Players: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 7)

by Mike Markel

  “I do love you, Harold.”

  “No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t present me with bodies on Friday afternoons.”

  I squeezed his arm.

  Ryan and I left the materials-storage area. As I glanced at the construction trailers clustered off to the right, something caught my eye. “Ryan, that trailer, the blue one, third from the left. What does it say, over the door?”

  He squinted. “It says Weber Electric, Inc.”

  We walked over to it and knocked on the door. No answer. I tried the handle. It was locked. Ryan looked through the window. “No one home,” he said.

  We walked back to the manager’s trailer. We knocked. Al Stoughton opened up. “Yes, Detectives.”

  “Mr. Stoughton, have you seen Ronald Weber today?”

  “Yeah, I think I did.”

  “Remember when that was?”

  “A couple minutes after one this afternoon.”

  “That’s pretty specific. Mind if I ask how you know that was the time?”

  “I eat lunch at one every day. I usually get a lot of people drop by between noon and one—you know, to talk about this problem or that. So I gave up trying to eat at that time.”

  “So, Ron Weber. Did he stop by a little after one today to talk to you?”

  “No, I saw him drive by. Out this window.” He pointed. “In his pickup. I was about to start eating my sandwich.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Stoughton.”

  When Ryan and I turned to leave his office, Al Stoughton looked a little confused that we seemed to be in such a hurry.

  Chapter 27

  Ryan said, “Want to pick up Ronald Weber now?”

  We were standing outside the construction manager’s office. He had just told us he saw Ronald Weber early this afternoon in his pickup truck, right near the materials-storage area at the construction site. If Weber had just finished strangling Cory McDermott, he might have decided to drive into the fenced-off area—the gate was open, and there were no cameras to record anything—and drop off Cory’s body. Then, later, before the CCTV cameras came on, he could retrieve the body and stash it better. That would enable him to lay down a decent alibi to show how busy he had been all afternoon. It wasn’t a great theory, but it was the best we had.

  “Before we go, I want to ask Harold a question.” We hurried over to the materials-storage area. Robin had already arrived, and Harold was walking slowly over to his green minivan to head back to headquarters.

  “Harold, quick question about strangulation. One of the guys we’re looking at is old, over eighty. Could he strangle someone?”

  “There’s three factors: force, duration, and the nature of the ligature. If you’ve got a lot of force, you can kill somebody in less than a minute. If you have less force, it’ll take you longer. The ligature? If it’s a fluffy towel, you need to apply more force or hold it longer—”

  Ryan said, “But if it’s hard and skinny, like an electrical cord, you do more damage faster.”

  Harold smiled. “There you go.”

  I said, “So, an eighty-four-year-old guy?”

  Harold shrugged. “If he really didn’t like the victim, and the victim took a bad beating the other day, and he had a minute to devote to the task, and he had an electrical cord …”

  “All right, Harold. Thanks. Have a good weekend.”

  “Well, now you’re just being cruel.” He opened the minivan door, took a deep breath, grabbed the steering wheel, and hoisted himself up into the seat.

  I turned to Ryan. “Okay, we don’t know exactly who did what, but you agree they’re working together?”

  “I do. The chief calls President Billingham about Cory having a contact in the athletics department, and next day Ronald Weber turns up on our doorstep and says, ‘It’s me.’”

  “Then we’ve got Carl Davis, the booster; John Freedlander, the A.D.; Andy Baxter, the coach; and Ronald Weber, the contact.”

  “I don’t like Carl Davis,” Ryan said, “despite what Harold just told us.”

  “Too old and frail?”

  “Too centered. I agree with Harold that an eighty-four-year-old guy could strangle someone, given the right circumstances. But I see Carl Davis living a multi-dimensional life, with a family and a job apart from football.”

  “His name on the front of the practice facility looked pretty big to me.”

  “Sure, he’s got an ego,” Ryan said, “and the university has done everything they can to feed it so he keeps the money coming in, but I think he has an identity apart from football. I don’t see him killing people who threaten or embarrass the program. That’s my sense, anyway.”

  “When you say ‘that’s my sense,’ what you’re really saying is, ‘I don’t have any facts to back that up,’ right?”

  “Harold was correct: You are cruel.”

  “I’m not ruling out Carl Davis,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t rule him out, either. He’s my fourth favorite suspect.”

  “You think it’s Ronald Weber?”

  “No, I think it’s a conspiracy, but Weber’s not the killer—because of how they fed him to us. They know we can’t prove him guilty through forensics or eyewitnesses because he didn’t do it. We’ll be chasing him down, while the real killer—”

  “Or killers?”

  “That’s right,” Ryan said. “There could be multiple killers.”

  “You see any of them willing to take the needle for the football program?”

  “Well, I myself wouldn’t kill anyone for football, but now you’re getting into deeper philosophical questions—”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Short answer, if a person has no moral core, he’d kill for anything. Or even for nothing.”

  I nodded. “If Lake had proof of something that would cost them their jobs and everything they’ve worked for over the decades, and they were total douchebags, why wouldn’t they?”

  “That’s right. There could be more than one. We already know that Freedlander and Baxter go back twenty years. If the reason Coach Baxter came to CMSU is that he knew John Freedlander was his kind of guy, they both might be in this all the way.”

  “It could be weirder than that,” I said. “Freedlander came here to CMSU before Coach Baxter, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So maybe Coach Baxter came here because he had blackmail material on Freedlander. Baxter knew he could get Freedlander fired at any time. That would give him the freedom to do whatever he wanted on his team without having to worry about Freedlander enforcing any rules.”

  “Okay, where are we?” Ryan said. “Carl Davis, a long shot. Even with Cory McDermott beat up and sore, it’s a stretch to see Carl Davis throttling him. But John Freedlander? Absolutely. Andy Baxter? Of course. Ronald Weber? Certainly.”

  “But you don’t like Weber.”

  “No, I don’t. I think they decided to plant Cory’s body at the construction site so we would see Weber’s company trailer. Add the ligature marks that match an electrical cord—”

  “Not a necktie or a rope,” I said.

  “So we spend our time chasing down Weber. It’s an old football move: a misdirection play. Look in one direction, which pulls the defenders that way, then pass in the other direction.”

  “How do you defend against that?”

  “The only way is to see it coming: You don’t pull your defenders, or at least not all of them.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We pull our own fake. We have to question Weber again,” Ryan said. “They expect us to interview the most obvious suspect. We want to look like we’re falling for the misdirection. But we also work the forensics hard.” He paused. “Have you got a better idea?”

  “Shit. Let’s run this by the chief.”

  We headed back to headquarters and tracked down the chief. He was getting ready to head out for the weekend. He put his coat down on the back of his desk chair.

  “I don’t see that we’ve got a lot of alternati
ves,” the chief said. “We can’t arrest Ronald Weber, right?”

  “At this point,” I said, “all we’ve got is circumstantial evidence—and it’s flimsy. Unless we can find some forensics linking him to one of the three murders, the only thing we can do is interview him again to let them know we like him more than we did before. Then we hope they make a mistake.”

  “Do it,” the chief said. “You two able to work it this weekend?”

  I looked at Ryan. He nodded. “Yeah, Chief.”

  “Call me at home if you need me.”

  Ryan and I headed to our desks. The bullpen was slowing down in anticipation of the weekend. There were no phones ringing, no conversations, no admins running around.

  Ryan spoke. “Do you want to try to track Weber down or just phone him?”

  “I don’t have the energy to chase him all over town. He could be driving from one job site to another. He could be at his office—or home. Let’s just call him.” Ryan nodded. “Punch his cell in for me, would you?”

  I picked up my phone and waited for Weber to answer. “Mr. Weber, Detective Seagate. We need to talk to you again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, there’s been a new development we need to talk to you about.”

  “I’m heading home right now. Can we do it on the phone?”

  “No, unfortunately, we need to do it here at police headquarters.”

  “Can it wait till Monday?”

  “We need to do it here, Mr. Weber. Now.”

  “I don’t know if I can get my attorney now.” He was exasperated.

  “I’m not saying you need to have him here.”

  “What if he’s already gone for the weekend?”

  “Mr. Weber, you need to be at police headquarters in the next fifteen minutes. If you’re not, we’re putting out a bulletin for your arrest. If you can’t get your lawyer here and don’t want to talk to us without him, you’ll sit in a cell in Holding. We get to hold you for forty-eight hours while we develop our evidence. You hear what I’m saying, Mr. Weber? You don’t want to be here late Friday afternoon? Guess what: My partner and I don’t want to, either. Everybody’s tired. But if you don’t want three or four patrol cars in your driveway—with lights and sirens—you’ll be at police headquarters in fifteen minutes. Do you understand me?”

  He hung up, but I think he answered my question.

  Twelve minutes later, we heard from Reception that a Mr. Weber had arrived and would wait downstairs for his attorney, who was expected in less than ten minutes. “Send them up to Interview 1 when the attorney arrives, please,” I said.

  Weber was unhappy with us. That was good.

  Ten minutes later, a uniform escorted the two men up to the interview room, where Ryan and I were already set up. I gestured for them to sit, Ryan turned on the recording system, and I announced the names and time.

  Christopher Reid spoke. “Did you think of another question that you forgot to ask this morning?”

  I smiled at him. “Actually, we wanted to ask Mr. Weber about another case.”

  “We had two cases this morning. Now there’s a third case?”

  “Yes. The body of Cory McDermott, your client’s favorite drug dealer, was discovered this afternoon. So, let’s start. Mr. Weber, tell us where you’ve been this afternoon. Every place you’ve been since you left police headquarters a little before noon.”

  “First, I went to Betty’s Diner for lunch around noon. I drove over to the construction site at Eagle’s Nest around one to talk to a few of my guys. There’s a small job—we’re upgrading a two-bay garage to 220 service—over on Madison. That was around two. I was at the office after that. Then you called me.”

  “And you can provide addresses and names of people who saw you at all those places?”

  “You want to start with my credit-card receipt from Betty’s?” He reached into his shirt pocket.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said.

  “What would be necessary, Detective?” Christopher Reid leaned toward me across the table. “What exactly do you want from my client? Why are you asking him to account for his time?”

  “Cory McDermott’s body was discovered less than two hours ago. He was strangled less than four hours ago.”

  “The drug dealer? Why do you suspect Mr. Weber?”

  I leaned toward him. “Maybe because Cory McDermott named Mr. Weber as his contact at the university, and Mr. Weber admitted he’d worked with Cory for some seven years in supplying illegal drugs and prostitutes to CMSU athletes and prospects, and because I said to Mr. Weber about four hours ago that I thought he was up to his eyeballs in killing Lake Williams and Kendra Crimmons and that I was gonna come after him as hard as I could.”

  “What evidence do you have that Mr. Weber was involved in Cory McDermott’s murder?”

  “Mr. McDermott’s body was discovered near the materials-storage area at Eagle’s Nest construction site, where his company is the lead electrical contractor. Also where Mr. Weber just said he was around the time of the murder.”

  “There’s got to be ten main contractors there, plus a lot of subs every day. At least fifty guys at any one time. Are you going to bring all of them in?”

  “Every one of them who’s told us he’s been buying drugs from McDermott illegally for seven years.”

  He smiled. “You say Mr. McDermott’s body was discovered a few hours ago. I take it there hasn’t been an autopsy yet, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “For all you know, then, Mr. McDermott might have died of a heart attack or a drug overdose.”

  “That’s possible, but the ligature marks around his neck suggest he was strangled.”

  “And your theory of the case is that my client strangled Mr. McDermott at this construction site and dumped his body there?”

  “It’s too early for a theory of the case, but I think your client wanted to eliminate the last person who could implicate him in the murders of Lake Williams and Kendra Crimmons. I think your client confronted him and strangled him.”

  “And why did he do it at the construction site?”

  “I’m not sure that’s where he killed him. If the murder occurred there, it was because Cory McDermott confronted him there. If the murder occurred someplace else, it was because your client needed to go about his daily routine, where he could be seen by others. Your client killed him, tossed him in the back of his pickup. Then he dumped the body at the construction site. Temporarily.”

  Reid nodded his head. “Temporarily?” The sarcasm dripped.

  “That’s right. Mr. Weber knew we were looking at him, so he had to kill McDermott today, before he provided any evidence that would prove Mr. Weber’s involvement in the other murders. But your client also had to lay down an alibi. He disposed of the body at the construction site. He was going to come back later, retrieve the body, then dispose of it permanently. He just didn’t count on one of the construction workers stumbling on the body this afternoon.”

  Christopher Reid smiled. “That’s an excellent theory, Detective. Ingenious.” He stood and picked his cowboy hat off the table. Ronald Weber stood, too. “When you develop some evidence to support it, will you get back to us?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We will.”

  “I need to say something.” Ronald Weber put out his hands to tell everyone to stop. I could see perspiration shining on his forehead and above his upper lip.

  Christopher Reid broke in. “Ron, let me handle this. I’ve got this under—”

  “No, Mr. Reid. I appreciate what you’re doing for me, but I have to speak now. You and the police here are talking about me like I’m a piece on a chessboard. They’ve got a theory of the case; you say the theory’s no good because they don’t any proof. But all of you are forgetting something: Three people have been killed. That’s not a theory of the case. That’s a fact. Three people, dead. Now, I came forward—voluntarily—to admit that I broke laws when I bought those drugs off of Cory Mc
Dermott.” He turned to face me. “If you want to prosecute me for that, go ahead and do that. I am willing to pay the price for those crimes. But I am not a murderer. I did not kill Lake Williams or Kendra Crimmons or Cory McDermott. I don’t care where Cory McDermott’s body was found. I am innocent.” He was breathing heavily now. “I am innocent.”

  “Who did kill them, Mr. Weber?”

  He looked at me, his eyes intense. “I do not know. But it wasn’t me.”

  I believed him. But I didn’t let him see that.

  Chapter 28

  Ryan and I sat in the interrogation room. An officer had escorted Ronald Weber and his attorney, Christopher Reid, out.

  “You believe him?” I said.

  “Yes and no.”

  “Yes to what?”

  “Yes that he didn’t kill Cory,” Ryan said.

  “And no that he doesn’t know who killed him?”

  “That’s right,” Ryan said. “I believe the whole thing—from Lake through Kendra to Cory—has been orchestrated by the football guys so that nobody can be prosecuted.” He paused. “And you? You believe him?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Same as my yes and no?”

  “Did you research Weber’s attorney, this Christopher Reid?”

  “A little. Why?”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Billings. Why?”

  “When I was laying out the theory about Weber stashing Cory’s body temporarily at the construction site, you notice that Reid seemed to know quite a bit about the site: how there were a bunch of other contractors, must’ve been fifty guys working the site? That strike you as odd?”

  Ryan took a deep breath. “Well, it does now. You phoned Weber less than an hour ago. He and the attorney wouldn’t have had a chance to speak for more than five or ten minutes before they showed up here, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “And if the attorney simply said to him, ‘Tell me where you’ve been since this morning,’ I can’t see Weber going into all that detail about Eagle’s Nest.”

  “So Weber coached him on the story,” I said. “How Cory’s body was in the materials-storage area, and how Weber drove past the manager’s office.”