Killian carefully cataloged everything he and Ross seized in the initial search before beginning the one he thought would be thrown out of court later. He didn't want there to be any confusion as to what was legal and not.
Killian could not obtain a warrant to search the remainder of the cottage as he had no idea what he was looking for and lacking legal, reliable information he could not obtain one. As far as the law was concerned he was only present in Pratt’s home because Pratt had been arrested there following Rachel's abduction. Tracy Fremont's case was unrelated and existed only in Killian's head.
Ross and Killian began the expanded search and within ten minutes were satisfied they had uncovered all they could hope to find. In a plastic bag Killian held four tent stakes, still soiled with desert dirt.
Killian arrived at his desk at seven-twelve that same evening to begin his departmental report. Rachel was in another part of the building running through her story with one more detective.
Killian was relieved when Ross arrived and seated himself at the other desk in Killian's office. "How's it going?" Killian asked looking up from his work.
"O.K. The turkey's safely tucked away, at least for tonight. I got started then decided to join you. I've just been making up lies." Ross smiled. "How straight do we play it?"
"Pretty straight. Just don't mention helping me out the other night."
Ross grinned. "That goes down as a routine surveillance." Pause. "Jesus, we got that mother, didn't we?"
Killian smiled for the first time that day, the first time in many days, a great toothy, uncontrollable grin. "We sure as hell did!" Pause. "But God damn it was close. Next time I get a wild scheme, do me a favor and talk me out of it."
"It's a deal. Hell, this rips it." Killian looked up questioningly. "Ain't neither of us gonna make sergeant."
The two men roared in laughter.
~
The morning paper ran the arrest as the headline. The by-lined column was written by the regular police reporter who knew most of the story. He knew that Killian, Ross and Colson had acted outside usual channels, that Pratt was suspected of the Fremont murder, that blood stained panties and tent stakes had been seized, that it had been very close and finally the reporter knew Pratt’s prior record.
Being the good reporter that he was, he elected to report the obvious and sensational the first day. The rest would be inserted in following articles. In that way he could milk the case for several days at the very least. Phoenix was a one newspaper town, he had no fear of being scooped.
Killian called Rachel that same morning and at last reached her. "Are you O.K.?" he asked.
"Yeah. Kind of dopey from some sedative. I'm calling in sick today and crashing." Pause. "That was pretty scary."
"Yeah. I'm really sorry about the foul up."
"I know. You told me yesterday. It happens. I'm too relieved the cavalry came to the rescue to be pissed about the mix up. It wasn't your fault anyway."
"I'm not so sure but I'm glad you feel that way. You sleep. I'll call tonight."
As he lowered the phone Killian felt a slight tremor start in his hand, a disquieting sensation that spread quickly to his legs. He sat down until he regained control.
~
He arrived late to his office at nearly eight-thirty to find a note from Bustamante, "See me". Killian drew a deep breath and elected to get it over with at once. He located the Homicide sergeant at the drinking fountain and went with him into his office
"So, you went ahead anyway," Bustamante commented.
"Yeah." Killian couldn't think of anything else to add.
"I wish you hadn't but I'm very happy it worked." Pause. Bustamante was nervous. "This is between you and me, O.K.?" Killian nodded. "I didn't like the answers we were getting Monday when you first laid this out for me. I'm a company man but there are times to act and not confer. This was one of them. You took a hell of a risk and got lucky. Officially you're a hero but you went outside channels and took action on a matter that was still under official review. The department will back you and present a united front, I think, but you're dead officially. You'll be lucky to be allowed to just keep doing your present assignment." Pause. "You'll never get promoted again." Killian grinned. "So it's no big loss. You did good, you got the mother. Now we got to get him convicted so I think the department will treat what you did as official, covering their asses as they go.
"We'll be meeting with my lieutenant, maybe with yours too. Officially I disapprove but I'll do everything in my power to cover you." Killian nodded. "You're making it tough to get you into Homicide," Bustamante said.
Killian smiled. Bustamante rose ending the conversation. "You're some cop, you know."
"Thanks, Steve. That means a lot." Killian left to go to work on his report. Not as bad as I feared, he thought.
~
Captain Francis Gallagher had risen rapidly through the ranks; detective in four years, sergeant just eighteen months later, lieutenant in two, then captain three after that. He had not made a success of his chosen career by sticking his neck out nor had he by going outside of normal channels. He thought he had dealt with this particular problem, for such he saw it, on Monday. Now, he realized, he had not.
Three cops had gone out and on their own taken a risk. They had succeeded but Gallagher was enraged no less than if Killian's team had failed. Gallagher had to report to the chief later, now was the time to deal with Killian.
Killian and Bustamante entered the captain's austere office together just forty-four minutes following an unpleasant meeting with Bustamante’s lieutenant. The three men greeted each other in polite cordiality. These same three men had spoken just the previous Monday accompanied by the lieutenant about the very same topic. Bustamante was not Killian's superior but he was the sergeant for Homicide and had taken part in the previous discussion so it was appropriate that he be there though officially he was under no condemnation, not yet at least.
The two visitors assumed their seats before Gallagher’s desk, the captain never once taking his eyes from Killian, his jaw muscles working in a tight knot. Killian had once heard the captain described as a bulldog and looking at him this day he found the description apt. "So you had to do it," the captain began. His voice was nearly a whisper and sounded as though gravel were caught in his throat. Killian casually returned the accusers glare and kept his silence. "You couldn't be bothered with channels. You had to sucker two good cops in on this wild scheme of yours and almost got on of them sliced into little pieces."
Silence.
Gallagher struggled successfully to control his temper. He had not risen so rapidly only to throw it away with a juvenile temper tantrum. His nagging lower back attested to his ability to keep himself under control. "I don't want your story. It's pretty obvious that you decided the department wasn't doing things your way and so went ahead with your plan. O.K. It worked. You lucked out. Now we'll pull in the wagons and present a united front. We'll stand behind you Killian but by God this had better not embarrass the department." By department, Killian thought, the captain means himself. "As long as we look good, no one from this department will let out you did this on your own. If Steve wants to crawl out on your limb with you, that's his business. Do you?" Gallagher looked at Bustamante. "Do you plan to say you approved this... this Wild West show?"
Killian didn't look at Bustamante. He couldn't think of a reason in the world why the sergeant would want any part of this. "No," Bustamante replied.
Gallagher nodded. "Alright then. This is how it is. We won't say it was approved but if the papers want to jump to that conclusion that is their business. We'll play it by ear. All comments to the media come from this office. Do you understand?" Killian and Bustamante nodded. "I don't want to see either of you on television, hear you on the radio or read your quotes in the newspaper. I'll release the statements.
"Now get this right. If it comes out you acted unofficially or if the case falls apart in court, we'll pull out, run an i
n-house investigation and cut off your balls, Killian. As long as you're a hero, great, you'll never go anywhere here but great. The department needs heroes. If you become a goat, then so be it.
"Either of you have anything to say?"
Bustamante remained silent. Killian spoke. "We got him. We got that murdering son of a bitch before anyone else died and that’s worth something."
Gallagher glared at the detective. "You've got nothing. Jack Lanstrom with the prosecutor's office spent this morning in this office reviewing Colson's, Ross' and your reports. Oh yeah, nice pieces of work those, not one single inconsistency in any of them. Almost like collusion. Lanstrom laughed about it.
"Lanstrom says we get an indictment. Hell, the County Attorney could get an indictment on Jesus if he wanted. Those grand juries just rubber stamp his cases. But Lanstrom says there's much less than a fifty-fifty chance of conviction."
Killian couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What the hell are you talking about? It's a clear cut, and legal, case."
"Yeah, clear cut. Most likely a clear cut case of entrapment. If a judge rules Colson set Pratt up, no case. If he rules your entry was illegal, no case. If he rules your search illegal, the case is seriously weakened.
"You put her on that corner intending for him to attack her. You were splitting fine hairs with the law. Oh, you'll get a conviction if a jury ever hears the case, it's got great jury appeal, but first you've got to clear all the legal hurdles and with Burgoyne on Pratt side, I doubt the case will.
"As far as I'm concerned, you blew it. If you had left this where it belonged, within departmental channels, we would have got him and with an air tight case. Your way, we got nothing. I doubt Pratt will ever get any prison time out of this charade."
The meeting ended shortly thereafter, Bustamante bidding good-bye in the hallway. Killian returned to his desk shaken and bitterly disturbed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At age fifty-six Alexander Burgoyne had achieved the peak of his professional and financial successes. His opulent office occupied one of the topmost floors of the tallest building in downtown Phoenix, a vast wall of glass providing a panoramic sweep of the desert valley. His home stood half-way up Camelback Mountain and by night his pool patio commanded a sweeping view of the city lights which spread before him forty miles in any direction.
Burgoyne had achieved a level of success that in the southwest made him the equal of other, more nationally recognized trial attorneys. He was, to quote many envious colleagues, “the best.” At the twilight of middle age, he remained full bodied, robust and active; an extroverted, gregarious man now turned a bit soft in body though his physic still paid tribute to the excellent athlete he had once been.
Oh, there were dark spots to be sure. A son dead at twenty, victim of a self-inflicted gunshot following years of drug addiction. An alcoholic wife, nervous, distraught, given to hysteria and religious zeal, often a recluse for months in their home. A mild heart congestion only recently diagnosed and, inevitably, the occupational disease of lawyers, fits of drunkenness which he only vaguely perceived to be the onslaught of alcoholism. Still, Alexander Burgoyne remained a formidable adversary in any court room.
Herbert and Viola Pratt were ushered into his office at precisely ten on Thursday morning following Jared's arrest the previous day. Burgoyne knew the couple moderately well, having represented their son on two prior occasions in the last twenty-six months.
Viola was gracious and aristocratic as always, immaculately attired in a soft, flowing cotton dress accompanied by the faint aroma of imported perfume. She was “old” money, he “new.” Herbert was alert and bright, enraged at this affront to himself. Burgoyne felt nothing but distaste for him and approached any encounter with Herbert like a child forced to shallow castor oil.
Herbert and Viola had argued bitterly, though not violently, the night before, each seeking to cast fault on the other for their son's present circumstances. Mr. and Mrs. Pratt might disagree on nearly every particular of their life together, they might hold each other in mutual and open contempt but on one single issue they inevitably locked ranks and presented an unwavering front – accusations whether true or not against Jared, their only child. They each understood that such accusations reflected directly on themselves.
"Good morning, Herbert, Viola. Please take a seat. I'm so sorry to see you in these circumstances. It seems we never get together socially, unfortunately only when there is trouble."
Burgoyne meant none of it. He liked Viola well enough but primarily he responded to her aloofness and inaccessibility with straightforward lust. Herbert was to be avoided whenever possible.
"Good morning, Alex," Viola replied, her smile accompanied by a cool, well-manicured hand. Ice maiden, Burgoyne thought taking the hand.
"Hell," Herbert exclaimed at nothing in particular. He sat down before his wife. Burgoyne and Viola bantered amiably for a few moments but shortly the attorney came to the reason for the meeting.
"I was sorry to read this morning of poor Jared's arrest. It appears that whenever the police need some scapegoat, they select your poor son to be the victim. It's tragic that supposed law enforcement officers are permitted to harass a troubled, lonely youngster as they have these past three years."
Burgoyne knew perfectly well Jared's true mental condition having had access to even more psychiatric reports concerning him than the authorities. He had requested several in previous cases retaining the worst and submitting only the two most innocuous.
Burgoyne had paid a substantial fee to obtain one of them, the other had come from an alcoholic psychiatrist long known to the attorney and willing to prostitute his opinion. In Burgoyne’s early years he had enthusiastically convinced himself of the rightness of his actions and if not of his client's innocence than at least of only relative guilt. He had many years before given up such emotionally exhausting game playing.
The best fees went to attorneys who got guilty men off Scott free. Burgoyne had learned that lesson early and prospered from the knowledge. He now considered himself a hired gun, a professional unconcerned with right or wrong, paid top dollar to do his client's bidding. It was up to him to get his man off, using whatever means he could command. Whatever he said now was to salve the conscience of Jared's parents, to persuade them further of the rightness of their thinking. This couple must not want merely an excellent defense, they must want their baby off. For that they would pay the very most.
Not that Herbert and Viola needed much encouragement. Too much was at stake for either of them to admit that Jared was guilty; social standing, business successes, personal emotions.
"They don't like him, that seems certain," Viola offered tentatively. "I don't know why. He's different but..." She lapsed into silence under her husband's glare.
"Jared's just fine," Herbert stated loudly as though addressing an auditorium of people who disagreed with him. "He's not different or anything. Now they say he tried to attack some policewoman or something. That's why we're here. I think maybe you need to take a look into this."
Burgoyne nodded solemnly. He led them into a discussion of Jared's life since the last contact he had had with him the year previously when he had received the probation Worthington currently supervised. When they were finished, Burgoyne was satisfied he knew what had happened. Jared was up to something that turned the police on to him and unable to prove it, they had set up a situation, correctly assuming Jared would take the bait. With luck, Burgoyne thought, somebody's been careless and I'll find entrapment. If not, I'll make my own luck.
Herbert and Viola left by noon leaving a five thousand dollar retainer behind. Burgoyne would settle on a full fee later, to be paid in advance of any active participation by himself.
~
Eight years before a bond issue had been passed by the voters which provided for a new county jail to house prisoners for both the city of Phoenix and the county of Maricopa. The jail had been designed to meet immediate needs and so by t
he time it was first placed into service, four years following the bond election, it was already crowded and undermanned. After three years use it was dirty, constantly remodeled, noisy and smelled faintly of unwashed bodies.
An improvised reception counter, sheathed in bullet proof glass faced Herbert and Viola Pratt as they arrived following the meeting with Burgoyne to visit Jared. No provision for speech had been made in the construction of the counter so Herbert, as all visitors did, bent down and shouted through a paper slot to communicate with the guard – or correctional officer as they were now called.
It had taken forty-seven minutes to work his way down the line to obtain a white admittance slip. Viola had sat amid the poor minorities there to visit some friend or relative, out of place in her expensive cotton dress and jewelry. She clutched her soft leather purse on her lap unwilling to expose it to possible theft by laying it beside her.
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