Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3)

by Margaret Truman

He hung up, stood, stretched and looked out his window over a blustery October Washington day. “Almost winter,” he muttered as he rolled down his shirt sleeves. The right cuff flapped open. He’d noticed the missing button while dressing that morning but was running late. Besides, all his other shirts were missing buttons too. He slipped on his suit jacket and went to a small cracked mirror hanging crookedly near the door. Some days he felt younger than his forty-six years, but this wasn’t one of them. His reflection in the cracked glass didn’t help. He’d put on weight and was developing jowls beneath prominent pink cheeks. Loss of thin, brown, straight hair had advanced enough to cause him to start parting it lower so that the long strands could be combed up over the balding spot. “Moonface,” he’d been called in high school. He smiled as he turned to retrieve the Sutherland folder from his desk. No matter what age had done to him, he looked better now than when he was in high school. At least the acne was gone.

  Five minutes later he was seated around a small, scarred conference table with his superior, Dorian Mars, four years younger and possessing a master’s degree in criminology and a Ph.D. in psychology. Also at the table were four other detectives assigned to the Sutherland case.

  “This is the most important case in my career in law enforcement,” Mars said, puffing on a pipe. He looked at Teller. “It’ll be a pressure cooker until it’s solved, Martin. They’re already talking bottom line. Which means our collective neck if we don’t handle things well…”

  Teller nodded solemnly and adjusted the buttonless cuff beneath his jacket sleeve. He opened the Sutherland folder and said, “We’ll stay in the kitchen, Dorian, no matter how hot it gets,” wishing he was able to curb a recent tendency to mimic his boss’s penchant for the well-worn phrase.

  ***

  He was late getting to the Sutherland house, a huge and sprawling white stucco and red brick home set back on four acres in Chevy Chase. The original house had reflected the Federal style of architecture popular during its construction in 1810. Numerous additions and wings had transformed it into a more eclectic dwelling.

  Parked in front of a long, winding driveway was an MPD squad car. Two uniformed officers stood next to it. Another car was parked twenty feet further up the road. Teller pulled his unmarked blue Buick Regal behind the second vehicle. The door opened and Susanna Pinscher stepped out, a nicely turned pair of legs leading the way. Teller was immediately aware of her beauty. He judged her to be about five feet four inches tall but she carried herself taller. Clean, thick, black, gently wavy hair with errant single strands of gray fluttered in the breeze. Her face was definite and strong, each individual component prominent yet in sync with the others. She was fair, with full, sensuous lips etched in red, large expressive green eyes defined by an appropriate amount of mascara, rouge so expertly applied to her cheeks that the color seemed to emanate from within.

  She extended her hand and smiled. He took it and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

  “It’s okay. I just got here. You are Martin Teller?”

  “You didn’t know me right off?”

  She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Definitely Paul Newman. I don’t see the Matthau, though.”

  “I think we can work together, Miss Pinscher. Come on.”

  They walked up the driveway. He allowed her to get ahead of him and took in her figure. A subtle pleated plaid skirt swung easily from her hips. She wore a blue blazer over a white blouse. She suddenly stopped, looked over her shoulder and asked, “Coming?”

  “I’m with you.” So far.

  They told a uniformed black maid who they were, and she asked them to wait in the foyer. Teller looked around and whistled softly. “It’s bigger than my whole apartment.”

  “He’s a successful psychiatrist,” Susanna said.

  “There are poor ones?”

  The maid returned and led them across a vast expanse of study and through another door, then along a corridor until reaching a separate wing. She knocked on heavy sliding doors. They opened and the maid stepped back to allow them to enter.

  “Good morning, I’m Vera Jones, Dr. Sutherland’s secretary. I hope you don’t mind waiting. This dreadful thing has taken a toll on everyone, especially the immediate family.”

  “Of course,” Susanna said.

  The patient-reception area, which was also her office, was decorated in subtle earth tones, spacious and strikingly neat. Two sharpened pencils were lined up perfectly parallel to each other on top of a yellow legal pad on her polished desk. A large leather appointment book was squared with the corner of the desk.

  Everything in order, like the woman, Teller told himself.

  Vera Jones appeared the last word in a dedicated, organized secretary. Fortyish, tall and slender, her clothing was like her hair, matter-of-fact, nondescript, functional and not likely to detract from whatever business was at hand. She held herself erect and moved through the office like a blind person who knows her surroundings so intimately that a stranger would assume she was sighted. Her face was a series of sharp angles. Her mouth, wide and thin, was undoubtedly capable of being drawn even thinner under pressure.

  Still, Teller thought, this could well be a sensuous woman. He’d come to the conclusion after his divorce that sexuality had nothing to do with sexiness. The overtly sexual female wearing provocative clothing, flirting, leading conversations into sexual innuendo was likely to be deceptive. He’d come to appreciate and trust subtlety, respond to it. He glanced at Susanna, who’d taken a leather wing chair next to Vera’s desk, and wondered at her style.

  Vera sat behind her desk and checked the pencils’ alignment. She sighed; her breasts rose beneath a forest green sweater. Teller noticed their fullness. He took a matching chair across from Susanna and asked, “How long have you worked for Dr. Sutherland, Miss Jones?”

  The turn of her head was abrupt, as though the question had startled her. “Twenty-two years,” she said.

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Yes, it is.” She paused, looked down at the desk top. “Is there any possibility of postponing this interview?”

  “Why?” Teller asked.

  “It seems so… so unnecessary considering the personal tragedy the family must face. The boy hasn’t even been buried yet.”

  “That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Teller looked at Susanna before saying, “I don’t like it either, Miss Jones, but I don’t make the rules.”

  A faint light came to life on a compact telephone console on her desk, accompanied by a gentle bell. “Excuse me,” she said. She got up and disappeared through a door.

  “What do you know about him?” Teller asked Susanna.

  “The doctor? Probably the most famous psychiatrist in Washington, confidant to the rich and powerful, a special advisor to the former administration on mental health issues, very rich and powerful, a world figure in his profession.”

  “What about his kid?”

  “Clarence? Very little except that he’s dead, murdered in the Supreme Court, of all places. He graduated from law school with honors and probably had a prestigious law career ahead of him.”

  “What else?”

  She shrugged.

  “I understand he was considered one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors.”

  “That’s natural in a city with more women than men.”

  Vera returned and said in a soft voice, “Dr. Sutherland will see you now.”

  His office was surprisingly small, considering the dimensions of the rest of the house. A glass coffee table in front of a beige couch served as his desk. Two orange club chairs faced the table. A comfortable brown leather recliner was in front of a draped window immediately to the couch’s left. On the wall behind the club chairs was an ornate dark leather couch, its headrest curving up like a swan’s neck.

  “A relic,” Dr. Sutherland said coldly from behind the glass table as he noticed Teller’s interest in the couch. He hadn’t stood when th
ey’d entered.

  Teller smiled. “You don’t use it?”

  “Seldom, only when a patient insists. Most don’t. Please sit down. You can use that couch if you’d like.”

  Teller looked at the leather couch, turned to Sutherland and said, “Thanks, I think I will.” He sat on it and extended a leg along its length. Susanna sat in one of the club chairs.

  Dr. Sutherland leaned back on his couch and took in his visitors with restless eyes beneath bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He had a full head of white hair that threatened to erupt any moment into disarray. He was deeply tanned—sunlamp or Caribbean vacations? Teller wondered. His dress was studied casualness, sharply creased twill riding pants, boots shined to a mirror finish, a blue button-down shirt and pale yellow cardigan sweater. He evidently was aware that he was being scrutinized because he said, “I’ve canceled all professional obligations since this tragedy with my son.”

  “Of course,” Susanna said.

  “My condolences,” Teller said.

  “Thank you.”

  “It was good of you to see us,” Susanna said.

  “I didn’t expect both of you. Mr. Teller had made the appointment. Might I ask what official connection you have in this matter?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Susanna Pinscher. I’m with the Justice Department. Naturally, when something of this magnitude occurs, we’re brought into it.”

  “The world is brought into it,” he said, removing glasses that changed tint with the light, and rubbing his eyes. “Have either of you ever lost a child?” he asked.

  “No,” Teller said. “It must be tough. I have a couple of kids…”

  Sutherland replaced his glasses on his nose and looked at Susanna. “Do you have children, Mrs. Pinscher?”

  “Miss Pinscher. Yes, I have three. They live with my former husband.”

  “Very modern.”

  “It was best for both of us.”

  “Undoubtedly. It’s a trend.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Children being with the male partner. Biology has taken second place to social… progress.”

  Teller knew the tenor of the conversation was making Susanna uncomfortable. He sat up and said, “This is just the beginning, Dr. Sutherland. Nobody likes probing into a family in times of tragedy, but that’s what’s going to be happening until we get to the bottom line.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “A cliché. I work for someone who uses those terms. Look, I’m not sure there’s a hell of a lot to discuss today. It was important that we make contact because—”

  “Because along with many other people, I am a suspect in my son’s murder.”

  Teller nodded.

  “I understand that, Mr. Teller.”

  “How about Mrs. Sutherland? Will she understand it?”

  “To the extent she needs to. I didn’t kill my son.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Who else is in the family?”

  “My daughter. She’s in California working on her doctorate in English literature.”

  Teller asked, “Will she be here for the funeral?”

  “There are some logistical problems with that, Mr. Teller.” Sutherland stood and his height surprised his visitors. His posture on the couch indicated a shorter man, but he’d unraveled himself into over six feet. He extended his hand and said, “You will excuse me.”

  Teller asked as he shook hands, “What about Mrs. Sutherland, doctor? When can we see her?”

  “Obviously not for quite a while. She’s under heavy sedation. Perhaps later in the week.”

  “Of course,” Teller said. “Well, thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.”

  “I suppose you will.” He left through a door to the rear of his office.

  Teller and Susanna went to where Vera Jones sat ramrod straight behind her desk, her hands crossed on the legal pad.

  “Thank you for your time,” Susanna said as she headed for the sliding doors.

  Teller didn’t follow her. He walked to a row of built-in bookcases and perused the books. “Has he read all of these?” he asked.

  “I would imagine so,” Vera said.

  “I have a lot of respect for doctors, especially ones with Dr. Sutherland’s reputation.” He openly admired a large landscape that hung behind her. “That’s a Sutherland, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Graham Sutherland. I always liked his landscapes better than his etchings. Any relation to the family?”

  “Distant.” She led them to an outside door used by patients.

  “Thanks for your time, Miss Jones,” Teller said. “By the way, where were you the night Clarence was murdered?”

  “Here with Dr. Sutherland. We were working on a paper he’d written for a psychiatric journal… he’s widely published.”

  “I’m sure he is. Have a nice day.”

  Teller escorted Susanna to her car. Before getting in she looked back at the house, bit her lip and said, “Strange.”

  “Did you ever know a shrink who wasn’t?”

  “It’s her. She bothers me. I feel sorry for her.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, a type, a sadness in her eyes.”

  “I know what you mean. Say, how are you fixed for dinner tonight?”

  He couldn’t tell whether she legitimately wasn’t sure of her plans or was groping for an excuse. She said, “I’m busy.”

  “Well, maybe another time. Let’s keep in touch.”

  He watched her drive away, then drove back to MPD headquarters. At six he went to his apartment in Georgetown, where he fed his two cats, a male named Beauty, a female named the Beast, put a TV dinner in the oven and settled into his favorite reclining chair. Two paperback books were on a table next to him, a historical novel by Stephanie Blake and a collection of Camus’s writings. He chose Camus, promptly fell asleep and awoke only when the odor of a charred TV dinner was strong enough to get through to him.

  ***

  Across town in a large and tastefully decorated cooperative apartment, Susanna Pinscher said into the telephone in her bedroom, “I love you, too, honey. I’ll see you this weekend. Okay. Pleasant dreams. Let me speak to daddy.”

  Her former husband came on the line. Their three children lived with him by mutual agreement, although Susanna visited freely and had taken them for the entire previous summer. The decision to give her husband custody had been a wrenching one but was, she continued to tell herself, the right one.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “No problems. How about you?”

  “Exhausted. They’ve assigned me to the Sutherland case.”

  “A biggie. That’s all everyone talks about these days.”

  “I don’t wonder. Murder in the Supreme Court. A first.”

  “Take care of yourself, Susanna. You’ll be out this weekend?”

  “Yes. Good night.”

  She prowled through the apartment, ending up in the kitchen, where she made herself an English muffin and coffee. She hadn’t had dinner, had come straight home from the office, her briefcase bulging. She’d changed into a nightgown and robe and read until calling the kids.

  She finished the muffin and went to the bedroom, where she took an art book from a shelf. She climbed into bed and found an entry on the British artist Graham Sutherland. She read it, closed the book and turned out the light, wondering as she did why a detective from the MPD would know anything about a relatively obscure British artist.

  What was law and order coming to?…

  CHAPTER 4

  Supreme Court Justice Temple Conover sat in the sunny breakfast room of his home in Bethesda. He wore a pale blue flannel robe, blue terry-cloth slippers and a red wool scarf around his neck. Next to him was an aluminum Canadian crutch he’d used since his last stroke. The final draft of an article he’d written for Harper’s magazine on the growing perils of censorship was on a place mat.

  A grandfather clock in the dining room chimed out the
time, 7:00 A.M. Conover poured what was left of coffee made for him by the housekeeper and looked out a window over formal Japanese gardens, a gift to his second wife, who was Japanese.

  “Good morning, Temp,” his current wife said from the doorway. Long blond hair flowed down over the shoulders of a delicate pink dressing gown secured at the waist by two buttons. A childlike, oval face was puffy with sleep. She leaned against the open archway, the toes of one foot curled over the top of the other, the bottom of the robe gaping open and revealing smooth white thighs.

  “Hello, Cecily,” Conover said. “Do you want coffee?”

  She came to the table, saw that the glass carafe was empty. “I’ll get more.”

  “Call Carla.”

  “I’d rather get it myself.”

  She returned ten minutes later with a fresh carafe, poured herself a cup and sat across from him, one shapely leg dangling over the other. He coughed. “How do you feel this morning?” she asked.

  “Well. The article is finished.” He slid it across the table. She glanced down at it, then sipped from her cup.

  “How was the concert?” he asked.

  “Boring.”

  “Where did you go after?”

  “To Peggy’s house for a nightcap.”

  “More than one. You didn’t come home until almost two.”

  “We talked. Okay?”

  “You might have called.” He started coughing again. His eyes teared up and he gulped water. She started toward him but he waved her away. When he stopped coughing he asked, “Why didn’t you call? I worry, you know.”

  “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Who was there?”

  “The usual group. Temp, I’m tired of the questions, of the suspicion every time I go out.”

  “Is it so without cause, Cecily?”

  She exhaled a burst of air and returned her cup to the table with enough force to send its contents slopping over the rim. “Please don’t start on that again. One single incident doesn’t—”

  She was interrupted by the self-conscious clearing of a male throat. Standing in the doorway was a tall dark man of about thirty whose name was Karl. He wore tight jeans and a gray tee shirt stretched by heavily muscled arms and shoulders. A helmet of black curls surrounded a face full of thick features, heavy eyelids, a full sensuous mouth and a nose worthy of a prizefighter. He’d been hired six months earlier as a general handyman, gardener, and occasional chauffeur to Justice Conover. He lived in one of three garage apartments at the rear of the property.