by Randy Alcorn
At least three heads nodded.
“You’re not nodding, Noel. Why? You know it better than anyone. You know the tenth anniversary of Jack’s daughter’s death was huge. Did the rest of you know that Palatine was murdered, to the hour, likely to the minute, ten years after Melissa Glissan died? Of course, you knew that, Noel.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you helped him do it.”
“You’re accusing Noel of murdering Palatine?” Tommi asked.
“And Brandon Phillips.”
Cimmatoni locked his eyes, laserlike, on Noel.
“Accusing Jack is a low blow,” Noel said. “I resent that more than accusing me. Okay, Jack had some issues, and he took his life. That’s hard for me to accept. But kill somebody? You say he confessed to you—I say you’re lying. Jack Glissan was no killer.”
Doyle, Suda, and Cimmatoni all nodded their agreement.
“You going to tell us,” Noel asked, “about the Black Jack wrapper you found at Palatine’s and didn’t turn in because it had your fingerprints on it?”
“Is that true?” Baylor asked.
“Yes, but—”
“Is it also true,” Noel said, “that you’d been drunk and had a blackout the night the professor was killed? And another blackout when Phillips was killed?”
“Well, I’ve had a few—”
“And that you had Brandon’s blood on you?” Doyle asked.
“You dropped that blood-soaked clothing fragment at our crime scene,” Suda said. “Admit it.”
“True?” Sarge asked.
“Not … exactly,” I said. “Okay, some of it’s true, but—”
“There’s going to be a full investigation,” Sarge said. “You’re in big trouble, Chandler.”
“He’s fingering me to cover his guilt,” I said, pointing at Noel.
“He planted his own fingerprints?” Cimmatoni asked.
I stood there with my mouth open. I skimmed the papers in my file and held up three faxed sheets.
“These are flight manifests confirming Noel made a trip from Miami to Portland. They’re dated twenty years ago November 18, two days before Melissa Glissan was murdered.”
“You’re saying Noel also murdered Jack’s daughter?” Tommi asked.
“Let me see those,” Cimmatoni grabbed the papers from me. “These are alphabetized by last name. Where’s Barrows?”
“You see Donald Meyer?” I asked. “I circled it.”
“So? Who’s Donald Meyer?” Cimmatoni asked. “What’re you trying to pull, Chandler? You stand there waving these papers, pretending you have Noel’s name on a ten-year-old flight manifest, which could be fake anyway. Then when I call your bluff, you pick a passenger name we’ve never heard of as proof that Barrows was on board?”
“Noel’s heard of Donald Meyer, haven’t you?”
“Who is he?” Noel asked.
“He’s you. He’s from Florida. And he has a brother.”
“I’m from Washington,” Noel said. “Liberty Lake. And I’m an only child.” He spoke calmly, like a psychologist to a confused patient.
“A boy named Noel Barrows was from Liberty Lake. But your name was Donald Meyer, and you grew up in Dade County, Florida, outside Miami.”
“I grew up in Liberty Lake. Ask my friends, Mike Clark, Bill Moon, Amy Mishima, Nancy Moore. I went to grade school and high school with them. Ask my next-door neighbors, Kevin and Alan and Jeannine Sturdy, and their mom, Carrie. Ask my teachers, Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Barber and Mr. Gradin and Mr. Holevas.”
“None of them have seen Noel Barrows for thirteen years,” I said, addressing the jury. “Sure, he did his homework. He knows their names. They’ll all say they had Noel Barrows in class, or lived next door to him. And yeah, his age, height, and hair color generally fit. But he’s not the same person.”
“This is ridiculous,” Doyle said, moving toward the door. “Brandon was murdered, Jack took his life, and now Chandler’s trying to lynch Noel … all based on unsubstantiated accusations. I’m done.”
“Sit,” Sarge said. “That’s not a request. All of you, calm down. Chandler’s going to present some evidence … aren’t you?”
“But why would this Donald assume the identity of Noel Barrows?” Baylor asked.
“Okay,” I said, sighing louder than I intended. “Donald Meyer met Melissa one summer, apparently at a golf camp in California.” I looked at Noel. I saw the flash in his eyes. “They exchanged numbers, talked on the phone over several months. Eventually he came out to Portland to meet Melissa’s parents, Jack and Linda. He stayed with them three weeks. Hit it off with them. But later Melissa broke up with him. She didn’t explain why. Enraged, Noel flew out here from Miami to reclaim his stolen property or to punish her. He didn’t tell her or her parents he was coming. He found out from her roommate that Melissa was in love with her philosophy professor at PSU. He was livid. He confronted Melissa. A day or two later she was hanging from a rope.”
“But if the Glissans knew him as Donald,” Tommi said, “they’d know about the name change.”
“After Melissa died, Jack and Linda welcomed Donald. They golfed together; he stayed with them, grieved with them supposedly. He expressed an interest in law enforcement. Jack took him under his wing. Donald had family troubles in Florida and wanted a fresh start. Maybe Jack’s grief blinded him, but he went along with the name change. He gave Noel Barrows a written endorsement for the police academy. Later Jack recommended you,” I was looking at Noel, “for a patrol job with Portland Police. When you made detective, Jack requested you as his partner. He mentored you. Cops talk a lot. So do golfing buddies. So what did you two talk about?”
Noel shrugged.
“Sometimes you talked about Melissa. Both of you blamed the professor for her death.”
“Why not?” Suda asked. “He should’ve been shot.”
“He was,” I said, then looked at Noel. “On some of those long nights on stakeouts, I say you talked about the professor. Then when the Tribune published the article praising him, Jack, or maybe it was you, said, ‘I wish we could get him.’ And the other said, ‘Why don’t we?’ And you figured, who better to get away with it than a couple of homicide detectives?”
“That’s insane,” Doyle said. “Jack’s wife’s positive Noel wasn’t involved. Plus, he has an airtight alibi. Weren’t there a half dozen guys at a tavern who say he was with them? You saying they were all that drunk, or they’re all lying?”
“They believed they were with Noel. But it was somebody else.”
“A clone or a shape-shifter?” Doyle asked.
“Donald Meyer’s brother.”
“He has a twin?” Tommi asked.
“Brother seventeen months younger. I met their mother in Dade County yesterday morning.” Noel stared bullets at me. “They looked enough alike that when they were in high school they could fool their teachers. They made alibis for each other even then. Check out this picture she gave me.” I handed it to Baylor.
“Which one’s you?” he asked Noel. Tommi, Suda, and Cimma crowded close to see it.
“You and your photographer girlfriend do that in Photoshop?” Noel asked. “That’s a phony picture. I don’t have a brother and my mother’s dead.”
“So you believe Noel’s brother sat in for him at the bar to establish his alibi?” Baylor said.
I reached in my briefcase and pulled out a yearbook. “I requisitioned this from Dr. Michael M. Krop Senior High School in Dade County. It’s a genuine yearbook. No Photoshop.”
“I was an only child.”
“Noel Barrows was an only child. Donald Meyer had a brother named Rodney.” I held up the yearbook. “I’ve marked a few pages. Anybody want a look?”
Cimmatoni grabbed it and flipped to the first page marked with a sticky note. Baylor and Suda hovered close for a good look.
“Donald Meyer sure looks like you.” Cimmatoni flipped to the next marked page. “Rodney Meyer looks like you too.”
“Check out page 84,” I said. Cimmatoni flipped to the next sticky note.
“What is it?” Tommi asked.
“Golf team,” Cimmatoni said.
“You’re in the picture, Noel,” Suda said. “Only the name underneath says Donald Meyer.”
“This is just another frame. Can’t you see that?”
Knowing it was time for my hole card, I flipped the lid on my laptop and said, “You want proof? Take a look at the fingerprints of Donald Meyer, in trouble with Dade County three times. On the left is Donald’s fingerprint; on the right is Noel’s print, on file with our department. Tell me what you see.”
A crowd gathered close around the laptop, everyone but Noel and Doyle.
“Perfect match,” Cimmatoni growled.
“So it’s true.” Tommi looked at Noel. “Donald Meyer and Noel Barrows are the same person.”
62
“In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
“STILL DENY YOU’RE DONALD MEYER?” I asked, pointing at the matching fingerprints.
Noel Barrows stood up and addressed the group. “Look, I admit I had my problems as a kid. But I got my life together. I wanted to be a cop. I was afraid they’d screen me out. Jack didn’t think that was fair. He encouraged me to change my name.”
“You didn’t just change your name,” I said. “You adopted a dead man’s identity.”
“It gave me a fresh start. That doesn’t make me a murderer!”
“I know about overcoming legal problems to become a cop,” Manny said. “But I didn’t have to change my name.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother?” I asked Noel.
“Haven’t seen him for years. Don’t even know where he lives.”
“You claimed you grew up in Washington,” Manny said.
“If you knew my family, you’d understand why I had to leave and start over. When you take a new identity, you can’t just announce it.”
“What happened to the real Noel Barrows?” Manny asked.
“I was checking grave stones and death notices,” Noel said. “Then I heard this guy had disappeared. That’s why I chose him. He was gone, but not dead apparently, so there wasn’t a death certificate. It was easier to take his name as long as I stayed at a distance.”
“Missing people usually reappear,” I said. “If he did, you’d be in big trouble.”
“I took a chance.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What are you suggesting?” Tommi asked.
“The real Noel Barrows was the perfect choice,” I said to Donald. “He looks enough like you that somebody who hadn’t seen him for five years could think you’re him. Appearances change, memories aren’t reliable. But no way you could fool family and close friends.”
“Exactly,” Noel said. “I chose him because he’d moved away, didn’t stay in touch.”
“I say you chose him before he disappeared. You shopped for the right age and appearance, someone without family. You knew he wouldn’t reappear for one simple reason—you killed him and hid his body.”
“You’re crazy,” Noel said.
“Is there anyone you’re not accusing Noel of killing?” Chris Doyle said. “He’s not old enough to have shot JFK, is he?”
I looked at Noel. “What would you say if I told you I could place you in Helena, Montana, ten years ago, where the real Noel Barrows had been living since he left Liberty Lake? What if I said I could put you there the same weekend he disappeared without a trace?”
“I’d say you’re lying.”
No, just bluffing. But I saw his lip tremble. That moment I realized I’d overlooked something.
Noel, like every detective in the room, was armed.
When you’re gouging somebody with a hot poker, you generally don’t want his hand twelve inches from a deadly weapon. But I hadn’t won over all the detectives, so trying to take his weapon might galvanize support for him.
“I believe Jack killed Palatine,” I said to Noel. “But you killed him too. And I think you—not Jack—pushed Frederick off his deck and murdered Dr. Hedstrom and Phillips. Jack wouldn’t kill them. Maybe he killed himself out of guilt, thinking he led you down this path of murders, not knowing you’d killed others before the professor. Including his own daughter.”
Noel shook his head emphatically.
“Was killing Palatine your idea and Jack went along?” I asked.
“That’s a lie. Ask Linda Glissan. She’ll tell you. Okay, maybe I should have turned Jack in when he talked about killing Palatine. But I thought I’d convinced him not to. He told me he wouldn’t. My mistake was believing him. He must have lost it to kill the others. I had no reason to kill them.”
“Frederick saw you at the professor’s door,” I said. “Hedstrom? You knew I’d interviewed him. You saw the report Mitzie typed up, didn’t you? You knew that as academic dean, Hedstrom had on file every complaint about Palatine.”
“I never heard of Hedstrom till he was dead.”
“Jack and Linda both said that Jack went to the academic dean after Melissa died, to lodge his complaint. I requisitioned Hedstrom’s files like I suggested Doyle and Suda do, but they didn’t think it was worth it,” I said, eyeing them. “Manny found Jack’s accusation, his original letter. You knew Hedstrom, if pressed, could surrender that information. So you killed him. You knew if Jack was incriminated, you could be next.”
“You’re full of yourself, Chandler,” Noel said, laughing.
I wondered if anyone else noticed his right hand settle unnaturally on his chest, inches from his shoulder holster. I put my hand on my heart too and saw Manny do the same. It looked like we were preparing for the Pledge of Allegiance.
“What about Phillips?” Cimmatoni asked.
I stepped just two feet from Noel. “You knew Brandon Phillips had figured something out. You knew he was about to tell me. Maybe he’d confronted you, or confronted Jack and said he was going to admit he’d lied about his alibi, which would pull the rug out from under Jack, and in turn, maybe from under you. Anyway, you killed him before he could talk.”
“You’re a liar and a drunk,” Noel said. “And you have no proof of anything.”
“You’re right about me being a drunk. But I’m sober now. I don’t know if there’s a hell or whether you’d go there for killing Palatine. But I’m pretty sure killing the others is enough to get you there. For all I know, if he was about to talk, you’d have killed Jack too.”
That pushed Noel’s rage button, which I was hoping for.
“Who talked to Jack right before he took his life?” he yelled as he stood. “Who threatened him? You did. Not me!”
“I’m not the one who had two girlfriends die violently after breaking up with me.”
“I admit I changed my name. The rest is a pack of lies. It’s all speculation. There’s no proof.”
I saw a few nods. Even those who believed what I’d said knew there’s a difference between belief and proof. Proving he was Donald Meyer hadn’t proven he was a killer. If I had a rabbit, I’d have to pull it out of the hat.
I looked at Noel again. “The impressions on the carpet in Palatine’s bedroom, by the window—your shoes match them.”
“What shoes?”
“Your black size 10 Rockport World Town Classics that we confiscated with a search warrant.”
“A search warrant on a fellow detective.” Noel looked around the room. “How’s that for teamwork and loyalty?”
“The sole of your shoes matches the impressions and dirt marks on Palatine’s carpet.”
“It’s a common shoe,” Noel said. “Or maybe somebody was framing me again. Remember those fake fingerprints?”
“Yeah. What about that, Chandler?” Cimmatoni asked.
“Ingenious. Only the innocent have evidence planted against them, right?
So Noel put himself inside the circle of the innocent. Who made that 911 call, using your term fishy? I’m betting on your brother Rodney. You planted evidence against me and half the rest of us. We were innocent, so you joined the innocents by being framed.”
Noel smiled as an artist smiles at his masterpiece. “Somebody tried to frame me from the beginning, and I think it was you, Chandler. I was cleared of the fingerprints and the 911 call, remember? I was at the Do Drop Inn. All kinds of people will testify to it.”
“You were smart. But know where you messed up?”
I looked to see if he would flinch. He didn’t.
“Those black Rockports we confiscated? Guess what they found just yesterday in the bottom of your right shoe?”
Noel’s face held steady.
“A shard of glass the lab identified as belonging to the professor’s broken window. It’s all the proof we need.”
Noel smiled. “You’re lying. There’s no glass in the bottom of those shoes.”
I let the words hang ut there, and looked around the room. “Cimmatoni, do you know whether you have a tiny glass shard imbedded on the bottom of your shoe? Karl, do you? Manny? Tommi? I don’t. Is there anyone here who knows for sure that any particular shoe sitting in your closet at home doesn’t have a piece of glass in it?”
Tommi and Karl shook their heads. The others pondered it.
“No? Then I have a question, Donald. How can you possibly know you don’t have a glass shard in the bottom of your Rockports?”
He folded, then unfolded his arms.
“The only way you could know is if you went over them inch by inch to make sure there’s no glass. And no one would do that in the first place … except the killer.”
There were twenty seconds of eerie quiet. Then his right hand, resting on his chest, moved left. Manny and I jumped the same moment. I grabbed Noel’s right hand.
“Disarm him,” I said.
Cimmatoni held him, and Baylor checked his ankles. Baylor produced the gun from Noel’s ankle strap two seconds after Cimmatoni held up his Smith and Wesson from the shoulder holster.