Memories of a Murder

by Sid Kar

  “Luke Finley?” Frank asked.

  “That’s him, did you get to him?” Jenny asked.

  “We talked to him earlier,” Frank said, “any IDs on the other four?”

  “No records.”

  “Nevermind, I believe they would be his daughter Laura and his friends Dave, Vinnie and John,” Frank said.

  “I will ask them to come in on Monday to get their prints,” Jenny said.

  “Take care and let me know if one of your prints doesn’t match any of theirs.”

  Frank ended the call and turned to Joe.

  “Take an early day, Joe,” Frank said, “We are at an impasse. I am going to have to think over the weekend.”

  “You coming?”

  “Will stick my nose in the evidence room, didn’t get a chance to look through Adam’s stuff in detail last night at his home,” Frank said.

  “What do you say, a game of pool with beer tonight?” Joe asked.

  “I am game,” Frank nodded.

  Frank and Joe walked in the opposite directions. Frank didn’t want to bring Joe along in the evidence room. Joe was liable to fidget with the pieces of evidence and cause distraction. He needed quiet to think the case through.

  “Detective Frank, just sign here please,” the Evidence Room officer pushed a clipboard towards Frank to sign and then pushed a button to open the door. Frank walked inside a large room with over fifty tables neatly arrayed in rows and columns. But the stuff over them was anything but—jumbled around, in boxes, leaning over the table, heavier objects spread on the floor below and small items strewn about. This was all the material that hadn’t been processed yet, to be stuffed into cardboard boxes and sent to another room down the corridor to be stacked on tall warehouse style racks.

  Every table had a paper holder in the middle with the names of the victim and the lead detective of the case printed in bold. Frank spotted a table with his name and walked over. He was the only one in the room.

  The troopers had brought over all the articles that could be carried in a box. Heavier objects such as the sofa would require him to put in a request. But he preferred to disturb the crime scene as little as possible and would rather examine the material at the spot.

  Frank went through the articles one by one. There were empty beer cans, an ash tray, a baseball cap, shoes and socks, some papers, a couple of magazines, a newspaper, a baseball, some coasters, a small trash can with its contents emptied on the table, Adam’s toothbrush, toothpaste and shaving razor, a couple of pens, utensils, wallet, credit cards, notes and coins – all of them counted before being dumped, some unused brown bags and such myriad of household items.

  But Frank didn’t believe any of them would be of any use to him. The killer had barely even stepped inside.

  He stared at the collection for a few minutes.

  Then he saw the business card for the law firm.

  Frank reached forward and picked up the plastic bag with the card inside.

  “Rodden, McRoy, Lubbers, Days & Bartley,” he read it aloud. He read the address. It was in Princeton, not far from where his own father’s law firm was. Then he remembered Laura’s mention of Adam’s Will and checked his watch. It was 4:30 PM. If he left now, he could just make it.

  Frank rushed out of the state police headquarters and jumped into his car. He swiftly drove out of the parking lot. The rush hour was starting and crowding Route 1, but Frank turned on his lights. He was on official police business and drove on the shoulder with flashing lights and an occasional siren.

  He reached the law firm with twenty minutes to spare till 5:00, but today was Friday, and he could not count on the lawyers sticking around. The office was located on a quiet, suburban street with trees lining either side of the small two story office building. The parking lot was nearly empty when Frank rushed through the revolving glass door.

  “Can I help you officer?” the receptionist asked. She was also packing up and her tone indicated mild annoyance at the last minute visitor.

  “Can you tell me who the attorney is for one Adam Buck of Oldwood I believe he is one of your clients,” Frank said.

  “Is he in trouble? Have you arrested him? I don’t know if I can give out that information,” receptionist replied, “why don’t you have him call us?”

  “He is not going to call from his grave,” Frank stated matter-of-factly.

  “He is dead?”

  “Murdered,” Frank said, “see, I am not investigating your client; I am investigating his death. Now please…be quick lady.”

  The receptionist shook her head but hit a few keys on her computer and looked up Adam in the firm’s database.

  “Oh…that would be Mr. Bartley himself,” the receptionist said.

  “Is he in?”

  “Yes, but you would need an appoint…”

  Frank had already turned left to the corridor and started walking.

  “Officer…” the receptionist called out.

  “Thanks, but I will find my way,” Frank replied and hurried down the corridor. He knew these types of law firms and that the big partners had their offices at the very end, in the big corner rooms with large glass windows.

  Along the way he did not fail to notice the expensive, velvety rugs, the fancy artwork, the Oak and Mahogany furniture and the photos of the lawyers with the politicians and the judges.

  How could a truck driver afford this place? Why would he need it in the first place?

  Frank read the nameplates on the doors as he went and entered an office with an open door at the very end when he saw the plate for Scott Bartley.

  A man in his early sixties was talking on the phone, “Ms. Moore, the police officer is already here…yes, you can leave. I will handle it.” He got up from his large leather chair and raised his arms to either side. “State Police just waltzing in without a warrant, to top it off, in a law office no less,” he sighed.

  “Mr. Bartley, this is not an inquiry into your clients,” Frank said, “your client, Adam Buck, was killed last night, shot through the head.”

  “Oh what…” Bartley slumped back into his chair, “that is horrible, officer…”

  “Detective Frank Kirk,”

  “Yes detective, I knew of Adam, although I believe I met him only once. He wasn’t a regular client,” Bartley said.

  “Of course not. He was a long haul truck driver,” Frank said, “A bill for your hour’s time would cost him two days’ paycheck.”

  “What are you implying?” Bartley asked.

  “I want to see his Will,” Frank said.

  “You can’t just demand…attorney-client privilege and all that…”

  “Your client is not a suspect in his own murder,” Frank said and Bartley scoffed a half chuckle, “and now you will be filing the Will anyhow.”

  “Then wait for me to do so,” Bartley said, “or get a warrant. Now please, if you will excuse me, some of us have lives on Friday evenings.”

  “You don’t want to make me get a warrant,” Frank pulled up the chair in front even though he wasn’t offered one. He sat down relaxed with his right leg on his left knee, as if he was going nowhere in the hurry, “you don’t know what skeletons might tumble out.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Bartley asked.

  “Make of it what you will,” Frank replied, “the murder wasn’t far from here. I can leak it to the local papers that you are delaying getting justice for your own client. Won’t look good to your clients; others may even think twice; you might lose some business.”

  “Now that is some threat,” Bartley said pointing his finger at Frank, but he sat back down on the leather chair.

  “Or you let me take just a peek, and I am on my merry way,” Frank grinned.

  “Give me a few minutes,” Bartley said. He turned on the computer on his desk and searched the local news websites. After reading a few articles from the morning news on Adam’s murder and satisfied that Frank wasn’t playing any tricks on him, he pulled up the d
ocument for his will and sent it to the printer.

  “Have at it detective,” Bartley said as the electronic cackle of the printer started up from the side table.

  Adam’s will was only two pages long and it did not take Frank more than ten minutes to read it. There were only two items worthy of his attention.

  “He left his trailer home for his daughter and what the hell…an account in a Cayman Islands bank worth $623,500?” Frank shook his head in disbelief.

  “That’s when he last updated the will,” Bartley said, “the account is not all cash, but has stocks too, so its value fluctuates.”

  “Where did he get all that money from?” Frank flipped the papers on to the desk.

  “That I can’t answer because I don’t know, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Bartley picked up the will, put it in a drawer and locked it shut. “We are not the accountants; we are the attorneys. We plan estates and make wills; we don’t ask where the money for it came from and where it is going. Frankly,” Bartley paused on the word for a half second grin, “that is chump change for many of our clients who have multimillion dollar estates. Look around the large mansions when you drive back, detective.”

  “I don’t need to. I have lived around here,” Frank said, got up and left the law firm. As he drove back north, he got caught in the rush hour, but now he was puzzling over the money and paid no mind to the traffic.

  Why of course, Frank thought, a long distance hauler would be a perfect getaway driver for a big score. He could drive the loot cross country hundreds of miles away in a single day. That would explain the offshore account. He must have had a falling out with his associates, perhaps they thought he was going to spill the beans. Professional thieves would have contacts to hire a top gun.

  Frank abruptly pulled his cruiser off the highway and into a shopping plaza. If he could get the date the account was opened, he would have a timeframe to search for the known heists. And he had just such a trick to get that information.

  Frank went into a large department store and purchased a prepaid cellphone with cash. The winter sun was fast receding over the horizon, and Frank parked his cruiser in a lone, dark corner of the parking lot. He remembered the name of the bank in Cayman Islands on Adam’s will and did a search for it on his personal smartphone. He found a contact number and made an international call to the Caymans from his burner phone.

  A voice in British accent answered the call and inquired about his business.

  “Hello, this is Scott Bartley from the law firm of Rodden, McRoy, Lubbers, Days & Bartley,” Frank read off from the firm’s business card in the affection of a formal lawyer’s tone he was all too familiar from his father, “I am calling with regards to my client Adam Buck.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Adam Buck’s account has you listed as the attorney of record,” the bank representative replied, “how can I be of service?”

  “Unfortunately, my client has recently deceased, and I would like to begin the probate process forthwith.”

  “I am sorry to hear about your client’s passing away, Mr. Bartley, our deep condolences,” the bank rep answered.

  Frank chortled knowing the bank rep probably was saddened more by the thought of the bank account being closed out.

  “Our old records have been archived at a storage facility,” Frank said, “Could you inform me of the opening date of Adam’s account? I need it to file the Executor’s Affidavit.” Frank had heard the term from his father, didn’t know what it meant but counted on the rep on the other side not knowing and not wanting to show it either.

  “No problem, sir,” the bank rep replied after a moment’s hesitation, “Mr. Buck’s account was opened on May 23, 1985.”

  What the hell… Frank was speechless. He cut off the call. He was even more confused by this new revelation. There was a hidden past here casting shadows on his present investigation.

  He drove up to a big trashcan and tossed the burner phone in there. It had played its role. No one could trace that call back to him, certainly no one could prove it. He could use the same tools and tactics as the other side.

  If Bartley found out, he would probably suspect Frank, but for all he cared, Bartley could go fly up a flagpole.

  Frank made three more calls, this time with his personal cell phone, the first two of which went unanswered. The third time he dialed his father’s law firm.

  “Hello, you have reached the office of Kirk, Bosley, Walsh, Lafayette and Woodington, how can I help you?” a female voice answered.

  “Connect me to Dennis Kirk please,” Frank said.

  “Sorry sir, Mr. Kirk has left for the day…” she answered.

  “No he hasn’t,” Frank said, “Holly, this is Frank. I called home, and Dad isn’t picking up his cell phone either.” Frank knew the receptionist who was the niece of another partner, Woodington, and had met her a couple of times. He also knew the office had a policy of deferring the incoming calls after 5PM on Fridays.

  “Oh, Frank,” Holly replied, “didn’t recognize your voice, I’ll connect you right away.” She put him on hold and transferred his call.

  “Dennis Kirk,” his father answered.

  “Dad, Frank,” he said.

  “How kind of you, Frank, to honor me with a call after so long,” Dennis said.

  “Been busy.”

  “Aren’t we all? Not like you to call my office though,” Dennis said.

  “Dad, I need a little bit of help,” Frank said.

  “Don’t tell me you need me to represent you,” Dennis chuckled.

  “Represent me? What do you think, I have started selling adulterated narcotics and some Cartel is suing me for patent infringement?” Frank guffawed. Dennis Kirk was an intellectual property lawyer who specialized in pharmaceutical patent infringement litigation.

  “What is it?” Dennis asked.

  “Have you heard of the law firm of,” Frank read off the name of Bartley’s firm from the business card.

  “Yes, we have had dealings with them before across the table. They are from around here,” Dennis replied.

  “That’s why I called. I want to know if there is any rumor in the lawyer fraternity about that firm. Anything shady about them?” Frank asked.

  “Frank given your line of work, I can assume you will like the answer I give you, but I have one condition,” Dennis said.

  “What is it?” Frank asked.

  “We are having a party tomorrow afternoon. I would like you to come, see your mom and meet my firm’s partners, just socialize a bit,” Dennis said.

  “Uhh…a party of lawyers.”

  “Bring Joe along with you if you want.”

  “Alright, Dad, I will come. Now tell me,” Frank said.

  “Scott Bartley, the senior partner and a couple others, represented mob figures in Atlantic City during 80s and 90s,” Dennis said, “this is known amongst the lawyers here. Their firm relocated here in the late nineties and since then seem to have become a totally legit law firm.”

  So the mob was somehow involved too… Frank was more baffled. Hitman, Heist, Mafia…what other possibilities were there?

  “That help Frank?” Dennis asked.

  “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” Frank ended the call and pulled out of the parking lot.

  On the way back, he picked up a large pizza with pepperoni, sausage, ham, bacon and jalapenos for toppings along with a six pack of beer and met Joe at the pool hall. When he informed Joe that they would be working on Saturday, Joe was not a very happy man.

  CHAPTER 5

  Saturday, Day 3

  Frank and Joe walked into a mostly empty police headquarters on the cloudy Saturday morning. They took the stairs to the floor of the Organized Crime Bureau which was even more deserted. Only Detective Darnell Green was on duty. But he was the reason that Frank had decided to come down to the headquarters. Darnell was as big as Joe but a couple inches taller, dressed in a maroon sweater, with black khakis and black leather shoes. He had a cropped haircut an
d clean shaven face.

  Darnell was still eating his breakfast at his desk when Frank and Joe approached him.

  “Big Joe. How goes?” Darnell smiled widely.

  “Just chilling,” Joe said and shook hands with Darnell, “been to any wrestling shows lately?” he asked.

  “Naw, Joe,” Darnell replied, “My wife’s been cribbing; my kid’s been crying, and my bills been climbing; no time, no money for wrestling. What about you?”

  “No time. Frank keeps me busy,” Joe said, “got me chasing dead bodies.”

  “Killers of dead bodies,” Frank added.

  Darnell acknowledged Frank for the first time and said, “How you been, Frank?”

  “Need your help,” Frank said.

  “Anything for a friend of Joe,” Darnell said. This is why Frank had brought Joe along despite the latter’s protestations. Frank and Darnell were in the police academy together but Joe and Darnell had wrestled against each other in Division and State’s, being in the same weight class. Over the course of four years, Joe had bested Darnell with a 3 – 2 record and earned his respect.

  “If I give you two names, can you dig up all of their connections to the mafia,” Frank asked.

  “Sure, you got a mob connected hit?” Darnell said and pulled up his chair to the computer, “have a seat, grab any chairs, no one coming today.”

  Frank and Joe pulled chairs from other detectives’ desk and sat behind Darnell on either side. Darnell logged into the New Jersey Organized Crime Database and turned around to look at Frank, “Give me the names.”

  “Adam Buck and Scott Bartley,” Frank said. He provided other identifying information as there were others with the same names. Darnell got a hit on each of them, but when he tried to access the detailed profile, the screen displayed “Archived” in big, bold, red letters across their photos.

  “What does that mean?” Frank asked.

  “Means they been inactive for more than two decades,” Darnell replied, “Their files are still on paper and for those who died, retired or had quit their criminal activities before year 2000. We never bothered to digitize their files. Captain said waste of budget to hire a horde of clerks to enter data from reams of files just for future historians use.”