SW04 - The Naked Typist

by Parnell Hall

  Clay took a breath. “I had it for my job.”

  “Why?”

  “Occasionally I had to make deposits, withdrawals, carry large sums of money. Mostly during the day, but sometimes at night after work I’d make deposits. I didn’t feel safe walking around with the money on me, so I got a gun.”

  “Who knew you had it?”

  “I don’t know. David Castleton, of course. He was my boss. Aside from him I wouldn’t know. It wasn’t any secret or anything.”

  “How about his father?”

  “Whose father?”

  “David’s father. Wasn’t he in charge of that division?”

  “Yeah. But he wasn’t really hands-on, you know what I mean? He was a cream puff. Only had his job because he was the old man’s son.”

  “Yeah, but did he know about the gun?”

  Clay frowned. “You think he killed his son?”

  “We’re running possibilities here. You tell me Kelly didn’t do it. You want to tell me Stanley Castleton didn’t either?”

  “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe not. Tell me something. Are you innocent?”

  Clay stared at him. “I told you that.”

  “You didn’t steal over a hundred grand from Castleton Industries?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Well, someone did. If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  “I thought it was David.”

  “Well, he’s dead. Who’s next on your list?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about Stanley Castleton?”

  “I can’t see that. I mean, the guy’s such a wimp.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Hardly at all. But—”

  “Then let’s not cross him off the list. Did he have access to the gun?”

  “I suppose so. But I still can’t see it. I mean, Stanley Castleton, for Christ’s sake.”

  Steve sighed. “Let’s forget the parties involved and talk about the gun. Where did you keep the gun?”

  “On my belt. I had a clip-on holster. My jacket covered it.”

  “You walked around all day long with a gun clipped to your belt?”

  “No. Just when I had to carry cash.”

  “Fine. That’s what I mean. When you weren’t wearing the gun, where did you keep it?”

  “In my desk.”

  “You kept the gun in your desk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyone know you kept the gun in your desk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyone ever see you put the gun in your desk?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Or take it out and clip it on?”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember.”

  “Ever show off with the gun? You’re talking to someone you wanted to impress, you say, ‘I gotta make a deposit,’ you’d open the drawer and take out the gun and clip it on your belt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Any secretary there you were sweet on, you might want to impress?”

  Clay flushed. “No.”

  Steve held up his hand. “Hey. I’m not attacking your personal life here. I’m trying to get a handle on what’s happening. I need to establish that someone else had access to the gun. And more than just access, I’d like to establish that they would have known about it.”

  “You want me to say I showed someone the gun?”

  Steve took a breath, rubbed his head. “I don’t want you to say anything. I’m not asking for perjured testimony here. Frankly, it wouldn’t be worth a shit anyway. What I want are the facts. So stop trying to figure out what you want to say and what I want to hear, and just concentrate on the basic problem. Someone knew you had that gun and took it. Now, who could have done that?”

  “Well, David.”

  “Right,” Steve said. “But the suicide theory is out. So unless David took it and someone found it in his apartment and killed him with it, that doesn’t help us. In fact, it hurts us, ’cause the most likely person would still be Kelly. Now who else?”

  Clay’s brow furrowed. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Anyone could have known, could have done it, but I simply don’t know.”

  “Great,” Steve said. “Now when was the last time you saw the gun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t remember. It’s been a long time. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well, think about it now.”

  “I don’t know. I used it for cash transactions. They all sort of blend into each other. I can’t remember the last time. I had my own problems. I was distracted.”

  “Right. With the embezzlement. Go on, think about the embezzlement.”

  “What about it?”

  “You got wind something was up, and you sent a memo to Milton Castleton.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you faxed it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Fine. Now from that point on, did you have reason to use your gun?”

  He frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “As a matter of fact, no, I’m pretty sure not.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because that was one of the things. That was worrying me, I mean. One of the reasons I wrote the memo. There seemed to be something funny with the figures and no one had asked me to make a deposit for a while. Which had me paranoid. I was afraid they might peg me.”

  “You weren’t paranoid. They did.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But from the time you sent the memo, you don’t recall ever seeing the gun?”

  “When you ask me like that, no, I guess I didn’t.”

  “Okay. Good. Now let me ask you something else. When you weren’t using the gun, did you always leave it in your desk—”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me finish. Or did you ever leave it at home?”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, did you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, think about it. After you made a deposit—at night, after work—did you go back to the office to put the gun away or would you go straight home?”

  “I’d go home.”

  “So you’d take the gun home.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You bring it back the next morning?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you took off the gun at home, where would you leave it?”

  “On my dresser.”

  “On your dresser?”

  “Or in the drawer.”

  “Which was it?”

  “Either. Both. It was no big deal, you know. I never thought about it.”

  “You ever forget and leave the gun at home?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “But you could have?”

  “I could have, sure.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Your sister cleaned out your room, packed your stuff for storage. If you left the gun home, that’s when she would have got it.”

  “Then I’ll say I didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “If they ask me, if they put me on the stand, I’ll say I didn’t. I’ll say I never kept the gun at home.”

  Steve frowned. “I told you, I’m not asking for perjury.”

  “I know. You’re not asking nothing. I’m just telling you what I’m gonna say.”

  Steve held up his hand. There was an edge in his voice. “Let me tell you again. I’m not interested in what you’re gonna say. I’m interested in the facts. Just between you and me, is it possible you left the gun at home?”

  “Yeah, it’s possible. But I’ll never say that. I promise.”

  “Thanks for your support,” Steve said dryly. “Okay. Now we got the gun. It could be at the office, it could be home, you’re not sure which. Am I right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. Nev
er mind now who you think you’re helping. Where do you think the gun was?”

  “At the office.”

  “That’s your best guess?”

  “Yeah. It’s possible it was home, but I don’t think so. If you ask me, I think I left it at the office. If they ask me, I’ll swear I left it at the office.”

  “Okay. Fine. But say you left it at home. Your roommate— what’s his name?”

  “Jeff Bowers.”

  “Okay. This Jeff Bowers—what about him?”

  “What about him?”

  “Could he have taken the gun?”

  “Sure, but why the hell would he?”

  “You tell me. What’s his connection with Castleton Industries?”

  “None. He didn’t have any. He’s an actor.”

  “Yeah, but they do job-jobs. Drive taxis. Wait tables. In between work.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Any of his job-jobs have anything to do with Castleton Industries?”

  Clay’s eyes widened. “You trying to prove Jeff did it?”

  “I’m not trying to prove anything,” Steve said. “I’m trying to raise an inference. If the prosecution raises the inference the gun was at home, I want to raise the inference that Jeff could have taken it. You know what that means, to raise an inference?”

  Clay frowned. “Hey, I’m not stupid.”

  Steve let that pass. “Good,” he said dryly. “Then you see what I’m trying to do. Did your roommate ever work any job remotely connected to Castleton Industries?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Ever date one of the secretaries?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You ever introduce him to anyone you knew from work?”

  “No. We had separate lives. We shared the apartment, and that was it.”

  Steve sighed. “Yeah, that’s it. Okay. Thanks for your help.”

  “Listen,” Clay said. “I’d do anything for Kelly. Anything. You put me on the stand, I promise I won’t hurt you one bit. If you need me, just put me on the stand.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Steve said. He hung up the phone, pushed back his chair and stood up.

  Under his breath he said, “Like hell.”

  22.

  MARK TAYLOR LOOKED LIKE HE’D been run over by a truck. He took a sip of coffee from the paper cup and ran his hand over his face, which only served to spread out some of the grime.

  “Well,” he said, “I ain’t got much.”

  “Oh?” Steve said.

  “Well, I do, it’s just you’ve heard it all. They’ve got an open and shut case against Kelly Wilder, the grand jury’s ready to indict, what more is there to say?”

  “Your detectives check in yet?”

  “If they had, would I look like this?” Taylor exhaled noisily. “I been up all night. Not ’cause there’s so much comin’ in—there isn’t. But ’cause I can’t sleep. This thing has me tied up in knots, and I don’t care what happens, I don’t ever want to go through it again.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. And the thing is, it’s too late now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the clock is ticking, and it’s just run out. I know it and you know it. I’m sittin’ here last night waitin’ to see if Marcie and Dan call in, and all the time I’m thinkin’, shit, if they do, what the hell am I gonna tell ’em? And,” Taylor said, “I’m gonna tell ’em hang up, get lost, you never heard from me, you never made this phone call.” He exhaled again and shook his head. “It’s too damn late. I can’t go to the cops with this now, I have to withhold it. Why? Because it’s too damn late, I’m already withholding it. I go to them now, they wanna know why I didn’t go to them before. I got no answer and I’m in the soup.”

  “You made every effort to contact your detectives and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, tell me about it,” Taylor said irritably. “Try tellin’ that to the cops. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, we’re past the point of no return. I’m just trying not to think about it. Which isn’t easy.”

  Taylor took another sip of coffee, leaned back in his chair and said, “What did you get out of Clay?”

  Steve sighed. “Nothing much. He’s a punk and a loser. For my money, the guy may have done it.”

  Taylor stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. He’s just the type.”

  “Jesus Christ. What about the immortal memo?”

  “So far, we only have my client’s word for that.”

  “You tellin’ me you don’t believe her?”

  “I’m telling you I’m really depressed, Mark.” Steve shook his head. “You wanna get really depressed sometime, just have a nice talk with Herbert Clay.”

  “I don’t need that to get depressed. I’m doin’ just fine on my own.”

  “You really got nothing new?”

  “Nothing worth talking about. Which really isn’t surprising. We already got the kick in the balls with it being her brother’s gun. Aside from an eyewitness who saw her pull the trigger, there’s not much more they can do to us.”

  “Shit.”

  “One thing though. The big news is, your client typed nude.”

  Steve stared at him. “What?”

  “That’s right. Naked as a jaybird. Boffo. In the buff.”

  “Mark. We know that.”

  “Yeah, well the cops didn’t. They do now. So does the press. It may not be big news to you, but it sure is to them. The killing of a millionaire’s grandson was gonna get big press anyway. Think what it’s gonna get now. You won’t have to open the Post tomorrow morning to read about the case, it will be right there on the front page.”

  Steve sighed. “Oh, shit.”

  “There is one silver lining.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “You won’t have to face the D.A.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Word is, Dirkson’s gonna pass. If he does, you can thank her typin’ nude for it. Otherwise, it’s just the type of case for the District Attorney to handle himself. The victim’s rich. It’s an open and shut case—sorry, but the facts are the facts. And you’re the defense attorney. Dirkson would love to beat you in court. Hell, he probably feels he has to beat you in court after the way you handled him last time. Here’s a case he figures he can’t lose, and ordinarily he’d snap it up like that.” Taylor shrugged. “Except for her typin’ nude. Suddenly it’s not a case anymore, it’s a media circus. However they play it, people are gonna be laughing at it and making fun of it. Dirkson’s a politician, he can’t afford to look ridiculous. So the word is, as much as he’d like to nail your hide to the wall, he’ll pass it on to an A.D.A.”

  “That’s good?” Steve said.

  Taylor shrugged. “Dirkson’s smart. You may have beat him before, but the guy is smart. The A.D.A. may be sharp, but he won’t be used to the spotlight. It’ll rattle him some. Plus, he won’t be used to you. Your kind of tricks. So the way I see it, we caught a break.”

  Steve thought that over. “You could be right, Mark. If you are, it’s the first one we got in this damn case.”

  23.

  DISTRICT ATTORNEY HARRY DIRKSON looked across his desk at A.D.A. Frank Crawford and thought once again, Christ, did I make the right choice?

  He was sure he had. Crawford was one of his top A.D.A.s, with a conviction record second to none. He was bright, sharp, aggressive.

  But young.

  Shit, that was the problem. Young. Not much older than Steve Winslow. And the thing was, he looked it too. Thin and wiry, that was no problem, that was actually good—the lean and hungry look. But the face. The smooth boyish features. And the hair. That was the worst of it. The sleek, black hair. Not even a touch of gray at the temples.

  For a second the thought flashed, could they spray some on? Dirkson frowned, angry at himself. Christ. Get serious. Get some control.

  Dirkson took a breath, looked hard at the young man sitting opposite him. He held up his hand.
“The bottom line,” he said, “is somber.”

  “Sir?” Crawford said.

  “Not somber, exactly, but serious. Deadly serious. The thing is, we got a big problem here. Not with the case. The way I see it, the case is open and shut. We got a problem with our image. I don’t like to hear that, and I don’t like to say it, but it’s you and me talking here, so let’s talk turkey.

  “We don’t want to come out of this looking like schmucks. The fact is, the girl typed nude. Which means we got a media circus here. There is a serious danger of this case becoming a big joke. We’ll still win it, but it’ll be a big joke. We can’t let that happen.”

  Crawford nodded. “So we play down the fact she was typing nude?”

  Dirkson took a breath. Shit, the guy didn’t get it. “Not at all,” Dirkson said. “We want to win the case. We probably would anyway, but why take a chance? You use everything you got. The fact the girl typed nude will go a long way toward prejudicing the jury against her. That’s how juries think—a girl who would type nude would kill someone.

  “So, no, you don’t play it down. Hammer it in. But keep it solemn. That’s the word I wanted. Not somber, solemn. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this woman typed nude.’ You gotta work on it so you can do it without cracking a smile. That’ll be hard. The defendant’s got big tits, visions of Playboy centerfolds are gonna be dancing in everyone’s heads. But you keep it solemn. It’s a serious business. The woman killed someone, that’s the bottom line. No matter how attractive she may be, no matter how hilarious the media wants to portray her prancing around in the nude, the fact is she took a gun, put it to David Castleton’s head and pulled the trigger, bang.”

  Dirkson shot the A.D.A. Crawford with his finger. He sighted down the finger, stared hard into the young A.D.A.’s eyes. “You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You got any problem with what I told you so far?”

  A.D.A. Crawford cleared his throat. “Ah, I think he was shot in the heart, not the head.”

  Dirkson sighed, shook his head. “Yeah. Right,” he said dryly.

  The intercom buzzed.

  Dirkson frowned, snatched up the phone. “Reese, I told you to hold all calls.”

  “It’s Milton Castleton, sir.”

  “Shit. What line is he on?”

  “He’s here, sir.”