by John Bowers
“That’s what Wallace believes.”
Victoria nodded.
“Why would an ACBI agent want to frame an innocent man like that? Does Mr. Frie have an opinion on that?”
“He doesn’t know. Neither do I. All I can tell you is that I believe him.”
“Okay. Again, assuming all of that is true, the fact remains that Lloyd Randal was murdered in his own driveway. Isn’t it possible that, after being framed and wrongly convicted, Mr. Frie became bitter after twelve years in prison and decided that somebody had to pay?”
Lanny Filmore sighed and stretched.
“It would sure as hell make me bitter,” he admitted. “But Wallace never dwelled on it. Most people who’re looking for payback like to talk about it, but he never did. The only reason I know all this is because I asked him about it. He never volunteered anything.”
“He never brought it up again?”
“No, Ma’am. We had one conversation about it. Lasted most of the night. But that was it. We never talked about it again.”
“He never talked about taking revenge against Lloyd Randal?”
“Never. He just wanted to get his life back, and he was determined to do that.”
“What about his family?”
“I don’t know. Never met them, and he didn’t talk about them much. He did say that he lost them over the smuggling conviction.”
“Did he hope to get them back?”
“I think so, but again, he never talked much about that.”
Victoria stared at him a moment.
“If it ever came to it, would you be willing to testify in court?”
Filmore grinned, as if she had made a joke.
“You want me to testify for the prosecution? I would think the defense would be more interested in what I have to say.”
“Has the defense contacted you?”
“No. Mr. Hitlin here is the only one who called me.”
“Would you be willing if I called you to the stand?”
“Yeah, sure. But I would only hurt your case.”
She offered him a thin smile.
“If I call you, it won’t be to help my case. It will be to help justice.”
He lifted an eyebrow and slowly shook his head.
“I’m not sure I believe you, but yeah, if you call me, I’ll take the stand.”
Clyde van der Beek was inside the house. After talking to Lanny Filmore, they spent fifteen minutes with him. He was a little less forthcoming than Filmore, but told them essentially the same thing. Wallace Frie, he said, was like a virgin in a whorehouse—when it came to criminal thought and behavior, he was clueless. He simply did not possess a criminal bone in his entire body.
“Did you ever see him with a gun?”
“No. If he brought a gun in here, he’d be back in lockup within the hour.”
“Are you aware that a gun was found in his quarters?”
“That’s what they say.”
“But you never saw a gun?”
“No.”
“Did anyone here tell you that Frie had a gun?”
“No. And if someone saw one, they would’ve mentioned it.”
Victoria smiled.
“Can I see Mr. Frie’s room?”
“Sure, I don’t see why not.”
Van der Beek took them inside and showed them the room. It was small but tidy. The furniture was second-hand, the wallpaper faded, but everything was clean and in good order. Victoria picked up a couple of framed photos and inspected them, then put them down. She looked under the bed. The bed was covered by a blanket, but not a spread. The space beneath the bed was not hidden, was in fact visible from the door. If Frie had left a gun there—or anything, for that matter—it would not have been hidden.
She stepped outside and faced both Filmore and van der Beek. She handed them a stack of flat photos.
“Do you recognize any of these faces?”
They passed them back and forth, looking at them carefully. Filmore nodded.
“This guy looks familiar. Eh, Clyde?”
Van der Beek looked at the same digital and nodded.
“That’s the guy who stopped in and asked to use the head.”
“Do you know him?”
“No, never saw him before. But he seemed decent enough.”
“When was this?”
“Same day Randal was killed.”
“Did you let him in?”
“Sure. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
*
“Well, that was a bust!” Doug Hitlin said when they were back in the car. “You sure you want to talk to the rest of them?”
“Absolutely. And I don’t consider it a bust. I think those men actually believe what they told us.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they just band together to protect their own kind.”
“Possibly, but neither of them has anything to personally gain by lying for Frie. In any case, if Hayes Crawford calls them, I’m a little ahead of the game.”
Their next stop was at the home of Omar Jackson, who worked for the Rimrock Sanitation Company. Jackson lived in a pleasant split-level located in an upscale middle-class neighborhood. It wasn’t a wealthy area, but a comfortable one.
Jackson, at thirty-three, was a tall, athletic black man with an easy, affable manner and a quick smile. Victoria liked him at once, and Hitlin seemed to as well. Jackson invited them in and offered them coffee. His wife served them and then sat nearby to listen in.
“Wally Frie? What about him?” Jackson asked. “Are you gonna get him off?”
Victoria’s smile faded.
“Actually, Mr. Jackson, I’m the one assigned to prosecute him.”
“Oh.” Jackson’s smile also faded. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you, then.”
“That’s your choice,” she told him, “but in my opinion, it’s an option you would take only if you know something that can hurt him.”
“Looks to me like you’re the one wanting to hurt him.”
“No, sir, that isn’t true at all. I simply want to know the facts. If Mr. Frie is innocent, I will lead the charge to get him released.”
Jackson laughed, as if she had told an obvious and outrageous lie.
“You’re full of shit, lady, but I’ll tell you what—I’ll answer your questions, and then I’ll hold you to that statement. Wallace Frie is innocent, and I’ll be standing behind you while you lead the charge to set him free. Do we have a deal?”
Victoria felt her cheeks flush, but maintained eye contact.
“You have a deal. Just don’t stand too close behind me.”
“All right. What do you want to know?”
“You and Mr. Frie worked on the same sanitation truck, is that right?”
“Yes. I had the same route for about six years. Been through a lot of partners. Wally came on board in October.”
“Right after his parole from prison.”
“Right.”
“Did you know him before that? Or had you heard of him?”
“I sort of, vaguely, remember something in the news about him back when he was on trial the first time. But it didn’t stick and I didn’t make the connection at first.”
“How did you finally make the connection?”
“When he told me. I already knew when he took the job that he was an ex-con, but that’s all. And that’s not unusual—several of our employees have records.”
“Did Mr. Frie ever talk about Lloyd Randal?”
“Only once. The first day we worked together, when we were on the route, he pointed out Randal’s house. Told me that the man who lived there was the one who sent him to prison.”
“He already knew where Randal lived?”
“Apparently. I never told him who lived where.”
“Did he say anything else? Make any threats toward Randal?”
“Not in front of me. And I never heard anyone else at the company mention it.”
“Did Frie work with other partners?”
“And none of those he worked with ever reported anything suspicious?”
“Not to me, and not where I could hear it.”
“What’s your take on Frie? Is he capable of murder?”
Jackson crossed his muscular arms on the table before him.
“You know, I grew up in a rough neighborhood here in Lucaston. I know lots of people who had issues with the law, some minor and some serious. I don’t consider myself to be sheltered or naïve, and I have to tell you, Wally Frie is about as genuine as anybody I’ve ever met. No, he’s not capable of murder. I am, but not him.”
Victoria gazed into his eyes as he finished that statement and was arrested by their intensity. Without quite knowing why, she believed Jackson implicitly.
“Frie never talked about his legal problems?”
“Just that one time. When he recognized Randal’s house. And that led to him telling me Randal had framed him. After that, we never discussed it again.”
“When he told you Randal framed him, did he elaborate?”
“Not much. He said something about Randal planting a gun on him, and lying on the witness stand. I had just met him and didn’t know if I believed him yet, but over time, as I got to know him, I came to believe his story.”
“You never heard him make any threats about killing Randal? Or somehow getting revenge on him?”
“Hell, no. Wally isn’t like that. He’s a rough-looking, ugly sumbitch, but under that leather skin is the soul of a child. I’ve listened to a lot of men bitch about their lot in life, about things that happened to them, and what they’re gonna do about it. Most of it is bullshit, just men trying to look tough, but some of them are serious, and I can usually tell you which ones. But with Wally, there was none of that. This guy has been through hell and if anybody has a right to be bitter, he’s the one. But you don’t get that from him at all. He’s more like an abused child than anything else. Sort of like, ‘Why are they doing this to me’. You know?”
Victoria nodded. Before she could form her next question, Mrs. Jackson spoke up.
“My husband is telling you straight,” she said. “We had Wally over for Christmas. I was a little reluctant when Omar suggested it, because I work with deadbeats all the time and I didn’t want one at my dinner table…but I was pleasantly surprised.”
“You work with deadbeats? What do you do?”
“I work for Social Services. I deal with battered women and deadbeat dads. I’ve interviewed hundreds of people, both male and female, and I’ve heard just about every excuse in the book, except the one that says ‘I brought this on myself’—somehow they never get around to that one. But Wally…well, compared to what I deal with on a regular basis, he’s practically a saint.”
“A saint? That’s laying it on pretty thick, Mrs. Jackson.”
“I guess it is, but I don’t know any other way to put it.”
“Dorrie is telling you the truth, Miss Cruz.”
“Cross.”
“’Scuse me?”
“My name isn’t Cruz, it’s Cross.”
“Oh. Sorry. Anyway, let me tell you a story about Wally Frie. You remember that hoverbus crash back in November? Over in Twin Harbors?”
Victoria had to dig deep, but pulled it out of her memory.
“The one where fourteen kids were killed?”
“Yeah, that one. The wreck was caused by a cargo pilot who was operating under the influence. Wally took that personal. He had been a cargo pilot, and it really upset him that somebody in that line of work would be so reckless as to endanger others that way. When he heard about those kids, he broke down and cried. Just sobbed like a baby! I’m telling you, that isn’t a man who could cold-bloodedly shoot someone in the back.”
Victoria and Hitlin finished their coffee. After half a dozen more questions, Victoria got to her feet.
“If I call you to testify in court, can I count on you?” she asked Jackson.
“Yeah, sure. But I have a feeling you won’t call me.”
She cast him a fleeting smile.
“Don’t be too sure about that. I’m nothing if not unpredictable.”
Chapter 23
North Continent Freight was located in an industrial zone on the north edge of Lucaston, between the city proper and the spaceport. It was a sizable operation with facilities that covered an entire city block and featured a warehouse along with a large garage and repair shop. Victoria and Hitlin parked across the street a few minutes before five o’clock and were deafened by the roar of heavy lifters as mechanics worked on a cargo rig.
“Who are we meeting here?” Victoria asked.
“Charley Sawyer and Keith Kobe. Charley’s a cargo pilot and Keith is a mechanic. They both claim to know Frie very well.”
“Did they tell you anything?”
“Only that they’re willing to talk. I have no idea what they’re going to say.”
Promptly at five, a siren sounded from the freight yard and within minutes, employees began to stream out the gate. After six or seven men had departed, two came out together, paused on the street for a moment, then headed toward Hitlin’s car. One was wearing a hardhat, both were dressed in coveralls. As they approached the car, Hitlin stepped out to greet them.
“Are you Doug Hitlin?”
“I am. And you must be…”
“Keith Kobe. This is Charley Sawyer. We recognized your car from your description.”
Hitlin shook hands with them both.
“Is there someplace quiet we can talk?”
“There’s a bar two blocks over,” Keith Kobe said. He pointed. “Called the Cargo Bay. We can talk there.”
Both men got into private vehicles and led the way. Hitlin followed.
Inside the bar, which was not very busy yet but starting to fill up, they found a table in a corner and ordered beers all around. Hitlin introduced Victoria, who shook hands with them both.
“Hi, I’m Victoria Cross.”
“Keith Kobe.”
“Cholley Sawyer.”
“Cholley?” Victoria smiled. “I haven’t heard that accent since I left Terra. Where you from?”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Everybody has an accent. We just don’t notice it until we meet someone with a different one.”
Charley Sawyer laughed. “You sound like California.”
“Bingo. You got me.”
Keith Kobe looked to be in his early forties. His stocky build and powerful hands seemed to suggest that he was born to be a mechanic. Charley Sawyer was maybe five years younger, medium height and slender. The narrow look in his eyes probably came from long hours of peering through a windscreen on long cargo hauls. Victoria had met a fighter pilot once who had the very same look.
The beer came and Victoria paid. Both men took a deep swig and seemed to relax a little as they wiped the foam from their lips.
“What can we do for you?” Keith Kobe asked.
“You both know, or used to know, Wallace Frie?”
Both men nodded.
“Then you may have heard that he’s been arrested again, this time for murder.”
“Yeah, we did hear that. Smells like bullshit to me,” Keith said.
“Well, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m the prosecutor on the case. My job is to send him to prison. But…” She held up a hand to ward off their protests. “…there are things about the case that trouble me, and I need to get them cleared up.”
“You want us to help you put him away?” Charley Sawyer’s smile of a moment before was gone.
“No. I want to get all the facts I can find. If he’s innocent, I want to know that. If he’s guilty, then I’ll do my job.”
“How can we help? If you were talking about the smuggling charge, I could tell you unequivocally that it was a frame job, but this new case…don’t know anything about it.”
“I need to get to know
the man. And, since you brought it up, there are things about the smuggling conviction that also bother me.”
Keith’s eyebrows rose.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“I don’t feel it’s appropriate for me to tell you that. At least not right now.”
Before they could protest further, she got down to business.
“You both worked with him twelve years ago, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of guy was he? Did he get along with everyone?”
Charley Sawyer took the question.
“Wally was quiet, a bit of a loner. He wasn’t into parties or after-hours beer bashes. He kept to himself for the most part, but aside from that he was just fine. He was friendly and helpful, never said a bad word about anybody.”
“Generous, too,” Keith Kobe added. “One time I came up short and needed a loan until payday. Wallace handed me five hundred terros, but when I tried to pay it back, he told me to hang onto it. Said he might need a favor sometime.”
Victoria nodded and made a note on her paper pad.
“Did he? Ever ask for a favor?”
“No.”
“So the two of you got along with him. What about the other employees?”
“I never heard any complaints. Never heard anybody talking shit about him.”
“He wasn’t around that much, anyway,” Keith said. “He took the really long hauls, the runs that nobody else wanted. So he was on the road more than he was in town.”
“Do you know why he took those runs? Maybe he had ulterior motives?”
“I think that was the point the prosecution tried to make at his trial, but I don’t buy it. He took those runs because nobody else wanted them. And they paid extra because of the miles.”
“That probably didn’t help his marriage, though. Being on the road all the time?”
“I think that was an issue. He was happily married, as far as I know, but there was tension. Being on the road all the time was probably part of that.”
“I read a report that said he caused a lot of discontent with other employees. That he was a trouble maker.”
“Horse shit,” Keith Kobe said.
“Who said that?” Charley Sawyer demanded.
“It was written by an investigator in the first trial. Apparently someone at your place of work gave him that information.”