by Paul Henke
‘A gumshoe and a lawyer to boot. Well, well, well. That’s a turn up. A first for me. Let me give you some advice, Mr. O’Brian. Get her to plead guilty and I’ll drop the charge to third degree murder. We ran some background checks on Mr. Crane, seems he wasn’t as innocent as you might think.’
‘Oh? What’s he done?’
‘One account of stealing a car, one of burglary and two of grievous bodily harm. He spent three months inside for one of the counts of GBH.’
‘Any previous blackmail?’
‘No evidence found. But there rarely is. You should know that. The victim pays up and if the blackmailer has any sense he moves on to his next victim.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. What’s Vanowen’s reaction been to all this?’
‘He’s disowned her. Won’t pay for a lawyer. Is threatening a divorce. Never wants to see her again. Called her a slut and a whore as we were taking her out of the house. None of which I blame him for.’
‘Fact is, I don’t either.’
‘We still have to do a formal interview,’ said Bainbridge.
‘I know. We may as well get it over with. When will she be arraigned?’
‘As you know, we have forty-eight hours in which to charge her. So it will be first thing in the morning. The charges will be read out and she’ll have to plead. If she pleads not guilty then I’ll be going for murder one. If she pleads guilty it’ll be manslaughter due to extenuating circumstances.’
‘What does the DA’s office have to say about it all?’
‘They agree.’
‘Can I get the offer in writing?’
‘No.’ Then he said, ‘Yes. Okay. I’ll get something from the District Attorney.’
‘Why did you change your mind?’
Bainbridge sighed. ‘Because I just remembered the DA knows the Vanowens. He wants to keep the trial as low key as possible.’
‘Not very likely, is it?’
‘Nope. Not very likely at all. But he’ll be able to tell Vanowen that he did everything in his power.’
‘Why should that matter?’
‘What follows DA?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was elected, right?’
‘Sure. It’s the American way.’
‘So next comes Congressman, Senator or even Governor.’
‘Okay. It does happen.’
‘Believe me, this DA is very politically ambitious. He’s a member of the Republican Party and will probably be a front-runner for one of the jobs.’
‘So what does that have to do with Vanowen?’
‘He’s a generous contributor to party funds. The last thing the DA wants is for Vanowen to walk away with his money.’
‘So a quick trial, a quick result, Mrs Vanowen goes to jail and life continues.’
‘You got it.’
‘And Vanowen gets one other thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A quick divorce and no settlement. Paying the Republican Party will be petty change by comparison.’
Bainbridge shrugged. ‘Lucky for him.’
10
Only I didn’t think it was luck. Vanowen appeared to me to be too smart to rely on luck. You didn’t become a millionaire a number of times over due to luck. It took a ruthless ambition mixed with greed. I suspected he had both in spades.
I sat in on the interview with Susan Vanowen. It went pretty much as I expected. Lt. Bainbridge related what he’d already told me and I stopped her from arguing with his evidence. If you gave the cops too much information, pointed out mistakes in their evidence, they would just collect more. Bainbridge was convinced she was guilty and I didn’t blame him one iota. By the same token I was convinced she was telling the truth. But court was the place to make a defence. To argue your case in front of a jury. Honest men and women who would see that you were telling the truth. Unfortunately in this case the evidence was pretty damning.
The arraignment the following morning was a formality. Prior to the hearing I received the offer in writing from the DA’s office that if she pleaded guilty the charge would be manslaughter and not murder one. Bainbridge pointed out that would be eight to ten, probably out in five for good behaviour. If found guilty of murder one it would be thirty years minimum, although they would not be asking for the death sentence.
Mrs. Vanowen was shaking as she read the letter. ‘What should I do?’ she asked in a broken voice.
I shook my head. ‘I can’t advise you. Not on this. It’s for you to decide. You have as many facts as I have. But you have to think it through. You can scream as loudly as you like that you’re innocent but will a jury believe you? The gun, the money and the photographs are damning. You admitted that you were being blackmailed. Killing Crane was an option that some of the jurors might even applaud but it will still be murder.’
‘But I didn’t do it!’
‘I told you, I believe you.’
‘Is there some way you can help me? Is there something you can do?’
‘I can argue your case in court or I can go back to being a PI.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I find out who really did it.’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘Yeah, I know. Your husband. No prenup, every reason in the world to have you put away for thirty years. No alimony, none of the spoils of marriage. Just a quick divorce.’
She nodded. ‘That son of a bitch.’ Her shoulders were shaking and I realised she was crying. I couldn’t blame her. Well actually, I did in part. She shouldn’t have had an affair with a scumbag like Godfrey Crane.
‘If you plead guilty there’ll be no turning back. Any evidence I discover may not be admissible as you will have already pleaded. Sentencing will be in days. If we tried to appeal, the District Attorney will argue that whatever I find is outweighed by the fact that you admitted to the crime. If you plead not guilty I’ll have time to get to the truth, however,’ I waved my left hand in the air, ‘it may not be enough to convince a jury of your innocence.’
‘So what you are saying is, I can accept ten years and out in five or I risk thirty to life on a wing and a prayer.’
‘That’s about it.’
‘It’s not much of a choice, is it?’
‘Nope.’
‘Thanks for sugaring the pill.’
‘I call it like I see it. I need at least a week to give me a chance of finding out who did it.’
‘My husband, of course.’
‘We can’t be certain.’
‘Well I am. Oh God, I’m going to regret this. If I plead not guilty, what happens then?’
‘I’ll ask for bail, the DA will object, the judge will probably set bail for a case like this at $50,000 and if you can raise the money you’ll be free to leave.’
She gasped. ‘I don’t have that sort of money.’
‘Then he’ll remand you in a woman’s prison where you’ll rot for a few weeks until your case comes to trial.’
She closed her eyes and then nodded slowly. ‘So be it,’ she said in a quiet voice.
The hearing was pretty much as I expected. The only difference was the District Attorney asked for bail to be set at $100,000. I objected and it was reduced to $80,000 which didn’t make any difference to the outcome. Susan Vanowen was led away in handcuffs while I walked out the front door wondering what on earth I was going to do next.
I returned to the office. Zelda poured the coffees and came and sat with me.
‘What’s your thinking?’ she asked.
‘If she’s innocent, which I am sure is the case, the only other suspect is her husband. So I need to find out more about him.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘Good question. I have one or two ideas.’
‘Care to share them?’
‘Nope. That way, should anyone ask what I’ve been up to, you will, with a clear conscience, say you have no idea.’
‘Is it something illegal?’ If she was perturbed at the
idea she didn’t sound it.
I smiled. ‘Some may say it is illegal. But I think it’s a case of the ends justifying the means.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
I sipped my coffee and said, ‘I’ll enlighten you at a later date.’
I didn’t want to waste any time so that evening I drove out to Scarsdale. My car was a General Motors Chevrolet, black, a couple of years old, two doors, comfortable, big and was more than sufficient as far as speed was concerned. It was nondescript as cars went. Anonymity was the name of the game.
I parked about half a mile from the Vanowen residence. It was just after midnight. The night was muggy and warm. I was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt, black trousers and had a balaclava sitting on my head. It was made of cotton, fashioned and sewn by yours truly.
Over my left shoulder was my goodies bag, packed with the sort of useful tools all burglars should own. Plus a few other toys.
The house was set back about 100 yards. It had a driveway that led up to a garage on the left of the house and then continued around the front and back to the road. The grounds were mostly lawn with a few shrubs scattered around. The nearest neighbours were a hundred yards away. That’s what I loved about the area. The people of Scarsdale liked their privacy. The house was two storey, had three windows either side of the door and a large porch.
I quickly crossed the lawn. The night was pitch black, no moon and no stars thanks to a covering of thin cloud. I knew the layout of the place as I’d asked Mrs. Vanowen for details. Around the back, as I expected, there was a set of double doors opening onto a patio. Thanks to my wartime training it took me less than a minute to open the doors and slip inside.
In Vanowen’s study I placed my bag on his desk. In a drawer under the drinks cabinet I found a revolver. I had a choice. Take out the bullets or damage the firing pin. I opted for the latter. He could check the gun was loaded at any time. He wasn’t likely to fire it in the house unless he felt he had good cause. Like finding a burglar. Me for instance. It was an automatic. I stripped it down, used a pair of pliers to bend the pin just a few degrees and reassembled it.
Later I was glad I took the precaution.
I already knew where I was going to place the microphone. It was one I’d been working on. From a bookcase opposite the desk I took down a leather-bound book. His wife had told me Vanowen never read. I used a Stanley blade to hollow out the inside of the book, cut a hole in the spine and fixed the microphone inside. I replaced the book on the shelf. I put the transmitter/receiver a few feet away hidden by the books. The tiny transmitter in the microphone was good for about 10 yards, though less if there was anything blocking the line of sight. In this case it was just a few books and so did not present a problem.
I left the way I’d entered, locking the door behind me. This time I crossed the lawn at the back, skirting a swimming pool and outhouse. The grounds at the back were bordered by a thick hedge. I placed the recorder/receiver in the middle of the hedge hidden by its leaves. The transmit distance was less than 80 yards. The machine was good for up to a mile. The only drawback was that I would have to change the spool every couple of nights.
I returned to my apartment satisfied with a job well done.
The following morning I arrived in the office to find Zelda already there with the coffee made. She poured me a cup and handed it to me on a saucer.
‘No thanks.’
‘No coffee?’
‘Yes to coffee. No to the cup and saucer. Keep them for when we have clients. I’ll take my chipped mug, if you please. I’ve grown attached to it.’ As she took the cup and saucer away the phone rang. I answered.
‘Mr. O’Brian? This is Lt. Bainbridge.’
‘Morning lieutenant, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s your client. She wants to change her plea on condition that the same offer is on the table.’
‘And is it?’
‘I don’t know. I have to ask the DA. This is just a courtesy call, you understand. I doubt he’ll agree but you never know.’
‘Okay. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll visit my client.’
So midmorning found me in the women’s compound at the county jail. Mrs. Vanowen was brought to an interview room.
She sat down opposite me at a scarred and battered table and looked at me warily. I waited for her to speak.
‘I can’t risk it,’ she blurted out. Much to my surprise, there were no tears.
‘Risk what?’ As though I didn’t know already.
‘Thirty years. I can’t. I’ll plead to the lower charge. Out in ten, hopefully less.’
I nodded. ‘Okay. Can you procrastinate for a couple of days? See if the offer is still on the table? Hum and haw. Do something but please try and delay things.’
She looked at me with a blank stare. I couldn’t tell what was going on behind the mask she was now wearing. She blinked slowly and then nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll try. But why? What good will it do?’
‘Look, just give me a few days. I know you’re innocent. I can’t prove it so I need to find out who’s guilty. I’m working on it.’
‘Please hurry up. I don’t know how long I can last. That’s what’s killing me. The not knowing. Ten years and maybe out in five I can understand. I can come to terms with it. Thirty years is something else completely.’
‘I understand. I really do.’
I left. Returning to my apartment, I picked up the car and drove to Scarsdale. I parked away from the house and ambled along the sidewalk, looking around, enjoying the sunshine and warm weather. At least, that was the impression I hoped to convey in spite of the fact the temperature was in the 80s.
There was a car in the drive that I assumed belonged to Vanowen. On the spur of the moment I decided to call on him. I walked up the drive. The vehicle was a red two seater with an open top.
There was a ladies purse on the passenger’s seat. I grabbed it, opened it, saw a driving licence and took a note of the owner’s name and address. I replaced the purse and continued to the house. I rang the doorbell. Twice. Finally, as I was about to give up, the door opened.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr. Vanowen?’ I asked politely.
‘Yes.’ His tone was surely. He looked as though I’d interrupted something.
‘My name is O’Brian. I’m representing your wife...,’ I didn’t get any further.
‘Get lost.’ He emphasised the words by slamming the door in my face.
I walked back down the drive. That had been interesting. I needed to get a microphone into the bedroom.
I revisited the area that evening and saw there were lights on. I walked away and returned an hour later. The lights were still on so I waited another hour. This time the house was in darkness. I walked openly up to the front door and rang the bell. I rang twice more. There was no answer so I entered and went quickly up the stairs. This time I placed the microphone on the top of the light hanging in the middle of the master bedroom and the receiver/transmitter in the wardrobe. Outside, I placed the receiver/recorder next to the other one. They worked off different frequencies.
I took down the first one and changed the spool. I then drove back to my apartment where I wound the spool onto the player. Making myself a coffee, I sat down to listen.
It was interesting as well as highly informative. It also made me rethink what was going down.
11
‘Perry, I can’t believe she did this to you.’ The voice was female, the accent similar to Susan Vanowen’s. It was full of concern.
‘To be honest, Cheryl, neither can I. I need another drink. You want one?’
‘No, thanks, I have to drive home.’ There was silence and then she added, ‘I can stay and keep you company if you like. In one of the guest rooms.’
‘That’s okay. I think I’d rather be on my own.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘No, thanks,’ there was an edge to his voice. ‘I’ll be alright on my own.’
‘Okay. Sorry. I�
�m just trying to help.’
‘I know you are and I appreciate it.’
There was silence for a few seconds. I thought I could hear the clink of glass but I couldn’t be sure. The microphone wasn’t that sensitive.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Vanowen.
‘Don’t get what?’
‘Why she did it. It makes no sense whatsoever.’
‘Maybe she just likes other men,’ Cheryl suggested.
‘I don’t mean that.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘So tell me what you meant about not making sense. She’s been arrested so she must have done it.’
I lurched forward in my chair to listen more closely.
‘There’s no doubt she did do it,’ said Vanowen. ‘The evidence is stacked up against her. But I don’t understand why. I would have divorced her. Made a reasonable settlement. If that was what she wanted.’
‘Look, why don’t I stay? Keep you company.’
‘No. No, thanks. That’s okay. I’ll be alright. I need to think.’
‘In that case, I’ll be on my way. Goodnight, Perry.’
‘Goodnight, Cheryl. I am so glad you came over. You do mean a lot to me.’
There was the sound of a door closing.
Cherchez la femme, I thought. Who the hell was Cheryl? There’d been nothing to suggest anything was going on between the two of them. Obviously, I had misread the signs when I’d seen Vanowen the previous morning.
I continued listening.
The phone rang. ‘Hullo?’ Vanowen answered it. I figured it was the next morning which made it earlier today.
‘Hullo, Doug. That’s right. Murder one if she insists on claiming she’s innocent. Manslaughter if she admits to killing him.’ There were a few moments of silence. ‘I’m not going to help her. She had an affair, for God’s sake. She’s on her own.’ Silence then, ‘I’m not being cold hearted. I hate to admit it but she’s as guilty as hell. I should never have married her. Anyway, that’s enough. I have to go.’
There was the sound of the receiver being replaced with more force than was good for it.
After that there was only silence.