“Pardon me?”
“You had the Brouer kid fingered even before we knew it was a murder. Odd thing though, you never took credit for it in your piece.”
“Ah, so you read my article.”
“Yeah, and I have a question. You called it a brutal rape. What would a gentle rape be like?”
Kagan shrugged. “Limited tools of the trade. It’s kind of like close proximity. I’ve never figured out what distant proximity would be. Buy you a drink?” Travathan nodded. “You’re curious about why I never mentioned my prior knowledge of Brouer’s involvement in my story? It’s not something I would have been proud of. See, I don’t think Brouer did it.”
The words sent a spasm of heat surging through Travathan’s heart. Kagan had just summoned the demon he had been battling for three months since the day the jury foreman had said guilty. Kagan’s words sliced into him, but he was a cop, trained to conceal his reactions, so he forced his voice to remain calm as he occupied his hands by toying with his glass. “Why not?”
Kagan ticked off points on his fingers. “Lousy defense, no real evidence, blood-lust in the air, lynch mob mentality that the judge chose to ignore, and most significant of all,” Kagan paused, forcing Travathan to look up at him, “No DNA.”
“No DNA? Look, DNA is new, even experimental, and it’s expensive. I can understand why it never got used.”
“You mean, why you guys never used it. I can’t think of a better case to apply it to. The other evidence was thin. Take away the vitriol and it was nowhere near enough for a conviction on its own. What a great chance to apply a new forensic tool. So why didn’t you guys use it? My best guess is that you figured you had your man, and DNA would have complicated that.”
“That’s garbage.” The words, lacking conviction, lacked heat.
“Okay. Then let me give you my second-best guess. You already knew he was innocent but you needed to nail somebody, and the Brouer kid was convenient. In that case, DNA would only get in the way.”
Now there was real heat. “Hold on. Are you accusing me of faking evidence?”
“No. I’ve done my homework, and everything I’ve found out about you tells me you’re an honorable man. But I can’t say the same about some of your fellow cops.”
“Go to hell.” Travathan slammed his glass onto the table, powered up from his chair, and strode out the door, throwing it back with such force that it smashed into the wall. He wanted to go home, to try to wipe away the charges the reporter had laid, knowing the attempt would be futile. Kagan hadn’t said anything Travathan hadn’t tried to evade, a stabbing fear that had, many times, disrupted his sleep and caused him to stare at the blackness of the ceiling, questioning his commitment to a career that could have destroyed the life of an innocent man.
So his steps took him, not to his home, but to the precinct and the evidence room where he interrupted a constable slouching over a magazine displaying bikini-clad models and asked for the records of the Archibald case. He hadn’t thought of DNA. Why not? DNA was new, but not so new the department could be excused for overlooking it. Was that a case of willful blindness? Perhaps forensics had run a match and confirmed that the DNA swabbed from Jeannie Archibald’s tiny torn vagina was Brouer’s. Maybe the prosecution had made a tactical decision not to introduce it because they didn’t want to confuse the jury. Maybe Brouer was the monster everyone else had accepted he was. Maybe the DNA evidence could provide Gord Travathan with some respite from the dread that paralyzed his sleep and extended his visits to the bar.
Two nights later at the same bar, Travathan dropped a sheet of paper on the table in front of Max Kagan. His eyes widened, his mouth opened. “This is the first you knew of this.” That his statement wasn’t a question indicated a respect for the man who stood before him.
Travathan nodded. “It is.” Showing the paper to Kagan spelled the end of his career, but as far as he was concerned, so did the existence of the paper itself.
Kagan shook his head. “So they actually ran the DNA and found it wasn’t Brouer’s. He couldn’t have done this.”
“No, he couldn’t have.”
“How could they justify something as abominable as this? Withholding evidence that would demonstrate the guy was innocent?”
“You put your finger on it. Blood lust. The public outrage demanded that someone, anyone, be punished and Brouer was convenient. The investigators were so anxious to get this guy they were able to rationalize not disclosing this.”
“How, for God’s sake?”
“DNA testing hadn’t become standard. I guess they could convince themselves that maybe it was fallible. After all, why let some experimental technique screw up a conviction?”
The next day, Travathan and Kagan met with a defense lawyer Kagan had worked with. In police circles, the lawyer’s name was usually accompanied by an expletive, which was all Travathan needed to know about the man’s reputation.
The appeal was a formality. The court allowed the DNA evidence and found it conclusive. Kelly Brouer’s conviction was reversed, and the court ordered his immediate release.
They had won, but the evening after the police returned him home, Kelly Brouer charged out of his house, screaming epithets and hurling rocks at his neighbors before he ran into the road and stumbled under the wheels of a delivery van. The autopsy wasn’t able to determine whether his death was suicide or dementia.
————
Ruth Janner watched Travathan shift in the car seat. “Max and I attended Kelly’s funeral. It was clear to us he wasn’t the only innocent man in prison. We were both indignant, but Max had found his calling. He decided to form a group to fight for people who had been wrongfully convicted. In Kelly’s honor, Max named the Foundation after him.”
“You didn’t join him?”
Travathan was silent for a minute. “Helping Kelly Brouer was the only thing I have ever done in my professional life just because it was right. Don’t misunderstand me. I hope most of the things I do are right, but I do them for other reasons: duty, regulations, it’s my job. This was the only time I did the right thing for no other reason than that it was the right thing.” He sighed. “And it got a man killed.”
Janner’s voice was gentle, the first time she had spoken to him so. “You didn’t kill him.”
“Tell me, which would be better for Kelly Brouer? To be locked up for life for something he didn’t do but to receive the treatment he needed, or to have his innocence recognized and be released, only to be killed by his own demons? Max and I give different answers to that question. He believes in justice, regardless of the consequences. So he goes into battle against injustice. I believe the consequences are central, that you can’t ignore them. So I go into battle for the person.”
“Did they ever find out who killed the little girl?”
“Yeah. Once Brouer’s conviction was overturned, the cops reopened the case. Forensics matched the DNA to a pedophile who’d just been released from prison. He’s now serving a life sentence.” Travathan stared at the road and said, “If we’d just done our job right . . .”
12
The highway sign announced Hell’s Gate Canyon. Travathan hadn’t planned to stop, but curiosity about what held such a strong appeal to Kevin Winters led him to pull into the parking lot. Besides, he needed to stretch. This sub-sub-compact wasn’t intended for trips longer than a drive to the corner store.
They passed through a ticket counter and boarded an air tram that carried them down into the canyon. A cluster of souvenir shops and a restaurant perched on the other side of a narrow gorge where a set of fish ladders clung to the cliffs. A footbridge crossing the river held a cluster of people fixated on the roiling waters.
Travathan and Janner crossed to the middle of the footbridge, staring at the maelstrom. The river, normally a quarter of a mile wide, was forced into a channel about a hundred feet across. The water, as if ranting against this indignity, responded with a fury that made conversation inadequate and
a roar that made it impossible. It was hard to tell where the fountains of spray ended and the water began. He shuddered. He knew the river wasn’t a predator, that it had no intent, but just being near the spumes of water gripped at his heart. He tightened his muscles, stifled his fear. Fight the memory. It’s the past. It can’t hurt anymore.
Janner pointed. A river raft was approaching the canyon. Inside it, about a dozen people clad in life jackets and slickers grasped the rope that ran along its side. Closer it came, until the observers on the footbridge could see the mix of fear, excitement, and resolve etched on the faces of the passengers, their mouths opened in screams that were smothered by the roar of the river. The raft hit the leading edge of the fury. It twisted, reared up, and plunged back into the water, no longer under any apparent control. The people cowered under the waves of water that crashed over them, as if they wanted to throw their arms over their heads for protection but dared not release their death grips on the ropes. Then the raft was through. Still upright, still intact, still with all its passengers, now whooping in the elation of their victory over an opponent they had defeated. Even one that didn’t care.
To Travathan, suicide or madness were the only reasons for anyone to submit himself to that rage. Janner suggested they go to the restaurant for lunch, but his past tore at his heart. He couldn’t stay here. Near the water. They returned to the peace of the highway.
At Bentron’s White Water Adventures, Travathan and Janner walked past ranks of kayaks and inflatable rafts, through an organized scatter of oars, paddles, coiled ropes, and devices that were meaningless to Travathan but which he supposed had some connection to the sport. They entered the office, their eyes adjusting to the dimness. A man approached them and asked if he could help. His name badge said David Claudy. His face was that of Kevin Winters.
Travathan squelched his surprise and said, “Yeah, I’m interested in finding out more about your packages.”
“Rafting or kayaking?”
“Tell me about your kayaking packages.”
“They are intense. For novices, we recommend rafting. For river kayaking, we insist on some experience, especially if you want to do Hell’s Gate. Tell me, have you ever been kayaking before?”
Travathan nodded. “I did the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, and I’ve done a lot of ocean kayaking.”
“And your wife?”
“Oh, she’s just along for the ride. She doesn’t like rough water. Right, sweetie?”
Janner smiled through her teeth.
“Okay. Well, I’m sure you’ll find something here to challenge you. We cover some of the best rapids you’ll find anywhere. How long a trip were you looking for?”
“Right now, I’m just checking things out. Let me take these, and I’ll get back to you. The prices are included here, yes?”
“Uh, no, but I’ll write them in for you. Look,” Winters glanced at Janner and leaned forward, his voice too low for an apprehensive spouse to hear. “Out there, the only thing between you and some violent white water is the skin of a kayak and the experience of your guide. Price shouldn’t be a priority. I can tell you that if you’re looking for kayaking, I’m the best. Just ask anyone around here about David Claudy. They’ll tell you nobody knows white water better than I do.”
“I understand. I’ll be in touch.”
At a coffee shop, Travathan studied the brochures while Janner, making no attempt to hide her impatience, snapped at him. “Look, we didn’t come here for a vacation. Why are you staring at those things? Let’s just go back to Winters or Claudy or whatever he calls himself, ask our questions, and get out of here.”
“And if he runs, or calls for his friends to help him? What then? I need to get him alone someplace where he can’t get away from me.”
“And just where is that?”
“Well, on one of these.” Travathan gestured toward the brochures.
“Are you out of your mind? You’re not actually thinking of going on some river trip just to ask some questions?”
“Do you have a better idea? There are a lot of people here who know David Claudy and who would probably be willing to help him if he decides to run. If that happens, we’ll never find him again. We got lucky. I have to get him alone in a place where he can’t get away.”
“And you think smashing your head against some rapids will do that?”
“Oh, I’m not going to expose myself to water that’s any more wild than a pulsing shower head. What I’m looking for is a trip where I can chicken out.”
“Chicken out?”
“Yes. Once Winters and I are alone, I can tell him I’ve changed my mind. There, we can talk.”
“And if he really is a killer? What’s to prevent him from bashing your head in with an oar and leaving you there to feed the fish or seagulls or whatever?”
“Kayaks don’t have oars, they have paddles.” She didn't laugh. “Hey, I’m not helpless. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I doubt Winters had anything to do with Galina’s murder. My problem is Ron Mahmoud. It seems more than coincidental that the day after Galina was killed, someone ran over the mailman who had been boinking her.”
“But Mahmoud had nothing to do with Sherry Galina.”
“We know that, but think about it. The person who killed Mahmoud could simply have been targeting whoever delivered Galina’s mail. If I’m right that Mahmoud was killed because the killer thought he was her regular mailman, maybe Winters recognized the danger to himself, took off, and changed his name, not because he was guilty of murder, but because he was afraid of becoming another victim.”
“And what if you’re wrong? What if he really did kill her?”
“Well, I think I can take Kevin Winters one-on-one. He may be young and strong, but I fight dirty. But if he comes back alone, call the cops.” He picked up one of the brochures. “This is the one that looks the best for me.” He showed it to her. Hell’s Gate. “I’ll bet I’m not the first tourist to back out. The only price I’ll have to pay for the information is some embarrassment.”
“Well, at least you have some experience at this nonsense.”
“Experience?”
“The Colorado River? The Grand Canyon?”
“That’s in Arizona, isn’t it?”
She shuddered. “I was beginning to think you had some brains, but this is nuts.”
Travathan realized they had been talking about two different things. She thought he planned to go out on the river in a kayak. Hell, he didn’t intend to set foot inside the damn thing, but her comments were starting to annoy him. Let her think what she wanted. He dialed the number on the brochure and said, “David Claudy? I was just in there, and I’d like to book your kayak trip through Hell’s Gate. When are you available?”
Travathan could hear the click of keys on a computer. Claudy said, “I have an opening tomorrow morning. At ten. Does that work for you?”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow it is. See you then.” He disconnected the call. “Well, I guess we need to find a motel.”
“A motel? Are you crazy? I hadn’t planned on spending the night here. I didn’t even bring a change of clothes. Toiletries.”
“That’s why credit cards were invented, and that’s why motels have free shampoo and soap.”
“Look, I can’t stay here. I have to be back in my office tomorrow.”
“Well, you have a choice. You can either change your appointments or catch the bus. Investigations don’t respect schedules.”
They found a motel, took two rooms, and ate supper in the motel’s café. Breaded veal cutlet with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables for him, breaded filet of sole with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables for her. They could have been two strangers thrown together at the same table. They did not look at one another. They did not converse. When they were finished, they went to their separate rooms.
13
Gord was eleven. In a boat on the gulf. He had a fishing line in the water, but a fish would have been
an interruption. There were four of them. Gord and his father, their neighbor, Mr. Collins, whose boat it was, and his son, Alec, Gord’s best friend. The boat had a canopy, but Mr. Collins had removed it. He steered the boat far from shore. The mountains of the mainland rose behind them, mauve made fuzzy by the distance and the humidity. There were clouds, more decorative than threatening. A few boats scattered over the water. A breeze, too mild to kick up whitecaps, but enough to paint ripples, kept them cool beneath the sun. Gord and his father had put on life jackets even when Mr. Collins had laughed at them. “No point in wasting this weather hiding behind nylon and kapok,” he said as he and Alec removed their shirts.
Gord was irritated. The boat, its motor silenced, bobbed on the water like the rocking chair on his parent’s porch. The sun was a balm warming his skin. He wanted to doze, but the nylon of the life jacket clung to him, capturing the sweat that was dripping down his shirt. The damn thing was itchy. He wanted to throw it away, but his father would not have allowed it. He envied Alec, lying back in a seat, his eyes closed in a quest for the perfect tan.
The swaying of the boat became a tossing. More an amusement park ride than a rocking chair. But this was no county fair. Spumes of white foam kicked up from the water. In the distance, an arch spanned the sky. Before it, blue, behind it, gray, slouching toward them, awakening the waters that had been so placid, whipping them into spray, swelling the ripples into waves, then into whitecaps. Mr. Collins leapt up to start the motor. “Gotta get it heading into the wind, or we’ll capsize.” A wave sloshed water into the boat. The motor’s starter ground in a rhythm, but there was no answering roar. The waves were bigger now, some reaching the gunwale of the small craft, some threatening to tower over it. Mr. Collins stabbed at the starter. He was still standing at the boat’s helm when a wave broke over them plunging Gord into the water, his body tossed around like a ping pong ball in a lottery cage before he blacked out.
He awoke in hospital, tubes stuck in him, a machine beeping, a cuff around his arm. His mother and sister sat by his bed, their eyes wet, their faces flat, creasing into smiles as he opened his eyes. “Dad?” he managed to croak.
A Vicious Balance: A Mystery Thriller Page 8