The Two-Witness Rule: A Novel

by William Eleazer

  They arrived in Atlanta shortly before 1:00 p.m. and had lunch with Karen’s mother. Afterwards, he used his cell phone to call the number he had for Monica Ashley. Aware that this was her brother’s number, he was not surprised by the male voice that answered.

  “This is Carl DeBickero. I’m a special agent for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to speak with Monica Ashley if she is available.”

  “Tell me why you’re calling,” came the response.

  “I’m following up on the incident she reported when she was in Savannah last Wednesday night.”

  There was a long pause. “Well, she’s not here.”

  “When do you expect her?”

  “I don’t expect her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I don’t expect her.”

  It appeared to Carl that the man, perhaps her brother, was trying to be a smart-ass, but he would be patient.

  “Can you tell me how I may get in touch with her? She gave us this number as the phone to call to contact her. It’s important that I speak with her.”

  There was another long pause. “If you want to leave your phone number, I can give it to her when I see her. If I see her.”

  “Isn’t this her brother’s phone number?”

  The man laughed into the phone. “Listen, if you want to give me your phone number, like I said, I’ll tell her you want her to call when I see her. That’s all I can do.”

  Carl gave the man his cell phone number, again emphasizing that it was important that she call. He wondered about the notation that it was her brother’s phone number. He suspected that he would not receive a call from Monica Ashley anytime soon.

  But he had her address, apparently an apartment—925B Peachtree Street NE. He had hoped to save time by making a phone call, but since that was unsuccessful, he would just drive over to her apartment. It was 4:30 p.m., and he realized that a young lady living in Atlanta was likely to have plans for a Saturday evening. He hoped to catch her before she left. He put the address in his GPS. It appeared to be about a twenty-minute drive.

  As he approached the address, he was surprised to find that it was in a very busy commercial district. And when he arrived, he saw it was a UPS Store. He found a parking spot and walked to the store. A sign on the door listed the hours of operation for Saturday as 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. It was closed for business, but the doors were open, making the mailboxes accessible. Monica could receive her mail anytime day or night—she was always “home” for the mailman but not for a GBI agent looking for her. As he walked back to his car, he thought about the situation. This simple photo lineup assignment was getting to be a real pain in the backside.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday, August 10

  Carl spent much of Sunday morning going over the details in the investigative report that he had received from Majewski. He compared the photos of the rear of the vehicle. He noted the good camera work. Each photo was very clear, taken with steady hands, no movement distortion. He would expect that for the photo taken by the patrolman, but he was surprised that someone who had just been assaulted could hold a camera so steady. Then he examined the cell phone to see if it contained any other photos, saved calls, text messages, or other information that may help with his efforts to locate Monica Ashley. He was surprised that it was so clean. Almost no third-party apps and just a few photos, all of Savannah scenes. There were no text messages and just a couple of outgoing calls. He had hoped to find a large phone log that would be helpful in locating Monica if the phone number he had did not pan out.

  Carl called the number at 2:00 p.m. Sunday afternoon and again asked to speak to Monica Ashley.

  The same voice answered. “Listen, buddy, I told you yesterday she wasn’t here. I take messages. I relay messages. I don’t return messages. Got it?”

  Not what he had hoped to hear, but he knew he must keep his cool if he was to make progress. “Would you mind telling me what you can about Monica Ashley? Apparently you know her. I have her new cell phone and I want to return it.”

  “Know her?” The man laughed. “Can’t say. But I’ll let her know that you have her cell phone.”

  “Then apparently you know how to contact her. So why don’t you just tell me how I can contact her—save you the trouble.”

  “Now wouldn’t that be nice,” the man responded. Then he heard him hang up.

  Yes, that would be nice, you asshole, Carl said to himself. He suddenly realized that locating Monica Ashley was going to take more effort than a phone call—or a drive over to a UPS store. But he would find her. He thought of calling one of his Atlanta detective contacts, but Sunday afternoon did not seem to be the time to call in a favor. There was no emergency here. Monday would be soon enough.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Monday, August 11

  Monday morning Carl called a friend, Frank Edwards, of the Atlanta Police Department Criminal Investigation Division. Edwards and Carl had worked closely on several cases, including the Gordon case. Edwards was part of the joint federal-state task force that broke the drug syndicate leading to Clarence Wilborn’s arrest. Afterwards, he was instrumental in getting Wilborn to turn on Gordon for a plea that would give Wilborn a much milder sentence. Edwards made sure that Wilborn understood that he could receive the maximum—twenty years to life—if he didn’t cooperate. Carl was sure the perjury investigation would never have been solved without Wilborn’s arrest and Edwards’ help.

  Over the phone, Carl explained his unproductive Saturday and Sunday phone conversations.

  “Sounds like an ‘exchange’ number,” Edwards said.

  Carl was familiar with the term, though it had never been a factor in any of his investigations.

  “Give me a few minutes to check it out. But that’s the way some prostitutes market themselves. Had you not identified yourself with the GBI, you would probably have gotten that return call, and you could have discussed where, what, and how much. With an ‘exchange number,’ both the hooker and the john are protected. She doesn’t have to be a sidewalk hostess, and he can wait in private for her phone call. The john can call for a particular prostitute, or just something off the rack. And the phone exchange system allows the pimp better control. A sleazy business, but we’ve got a lot of it here in Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta and everywhere else,” Carl replied. “Tough racket to control. Give me a call when you confirm that this is an exchange number.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Twenty minutes later, Edwards called. “Yes, it’s an exchange. You can probably set up a meeting by calling again, but Carl, probably not a good idea to announce you work for the GBI.” They both laughed.

  “And I can’t use my own cell phone again,” said Carl. “I’ll use the room phone. But I’m pretty sure my wife’s not going to be happy with me renting a cheap motel room to meet a hooker. You have a better idea, Frank?”

  “No, and I think that’s what you’ll have to do if you want to have that photo lineup. But do you suppose the switchboard guy will recognize your voice when you call?”

  “Not a chance. I’ve got several voices that I’ve used in this business. Got one straight from the Bronx. Whadda ya tawkin’ aboud? I went to foist grade in Lawn Guyland. Yooz tinks I’m stoopid?”

  They laughed. “Any suggestions for a motel where I can set this up?” DeBickero asked. “No five-star place—I’ll have to justify this expense. But something comfortable—I may have to wait a while.”

  “Yes, there’s a perfect place—Palomino Motel on Parkway Drive Northeast. It has a horsehead sign out front, big lighted sign—maybe eight by ten. You would think it would picture a palomino, but it’s a light bay with a black mane. Looks like a sign painter mistake, but I suspect it’s deliberate—makes people remember the place. I did some undercover work there when we were investigating the drug syndicate that Wilborn was inv
olved in. Should be able to get a room for about a hundred—not fancy, but clean and comfortable.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes, with Edwards providing an update on the drug syndicate cases. Carl said he would call him on Tuesday with an update of his Palomino Motel results, and they hung up.

  Shortly after his conversation with Edwards, Carl called Majewski in Savannah, detailing the unsuccessful search for Monica Ashley.

  “So, bottom line, I don’t know when I’ll make contact.”

  “We were hoping to have that photo lineup completed before we interview Marino. Maybe we should go ahead with it anyway,” Majewski said.

  “Yeah, I think so. Depending on what he says—or admits—could change the course of the investigation. I’m not happy waiting in a motel room for some call girl to come calling. And I don’t plan to spend the night in that motel. If I don’t get a return call from Monica by ten tonight, I’ll be gone.”

  “OK, we’ll interview Marino ASAP.”

  “Call me with the results,” said Carl. “Like I said, it could impact what I’m doing here in Atlanta.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monday, August 11

  Carl checked in at the Palomino Motel in midafternoon—room 207 on the second floor, next to the elevator. The furnishings were simple but adequate, typical of motels in that price range. There was a queen-size bed with bedside table and phone, lounge chair, dresser with 32” TV on top, desk with lamp and wooden chair, and a small bathroom. He placed his briefcase containing the investigative file on the bed and made his call to the “exchange.”

  The male voice that answered did not sound like the voice he heard the last two times he had called, but he used his Bronx accent anyway. All went as expected. He left the motel’s address, phone number, his room number, and first name.

  He turned on the TV, then sat in the lounge chair to wait for a call from Monica. He clicked through the TV listings. Nothing much interested him. He would just watch CNN until Monday Night Football came on at 8:00 p.m. He was a Green Bay Packers fan, and they would be playing the Bengals. The Braves would not be playing, having just finished a four-game series with the Arizona Diamondbacks—and losing three out of the four.

  He had been watching CNN for about forty-five minutes when the phone rang. He picked it up quickly.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Carl?”

  “It is. Monica?”

  “Yes. Would you like me to come over now?”

  “Yes, how soon can you be here?”

  “Twenty, twenty-five minutes. Is this an all-nighter?”

  Carl was feeling his way with this conversation. He had never been involved in a prostitution sting operation, even when starting out with the Richmond County Sheriff’s Department in Augusta, Georgia, many years ago. His investigative duties with the GBI did not involve prostitution rings, though prostitutes were occasionally the victims of homicides he investigated. He wasn’t sure what the best answer to this question should be. But he had to answer, and quickly.

  “No, I’ll probably check out tonight.”

  “Then let’s plan on an hour. How does two-fifty sound?”

  Two hundred fifty dollars sounded pretty high to Carl, but he was sure she didn’t mean two dollars and fifty cents. He had no idea of the going rate. He took a chance. “Seems a bit high, that the best I can get?”

  “Honey, you gonna get the best. But, Carl, you sound nice. Two hundred, cash—for you. OK?”

  “OK, cash. I’ll be here.”

  The knock on his door came thirty minutes later. He opened it to find a woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, smiling, and holding a small handbag. She was dressed in low-rise denim shorts and a white, sleeveless crop top exposing four or five inches of a flat and tanned abdomen. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a tight pony tail. Her makeup was a bit overstated, but someone about to pay for a quick romp in a motel room would likely find her reasonably attractive.

  “I’m Monica. May I come in, Carl?”

  Carl replied, “Of course,” and stepped aside.

  Monica walked over by the dresser, leaned on it slightly, and said, “Carl, do you have something for me? I have something for you.” She smiled and held out her hand, palm up.

  Carl handed her ten twenty-dollar bills, which Monica quickly counted and placed in her handbag. She then began to remove her top.

  “Don’t bother,” said Carl, as he reached in his front pocket, removed his GBI badge, and displayed it to Monica.

  Monica stared at it, her eyes wide, the smile quickly gone. Then she took two deep but quick breaths and nervously asked, “Am I being arrested?”

  “Not yet and maybe we can avoid it. First, remove the bills I just handed you, place them on the bed and take a seat in that chair in front of the desk.”

  Monica reached for her handbag and quickly complied. Her eyes tightened, and she was clenching her jaw. Carl was sure this was not her first encounter with law enforcement, but still, she appeared quite frightened.

  Carl remained standing. “I didn’t ask you here to set you up for a prostitution arrest. I can and will if it becomes necessary. But if you answer my questions truthfully, you can walk out of here freely, without any consequences. Understand?”

  Monica responded with an affirmative nod of her head.

  “First, I want your real name. Monica is not your real name, is it?”

  Again, Monica did not say anything but responded with a negative shake of her head.

  “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  Monica reached into her handbag and took out a wallet. The driver’s license was in a window of the wallet. She offered the wallet to Carl.

  “No, I don’t want the wallet. Just remove the driver’s license.”

  When Carl received the license, he looked at the photo and made some notes in the file. He noted her date of birth. She was now twenty-six years old but looked much older. Her profession was really taking a toll.

  “So, your name is Glenna Norris, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Glenna, I’m here to follow up on the incident in which you were assaulted in Savannah last week. I want you to tell me everything you can recall.”

  Carl was trying not to look severely at Glenna as he spoke. She was already frightened. He needed her to relax a bit so that she could relate her story fully. Hoping to calm her, he took a seat across from her and spoke in a softened voice.

  “Now, I want you to start at the beginning. I need all the details you can recall. It’s important that we get all the information so that we can successfully prosecute the person responsible for the assault.”

  “I just . . . I just can’t remember much now. I had been drinking that night, and it happened so quick. I just can’t bring anything to mind.”

  Carl was surprised at this statement. There was nothing, not a hint, in the investigative report that the victim had been drinking and certainly nothing to indicate she was drunk. In fact, she had identified the driver from his Georgia driver’s license photo, shown on the screen of the computer in the patrol car.

  Carl removed an 8"x10" print of the picture she had taken with her camera immediately after the assault.

  “Glenna, do you recall taking this photo?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.”

  “I’m not asking if you recall the numbers on the license plate. I’m just asking if you recognize the photo. We printed it from your camera.”

  “I just. . . I . . . I just can’t be sure.”

  “Glenna, if I were to show you a photo of the individual who attacked you, do you think you would recognize him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  This was making no sense. She had already made an ID, but the manner in which it was made—displaying a single facial photo from a driver’s license
—was insufficient. Carl had an array of photos, all the same race and approximate age of Marino. He was here to make a proper ID, but now the victim said she didn’t believe she would recognize him. Not a good start, but he would display them anyway. It might jog her memory. He reached into his briefcase and removed the photos. He spread six photos lengthwise on the bed. Marino’s photo was not among them.

  “Glenna, I want you to look at these six photos. The man that attacked you may or may not be among them. Take a close look. Do you see the man who attacked you in any of these photos?”

  She looked, then said, “No, I don’t.”

  So far, so good. Carl spread another six photos on the bed. This time, Marino’s photo was among them. The same instructions were given.

  “No, I don’t see him,” Glenna responded.

  Carl picked up all the photos and put them back in his briefcase. He did not believe her. She did not appear to want to cooperate with the investigation.

  “Glenna, you understand we are trying to identify the man who assaulted you. You do want to see him prosecuted, don’t you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess so? Glenna, how long had you been in Savannah when you were assaulted?”

  “Just that day.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Just to visit, look around.”

  “How did you get there? Drive or fly?”

  “We drove.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Oh, just a guy who drove us down.”

  “Just the two of you?”