Misjudged

by James Chandler

  “Whatcha got?” Punch readied his pen.

  “Witness says the guy is a white male, late twenties to early thirties, average height, goatee, wearin’ a baseball cap and driving a white Ford F-150.”

  “Aw, shit!”

  “But we got a lead—the dude has a tat,” Jensen said eagerly.

  “I hate to break it to you there, stud, but aside from my wife—and I ain’t so sure there—everyone in this town seems to have a tattoo.”

  “This one’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a bulldog with writing that says ‘semper-something’ on it.”

  “He’s a Marine,” Punch said.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s a Marine. One of their symbols is a bulldog, and ‘semper fidelis’ means ‘always faithful.’”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was a soldier. I knew some Marines.”

  “Got it. The neighbor gave us a description of his truck, too.”

  “Plates?”

  “No luck. But he did mention that the suspect’s truck was lifted and has real expensive tires—twenty inches or so.”

  “Great,” Punch said sourly. “This is getting better and better. I could stand on Main Street and swing a dead cat by the tail and hit three guys matching the description of my suspect or his truck.”

  Jensen smiled. “What’s next?”

  “I’ve been to her house; I want to get in her office—you know where it is?”

  “Yeah. Little place a block or so from the tracks.”

  “Let’s go. You drive.”

  On the way, Punch made a couple of calls. Turning to Jensen, he asked, “Did you know this gal?”

  “No, never met her. I don't think she did much criminal defense work. Did divorces, mostly.”

  “Hear anything about her?”

  “Yeah. My sister says she’s a cunning bitch.”

  “Was.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yeah. Her and her old man—name is Tommy—are splitting the sheets, and this gal Emily was representing him.”

  After speaking with Dot, they were allowed in Emily’s office. It was a disaster; papers were strewn everywhere, and houseplants were placed haphazardly about the room. “Ain't much here,” Jensen commented while poking around the tiny space. “I don't even see any lawbooks.”

  “I think they got them all on computer nowadays,” opined Punch. “But this place does look more like a grow room than a law office. She see clients in here?”

  “Not sure. I’ll ask her secretary. This isn’t like on TV. On TV lawyers spend all night looking through stacks of books, any one of which is that thick.” Jensen held his thumb and index finger several inches apart.

  “Yeah, well, on television, they’re all good-looking too.”

  “This one was,” Jensen mused while looking at a small framed photo of Emily and a little girl.

  A loud knock came from the outer door.

  “You expecting someone, boss?” asked Jensen.

  “Yeah. One of those computer forensic guys. He’s going to image her hard drive so we can look at it later. Show him where everything is and get him started. And tell him not to touch anything if he can avoid it. Have him glove up just to be sure.”

  “Right.”

  “And get his prints, just in case.”

  “Right.”

  “And when the hell is the rest of the team going to get here? We called them an hour ago.” Punch rubbed his eyes with one hand.

  “They got diverted.”

  “Diverted?”

  “Yeah. Evidently some dude got popped for diddling the ten-year-old twins of some doctor. He was mowing the doc’s lawn, met the kids, and somehow got ’em alone.”

  “Jesus!”

  “No shit. There ought to be a special place in hell for guys like that.”

  Punch had been going through Emily’s desk and found what he was looking for—a small pocketbook-sized planner. “Here we go.”

  “Whatcha got, boss?”

  “Just a minute. Let’s start by looking at the day she was killed. . . Afternoon court appearance . . . She missed that, which is why her secretary called us in.”

  “Missed that morning one, too.”

  “Yep.”

  “What about the day before?”

  Punch turned the page. “Looks like a couple of meetings with clients and then one after five with ‘T.’”

  “Who is that?”

  “Now how the hell would I know?” Punch asked.

  “I don't know, boss. I just thought—”

  “Look. Everyone else, she’s got first and last names. This person is just ‘T.’”

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s what we need to figure out. You write down the names of all these folks and arrange for us to visit them. I’m going to talk with that secretary of hers and see if she knows who ‘T’ is.”

  “Punch?” Jensen was looking at the picture of Emily and the child, thinking.

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe ‘T’ stands for ‘Tommy.’”

  “Tommy?”

  “Yeah. My soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law.”

  “You said she was his attorney—right?”

  “That’s what my sister said.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Maybe six-foot, 180, shaved head, wears a hat a lot, drives—”

  “—an F-150?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I'm psychic. Has Tommy ever been in the service?”

  “Hey, I ain’t sayin’—”

  “Has he ever served?”

  “Well, he was a . . . uh . . . a Marine. Served in Afghanistan.”

  “Know where he lives?”

  “Of course. Same house he and Becky lived in before she left.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “I don't know. He's a roustabout in the oilfield. Different company all the time.”

  “Would your sister know?”

  “Not sure. I’ll call her and ask.”

  “Do it. I want to talk with this guy. If he’s our guy that would be some small-world shit there, huh?” Punch said. “I’m gonna stay here and look around.”

  While Punch and Jensen were searching Emily’s office, Officer Greg Goodrich, one of Custer’s newest patrol officers, took a call from dispatch.

  “This is Unit 32.”

  “See the lady at 101 Bighorn Street. Name is Roberta Saathoff. Report of a purse-snatching.”

  “Roger, en route. 32 out.”

  Goodrich arrived at the address two minutes later. Approaching the mobile home, he surreptitiously unsnapped his holster as he rang the doorbell.

  “Police. Dispatch asked me to check out a report of a theft. Are you Ms. Saathoff?”

  “Yes, Officer. I was in the yard—just coming back from the casino where I won $77 on the video machine –when this gal jumped outta the bushes over there, grabbed my purse, and ran that way,” she said, indicating the direction of travel.

  “Ever seen her before?”

  “I don’t see so good.” She lit a cigarette.

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Well, she was a young’un. Maybe twenty-five years old. Washed-out lookin’, you know?”

  “How tall?”

  “Dunno. Maybe five-foot-four,” she said, squinting through a plume of smoke.

  “How much did she weigh, do you think?”

  “A lot.”

  “Like—?”

  “Oh, jeez, I dunno. She was a big ol’ gal.”

  “But she ran off?”

  “Well, kinda. I guess it was more of a waddle. A fast waddle.”

  “Hair?”

  “Purple.”

  “Her hair was purple?”

  “Last I seen, yup.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “She had a Harley-Davidson halter top and camouflage cutoffs. Flip-flops.”

>   “You’re certain?”

  “’Course I’m certain.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Saathoff—”

  “It’s Ms.”

  “Okay, Ms. Saathoff. Let me make a call to dispatch and we’ll start looking around.” Goodrich dutifully reported the description, and thinking it unlikely anything would come of it, returned to talk with the victim.

  “Well, Ms. Saathoff, I’ve called it in—”

  “There she is!”

  “What? Where?”

  “There! At the end of the block!”

  Goodrich turned and saw a heavyset woman walking down the street approximately three houses away. He began to walk toward the woman, who—seeing him—turned and walked away.

  “Stop! Police!” Goodrich yelled, and gave chase. Hearing him, the woman increased her waddling to a near-run and made her way around a corner.

  Goodrich called in his location and activity as he ran, surprised at the obese woman’s speed. As he rounded the corner, he saw her throw something into the bushes in front of a small, white, craftsman-style home. Deciding to continue the pursuit, he made a mental note of the location of the evidence and continued after the suspect. After rounding another corner, he determined that he’d lost her and called in his location, the situation, and requested a dog.

  Returning to the bushes, Goodrich found and bagged what turned out to be a discarded wallet. Moments later, he showed Ms. Saathoff the bag and its contents.

  “Ms. Saathoff, I’m not sure where your purse is, but I believe I’ve got your wallet.”

  Ms. Saathoff looked at the wallet, then at Goodrich. “That ain’t mine,” she said, drawing on her cigarette.

  “What?”

  “That ain’t my wallet, Officer.”

  “Well, I saw her throw it in the bushes while I was chasing her.”

  “Don’t know what you saw, but that ain’t my wallet.”

  Opening the wallet, he found a driver’s license and other identification belonging to one Chastity Clausen. He thanked Ms. Saathoff and told her he’d be right back. Jumping in his vehicle, Goodrich quickly drove the three blocks to the address on the driver’s license.

  He called for backup and, after help arrived, approached the door of a dilapidated ranch-style home, gun at his side. Knocking on the door, he yelled, “Police! Open up!”

  Seeing no response, he pounded again, whereupon the door was opened by a heavyset, purple-haired woman wearing a Harley-Davidson halter top and camouflage-patterned cutoffs.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Chastity Clausen?”

  “Yes, what is this about?” she asked, dabbing accumulated sweat from her forehead.

  “I was chasing you—why didn’t you stop?”

  “I guess I don’t know what you are talking about, Officer. I been here all day—”

  “Let me see some identification.”

  “I’ll have to get my purse.”

  “Please do. Don’t try to run, and don’t make any sudden movements or do anything weird. My partner is out the back door, and he’s kind of skittish.”

  Clausen returned to the door with her purse and began searching, presumably for her wallet. It soon became clear that it wasn’t in her purse.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “I been here all day, and it was right here.”

  “No,” Goodrich said. “You stole Ms. Saathoff’s wallet, ran, and when I was chasing you, threw it into the bushes. Or so you thought.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘or so I thought?’ I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ms. Clausen,” Goodrich said, showing her the wallet in his possession and allowing her to see it through the protective baggie. “I know it was you I was chasing. I saw you throw a wallet into the bushes. I retrieved that wallet. This is it. Look at it.”

  Clausen looked at the wallet. “That’s my wallet!”

  “Yup. And I’ll bet that’s Ms. Saathoff’s wallet right there on the coffee table.” He nodded in the general direction of her living room.

  “You mean—?”

  “Yeah. You threw away the wrong wallet when you were running away from me.”

  “Aww, shit!”

  “Would you please turn around? I need to cuff you and read you your rights.”

  18

  Punch walked around Emily Smith’s office with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at everything in turn. Pictures and mementos of a life cut short: shots from the beach with what appeared to be friends, a selfie taken atop the Eiffel Tower, and a group shot from a bar somewhere, featuring the decedent as well as several local attorneys and one obviously drunk Judge Howard. “So, Mrs. Johnson, did Ms. Smith have any enemies?”

  “She’s a divorce lawyer, for crying out loud,” Dot said. “Of course she made enemies!”

  Punch’s face reddened slightly, but he bit his tongue, wishing Jensen were still here so he could let him deal with this. “Got any names, or should I just insert ‘human race’ into my report?”

  “Well, there’ve been a few of these guys who didn’t get the deal they thought they should have who blamed Emily. It’s not like they are going to take responsibility for anything they’ve done.”

  “Do you have any names?”

  “Well, not that I can think of right off the top of my head. . . She’s also done a couple of child support cases lately—those are always ugly.”

  “How has she been acting lately?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, has she been nervous, concerned, or afraid? Has she mentioned anyone following her, threatening her, or anything like that?”

  “No. I’d have told you if she had.”

  “Was she seeing anybody?”

  “I don’t rightly know, Detective. Is there anything wrong if she was?”

  “Mrs. Johnson, I'm just trying to figure out who might’ve had a reason to harm her.”

  “You ask me, it was some nutcase what just moved here from out of state. We seem to be getting the worst of that lot out here.”

  “Well, that’s possible.” Then it hit him. For whatever reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a cell phone anywhere. “Did she have a cell phone?”

  “You bet. She had one of those fancy ones,” Dot said.

  “Thanks. I need to make a call. I’m gonna step outside.” Once outside, Punch called Jensen.

  “Jensen here.”

  “Where are you?” Punch asked.

  “I’m doing backup for Goodrich. He’s arresting this great big gal for theft. She’s being a bitch.”

  “I was just thinking—I never saw a cell phone. Is there one on the inventory?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”

  “Well, did you see one?” Punch asked.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “What about Baker? He say anything about a phone?”

  “I’ll ask him, but I don’t think he’ll remember anything but all the blood.”

  “Try him,” Punch instructed. “And Jensen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Didn’t we already have one of the county attorneys draw a warrant for all of her phone records?”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t seen it. Why?”

  “Because I want to see who all she was talking to before she died.”

  “What kind of time frame you got in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s start with a month prior to her getting killed and see what turns up. We can always go back for another bite at the apple later.”

  “I hear the cops are all over town trying to solve that murder,” O’Hanlon said to Howard. Howard had been buying the drinks for an hour now, and O’Hanlon was interested in getting the inside scoop on Custer’s biggest story in years.

  “Yeah?” Howard asked.

  “What I hear,” O’Hanlon said. “Hey, you signing any warrants? Is what they’re saying true?”

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “Who’s ‘
they?’”

  “Well, you know, Judge, just ‘they.’ People. People are talking.”

  “You know I can’t talk about a pending matter,” Howard said. “By the way, I saw this twenty-two-year-old gal last week on a meth possession rap—her second time being charged. So I took her not guilty plea and set her up with an attorney.”

  “Yeah. She employed?”

  “Of course not. I think she is exchanging sex for a spot on a couch and meth. She drags her kids around with her from guy to guy.”

  “Tragic.”

  “Right. She’s a mess. Without exception, every area of her life is a mess. So, in court I listened to her cry and spill her guts, and as always, I fought back two emotions: anger, over what she’s done to her life through her poor decision-making, and sadness, because no matter what she does, I can’t get it out of my head that she was and is somebody’s little girl.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I had to let her out of jail, so I did.”

  “And?”

  “And she was back in front of me this morning.”

  “No shit.” O’Hanlon shook his head. “What happened?”

  “Well, she apparently took a couple of hits off a meth pipe en route to her appointment at Department of Family Services.”

  “Nice.”

  “Addiction is a bitch,” Howard said, taking a swig from his beer. “So, anyway, seems the folks at the Department of Family Services got concerned about her behavior, so they gave her a urinalysis. Then they asked her how she got there, and she said, ‘My boyfriend gave me a ride.’ So they looked out the window and watched the guy she’d said was giving her a ride apply a tourniquet and then inject meth into his arm—right there in the parking lot.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yeah. We’re fighting an uphill battle.”

  “Doc, anything new?” Punch was in the medical examiner’s office, looking at the diplomas on the wall.

  “Yes, a couple of things,” Dr. Laws said, looking at his report.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. First, she had sex shortly before she died.”

  “Was she raped?”

  “No signs of that.”

  “So, maybe a boyfriend. What else?”

  “Well, we got enough of a specimen to get a DNA analysis done.”

  “Good stuff, assuming he’s ever been asked to give a sample. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Anything else?”