by Chris Culver
“He’s already on his way,” said the officer, pointing to the nearest cruiser. “Have a seat on that car. Captain Morgan will be with you shortly.”
The trees that lined my road filtered the late afternoon sun into a checkerboard pattern on the car’s black paint. I leaned against the rear bumper and felt the car sag beneath my weight as I waited for Captain Morgan’s now-familiar boxy shape to exit my home. He wore a brown suit coat, and he had an unlit cigarette between his lips and an envelope in his hand. He walked toward me, lighting up.
“I’m glad you weren’t smoking that in my house. Police officer or not, I’m pretty sure my wife would have killed you.”
Morgan didn’t even blink at the joke. “We’ve got a lot to do. Let’s not waste my time, please.”
“Fine. Why are you at my house?”
He took a long drag and blew it over his shoulder. “As my officer told you, we’re serving a search warrant. We knocked, but there was no answer. When we couldn’t find you, we asked a neighbor with a key to let us in. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I mind.”
Morgan shrugged and flicked ashes from the tip of his cigarette onto the sidewalk. “Next time, we’ll just break the door down. We did you a favor.”
“Sure. Can I see the warrant?”
“That’s your right,” said Morgan. “First, though, I wanted to tell you that I picked up your mail. I didn’t want it getting lost.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a manila envelope from his hands. I wouldn’t have opened it right away except that it was from my sister. I slid my finger along the flap and pulled out a notarized stack of documents my attorney had sent to her a few weeks ago. Rachel had signed the adoption papers. Ashley was ours, at least unless I went to jail.
“Something wrong, Mr. Hale?” asked Morgan.
“No. I just got the best news I’ve ever received,” I said, sliding the papers back into the envelope. I’d have a lawyer look over them as soon as I could to make sure everything was correct, but it looked like Katherine and I were parents. “Can I see your warrant?”
He reached into his jacket for a folded stack of papers and carbon copies. The papers were simple forms, and to my untrained eye, everything looked official; the proper boxes were checked, the prosecuting attorney and judge had signed the correct spots, and they described my house well enough that even a blind man could differentiate it from every other house on the street. Assuming the probable cause underlying it was sound, it’d hold up to scrutiny. I scanned until I found the section describing the property to be seized.
Any evidence deemed to have evidentiary value to the relevant case of homicide, to include, but not limited to, blood, gunshot residue, ammunition and firearms, fingerprints, cell phones.
Parsing the legalese, it meant they could search every drawer, closet, and other potential hiding space in the house, no matter how big or small. I handed the warrant back to Morgan.
“You’ll find gunshot residue on at least one jacket in the front hall closet. It’s probably rubbed off on some other clothes, too. You know how easily GSR travels.”
“Are you admitting to something?”
“I shot a firearm with Tess Girard at a gun range in Arnold, Missouri.”
“All right,” said Morgan. “Anything else you want to tell me? Do you have any firearms in the house that you might want to declare?”
“No.”
Morgan crossed his arms. “Since you’re talkative, why don’t we to go to my office and talk in private? We can clarify a few things, might be able to clear this up today. I’ll even drive you to and from.”
I shook my head. “I’ve been in your custody before. You kept me in an interrogation room for fourteen hours straight nine years ago. I’m not going to do that again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Morgan. “And I’m sorry if you feel you were mistreated in our custody. If you ever feel that a police officer has mistreated you, you can fill out a complaint form online that will go directly to our Internal Affairs department. They’ll follow up where appropriate.”
I held back my scoff and started to stand. “I appreciate the offer, but no thank you.”
“Then maybe you’d like to supervise the search and make sure we don’t damage anything. Sometimes civilians like doing that.”
I started walking back toward my car, but stopped and looked over my shoulder. “I trust you. Just lock up when you’re done.”
42
Morgan might have said something, but I couldn’t hear him over the rush of blood in my ears. Whatever Tess put in the house, they were going to find. If I got lucky, it’d just ruin my marriage, but if not, I needed some help.
I drove to my office and called Morgan Rosenthal and Associates, Vince’s employer, on the way. Vince must have told them I might call because the secretary put me on the line with Barry Pruett, one of the senior partners, immediately. He warned me not to speak to anyone and counseled me to call him as soon as Morgan put me in custody. He even wished me luck. I wondered if the social niceties would add to my bill.
After I hung up, I went inside and paced in front of the windows overlooking Lockwood Avenue. I had searched the house well, but Morgan’s team searched homes for a living.
What else did you hide, Tess?
After approximately twenty minutes, I heard someone knock at the front door and then push it open.
“Are you here, Mr. Hale?”
It was Morgan.
I drew a breath. “Yeah. If you’re here to arrest me, my attorney has already advised me not to talk to you.”
“I’m here to talk.”
Of course, that wouldn’t stop him from arresting me if he thought it would stick.
“Are you done with the search?”
“It’s still ongoing, but I left a detective in charge who will treat your belongings with as much respect as possible. Can I come in now, or do you want me to stay on the street and shout questions up to you?”
I hesitated. “Come up, but I’m only going to talk on one condition. I want to know what gave you probable cause for the search.”
“I’ve got no problem with that,” said Morgan, already climbing the stairs. I pulled my rolling office chair to the couch and sat down. He sat on the sofa and stretched his arms back, getting comfortable. He nodded at me. “Nice office. I didn’t get the chance to tell you that the other day. It’s very modern.”
“It’s my home away from home,” I said. “I don’t often have guests, so forgive my lack of refreshments.”
“That’s quite all right.”
I didn’t say anything, thinking Morgan would take the lead. He seemed content sitting, though. I waited for maybe a minute before speaking. “You think I killed Isaac Cohen.”
“No,” said Morgan. “But I’ve got to ask questions, no matter how insensitive they might seem.”
“You already have the man who killed Isaac in custody. Moses Tarawally. He and Tess Girard killed him.”
“I thought you might say that,” said Morgan, wagging his right index finger at me. “That’s where we’re running into trouble. We haven’t found anything to connect Ms. Girard to Mr. Cohen’s death. So, humor me, please. Why would our millionaire heiress kill your friend?”
I was reasonably sure that Captain Morgan and I could go back and forth all night, and I was equally sure that would be a waste of both of our times. I kept Vince’s name out of it, but I told him the truth about what happened to Tess and what we did about it.
Morgan blinked and straightened when I finished. “That’s quite a story.”
“It’s the truth. There’s a black, leather-bound journal in my house. Read it. It’ll back up everything I said.”
Morgan mulled it over for a moment before leaning forward. “So you’re telling me Dominique Girard had nothing to do with Tess’s disappearance nine years ago.”
“No, I’m telling you he had everything to do with it. He let people assault his daughter. We protected her t
he only way we could think of.”
Captain Morgan continued staring at me, but then he reached into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. “You care if I smoke?”
Instead of answering, I walked to the recycling bin beside my desk and pulled out an aluminum can. I put it on the coffee table.
“I don’t have an ashtray.”
Morgan lit up and leaned back. “Are you sure this is the story you want to roll with? It doesn’t sound very plausible.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Plausible or not, it’s the truth.”
“You realize that you’ve admitted to tampering with evidence at the very least. I could charge you with that.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You can’t. Tampering with evidence is a class-D felony, which means there’s a three-year limit to bring charges. It’s been nine.”
Morgan smiled. “I see you’ve thought about this.”
“A little.”
“How did you know Miss Girard was in town?”
“She and I have been in contact for a couple of days.”
“Tell me the rest.”
I was honest with him and told him everything that had occurred since Tess’s initial call. Morgan asked a few questions, but mostly he listened and wrote things down. When I finished, he flipped through his notebook.
“That answers some of my questions and helps fill in my timeline, so thank you.”
“Anything to help the police. And now it’s your turn. What was your probable cause on the warrant to search my house?”
Morgan glanced up from his notebook but continued writing.
“We found the weapon used to murder Mr. Cohen. It’s a Colt 1911 chambered for a .22 long rifle cartridge. That sound familiar?”
“It’s the weapon I shot with Tess at the firing range in Arnold. It was her gun.”
Morgan smiled and put his pen down. “Your honesty is refreshing. Most of the time, the suspects I question lie or accuse me of planting the evidence against them.”
“I do aim for refreshing.”
“Your story explains why we found your prints on it, but I’d like you to clarify one more thing for me. Can you tell me why your prints were the only ones on the gun?”
I crossed my legs, squared my shoulders to him, and shrugged. “Shooter probably wore gloves.”
Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “See, I thought the same thing, but I talked to one of our evidence techs, and he said gloves would either smudge your prints or leave an imprint of their own”
I raised my eyebrows. “Tell your fingerprint technician to go back to school, then. Not all gloves act the same way.”
Morgan laced his fingers together and leaned forward. “Do tell. What gloves wouldn’t smudge your prints or leave an imprint of their own?”
“Possibly new suede. They might smudge a print a little, but they wouldn’t leave anything you could trace back to the wearer.”
“Really?” asked Morgan. I nodded and he curled his bottom lip into a smile. “I learn something new every day. Just to satisfy my curiosity, how do you know so much about the effect of gloves on friction ridge analysis? That’s what our evidence guys call fingerprint analysis, FYI.”
“I write crime novels. I research.”
Morgan’s eyes bored to mine. “You’re a very cool man, Mr. Hale. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“A few people,” I said, shrugging. “I’m actually a quite warm person, but only to people I know well.”
Morgan looked down at the notebook spread on my coffee table. “You’re not the only person I’ve spoken to about Mr. Cohen’s death, of course. I’ve also talked with Moses Tarawally. He’s looking to cut a deal, but to tell you the truth, I don’t care for the man. Gives me the creeps. You, though, I like. You’re a family man. I respect that, and because I respect that, I want to help you. To do that, though, you’ve got to help me. Tell me about the money you stole from Dominique Girard.”
I stood. “You want some coffee?”
“I’m just fine,” said Morgan. “Did Isaac find out about the money?”
I went to the coffee pot and dumped out the old stuff in the bathroom. “There is no money. Moses is lying to you if he says I have some.”
“So we’re not going to find a couple of million dollars in your house?”
“Correct. You will not find money in my house.”
“How about if we researched your finances? Would we find it in a brokerage account somewhere?”
I walked back into the office and put the coffee carafe back in place.
“You look in my brokerage accounts, you’ll find about fifty grand,” I said, walking toward the supply closet for coffee and a new filter. “Believe me, if I had a couple of million dollars, Katherine, Ashley, and I would be on the beach somewhere far away right about now.”
“Is there anything in your house that you’d like to tell me about? Save us all some time.”
I didn’t bother turning around to look at the police officer. “As you very well know, Tess and Moses broke into my house two days ago. If you find anything incriminating, I’m sure they put it there.”
“Sure,” said Morgan. “That sounds reasonable. Can I ask you where you were between six and midnight two nights ago?”
I turned around and crossed my arms. “I was with Ashley all afternoon, and then at 7:30, my wife and I went to an event at Ashley’s school. After that, we came home to find that someone had broken into our house and taken our dog. Vincent Pasquale and I went in search of my dog after that, only to find him dead at the River des Peres. While searching, we found a homeless girl who described Moses and Tess Girard as the people who dropped his body off.”
Morgan clapped his hands once and then pumped a fist in the air. “That’s what I was looking for. An alibi. Tell me about this homeless girl. What was her name?”
“She didn’t give me one.”
“That’s all right,” said Morgan, nodding. “I understand. What’d she look like?”
“That’s hard to say. It was dark and she was filthy. She had light brown skin, though, and brown hair. She offered us sex, so she might have a record.”
“I hope you declined her offer.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Where can I find her?”
I shrugged and then turned to my coffee pot. It wasn’t quite done, but enough had brewed that I could pour a cup. “I have no idea. Check the river.”
“I’ll have someone look into her.”
“Good,” I said, turning and walking back to the coffee table. I sipped my drink gingerly. “Are you going to arrest me now?”
“Not just yet,” said Morgan, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go anywhere, if I were you, though.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to work.”
“Don’t mind at all,” said Morgan, standing. He put his hands on his waist and leaned back, stretching. “You want me to come by when we’re done searching your house?”
“No need.”
“Good luck then, Mr. Hale.”
“You too, Captain Morgan.”
The police captain left through the front door. As soon as he was gone, I collapsed onto my sofa. This was going to be bad.
43
I had two options as I saw it: stay in my office and go to jail when the police found whatever Tess had hidden in my house, or get the hell out of there while I still could and stop her before she hurt me further. I chose the latter and walked to my car, still parked a couple of blocks from the house. Captain Morgan evidently didn’t want to make it easy on me, because a marked police cruiser sat just two feet or so off my bumper. Rather than climb into my car right away and try to outrun the cop, I knocked on his window and smiled at him, my hand held outstretched as if I wanted to shake. He opened his door and nodded at me, ignoring my hand.
“Mr. Hale.”
“Officer . . .” I said, searching the man’s uniform for a nametag and dropping my arm to my side. “Loomi
s. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well,” I said, looking up and down the street. No other cars approached. “I figured Leonard Morgan wanted you to follow me, and I know how tricky some of these streets can be, so I thought I’d do you a favor and tell you right away that I plan to drive to the Dierbergs in Glendale for some groceries.”
“That on Manchester Road?” asked Loomis.
“That’s right,” I said, nodding. “And just so you know, I’ll take Lockwood Avenue to Berry Road and Berry to Manchester. That way, we won’t get stuck waiting for a train.”
“I’ll follow you pretty closely just the same.”
“Wouldn’t expect otherwise,” I said, walking back to my car. I didn’t actually have to go grocery shopping, but I had worked at the store while I was in high school, so I knew it well enough to be reasonably sure of my ability to lose Loomis there. After the conversation, I got in my car and took the exact route I said I would, all the while making a call to a cab company and requesting a pickup as soon as possible.
Loomis stayed within a car length of my rear bumper for the entire three-mile drive to the store, but that didn’t bother me. Once I reached Dierbergs, I parked near an exit, far enough from the store entrance that few other cars were around. Loomis pulled in right beside me but left his engine running. Instead of getting out, he rolled down his window.
“You got an idea of how long you’re going to take?”
“Twenty to thirty minutes,” I said. “Maybe longer if there’s a line at the butcher counter.”
“Make it fifteen or I’m coming in after you and dragging you out.”
I put my hand on the top of his car and leaned down. “Does your spouse do the grocery shopping in your house?”
Loomis’s face was impassive. “Yeah. Why?”
“Because the checkout line alone will take me at least ten minutes. If you don’t want to wait, just go back to my house. I’ll meet you there.”
Loomis looked around the parking lot and waved at a little boy helping his mother load groceries into the back of their SUV. “Just hurry up.”
“I’ll do my best.”