“You don’t really think I had anything to do with Griff Bauer’s death?” I asked Kintner.
“You’ve lied quite a bit.”
“I left things out. There’s a difference.”
“Not from where I sit.”
“This is one big nightmare,” I said.
“I’m going to ask you one last question, Quint. It’s an important one. Be sure you answer it honestly.”
“I will,” I said.
“You told us he was dead when you got there.”
“That’s right.”
“My question is this. Did you ever step foot in the house?”
This was going to be my saving grace.
Devane whispered in my ear, “Did you?”
“No,” I whispered back.
“I’d answer him,” he said.
Ladies and gentleman, Bob Devane.
“I never went in the house!” I said emphatically. “I saw the man was dead by peering through the splintered door. And I walked around the outside. But I never stepped foot inside.”
“Okay, Quint. Would you mind leaving a fingerprint and DNA sample so we can verify that?”
“Of course.”
I was starting to feel better about myself for the first time all morning.
“I’ll send the specialist in and then we are prepared to let you go. I’ll be in touch in the next few days.”
“Thanks, Ray. I promise you I had nothing to do with his death.”
It was subtle, but we were going back and forth using each other’s first or last names, depending on the situation.
“I hope you’re right, Quint. Would you like me to contact you through Mr. Devane?”
I was done with Bob Devane. “No, you can contact me directly.”
Mr. Devane said nothing. It was his best moment yet.
“Alright, I’ll be in touch. Wait here until they come back for your fingerprints and DNA.”
He walked out of the interrogation room and I waited.
Thirty minutes later, I was finally able to leave the Oakland Police Department. Luckily, since it was Saturday, I didn’t need to go in to work. That would have been too much.
I drove back to my apartment, where I was happy to see that Cara had gone. I didn’t want to lie to her, or even worse, have to be honest about what happened.
I wasn’t ready to talk to my mother either. I just prayed this would all go away.
It was going to be tricky. Even when the police realized that I never went into the house, there was still the fact that I had withheld information.
Was that something they could keep to themselves? Would they have to tell Tom and Krissy Butler?
I still held out hope I could retain my job.
The day went on and I didn’t do much. Cara texted me and I told her I was just too tired from the night before. There would be no hanging out.
Tom sent me a text saying how much fun he’d had and that we should do an employee Happy Hour once a month.
If I’m still employed in a month, was what I thought.
Good idea. I had a great time too, was what I texted.
Before I knew it, the sun went down and I shut my blinds. I liked to keep them open while the sun set as it often supplied a beautiful view from my apartment.
This day was no different. It was gorgeous.
I decided to watch a movie before bed, somehow spending thirty minutes going through Netflix and Amazon Prime before deciding on one I’d seen ten times. L.A. Confidential.
The beginning credits were going when I heard a knock.
I walked toward the door, not sure who to expect. After these past few days it could have been anyone.
Looking through the peephole, I saw Detective Kintner.
He knocked again, louder this time.
I opened the door. Detectives Kintner stood in the hall with Marks and two others officers I didn’t recognize. I knew something was wrong.
“I could have come to the station,” I said.
“Quint Adler, you are under arrest for the murder of Griffin Bauer.”
My legs buckled beneath me and I fell to the ground.
PART II: THE ACCUSED
16.
I was handcuffed in my apartment and led to the hallway. I asked them to lock the door behind them. It’s weird what springs to mind when your future is flashing before your eyes. But in the moment, that mattered to me.
A woman on the lobby floor saw me escorted out of the elevator. I hoped she either didn’t know who I was or didn’t like to gossip. Word could spread in our complex fast. Only a handful of people living at Avalon Walnut Creek would fit my description.
Did you hear that Quint got arrested? Four armed policemen with him. Escorted out in handcuffs. I don’t want to be living in the same complex as some felon. I’m going to talk to management.
This was another odd thing to worry about, considering the State of California aimed to be my new landlord.
I sat in the back of a squad car for the drive back to the Oakland Police Department, where I was fingerprinted (again) and processed. I was put in a holding cell and told I’d likely be transferred to Santa Rita Jail in the morning, thirty minutes from downtown Oakland.
I was in a complete haze, but tried to pick up on the most important things I was being told. An officer said I’d be seen by a judge early on Monday morning, when my bail would be set. That one registered.
I’d be spending the weekend in jail. When you’re being charged with murder, a weekend shouldn’t concern you, but it definitely hit home for me. I wanted to break down, but couldn’t resort to being weak. I had to stay strong.
Mostly, I wanted to rewind a few weeks and change my terrible decisions. None of them had included murder, but they had all brought me to this point.
They gave me my one phone call, and though I dreaded making it, I had to call my mother. It would kill her to hear it from a secondhand source. Not that hearing it from me was much better.
It was almost 11:00 p.m. at this point and I just hoped she was still awake.
I heard the recorded message say the call was coming from Quint Adler from a correctional facility. I was gutted for my mother. How could I put her through this phone call? Truth was, I didn’t have much choice.
“Hello? Quint? Correctional facility, what does that mean?”
There was a slight pause before I was allowed to talk from my end.
“Hi, Mom, it’s me. First off, I have to let you know I didn’t do what they are accusing me of.”
I had to get that out of the way first.
“What are they saying you did?” she asked, obviously scared.
“They’re charging me with murder,” I said.
“What? How? That’s not possible.”
And then I heard her start crying on the other end.
“Mom, I know this is tough to hear, but try to stay with me. Are you there?”
More sobbing. Finally, she came back on the line.
“I’m here. How could anyone suspect you of murder?”
“It’s all a huge misunderstanding,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything once I see you. But for now, I need a favor.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“I need you to call Dad’s old friend Gary Rogers. The lawyer. Do you have his number?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it here somewhere.”
My mother wasn’t the best with her cell phone and probably had it in some old Rolodex or address book.
“Call him right when we hang up. Tell him that I’ve been arrested on a murder charge, but that I’m innocent. I’m currently at the Oakland Police Department, but they might transfer me to Santa Rita Jail. I’ll explain everything to him when he gets here. And he can relay it to you.”
“I’ll call him immediately. Is there anything else while I have you on the line?”
“I just want to reiterate that I’m innocent, Mom. I promise you.”
“I believe you, son.”
&nb
sp; “Thanks. Now please call Gary.”
Gary Rogers had been one of my father’s oldest and dearest friends. They met in grade school and remained close through childhood, high school, and college. At that point, most people thought my father was going to become the lawyer, but while Gary went off to law school, my father went to get his teaching credential.
They had both returned to Seattle after college, but Gary decided to come to California. He attended Stanford Law School, met his future wife, passed the bar in California and chose to stay. My father didn’t make it to California till more than thirty-five years after Gary, but they remained great friends in the meantime.
My father was the best man at Gary’s wedding. He hoped to respond in kind, but with my father having an older brother, Gary was second in line when my parents married. The two couples went on many trips over the years, and Gary’s wife Laurie got along swimmingly with my mother. With the names of Linda and Laurie it was almost inevitable.
Once my parents moved to California, Gary and my father just became tighter, going on many fishing and camping excursions over the years. The Rodgers had two children around my age, so the kids often accompanied the parents.
When my father passed away, Gary spoke at his funeral, bringing down the house with stories from their childhood. Anyone who saw him speak that day knew he belonged in a courtroom.
He revered my father and I knew he’d do anything for Arthur Adler’s only child. It didn’t hurt that he was a very well-regarded lawyer in the Bay Area. I knew I’d be in good hands.
Less than an hour after I got off the phone with my mother, a bailiff came by my cell and took me to a meeting area. It held a long row of seats, sitting across from other seats, with a long glass partition in between. Gary Rogers sat on the other side, replete with a three-piece suit that must have cost more than a month’s worth of my clothing.
My father had died at seventy, and considering they grew up together, I knew Gary was around seventy himself. He didn’t look it. He was in better shape than most men thirty years younger. His hair had become almost completely gray, but that just made him appear distinguished. Something that could only help in a courtroom.
Although you couldn’t tell it by him sitting down, Gary was 6’3” and cut an imposing figure. I hoped that would help in front of a jury as well.
I grabbed a phone on my end and he grabbed one on his.
“How are you, Quint?”
“I’ve been better,” I said. “But thanks so much for coming.”
“You don’t look the worse for wear,” he said, and I reflexively looked down at my orange jumpsuit.
“If only you could look inside my brain.”
“I’ll be getting there shortly.”
And he did. Gary spent the next fifteen minutes picking my brain about all that happened. He had a slight little smirk when I mentioned Bob Devane. I was happy to see he held him in the same low regard as I did.
Besides that, I didn’t get many reactions from him. I had hoped he’d nod his head or give me a knowing look when I told him I was innocent. But that didn’t happen.
“Not guilty,” he corrected. “We don't need you to be innocent. We just have to prevent them from proving you’re guilty.”
“But I’m innocent.”
“That’s fine. And you can tell your mother and friends that, but in a court of law, you are not guilty.”
I continued with my story and finished by describing being arrested in my apartment. It was then Gary Rogers’s turn to speak.
“First the bad news,” he said. “You don’t have an alibi, do you?”
“No. Not from the time Cara dropped me off on Saturday night till Monday morning at work.”
“No one in your apartment complex?”
“If so, they just saw me in passing. Not something they’d remember a few weeks later.”
“It’s still something we’ll look into.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And it appears they have your DNA at the crime scene. In the house.”
That couldn’t be.
“No chance. I never set foot in that house.”
“That may be true, but dollars to donuts they’ve found your DNA there. The last thing they asked you this morning was whether you were in the house. You say no and then they come back and arrest you that night. To me, that screams of them finding your DNA.”
My mind was trying to process everything. “How is that even possible? Did the cops make a mistake?”
“I don’t know, Quint.”
“Something is going on here.”
“Maybe. But if I’m being honest, it’s not usually some outlandish conspiracy that gets people arrested.”
“I’m telling you I never set foot in that house.”
“Is there anyone who would want to frame you?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a small-town newspaper reporter. What enemies have I made?”
My question was rhetorical, but Gary Rogers didn’t take it that way.
“That’s what I’m asking,” he said.
“None. No enemies,” I said. “But what about the mysterious notes?”
“Why would they try to frame you? You just said you have no enemies.”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s also a problem with bringing up the notes in front of the judge.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“It will then be public record, and assuming your employers are keeping track of your case, which I’m sure they will be, you’ll undoubtedly be fired. Receiving notes about a murder case and not reporting them would lead your employers with no option.”
“But we can’t just not mention it,” I said. “I care more about my freedom than my job.”
“Remember, Quint, Monday is just the arraignment and bail hearing. It’s not the trial. If it ever gets that far, then obviously we’ll introduce every other potential suspect to the jury. But there is no reason to give information out too early. Even if I told the judge you’d received these mysterious letters, he’s not going to throw out the murder charge. That I can promise you.”
“The same with meeting Dennis McCarthy?”
“I hate to say it, Quint, but that does nothing, either.”
“This is fucked!” I said.
It was the first real emotion I had shown.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Gary said.
I shook my head. “An innocent man charged with murder. Thought this only happened on T.V.”
“It happens more than you think.”
“You believe I’m innocent, don’t you, Gary?”
“I do, Quint. But as I said earlier, to me you are not guilty. At a later point, we’ll see the motive they’re going to present, but a fight in a hospital room seems pretty weak to me. If they do, like I’m assuming, have your DNA in his house, that’s going to be more problematic.”
“I told you I never went into that house.”
“It’s not me you have to convince, Quint.”
“I’m sorry, this is all too much,” I said.
I bowed my head and suddenly realized something else.
“There’s one thing I forgot to tell you. It’s most likely unrelated to what’s going on, but it involves my father.”
Gary Rogers leaned forward. I told him of my father’s note about Mason Anderson and everything I’d learned about their family, which admittedly wasn’t much.
He listened to it all and looked at me in a very serious manner. “I can’t tell whether you’ve got yourself mixed up in something deeply sinister or you’ve lost your mind and none of these things are connected.”
“I can assure that I haven’t lost my mind,” I said. “Must be that other option you mentioned.”
We shared wry smiles.
“Let’s hope not,” he said. “But just to be safe, we will be mentioning absolutely nothing about your father on Monday, either. There isn’t anything connecting his death to the murder of Griff Baue
r. And there’s no reason to give this case more publicity than it will already have. We’ll try to do the opposite.”
“Okay,” I said.
“There’s nothing more I can do for now, Quint. We’ll find out your bail amount on Monday. You’ve been a model citizen, but for a murder charge, I doubt they will go much less than $500,000. Which would mean paying $50,000 cash to a bail bondsman or putting up a million dollars in property, which always has to be double.”
“I can’t have my mother putting up her house,” I said.
“Then you might be staying here awhile.”
“Fuck!” I yelled.
“Do you have $50,000?”
“That’s my entire life savings. And I’m including checking account, stocks, everything.”
“I’ll see what I can do come Monday.”
I tried to calm down. “I’m sorry about the profanity.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Quint. You’re in a terrible spot.”
“What about your fee?” I finally got around to asking.
“You think I’m going to charge my best friend’s son? Your pops would kick my ass,” he said, looking toward the heavens as he did.
“Thanks for everything, Gary.”
“See you Monday in court.”
He knocked on the impenetrable glass that divided us, hoping to show some kinship with me. Once he was gone, a guard escorted me back to my cold, dark cell.
I somehow managed to fall asleep, but was woken in the early morning hours by a loud banging on my cell door.
“Let’s go, Adler. You’re being transferred.”
I was escorted from my cell to a waiting bus and driven the thirty miles from the Oakland Police Department to the Santa Rita County Jail. I’d never felt more discouraged or humiliated in my entire life. It was the sum of a million terrible feelings all bottled into one.
I looked out at the cars on the freeway. The sun was rising and I imagined the commuters heading to work after just having left a loved one.
Not me. I was being transferred from one jail to another. With no wife or kids to come and see me. Just a heartsick mother somewhere out there.
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 12