Looking away, she hesitated for a couple of seconds and then looked back at him. “If you could get me a couple of T-shirts, and maybe a pair of sweatpants or something—just so that I’d have something to put on. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. You could just go to a Target or someplace like that…”
McClain sat quietly for a moment, apparently mulling it over. Then he sighed and got up. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. He turned and walked out of the room, abandoning his sandwich, half-eaten on the table behind him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Leaving Mike Miller, I drove through an In-N-Out Burger store and picked up a late lunch. I was eating at my desk and sorting through my message slips when Elaine walked through the door, wearing a new black pants suit. She’d colored her hair again within the last couple of days, and it looked as though this time she’d had the job done professionally.
It suddenly struck me that she’d recently lost a little weight as well, and I wondered if there was a new man in her life that I hadn’t heard about yet. She perched on the desk and helped herself to a French fry.
“Better not let McClinton see you do that,” I cautioned.
“Why?” she taunted. “Would she be upset because I was eating a French fry, or because I was eating one of your French fries?”
“Oh, bite me, Elaine.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she laughed.
Quickly changing the subject, I said, “So how are you and Greg coming with your list?”
She finished the French fry and said, “We’ve put together a basic list that includes the judge, the prosecutor, the principal witnesses who testified against McClain, and all of the jurors who served at the trial—or at least the ones who’ve survived so far. And you’ve already talked to the lead detective. So the first thing I came in here to ask you is, how far do we go with this? Who else should we be thinking of here?”
I took a sip of my Coke. “Jesus, Elaine, I’m not sure. We’ve got no way of knowing who in the hell the guy might have decided to target. It sounds to me like you’ve listed the most obvious possibilities, but to be on the safe side, we should probably have Media Relations amplify their original press release.
“When we gave them McClain’s picture this morning, we simply indicated that he was wanted for questioning in the Fletcher and Collins killings. I guess we’d better go ahead and announce that new information leads us to believe that McClain is trying to settle scores with the people who sent him to prison. That way anybody who was even remotely related to the case will at least have fair warning. I’ll run it by the lieutenant.”
She nodded, swallowing another French fry. “Okay. The second thing I wanted to ask you is, Chickie and I thought it would be better to see as many of the people on the list as we can in person rather than just talking to them over the phone. We’ll want to know if they’ve noticed anyone watching them, if they’ve been getting weird phone calls, and shit like that. Plus, they’ll probably need some hand-holding.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed.
“So do you and McClinton want to take part of the list?”
“Sure. We’ll want to get to these people as quickly as possible, preferably before they hear it on the news and panic.”
“Okay,” she said.
She pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder she’d brought in with her and handed it to me. “Here’s half the list. There were three jurors and one minor witness who disappeared from the local records while McClain was in Lewis. We’re assuming that they simply moved away, but so far at least we’ve got no forwarding addresses.
“Presumably, if we can’t find ’em, McClain can’t either, but maybe they’ll hear a newscast or read about it in the papers. Otherwise,” she said, pointing to the list, “the addresses and phone numbers are current.”
Taking the sheet of paper, I said, “We’ll get right on it.”
Elaine grabbed the last of the fries, hopped down from the desk, and headed out the door. “Thanks for lunch,” she said.
I walked down the hall and found Maggie at her desk, sorting through her own message slips and eating an apple. I explained the plan of attack and she collected her purse and jacket. After a typically beautiful spring morning, it had turned into a cloudy afternoon, and as we walked out into the parking lot, the sky began spitting rain.
“Oops,” Maggie observed sarcastically. “Rain during the peak of the tourist season. The chamber of commerce will be pissed about that.”
“No doubt,” I agreed.
We had seven names on our list, and I mentally sorted their addresses into an order that would allow us to get to them most efficiently. Doubtless, some of them would be at work or whatever, and we’d have to get back to them in the evening, but this seemed the most logical approach.
Accordingly, the first person we attempted to contact was Byron Patterson. On the list she gave me, Elaine had identified Patterson as an expert witness, but there was no indication as to what he might have testified about.
We arrived at his home to find him taking a set of golf clubs out of the back of an SUV. I parked in the driveway behind him, and Maggie and I hurried out of the rain and into the shelter of the open garage. As we did, Patterson hung the golf bag on a rack that also held a couple of tennis racquets, a serious backpack, and two expensive mountain bikes. Not surprisingly, Patterson was thin and fit even though he was obviously somewhere in his middle sixties.
Maggie and I introduced ourselves and I told Patterson that we understood that he’d testified at the murder trial of Carl McClain.
“Right,” he said, nodding his head. “I was the one who made the blood-type match between McClain and the semen that was found in the victim’s throat. And,” he said a bit defensively, “even though it now turns out that McClain was innocent, the blood types did match.”
“Yes, sir,” Maggie said. “We all understand that the technology back then wasn’t what it is today.”
“No, ma’am,” Patterson agreed, “it certainly wasn’t. But we did the best we could with what we had. So why are you asking about McClain’s trial at this late date? I saw the article in the Republic. I know that the mistake was corrected and that McClain was set free.”
“Yes, he was,” I said. “And while he should have been released, of course, unfortunately it looks like he’s come out of the system determined to revenge himself on the people who put him there. Since his release, two of the jurors from his trial have been shot to death, and the woman who served as his public defender has been kidnapped.”
Patterson’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly serious,” Maggie said. “We’re warning everyone who was associated with McClain’s conviction to be on guard.”
“You think he’s coming after me?” Patterson asked anxiously.
“We have no way of knowing that, Mr. Patterson,” I answered. “We only know what he’s apparently done so far, not what he intends to do. We don’t know who else might be on his list.”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, at a minimum,” I said, “be alert to what’s going on around you. Don’t open your door to anyone that you don’t recognize. Keep an eye out for unfamiliar vehicles parked in the neighborhood. We think that McClain is driving an older black van, but we don’t know if that’s the only vehicle he’s using. Be alert to anyone who might seem to be following you. Let us know if you get any hang-ups or other odd phone calls. Do you have caller ID?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’d suggest that you make a list of calls that come from numbers you don’t recognize. We presume that McClain must be scouting his targets. If he is watching you, perhaps we can catch him in the act.”
Patterson shook his head. “Jesus, Detective, I don’t know…”
“As an alternative, Mr. Patterson,” Maggie interjected, “if it’s at all possible, you might want to think about leaving town for a few days without letting anyone other than us know wher
e you’re going. We’re mounting an intensive public manhunt for McClain. With any luck, we’ll run him to ground shortly and eliminate the potential threat.”
Patterson nodded slowly. “Well, I suppose we could go visit my brother up in Payson for a couple of days…”
“That might be the safest bet,” I agreed. “But again, if you do notice anyone who seems to be taking an undue interest in you before you can get away, be sure to let us know.”
I gave Patterson one of my business cards, and he promised to call if he noticed anything out of the ordinary in the next thirty minutes or so. “After that,” he said, “I expect to be packed up and on the road. I just hope that you can catch this guy quickly, though. My wife and my sister-in-law don’t get along all that well.”
The next name on our list was a juror named Brenda Dulles. Nobody answered the door at her apartment, so I wrote a message on the back of one of my cards, asking her to call me as soon as possible, and wedged the card between the door and the jamb.
The third name was that of Harold Roe, the prosecutor who’d won McClain’s conviction. We arrived at his home about three thirty, by which time the rain had stopped falling. The clouds had scudded away, and it had turned into a beautiful afternoon. As had been the case at our last stop, no one answered the door. Again I left a card, and Maggie and I were walking back to the car when a Buick sedan pulled into the driveway and the garage door began rolling up.
The Buick braked to a stop in the garage, and a wellcoiffed woman in her middle fifties got out of the car carrying a couple of large shopping bags from Nordstrom’s and Neiman Marcus. She identified herself as Roe’s wife, Rachel, and expressed surprise at the fact that her husband hadn’t answered the door. Pointing back at a Lincoln Town Car sitting in the garage next to her Buick, she said, “As you can see, his car’s right there, so he must be here. Probably he just didn’t hear you.”
Roe led us into the garage and opened a door that took us through a mudroom and into the kitchen. She dropped her keys and the shopping bags on the counter and called her husband’s name. But the house was completely silent, and no one responded. Looking perplexed, Roe said, “That’s odd. Harold won’t even walk down to the mailbox. If his car is here, then he’s got to be here too.”
We followed her out of the kitchen and into a hallway that led toward the back of the house. “Harold?” she called again.
A moment later, she let out a sharp scream. I stepped up beside her and saw the body of a man, presumably her husband, slumped over in a chair in the study. He’d been shot at least twice and was obviously dead.
Mrs. Roe screamed again and then collapsed. Maggie and I caught her before she hit the floor and carried her over to a couch in the living room. Then I pulled out my cell phone and called for backup.
While Maggie stayed with Mrs. Roe, I drew my weapon and moved carefully through the house. The rest of the rooms appeared to be undisturbed, and the shooter was obviously long gone. I holstered my weapon and went back to the living room to let Maggie know that the place was clear. Then I walked over to the study and stood in the doorway, taking in the scene.
Some papers and a couple of pictures were lying on the floor next to the body, and it looked as if they’d been swept off a corner of the desk. Except for that—and for the body, of course—the room appeared to be in good order. If the killer had been looking for something in the study or somewhere else in the house, he or she had looked very carefully. But I was fairly certain of the fact that Roe had not surprised a burglar.
For the next several hours, we worked the scene along with the Crime Scene Response team, the ME, and the rest of the usual cast. We canvassed the neighborhood, but found no one who had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. No one reported seeing a black van anywhere near Roe’s home.
Inevitably, the shooting had drawn a swarm of local media. By the time Maggie and I were ready to leave, two news-channel helicopters were hovering over the scene, and I counted vans from four different television stations parked haphazardly in the street with their satellite dishes pointed skyward, ready to dispatch the latest bloody horrors to the greater metro area just before bedtime. The reporters pressed against the crime-scene barriers, and a patrolman was struggling to keep them in check.
As Maggie and I made our way to the car, several of the reporters shouted my name, and I reluctantly turned and walked over to the barricade. Six or seven reporters shouted questions simultaneously and then thrust their microphones in front of my face.
By now, of course, the reporters had discovered and announced the victim’s identity; there would be no courteous withholding of the information until family members could be notified. Several of the reporters demanded to know if Roe had been killed by Carl McClain.
I held up my hands and waited until things were as quiet as they were likely to get. Then I said, “I’ll make a brief statement now, but will take no questions. Media Relations will probably hold a press conference later and will answer your questions then. For the moment all I can tell you is that we have a shooting victim whom you’ve already identified as Mr. Harold Roe, a local attorney.
“As most of you know by now, Mr. Roe was the attorney who prosecuted Carl McClain for the murder of Gloria Kelly. As you also know, we are looking for Mr. McClain in connection with the deaths of two other people who were involved in his trial. At this time, however, we have no conclusive evidence to suggest that Mr. McClain was involved in this crime.
“As we did earlier today, we would ask anyone who has information regarding Mr. McClain’s whereabouts to contact the police. But again, we would warn any such person not to make direct contact with Mr. McClain, whom we believe to be armed and extremely dangerous.”
I turned and headed toward the car, ignoring the questions shouted at my back. The patrolmen parted the crowd, and Maggie and I made our way back to the department, where we found the lieutenant still in his office, waiting for us. We dropped into chairs in front of the desk and gave him the details of the latest shooting. I finished the update and asked him what Pierce and Chickris had accomplished.
Leaning back in his chair, he said, “They’ve contacted all of the people on their list, either in person or over the phone. The only exception is the judge who presided over the case. He’s a widower named Walter Beckman who lives alone in a condominium complex in Scottsdale, and he seems to be missing.
“Beckman failed to show up for his usual golf game this morning, and he didn’t call the club or anyone else to say that he’d be late or that he’d be unable to come for some reason. Apparently that was totally out of character, and so his playing partners were worried that something might have happened to him.
“One of the guys that Beckman plays with has a key to Beckman’s condo and went over to check up on him. Beckman wasn’t home. His car wasn’t in the garage, and this morning’s Republic was still lying in the driveway. Yesterday’s paper was lying open on the kitchen table next to a box of cereal and a bowl that had a couple flakes of cereal and a little milk dried in the bottom. It looked like Beckman had started reading the paper during his breakfast yesterday and then hadn’t gotten back to it.
“The guy—whose name is Tom Matthews—called the golf club, and Beckman still hadn’t shown up. Matthews was getting increasingly concerned, and he remembered that Beckman had said that he had an appointment with his ophthalmologist yesterday morning. The office is only a couple of blocks away from Beckman’s condo, and so Matthews went over to see if Beckman had kept the appointment. He spotted Beckman’s car in the parking lot, and the receptionist in the ophthalmologist’s office told him that Beckman had been there yesterday and that he’d left a little after eleven. Apparently that was the last time anybody saw him. Matthews called and reported Beckman missing at noon today.”
“Oh, shit,” I sighed. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Martin agreed. “It’s possible, of course, that Beckman’s gone missing for some rea
son that has nothing to do with Carl McClain. But more than likely, either McClain’s got him somewhere or has already killed him and dumped the body someplace.”
“What about the rest of the people that were on our list?” Maggie asked.
“I gave the names to Riggins and Doyle, and they touched base with the ones you didn’t get to. Everybody’s scared shitless, and some of them are leaving town in a hurry, but so far they’re all alive and well.”
“What’d you do with the media?” I asked.
“As you suggested, we released a statement indicating our belief that McClain might be targeting anyone who was associated with his arrest and conviction. It was the lead story on all of the early-evening newscasts and, given Roe’s murder, will for sure lead the ten o’clock news.”
“Anything from the hotline?” Maggie asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he sighed, running a hand through what was left of his hair. “Since we released McClain’s picture at noon we’ve had several calls from people who swear that they’ve seen him, and scores more from people who’ve seen mysterious black vans. We’re tracking down the reports as fast as we can, but we’ve got nothing solid yet. I tell you, this whole damn thing is turning into one gigantic cluster fuck.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Just after five o’clock, McClain walked into the bedroom. Saying nothing, he handed Beverly a shopping bag with Target’s bull’s-eye logo emblazoned on it. She opened the bag to find three T-shirts, two pairs of sweatpants, and a three-pack of black bikini panties. Looking up at McClain, she said, “Thank you.”
He shrugged, obviously embarrassed. “About the…uh…I didn’t know what size. I just got medium.”
“That’s fine,” she nodded. “Thank you.”
He turned to leave, and as he reached the door, Beverly said, “Uh, excuse me…”
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