed a treaty so we can’t execute the murderer who butchered your kid? No,” says Emil. “No deals.” His brow is twisted in anger over one eye. “That sonofabitch comes back here and he faces the death penalty.”
In actuality this decision rests with the chief prosecutor of this county, myself at this moment. But it is a weighty matter, one affecting the longevity of elected officials in this place.
Johnson is late for a meeting out of the office. He’s looking for his little binder, a speech before the Rotary Club. “Where the hell is it?” he says. Then he finds it.
“Tell them,” he says, “tell them no deal. And find out who leaked this shit.” He’s hitting the newspaper on the desk with his finger. “It sure as hell wasn’t any of my people.” In Emil’s eyes this apparently is the only benefit of not knowing what was going on. His own skirts on this leak are clean.
He’s headed for the door. “We’ve already got problems with this sonofabitch Park,” he says. “Fill him in,” he tells Claude. “Tell ’em what that slant-eyed prick has done.” Then he’s out the door.
Claude looks at me and shakes his head.
“Park made some derogatory comments about Emil in the press.”
“About now I’d like to concur,” I say. I have little sympathy left for Johnson. “The man will not take sound advice,” I tell Claude.
“Park has also hired a Canadian barrister,” he tells me.
“What?”
“We got a call this morning from the Canadian Department of Justice,” he says, “Jacoby. He’s had contact from a private barrister representing some of the victims. The guy wanted to know what was going on with Iganovich.”
“This is getting very messy,” I tell him.
“Could they cause any trouble in Canada, with the extradition?” he asks.
“They could piss off some people in high places.”
“Maggie Wilson’s specialty,” says Claude.
“It could limit our chances to finesse Iganovich out of their country and back here. What did Jacoby tell their lawyer?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get into details,” he says.
“Find out,” I say. I am worried that he might have told their barrister about the treaty provisions on the death penalty, or that the lawyer might stumble over them on his own. If so, all hell will break loose.
Eight-thirty in the morning and I am greeted by the voice of the office receptionist over the com-line.
“Call for you,” she says. “Judge Ingel.”
I pick up the receiver. It’s a female voice on the other end, Ingel’s clerk. She tells me the judge will be with me in a moment, that they are busy linking a conference call.
The voice, like gravel on a dusty road, comes a second later.
“Madriani, you there?” I can tell by his tone that Ingel is pissed about something.
“Your honor.”
“We’d like to know what the hell’s going on.” I can hear breathing and background noise on the line.
“Excuse me,” I say, “but who’s on the line?”
“Judge Acosta,” he says. “Who else?”
The Coconut can be a real case. Prevented from pawing through my files, he now uses Ingel to tap my phone.
“What is it you want?” I say.
“We’re hearing rumors,” says the Prussian, “that you’re getting ready to cut a deal on the death penalty with the Canadians.”
“Who told you that?” I say.
“We have our sources.” This time it is Acosta’s voice coming back over the line.
I can guess where this comes from. Emil has been talking to Ingel. His way of assuring that I hold the line on any deal for extradition.
“Well, you’ve heard wrong,” I say. “And Emil knows better. I’ve already told him there will be no deals. Does he want it in blood?”
“Keep a civil tongue,” says Ingel. He’s putting on a little demonstration of authority for Acosta, telling me that there was no reason I should have barred the Coconut from my files. “Judge Acosta was not asking to copy anything, just looking,” he says. “After all he has a legitimate interest in the case.”
“He does,” I say. “The same as any other survivor. Maybe I should post all the investigative reports, all the contacts and leads the police have, on a wall in the courthouse so they can all read at the same time?”
“That’s enough,” says Ingel.
“You see what I have to deal with?” Acosta tells him. For several seconds they cut me out of the loop of discussion, the general consensus being that I am an uncooperative asshole, all this while I listen.
It is a colloquy I might expect from two legislators, people who never see bounds to their perks of power and special privilege, but not from sitting judges.
“So how are you going to get him back?” Acosta is asking for my strategy on extraditing the Russian.<
br />
“The State Department is putting pressure on the Canadian authorities,” I say. “In the end, we are confident they will return the suspect without any waiver of capital punishment.”
An audible “humph” from the other end of the line, like he gives this little credence. I begin to believe that Acosta would prefer that I fail. I think that maybe his commitment to his sister and family is not as strong as his desire to tromp my ass.
“What about this copycat thing in the papers?” says Ingel.
“Right now just a theory,” I say. “Discrepancies in some of the physical evidence.”
We go over this. Without divulging any details, I assure Acosta that this does not appear to affect his niece’s case. Again a lot of mild scoffing on the other end of the line.
“You will keep us posted?” says Ingel.
“To the extent that I can,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Acosta. “Sure. Like access to the files.”
Ingel consoles him a little, tells me good-bye, like I can ring off now, while they defame me in private for awhile.
I hang up. But for the next several minutes my ears are burning.
Days have passed and I am only now able to follow up on Kay Sellig’s advice that I talk with the county’s medical examiner, Dr. Lloyd Tolar.
Tolar is a teaching physician with a full-time position at the university medical school. A trained pathologist, he is under contract to the county to provide coroner services, a position which he rolls neatly into his teaching assignment. I am told that he uses students to assist him in servicing the county contract, that the university receives the payment for this from the county. A cozy arrangement.
When I get to Tolar’s office, I am ushered to a chair in a reception area and told that the doctor is running late, a teaching assignment in another building. He is expected momentarily.
A second later I sense a presence behind me. When I turn I’m facing a kid, no more than twenty-five, in medical garb.
“You’re Mr. Madriani?” he says.
“I am.”
“Dr. Jamison,” he says. He shakes my hand. “I’m one of the interns assigned to assist Dr. Tolar. He’s not going to be able to meet with you today. Last-minute conflict,” he says. “He asked me to sit in, to talk to you, to answer any questions. We can use his office.”
Before I can say anything, Jamison is heading toward a large glassed-in office on the other side of reception. I follow him through the door and he turns on the light.
“So you’re the acting DA,” he says. He eyes me up and down as if to pass a quick judgment. “You’re here on the Putah Creek things?” he says.
“Yes. I haven’t received a copy of the pathology report in the last two murders yet, Abbott and Karen Scofield.” I tell him that Sellig had advised me to come in and talk, that there was apparently some problem, questions before the report could be completed. I lift an eyebrow. “And some information that perhaps we have a different perpetrator here.”
He projects poise beyond his years, self-assured, more than a little arrogant.
“Some of our findings,” he says. “We were not sure whether you would want them reduced to writing in the pathology report, or kept verbal at this point. A question of discretion.”
What he’s talking about is the practice of finessing an expert report, in this case the autopsy, to keep certain critical information away from any adversary come trial. Normally such documents are disclosed during discovery.
“What are we talking about?” I say.
“Pretty clear medical evidence,” he says, “that these victims were not killed where they were found, but moved there later.” He’s talking about the Scofields.
“That the killer stabbed them with a knife first, and then tried to mask this with the metal stakes. It was well done,” he says. “But not that well done.” A point of pride, I think.
Jamison talks without notes, conversant with details. I suspect that perhaps he assisted Tolar in the autopsy.
I ask him to tell me more.
He says that they found a contusion on Abbott Scofield’s head and evidence that he was unconscious when stabbed. The wife was not. Both were stabbed with a sharp single-edged knife about nine inches long. The stakes were inserted later into these wounds, then driven through the bodies to make it look as if the same MO was used as in the earlier cases.
Sellig was right—this is dynamite stuff. “Can you gloss it in the report?” I say.
“We can keep the facts broad, leave out the conclusions.” He says this like they have done it before.
I weigh the risks. Once in the report there is no way to take it out.
“For now,” I say, “until we know who’s going to be looking at the report, that might be best.”
Chapter Thirteen
This morning I make a mental note to immerse Lenore Goya in the particulars of the Putah Creek case when I get to the office. I will need some competent help on the affidavits and other documentation required for extradition. Before I head for the office I drive past the university soccer field and performing arts building.
A mile down the road I turn onto a tree-lined lane where the branches of giant oaks meet in the center of the street a hundred feet overhead. It is like a public park, but there are stately homes here, white-columned Georgians and classic Colonials set back a mile on manicured lawns. This is Davenport’s version of faculty row, people with tenured job security, something unknown to the average citizen in this country. Here live professors on public salary, people who bought these mansions four decades ago for a song, and who now live in cloistered comfort.
I pull to a stop in front of a mammoth Dutch Colonial with dormers larger than some homes I have seen. An older woman answers the door, her hair pulled back in a tight gray bun.
“Is Mrs. Scofield in?” I say.
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Attorney Paul Madriani.” I give her a business card with the county seal printed on it and she disappears, leaving me outside on the doorstep for the moment, behind the security-chained door which she has taken care to lock.
Several seconds pass and she is back. “Please come in,” she says.
She leads me through a spacious entryway and into the living room. It is large and cluttered with the knickknacks of a lifetime of work. If there is a theme to this place it is birds: carved wooden birds, books on birds, lithographs of birds and an original oil framed over the fireplace. Bald eagles and ravens, owls and hummingbirds—if it exists and has feathers, I think it has probably found a place in this room.
The house has the signs of a grand structure, in its day. But it is dated, as if its owners have found other things to do with their time and money, besides remodeling and decorating.
“My daughter will be with you in a moment.” Before I can turn and look at her, the old lady is gone again.
I wander in the room, killing time, looking at the various mementos. On an end table by the couch is a framed photo, black and white, a dark-haired man in pants that resemble riding jodhpurs. I pick it up to look more closely. He is handsome and young, standing in a field high with grass. I would hardly recognize him from the grim autopsy shots back in my office; Abbott Scofield in more youthful and happier times.
“It was taken right after his marriage to Karen . . .” I turn. It’s Jeanette Scofield standing in the doorway. “The first Mrs. Scofield. They were married in 1958,” she says.
“Sorry,” I say. “Curiosity gets the better of me at times.” I put the photo back on the table.
“It’s OK.” She waves a hand, like no big thing. “He was a good-looking man, don’t you think?”
“He was,” I say, “good-looking.”
“Everybody thought so.” She gives me a schoolgirl tilt of the head. “My mom didn’t want me to marry him. Said he was too old for me.” There’s a moment of awkward silence as if by these comments she is forced to reassess the true measure of her loss.
Then shif
ting gears quickly, she makes amends for her appearance. She is dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt. There is mud on the front of this and a little on her chin. The running shoes are old and tattered, and the towel draped around her shoulders has smudges of dirt and mud. Her hair is pinned back on the sides and gathered in a loose ponytail at the back. She mops a little perspiration from her forehead.
“Gardening,” she says. “One of my vices.” There’s a giddy smile. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
I beg off. She is tall, an inch taller than I, even in flat shoes.
“Mom,” she calls. The woman appears at the door as if she’s been beamed down. I think maybe the old lady has an ear to our conversation. “Would you mind getting me a glass of iced tea,” she says. “You’re sure I can’t offer you something?”
“No. Thanks.”
She smiles.
“Please, sit down.” She gestures toward the couch, and takes a seat herself in one of two overstuffed club chairs, set at an angle in front of the fireplace.
“How do I rate a visit from the prosecuting attorney?” she says. “I’ve already talked to the police, your Lieutenant Dusalt?” She’s questioning as if maybe she has the name wrong.
“That’s right. I’ve read his report,” I tell her. “Just a few loose ends,” I say.
“Isn’t that usually a detective’s job?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Is that like efficient government at work?” She smiles.
“Something like that.”
The flush of the outdoors is leaving her cheeks. She drapes one thigh over the other, a baggy pair of oversized men’s pants with enough fabric for each pant-leg to wrap twice around each leg. She leans back in her chair. “What would you like to know?”
“Just some general background information,” I say. “I thought it might help us, as we move forward, if we know more about your husband’s work. Can you tell me a little about it? What exactly did he do?”
“Ah.” She nods at this, then tepees the fingers of both hands, long and slender, under her chin.
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