Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel

by Neal Griffin

  “Beer and cigarettes. Will that be all?” The man’s English was perfect, without a trace of an accent.

  “That’s it. Ring it up, Haji.” McKenzie winked, knowing he had gotten under the clerk’s dark skin.

  “That will be twelve seventy-five.”

  McKenzie pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to display his detective shield. “What’s the good-guy rate?”

  “The price is the same for everyone, Officer. Twelve seventy-five, please.”

  McKenzie scoffed, throwing down a twenty. “Goddamn. Between owning every frickin’ convenience store in America and the stranglehold on gas—shit, boy, why blow up buildings? All you fuckers are getting rich off us poor-ass Americans.”

  “I was born in Des Moines, asshole,” the man shouted, slamming McKenzie’s change hard on the counter.

  McKenzie walked out, with the six-pack slung over his shoulder, his middle finger looped through the plastic ring and extended straight up at the clerk. He stepped into the dimly lit parking lot and stopped, staring at his car. Ben Sawyer sat on the hood as if resting in a favorite recliner, his back against the windshield, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. McKenzie approached slowly, set the six-pack on the hood, and busted out a cigarette from his fresh pack.

  “Comfortable?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Sure am, but one of those beers would be great right about now,” Sawyer replied.

  “Get your ass off my car, Sawyer,” McKenzie growled, but the other man stayed put.

  “Beer and cigarettes,” Ben said. “Getting ready for another late-night stakeout?”

  “What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home with the family?” McKenzie pulled a lighter from his pocket and the flame lit up his face. “What’s left of it, that is.”

  Ben slid down the hood. “So tell me, Doyle. How’s the big case coming along? I see you figured out the Harlan Lee connection. Nice work.”

  McKenzie didn’t miss a beat. “Harlan who? What big case are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Harlan Lee and the connection to the Carson murder. My father-in-law arrested Lee seventeen years ago. A few days later, he was transferred to Florence County on a murder charge. You pulled the case from the warehouse.”

  McKenzie was careful to show no reaction. Have to admire the sly little shit, he thought to himself. He stepped around to the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  “Oh, you’re talking about the murder case against your wife. Sorry. That shit is history to me. I’ve moved on.”

  “Where’s the Lee file? I’d like to see it.”

  “The Lee file?” McKenzie feigned confusion. “Tell you what, I’ll run a computer check, see what I can find, a favor from a working cop to a has-been. Will that make you happy?”

  McKenzie saw Ben swallow hard, and he knew he was gaining the upper hand. He seemed to be winning this little mental chess game. He was determined to stay on offense.

  “Hell, I’ll even make a few calls. Where did you say the case was out of? Florence County?” McKenzie didn’t bother even trying to hide his sarcasm. He recalled the name Jorgensen had given him. “The sheriff up there, Scott Jamison, is a good friend of mine. I’ll have him take a look around. Seventeen years ago, you say? That’s an old record. Might take some digging, but old Scotty, he’ll do that for me.”

  McKenzie looked straight at Ben, narrowing his eyes. He wanted his meaning to be absolutely clear. “But something tells me, Sawyer, we ain’t gonna come up with a damn thing.”

  McKenzie knew Ben was starting to see the truth. The great Ben Sawyer was getting his ass handed to him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “How about Danville?” Ben asked. McKenzie thought he picked up on a hint of desperation. “How much do you know about the suspect in the murder of the transvestite?”

  McKenzie laughed. Very impressive, he thought. “You mean the case where you got arrested for sticking your nose where it don’t belong? The one where Suarez got her ass shot to hell? If you don’t mind, I’ll stay out of it. Those Illinois boys seem kind of sensitive to people meddlin’ in their business.”

  “Come on, McKenzie. The suspect grew up in Florence County,” Sawyer said.

  McKenzie couldn’t help but start to wonder how it was that Sawyer was putting this thing together, but he told himself it didn’t matter. He shrugged his shoulders. “Wow. Strange coincidence. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “You know there’s a connection in all this,” Ben said. “You know it’s going to come up at trial.”

  McKenzie did his best to appear confident. He cracked open a beer and replied, “Maybe it will. But you know what else is going to come up? Real evidence. Stuff like eyewitness accounts, the murder weapon, blood evidence, and a lot of information about how your wife was practically screwing the dead guy on the tables in that coffee shop. All things that make sense to the God-fearing Wisconsin citizens who sit on juries—unlike this crazy conspiracy shit.”

  McKenzie opened the car door. Ben slammed it shut. He looked McKenzie directly in the eye when he spoke.

  “A missing case file you don’t know anything about. A similar case two hours away you don’t care about. Some sort of connection to Florence County that you’re not interested in. Kind of makes me wonder what it is you’re trying to keep quiet.”

  “You got a rich imagination, Sawyer,” McKenzie said. “You wasted all those years being a cop. You should’ve made movies or some shit.” He grabbed the door handle of his car. “Now step aside. I’ve got plans that don’t involve standing around here jawin’ with you.”

  “Tell me, Doyle, what happened to Henry Lipinski? You figure he killed himself instead of facing the music, or is that just what somebody wants us to think?”

  “So you heard about that, huh? I gotta give it to you, Sawyer. You are pretty good at this detective shit.”

  McKenzie took a healthy hit off the beer. He couldn’t resist rubbing Ben’s face in it.

  “Let me spell it out for, Sawyer. I don’t give a shit about some ancient case out of Florence County, a ghost named Harlan Lee, a dead sheriff, or some fag that got its head caved in with a baseball bat. Truth be told, I could give two shits about that uppity bitch Suarez getting her ass shot to hell. Your wife is going down for murder. Get used to it.”

  Ben stared at him, openmouthed. “What the hell are you, McKenzie?”

  “I think you’re starting to get a pretty good idea of what I am. Of who I am and what I can do. That might be something you want to keep in mind. Now for the last time, Sawyer—back off.”

  “Goddamn, McKenzie,” Ben said. “You’re ass-deep in this. Harlan Lee, Lipinski, even this stuff out of Danville? Those were cops that got shot. One of them was from your own department.”

  Ben paused, then started to go on. “You won’t get away with this. I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” McKenzie closed to within inches of Ben’s face and lowered his voice. “Keep carrying on about some case from more than a decade ago that you got no record of and no documents? Talk about what was supposed to have been said during an illegal interrogation? An interrogation that got your dumb ass arrested and thrown in jail? Or maybe you should run and tell Jorgensen?”

  McKenzie took another long swallow of beer. “No. Wait a sec. You can go tell Norgaard. How about that? Go ahead, Sawyer. Throw your weight around.”

  “Jesus Christ, McKenzie, how deep does this go? Just what are you into?”

  “I’ll give you some credit, Sawyer.” McKenzie’s voice flowed with complete confidence. “When you dragged your ass back here from Oakland, I figured you’d be happy just to have a job. Sit on the sidelines and collect a paycheck from your old man. It never occurred to me you’d come on like some supercop. But I’ll be damned if you didn’t come pretty close to figuring it all out. But you’re done now, along with that bitch of a wife of yours.”

  McKenzie could see the clinched fi
sts and heavy breathing. He knew Ben was right on the edge.

  “Go ahead, Sawyer. I’ll let you put a good hurtin’ on me. I for sure got it coming.”

  “No, not here McKenzie. Not yet. We’ll keep playing cat and mouse. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even win. But get this—you and whoever you’re working with are going to have to find another patsy. You try taking my wife down for a murder you and I both know she didn’t commit, I’ll kill you myself.”

  The two men were only inches apart, glaring at each other almost nose to nose. McKenzie blinked first. He pushed past Sawyer and opened the car door, leaving Ben with a closing thought.

  “Your wife’s going to prison, Sawyer. Get used to it. If anything happens to me, who do you suppose they’ll look at? Might wanna ask yourself what becomes of a boy who’s got two parents locked up for life.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  McKenzie had sat outside Jorgensen’s office for more than twenty minutes wondering just what the hell was going on. He’d been caught off guard when the chief’s secretary called and told him to report to the chief’s office. Why did he have that old bitch call me? Why are we meeting here? As he played out the possibilities in his mind, the door finally opened.

  “Step in here, Detective,” the chief called out from the doorway. “I need to speak with you about the Louis Carson case.” McKenzie picked up on the wry smile from Bernice Erickson as he walked toward the office. The woman looked up and they exchanged stares. McKenzie was sure she was the culprit who had given Sawyer his badge and he didn’t doubt she had something to do with this meeting.

  McKenzie walked into the office and went for his usual chair, but Jorgensen stopped him with an upraised hand.

  “Don’t sit down. You won’t be here that long. Plate Boyd stopped by a while ago. Said he found this on his desk this morning.” Jorgensen jammed a piece of paper against McKenzie’s chest. A copy of an old booking card. The name on the card was Harlan Lee. The words “Ask McKenzie” were written across the top of the form.

  So that’s it. Son of a bitch.

  “Boss, I had no idea—”

  “Did I tell you to clean this shit up? Did I tell you to be thorough?” Jorgensen’s voice was harsh but delivered in a whisper. “Judas Priest, Detective. How have you survived as a cop all these years?”

  McKenzie struggled for a response.

  “Chief, we haven’t used booking cards in over ten years. How the hell was I supposed to know this would turn up?”

  “Because the case happened seventeen years ago, you stupid shit. Someone is sniffing around, McKenzie. Who the hell is it? Is it Sawyer?”

  McKenzie blew out a breath. “It’s gotta be.” McKenzie pointed to the closed office door. “And I’ll bet you he is working with that old bitch you’ve got for a secretary. You need to get rid of her, Chief.”

  “Oh sure, Doyle. And how is that going to look right now?”

  It dawned on Doyle that was the reason for the official meeting. Jorgensen was worried and now he was covering his tracks. Separating himself from the whole mess. He needed to draw the chief back in. Let him know just how close the danger was. “Sawyer came at me last night, got in my face. He knows about Lee.”

  Jorgensen looked stunned. “And you were going to tell me when?”

  “I’m taking care of it, Chief. I’m on it.”

  “I’ve heard that before, Doyle. I’m starting to think I fired the wrong damn cop.”

  McKenzie seethed in silence.

  “Your ship is springing major leaks, Doyle.” Jorgensen’s voice went up an octave and his face was red. “This booking card is a formal link to the Lee case. You had better get a handle on this right now. Do you hear me?”

  “Boss, I’ve got it under control. You told me to handle it. To keep everyone else away from it. I’m taking care of everything.”

  Jorgensen’s voice dropped back to a whisper. “All this shit has got to stop. Sawyer cannot get to Harlan Lee. Do you hear me?”

  “And what happens if he does? I’m in the dark here, Chief. Makes it kind of hard to know where the next move is gonna come from.”

  Jorgensen drilled two fingers into McKenzie’s chest. “You don’t need to know any more than what I’ve told you. I think maybe I should pull you off the case. I’ve still got some concerns about that body at the rest stop. Seems they’ve tied the boy into another local dealer, fella named Tyrone. Haven’t I heard you mention an informant by that name?”

  McKenzie knew he was in deep, deep trouble. “Okay, boss,” he said, surrendering. “Point me in the right direction.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that Sawyer is already halfway to Florence County,” Jorgensen said. “When he gets there, he’ll be asking a lot of questions. About Harlan Lee. And Henry Lipinski.”

  “I’ll head up there and—”

  Jorgensen cut him off. “Don’t bother, McKenzie. I told you. I’ve got a good man in that area. A man I can damn sure depend on to get a job done. Sawyer ain’t going to find shit. He’ll have no choice but to turn his ass around and come home.”

  Jorgensen put his lips inches from McKenzie’s ear.

  “When he does, I want you to track his ass down. That son of a bitch is not to return to Newberg. And as for that old, broken-down piece of shit across town, he needs to be dealt with right quick.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Chief.” McKenzie’s voice shook. “You can count on it.”

  “Stop with the ass-kissin’ bullshit. If you had half the police sense Sawyer has, this shit would be history. Quit talking and get it done. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Ben watched as the uniformed officer hopped into the cruiser marked FLORENCE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE and took off down the road. No doubt responding to a domestic violence in progress that had been called in clear across the county. That should keep you busy for a half hour or so.

  After the late-night meeting with McKenzie, Ben had reluctantly driven two hundred and fifty miles to Florence County. He was certain McKenzie wasn’t working alone, and Ben didn’t know whom he could trust. He had copied the booking card and told Bernie to put it on Plate Boyd’s desk. He could only hope that, in the end, Plate was still a real cop. Leaving Alex in Newberg with McKenzie on the loose had him worried, but what choice did he have? He hoped that she would be safe in jail—also not a particularly comforting thought. Ben had called Tia on her cell—she was still in the hospital, though her parents had gone back to Mexico—and they had come up with what they thought was a simple plan. Tia’s stern directions had left Ben wondering who worked for whom.

  “Don’t be going all cowboy on this thing,” she said. “Keep a low profile, be as quick as you can, and get your ass back down to Newberg. I’ll take care of things while you’re gone.”

  Once he had some proof of Harlan Lee’s existence and something that indicated that his murder conviction was somehow related to an arrest in Newberg, he’d go to the courthouse and bang on the DA’s desk. I’ll bother her at home if I have to. Hell, he thought, I’ll take it to the media. Somehow, he had to shed some light on the case, do something that would give Alex the benefit of the doubt.

  The woman at the counter in the sheriff’s office bought Ben’s line about being a reporter researching an old murder case. She seemed to hope that maybe she would become part of the story. When she couldn’t find anything in her computer, her apology sounded genuine.

  “Sorry, sir. Are you sure it was Florence County? Do you have the name right?”

  “Positive. The case was transferred up from Newberg. Harlan Lee. Can you check again?”

  “I’ve checked three times. I searched through all the L’s and H’s just in case the name got messed up. We have no record of a trial, arrest, booking. Nothing. Nothing on a man named Harlan Lee.”

  Ben murmured under his breath, “McKenzie, you son of a bitch.”

  “Excuse me?” The clerk was beginning to look annoyed.

  “Never mind
.” Ben’s mind was turning. “Tell me this. Who were the key players back then? I know the sheriff was a man named Lipinski, but who else was here? Who prosecuted murder cases? Or a judge? Anyone still around?”

  “Beats me. I was six years old.” The girl shrugged, her hopes for notoriety dashed.

  “That’d be Bill Petite,” a new voice said. “He was the district attorney back then.”

  Ben turned around to see a white-haired man with tan leathery skin leaning against a mop. He wore an orange jumpsuit marked FLORENCE COUNTY JAIL and Ben figured his age at seventy-plus.

  The clerk said, “Gus, be quiet and stick to your work. Don’t be butting in on other people’s conversations.” The woman looked at Ben and rolled her eyes. “They send him over here every day and I end up babysitting him. He mops that same spot for eight hours.”

  “I see,” Ben said, then turned to the man and encouraged him to continue. “What was that you said?”

  “I said Bill Petite was district attorney back in them days. Hot-shot lawyer. Came in for a few years, then lost his chair to another young buck. Headed out for greener pastures, or so he thought.” The man snickered. He lowered his stooped shoulders and returned to his pressing duty of dry mopping the floor as if he hadn’t said a word. Ben looked up and down the hall and saw no sign of a guard or other prisoner.

  “You got a name, pal?”

  The man took offense. “Name’s Gus Walcowski, but that don’t make me no pal of yours now, does it?”

  Ben was willing to do what it took to gain the man’s cooperation. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by it. But this is really important to me. Do you know where I can get hold of Mr. Petite? Is he still practicing?”

  The old man laughed like he’d heard a good joke. “Practicing? Guess he could be practicing one thing or another.”

  “I’m not following you.” Ben tried to hide his growing frustration. “Can you help me or not?”

  “I can’t help you with nothing other than to tell you Bill Petite was a district attorney who took a real pleasure in stickin’ it to ya as hard as he could. I can also tell you he is easy enough to find these days.”