Burying the Lede

by Joseph LeValley

  Again, Tony couldn’t help but smile. Nelson had succeeded in making sure one of the most troubling facts of the case was firmly in the forefront of the jurors’ minds. Why had Ralph Wells offered up his rifle so easily?

  Back on that spring day, when DCI agents stopped by his residence, one of the routine questions they asked was, “Do you own a .22 caliber rifle?” Wells had immediately responded yes, but said he hadn’t used it in years. In answer to follow-up questions from the agents, Wells said he had received it as a gift from his father when he was twelve or thirteen years old, the same as other boys he knew on nearby farms. He used it during his teen years to shoot possums and raccoons that were trying to make the barn their home. Otherwise, he said, he’d never had much interest in hunting and had never owned a weapon beyond the original rifle his dad had given him.

  When the agents asked Wells if they could see the rifle, he had said sure, and offered that he kept it in the trunk of the car, not because he used it but because the trailer house was so small and his wife needed the limited storage space for other things. Wells had walked the agents to his car, opened the trunk, and dug the rifle out from below a mass of other junk.

  The agents quickly noted it was the type of rifle likely used in the killings and asked Wells if they could test it. Wells had said, “Well, sure, but I don’t know why you’d wanna. Don’t those tests cost money? I didn’t know these people you’re asking about, and I can guarantee you that rifle hasn’t been fired in three years or more.”

  The agents assured Wells it was just routine and said very politely that if he really didn’t mind, it would be nice to rule it out, just for the record. So, Wells had signed the necessary paperwork without further comment and had accepted the agents’ cards with the promise to call if he saw or heard anything that would be helpful to the investigation. Hands were then shaken all around and Wells went back into his trailer, presumably to watch the last round of Wheel of Fortune playing on the TV set opposite the trailer’s door.

  Of course, now everyone, including the jury, knew that Wells’ rifle had indeed been the weapon that killed the young couple as they were making love in their home. And almost everyone assumed Wells was the dumbest murderer in the history of violent crime. At this point in the proceedings it was obvious Wells would not be on trial for murder, and in fact never would have been a serious suspect, had he simply taken the rifle and pitched it into the bottom of a lake or cut it into pieces and buried it in the woods somewhere. He could have told investigators he lost it or threw it away years before, and that would have been the end of it.

  During the previous day’s testimony, the agents had been asked the same question Tony had asked them months ago, when Wells was arrested: “How can you think a guilty man would volunteer that he owned the rifle and then turn it over to you without any resistance?” Each agent had answered Pike the same way he had answered Tony, with a variation on, “There’s no way to know why criminals act as they do. We often see criminals do astoundingly stupid things that lead to their capture.” One agent even referenced Jay Leno’s longstanding “stupid criminals” bits, which had aired frequently on The Tonight Show.

  Still, the issue nagged at Tony. Was Wells that dumb? At the risk of being unkind, Tony had to admit the man was a couple of octaves short of a full keyboard. So it was possible he just didn’t understand the magnitude of trouble that the rifle would rain down on him. Possible, but damn unlikely, was Tony’s final thought as the judge’s gavel announced a lunch break.

  Chapter 5

  Tony was back at Willie’s digging through meatloaf and mashed potatoes with a side of green beans and warm apple pie. It was the kind of comfort food he loved, and now that Lisa was in his life, he had to eat it at lunch or not at all…not that Lisa would have demanded he change his eating habits. Tony doubted such a thought would ever occur to her. But she was the type who ate a grilled chicken salad for dinner and might skip lunch altogether if someone didn’t remind her to eat. Tony simply couldn’t bring himself to stuff his face in the manner common to Willie’s patrons when he was with her. He would have been embarrassed, and worse, would have worried about her thinking less of him.

  He still marveled at their relationship. Lisa was the type of drop-dead beautiful blonde Tony never dared even dream about. More importantly, she was smart, funny, honest, and hardworking. Lisa had grown up with money. Her father was the founding partner of Orney’s largest law firm. Despite this, she didn’t talk or act like the rich girls he had known in college. She didn’t flaunt either her privileged life or her looks, but didn’t deny them either. Tony found it remarkable how Lisa just accepted her beauty and her bank account as parts of who she was and hoped people wouldn’t use them as a basis to assume too much. In this, Lisa and Tony understood each other perfectly.

  In everything else, Tony felt completely inadequate. His ego about his writing did not extend to his relationships with women. He knew he was a decent-looking, if average, guy. Five feet, ten inches, and slender, he was fortunate to not have any serious physical shortcomings. He was healthy, but he was a bookworm, a term he preferred over “wimp” or “nerd.” The dark hair and eyes he inherited from his mother’s Italian blood seemed to attract some girls and had allowed him to enjoy some of the seedier perks of college life. But when it came to building a meaningful relationship with a girl, he just didn’t seem to have the right stuff. Tony had been hurt badly a couple of times, which gave him a healthy perspective on who he was and what he could expect. In short, he was no great catch and he knew it.

  All of this served to make Lisa’s interest in him all the more baffling. From the moment they met, he felt as if he was being buried under a tsunami of emotions. Wonderful, positive emotions. Could this apparently perfect woman really be as crazy about him as she seemed? Or was she actually some kind of mental case, obsessed with writers? Or had she made a bet with a friend, like in one of those bad romantic comedies? Or was he simply an idiot for looking a gift horse from heaven in the mouth? “Yes” was the simple answer to the last question.

  He allowed his mind to wander back to the night they had met at a political fundraising dinner at the local Marriott Hotel ballroom. Tony hated covering politics, and Ben normally was kind enough to avoid giving him those assignments. However, on that evening, the paper was particularly short-staffed and Tony had accepted the task without much grumbling. As soon as he spotted Lisa, Tony had completely forgotten his objections to attending. She was wearing a dark dress with a high collar and no sleeves. It was just short enough to show off her perfect legs, and it was just tight enough to show off everything else. She wore her blonde hair up, accenting her long neck and her sculpted nose and cheekbones. Tony was entranced.

  As he was contemplating how to maneuver an introduction, Lisa had simply walked up to him and put out her hand saying, “You’re Tony Harrison, right?” As Tony managed a mute, wide-eyed nod, she had continued, “I’m Lisa Freed. I’ve been wanting to meet you. I’ve read your work in the paper, especially your ‘My Turn’ columns, and you seem like a person I would enjoy knowing.”

  And just like that, it had started. They grabbed a couple of drinks from the bar and wandered out onto the patio by the pool behind the Marriott. They sat close together on a teak bench and talked for a very long time. Tony found himself staring a lot at the water, the dark sky, the bushes, or anything but Lisa. He didn’t want to be impolite, but he was afraid if he looked into those eyes from six inches away, he would drool or faint. Worse, he would do or say something incredibly stupid and break the spell. So he listened as Lisa explained she had finished dual degrees in economics and political science from Northwestern University in Chicago and had come home for the summer to be with her dad. Her mother had passed away when she was nine and, as a result, she and her father were especially close. Rather than get a job right away, Lisa had begun volunteering at the party’s county headquarters in Orney, content to have a summer of relative ease after five years of sch
ool.

  Tony, of course, was well aware of her dad, Nathan Freed. Everyone in Orney was aware of Nathan Freed. Tony had even seen him in action in the courtroom a few times. He knew Lisa’s dad to be a smart and capable lawyer, but he hadn’t seen him in any really big or controversial cases. Freed was obviously at a point in his career when he could pick and choose the work he did, and he chose not to get in the middle of the worst legal battles. He undoubtedly had paid his dues for many years before achieving his current emeritus status.

  When Tony finally did talk, he related his history as well, interspersing the facts with two or three carefully selected amusing stories from his college days and from his experience as a reporter. When he mentioned his love of music, Lisa asked if he played an instrument. Tony confessed to his years of piano lessons.

  “Do you still play?” she asked.

  “Well, I don’t have a piano in my rental house, so I rarely get the chance. Sometimes I go over to the high school and use one of the pianos in the music department. And a couple of times, people have talked me into playing at a party or even at one of the bars downtown.”

  Lisa smiled broadly.

  “What?” Tony asked.

  “Talked you into it?” She was still smiling.

  “Okay, okay,” Tony said, returning the smile. “You’re right. It doesn’t take much talking. I have to admit I like playing for people. Without sheet music, my repertoire is a little slim, but I usually can last longer than anyone wants to hear me.”

  “So play for me,” Lisa said quietly, taking his hand, standing up, and pulling Tony to his feet.

  Tony nodded, swallowed hard, and followed her back into the hotel. She led him down a hallway through the conference center and turned into a darkened meeting room. At the back of the room was a Yamaha baby grand. Light from the doorway gleamed off its polished surface. Tony turned to look for a light switch, but Lisa held him back.

  “Do you need more light to play?”

  “No, I guess not,” Tony replied.

  “Then leave it dark.”

  Tony pulled out the bench from beneath the keyboard and they both sat. He raised the cover from the keys and began playing “New York State of Mind” by Billy Joel. A tiny gasp of air slipped from between Lisa’s lips.

  “How did you know I love this song?” she whispered. Tony didn’t reply, but simply kept playing. Lisa leaned in closer and put her head on his shoulder. Tony wondered if she could feel his goose bumps through the fabric of his shirt.

  Thirty minutes later, they left together in Tony’s Ford Explorer. Tony almost fainted at her response to his innocent question: “Where to?”

  “Let’s park,” Lisa replied with a smile that could have melted a steel I-beam.

  “You want to come to my place?” Tony squeaked out.

  “No, I want to park,” she whispered into his ear and started to nibble.

  Tony wasn’t inclined to argue, and quickly pulled the floor shifter into gear, stomped on the gas, and headed for the country. After he wasted considerable time searching for an appropriate spot, Lisa surprised him again by directing him to “Harvey’s.”

  Harvey’s was the site where Lisa’s Uncle Harvey had once lived. At the intersection of two gravel roads, the acreage no longer included the house or barn from which Uncle Harvey had operated his 280-acre farm. However, still standing were a couple dozen big trees and a few outbuildings, including a large wooden corncrib. The crib had been designed for a tractor and wagons to drive through. It looked like a giant car wash, but was made of old wood instead of concrete block. When the farm had been active, the crib had provided a convenient way to unload and store the harvest. Now the acreage was vacant and the crib was an ideal hiding place for two lovers.

  Once parked inside, the Explorer was invisible from the road. Tony and Lisa wasted no time in taking advantage of the privacy. It was one of the most memorable nights of his life. Much later, as he drove back out onto the gravel road, Tony muttered, “Thank you, Uncle Harvey,” and Lisa laughed.

  ***

  Tony smiled at the memory but then frowned as he looked down at the table full of food. He realized he didn’t want to do anything that would make Lisa think less of him, whether she was watching or not. He pushed away the plate with the remaining meat and potatoes, took one bite of apple pie – he was human after all – and headed for the cash register.

  Chapter 6

  Tony barely had time to admire the stained glass panels in the ceiling of the spectacular old courthouse before the bailiff announced, “All rise,” and the afternoon was underway. Once everyone was seated again, the judge asked Nelson if he was prepared to proceed.

  “We are, Your Honor,” he responded as he rose once more. “The state calls Quincy County Sheriff George Mackey.”

  Tony settled in for a long and most likely boring afternoon as the sheriff took the stand. The sheriff was well known as a soft-spoken man, unless he was angry. After the tedium of establishing the sheriff’s credentials and role as the coordinator of the investigation, Nelson asked the sheriff about the arrest and initial questioning of Wells. A few minutes into the testimony, Tony began to speculate that the primary purpose of the sheriff’s appearance at the trial was to make the point that Wells had no alibi for the night of the murders.

  Nelson pressed him hard on the point. “In your multiple interviews of Ralph Wells did he ever offer any explanation as to his whereabouts?”

  “Well, I think during our third interrogat…uh interview…with him, Mr. Wells said he had been drinking at the Iron Range Tap, a local bar, that night and had fallen asleep in a booth in the back room of the establishment.”

  “Did you attempt to verify his story?” Nelson asked.

  “Of course,” the sheriff replied. “We talked to the people working there as well as some of the regulars who play pool in the place. Some of them remember Wells being there that night, but none saw him asleep in a booth. I have all their names if you need to bring them here to tell you directly.”

  At that, Lawrence Pike rose and said, “Your Honor, the defense is willing to stipulate that no one interviewed by the investigating team saw my client asleep in the bar that night.”

  Tony was surprised at this, but not as surprised as some in the courtroom. He knew Pike was willing to stipulate to this simply to avoid a roster of God knows how many people being paraded through the courtroom, all saying, in effect, that Wells was lying about his alibi. Nelson agreed to the stipulation, and the judge allowed him to move on.

  The bigger surprise soon followed when Nelson asked the sheriff if the Ennis’ home had been searched following the murder. The sheriff said yes, and carefully described the team and methodology used. Tony wondered why the search of the victims’ home was garnering this careful foundation-laying, but soon understood.

  “Sheriff Mackey, did you find anything in the residence that you believe has relevance to the case?” Nelson asked.

  “We did. Or I should say I did. In searching the kitchen, I found a plastic bag containing what I believed to be illegal drugs hidden in the flour canister on the counter.”

  Tony stared at Mackey open-mouthed. It was the first he had heard any confirmation of drugs being found in this case. He was immediately excited to have something new to report, but equally miffed that it came as a surprise. Davis had to have known about this. Why was this fact kept secret until the trial?

  Nelson produced the plastic bag, sealed inside another clear plastic evidence bag, and Mackey confirmed it was the substance found at the Ennis home.

  “Your Honor,” Nelson said, carrying the bag to the bench, “the prosecution would like to enter this into evidence. We believe later testimony will show this to contain methamphetamines, a class one prohibited substance under Iowa law.”

  Once again Pike surprised the courtroom when he rose and said additional testimony regarding the chain of evidence and testing of the substance would not be necessary. “I have reviewed the reports f
rom the state, Your Honor, and the defense is willing to stipulate that the substance found in the Ennis home is what Sheriff Mackey and Mr. Nelson state it to be.”

  This time Tony struggled harder to understand Pike’s logic. He knew it was a judgment call. On the one hand, forcing the prosecution to parade more witnesses through the trial to establish proper chain of custody and testing procedures might reveal a mistake that could be exploited by the defense. However, adding witnesses to this issue also would serve to elevate the importance of the find in the mind of the jurors. If Pike was going to argue the drugs were irrelevant, then it made sense to swallow hard and move on as quickly as possible.

  Because the sheriff was central to the investigation and his involvement touched virtually every piece of evidence or process undertaken in some way, his testimony was long. The judge ordered a break when he was finished at nearly 4 p.m. Before pounding the gavel, the judge asked Nelson, “Do you have a witness you can fit into the final hour or so of our day?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. The state has one more witness it would like to call. While we can’t speculate about what questions the defense counsel will have, we’re very confident we’ll be done with our direct in less than thirty minutes.”

  “Very well,” the judge replied. “This proceeding is in recess for twenty minutes.” With a bang, he turned and stepped down into the judge’s chambers behind the courtroom.

  Tony had barely heard Nelson’s comment and didn’t give it a thought. He soon learned he should have.

  ***

  “The state calls to the stand Francie Wells.”

  This was a surprise. Tony didn’t know who Francie Wells was, but it seemed obvious she was related to the defendant. A murmur went through the room as a thirtyish, slightly overweight but attractive woman stepped out of a spectator seat and walked to the witness box. She was dressed in a simple charcoal-colored dress with buttons to the collar. She wore no jewelry except what appeared to be an inexpensive copper bracelet and matching combs pinning back her auburn hair. Perfect witness attire, Tony thought with more than a touch of cynicism.