by Joseph Flynn
Then she exhaled deeply and said, “It’s just a guess, but I’d have to say he was about a hundred and forty pounds. Average for males of his species, from what I’ve read.”
Ron said, “You keep referring to the animal in masculine terms. Did you actually notice its … gender?”
Now, Mary Kaye Mallory grinned. “No, I didn’t. It just helps me to think of the bastard as male. Does such sexism offend you, Chief Ketchum?”
Ron shook his head.
“You’ve probably got it right, Ms. Mallory.”
At that moment, a man of about Ron’s age poked his head into the enclosure. “I called your office and heard what happened,” he said to Mary Kaye. “May I come in? The nurse told me you’re leaving for San Francisco soon. If you like, I can accompany you.”
A repeat of the smile she’d mistakenly given Ron was all the answer he needed. He stepped to the side of the bed and took Mary Kaye’s hand. She squeezed his in return.
Apparently, Ms. Mallory had the good sense to recognize that not all males were bastards.
Ron slipped away unnoticed.
As Ron entered the roll call room at police headquarters, the sixteen available officers of Goldstrike’s finest snapped to attention at Oliver Gosden’s crisp command. They held the rigid posture as the chief stepped behind the lectern where Sergeant Stanley usually stood. He regarded his ten men and six women individually and then put them at ease.
There was no need to ask whether Oliver had briefed them and handed out copies of the victim’s likeness, so he started right in.
“A man was killed in our town last night. He died very badly. If the killer hasn’t fled our jurisdiction, we are going to catch him. We are going to work smart and hard and for as long as it takes. We are going to catch him.
“As you can imagine, the mayor feels very strongly about this situation. As do the deputy chief and I. As, undoubtedly, do all of you. Every decent person abhors a killing. But, in my view, a murder offends a police officer more grievously than anyone else. A homicide mocks our pledge to protect the public. It violates our very sense of who we are.
“It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to know that this killing has enormous potential for being sensationalized. Once that happens, it will become a media event and quite likely a political football. There will be great pressure on this department to solve the case quickly. So that the story will have a neat ending. So that the politics of the situation can be distilled and peddled to the voters.”
Ron spoke here from personal experience, and again he paused to look at each and every one of his officers.
“None of this is your concern. Any and all questions from anyone outside this department are to be referred to my office. This is not to cover anyone’s ass, it’s to free you from any distraction to doing your police work. I’ll remind you again. If the killer is still in our town, we will catch him
“The first order of business is to identify the victim. If he was a resident, someone will know him. If he was a visitor, he had to have a means of transportation and probably a place to stay. I want the man’s picture shown at every hotel, motel, and campground in town. I want it shown at every eating place, from four-star to fast food. I want it shown at every grocery store and convenience store. I want it shown at every single place of business where this man might conceivably have walked in off the street.
“And I want this done as quickly as possible without sacrificing due diligence. Because if we can’t identify him this way, we will go door-to-door to every residence in town. Sergeant Stanley will detail each officer’s initial assignment.”
Ron laid the weight of one last stare from the chief on his cops.
“As of now, you’re all working continuous shifts until we know who the victim is.”
That Friday evening, Mayor Clay Steadman made Ron Ketchum’s job both easier and much more difficult. Since Goldstrike was in many ways the mayor’s town, that was his prerogative. He used the forum of the Clay Steadman Show to spread his message.
Whenever the mayor was in town, not off making a movie, he appeared on the government access cable TV channel each weekday at 6:45 PM. Sometimes he discussed municipal ballot propositions on which the electorate would vote; sometimes he did movie reviews on upcoming films he’d seen at industry screenings; sometimes he just read the weather report and wished everyone a pleasant evening.
It was his way of staying in touch, as broadly as possible, with his constituency.
And his constituency watched faithfully, loving the fact that they alone got to see the only TV program that Clay Steadman would ever do. In homes, public places and even on electronics store displays, if a TV in Goldstrike was on at 6:45 PM, it was tuned to the Clay Steadman Show.
That included the TV in Ron Ketchum’s office. As soon as the chief saw the look on the mayor’s face, he knew what Clay was going to do. It was all Ron could do to watch. But he knew he’d better, so he did.
“I have something shocking to show you tonight, something horrible to talk about. So right now I’d like to give you parents out there a few seconds to shoo the kids out of the room. Any of you more impressionable adults might just want to turn off your sets, too.”
Then the mayor simply focused his cold, blue, unblinking eyes on the camera. Ron counted to himself. Clay Steadman gave his audience ten seconds to follow his advice — a good deal longer than the three count he was famous for giving movie villains.
Then the mayor held up a photograph and the TV camera zoomed in close on it. It was a full-length picture of the crucifixion victim, one of the shots Oliver had taken. Ron hadn’t known the mayor had requested it, but he couldn’t have stopped him from getting it in any event.
“This man was killed in our town this morning,” Clay said in voice-over as the gruesome image continued to fill the screen. “He was crucified.”
Ron said a silent prayer that the mayor wouldn’t give away all the details of the killing. That’d he’d leave the police something to distinguish any real tips they might get from the flood of crackpot calls that would soon inundate the department’s phone lines.
The angry face of the mayor came back on the screen.
“To say that this is the work of a sick, twisted sonofabitch belabors the obvious. To understand why it happened here is not so simple.”
Oliver Gosden came into Ron’s office and took a seat on the corner of his desk to watch the mayor speak.
“You look at what was done to this man …” Ron was glad that Clay chose not to show the crucifixion picture again. “… and you know that someone wanted to achieve more than the taking of his life. Someone wanted to send a grotesque message.”
Clay Steadman let his audience think about that while he took a sip of water.
“The first conclusion you might reach is that this killing is racially motivated. Somebody hated this man for the color of his skin. Our country’s history is tragically filled with such outrages. And why else would anyone go to the trouble of staging such a vile, sacrilegious execution?”
Oliver exchanged a glance with Ron.
“The answer is we don’t know. But that’s exactly what we have to find out. Was this man killed for what he looked like … or was he killed for who he was … or for something he did? Only when we know the answer to those questions will we be able to pursue his killer.”
The mayor paused for another sip of water.
Oliver asked Ron, “You think he’s gonna—”
“Yeah,” Ron answered, not needing to hear the rest of the question.
“The first thing our police department needs to know is this man’s identity,” Clay said. “Please take a good look at him. See if you know him.”
Sergeant Stanley stepped into Ron’s office as a headshot of the victim filled the TV screen. The sergeant stood next to the deputy chief.
“Please call the number on your screen if you know who this man is,” Clay narrated as the telephone number for police headquarters appeare
d on the screen below the victim’s face. “Do not call 911. Leave that line open for emergencies.”
All three cops listened for the sound of their main phone line starting to ring. The first call came within five seconds.
“At least we won’t have to do a house to house canvas now,” Sergeant Stanley said. “I’ll get additional clerical help to cover the phones.”
The mayor came back on the screen. “I know everybody in town wants to catch this bastard as badly as I do. And I know this murder couldn’t have been committed without somebody in Goldstrike having some information that will help our police catch the killer. But I’m also aware that in a situation like this people can sometimes be afraid to come forward. So I am offering a reward …
“You were right,” Oliver told Ron.
“… I will pay $100,000 from my own pocket for information leading to the arrest and conviction of whoever killed this man.”
The victim’s face reappeared on the screen, as did the police phone number.
Sergeant Stanley left to find the clerical help he’d need.
“You think our boy’s packing his bags right about now?” Oliver asked.
Ron knew the question was more than just rhetorical, and he nodded.
“Might not be a bad idea, at that, to have a few units out watching for anybody leaving town and looking spooked,” Ron answered.
There were only four roads out of town that hooked up with the interstate system. It was just another of Goldstrike’s natural advantages, as far as the police were concerned.
“I’ll get Stanley on it right away,” Oliver said, heading for the door.
“You think we could get that lucky?” Ron asked.
The deputy chief just snorted and kept going.
Another member of the Clay Steadman Show’s viewing audience was Perk Lawler, the local stringer for the Associated Press. She videotaped every episode. She also had an urgent reaction to the mayor’s announcement. Perk picked up her phone and called her boss in Los Angeles. Did she have a story for him.
And by Saturday morning, so did every newspaper in the country.
Hours later, news of the murder in Goldstrike and Clay Steadman’s reward offer was in worldwide circulation.
Chapter 7
Saturday
About the same time on Saturday morning that the rest of the country was learning about the horrific killing in the Sierra Nevada resort town, two tired and cranky patrol officers, Santo Alighieri and Divine Babson, made a discovery. At the far corner of the parking lot of the Evergreen Supermarket on Timberline Road sat an old dark blue Ford Taurus. There was an acre of available parking between the car and the store.
Officer Babson, the mother of three, gave her partner a fish-eyed look.
“Santo,” she asked, “you ever feel the urge to carry a bag of groceries one step farther than you absolutely had to?”
“Beautiful car like that, maybe the owner just don’t want to get it dinged,” he responded deadpan, but he drove slowly over to the isolated car.
As they got close, Divine said, “Something wrong here. I feel it. You feel it?”
“Yeah. Either there’s a body in that trunk or we’re the lucky cops about to get a commendation.”
Officer Babson radioed the dispatcher that she and her partner were about to investigate a suspicious vehicle and gave their location. The dispatcher acknowledged their message.
Approaching the car from the rear, Alighieri said, “The plate’s current.”
“I’ll call it in,” Babson replied “See what we can see.”
“Hey, Divine,” Alighieri interrupted as he moved to the front of the car. “Come on over here and look at this.”
She joined her partner and looked in the direction of his nod. The driver’s side sun visor hung down. On it was a label: Clergy.
Officer Babson just shook her head. “A man gets himself crucified, and we find a minister’s car parked all lonely over here? Makes me want to go home and hold my babies.”
Alighieri, a bachelor, took the practical point of view.
“Let’s call the chief in on this. Maybe he’ll let you.”
Ron came and so did Oliver, who’d been about to leave for breakfast at home. They brought Officer Benny Marx, the department’s crime scene man, with them. By the time they arrived at the supermarket parking lot Officers Babson and Alighieri had a name for them.
“DMV says this car’s registered to a Reverend Isaac Cardwell,” Babson said.
“A black male,” Alighieri added.
A number of early morning shoppers noticed the police presence, but the cops didn’t seem to be doing more than talking, and they were too far away for anyone to casually rubberneck.
“You guys touch anything?” Benny Marx asked.
Both cops shook their heads.
“Eyeballed it is all,” Babson explained.
Alighieri added, “Divine spotted the car over here, wondered why anyone would park so far from the store. When we got within ten feet of it, we knew something was wrong.”
Oliver looked up from glancing at the Clergy label. “The DMV sent you the reverend’s driver’s license photo, right?”
Babson held up her department-issued BlackBerry. Isaac Cardwell’s photographic likeness looked out at the assembly of cops.
Ron nodded. “Good work, officers. You two have been working all night?”
Alighieri said, “Yes, sir.”
The chief told the two cops, “Okay, go home and get some rest. Come back for second shift. See if you can find another lead for us.”
Divine Babson and Santo Alighieri smiled, saluted and left.
The deputy chief had Cardwell’s photo up on his smart phone now.
“That’s him,” Oliver said.
Ron and Benny Marx agreed.
They’d identified the victim. Reverend Isaac Cardwell of Echo Avenue, Oakland, California. In the DMV photo, though, Reverend Cardwell wore wire frame glasses; his license mandated corrective lenses when he drove. Ron remembered the indentations on the victim’s nose. So what had happened to the man’s glasses?
“Benny,” Ron asked, “you find any eyeglasses in the area where the victim was found?”
“No, Chief.”
“Look for a pair when you go over that car. Oliver, go talk to the supermarket manager and his staff. See if their security cameras cover the spot where the reverend’s car is parked. If not, ask if anyone noticed when Cardwell’s car was left here. See if anybody remembers seeing him in the store; if so, was anyone was with him? If the store personnel are no help, ask them for the names of regular customers who came in the past few days. There have to be times this parking lot gets a lot more filled up than it is now. Somebody might have seen something. Ask the manager when his slow times are, when it’s least likely anyone would notice a car being dumped here. If we don’t get anything else, that might give us a time frame to work with.”
Oliver and Benny knew Ron was saving the heavy lifting for himself.
The chief said, “I’ll notify the next of kin — and the mayor.”
Ron went to see the mayor first. He’d been to Clay Steadman’s house a dozen times in the three years he’d been Goldstrike’s chief of police. Every time he visited, he had the same thought. It was perfectly sited for the man who governed — ruled, Ron often thought — the town.
The house sat alone on a rise that looked directly down on the center of town and the sparkling waters of the lake. If the mayor were so inclined, he could step out his front door and, with a pair of good binoculars, peer into half of the windows in the Muni Complex. And since Clay Steadman had everyone who worked for the town out to his place twice a year, for a Fourth of July picnic and a Christmas party, every municipal employee on the inland side of the Muni knew that the boss might be watching at any time.
On the other hand, nobody was going to get the drop on Clay Steadman. His grounds were high enough above the adjacent road that he felt no need to enclose
the property behind a wall. A private lane was the only way in. It cut through a grand sweep of lawns, terraced flowerbeds, ornamental trees and a recirculating stream that featured a small waterfall and a large pond. All of the features of the landscaping fit together like a masterfully composed oil painting — and all of them allowed for a clear view from the house to the property line. Out back were a simple lap pool and an austere tennis court. Just beyond these amenities, the sheer face of a cliff rose over two hundred feet.
The house itself was a single story rambling structure of redwood weathered to a handsome silver with a pitched roof and tinted Thermopane windows. It was big but seemed exceedingly unpretentious for a man who’d made a billion or so dollars in entertainment and real estate. When you stepped inside, there were understated furnishings that cost more than most people made in a lifetime, paintings by Winslow Homer and three generations of Wyeths and Remington bronzes. Everything had been arranged by somebody whose sense of interior design was probably genetic.
For all the room in the house, Clay was the only one who lived there. His only ex-wife didn’t like snow and lived, elegantly, in the Arizona desert. He had no children. He drove his own cars. The cook and the cleaning people were ferried back and forth, and the groundskeeper came and went in his own truck.
It was only when the mayor had an occasional lady friend over or threw one of his rare parties for his Hollywood associates, that anyone else spent a night under his roof.
The sense of isolation and asceticism Clay had cultivated in his home was intentional. During the shooting of his tenth film, aptly named Criminal Mischief, he’d encountered the one foe he couldn’t overcome: cocaine addiction.