Clay attacked law school with the same laissez-faire attitude he had displayed as an undergraduate. When he had occupied his seat for three years he was given a law degree and finally, after three failed attempts, he managed to pass the bar.
Despite his loathsome resumé, Clay still had assets that attracted many of the big firms in Florida. He had his father’s height and thick brown hair and an easy manner about him and, most important, he had a pedigree that granted him access to the halls of power in Tallahassee. When the offers came in, Clay weighed them carefully, reassured that life was going to continue to be good.
He chose the Miami firm of Eppley, Marsch & Maloney simply because he knew that Miami was a fun place to live and play. Unfortunately, reality was about to set in for the Fourth. Everyone at Eppley, Marsch was required to put in seventy- to eighty-hour work weeks and the competition among the associates was fierce. It didn’t take the Fourth long to realize that life in the big firm was not for him. So he called Dad.
“Can’t you get me an appointment to something?” he whined to the Third. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the Third replied. Two weeks later, he called back.
“The Cobb County state attorney is retiring. I think I can secure the appointment for you.”
“What do they have, five attorneys over there? I’d be lost in oblivion. Can’t you get me something a little bit better than that?” At that moment, the Third wished that he had taken the time and the effort years before to throttle his son. He thought to remind the boy that he was being offered a state attorney’s position having never tried a case, but he knew that logic would never work with the Fourth. So he stuck with manipulation.
“It’s a stepping-stone, son. You probably don’t remember, but I was once the Cobb County state attorney. Stay in the job a couple of years—fill in your resumé, so to speak—and I’ll find something for you after that. The governor’s a good friend of mine and if he’s reelected, which is likely, he’ll be in office for six more years.”
It was a winning argument. Clay took the appointment and was soon running an office that specialized in speeding tickets, petty theft and every so often a grand larceny or two. Something happened, however, that neither the Third nor the Fourth had planned on. Governor Hal Bishop was caught cheating on his wife and was voted out of office after his first term. He was replaced by a Republican who couldn’t stand the Third.
The Fourth was stuck and he’d been stuck for almost ten years when Wesley Brume walked into his office to discuss the investigation of Lucy Ochoa’s murder. This case might be the opportunity he’d been looking for to jettison himself out of Cobb County once and for all. He had to control it, publicize it, and most important, make sure he won it.
Neither man liked the other. Wes saw Clay as a pompous ass and Clay saw Wes as a dumb cop, but a dumb cop who could be manipulated under the right circumstances.
“What have you got so far?” Clay asked after the formalities of shaking hands and making very small talk were over. He’d already read the investigative file but he wanted the latest and he wanted it firsthand.
“Well, we’ve had the blood analyzed and we’ve canvassed the neighborhood. We’ve got a suspect, a kid who works at the convenience store around the block from the murder. One of the neighbors identified him and two others described him pretty close.”
It was an overly optimistic description of the evidence, but Wes could always be overly optimistic if the circumstances called for it.
“We’ve done a profile on him—no priors. Everybody we talked to seems to like him. He lives with his mother. He’s a little slow. I went over and talked to his high school principal and looked at his school records. The principal confirmed the kid had a low IQ but he worked hard and his mother was very involved both in his education and with the school. The last two years he couldn’t do the work so they put him on a vocational track and gave him an attendance certificate after four years.”
The Fourth was anxious for the bottom line. He didn’t want a biography.
“Did you pick him up?”
“No. I was waiting to talk to you. We don’t want any screwups.”
“You’ve certainly got grounds to pick him up for questioning. Take his blood, see if it matches. Put him in a lineup and let the neighbors pick him out.”
Clay started to walk out of his office. It was his signal to Wes that the meeting was over, but the portly detective didn’t move.
“There is one problem,” he added before the Fourth could sweep out of the room to go God knew where. Clay stopped in his tracks and wheeled around.
“A problem? What problem?” He was in his superior role now, glaring down at the pudgy little detective. Wes wanted to drop the bastard right there but this was important business.
“You know about the semen?” Wes asked.
“Of course.” Harry Tuthill had filled him in that very morning.
“We were able to get a blood type from it. The blood type in the living room and on the glass is O positive but the blood type in the semen is AB.”
Clay turned this new information around in his brain. Two people did this murder? Not likely. A robbery or a burglary maybe, but not this. This could be a problem. A thought rolled around in the Fourth’s devious skull but he needed more information to pursue it.
“Bring the kid in right away for questioning. If he’s as dumb as you say he is, maybe he’ll confess. Do your first interview without a video or a tape recorder. If he gives you something, you can always redo it on tape. If he’s wishy-washy, it’s your word against his.”
Wes knew exactly what Clay was talking about. He’d used the same tactic many times in the past. It was strange, he had never seen this side of Clay before. Usually Clay didn’t give a shit one way or the other. He headed for the door but the Fourth called him back.
“Who else knows about the blood samples?” he asked.
“Just me and Harry.”
“Don’t tell a soul about it. I’ll talk to Harry.”
“Will do,” Wes replied. He knew the Fourth was up to something, but he couldn’t tell what.
Five
Rudy had a morning ritual before going to work. After breakfast he would take his boat and go fishing down the Okalatchee. “Boat” was stretching it—it was actuary an old dinghy he’d bought from one of the sailboat owners who docked on the river at night. The owner had hung a “Dinghy For Sale” sign on his mast and was asking a hundred and twenty-five dollars for it.
“I’ve got thirty-five cash in my pocket,” Rudy told him. He had his mother’s directness and some of her bargaining skills, which he’d picked up by watching her over the years.
The boat owner, a retired IBM executive, was amused by Rudy’s attempt to tantalize him with the cash. He had no need for the money or the sale but he saw an opportunity to let this kid win for once in his life. He crossed his arms and rubbed his chin with his right hand. They were standing on the dock and Rudy kept stealing glances at the dinghy, his boat. Finally, when the older man figured he’d built up enough anticipation, he relented.
“You drive a hard bargain, son, but if you’ve got the cash right now, I’ve got to sell this boat to you.” Rudy practically hugged him. He helped him take the dinghy off the sailboat and in five minutes it was in the water and he was heading down the river. That was three years ago, and since then Rudy had learned to take the little engine on his boat apart and put it back together again with his eyes closed. It was something he could get his hands on and his mind around.
The Okalatchee was Rudy’s daily escape from the world. The birds didn’t look at him like he was stupid. Nobody yelled at him for making the wrong change. Out on the river, he fit in. The fishing pole was his prop. Although he threw it in the water once in a while and even caught a fish or two from time to time, mostly he drove around exploring. When he found his perfect place for the day, he turned the motor off and drifted, watching and listening.
He didn’t stick to the main waterways either. The river had a thousand winding little fingers that led to nowhere, and Rudy was determined to explore them all. When he turned off the river, he was immediately lost in a world bordered by thick mangroves and tall pines that shot up from roots deep under the water’s surface—a world where the gator ruled the water and the osprey ruled the trees.
The osprey wasn’t like the gator. He allowed the herons and the egrets to poach in his waters and the other birds to sing and fly. His was a benevolent kingdom. But when he took to flight, his white chest protruding, his massive brown wings extended, there was no doubt who ruled. Rudy sometimes imagined himself to be an osprey, perched high above the madness, proud and brave. As an osprey, he had no fear.
In Rudy’s mind, this was the real world, a world that had not changed since God first created it The other world was temporary, unreal, out of harmony with the universe.
While Rudy was getting ready for work after spending Thursday morning on the river, Wesley Brume was at the convenience store talking to his boss.
“I want to take your boy in for questioning when he comes in for work this afternoon,” he told the owner, Benny Dragone.
“What for?” Benny asked. He hated cops, especially the fat little bastard standing in front of him. He’d seen Wes in action before.
“I’m not at liberty to say. It’s police business.”
“You’re not at liberty to say. Does his mother know about it?”
“What are you, his fucking father or something? Is there something going on here I don’t know about?” Wes was getting his dander up a bit.
“No, I just watch out for the kid. I don’t want you guys fucking with him. You know he’s not all there. I’m not going to let you talk to him without his mother’s permission.”
“You’re not, eh? How about if we fuck with you instead? How about I get the health department over here right now? Check out your bathrooms, check out your walk-in.”
“Wait a minute. Hold on here. We don’t have to get drastic about this. I was just asking a question, that’s all.” Benny was from Chicago. He knew how bad things could get if the cops got city hall on your ass.
Wes knew from Benny’s demeanor he had the upper hand.
“No offense taken, Benny. I just want to talk to the kid for a while. If you can stay here for a bit I’d appreciate it. I’ll have him back as soon as I can.”
Benny thought about it for a minute. It stunk. He’d heard the rumors about Rudy being at Lucy’s house the night of the murder. It was all over the neighborhood. He was sure the cops had leaked the story and now they wanted to talk to Rudy. He also knew that Rudy was too stupid to defend himself. But what could he do? He didn’t like it but he had a business to run.
“All right,” he responded weakly. “But take it easy on him.”
“I know. I talked to his principal. You can count on me, Benny.” Sure, Benny thought, I can count on you to bend me over a sink somewhere in the middle of the night.
Wes was there when Rudy showed up for work. Benny introduced him.
“He wants to take you down to the station to talk to you. It won’t take long. I’ll cover you here and you won’t lose any money, I promise.”
Benny felt like the gatekeeper at the Colosseum feeding one more Christian to the lions. He saw Wes standing there licking his chops. Rudy could see Benny’s fear, but he had just come from the river and he had seen an osprey. He had seen him float down from his perch high in the sky and scoop up a fish in his talons. Rudy felt like an osprey, strong and fearless. Nobody was going to get the best of him today.
“It’s okay, Benny. I’ll go, no problem.” Benny watched as the kid led the fat little grunt out of his store.
As soon as Wes’s unmarked Ford left the parking lot, Benny picked up the phone and called Elena. He had always liked Elena. Ever since his wife Maria had died, he had fantasized about being with Elena. It was one of the reasons he hired young Rudy. Why else would I hire a kid who has trouble making change for a dollar? But Elena had no time for him or any other man.
“Elena,” he said when she picked up the phone in the hotel lobby. “It’s me, Benny. The police just picked Rudy up for questioning. They’re taking him down to the station.”
Elena was alarmed but not overly so. Working at the hotel, she had not heard the scuttlebutt about Rudy and Lucy that was spreading through the barrio like so much cow manure.
“Now Benny, what would the police want with my Rudy?” she asked lightly, almost as if she was trying to calm Benny down instead of it being the other way around.
“They’re questioning him about the murder over here in the barrio.” That made some sense to Elena. Rudy worked nights at the convenience store. He might have heard something. But why the station?
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked, a little more worry in her voice. Benny hesitated. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell her that her son was suspected of killing Lucy Ochoa.
“No. I’m just concerned, that’s all. I don’t trust those damn cops. And Rudy, sometimes he’s his own worst enemy.”
It wasn’t his words but the hesitation in his voice that made her suspect this might be a little more serious than Benny was letting on. To be safe, she decided to put her head waitress, Teresa, in charge and head down to the station to find out firsthand what was going on. She thanked Benny for his concern and hung up the phone.
Five minutes later, after she had given Teresa explicit instructions, Elena stepped into her beat-up old Camry and headed for the police station a few short blocks away. It was a beautiful afternoon, a little nippy with a slight breeze blowing. She would have preferred to walk but there was no time to waste.
The receptionist politely assured Elena that someone would be with her in a minute and asked her to take a seat. It was a small room with only a few chairs and a door that presumably led to the inner offices of the police department. Rudy was in there somewhere, but the door was closed. The sign on the wall next to it said it was locked and could be used only by police personnel. Big deal, Elena thought. They make it sound like people actually want to go in there. But at that moment there was nothing she wanted more. The only possibility was to get the young woman at the receptionist window to buzz her in. She decided to sit and wait, at least for a few minutes. She looked at the clock above the receptionist’s desk. It was 3:16 p.m.
After a few minutes she walked up to the window. “Please, Miss, could you please call back there and let them know I’m here? I really don’t want anyone talking to my son outside of my presence.” The receptionist gave her a look but picked up the phone and delivered the message to someone on the other end of the line.
“And can you please write down that I arrived here at 3:16?” Elena didn’t know why she did that. It might be important later on, she told herself.
Inside the station, Wes Brume was about to start questioning Rudy. He led him to the interrogation “facility,” an eight-by-ten-foot bare room with olive walls and a concrete floor. The furniture consisted of a nondescript metal table in the middle surrounded by four metal chairs. There was no two-way mirror for other cops to observe the festivities, but there was a tape recorder on the table and a video recorder had been permanently installed to record a suspect’s every facial expression during an interview. The Grunt did as he’d been told and left both devices off. He motioned Rudy to sit in one chair and he sat directly across from him with a new yellow pad and pen in front of him. He handed Rudy a document spelling out his Miranda rights and told him to sign it. “Just a formality,” he assured him. Rudy pretended to read through it but barely did so, then signed his name at the bottom.
Wes had played this interview over in his mind several times before he’d picked Rudy up. He decided to start by handing Rudy the rope and seeing if he could fit it around his own neck. He leaned over and spoke softly, almost in a whisper.
“Do you know why you’re here, Rudy?”
> “No, sir.”
“I want to ask you some questions about the Lucy Ochoa murder. Did you know Lucy?” Rudy hesitated for a moment. He knew he couldn’t lie.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me everything you know about her murder.” Rudy was relieved the question wasn’t directed towards him personally. This was a question he could answer without hesitation. As he began to speak, the Grunt started writing on his yellow pad. Rudy looked at the ceiling as he tried to recall everything he had read in the newspaper.
“I know the murder occurred between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. on the night of January 16th.” His eyes were almost closed as he strained to remember. “I know her body was found in the bedroom and she was naked. I know her throat had been cut with a knife. I know she was lying on the bed.” Rudy hesitated; his eyes were completely closed now as he searched his brain for any other facts he might have read. Wes waited patiently. He noted in his pad that Rudy had closed his eyes when he spoke, “as if he was recalling a past event in his mind.”
“That’s it,” Rudy concluded with a smile of satisfaction. “That’s all I know.”
“That’s good. Very good.” Wes had picked up on the play, realizing his was the role of the satisfied schoolteacher. Manipulation was the name of the game. No open-minded reasonable observer of this conversation would ever have suspected Rudy of being the murderer. The Grunt didn’t fall into that category, however. His mind was already made up. What he was doing now was window dressing—filling in the necessary blanks to feed a hungry jury.
“Now, Rudy,” Wes continued, “I have to ask you some personal questions about that night. It’s important for me to know everybody who was in the vicinity of the murder so I can eliminate them as suspects. You understand, don’t you?” Rudy nodded his head. He was starting to feel comfortable with Officer Brume. “Some of the neighbors indicated that you were on Mercer Street a little after eleven o’clock on the night of the murder, is that true?”
The Mayor of Lexington Avenue Page 3