Chapter Twenty-Seven
Radhauser phoned Gracie from the hospital parking lot. “I have to drive out to Klamath Falls.”
“Tonight? I thought we were going to cook hamburgers on the grill. I invited Cooper to join us.”
He explained the situation and what he knew would happen if he didn’t get an alibi for Ahmed in place before tomorrow.
“Oh, Wind,” she said, her voice softening. “That poor family. Haven’t they been through enough? Is there anything I can do?”
“Save me a hamburger. I should be home by eight.”
It took him an hour and forty-five minutes to make the drive to Klamath Falls and it was around six when he arrived at the lake. He parked and hurried over to the nearest picnic table—the one Ahmed had described. A search of the two closest trashcans yielded a half dozen McDonald’s bags, none of which contained a receipt date stamped on Saturday evening. Or anything else that might help him establish an alibi for Ahmed. He was sure all the other cans were just as useless.
He moved on to the Chevron Station on Highway 97, parked his vehicle and stepped inside and introduced himself. "I'm looking for whoever pumped gas here on Saturday at around six-thirty in the evening."
“That would be Jason Sizemore. What’s he done?”
“Nothing that I know of. I’m hoping he will remember pumping gas for someone last night between six and seven. Do you know where I can find him?”
“He lives in an apartment over on Grant Street. I believe the address is 825. And he’s in apartment number six. But we’re pretty busy on weekends, especially when the weather is nice, so I doubt he’d remember one customer.”
Radhauser hoped he was wrong. “Do you figure he’s there now?”
He looked at his watch. “Pretty good chance, I’d say.”
It took only five minutes to drive to Jason’s apartment. Radhauser parked, found number six, and knocked.
It was answered by a tall, very thin young man of about twenty-five. He had sandy-colored hair, hazel eyes and wore a pair of blue jeans, with a plaid short-sleeved shirt and cowboy boots. His face was clean shaven, but severely pockmarked from what looked like teenaged acne. “Are you Jason Sizemore?”
“Who wants to know?”
Radhauser introduced himself and took off his Stetson.
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I don’t suspect you of wrongdoing. I’m here for another reason. I need your help. May I come in?”
Jason moved aside so Radhauser could enter.
“What’s a detective with the Ashland Police Department need from me? I haven’t been in Ashland for years.”
“You’re not in any trouble. I understand you were working at the Chevron Station on Highway 97 this past Saturday evening.”
“That’s right. I work most weekends so the owner can spend time with his kids.”
“I wonder if you remember serving a Muslim man in a gray Camry. Not new, but well-maintained. The driver would have been slender with black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore jeans, a green baseball shirt, and a black turban wrapped around his head.” He took Ahmed’s driver’s license photo from his shirt pocket and handed it to Jason.
He studied the photo, thought for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Yes, I remember him. Hard not to notice them after 9-11. But he seemed nice enough. Intense, but real polite.”
Radhauser tried not to react to them. But Jason must have read it on his face.
"Look, Detective Radhauser, I can see by your expression that you think I'm prejudiced. But I'm not one of those people who go around making judgments based on how people look or what they wear—or racial profiling, to use the more politically correct terminology. But we all do it. If you walk on the other side of the street at night to avoid a group of black or white men, that’s racial profiling; if you don't cross because you're scared you'll be considered a racist, well that's racial profiling too. If now, after what happened to the Twin Towers, you see a brown-skinned dude get on a plane with a turban on his head and don't think anything, well, you're a better man than most of us."
“You’re right and I apologize.” Radhauser had underestimated Jason. Just because he worked at a gas station didn’t mean he wasn’t a deep thinker. “Do you happen to remember the time you pumped his gas?”
“Saturdays this time of year are busy because of the lake. I’m not sure.”
“Think hard. It’s really important.”
“Why? What’s he done?”
“I don’t think he’s done anything. That’s why establishing he was here is so important. Was it before or after dinner?”
“Definitely after. Sometime between six and seven in the evening would be my guess.”
Radhauser let out a long breath. That confirmed what Ahmed had told him, but a guess wouldn’t hold up in court. “Can you be more certain than a guess?”
“I can check credit card receipts.”
“He told me he paid with an AAA Visa. His name is Ahmed Azami. Can you make me a copy of that receipt?”
“Sure thing. Just give me a minute. You can follow me over to the station.”
At the gas station, while Radhauser waited in his car, Jason retrieved and copied the receipt. It was time-stamped six thirty-two p.m. It might help, but it wouldn’t put Ahmed in the clear. If he left the station just after six thirty-two p.m., depending on traffic, he might be back in Ashland by eight. Would that be time enough to murder Baker, then drive home and take his family into Grants Pass?
The ME always gave his TOD with an hour buffer on either side. It was a beginning, but Radhauser suspected he’d have to do better than this time-stamped receipt to get Ahmed Azami off the hook for murder. He needed another viable suspect.
Discouraged, he drove home, did his nightly ritual with the horses, then headed up the driveway. As he neared the house, he stopped.
Cooper was playing a classical piece on the piano.
The living room windows were open and the music pouring through the screen took Radhauser’s breath away. He’d played the old upright piano hundreds of times, maybe thousands, but when Cooper played it, the sound was nothing like Radhauser’s clunking of the keys. It was fluid, pulsating, and alive. Triumphant, it seemed to reach great heights and depths at the same time. It was like the full moon, the constellations and every shooting star in the night sky.
* * *
Monday morning, before interviewing Fayyad Hadad, Radhauser did a little research. Fayyad, a Muslim, had arrived in New York in 1990 at the age of twenty. He received his Master of Theology in Islamic Studies from the Graduate Theological Foundation before moving to Ashland. Fayyad began service as Imam at the campus Muslim Prayer House in Ashland in 1997. During the two weeks since the fire, Fayyad had rented an empty storefront near campus. He turned it into a makeshift house of worship for Muslim students at OSU and other Muslim residents of Ashland.
Radhauser assumed Fayyad conducted his business for the Islamic Center and Foundation—an organization Baker claimed supplied funds to support Al-Qaeda in terrorist activities—out of the same space. In his research, Radhauser had discovered no evidence of this alleged tie to Al-Qaeda was true.
After finding an empty spot on Main Street, Radhauser parallel parked and walked the remaining distance. The rented space, sandwiched between a restaurant and a used bookstore, was inconspicuous and most people passing by wouldn’t notice. A small brass sign on the door read Islamic Foundation for Peace. Perhaps a low profile was what Fayyad wanted now.
When Radhauser opened the front door, a bell rang.
Inside, behind windows hung with closed Venetian blinds, the room’s walls were constructed from used brick. A high, coffered ceiling was painted white. The floor was covered with dark green wall-to-wall carpeting, overlaid with orange floral-patterned prayer rugs. If filled to capacity, the room might hold seventy-five to a hundred people. Three men in stocking feet knelt on prayer rugs at the front of the room—their arms stretche
d out in front of them. They carried out the Islamic rituals in sync. The men wore traditional Islamic dress with skull caps. Behind them and a little to the left, a small group of women, covered in veils, followed suit.
Radhauser slipped off his boots and put them in a rack beside the door. He quietly crossed the room, careful to be respectful and stay behind the ones at prayer. He tapped on Fayyad’s office door.
A voice from the other side of the door said, “Please come inside.”
Radhauser entered a small, windowless room that looked like it had once been used as storage. The walls were cinderblock, painted gray, and the floor was concrete. A pretty dismal space for an office.
Fayyad stood and reached across the gray metal desk to offer his hand.
They shook hands. He wore a long white robe and a white skull cap. He lifted his right arm in a sweeping motion. “Welcome to my office, Detective Radhauser. Décor complements of Goodwill and the Salvation Army Thrift Center.”
Radhauser pulled the other chair closer to the desk. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Of course.” Again, Fayyad gestured with his right hand. “It’s not much, but will have to suffice until we can raise the funds to rebuild the prayer house. Have you come to donate?”
Radhauser removed his Stetson and smiled. “I’m afraid not. I’ve come to ask you some questions.”
“I already told you we were there for a peaceful march. I know I should have obtained a permit, but it was impromptu—arranged after Baker and his snow-white mafia showed up with their torches and hate dialogue.”
“Where were you last night between the hours of seven and nine p.m.?”
“I grabbed some dinner on the Plaza, then took a long walk in Lithia Park to clear my head. After that, I went back to my apartment.”
“Can anyone verify your activities?”
“It’s possible the waitress at Greenleaf on the Plaza would remember me. I eat there pretty often.” He cocked his head, a hint of suspicion in his dark eyes. “Is there some reason you’re asking me this?”
“Exactly where were you seated at the Greenleaf?”
“At the second booth on the left after you enter. May I ask why you want to know that?”
“I’m asking the questions, Mr. Fayyad. Do you know a woman named Marsha Parsons?”
Fayyad thought for a moment. “I knew her as a friend of Daria Azami. Marsha wished to learn what Allah expects of His followers and eventually convert to Islam. She often prayed with us. And I was instructing her in the ways of Muslim women.”
“Your use of the past tense says you know she is dead.”
“Yes, murdered. I read the papers, Detective. Very tragic. She was a good woman and didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Only through my work here at the center. She was devoted to her studies. And I respected her for that.”
“What about Bradford Baker? How well do you know him?”
“I know him only through his anti-Muslim crusades and hate speech. Why would I want to know someone like that?”
“Like what, exactly?”
"A racist, a bully, and a coward."
“How did you feel about that letter to the editor he wrote in the Medford Tribune? The one accusing your foundation of having ties to Al-Qaeda? His claim you’d sent them money to support terrorist activities?”
“How do you think I felt about it? He was spreading a pack of lies. Lies that I suspect led to the burning of our prayer house. Ashland has no mosque. That little house was our only place of worship.”
“Are you saying you hate him?”
“I don’t know. I try hard to hate no one. But let’s just say I don’t like him very much. Where are you going with this, Detective?”
“Bradford Baker was found dead this morning at Thomas Flannigan Sports Park.”
Fayyad jerked his head back and for a few seconds, said nothing. “You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with his death?”
"Why not? You were beating each other to a pulp when I pulled you apart at your illegal protest."
"I was angry. I'd just watched a prayer house I'd worked for most of my adult life go up in flames. It might not have meant much to others. But it was everything to me and the Muslims in this town. And now, Adib, an innocent man and a friend of mine, I might add, is struggling with burns to over twenty-five percent of his body."
“Do you mind if I ask you something more personal? It’s part of my quest to understand.”
"Of course. I'm always willing to help others understand Islam."
“Would you consider Bradford Baker an infidel?”
“An infidel is a person who does not believe in Allah and His Oneness. I don’t know what Baker believes.”
“How do you feel about the terrorists who leveled the Twin Towers and their belief that Allah approved of what they’d done? That the Quran says to kill the infidels.”
"I am deeply saddened by those extremists and the hate they have spread. But, I ask you, Detective, is it so different from some extremists in the Christian religion? People who think God believes it is okay to bomb an abortion clinic or murder a physician who is performing them? Murder to prevent murder makes no sense."
“If I may be so bold as to ask, what is your personal belief?”
He placed his hand over his heart. “In here, I believe my Allah and your God are one. We are merely on different paths to find Him. And no, Detective Radhauser, Bradford Baker was not one of my favorite people, but I stand for peace. I didn’t murder him.”
Fayyad struck Radhauser as a peaceful man. Even a bit of a philosopher. But that certainly didn't come through when he tackled Baker and pounded his face. Radhauser believed everyone was capable of violence. In his experience, no one ever admitted to murder until they realized the evidence was stacked so high against them they couldn't see over the top. That was the moment when a suspect would admit to anything to make a deal.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After leaving Fayyad, Radhauser stopped by the DA's office to check the status of Sherman Parsons' release. He discovered that Murphy had made all the arrangements and Parsons could be picked up at Jackson County Jail. Murphy had also authorized a cleaning crew to remove the bloody tarp from the Parsons' dining room and clean the splatter from the walls and ceiling. It seemed like the least they could do after arresting an innocent man.
Radhauser called Services to Children and Families to locate the children and to notify them charges against Sherman Parsons had been dismissed. He knew, given the circumstances, they wouldn’t release the kids without a home study, so he requested a visitation for Parsons. They checked with the foster parents, then gave Radhauser the address.
Though he dreaded his encounter with Sherman Parsons, picking him up at the Jackson County Jail and taking him to see his children were the right things to do. Radhauser owed the man that much.
After arriving at the jail, Radhauser showed his badge and said he’d come to provide transportation to Sherman Parsons. He filled out the necessary paperwork and sat in one of the plastic chairs to wait.
A few minutes later, Parsons appeared. He was clean-shaven and wore the same clothes he'd worn when Radhauser arrested him. This time the jeans and blue shirt looked as if they'd been washed and pressed. His Reeboks were tied. Parsons appeared to have lost weight during his incarceration and the shirt hung loose on his shoulders. He carried a small plastic bag of personal possessions.
Radhauser stood.
Parsons stopped and stared. His face hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I figured you might need a ride to see your kids and then back to your house.”
“I’d rather have my liver removed with a paring knife than ride with the son of a bitch who arrested me for nothing and had my kids carted away to some orphanage.”
“We both know you were in no shape to care for those kids when I finally found you in that cheap motel. The kid
s are safe and together in a very nice foster home in Medford. I called her and we’ve arranged a visit for you today. You should be grateful the state took care of them for you.”
“Okay, so I was drunk. You ever been drunk, Detective?”
Radhauser thought back to the days and weeks following the deaths of Laura and Lucas. “More than a few times,” he said. “You want that ride or not?”
Parsons placed his right hand over his heart. “I’m deeply touched. But I want an apology before I’ll go anywhere with you.”
“Fair enough,” Radhauser said, understanding why Parsons’ tone was so sarcastic. “I’m very sorry you had to spend three weeks imprisoned for something you didn’t do. I’m sorry your children have been traumatized. For what it’s worth, it wasn’t my idea to arrest you. I wasn’t one-hundred percent convinced of your guilt, and I went to bat for you with my captain. But all our evidence pointed directly at you. When my boss tells me to make an arrest and the DA believes we have enough evidence to convict, the decision is out of my hands.”
Parsons shifted his weight from one foot to the other and grinned. “Passing the buck, are you, Radhauser?”
“Maybe. But it’s the truth.”
A sheepish look washed over Parsons’ face. “Okay, since we’re being honest here, I admit I didn’t have much of an alibi. And Marsha and me, well, she was pregnant with Junior so I did the right thing and married her. But I was never happy. And if she were here to tell you, she’d say she wasn’t either. A part of me wanted her to leave. Maybe even tried to make her leave by being an ass.” He stopped and shook his head. “But I had a lot of hours to think and I feel really bad about what happened to her." He paused and shrugged. "Maybe I did love her some and just didn't know it."
“You want me to take you to see your kids or not?”
Parsons' face went soft. "I'm not too worried about Junior, but I sure as hell hope Jill remembers her old man."
Radhauser’s stomach tightened. “Kids are pretty resilient.” He thought about the week they’d gone skiing and left two-year-old Lizzie with Gracie’s mother. When they’d returned, eager to see their daughter, Lizzie had turned away from them and hidden her face in her grandmother’s skirt. “It might take her a few minutes to warm up, but she won’t have forgotten you.”
Red Hatchet Falls Page 22
