Punch was in Rebecca Nice’s office. “Rebecca, we need to talk,” he said.
“What’s up?” asked the prosecutor. “Anything new?”
“Spent an hour or so with Olsen.”
“And?”
“He’s our guy, but he’s denying everything.”
“Get anything at all?”
“He now admits it’s his blood in the sink downstairs, and he has a cut on his hand. Says he got it that night, and the hospital records back that up.”
“That isn’t much.”
“It’s one more thing someone is going to have to explain. Would you want to explain what your blood was doing in a murdered woman’s house?”
“No.”
“He admits being in her house, and he admits having sex with her.”
“That’s good. Only a couple of dozen guys could say that.”
“Wow.”
“Sorry. Never did care for her.”
“Most women didn’t.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying most women I’ve spoken with didn’t like her. Look, I think the evidence is there. I let him go, but I’m not gonna lie—I’m worried he’ll run. Let’s do this. A guy like that might be hard to find if he doesn’t want to be found.”
“What else?”
“Well, the prints, the DNA, and we’ve got what I think is the murder weapon. A bayonet. Found in his house with blood on it.”
“Is it hers?”
“I don’t know yet, but Jesus Christ, Rebecca—who else’s could it be? Can I grab him?”
“Not yet. Put a tail on him for now. Ann’s putting together an affidavit of probable cause for you to sign, and then we’ll see if we can get Howard or Daniels to sign an arrest warrant.”
Tommy had an old duffel bag and was stuffing it with everything he could think of as he walked through his house. He dialed the phone. Elk answered on the second ring.
“Yo.”
“Elk, I need your help.”
“Tommy boy, what’s up? Haven’t heard from you for a few days. Let’s get a coupla cool ones.”
“Sounds good. Maybe one of these days. Right now, I need something.”
“Sure, bro. Whatcha need?”
“I need a bus ticket.”
“A bus ticket? Ain’t no one take the bus, man.”
“Just get me a ticket.”
“Where?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe east. Minneapolis?”
“Okay. Uh, you wanna front me some cash?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you at the bus stop in an hour. I’ll give you the money, and you buy the ticket.”
“But then what? How you gonna get on the bus? You ain’t me, and them bus drivers check.”
“We’re about the same size. You buy the ticket and bring it back to my truck. Give me the ticket and your ID. We’ll switch shirts, I’ll put on a hat, and it will work. Those drivers are just going through the motions.”
“What if they got some of that facial recognition stuff, man?”
“What if Napoleon had rocket artillery?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. They don’t. Just meet me and we’ll do the deal. Then, when I get somewhere where I can, I’ll mail your ID to you.”
“I dunno. This sounds a little risky.”
“How much?”
“Huh?”
“Quit jerking me off. How much do you want?”
“Uhhh, how about $50?”
“Done.”
“Done? Maybe—”
“Fifty bucks, man. We got a deal.”
“Okay, man, okay. I’ll be there. Just bring the money.”
Half a block from Tommy’s house, Jensen was taking a bite from a sandwich when he got a call.
“Yeah?”
“Jensen, this is Punch.”
“Yeah, boss. What’s up?”
“You got eyes on?”
“Well, I can see the front of his house. His truck’s there. Front window’s open, and every once in a while I see someone walk by in the living room, but I can’t tell if it’s Tommy. Want me to knock on the door?”
“Hell, no! I want you to sit and watch and report!”
“Okay, okay! No reason to get loud on me, Punch.”
“Jensen, it is very important we not lose him—you get me? Finish your sandwich and get focused.”
“How’d you know I was eating?”
“I’m clairvoyant.”
“Huh?”
“Just keep an eye on him.”
Howard was reading the affidavit of probable cause provided by an officer seeking a warrant to search a home for drugs. According to the warrant, a guy who’d been arrested for dealing drugs had consented to a search of his phone. Reading the affidavit, Howard laughed aloud, concluding that cell phones were the best thing that ever happened to law enforcement.
“What’s so funny?” Veronica asked.
“You know, so much of what we see is so very sad, but the drug trade. . . Well, these people are hysterically funny sometimes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, so many dealers, they just cannot resist taking pictures of their supply and then sending them to other people. I’ve signed dozens of warrants over the years as the result of pictures of guys holding pounds of weed, gallon bags full of opiates, or blocks of methamphetamine or cocaine.”
“I know that, but why is that so funny?”
“Listen to this one: you know how guys usually adopt a euphemism for their supply—something like ‘pizza?’”
“Sure.”
“So, the conversation would usually go like this: ‘Hey, you got any pizza?’ ‘Yeah, fresh. Just made it.’ ‘How much?’ ‘$100 for the whole pie; $50 for half a pizza.’ Or something along those lines, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, this friggin’ genius,” Howard explained, pointing to the affidavit, “this guy decided to refer to his drugs as ‘kittens.’ So, when the cops got their hands on his phone, they came across this gem: ‘Got any kittens?’ ‘Yeah, just got a new litter.’ ‘How much?’ ‘$100 per kitten.’
“So the buyer says, ‘I don’t have that much,’ and the seller replies, ‘That’s retail, dude.’”
“Oh, no,” Veronica said, knowing what came next.
“Yup. The guys asks, ‘Can I get half a kitten?’”
They shared a laugh as Howard signed the warrant. “People,” he said aloud, and handed the signed document to Veronica.
“Judge Howard?” Ann Fulks called from his outer office.
“It’s open.”
“I’ve got a warrant I’d like you to look at,” Ann said, handing it to him. She waited uncomfortably while Howard read the affidavit for probable cause supporting the arrest warrant for Tommy Olsen. Eventually, he sat back and took the readers off his nose.
“Lot of evidence,” he said.
“Punch does good work,” she said.
“He does. He’s got a lot of common sense.” Howard leaned forward, squinting as he scribbled his signature. “Good luck, Ms. Fulks. This is a big one.”
She grabbed the warrant and was digging her cell phone out of her pocket before she’d left his chambers. Howard took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Decades before, one of his bosses had turned him on to that relaxation technique. At the time, he’d belittled the practice, but had reinstituted it when he took the bench, and had found it invaluable since.
24
“Polson.”
“Punch, this is Ann Fulks.” Her heart was pounding. “Howard signed the warrant; I’m emailing it to you here momentarily, and a hard copy is en route with one of my clerks. Need this done cleanly, Punch,” she continued. “Put your best men on this one. We can’t have any mistakes.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Nothing personal, but this needs to be done right. We cannot have this one fucked up.”
“Well, I’ll try, but honestly, it’s mid-af
ternoon and I haven’t stepped on my own dick yet, Counselor, so I can’t in good conscience promise anything.”
Ann was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. Who’s on it?”
“Well, Jensen, Baker, and me. It’s not like I’ve got a SWAT team to call on. Jensen’s been following Tommy since he walked out earlier this afternoon.”
“Good.”
“I think he’s ready to move on my command,” Punch said, envisioning Jensen finishing his sandwich. “I’ll be there in three minutes. If you want to have one of your folks meet me out front, I’ll grab the warrant, then radio Jensen and we’ll get this show started.”
“Done.”
“On my way.”
The three-minute drive was uneventful, and—just as promised—as Punch approached the courthouse, one of the county attorney’s clerks flagged him down. Punch rolled down the window, grabbed the document without fully stopping, and radioed Jensen. “We’re a go. Hang tight for further instructions.”
“Roger.”
A few minutes later, Punch watched as Tommy made his way down the street in an aging Ford F-150 with the window down and Jerry Jeff Walker blaring from the speakers.
“Well, he’s got that going for him,” he mused. He had followed Tommy from his home to a nearby gas station on the north end of town, watching as he met and exchanged cash for papers with a man Punch couldn’t identify. Then, Tommy and the man exchanged shirts. As the realization of what was going on began to dawn, a commercial bus pulled into the parking lot. “He’s gonna try and take the bus!” Punch said into the radio. “Get him as soon as he starts to cross the parking lot!”
Punch watched as Tommy grabbed a duffle bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. As he began to cross the parking lot toward the bus, Punch yelled, “Now!”
Tommy was immediately surrounded by the Custer Police Department’s finest, with guns drawn. “Put your hands behind your head!” one of the officers yelled. Tommy complied.
“Now on your stomach with your hands outstretched to the side!”
Tommy did so, despite some trouble with his hands on his head. Jensen put a knee in his back and cuffed him roughly. “What is the problem?” Tommy asked.
“I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Suspicion of murder. Emily Smith.”
“I knew it. Goddammit. I knew it would end shitty.”
“Keep your head down,” Jensen instructed as he assisted Tommy into the back seat of the sedan. “We’ll be with you in a minute.”
Punch got into the sedan's passenger seat, moved the laptop and other items out of the way, and turned to face Olsen. “Mr. Olsen, at this time I am going to review your constitutional rights. Please pay attention so that I don’t have to do this again. I want you to know that this vehicle is equipped with a voice recorder, and anything you and I say is being recorded.”
“Anything?" asked Tommy.
“Well, yes,” said Punch. “As long as the microphone can pick it up, it will be recorded.”
“Okay, well, let’s get this on the record. Kiss my ass. I didn’t do it. That’s my statement.”
“Swell. Now how about shuttin’ the hell up so I can read you your rights?”
“Sam, there’s a call for you on line two. It’s Sarah from the Bugle,” Norquist’s secretary said. “Do you want to take it?”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“No. Should I ask?”
“No, that’s fine,” Sam said, and switched lines. “Sam Johnstone.”
“Mr. Johnstone, this is Sarah Penrose from the Bugle. I wonder if you have a few minutes to do a quick interview with me?”
“About what?”
“About the murder of Emily Smith.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Sam said. “I don’t think I ever even met her.”
“That is what I’m made to understand,” Sarah said. “I’ve heard you will be defending the accused.”
“Who told you that?”
“Well, I cannot reveal my sources; I’m sure you understand.”
“Well, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I don’t know the guy, have never spoken to him, and as far as I know I’ve never laid eyes on him. Your source is flat wrong.”
“Mr. Johnstone, my sources are rarely wrong. Now, do you know the accused, Tommy Olsen?”
“I already told you I don’t.”
“So, do you agree with me that, because you know neither the deceased nor the accused, that you’d be a good choice?”
“Not really, and I think there’s a little more to defending a murder case than who you know.”
“Well, you’ll agree with me that generally, it’s better if the attorney has little or no personal involvement in the matter?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And since you’re one of the few lawyers in town who didn’t know either party, you may well be the right choice?”
“I don’t agree.”
“If you were to be asked, would you accept the case?”
“Well, no one has asked. It’s far too early to say whether—”
“Fair to say you’d give it some consideration?”
“Well, of course. But—”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnstone. I’m on deadline, so I’ve got to get to a keyboard,” she said, and hung up.
25
The jail was unusually loud for this time of evening, Sam thought. He was sitting in a small room reserved for lawyers to meet with prisoners when the jailers brought in Tommy Olsen. “Mr. Olsen." Sam stood and indicated where Tommy should sit. “Thank you for seeing me. Did Jack Fricke talk to you?”
“The janitor?” Tommy asked. He looked smaller than Sam had imagined.
“Yes.”
“He did. Said some mouthpiece wanted to speak with me.” Tommy looked at Sam closely.
“That’s me. I’m Sam Johnstone and I’m an attorney. I’d like to talk to you for a couple minutes.”
“Why is that?” Tommy asked. “Are you a public defender?”
“No, I’m not. I’m just a guy who does a little criminal defense work, heard about your situation, and thinks that maybe you and I should talk.”
“Then you’re screwed, Mr. Lawyer. Because I don’t have any money. Been paying temporary child support to that crazy old lady of mine, and I’m gonna lose my job. I don’t have anything to say. I think I’m screwed. I didn’t do it. This is a bunch of shit.”
“Well, whether it is or isn’t, you’re gonna need an attorney,” Sam said. “And the sooner you get one, the better off you’ll be.”
“Seems to me that cop has his mind made up,” Tommy said. “Seems to me I’m screwed. They’re gonna bend me over the stump.”
“Not necessarily. That cop’s job is to collect evidence and make his best determination whether a crime was committed and, if so, who did it. The prosecutor’s job is to put that evidence before the jury, which makes the final determination.”
“Frigging lawyer-speak.”
“Like it or not, that’s how justice plays out.”
“Justice? I don’t give a rat’s ass about justice, man. I just want out of jail. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t care. All I know is that I didn’t do it. Why me? And who the hell are you? I’ve been around town for a while, and I’ve never heard of you.”
“I’m kind of new to town. There’s no reason for you to know who I am.”
“Where you from?”
“Washington, D.C.”
Tommy laughed aloud. “You must be one lousy-ass lawyer to move from D.C. to this hellhole.”
He had a good laugh, Sam thought. “I’m okay. I’ve worked with veterans over the years who found themselves in trouble.”
“What’s your angle?” Tommy looked Sam over. “Did you serve, or you just a fan boy?”
“I did my time.”
“Branch?”
“Army.”
“JAG?” The Judge A
dvocate General’s corps was comprised of the Army’s lawyers.
“No. Infantry.”
“You look like an officer. You a ring knocker?” A “ring knocker” was a derisive term for a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point.
“No. Officer Candidate School.”
“Well, I guess that’s good.”
“What’d you do?”
“I was a Marine; therefore, I was a grunt. Did a tour in Afghanistan. That’s my claim to fame.”
“How come you got out?"
“I guess I just got sick of the shit after I redeployed. Felt like I fought my war, time for me to come back home.” Tommy looked at his feet. “But after coming back here, I wish I’d never got out. I think I was a good fit in the Corps. I’m not sure I’m a very good fit anywhere as a civilian.”
“Lotta that going around. How long were you in?”
“Four years.”
“What was your rank at discharge?”
“Private. You?”
“Captain.”
“Why’d you leave?” Tommy asked.
“Medically retired,” Sam said, and knocked on his leg. “They got me.”
“Bastards.”
“Yup.”
“Miss it?”
“Every day.” Sam looked at Tommy for a long time, weighing how far to go, then decided to see how he would react to what had to be some painful questions. “So, you were in the Corps for four years and you left as a private? Who did you piss off?”
“I had a little disagreement with an officer and lost rank.”
“But you got an honorable discharge?”
“Barely. I had a good war record.”
“What happened?”
“I got in a dispute with a female lieutenant when I was out-processing before I went on terminal leave.”
“What you mean by ‘dispute?’”
“I mean the bitch was being disrespectful to me and a couple of my buddies when we were out-processing. That woman had never deployed, and she had a real attitude. I said something to her, and she pulled rank on me. I said something back, and she got in my face, screaming at me. Next thing I knew she was lying on the ground.”
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