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

by Margaret Truman

  “Clarence didn’t drink, maybe an occasional glass of wine.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No.”

  “They found lots here in the apartment.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “I wish you did. I might be more inclined to cross you off as a potential suspect.” And if he believed that, he’d believe in the tooth fairy. Hell, maybe Mr. Plum did…

  Plum raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that’s the way it is. Did Clarence use drugs? No, just soft stuff that everybody’s into—”

  “Like what? Pot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coke?”

  “Once in a while. You drink. There’s that generation gap again.”

  “I’m not in the mood to debate it with you,” Teller said.

  “Good. Anything else I can tell you about Clarence?”

  “Other friends. Who’d he hang out with besides you?”

  “We didn’t hang out, Lieutenant.”

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Clarence had many friends. Despite his prestigious family his friends included many sorts. Sometimes he enjoyed the low life. Clarence liked to get involved with strange types.”

  “Give me some of them.”

  “Names?”

  “If you know them.”

  “I don’t remember names. There were parties. He’d invite them, or meet them in a bar and—”

  “Male, female?”

  “Mostly female.”

  “Mostly? Was he—?”

  “Gay? No. Bisexual? No. Clarence was straight.”

  “But sort of kinky.”

  “Depends on your point of view. Look, Lieutenant, Clarence in my view was a normal, healthy American male, having a good time before it was time to settle down.”

  “Did he have a steady girl friend? Somebody he saw regularly. Was he, forgive the expression, in love with anybody?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you know any woman who might have wanted to take a shot at him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know any women who were in love with him?”

  “Sure, a few. Clarence had charm to burn.”

  “Name one.”

  “Laurie Rawls.”

  “From the Court?”

  “Right. She drove him crazy, calling at odd hours, showing up when he was with somebody else and making scenes. That lady has a problem. She played the game, but deep down all she wanted was to have a brood of kids and keep the apple pies coming out of the oven.”

  “Sounds like a nice girl.”

  “If you’re into that.”

  “Clarence wasn’t, I take it.”

  “You take it right. I already told you—”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “Nothing really. Sometimes he saw older women. It’s a trend. Older women are into younger men these days. It makes them feel young.”

  “I’d think it’d make them feel older.”

  “Doesn’t seem to work that way. At any rate, he saw a few from time to time.”

  “Names.”

  “Don’t know them. Sorry.”

  Teller stood and took another look around the room. “Well, Mr. Plum, thanks for your time and talk. Very enlightening.”

  “My pleasure. You will talk to the men outside.”

  “Sure. By the way, they’re not goons. They’re police officers doing their job. End of speech.”

  “Don’t take offense, it was just a phrase.”

  “Yeah, I know. By the way, what were you doing the night Clarence was killed?”

  “I was in bed.”

  “Alone?”

  “Of course not.”

  “An older woman? Sorry…”

  “I’m not sure how old she was.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “I… frankly I’m not sure… do you really have to know?”

  “Not if you don’t. Thanks again.”

  ***

  Teller stayed in his office until seven, then went home, where he put a frozen dinner in the oven and played a recording of Der Rosenkavalier. As waltz melodies drifted from his speakers he danced across the living room with an imaginary partner, who of course was Susanna Pinscher. “You look lovely tonight, my dear.” She looked up into his eyes. “And you are the most attractive man I’ve ever known—”

  Beast, his female cat, startled by a sound from outside, leaped from the couch and landed on the turntable. The needle dug into the vinyl record as it skated across the grooves, sending a cacophony of scratch and hiss into the room.

  “Damn you,” Teller yelled at her. She escaped the swing of his hand and scurried beneath a chair. He took a bottle of gin from the kitchen, poured himself a drink, sat in his recliner and offered a toast to the empty center of the room. “Here’s to you, Miss Pinscher, wherever you are, and to you, Clarence Sutherland, whoever you were.” He downed half the contents of his glass and added, “Generation gap, my ass.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Dawn broke crisp and clear the following Saturday. Susanna was up early. She did twenty minutes of exercises, took a hot shower with the adjustable shower head set at maximum pulsating pressure, dressed in a taupe wool gabardine jumpsuit over a claret turtleneck sweater, slipped into a pair of boots and got her car from the garage. She had plenty of time to make her appointment with Justice Childs, so she stopped in a neighborhood luncheonette, bought The Washington Post and read it over coffee and honeydew melon.

  A half-hour later she exited the George Washington Memorial Highway at a sign that read NATIONAL AIRPORT and found a road leading to the general aviation section of that complex.

  Morgan Childs’s aviation background was well known to millions of Americans, and Susanna had boned up on the media reports that had created such public awareness. Childs was the most public of the nine Supreme Court justices. He’d been a combat ace in Korea, had been shot down and captured, escaping after six months of captivity. The dramatic details of his escape and subsequent heroism had captured the media’s and public’s attention. His picture had been on the cover of Time. Television crews followed him throughout Korea, sending back vivid images of that war’s reigning hero. He’d returned to the United States much decorated, admired and in demand as a speaker and talk show guest. Eventually, public interest waned and he resumed private life as an attorney, then became a district court judge and, finally, was appointed to the highest court of the land, the youngest person ever to receive such an honor.

  Susanna parked in a visitor’s area and walked along a row of small aircraft. At the end was a hangar. Its door was open and she went inside. A young man in a three-piece suit stepped out of interior shadows and asked politely, “May I help you, ma’am?”

  Her initial reaction was to question his authority but she reasoned that Justice Childs had probably been assigned security and that the young man represented it. “I’m Susanna Pinscher, I have an appointment with Justice Childs.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Pinscher, the justice told me you’d be coming.”

  She looked in the direction of his finger. In a corner of the hangar and wearing olive green coveralls was Morgan Childs. His head and shoulders were lost inside the engine cowling of a 1964 vintage, fabric-covered, single-engine Piper Colt. He heard her approach, straightened up and smiled, which lit up a square, tanned, and rugged face. “Hi,” he said. “I’d shake hands but no sense in two of us being covered with grease.” His hands were black, and one cheek was smeared.

  Susanna smiled. “You do your own repairs?”

  “That’s right. I always packed my own chute too. Besides, I like tinkering with this animal.”

  She touched the fabric on a wing. “It’s yours?”

  “Yes. I’ve had it a long time. I hope you don’t mind meeting me out here, Miss Pinscher. I thought it would be less hectic and more private than the Court. Excuse me. I don’t want to forget to replace this.” He leaned into the engine and tight
ened something with a torque wrench.

  Susanna leaned closer and watched him work. His fingers were thick and blunt, a workingman’s hands. Like her father, she thought. She then realized how much Childs and her father had in common. Both had gray crewcuts, an anachronism. Her father, who’d retired to St. Helena, California, in the wine country north of San Francisco, had been an airline pilot with Pan Am for years. He too liked tinkering with mechanical things; nothing was beyond his ability to fix.

  Childs straightened up, leaned against the plane and wiped his hands on a greasy rag. “Well, Miss Pinscher, let’s talk. What do I know about Clarence Sutherland’s murder? Not nearly as much as you do, I’m sure. I was with the other justices when the body was discovered, had the same shocked reaction, couldn’t believe that not only had a Supreme Court clerk been murdered, but that he was sitting in the Chief Justice’s chair, in the courtroom, when it happened.”

  “I would assume shock is an understatement.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. I represented the other justices at his funeral.”

  “I read that and wondered why they all didn’t attend.”

  “Too much pressing business in the Court.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Were any of the justices… well, how shall I say it?… Were any of them…”

  “Unwilling to attend the funeral because of animosity toward Sutherland? I doubt it.”

  “Why were you chosen, Justice Childs? Were you and Clarence Sutherland particularly close? I know he clerked for Chief Justice Poulson.”

  Childs shrugged and tossed the rag on a tool-laden table next to him. “R.H.I.P., Miss Pinscher.”

  “R.H.I.P?”

  “Rank Has Its Privilege. I’m the junior justice. They asked for a volunteer and chose me.”

  “Like the military.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about Clarence?” she asked. “I’m trying to piece together some sort of picture of him.”

  “Clarence Sutherland? Well, drawing an accurate picture of him isn’t so easy. He was a rather enigmatic young man.” A strong gust of chilled October air whistled through the open hangar doors and blew a set of engine specs for the Colt from the table to the floor. Childs picked them up, folded them carefully and put them into his coverall pocket. He looked toward the open hangar door and said, “I’d intended to get in an hour of flying this morning, Miss Pinscher. I’m afraid that’s all the time I have, another hour. How about continuing this discussion up in the air?”

  “In that?” she asked, pointing to the Colt.

  “Yes. It’s a fine airplane, stable, airworthy. Up to you.”

  “I’d love it… I think…”

  They flew north at seven thousand feet. Childs talked a good deal about the aircraft—it had a Lycoming engine, a cruising range of 325 miles, a top speed of 120 mph and a service ceiling of twelve thousand feet.

  Susanna had taken flying lessons years earlier but had stopped short of receiving her license. Flying with Childs brought back all the memories of those days, the intense feeling of freedom from earth’s bonds, the exhilaration… She looked down at houses that seemed plastic symbols on a Monopoly board, tiny automobiles following slotted highways, racetracks that would fit into the palm of her hand.

  “Enjoying it?” Childs asked.

  “Very much,” she said over the roar of the Lycoming.

  “I’m happiest up here, Miss Pinscher. Things up here make more sense.”

  “I understand, but I have to make sense out of Clarence Sutherland’s death.”

  “Of course. Fire away.”

  “Who didn’t like him?”

  Childs laughed and banked the aircraft into a tight left turn. “Time to head back,” he said.

  “Because of what I asked?”

  “No, because of time. I have an appointment.” He squinted as he scrutinized the instruments. “Who didn’t like him? Lots of people, I’d say.”

  “Including you?”

  “Yes, including me, I’m afraid. Clarence was… well, he was a bit of a spoiled brat. He had the attitude that he was born to the good life, and I suppose he was. Lots of money, family support, a good mind and a handsome face. Women fell in love with his boyish good looks, the vulnerable little boy in a man’s body. He was a charmer, that’s for sure, Miss Pinscher.”

  “Did you resent him for that?” Susanna asked.

  Childs looked at her in surprise. “Resent him? Why would I do that? I didn’t like him, but I didn’t resent him. I think I felt more sorry for him than anything.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because he was like so many young men today, Miss Pinscher. Put them in a tough situation and they can’t figure out how to blow their own noses. They’ve been coddled, protected, sheltered. They never become men, although they think they do because they wear suits and bed down a string of women.” He pointed out the window. “There’s the airport… Them’s my sentiments, Miss Pinscher, they’re children when they should be men. Too damn soft for my taste, however unjudicial that may sound.”

  Susanna watched as Childs set up the Colt for a landing, coordinating his approach with the ground controllers, flying parallel to the runway, then turning onto his base leg and, with a smoothly executed left turn, lining up with the long, wide strip of concrete.

  “It was a nice ride,” she said after they’d come to a stop at his tie-down spot. “Thank you.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it.” He walked her to her car. “Can I give you an unsolicited opinion? We justices love to give opinions.”

  “I’d very much appreciate it.”

  “Clarence was very probably killed by a woman. It may be attractive to the media, but I’m afraid you’d be wasting your time investigating any man, including those on the Court. God knows we’re not perfect, to put it mildly, but Clarence was a man who treated women badly. Common knowledge, I’m afraid. I’ve no evidence, no suspects for you, but it seems likely that one of his women got mad enough to seek her revenge.”

  “But you have nobody particular in mind?”

  “No. As I understand it, you couldn’t tell the victims without a scorecard.”

  She shook his hand and thanked him again for the flight.

  “Please come back again, Miss Pinscher. I enjoyed having you aboard.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Pretty fancy for a Hungarian joint,” Martin Teller said after joining Susanna at a table in Csiko’s. “I feel like a prince.”

  She laughed. “It is a little overdone but I like it. Wait’ll the gypsy violins start in.”

  They ordered drinks, a Bloody Mary for her, gin—not vodka—on the rocks for him. He settled back in an armchair and took in his surroundings; Austrian shades and draperies, burnished brass and polished wood, high ceilings with rococo plastering, a single red carnation on each table. “Very nice,” he said, sipping his drink. “Are you Hungarian?”

  “I’m a mixed bag, a little of this, a little of that, including a dash of Hungarian.”

  A waiter brought menus. “How did your interview with Childs go this morning?” he asked.

  She put down the menu, glanced up over half-glasses. “Strange, maybe, but I find most people strange these days.”

  “Why is Childs strange?”

  “Hard to say. He’s very nice, friendly, open. He took me for a ride in his plane.”

  Teller put on a leer and wiggled an imaginary cigar in his fingers. “In his plane, huh? I thought he was married, four kids, nice quiet suburban life.”

  She removed her glasses. “Don’t be silly. He was pressed for time and I got to ask a lot of questions while we were up in the air.”

  Teller waved his hands. “Don’t mind me. I’m a little upset. I had to take Beauty to the vet today.”

  “Your dog?”

  “Cat, one of two. He has hair balls.”

  “Oh.” She replaced her glasses on her nose and returned to the menu.

  He chose roast duck that was billed as a specialty
of the house. “Careful of the red cabbage,” she said, “it tastes like it’s fermented.” She ordered szekely gulyas, a pork and sauerkraut stew sprinkled with paprika and cooked with sour cream.

  “So, Miss Pinscher, tell me about the rest of your week. Did you get to interview any of the other justices?”

  “No, just Childs. He thinks a woman killed Clarence Sutherland, that he was a womanizer and evidently made at least one of them mad enough to kill him.”

  “I talked with a few employees at the Court and got the same picture.”

  She sat back. “A woman just walks into the main chamber of the United States Supreme Court and kills the chief clerk?”

  “You can never figure women, Miss Pinscher. No offense. Can I call you Susanna?”

  “Sure. Unless you prefer Candy.”

  “As the poet said, Candy’s dandy but liquor’s quicker.”

  “So true… Look, Lieutenant, I hate to be a party-pooper but a man is stone dead by hands other than his own. Maybe we ought to get back to cases.”

  He nodded gravely, but pleaded for a reprieve until they’d finished off apple strudel and coffee served in glasses resting in silver filigree holders.

  “All right,” he said, patting his stomach, “what do you think? Is Childs right about the perpetrator, as my boss would say? Did a woman do in young Sutherland?”

  “—Certainly seems reasonable.”

  “What did Childs personally think of Sutherland?”

  “Didn’t like him, called him one of the soft generation.”

  “That wouldn’t sit well with Childs. I did some reading up on him this week. A real hard-nose, military all the way. I never realized he came out of a poor background. Somehow I always assume people in his position were born right.”

  “Give him credit. He’s a classic American success story.”

  “Yeah. I got a hold of that series Life did on him, the one written by Dan Brazier. It was good.”

  She nodded. “I read that series too. That was an interesting story in itself, the relationship between Childs and Brazier,” she said, referring to a close friendship that had developed between the two men.

  Brazier had been a UPI reporter assigned to Korea. Like Childs, he’d been captured by the North Koreans while covering a front-line skirmish, and they’d ended up in the same prisoner-of-war camp. The escape masterminded by Childs included five other prisoners, Brazier among them. They became inseparable after that, and Brazier had what amounted to an exclusive pipeline to the war’s leading hero, the Life series representing only one of several rewards for that closeness.