You Think You Know Me Pretty Well

by David Kessler

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he was planning on giving it to someone else to help him gain access to her money. We know that money was taken out of her account for over a year after she vanished. He might have killed her and got someone to pose as her and used this other girl to milk Dorothy’s bank account.”

  “Well I don’t know if I buy this theory. I mean, it’s plausible, but no more than that. And what do you want me to do? This is something you’re surely going to have to take to the governor and argue it out with him – or the courts if that’s quicker.”

  She sounded sympathetic, like she really wanted to help. But she also sounded firm, as if to underscore the fact that she couldn’t.

  “If I take this to the governor now, the first question he’s going to ask me is if I have any proof that this passport was ever in Nat’s possession in the first place.”

  “But I thought you said that Lee Kelly found it there.”

  “Yes, he did find it there. He wouldn’t lie to me and there’s no other way he could have got it. But how do I convince the governor of that? The word of a career burglar that he found the passport at the house of a law-abiding citizen isn’t going to cut any ice with a no-nonsense hard-head like Dusenbury. I need to be able to prove that this passport was in Nat’s possession.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “I can’t, Sergeant Nightingale, but you can!” She looked at him blankly. “With fingerprints.”

  She swallowed nervously before speaking.

  “Do you know how long it’ll take to get fingerprints off that passport?”

  “It isn’t hard: you just put it in a sealed chamber, fill the chamber with cyanoacrylic vapor and voila! It’s done all the time. They’ve lifted prints off forty-year-old Nazi war documents.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sedaka, I know all about fingerprint science. It’s part of the police exam – at inspector level, let alone sergeant. But it’s not quite as simple as that. First of all, not all paper retains fingerprints equally well.”

  “I know, but passports are made of pretty good quality paper.”

  “Yes, but that’s the problem. The great paradox is that the worse the quality of the paper, the easier it is to get fingerprints off it. Good quality paper is bad for retaining dabs.”

  “Yes, but we’re not talking forty years here. The passport is nine years old, but it’s quite likely that he handled it more recently. We’re still in with a chance.”

  “Okay, maybe he did handle it recently, but there are other problems. Just switching on the machine costs money and, like every other department, we’re on a budget. That’s why we usually do batch jobs with several pieces of paper, whether from one case or several. You don’t just put one document in the machine and switch it on. You wait until you’ve got enough pages to run the machine.”

  “But a man’s life is at stake here!”

  “I know that! And I’m not just brushing you off here but there’s another complicating factor. A passport isn’t like a flat page. It’s a document with pages. We have some machines where you can put in a book – or in this case, a passport – and then turn the pages with robot arms so that every page gets exposed to the cyanoacrylic vapor. But I don’t think we have such a machine available locally. We may have to send it to a lab in SoCal or maybe the one in Sacramento. But they’re not open 24/7 like we are.”

  “Well why can’t you just cut the pages out and space them throughout the machine? That’ll also solve the problem of running the machine when it isn’t full.”

  “There’s another problem there. The passport is a legal document. Technically it’s the property of the United States government. We can’t just cut it up without authorization from INS or Homeland Security – or at least a District Court order.”

  “But it’s a man’s life!”

  “I know that, but we’re cops! We have to go by the book.”

  “And for that you’re ready to let a man die?”

  “Look, we don’t even know that we’ll find what you’re looking for. For all we know we might not even find this man’s dabs on the passport. For all we know he might not have handled it. How do I know you’re telling the truth? You might just be an over-zealous attorney who’s ready to go over the top to save his client’s neck.”

  Alex was about to deliver an angry retort, but he cut himself short. He realized that Sergeant Nightingale was right. He was an over-zealous attorney and he had gone over the top to help his client. But he had come too far to drop the matter now.

  “Okay, does it have to be a court or DC?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “I was thinking about the governor. I know he’s not federal, but the courts’ll take too long and Homeland Security or INS won’t be open till tomorrow morning – and even then it’ll take days to cut through the red tape.”

  “How quickly can you contact the governor?”

  “I can get him on the phone right now. The question is, if he authorizes it, will you do it?”

  Grace Nightingale took a deep breath and thought about it for a couple of seconds.

  “If Governor Dusenbury authorizes it, we’ll cut the pages out of the passport and run the fingerprint test now. But how quickly can we get the governor on the line at this time? Is he even awake?”

  “Oh he’s awake now. In fact, he’s waiting for my call. Like I said, he gave me his direct line. If you call it and tell him you’ve got me beside you, he’ll speak to me.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Anderson’s fingerprints are on file in this state?”

  “He has no priors as far as I know, but there should be a thumbprint on file at the CDMV.”

  “Good enough,” said Grace, nodding. “We can access their database from the secure terminals here.”

  Alex gave her the number and she put in the call. It was the governor who answered, but she spent half a minute verifying it was him. Then she put Alex on the line. He outlined the problem in record time and then held his breath.

  “All right, I’ll sign an order for them to run the tests right away and fax it over, but I don’t know how quickly they can do it. ”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking, sir. Is there any possibility that you’d consider granting a stay? We’ve found quite a lot even though it’s inconclusive. The airline ticket, the payments to the medical center, the passport, the stamp in the passport, where it was found. I know it’s not enough for clemency, sir. But isn’t it enough to grant a stay … just to make sure?”

  “It’s all too uncertain. The only thing we have in writing is the ticket and the money. They show an intention to go to England and someone taking money out of her account. The rest is all hearsay.”

  “But if it’s true,” said Alex, looking at his watch, “then an innocent man is going to die in forty-five minutes’ time.”

  “I know. But you’ve come to me late in the day. If you’d come to me with answers it would be a whole different story. But all you’ve got are unanswered questions.”

  “Yet you were prepared to spare Burrow even when you were sure he was guilty, if he revealed the whereabouts of the body.”

  “That was because Esther asked me to. She’s dying, as you know, and I was ready to do it for her – as a humanitarian gesture.”

  Alex realized that he faced a choice. He could run with what he had already and have another try with the Federal District Court for a TRO. That might buy him time until tomorrow morning. But after two applications today already – both shot down in flames – it was clear which way the Court was leaning. They had given him the benefit of the doubt the first time. They were not likely to this time, no matter how strong the alleged evidence.

  But the governor was different. On the one hand he was playing hardball. But on the other hand, he appeared to have a soft spot. And Alex thought he knew what it was.

  The only question was… was there enough time?

  “Sir, may I ask you a question? If Mrs.
Olsen were to request a stay of execution now?”

  He heard the governor breathing heavily.

  “Then I’d grant it.”

  23:16 PDT

  Nat was driving north through San Francisco. He realized that he had cut it fine, time-wise. The execution was scheduled for a minute past midnight but he had to get there before that. That was why, when he found himself stuck behind an eighteen-wheel rig, he made a risky overtaking maneuver.

  Seconds later Nat found himself in front of a police car with flashing lights and a siren. Not wanting any trouble, he pulled over. The police car stopped in front of him and a police officer stepped out and approached him.

  “Are you aware that you were driving erratically back there?”

  “It was a judgment call. I thought it was safe.”

  “I’ll need to see your driver’s license and vehicle registration.”

  Nat handed them over. The patrolman looked at them and put in a call, to check that the vehicle wasn’t stolen and that Nat didn’t have any outstanding warrants against him.

  Nat wasn’t afraid. They weren’t going to find any warrants or theft reports or even unpaid parking tickets. The thing that bothered him was that all this checking was going to take time – and time was the one thing that he didn’t have.

  Sometimes highway patrolman like to check these things because they’re being thorough. They would look pretty stupid if they let a driver go only to discover that he was a wanted man in half a dozen states. And if a driver drives erratically, it can mean that he’s under the influence of drink or drugs, or that he’s on the run from the law.

  But in many cases, traffic cops stop drivers for no other reason than to make up the numbers or because they’re bored or because they don’t particularly like the look of the person they’ve stopped.

  Nat didn’t know which of these was the case in this case, but he sensed hostility from the cop.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to take a breathalyzer.”

  Nat could have hit him – and would have, if he thought he’d get away with it.

  23:20 PDT

  “I’m sorry, I can’t let you in here, sir. You can come back in the morning.”

  “In the morning it’ll be too late! I’ve got to see her now!”

  Alex was standing eyeball to eyeball with a hospital security guard.

  “There’s no visiting after hours – except for terminal patients. That’s the rule.”

  “She is a terminal patient.”

  “Well unless she’s listed you as next of kin and she’s in the terminal ward, you can’t come in.”

  Alex looked round helplessly. At this time there were very few people about in the corridors, even staff. But he knew that it was only a matter of time before other security staff arrived. He had to see Esther and he knew that he was never going to convince this rent-a-cop or any of his colleagues. Alex could see that this man was clearly bigger than he. But, then again, David was bigger than Jonathan Olsen. That hadn’t stopped Jonathan putting David flat on his back with a single punch. And it wouldn’t stop Alex now.

  His left fist shot out and caught the security guard square on the nose. The guard yelled with pain, but stayed on his feet. But he was just a little too slow to react. A right sunk deep into his midriff and as he doubled over, a savage left uppercut to his ear settled the issue, sending his semi-circular canals into turmoil and depriving him of his sense of balance.

  Not looking down at the results of his work for long enough to feel guilty about hurting a man who was only doing his job, Alex raced up the stairs to the ward where Esther had a private room. He opened the door and went in to the dimly lit room, not quite knowing what to expect. He didn’t even know if she would be awake.

  He looked at her in the bed while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Eventually he got to the point that he could make out her open eyes squinting at him.

  “Hallo, Mr. Sedaka,” she said quietly. She showed no sign of fear, and it was obvious that she had seen him before he saw her.

  “I’m sorry I disturbed you, Mrs. Olsen. But it’s important.”

  “You didn’t disturb me. I knew you’d come.”

  The voice was weak, but it held a quiet confidence – the confidence of a woman who wanted something and knew what she wanted.

  He walked closer and sat by the bed, so he could speak without his voice carrying to the corridor.

  “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have to. But I spoke to the governor. He said he’d only grant a stay of execution if you asked him to. I know I have no right to ask you. But I have found out a few things that I need to tell you. I know that Dorothy went to England for the abortion. We have the airline receipt, we have proof that she paid money to the medical center. We know that she never left England. We know that Edgar didn’t commit suicide. It was murder. And there’s no gentle way to tell you this, Mrs. Olsen, but we have evidence that Edgar abused Dorothy. I’m sorry to have to tell you that, but I need you to help me. I need you to tell me what I don’t know, so it behooves me to be honest with you.”

  “It’s been weighing on my conscience for a long time now – half a lifetime, in fact.”

  “What has?”

  “The abuse … Edgar’s abuse of Dorothy.”

  “You knew about it?”

  “Yes, I knew. And I did nothing to stop it.”

  There are sins of commission and sins of omission.

  “But it wasn’t sexual abuse, was it?”

  “It depends what you mean by sexual abuse.”

  23:22 PDT (07:22 BST)

  Susan White lived in a box-sized room in a nearby flat, just a minute’s walk away from the clinic. But she could never sleep comfortably there. It was too close to work. There was too much of a sense of being “on call.”

  But that wasn’t the only thing that was disturbing her sleep. There was the thought of that innocent man on death row. She had sent the letter to his lawyers – with Stuart Lloyd’s forged signature. But she hadn’t been able to follow up on it. There were too many people about. She had wanted to phone them and ask what was happening. But she was afraid of someone overhearing. Even now she was afraid of being discovered. She could lose her job over the forgery. She could even be prosecuted for it.

  And then there were the original shenanigans with the Dorothy Olsen case. It had been Stuart’s decision to fiddle the dates. But Susan had been a party to it. At minimum, it was gross professional misconduct. And it might well have been a crime in its own right. Even if Stuart was the principal guilty party, she was clearly complicit as she had countersigned the forms. And she had been there when Dorothy was admitted.

  Susan looked at her watch. She couldn’t have had more than five hours’ sleep. She was still desperately tired. Her next shift didn’t start until ten. But she knew what would probably happen. She would toss and turn desperately trying to get back to sleep and then would nod off just before her alarm clock was set to go off.

  But she was determined to at least try and get some sleep.

  She felt her eyelids drooping and felt a wave of tiredness wafting over her. But, as she sank back into the realms of sleep, the face that appeared before her was that of Dorothy Olsen – the tearful face of a vulnerable young girl begging them not to make her wait any longer, pleading with them to put her out of her misery.

  23:23 PDT

  “I … I don’t understand,” said Alex.

  “Edgar always wanted a son and when I gave him a daughter he was bitterly disappointed.”

  “Was this because of the son from his first marriage that he lost?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You know about that?”

  “I spoke to Anita Morgan. She told me the whole thing: the car accident, the decline in their marriage, Edgar’s sterility, your desperation to give him a son.”

  “Yes, but do you know why I was so desperate to give him a son?”

  “I don’t know … to make him happy I gues
s.”

  “No, Mr. Sedaka it was not to make him happy. It was to stop him being unhappy. Because when Edgar was unhappy he took it out on other people. And the person he took it out on most was Dorothy. Even when she was a baby.”

  “What did he do to her?”

  “Oh he didn’t hit her or anything like that. He just shunned her. He would hardly talk to her. When she started to walk, he would leave the room if she crawled in. He never picked her up, never held her in his arms.”

  “Was that because he knew that she wasn’t his daughter?”

  “It was that, plus the fact that she was a girl. I think he would have forgiven me if it had been a boy. I mean, Jimmy wasn’t his son either. And also, he never took out his frustration on Jonathan. But Dorothy bore the brunt of it.”

  “Did you try to talk to him about it?”

  “You couldn’t talk to him. He would cut you off with a sarcastic comment or if you stood up to him he’d just walk out of the room.”

  “Mrs. Olsen, you said before that it wasn’t sexual abuse. But we know that Edgar once held Dorothy in front of a mirror and ripped her clothes off. Jonathan said that it was something to do with her ‘flaunting her sexuality in front of him.’ Do you know what he meant by that?”

  “Yes. And it was partly my fault. You see, I think I made her what she became.”

  Alex wasn’t sure if he was in the mood for a Freudian analysis, but he had to let her tell it in her own words.

  “How?”

  “When she was about four and Edgar was being cold toward her, I sat her down and explained to her that he wanted a boy. It was a stupid thing to do but I did it. I couldn’t talk to him about it, so I was reduced to talking to her. I told her that he wanted a boy so that they could do boy things together. And she asked me what are boy things…”

  There were tears welling up in Esther Olsen’s eyes. She brushed them aside and carried on.