“Brian Oglevy is innocent,” I said, cutting her off. “And I think I can prove it.”
Schifino studied me for a long moment. He had dark hair and a handsome face with an uneven tan from wearing a baseball cap. He was either a golfer or a coach. Or maybe both. His eyes were sharp and he quickly came to a decision about me.
“Then I guess you better come on back to the office,” he said.
I followed him to his office and he sat down behind a large desk while signaling me to the seat on the other side.
“You work for the Times?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good paper but in a lot of trouble these days. Financially.”
“Yeah, they all are.”
“So how did you come to the conclusion in L.A. that my guy over here is an innocent man?”
I gave him my best scoundrel’s smile.
“Well, I don’t know that for sure, but I had to get in to see you. But this is what I’ve got. I’ve got a kid over there, sitting in jail for a murder I am thinking he didn’t commit, and it seems to me that the details are a lot like the details in your Oglevy case—what details I know. Only, my case happened two weeks ago.”
“So if they are the same, my client has an obvious alibi and there might be a third party here at work.”
“Exactly.”
“All right, well, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Well, I was hoping I could see what you’ve got too.”
“Fair enough. My client is in prison and I don’t think he’s too worried about attorney-client privilege at this point, not if my trading information might help his cause. Besides, most of what I tell you is available in court records.”
Schifino pulled his files and we began a show-me-yours-show-you-mine session. I told him what I knew about Winslow and maintained a reserved excitement as we went through the crime reports. But when we moved into side-by-side comparisons of the crime scene photos, the adrenaline kicked in and it became difficult to contain myself. Not only did the Oglevy photos completely match those from the Babbit case, but the victims looked stunningly alike.
“This is amazing!” I said. “It’s almost like the same woman.”
Both were tall brunettes with large brown eyes, bobbed noses and long-legged dancer’s bodies. Immediately I was hit with the profound sense that these women had not been selected randomly by their killer. They had been chosen. They fit some kind of mold that had made them targets.
Schifino was riding the same wave. He pointed from photo to photo, accenting the similarities in the crime scenes. Both women were suffocated with a plastic bag that was tied around the neck with a thin white cord. Each was placed naked and facing inward in the trunk of the car, and their clothes were simply dropped on top of them.
“My God… look at this,” he said. “These crimes are absolutely the same and it doesn’t take an expert to see that. I have to tell you something, Jack. When you came in here, I thought you were going to be this morning’s entertainment. A diversion. Some wild-ass reporter who shows up chasing a pipe dream. But this…”
He gestured to the side-by-side sets of photos we had laid out across the desk.
“This is my client’s freedom right here. He’s getting out!”
He was standing behind his desk, too excited to sit down.
“How did this happen?” I asked. “How did this slip through?”
“Because they were solved quickly,” Schifino said. “In each case the police were led to an obvious suspect and looked no further. They didn’t look for similars because they didn’t need to. They had their suspects and were off to the races.”
“But how did the killer know to put Sharon Oglevy’s body in her ex-husband’s trunk? How would he even know where to find the car?”
“I don’t know, but that is off point. The point here is that these two killings are of such a strikingly similar pattern that there is just no way that either Brian Oglevy or Alonzo Winslow could be responsible. The other details will fall into place when the real investigation is begun. But for now, there is no doubt in my mind that you’re exposing something huge here. I mean, how do you know that these are the only two? There could be others.”
I nodded. I hadn’t thought about that possibility. Angela Cook’s online search had only come up with the Oglevy case. But two cases make a pattern. There still could be more.
“What will you do now?” I asked.
Schifino finally sat down. He rotated back and forth in his chair while considering the question.
“I’m going to draw up and file a petition for a writ of habeas corpus. This is new information that is exculpatory and we’re going to put it into open court.”
“But I’m not supposed to have those files. You can’t cite them.”
“Sure I can. What I don’t have to do is say where I got them.”
I frowned. I would be the obvious source once my story was published.
“How long will it take for you to get this into court?”
“I have to do some research but I’ll file it by the end of the week.”
“That’s going to blow this up. I don’t know if I can be ready to publish my story by then.”
Schifino held his hands out wide and shook his head.
“My client’s been up at Ely for more than a year. Do you know that the conditions are so bad at that prison that on frequent occasion death row inmates drop their appeals and volunteer to be executed, just to get out of there? Every day he is up there is a day too long.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that…”
I stopped to think about things and there was no way I could justify keeping Brian Oglevy in prison even a day longer just so I could have time to plan and write the story. Schifino was right.
“Okay, then I want to know the minute you file it,” I said. “And I want to talk to your client.”
“No problem. You get the exclusive as soon as he walks.”
“No, not then. Now. I am going to write the story that springs him and Alonzo Winslow. I want to talk to him today. How do I do it?”
“He’s in maximum security and unless you’re on the list, you won’t get in to see him.”
“You can get me in, can’t you?”
Schifino was sitting behind the aircraft carrier he called a desk. He brought a hand up to his chin, thought about the question and then nodded.
“I can get you in. I need to fax a letter up to the prison that says you are an investigator working for me and that you are entitled access to Brian. I then give you a to-whom-it-may-concern letter that you carry with you, and that identifies you as working for me. If you work for an attorney, you don’t need a state license. You carry the letter with you and show it at the gate. It will get you in.”
“Technically, I don’t work for you. My paper has rules about reporters misrepresenting themselves.”
Schifino reached into his pocket and pulled out his cash. He handed a dollar across the desk to me. I reached across the murder scene photos to take it.
“There,” he said. “I just paid you a dollar. You work for me.”
That didn’t really cut it but I wasn’t too worried about it, considering my employment situation.
“I guess that will work,” I said. “How far is Ely?”
“Depending on your driving, it’s three to four hours north of here. It’s in the middle of nowhere and they call the road going up there the loneliest road in America. I don’t know if it’s because it leads to the prison or if it’s the landscape you cross, but it’s not called that without good reason. They have an airport. You could take a sand jumper up there.”
I assumed that a sand jumper was the same as a puddle jumper, a small prop plane. I shook my head. I had written too many stories about little planes going down. I didn’t fly in them unless I absolutely had to.
“I’ll drive. Write the letters. And I’m going to need copies of everything in your files.”
“I’ll work on th
e letters and get Agnes to start making copies. I’ll need copies of what you have for the habeas petition. We can say that’s what my dollar bought.”
I nodded and thought, Yeah, put officious Agnes to work for me. I would like that.
“Let me ask you something,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Before I came in here and showed you all of this, did you think Brian Oglevy was guilty?”
Schifino cocked his head back as he thought it over.
“Not for publication?”
I shrugged. It wasn’t what I wanted but it was what I’d take.
“If that’s the only way you’ll answer.”
“Okay, for publication I can tell you that I knew Brian was innocent from day one. There was just no way he could’ve committed this horrible crime.”
“And not for publication?”
“I thought he was guilty as sin. It was the only way I could live with losing the case.”
After stopping at a 7-Eleven and buying a throwaway phone with a hundred minutes of call time on it, I headed north through the desert on Highway 93 toward Ely State Prison.
Highway 93 took me past Nellis Air Force Base and then connected with 50 North. It wasn’t too long before I began to see why it was known as the loneliest road in America. The empty desert ruled the horizon in every direction. Hard, chiseled mountain ranges, barren of any vegetation, rose and fell away as I drove. The only signs of civilization were the two-lane blacktop and the power lines carried over the ranges by iron stick figures that looked like they were giants from another planet.
The first calls I made with my new phone were to the credit-card companies, demanding to know why my cards were not working. With each call I got the same answer: I had reported the card stolen the night before, thereby temporarily canceling use of the account. I had gone online, answered all security questions correctly and reported the card stolen.
It didn’t matter that I told them I hadn’t reported the cards stolen. Someone else had, and that someone had known my account numbers as well as my home address, birth date, mother’s maiden name and Social Security number. I demanded that the accounts be reopened and the service reps gladly complied. The only catch was that new credit cards with new numbers had to be issued and sent to my home. That would take days and in the meantime I had no credit. I was being fucked with on a level I had never experienced before.
I next called my bank in Los Angeles and found a variation on the same scheme, but with a deeper impact. The good news was that my debit card still worked. The bad news was that there was no money in my savings and checking account to draw from. The night before, I had used the online banking service to combine all my money in the checking account and then did a debit transfer of the full amount to the Make-A-Wish Foundation in the form of a general donation. I was now broke. But the Make-A-Wish Foundation sure liked me.
I disconnected the call and screamed as loud as I could in the car. What was happening? There were stories in the paper all the time about stolen identities. But this time the victim was me and I was having trouble believing it.
At eleven I called the city desk and learned that the intrusion and destruction had moved up yet another notch. I got hold of Alan Prendergast and his voice was tight with nervous energy. I knew from experience that this made him repeat things.
“Where are you, where are you? We’ve got the ministers’ thing and I can’t find anybody.”
“I told you, I’m in Vegas. Where’s—”
“Vegas! Vegas? What are you doing in Vegas?”
“Didn’t you get my message? I sent you an e-mail yesterday before I left.”
“Didn’t get it. Yesterday you just disappeared, but I don’t care. I care about today. I care about right now. Tell me you are at the airport, Jack, and that you’ll be back in L.A. in an hour.”
“Actually, I’m not at the airport and I’m technically not in Vegas anymore. I’m on the loneliest road in America heading to the middle of nowhere. What are the ministers doing?”
“What else? They’re staging a big fucking rally in Rodia Gardens to protest the LAPD and the story is about to go national. But I’ve got you in Vegas and I haven’t heard from Cook. What are you doing there, Jack? What are you doing?”
“I told you in the e-mail you haven’t read. The story is—”
“I check e-mail regularly,” Prendergast said curtly. “I’ve got no e-mail from you. No e-mail.”
I was about to tell him he was wrong but thought about my credit cards. If somebody was able to crash my credit and wipe out my bank accounts, then maybe they crashed my e-mail as well.
“Listen, Prendo, something is going on. My credit cards are dead, my phone’s dead and now you’re telling me my e-mail never made it. Something is not right here. I—”
“For the last time, Jack. What are you doing in Nevada?”
I blew out my breath and looked out the side window. I saw the hardscrabble landscape that hadn’t changed in all the time mankind had ruled the planet, and which would remain unchanged long after mankind was gone.
“The story on Alonzo Winslow has changed,” I said. “I found out he didn’t do it.”
“He didn’t do it? He didn’t do it? You mean the murder of that girl? What are you talking about, Jack?”
“Yeah, the girl. He didn’t do it. He’s innocent, Alan, and I can prove it.”
“He confessed, Jack. I read it in your story.”
“Yeah, because that’s what the cops said. But I read the so-called confession and all he confessed to was stealing her car and her money. He didn’t know her body was in the trunk when he stole it.”
“Jack…”
“Listen, Prendo, I connected the murder to another murder in Vegas. It was the same thing. A woman strangled and put in a trunk. She was a dancer, too. There’s a guy in prison here for that one and he didn’t do it either. I’m heading up to see him right now. I’m going to have to report and write this all by Thursday. We have to go with it on Friday because that’s when it’s going to come out of the bag.”
There was a long silence.
“Prendo? You there?”
“I’m here, Jack. We need to talk about this.”
“I thought we were. Where is Angela? She should handle the ministers. She’s on the beat today.”
“If I knew where Angela was, I would have her going with a photographer to Rodia Gardens. She hasn’t come in yet. She told me last night before she went home that she would stop by Parker Center and make the morning rounds before coming in. Only, she hasn’t come in.”
“She’s probably out running down Denise Babbit. Did you call her?”
“Of course I called her. I called her. I’ve left messages but she hasn’t called in. She probably thinks you are here and is ignoring my calls.”
“Well, look, Prendo, this is bigger than Preacher Treacher’s rally, okay? Put a GA on that. This is huge. There’s a killer out there who has flown completely below the radar of the cops and the FBI and everybody else. There’s a lawyer here in Vegas who is going to file a motion by Friday that exposes the whole thing. We’ve got to beat him and everybody else to the punch. I’m going to go talk to this guy in prison and then head back. I don’t know when I’ll get in. It’ll be a long drive back to Vegas before I can catch the plane. Luckily, I think my return is still good. I bought it before somebody canceled my credit cards.”
Again I was met with silence.
“Prendo?”
“Look, Jack,” he said, a calmness in his voice for the first time in the conversation. “We both know the situation and what is going on here. You’re not going to be able to change anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“About the layoff. If you think you can come up with a story that’s going to save your job, I don’t think that’s going to work.”
Now I was silent as the anger welled up in my throat.
“Jack, you there? You there?”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, I’m here, Prendo, and my only response is, Fuck you. I’m not concocting this story, man. This is happening! And I’m out here in the middle of nowhere and am not sure who is screwing with me or why.”
“Okay, okay, Jack. Calm down. Just calm it down, okay? I am not suggesting that you—”
“The fuck you’re not! You more than suggested it. You just said it.”
“Look, I’m not going to respond if you are going to direct that sort of language at me. Can we talk in a civil manner, please? A civil manner.”
“You know, Prendo, I’ve got other calls to make. If you don’t want the story or you think this is a made-up story, then I’ll find somebody who will print it, okay? The last thing I expected was for my own ace to try to cut me off at the knees while I’m out here with my ass in the wind.”
“No, Jack, it’s not like that.”
“I think it is, Prendo. So fuck you, man. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up the phone and nearly threw it out the window. But then I remembered I didn’t have the replacement cash to spare. I drove in silence for a few minutes so I could compose myself. I had one more call to make and I wanted to sound cool and calm when I made it.
I looked out the windows and studied the bluish gray mountains. I found them to be beautiful in a primitive and stark way. They had been stepped and broken by glaciers ten million years before but they had survived and would reach forever toward the sun.
I pulled my inoperable phone from my pocket and opened up the contacts list. I got the number for the FBI in Los Angeles and punched it into the throwaway. When the main operator answered I asked to speak to Agent Rachel Walling. I was transferred and it took a while to go through, but once it rang it was answered immediately.
“Intelligence,” a male voice said.
“Let me speak to Rachel.”
I said it as calmly as possible. I didn’t ask for Agent Rachel Walling this time, because I didn’t want to be asked who I was and possibly give her the opportunity to deflect my call. My hope was that I sounded like an agent and my call would be put through.
“Agent Walling.”
It was her. It had been a few years since I had heard her voice over the phone but there was no doubt.
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