MacFarland knew this was Baker's subtle way of saying that MacFarland had a month to find some exculpatory evidence that would free Mrs. Freeman. Another arena in which MacFarland had failed.
"Are we making any progress?" asked Baker. He moved closer to the street corner and ate his brat.
MacFarland shrugged, then proceeded to wipe down his cart. "I’m shaking things up," he said. He then went on to retell Baker about how he got beat up, presumably by two cops, and how the cops beat up a homeless man who was keeping an eye on them for MacFarland.
"So you have a team of deputies?" asked Baker incredulously. "Damn, I never would have thought of using homeless people like that. Who would even pay attention to them? Got to hand it to you, Mac, you're a genius!"
MacFarland didn't feel like a genius, so he just let the comment go right past him. "I'm still no closer to finding out who really killed Freeman," he said. "Just some suspicions."
Baker finished his brat, then stood next to MacFarland, who took a step back to keep some distance between them. Baker reached out and shook MacFarland's hand. "You're doing a good job, Mac. I have a lot of confidence in you. I realize it is difficult at times, and I'm here to support you in any way you need. Just don't give up. Maureen is depending on both of us. She’s depending on you, Mac.”
MacFarland shook the lawyer's hand, then watched as Baker walked back towards his office. His only thought was that Baker simply had no clue just how incompetent MacFarland really was. Poor Mrs. Freeman. She was doomed!
Chapter 56
Monday, January 18, 1510 Hours
By mid-afternoon, MacFarland’s mood improved considerably. He liked the days when business was slow. When he was alone, he could listen to his language lessons, practice speaking out loud without feeling self-conscious about his poor accent or mispronunciation of the language, and even act out the scenes he was studying. MacFarland found that this really helped him learn the language, for after all, a language was more than a collection of sounds. It was a way of expressing yourself, and MacFarland had discovered that if he put physical movement to the sounds he was making, he learned faster and more efficiently. So when he was alone, he was constantly gesturing, moving, even dancing as he repeated over and over the phrases of the language lesson.
That's what he was doing at three-ten in the afternoon when Lord Bozworth strolled up behind MacFarland, pushing his shopping cart loaded with the homeless man's prize possessions. Bozworth leaned on his cart and stood there, staring at the crazy white man, dancing around on the street corner. MacFarland became aware that someone was nearby watching him. He stopped, turned to see who it was. Bozworth tilted his head, a smile on his face. "I'll have whatever you're drinking or smoking, my young man," he said with a very distinct British accent. Bozworth had grown up in Jamaica and studied in England. It was rumored that he had even attended Oxford, a fact Bozworth neither confirmed nor denied. A lot of people made up tales about Bozworth. Very few of the tales were based on any shred of truth.
MacFarland smiled sheepishly, then held out a fist. The two men bumped fists. "Bozworth, what brings you to this corner of town?"
Bozworth--or Lord Bozworth as all of his subjects called him--lived over on Colfax and rarely came west of Broadway or Lincoln, except for PrideFest and Taste of Colorado. On those two occasions, he could be found camped at the base of the On the War Trail statue near the Greek Amphitheater. Otherwise, Bozworth wandered up and down Colfax, from Greek Town to Capitol Hill. Bozworth always had his shopping cart with him, except when he was at Civic Center Park. His grey knit cap and heavy grey coat blended in with his grey beard and mustache. He had deeply set grey eyes, prominent round cheekbones, and a stubby broad nose. Although he never took his cap off, even in the summer, MacFarland knew that Bozworth was nearly bald. He was a barrel-chested man, and with his slight scoliotic stoop, it was hard to tell just how tall he was.
Surprisingly, Bozworth smelled of baby powder. Smelling good was something of a badge of honor with Lord Bozworth.
"I came to see you, Mr. MacFarland."
Bozworth rarely came to see anyone unless it involved a major breach of protocols or a world-shattering political crisis. MacFarland swallowed, wondering what he had done wrong. Then he remembered that Arnie Jones was one of Bozworth's lieutenants. "Is this about Arnie?" he asked.
Bozworth nodded. "Yes, it appears that my man got himself hurt the other day."
"I didn't mean for that to happen," said MacFarland quickly. "I told Rufus to keep a low profile."
Bozworth smiled. "I'm not blaming you, Mr. MacFarland. I know you were a copper in your former life, but I don't hold that against you. Mr. Jones is quite capable of making his own mistakes. I have heard that you feel responsible for the actions of the miscreants who incapacitated my man."
MacFarland nodded. "I did ask Rufus to get some people to keep an eye on these two—uh, coppers, so I do feel responsible. He wouldn't have gotten hurt if I hadn't asked them to do that."
"Your actions have revealed a blight on our fair city, Mr. MacFarland. The state of the city is not under your control, so you have nothing to be ashamed of, my friend. As for poor Mr. Jones, the City of Denver is taking good care of him as we speak, and while his wounds are unfortunate, none of them are fatal, and he has the singular great fortune to have gained considerable notoriety within our community for his brush with the law."
MacFarland stared at Bozworth in surprise. "I still feel bad about it, Lord Bozworth."
"Let the issue not trouble your mind, my good friend. In point of fact, this incident has, as I have alluded to earlier, revealed an infestation of contagion that I feel we must isolate and eliminate. As a consequence, I have assigned others of my brethren to keep an eye on the two Bobbies, and any others with whom they come into contact. I have also asked my associates to keep you informed of any developments. I hope this meets with your approval?"
MacFarland nodded, not really sure at all if this arrangement did meet with his approval. "Bozworth, why are you doing this? I would think that you would want to stay as far from the police as you can. What you're asking is very dangerous for a lot of individuals."
Bozworth smiled. "Denver's Finest provide a useful service to the citizens of this community, of which we are an integral part. After all, without us to remind them of how fortunate they are, the bulk of society would fall into a state of despondency that would topple civilization. For the most part, the Men in Blue treat us fairly well, and they assist me in maintaining order within our community. I could hardly do my job without their help. As for danger, we are the most vulnerable segment of society, so none of us are strangers to danger. But danger is not the most debilitating thing we face, Mr. MacFarland. You yourself should know this quite well. The one thing that destroys us more than physical harm, more than cold temperatures, more than hunger is the death of our spirit. That is why I tell my men to find work, for work provides dignity and purpose. I tell them to take care of each other, because caring ennobles the spirit. I tell them to follow wrongdoers and bring them to justice, since justice gives a man hope. The men who beat up Mr. Jones did not just harm him, Mr. MacFarland. They harmed every one of us. But as our friend Mahatma Gandhi showed us, suffering in the pursuit of righteous objectives elevates the spirit.” Bozworth pointed to the hot dogs and bratwursts cooking on the warming rollers. "Those certainly look quite delicious, Mr. MacFarland. I wonder if they are designated for anyone in particular.”
MacFarland grinned and began to reach for a bratwurst and a bun. "Would you like one, Lord Bozworth?"
"Indeed I would, sir, but alas, I have nary a penny to my name."
"It's on the house, Your Lordship," said MacFarland.
"Then how could I possibly turn down the copious bounty of this fair city?" said Lord Bozworth.
Chapter 57
Wednesday, January 20, 1550 Hours
MacFarland didn't think much more about his meeting wi
th Bozworth until Wednesday, two days later. It was getting late in the afternoon, and a cold front was rapidly moving in from Canada. The air tasted metallic and bitter. MacFarland was just starting to close down his cart when one of the homeless people who lived near the Civic Center slowly and cautiously approached. The man seemed nervous, as though he were afraid someone would jump out at him at any moment. MacFarland stopped cleaning his cart and started to get a couple of hot dogs ready to give to the man. MacFarland didn't recognize this individual, but with more and more homeless people every day, that was hardly surprising. It was clear, however, that this was not one of MacFarland's regular homeless people. The man came within ten feet, then stopped.
"Are you Mark MacFarland?" he asked.
MacFarland nodded, trying to recall if he had ever seen the man before. Gibbs was a black man with incredibly sad eyes. MacFarland would have remembered someone who looked that unhappy. He had the face of a man who once had known comfort, security, and self-respect, and then had lost all of it. "Yes, that's me. Are you hungry? I've got some hot dogs left, no sense throwing them away.” He held out the hot dogs for the man to take.
The man eyed the food with suspicion, then finally reached out to take them. "Thanks," he said. "Lord Bozworth told me to come see you if I seen anything."
"Really! What have you seen, uh…uh?"
"Oh, my name is Aaron Gibbs. Lord Bozworth asked us to keep an eye on the downtown cops, you know, and so I've been doing that, you know. When I see a cop meet a guy, you know, over by Coors Field. The man is one rich dude, you know, driving a Porsche. I know this car, because you don't see many Spyder's in Denver, no sirree! Man, I sure would like to drive one of those things! He parks near the baseball field, and he calls the cops over to his car, and I'm thinking, what is this rich dude doing talking to these two cops? And they come over to the car and they start to talk. It's mostly the Mexican cop who does the talking to the man, and he's talking like he knows him real good. The other cop just stands and watches out for everyone."
A Porsche Spyder. MacFarland only knew of one man who drove a Spyder, but he needed confirmation. "Can you describe the man they were talking to? The one in the car?"
"Sort of. I didn't get all that good a look at him, but the car was open, so I did see his face. He was a thin man, he had grey hair. No beard, pointy chin. Dressed nice, you can tell even when he is in the car. You know he is important because the cops act like he is god, you know. And with a car like that, yeah, he must be a god. So I figure, I need to watch this guy. So I watch him, and when he is done talking to the cops, he drives away."
"Were you able to follow him?"
"No, because I’m on foot, see, and he’s driving, so I lost him. But I found him again. I ask around and his car is easy to find. Not so many cars like that. I asked one of Lord Bozworth's other people, and they know where this car goes."
"Where did he go, Aaron?"
"It goes to the 2500 block on Arapahoe, Mr. MacFarland. He parks out front and goes inside."
"How long was he in there?"
"Oh, not long. I was across the street, watching the car, you know. Then, after maybe half an hour, out comes the rich dude, but now he is with someone else. Another guy, but this guy is not rich. What he is, is angry. They are arguing a lot, even though the rich guy is trying to keep the other man quiet. I can't understand everything they are saying, but I figure the other guy wants money from this rich guy."
"Can you describe this other guy?"
"Well, he is younger than the rich guy, shorter, and has an oval face. He's overweight, has a fat neck. He has short hair. I couldn't see his eyes, because he is wearing sunglasses. He's dressed in jeans, a blue shirt, and a vest jacket. Oh, and he's wearing a cap with army logos on it. I think it was Afghanistan Veterans maybe."
"What happened next?"
"The rich guy gets in his car and drives away. So I followed the other guy, but I think he saw me."
MacFarland wondered if this was the man who had been seen in the jewelry store, talking with Freeman. Was this the man who went fishing with Otto Freeman and probably killed him? MacFarland had no real evidence to support this assumption, only his gut feeling that someone had finally seen the real killer. And what was the reason he was talking with Newsome? Did Newsome pay this guy to kill Freeman? "How do you know he saw you?"
"Maybe he didn't see me. I just thought that he seemed to change his actions after a bit, and I wondered to myself if it was because he knew I was following him. You know? He went into a coffee shop and sat in there, looking out the window. He mighta seen me, but I don't know. So I had to leave. I came here to tell you what I seen today."
MacFarland did know. It was an instinct that many cops developed, that they knew when their quarry got spooked. That's why the best covert surveillance was done by teams of observers. That way, the subject was never sure if anyone was really following them because the individual changed. He could hardly expect Bozworth's homeless people to be that well organized. As it was, he was quite impressed with the network that Bozworth set up. No wonder he was proving to be such an asset to Pierson and her team in the narcotics investigation.
"You've done a good job, Aaron. You don't need to follow this guy any more, okay?"
Aaron nodded, then, slipping the hot dogs into the pocket of his jacket, he wandered off to wherever he spent the night.
Chapter 58
Friday, January 22, 0940 Hours
MacFarland was frustrated throughout all of Thursday. He wanted to drive by Newsome's house to check on his activities, but Rufus didn't show up with his usual morning coffee. MacFarland thought about putting his cart back on his trailer and leaving it there, but he realized that he didn't really have any leads anyway. He couldn't just park outside of Newsome's house all day, and unless he got a better handle on the mysterious man Aaron Gibbs saw him talking to on Wednesday. MacFarland simply didn't have any option other than to monitor his cart and listen to his language tapes.
Another comment that Aaron Gibbs made bothered him. He said that one of the cops was Mexican. But neither Schmidt nor Lucas was Mexican. Just who were these cops?
MacFarland had plenty of questions, but what did he actually know? He started ticking off the facts (presumptions?) that he had. Otto Freeman was killed on Thanksgiving Day, with two shots from a .22 caliber handgun that was found in the victim's garage. The gun had been hurriedly hidden and only had the defendant's prints on it. The defendant claimed she found the body on Saturday morning. There was evidence that the victim had been moved, but all trace evidence was tainted by a blanket the defendant used to cover the body. There was a strong possibility that the victim had been fishing, most probably at Gross Reservoir. There is also a possibility that the victim had been killed up there, then brought back to Denver and left in the garage.
As for possible suspects, MacFarland couldn't rule out Maureen Freeman as the killer. Her motive wasn't too clear to him. The prosecution theory was that her husband was putting pressure on her to quit her job at the jewelry store because of suspicion of her embezzling money, and this led to an altercation between the two of them. This theory didn't make sense to MacFarland. Maureen Freeman had no control over the management of the store, so why couldn't either her husband or Newsome just fire her? He realized this might cause problems in their marriage, but it would have been the simplest solution. There was also evidence that there had been conflict between the victim and his partner, Brian Newsome. In addition, there was the possibility that it was Newsome embezzling the money, not Maureen. So Newsome had motive to kill Freeman, especially if Freeman knew about the missing funds.
Then there was the mysterious customer in the store who went on several fishing jaunts with Freeman. MacFarland was pretty certain that someone with initials WA was the fishing buddy. This same individual had later been seen talking or arguing with Newsome. Far more significantly, this individual had been seen coming out of Norris Peterson's office building. Was t
he individual seen by Aaron Gibbs the person with initials WA?
And finally, what was Peterson's connection to this case? Why was WA--if that person was indeed WA--in the CCP building? Was he meeting with Peterson? Or had Newsome arranged to meet him there? If so, why?
As much as MacFarland wanted to tie Peterson to the murder of Otto Freeman, it was looking like a stretch to make that connection. On the other hand, Brian Newsome was looking more and more like a prime suspect. While it was unlikely that Newsome would have actually pulled the trigger, he might have hired someone like WA to do it for him.
MacFarland was about to congratulate himself when he noticed Rufus Headley walking resolutely towards him. It was nine-forty in the morning, much later than Rufus' usual schedule. Rufus was not only late; he also did not have the predictable morning coffee.
"Good morning Rufus," said MacFarland pleasantly.
"Know where I jus’ been?" demanded Rufus.
MacFarland had no idea, though he was pretty sure it was not the coffee shop. "What's the matter, Rufus? Is something wrong?"
"Wrong? Boss, what are you doing? You’re gonna get us killed!"
MacFarland had always had some difficulty distinguishing between Rufus' Vietnam memories and his current real-time existence. Rufus clearly did not distinguish the two sets of events, and often mixed up what happened in Vietnam with what was going on in the present. So when Rufus announced that MacFarland was getting people killed, he could not be certain if this was something happening now or something that might have happened forty-six years earlier. He tried to calm Rufus down.
"Rufus, I don't know what you're talking about. Tell me what's concerning you."
"It’s Gibbs, boss. Poor young Gibbs. Jus’ a boy really."
MacFarland’s face hardened. "What about Gibbs, Rufus? What happened to him?"
"He's been wasted, boss. Taken out by Charlie. Those cops that got Arnie and almost got me, they musta done this."
MacFarland was stunned. Aaron Gibbs was dead? "How did this happen?"
The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 17