by John L. Work
So, Welch prepared the necessary letter to the Colorado Department of Revenue Driver’s License Bureau and requested her driver’s license picture. He included the mandatory identification of himself as a peace officer and a statement that he needed the photograph in order to proceed with the investigation of a felony committed within the State. It was a chance roll of the dice, but he had absolutely nothing to lose at this craps table, so he sent the request for the record. Either Sammie Newsom was the one he’d been looking for, or she wasn’t. He’d know soon enough. Before going home for the evening, he made a call to Steve Reilly and brought him up to speed on the latest developments. They agreed to go together to show the photo lineup, whenever Welch got it put together. And he slept much more soundly that night than he had for a long time.
Preparing a photo lineup that will withstand the inevitable pretrial defense motion to suppress it is a task that demands great care. In most police lineups there are six photographs, one of which is the suspect. They are generally displayed in congruent rectangular holes that have been cut into a legal-sized file folder cover. The case number appears in one of the corners at the top of the lineup. Beneath each image is a number, beginning with 1 at the upper left photo and ending with the number 6 at the bottom right image. There is no other wording on the document. All of the people who are depicted must be of the same race, nearly the same age and weight, and have facial features that fairly closely resemble each other. The hair lengths, styles and colors have to be reasonably similar and they should have the same eye colors. Yet, there is more. The facial expressions should be alike. If the suspect is smiling, the others in the line-up must also be smiling. Conversely, a line-up in which the suspect is scowling and the five others are smiling is not likely to withstand the suppression hearing prior to trial. Some police mug shots are taken with a display board directly beneath the person’s chin, denoting the case number and the agency that made the arrest. Others don’t have that information in the photograph – it’s kept in the computer with the digital photograph. Older mugs were taken in black and white. Most modern ones are in color. The backgrounds in the photos may be of different hues, so the officer who assembles the lineup must find pictures with similar backgrounds and formats. It can be quite a challenge to gather a group of photos which will provide the witness a reasonable look at the suspect, or person of interest as the case may be, for comparison against five others, any of whom could be mistaken for the suspect by a casual onlooker who isn’t involved with the case.
A humorous variation of a standard suggestion among cops who’ve been in the business for a long time is, if you’re certain who your perpetrator is, put your white male suspect’s photo in the lineup with five Asians or five blacks, so that the witness can’t miss him. Welch had heard the joke and differing versions many times.
Every witness who looks at a lineup must read and sign an advisal, which says that the suspect’s photo may or may not appear in the group of photos that is about to be shown. The officer is not allowed to speak with the witness during the viewing, or to make any suggestion as to which person should or shouldn’t be identified. The witness is also provided a second form that he must mark and sign, stating that he has or hasn’t recognized any of the six people depicted in the lineup. If the witness can identify someone, he must choose the person, identified only by the number above or beneath the photo, and check one of the boxes on the form which says he’s very certain, or fairly certain, that the man or woman depicted is the one who is the perpetrator. Or, there’s another box which says the witness can’t identify anyone in the lineup as being the person involved in the incident.
Welch took great care with this one, using only mug-shots he found in the Roberts County records, from a stockpiled collection of photos that had been originally taken by the Colorado Driver’s License Bureau and then filed within a huge steel cabinet which held extras and discards. With several other tasks he had to complete on a few cases involving lesser crimes, and a couple of mandatory administrative meetings to attend, it took him a few days before he was looking at a line-up that satisfied him. Sammie Newsom’s picture was in the number 5 position, right in the center of the lower row.
36
“Detective Reilly.”
“Steve, it’s Welch.”
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“I’m looking at a photo lineup. You ready to go with me to show this thing?”
“You bet. When are we going?”
“How does tonight suit you?”
“What time?”
“The meeting starts at 7:30. How about 7:00?”
“Jesus Christ, on a Friday evening? Okay. I’ll see you there.”
37
Jim McCowell was in Chicago for a business conference. This time he was traveling alone, with Marnie unable to break away from her full schedule in the gym. Her client list had boomed and grown quickly, leaving her little free time for travel with him.
He got out of his shuttle at the Chicago Grayson O’Hare Airport Hotel and hauled his one suitcase toward the lobby. The inn was situated very close to an incoming flight path and the roar of planes on their landing approaches momentarily made it difficult, if not impossible, to hear anything else. Thankfully, it was much quieter inside the building. A pleasant, neatly dressed and pressed woman greeted him at the front desk. He gave her his name; she called the Bell Captain’s desk and within a minute a uniformed man showed up to carry the piece of luggage up to his room on the third floor. He tipped the porter, slipped off his shoes and sat down in a comfortable chair.
The dark red carpeting dressed up a spacious room which featured a leather upholstered couch, four nicely cushioned chairs, internet service, a large screen television, and a kitchenette that included a cabinet stocked with distilled spirits. He poured himself a Scotch on the rocks and turned on the television to watch the local late afternoon Chicago news. The convention wasn’t set to really get underway until Saturday morning, in one of the ballrooms, and he intended to keep this time to himself for some relaxation.
As the whiskey warmed him he began to think about Kim and Adrienne. Following a very difficult few weeks after their mother’s funeral they seemed to have begun adjusting to their new life in Colorado Springs. They were making some friends. He encouraged them to invite their schoolmates to come home at the end of classes and share an evening meal with Marnie and him – that is, when Marnie was able to get home from work in time to prepare a meal. If she had to stay late, he was skillful enough around the kitchen to put together a dinner that seemed to satisfy his daughters and their friends. At least they kept coming back for more. There was always the backyard barbeque, even into the late days of autumn, and the kids never seemed to tire of his flame broiled cheeseburgers.
As he sipped the Scotch, his mind wandered to Sheila and the terrible way she had died. Every time he thought about it, rage boiled up inside him, both because she didn’t deserve to have her life taken so cruelly and for the loss his daughters were suffering every day of their young lives. Then the crushing guilt would come over him – berating his soul for giving up on their marriage when Sheila suffered her deep, long depression. He should have tried harder, stayed longer, just gritted his teeth and worked through it with her. But then he’d met Marnie and she gave him some sorely needed feminine attention during the times he was in the gym. She’d really sort of pursued him after awhile, but in a very subtle way. With the lack of physical intimacy at home and Sheila completely unable to give any emotional support to him over such an extended period of time, he’d finally given in to the temptation Marnie presented – just by the way she spoke to him and looked at him – and accepted her invitation for a cup of coffee.
At first it was just the coffee and small talk, and a few coy glances she shot his way over the top of her cup as she sipped. Then the conversations grew deeper and more intimate. After their first post workout meeting, both of them knew they’d eventually find their way into a mote
l bed. What he didn’t plan for in all of it was falling so deeply in love with her and forsaking his wife. As the affair went on and their emotional commitments deepened, he found himself torn between loyalty to Sheila and the passion he felt for this beautiful, young female whose sensual, strong body and male-fantasy-feeding words drove him to levels of sexual arousal he couldn’t recall from any other time in his life. After his marriage ended he had to admit to himself that his carnal and emotional passions had completely overruled responsibility, common sense, logic, his duties to his children, all of the commitments and promises he’d made to his wife so many years ago. The dawning of his guilt came upon him much as the awakening of sobriety eventually comes to an alcoholic who, in order to recover, must somehow become true to himself. He finally has to admit that he’s no longer the master of his fate, because the bottle owns him. He finally told Sheila that it was over between them and moved out of their home.
Now, in moments like this, when he couldn’t escape them, the thoughts came into his mind to prosecute and convict him of having been a bad man. He’d betrayed his mate and children to pursue his selfish desires for physical love – and the accompanying emotional passions. During the never ending cross examination that his conscience employed to torture him, sometimes he thought he didn’t deserve to live any longer – that he should somehow just die. But if a suicidal thought occurred to him, he dismissed it immediately. When he ended his marriage to their mother, he’d saddled his beautiful daughters with enough baggage to carry with them for the rest of their lives. He refused to contemplate giving them another burden to bear – that their father killed himself and left them to fend for themselves, alone in the world. Money could buy nice things in life, but it didn’t purchase peace of mind. He had lots of money, more than he would ever need. Guilt, he decided, was one bad mamba-jamba that could just really kick a man’s ass at any time of any day or night. And he was carrying plenty of it on his conscience.
After about thirty minutes of rumination on his broken marriage, he came out of his reverie and decided to get out on the town for some dinner. He gave himself a little mental push and forced his hands to reach for his shoes. Then he picked up the phone and called Marnie. She’d made him promise to call and tell her what his dinner plans were.
“Hi, hon, it’s me.”
“Hey, there, mister construction man, how’s the convention?”
“It really starts tomorrow morning. I wish you were here. I miss you already.”
“I miss you too. And you know I’ll have something ready for you when you come home.”
“Oh, my God, you’re making my imagination run wild here. Stop it.”
“Okay. But just for now. What are you doing for dinner?”
“I’m gonna call a cab and go out to the number one steakhouse in Chicago. It’s called the Capital Grille. I’m thinking a rib-eye, a baked potato, a salad, a nice red wine and a few drinks after dinner ought to relax me a little, since you’re not here.”
“Sounds good. Now I really wish I were there with you.”
“Did the kids make it to Altoona okay?”
“Yes. Your parents called and said they picked them up at the airport at about four-thirty. They were delighted to see their granddaughters.”
“Good. A three-day weekend with grandma and grandpa will be great for them. They can make up the school work later.”
“Yes. I’m sure they’ll all have a wonderful time.”
“Well, I’ll be home Monday evening and I’ll tell you all about the big convention.”
“Good. I can’t wait to see you, my love. Enjoy your steak dinner and think of me when you sip that wine.”
“I will. I’ll call you later, when I get back to my room.”
“Better yet, call me when you’re on your way back to the hotel.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Goodbye, my love.”
“Bye.”
She hung up and made another phone call. He dialed the Bell Captain’s desk and asked for a cab.
Fifteen minutes later, as he stepped out of the lobby into the brisk late September Friday Chicago evening, the planes were still roaring overhead. It was deafening. His taxi was waiting at the sidewalk and he quickly slid into the back seat. He was hungry. It would be Jim McCowell’s last supper.
38
The detectives parked the unmarked police cars in the paved vacant lot right around the corner from the Larimer Street Alcoholics Anonymous building. They donned suit coats to conceal their shoulder-holstered duty weapons and walked to the front door. Inside they found the chairman of the group, Bill Blake, standing at a table near the speaker’s podium at the front of the room. He was organizing some pamphlets for the newer members to pick up and take home. Since Reilly had already spoken with him a few times, the Park County detective did the talking.
“Hi, Bill, remember me? I’m Detective Reilly and this is Detective Welch with Roberts County.”
“Oh, yeah. How are you guys doin’ tonight? Here early for the meeting?”
“No. But, we’re still investigating the murder of Jimmie Slaikovitch, the kid that used to come to meetings here. Can we trouble you for just a moment of your time in private – maybe in that side room over there? I need to have you look at some photographs.”
Blake looked at the clock on the wall, which showed that the time was seven thirty-five. He smiled broadly and said, “Sure. I’ve always got time to look at pictures with a couple of cops. What kind of pictures are you gonna show me? Do I need my lawyer?”
Welch and Reilly smiled at the humor.
“Thanks. No, you don’t need your lawyer.”
They followed him into the room and closed the door. Welch went over the advisal form and showed him the identification document. He explained that all they wanted to know was if he recognized anyone in the group of photographs they were about to show him. Then they stepped back away from him as he sat down at the table and turned over the photo line-up.
He immediately pointed to the picture in the number five position and said, “I recognize her. That’s the woman that sat with Jimmie sometimes in the back of the room during Friday night meetings.”
He had identified Samantha Newsom – without hesitation and with immediate certainty.
They watched as Blake checked box number five on the line-up identification form, then signed and dated it. Both detectives added their signatures as witnesses to the procedure and thanked him for his assistance. Blake provided his home address, place of employment and two different phone numbers, so they could contact him later for subpoena service, if necessary.
They talked briefly in the parking lot. Welch’s mind was going one-hundred miles per hour. It was time to pay a visit to Sammie Newsom at the bank. Now he could connect her directly with Slaikovitch and, while he couldn’t positively place her at the Evans Coffee Shop parking lot in Sheila McCowell’s BMW, he had a few very interesting questions for her to answer. But it was Friday evening and he was already on overtime. The interview would have to wait until the following Monday morning – first thing. The two detectives shook hands and went their separate ways for the weekend.
He spent his entire two days off watching movies from the local video rental store and reading a book on Islam. He’d become fascinated, and worried, about what was ahead for the nation after the 9/11 attacks. His first inkling that some big trouble with the World of Islam might lay ahead had been clear back in 1972, when he was in graduate school. The murders of twelve Jewish athletes at the Olympic Games in Munich, Germany, killed by Yassir Arafat’s Muslim terrorist minions, marked a memory point in his life. Now, with the slaughter of thousands in New York City, Pennsylvania and at the Pentagon, he figured it was time for him to find out what it was that was driving these seemingly irrational acts. And as he read the works of non-apologist authorities on Islam, and the history of jihad, it became very apparent to him that the violence was not at all random or senseless. It was well reasoned and ha
d a specific purpose. Islam had declared war on Western Civilization many centuries ago and this was just a continuation of that original campaign – to conquer and dominate the entire world under Muslim law. But it would take him several years and a lot of reading to assimilate the information which allowed him to reach that conclusion.