by John J. Lamb
“Probably not.”
“But if you decide you need something smashed, I’m your girl.”
“You’ve always been my girl, Ash. Always and forever.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” She leaned over to kiss my cheek. “So, how are you going to handle the interview with Holcombe and Trent?”
“That we’re the only people in the world who can keep Trent from taking the lethal-injection elevator to hell and we don’t want our time wasted. I’m not going to be anywhere near as circumspect at getting to the point,” I said, turning the truck into Pinckney’s lot and parking beside Tina’s patrol car.
The front window of the restaurant had a CLOSED sign on it, but Tina opened the door. “Come on in. Sergei decided to close for the afternoon and help us.”
We went inside and I saw Sergei bent over some electronic equipment on a table. He grunted, “Business was slow, so I thought it would be a good idea to make sure this was done properly.”
I went to the table and took a closer look. The base radio receiver was the size of a large toolbox with a four-foot-tall antenna jutting from the top and contained a built-in cassette tape recorder. Beside the receiver was a transmitter power pack of roughly the same dimensions as a small wireless phone and attached to the bottom was a flexible two-foot-long beige-colored wire microphone. The equipment had to be at least fifteen years old, yet it was lightyears ahead of anything I’d ever used while working for SFPD.
“So, who’s going to wear the wire?” Sergei asked.
“I think it has to be Ash. You okay with that, honey?”
“Sure. What do I have to do?”
“I thought you’d never ask. We both go into the back-room and you undo your pants.”
“Brad!”
Sergei laughed, as did Tina, who also blushed.
“I’m not kidding. We have to put this in the small of your back below your waistband.” I held up the transmitter. “We’ll tape it in place to make sure it doesn’t move. Then, we take this wire antenna and bring it around front and up under your blouse. We’ll secure it in such a manner that our radio surveillance team can keep abreast of the situation.”
She gave me a mischievous grin. “And I suppose you’ll help me with that too.”
“I live to serve. Got some bandage tape, Sergei?”
“There’s a roll of it in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”
“If we’re not back in ten minutes . . . give us another ten minutes.”
It took considerably less than ten minutes to tape the transmitter to the small of her back and to slip the microphone wire into the right cup of her bra. Ash buttoned everything back up and I closely scrutinized her chest to make sure the wire wasn’t visible through the fabric.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.
“This is purely professional.”
“Right. Are you making all these jokes because you’re scared?”
“Petrified. This could turn very bad and it’ll be my fault if it does. Add the fact that I can’t envision life without you and it’s a wonder I can even function.”
“You’ll bring us through this just fine.” She took my face in her hands and gave me a long, slow kiss.
“Okay you two, you can come on out! We’re receiving you just fine! In fact, right down to the smacking lips!” Sergei called from the dining room.
Emerging from the back of the restaurant, I said, “You’re just jealous, Sergei.”
“That’s true,” he said gravely.
I turned to Tina. “All right, here’s how we’ll do this. You wait here until we’ve finished the interview. You’ll be able to tell if it’s gone well and can be standing by to take them into custody. However, if this goes to hell and one of them begins cranking off rounds, under no circumstances are you to John Wayne-it and try to make a rescue, pilgrim. There’ll be no point in charging in because it will be too late to do anything for us. Secure the scene and get some reinforcements. Understand?”
Tina nodded, shook hands with me, and gave Ash a hug.
I started to give Sergei a handshake but—Russians being some of the most sentimental people on earth—he yanked me close and gave me a bear hug. He said quietly, “From one Borzoi to another, you must assume an attitude of icy and total moral ascendancy when you enter that office. I know their type and they will submit if they unquestionably believe they’ve met their master.”
“Thanks, that’s damn good advice. Let’s just hope I can fool them into thinking I’m moral.”
“Just be yourself . . . except not quite such an insufferable smart-mouth.” He gave me a wry grin.
“Much as I’d love to, I can’t argue with that advice. Ready, honey?” I held out my hand.
Ash took it and we left the restaurant. As I’ve mentioned before, it’s very difficult for me to hold hands and walk while using my cane, but this time I gritted my teeth and ignored the pain. I wasn’t going to let go. As we walked, I thought about the first time we’d ever held hands. It was on our second date as we were exploring the Torpedo Factory Art Center in Old Town Alexandria and her hand slipped into mine as if it had always belonged there.
We crossed the road, passed the courthouse, and arrived in front of the Sheriff ’s Department. I considered pausing before the glass door to tell Ash I loved her one more—and perhaps last—time, but there wasn’t the opportunity. Trent was waiting just inside and he shoved the door open.
“Get in here! Where have you been?” His voice was menacing yet there was a barely suppressed look of panic in his eyes.
I straightened my back and fixed him with a chilly stare. “Young man, in light of the fact that we are the only ones capable of keeping you from finishing the remainder of your life on death row, let’s establish the ground rules right now. You will lower your voice, you will speak courteously to my wife and me, and you will behave as an adult. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”
Trent was the first to blink. “Yes . . . sir.”
“Good. Take me to your father. We don’t have all day.”
Ash squeezed my hand as Trent led us past the reception desk, down a corridor, and into an office at the back of the building. The office wasn’t quite how I imagined it would be. Holcombe had impressed me as being austere, yet his workspace was anything but. Hanging on one wall was a hand-made quilt composed of gold, brown, ivory, and russet fabric in a striking design that incorporated the six-pointed star of the Sheriff ’s Office. On the opposite side were framed color pictures of the Blue Ridge Mountains and lovely shots of the river. The only overt bit of evidence that the office belonged to a lawman was the black-and-white photograph of a younger and smiling Eugene Holcombe having a badge pinned to his uniform shirt by a pretty woman with a Farrah Fawcett hairdo and wearing a dark dress with tiny white polka dots. And now the older and spent version of that man sat behind an oak desk.
I pointed to one of the chairs and said to Trent, “Sit down. Now before we get started, take off your badges.”
“Why?” Trent slouched into the chair.
“Because criminals aren’t supposed to wear badges.” I kept my voice dispassionate. “You’ve both betrayed your oaths of office and have no right to wear any symbols of law enforcement authority.”
Holcombe didn’t argue. Indeed, he almost looked as if he were in a trance. He took his badge off and set it on the desktop. Trent sighed, gritted his teeth, and finally removed his badge.
“Good. The next order of business is to establish the ground rules for this interrogation. We have neither the time nor the inclination to play word games, or Trent-has-selective-amnesia, or ‘twenty questions.’ You will answer my questions truthfully and not hold back any information.”
Trent sat back in the chair and folded his arms. “If you know I didn’t kill Thayer, why should I sit here and be interrogated?”
“Because it’s in your best interest. Even though I know who actually killed Thayer, the best evidence points directly at you. With
out my help, you’ll be charged with first-degree murder and a local jury will convict you—even if they have doubts—just for the sheer joy of getting rid of you.”
Holcombe finally seemed to pay attention and said in an old man’s querulous voice, “Trent, just shut up and answer the man’s questions.”
“All right.”
I leaned a little on my cane and tried not to fidget too much. My leg was beginning to ache, and as much as I wanted to sit down, I remained standing since it placed me at a psychological advantage because the Holcombes had to look up at me. I asked, “Okay, so what happened on the Island Ford Bridge on Friday night?”
“I decided to stop Bobby Thayer,” said Trent.
“Why? Hadn’t you and your dad been told by Liz Ewell to leave him alone?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I was . . . Hell, I just didn’t like the fact that Ewell told us to leave him alone. This is our county.”
“Thanks for being honest. Were you staked out and waiting for him or did you just see the truck?”
“I just saw it going by.”
“Where did you pull him over?”
“On the west side of the bridge.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I walked up to the truck and the first thing he does is begin yammering at me about how I’ve made this big mistake because his auntie would have me fired. So, I got a little mad and . . .”
“And what?”
“I walked to the front of his truck and fired off a couple of rounds at the windshield. Not near him, mind you! I just wanted to scare him.”
“And did you?”
“Yeah. He started screaming at me not to kill him.”
“Then what happened?”
“I got him out of the truck and told him that I knew he was a burglar and that he was going to have to start paying up like everyone else. He didn’t have much in his wallet, and then he started yelling about telling his aunt again, and I kind of got real angry, and that’s when he showed me the teddy bear.”
“You glided past becoming real angry and how this caused Thayer to tell you about the bear. Did you do something to make him show you the teddy bear?”
Trent looked at the floor. “I stuck the barrel of my gun in his mouth and told him I was going to kill him and throw his body into the river.”
I resisted the urge to sarcastically say: Yeah, that would certainly cause me to think you were ‘real angry’—or freaking nuts. Instead, I said, “What did he tell you about the Mourning Bear?”
“Only that it was worth a lot of money and that he and Poole had already found a buyer. He said I could keep the bear.”
“Believing that if he didn’t surrender the bear, you’d shoot him, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“So, he didn’t actually give you the bear. Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that you robbed him at gun-point?”
“I suppose.”
“What happened after you robbed him?”
“I, uh—I threw him off the bridge and into the river.”
“Why?”
“To show him I meant business.”
“Is that another way of saying you meant to terrorize him?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What happened when he hit the water? Was he hurt?”
“No! He was fine! I was watching him with my flashlight. He was swimming like a damn fish!”
“What happened after that?”
Trent shrugged. “I drove over to my folk’s house with the bear to show it to my dad. Then I gave Poole a call.”
“That wasn’t smart, by the way. He recorded the call and if it weren’t for what we know, your comments could well convict you of murder. Why did you take so long to contact Poole about making the sale?”
“You’ll have to ask my dad that. It was his decision.”
“Did your dad tell you to threaten the lives of Deputy Barron’s children?”
Holcombe sat up straight and looked at his son, his eyes showing surprise and loathing.
There was a long pause before Trent answered and I knew he was thinking, which is always a suicidal pastime for thugs because they’re never as clever as they imagine themselves to be. The worst part about waiting for him to speak was that I strongly suspected what he was pondering and hoped there was still a milligram of decency in his bloated body. This investigation was already too squalid for my tastes, but Trent sent it plummeting to a new level of filthiness when he finally said, “Yeah, he told me to do it. In fact, all along I’ve just been doing what I was told. What I said before about it being my idea to stop Thayer—that was a lie. It was my dad’s idea and he told me to shoot at the truck and throw Thayer in the river.”
As the litany of betrayal came spilling out, Holcombe sagged in his chair and his lips twitched slightly. It was hard not to feel profoundly sorry for him because I knew Trent was lying to save his own wretched skin. I looked at Holcombe and said, “Is any of that true?”
“It is my fault, but not in the way he’s saying it.”
“Would you like to explain?”
Holcombe’s gaze drifted to Ash and then back to me. “It’s obvious you truly love your wife. What would you do if she got sick? I mean, really sick. Would you do anything to make her better?”
“Absolutely.”
“Anything? Even violate the oath you swore to uphold the law and . . . do what needed to be done to ensure she received the necessary medical treatment?”
“Your wife has cancer.”
“Pauline has non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” He pointed at the photograph of the woman pinning the badge on his chest. “That’s her. We’ve been married twenty-three years and I love her more now than the day I married her.”
“When did she become ill?”
“She was diagnosed two years ago. It was shortly before the county changed over to a better HMO system and we didn’t mention her condition on the application forms because they wouldn’t have covered her.”
“Due to a preexisting illness.”
“Exactly. The treatment for NHL is very expensive: chemotherapy, radioimmunotherapy, MRIs, tests, tests, and more tests . . . most of it very painful. And through it all, my angel has stayed cheerful and brave.” Holcombe smiled sadly and swallowed hard.
Ash’s hand found mine and she asked, “What happened?”
“About six months after we enrolled in the new HMO, they somehow learned that we’d concealed the information about her illness. I think the doctor’s receptionist told them because I’d arrested her brother for drunk driving. Anyway, they cancelled our policy and said that we’d have to repay them for all the bills they’d already paid because we hadn’t told the truth on the application documents.”
“And don’t tell me, they wanted their money back immediately.”
“Of course.”
“How much do you owe?” I said.
“Counting everything, probably close to six-hundred-thousand dollars, but that doesn’t count yesterday’s mail.” Holcombe flashed a bittersweet smile. “And the bills keep rolling in because Pauline still needs her treatment. I maxed out our credit cards and took out a second-mortgage on our home, but it wasn’t nearly enough . . . just a drop in the bucket.”
“So you decided to supplement your income by collecting a tariff from the local criminals.”
“It wasn’t an easy decision, despite what you undoubtedly think about me.” He nodded at the badges on the desktop. “I was as proud of what that badge stood for as you are, but if it came down to you having to choose between your wife’s life and your pride, which would you pick? Be honest.”
“I’m pretty certain I’d have done the same thing.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Tell me about Friday night. Did you send Trent out to intercept Thayer?”
“No, but I’ve known since the beginning that my son lacks the ethical and emotional maturity to be a deputy sheriff. I k
now he’s a bully and uses steroids, but I kept him on the job because I needed his help.”
“But unfortunately, he didn’t view your criminal fundraising efforts as an ugly necessity.”
“No, much to my shame I discovered he enjoyed it.” Holcombe glanced at Trent, who was glowering at the floor. “So, I have to accept moral responsibility for whatever happened on the Island Ford Bridge.”
“When Trent showed up at your house on Friday night, why didn’t you contact Poole immediately?”
“I was afraid that we’d gone too far and not just because we’d crossed Liz Ewell. When Trent told me that he’d shot Thayer’s truck and thrown him in the river, I realized that we were no longer merely collecting graft. It’d become armed robbery and malicious wounding.”
“And then Thayer’s body was found in the river the following morning. You thought Trent killed him, didn’t you?”
“Of course. He denied it, but he’s a congenital liar.” He glanced at Trent again and said sarcastically, “Can you ever forgive me for not believing you, son?”
Trent muttered something under his breath and his hands balled up into fists. The atmosphere in the room was swiftly changing and becoming charged with tension. It was like the breathless calm before a thunderstorm struck. The problem was that Ash and I were the obvious lightning rods.
I tried to return Holcombe’s focus to telling the story. “So, when Deputy Barron radioed the description of the man pulled from the river . . .”
Holcombe looked back at me. “I knew it was Thayer. That’s why I insulted you and told you to mind your own business. It’s a day late and a dollar short, but I am sorry for that.”
“And you did that because you figured concealing the murder as an accidental drowning was your only option, right?”
“Yes, because I was certain that if Trent were arrested he’d immediately implicate me.” He shot a brief spiteful look at his son. “And if that happened, who’d be left to take care of Pauline?”
“What you did was wrong, but I can sure understand your dilemma.”
“It was my fault. I’d created the situation.”