Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “‘Or worse’?” I asked, even more curious and not at all surprised. Defense lawyers, even ex–defense lawyers, are never surprised when they hear of police indiscretions. They’ve seen their share. And when they don’t see it, they pretend to.

  Charlie gave me a knowing look. “Warrantless search. That’s how they found that broken-off golf club handle in Bowen’s backyard, wiped clean of prints. And the rest of the matching golf clubs in the golf bag in Bowen’s garage. And the bloody shoes in the garbage can—which, by the way, was not in the alley, but on Bowen’s property, inside his back gate. One of Bowen’s neighbors confirmed the location.”

  I hadn’t heard about the shoes, but Ruby had mentioned the golf club—the murder weapon. I knew the right question to ask. I knew the answer, too, but I asked it anyway.

  “Why didn’t Johnnie Carlson get the club and the shoes excluded?”

  Warrantless searches—searches and seizures that are conducted without a search warrant—are restricted under the Fourth Amendment, which every defense attorney has by heart. “The right of the people to be secure . . . against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.” Evidence obtained when the police enter your property without a warrant is supposed to be excluded at trial, and it’s the defense’s job to make that happen. But there are exceptions. Among them, “exigent circumstances,” which includes “hot pursuit.” That is, a cop can come into your yard if he claims he’s chasing a criminal.

  “Carlson objected,” Charlie said sourly. “But you know the drill. Barry Rogers was the lead investigating officer. He testified that while he was at the crime scene, he heard a noise like somebody banging a garbage can lid and thought he’d better go look.”

  Barry Rogers. He’d left the force when McQuaid was acting chief of the PSPD, under some kind of cloud, although I’d never known the details. I did know that Rogers had carved out a successful second career as a real estate broker, though—successful, that is, judging from the house where he and his wife Janine lived, next door to the eighteenth fairway out at the country club.

  Charlie gave a wry chuckle. “On cross, it developed that Detective Rogers only thought it was a garbage can lid he heard and he only thought he heard it. When he went to look, he found the bloody shoes in Bowen’s garbage can, in the alley. Which was a lie, according to a neighbor who testified as a defense witness. Like everybody else on that route, Bowen kept his can inside his yard, because the garbage truck had a bad habit of running over it if it was left in the alley. Rogers further claimed that the gate into Bowen’s yard was open and he had reason to believe that the killer was on the premises. He went in hot pursuit, of course, and that’s when he spotted the broken-off golf club handle, lying in a flower bed next to the fence. His hot pursuit took him into the garage and lo and behold, there were the rest of the clubs, a matching set, in a golf bag in a corner. And when they were checked for prints, they had Bowen’s all over them. Except for the club that was used as a murder weapon. That was wiped clean.”

  “A veritable trail of clues,” I remarked ironically. “A cop would have to be an idiot not to follow it. Even without a warrant.”

  “Exactly. The other two cops on the scene backed up Rogers’ testimony, of course, and the judge—the Honorable Roy Lee Sparks—let it all in.” He made an impolite noise. “The blue wall of silence.”

  “The blue wall of silence” is no mystery. It’s the unwritten code that keeps police officers from reporting another officer’s mistakes, intentional or otherwise. In the judicial system, there’s even a word—testilying—for the perjured testimony that an officer gives in court when he’s covering up for his own or another officer’s misconduct during an investigation. Police, prosecutors, defense lawyers, judges—they all know about this kind of behavior. And every single study of police perjury that’s been made has concluded that the practice is widespread and condoned in police departments across the United States, large and small, urban and rural. There was no reason to believe that the Pecan Springs Police Department was exempt.

  “I get it,” I said quietly.

  “I’ll bet you do,” Charlie remarked and patted me on the arm.

  “I suppose the jurors got it, too,” I said. The most famous case of a jury that “got it” was the jury that acquitted O.J. Simpson. The jurors believed that some (if not all) of the evidence was corrupted; that Detectives Mark Fuhrman and Philip Vannatter were lying; and that their perjury was supported by the other police officers who testified. The defense was successful in arguing that they couldn’t convict a man when there was that much reasonable doubt, which in our legal system translates to “not guilty.”

  “You bet they got it. They acquitted, didn’t they?” Charlie laughed, then sobered. “But what I want to know is what this has to do with the documentary those students are making. And Karen Prior’s death, damn it.” His eyes narrowed, and he muttered, as if to himself, “Or what Douglas Clark may or may not have done with community property during the divorce proceedings.”

  “Sorry, Charlie,” I said regretfully. “I can’t help you with any of that.” I hesitated. I was guessing that McQuaid had told him about Karen, and that Charlie had known her—which was no surprise. Pecan Springs is a small town. I wanted to ask who he might be working for on the investigation of those hidden assets—who his client was. But that wasn’t a question he, or any lawyer, would answer. “Do keep me posted, though, will you?” I added.

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “And if you get any information about—”

  A woman thrust a package of chamomile tea at me. “Says on this box that this stuff will make me sleepy,” she said impatiently. “Is that true?”

  “Hang on a moment,” I told her. “Any information about what, Charlie?”

  “Forget it,” Charlie said and stepped back. “I’ve bothered you enough for one morning. I’ll go see if I can find Ms. Wilcox.” He raised his hand and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Sorry,” I said to the customer. “Now, how can I help you?”

  The farmers’ market may look like a lot of fun, but—in terms of the work involved—it’s no picnic, especially on a hot July day. Any vendor will tell you that. I was glad when noon rolled around and Caitie and I could take down the booth and head for the air-conditioned shop, where I mopped the sweat off my face and neck and swigged down a large glass of iced tea. Caitie and I shared a chicken salad sandwich and some cookies from the tearoom, and I paid her twenty dollars for helping with the market. She put it in my purse for safekeeping and then skipped off down the alley to spend the afternoon with her friend Robin. I went to work.

  Summer Saturday mornings are busy because of the market, but the afternoons are iffy, sometimes good, sometimes slow. The locals are mostly at the river or out on the lakes or cooling off in the shade with a frosty margarita, or even doing some minor garden work, although it’s really too hot.

  But the heat doesn’t seem to daunt the tourists who come to Central Texas to visit the Bullock Texas State History Museum in Austin or the Sophienburg Museum in New Braunfels, take photos of the dolphins at San Antonio’s SeaWorld, cruise around in the glass-bottom boats at Aquarena Springs in San Marcos, chill out underground in the Cascade Caverns near Boerne, or tour the justly famous Painted Churches of Schulenberg. And there are the wine lovers who pour into Gruene’s Grapevine tasting room to sample an array of Texas’ best wines, and the fans of Gary P. Nunn and Emmylou Harris who flock to Gruene Hall for country-western music. Plenty of them end up in Pecan Springs on a Saturday afternoon, and some of them make it a point to drop in at Thyme and Seasons, to see what’s new in the shop or to walk through the gardens. If you’re in the vicinity, please consider this an invitation. I’d a lot rather be talking to you than
dusting the shelves or sweeping the floor.

  • • •

  THE shop was middling busy that afternoon, with foot traffic and telephone calls. One of the calls was from Kitt, accepting the invitation to supper and a sleepover, and offering to bring potato salad and deviled eggs for our picnic. Another was from Sheila, who wanted to know if I knew where Gretchen was.

  “I asked the officer assigned to that incident to keep track of her,” she said, sounding frustrated. “But she checked out of the hospital and apparently didn’t go home.”

  “That’s because she went to my house,” I said. “Jake picked her up. Both she and Jake are staying with us until their folks get back from Belize. Sorry—I should have asked her to let you know where she would be.”

  I cradled the receiver against my shoulder and smiled at the customer who was purchasing a glass jar of herbal bath salts, made with calendula and chamomile, lavender, ylang-ylang, and geranium.

  “I find this very soothing,” I said to the customer, a woman about my age with a look of strained weariness on her face. It was true: I had a jar of it at home and used it when things really got to me.

  “Soothing?” Sheila asked doubtfully. “Well, I agree that it’s a good idea for Gretchen to stay with you, but I wouldn’t call it—”

  “Not you, Smart Cookie,” I said into the phone. “Hang on a minute.”

  I put down the receiver and rang up the sale. When the woman had gone, I picked it up again. “Soothing bath salts,” I said and added, “Oh, by the way, I have Gretchen’s laptop at the house, too. I picked it up last night. Under the circumstances—”

  “Smart,” Sheila said, approving. “What about the other girl?”

  “Kitt. She’s coming tonight. It’s a sleepover.” I chuckled. “Just us girls. Want to join us?”

  I pictured Sheila’s eyes rolling. “Not,” she said firmly. “Blackie and I are going riding at his place this evening. We’re planning to stay overnight. I need to get away from this place for a few hours.” Blackie keeps an RV parked beside a pretty creek that runs through his property, so he and Sheila and Rambo can stay out there in comfort.

  “Just don’t fall off your horse,” I said sweetly. “It wouldn’t be good for the baby.” Before she could respond to that jab, I added, more seriously, “Anything on Karen Prior’s assailant?”

  “I wish,” Sheila said with a sigh. “No, nothing so far. But I would definitely like to talk to Gretchen and Kitt. Since they’ll both be at your place, why don’t I stop there on my way back to town tomorrow morning? Maybe about nine?”

  “Make it ten,” I said. “I’ll try to get them out of bed and coffeed by that time, but I can’t promise.”

  “Do your best,” Sheila said sternly. “Remind them that this is a murder investigation.”

  I sighed. “Speaking of which, do you know when Karen’s funeral is scheduled? And what about Felicity? Is anybody staying with her?”

  “I talked to Felicity again today,” Sheila said. “We’re still trying to get a fix on the phone call her mother got before she left for the mall. She said that her grandmother—her mother’s mother—drove down from Oklahoma City. No date yet for the funeral. There are relatives on both coasts, apparently.”

  Two anguished women, I thought. A mother grieving a murdered daughter, a daughter grieving a murdered mother. I could only hope for their consolation, knowing that they would find none.

  Whether death comes quickly or slowly, it is utterly, completely final. It shadows everyone it touches.

  • • •

  IT took an effort to shed that darkness. But by the time I closed the shop, picked Caitie up at Robin’s house, and drove home, I was ready for a picnic. As it turned out, my family—bless them—had already done most of the work. The temperature was still in the low 90s, so I changed into shorts and sandals and poured myself a tall gin and tonic with plenty of ice and a twist of lime, feeling a special gratitude for our family evening together. Felicity and her grandmother didn’t have that privilege.

  Supper was in experienced hands. McQuaid had put a brisket (liberally rubbed with kosher salt, coarsely cracked black pepper, garlic powder, and cayenne) into the smoker early that morning and left it there all day, basting with his secret high-test barbecue sauce whenever he thought of it. At five thirty, he put on some links of smoked venison sausage, and when I got home at five forty-five, he was sharpening his slicing knife. I went out to the back deck to join him.

  “Did you talk to Charlie today?” I asked, resting my head against his arm. I can’t explain it, but there is something very sexy about a man who is slicing a barbecued brisket, especially one he has cooked himself, start to finish.

  “I did.” He tested the knife’s edge with a quick cut and held out the slice on the tip of the blade. “What do you think?”

  I tasted, chewed, and rolled my eyes. “You are sooo good,” I cooed. “A gourmet cook. And a stud, too. What more could a girl want?”

  “That’s me,” McQuaid said comfortably and began to slice. “All around good guy. Especially in bed.”

  “Mmm,” I said, agreeing. “So what did Charlie say?”

  “A lot of things.” He kept on slicing.

  I stole a slice of brisket and nibbled on it. “I talked to him myself this morning, at the market. He claimed that there was police misconduct in the Morris murder investigation. A warrantless search.” I licked my fingers. “But the evidence was allowed in anyway.”

  McQuaid shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last, either.”

  “So you talked to Charlie,” I persisted. “He didn’t happen to give you a hint about who his client is on that hidden assets investigation, did he?”

  McQuaid forked a bite of brisket, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “Next time, I think I’ll use more garlic. Not everyone would agree, I suppose, but in my opinion, you can never have too much garlic.”

  I poked him in the ribs. “Charlie,” I said. “Hidden assets. His client.”

  “Okay, okay.” McQuaid gave an exaggerated sigh, humoring me. “I dropped in at his office early this morning and asked him about the coincidences. My assignment, Prior’s death, the documentary. He knew about the documentary, but not about Karen. He was acquainted with her. He was jolted to hear that she’s dead.”

  “Weren’t we all,” I said soberly. “How did he find out about the documentary?”

  “One of the student filmmakers interviewed him a couple of weeks ago. She knew he’d handled Christine Morris’ divorce and asked him to talk about her—what kind of person Morris was, her run-ins with the city council, that kind of thing. He said he gave the girl about five minutes, nothing specific, nothing she couldn’t have found out from reading the newspaper.”

  I nodded. Of course, Charlie was free to speak generally about his client, although he would be careful not to violate privilege. In 1998, the entire legal profession breathed a collective sigh of relief when the Supreme Court ruled, 6–3, that the attorney-client privilege survives the client’s death, thereby taking lawyers all over the country off the hook. Christine Morris might be dead, but as far as Charlie was concerned, she was still his client and their communications were still privileged.

  “But after the interview, he got to reflecting on some things that had happened, and started thinking about this and that and wondering.” McQuaid sliced off three more pieces, then paused. “Charlie doesn’t have a client.” Another two slices. “He’s acting for himself.”

  For himself? “But why?” I asked, frowning. “Charlie Lipman isn’t exactly the type to lay out cold hard cash on an investigation just out of intellectual curiosity.”

  McQuaid hesitated. “Of course, I’m only guessing. But I think maybe he feels that he didn’t do all he might have when—”

  “Hey, Dad!” It was Brian, standing at the back door. He and Jake had bee
n shucking the sweet corn for supper. “We finished the corn and the water’s boiling. Want us to dump it in?”

  “Yeah, we’re about ready out here,” McQuaid replied. He added, “Hey, Brian, slice up a couple of those yellow onions, too, will you?” To me, he said, “There’s more. Let’s get into it later.”

  Jake had already put a bowl of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers on the cloth-covered picnic table. Kitt (who was delighted to join us and happy about the idea of staying all night) had brought potato salad and a dozen deviled eggs. I did nothing that required much mental or physical exertion, except to pull a peach cobbler out of the freezer and pop it in the oven. Caitlin made a pitcher of lemonade. Then she and Gretchen (who was under orders to take things easy for a day or two) set the picnic table under the live oak trees in the backyard with our favorite red plastic picnic plates and yellow paper napkins, with a Mason jar in the center full of bright yellow sunflowers, orange butterfly weed, and lacy wild carrot. It was all very Norman Rockwellian and very pretty.

  Supper was on the picnic table at six and by six forty-five it was history. By seven, the kids were cleaning up the kitchen and putting the dishes in the dishwasher, and McQuaid and I had taken our glasses of wine out to the front porch, where we each settled in a white-painted wicker rocking chair to appreciate the quiet green landscape.

  Chapter Six

  According to an entry tagged “malicious magic” in Daniel Moerman’s Native American Ethnobotany, the Iroquois used a prickly, vining plant called smilax (Smilax hispida) to bring about bad luck or accidents. They also used the plant to construct a crude doll, like a voodoo doll, with the aim of killing a woman who was causing trouble.

  China Bayles

  “Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Our house is located in the Hill Country west of Pecan Springs, a half mile off Limekiln Road. Over the years we have lived here, we’ve added another twenty acres to the original three that came with the house, so it’s easy to feel that we’re alone out here, on the edge of a wilderness that stretches all the way to the western horizon.