Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “In the meantime,” he said, pulling me toward him, “let’s have one for the road.”

  I couldn’t have resisted if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t, actually. It was a nice kiss, sweet and lingering, just the right combination of sexy and friendly and nostalgic, reminding us both that we had shared some very lovely moments together, a very long time ago, when the earth was young and we were different people.

  And then he picked up his suit jacket from the chair where it was draped, slung it over his shoulder, and strode toward the door.

  “Stan Simpson has his own practice now, but if you have questions about anything relating to that trial, I can arrange for him to give you a call. If you want copies, let Tiffany know. She’ll take care of you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, with a little smile. “Safe travel. Stay clear of Hummers and garbage trucks.”

  “Say again?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Go.” He went.

  I watched the door close behind him, thinking that it was like a chapter closing, finally, in my life. It had been closed for a long time, yes. But this felt like a final conclusion, and to tell the truth, I was glad. I hate loose ends.

  Then I sat down, pulled the transcript box toward me, and opened it. But when I studied the front-page table of contents, I saw that what I was after wasn’t there. With a sigh, I reached for the thick blue binder. I had never been at trial with Johnnie but I was aware of his reputation for disorganization, and when I opened the binder, I was relieved to see that Stan Simpson had ordered the material systematically. I checked the index, then leafed through the tabs until I found the section documenting the defense plan to present an alternative suspect.

  And there it was: a copy of the court reporter’s transcript of the closed hearing on the matter, exactly what I was looking for. This was where Johnnie had proffered evidence to support his argument that there was reason to believe that someone else—not the defendant, Richard Bowen—had killed Christine Morris. Was it Douglas Clark, who had a very powerful motive—maybe a million of them, in fact—to do away with his wife? Or maybe the cousin, Sharyn Tillotson, who inherited nothing but seemed to be in possession of everything?

  No. Neither one.

  The hearing was held in the judge’s chambers. Present were the court reporter with his stenography machine; the prosecutor, Henry Bell; Johnnie; Judge Sparks; and a lawyer named Larry Garcia, representing the man Johnnie intended to name as his alternative suspect in the murder of Christine Morris. Roberto Soto.

  I stared at those two words, letting out my breath in an explosive rush. Roberto Soto! The man who Charlie Lipman said was Christine’s lover. The art dealer who had helped Christine acquire her collection and—after her murder—had worked as a curator for the Morris Foundation. Johnnie was an aggressive defense lawyer, yes, and it was his job to come up with a viable alternative suspect if he could. But he wouldn’t have pulled Soto out of his hat. He had to have had good reasons to offer him up to the court. What were they?

  I began reading through the record. During the hearing, which seemed to have lasted a little over an hour, Johnnie had summarized the testimony of the witnesses he planned to call, in addition to Soto himself. The first was the neighbor Mr. Davidson, who lived across the street from the Morris house. Davidson would testify that about a week before the murder, while he was out in his front yard clipping his shrubs, he had seen a tall, well-built man, somebody he didn’t recognize, pause in front of Bowen’s open garage. Mr. Davidson thought at first he might be “casing the place,” although he couldn’t imagine what anybody would want to steal out of Dick Bowen’s garage.

  “Nothing in there but rakes and hoes and some old sports equipment,” he said dismissively. But a few moments later, the man had strolled across the Morris yard and into the side door of the Morris house. Mrs. Davidson, when she was called to testify, would say that she had told her husband that the man was Ms. Morris’ “arty boyfriend.” She had often seen him coming and going at the house.

  Johnnie’s next witness would be Mrs. Adele Kern, who lived on the street behind San Jacinto and kept an inquisitive eye on the doings on that side of the neighborhood. She would testify that the vacant lot across the alley from the Morris house and owned by Ms. Morris was used by the neighbors as an informal parking lot, especially when there was a party. Ms. Morris’ guests also used it.

  Around ten o’clock on the night of the murder, Mrs. Kern had noticed a dark blue Mercedes in the vacant lot across the alley behind the Morris house. She didn’t actually see the driver park the car and go to the Morris house that night, but she had seen a man—the driver of that same car—do just that on previous occasions. In fact, he was a “fairly regular all-night visitor,” according to Mrs. Kern, whose bedroom window overlooked the lot. Once, she had seen the Mercedes arrive and the man take a large framed painting from the rear of the car and carry it across the alley to the Morris house. She had mentioned this to her cleaning lady, who had told her that the man was Ms. Morris’ “art dealer boyfriend.” Asked to describe the man, the best Mrs. Kern could do was “tall and well built.”

  Johnnie then planned to call Sarita Ruiz, who cleaned for Ms. Morris and several other neighbors. She would identify Ms. Morris’ “art dealer boyfriend” as Roberto Soto. He often brought paintings, sculpture, and other artwork to the house. When he stayed overnight, which happened three or four times a month, he and Ms. Morris slept in the same bed, the cleaning lady said. He drove a dark, late-model automobile—Ms. Ruiz wasn’t up on high-end cars and couldn’t identify the make—and parked it in the vacant lot on the other side of the alley.

  Larry Garcia, representing Mr. Soto, responded that while it was true that Roberto Soto was a frequent visitor to the Morris house and had in fact assisted Ms. Morris to establish and expand her collection, on the night of the lady’s death, he was having a late dinner in San Antonio with another client of his art gallery, a collector from New Orleans. Mr. Soto had, however, visited Ms. Morris on the previous evening—that is, the night before her murder—and had parked his Mercedes in the vacant lot, as usual. Mrs. Kern had simply mixed up the nights. In any event, Garcia said, the police had already questioned Mr. Soto, confirmed his alibi, and did not consider him to be a suspect. The gentleman had no motive whatever to harm Ms. Morris. The two were not only intimate and cared deeply for one another, but she was one of Mr. Soto’s oldest clients. Mr. Soto was devastated by her murder.

  Johnnie replied that the investigator he had hired had spoken to Soto’s alibi witness and had come away with serious questions about the validity of Soto’s alibi. He planned to call both the alibi witness and Mr. Soto.

  For the prosecution, Henry Bell argued that the defense had presented not one single shred of motive—and they surely would have, if they had been able to conjure one up. Furthermore, Roberto Soto could give no evidence relating to the crime itself. And finally, there was no reasonable probability that any of this testimony was worth a plugged nickel. It was a waste of the court’s valuable time, it would only confuse the jury, and it would irretrievably damage the reputation of an innocent and upstanding man who had already suffered enough because of this terrible tragedy.

  Johnnie’s rebuttal was the usual. “The defendant has pled not guilty. He has a right to put on exculpatory evidence in his defense. The jury should hear facts that could lead it to decide that there is a reasonable doubt as to the defendant’s guilt.”

  Well argued, Johnnie, but no dice. The Honorable Roy Lee Sparks ruled against the defense, saying that without any compelling evidence as to motive, there was no “nexus” between Soto and the murder. His Honor concluded that the other-suspect evidence was “too speculative, too distant in nature to be of relevance” and “could not create reasonable doubt in this case.”

  And that was that. It was true that Johnnie had not offered any evidence as to motive, which substa
ntially weakened his theory. Still, if the jury had found Bowen guilty, he would undoubtedly have appealed; Sparks’ ruling might have been overturned and another trial ordered. But it hadn’t and he didn’t and it wasn’t.

  Fortunately, Bowen was acquitted and Johnnie had no reason to appeal. And Roberto Soto’s possible connection to the crime had never been reported in the media—which was a little surprising, I thought. Closed hearings in chambers aren’t necessarily leakproof, and Pecan Springs has a gossip-transmission system that rivals Twitter. But a tight lid would have been kept on during the trial in order to avoid jury contamination and the threat of a mistrial. And after the verdict, the big news would have been the acquittal. After that, nobody seemed to have any interest in finding out who really killed Christine Morris—not even the police, who acted as if they were so embarrassed by their procedural mistakes that they just wanted to forget the whole thing.

  I leaned back in my chair, the notebook open on the table in front of me, and thought dark thoughts about the American justice system. If you have ever served on a jury, you may have come away with the reassuring idea that you heard everything there was to hear about the case: all the evidence, all the witnesses, all the arguments for and against the defendant.

  But you could very likely be wrong. In pretrial hearings held months before your jury was empaneled, the judge might have excluded, as Sparks did, certain crucial pieces of evidence he thought could “mislead” you or “confuse” you, or at least (and of course, this is the point) cause you to entertain a few doubts. Occasionally this system of closed hearings works in favor of the defense; more often, the rulings benefit the prosecution. Judges and prosecutors both work for the state and stand on the side of the angels. Defense attorneys, on the other hand, are seen as fierce obstructers of justice. They do the devil’s work, and the bar is higher for them than for the prosecution.

  But in either case, it’s the jurors who are the losers. The justice system may take great pride in its reliance on the “common-sense wisdom of the jury,” but the court routinely ignores the jury by keeping information—often relevant and significant information—from entering the public proceedings. And the jurors never even know what vital pieces of evidence they might have missed.

  I leaned forward and began leafing through the notebook, looking for the notes Johnnie’s investigator had made when he spoke to Soto’s alibi witness about the “private dinner” they had in San Antonio on the night of the murder. But I couldn’t find them—although I did find the name and phone number of the investigator, a San Antonio private detective named Randy Olan. I pulled a small notebook out of my purse and jotted the information down. It might be worth a phone conversation with Olan, if he was still around, and if he remembered the investigation and his reasons for doubting the alibi witness. He might have come up with something related to motive.

  I thought some more, then took out my phone and called Ruby. “I’m here in Houston,” I said. “I’ve been looking at the Bowen trial notebook and—”

  “I thought you said you were going to see Lucia,” Ruby said. “Sheila won’t be happy to hear that you’re messing around in her—”

  “I am not messing around in Sheila’s investigation,” I replied patiently. “I’m messing around in the Morris murder case, which as far as Sheila is concerned, is a very old, very cold case. But there is something you can do for me, if you have the time. At the time of the trial, Bowen’s defense attorney wanted to put on a witness to testify that—”

  I told her the rest of it, then told her what I wanted. “Do you think you could do that, Ruby? Today, maybe? I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you whether the person has moved or is even still alive or—”

  “I’ll do it, China,” Ruby interrupted. “I’ll be glad to. But Amy has a job interview and Kate is working, so I’m babysitting with Baby Grace today. Is it okay if I take her along?”

  I had to roll my eyes at the idea of Kay Scarpetta or Anna Pigeon taking a baby on an investigation. But if I wanted this done, Ruby was the best one to do it, with or without Baby Grace. She has a knack for getting people to open up and say things they wouldn’t say to anyone else.

  “No problem,” I said. “Sure. Take Baby Grace along if you want to.”

  I clicked off the phone, dropped it back in my purse, and went back to paging through the notebook. By this time, I had found what I had come to find and wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Which is probably why I stared for a few moments at what was in front of me without actually seeing what it was—a white business-size envelope with a note clipped to it, stuck in the inside pocket at the back of the binder.

  The note was dated and said, Unopened envelope placed in Bowen file, at Mr. Richard Bowen’s request—JD.

  The envelope was dated, too, and said, To be opened ONLY in the event of my death—RB.

  I pulled the envelope out of the pocket and turned it over. It was sealed. I held it up to the light and saw that it contained at least one sheet of folded paper and, in the corner, a small key.

  I felt a brief ethical twinge, but only a very brief one and nothing like the twinges I’ve felt when I have trespassed on someone’s private property without permission. Richard Bowen was in fact dead and so was his attorney. And since no one had cared enough when Bowen died to open this envelope, I doubted that anyone would be angry at me for exercising the privilege. And anyway, who would know that I was the one who had opened it? Bowen had been dead for some years. Anybody might have found it in the file and opened it, at any time—right?

  Right. I looked around and spotted a pencil holder on a shelf, filled with pencils and pens, a pair of scissors, and yes, a letter opener. It was the work of a moment to slit the envelope and slide the contents out. What I read was brief, to the point—and astonishing.

  Dear Mr. Carlson:

  In the event that I am found dead in circumstances that suggest suicide, I hereby attest that I do not and never will contemplate killing myself.

  I have, however, made an enemy of Douglas Clark—you’ll recall that we talked about him. I believe that he is planning to kill me. Some years back, we were engaged in a series of illegal activities (violations of building codes) that were never found out. He has been paying me not to reveal what we did, but I am afraid he no longer trusts me to keep our secret. I have documented everything we did and put the list into a safe-deposit box at the Chase bank on Richmond. In the event of my death, please turn the contents of the box over to the proper authorities and ask them to carefully investigate the circumstances of my death. Doug Clark ought to be their prime suspect.

  The letter was signed and dated by Richard Bowen.

  Well, my goodness gracious. So Florabelle Gibson had been right in her claims about the bribery—and her skepticism about the suicide. If this letter had been opened, read, and turned over to the police after Bowen’s death, the cops would have conducted a homicide investigation. As it was, whatever evidence the killer might have left behind was almost certainly irretrievable. Still, if the investigator had been careful, or even a little bit suspicious . . .

  I sat for a moment, thinking about what I had found, what it implied, and what I should do. Then I copied the text into my notebook, refolded the letter, and put it and the safe-deposit key back into the envelope. On the outside of the envelope, I wrote the words Opened and read by China Bayles and today’s date, then returned the envelope to the pocket inside the back of the binder. I gathered up my things, picked up the binder, and carried it down the hall to the reception area.

  Tiffany looked up at me and said brightly, “Oh, hi, Ms. Bayles. You’re finished? Do you want anything? Copies, anything like that?”

  “Actually, I do,” I said. I opened the binder to the section documenting the defense plan to present an alternative suspect. “Could you copy these pages for me? And the hearing transcript?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I�
�ll do it right now, if you don’t mind waiting. It’ll take a few minutes.” She hurried out of the room, only a little hobbled by the outrageously short, tight skirt she was wearing. A crack shot, competent, and sexy, too, I thought—there ought to be a law.

  She was back inside of ten, with a thick folder full of copies, hot off the press. “Is this all you need?” she asked.

  I tucked the folder into my bag. “I’m curious, Tiff. Who is J. D.?”

  “J. D.? Oh, that’s Jerri Delaney. She’s a paralegal who works here part-time. Why?”

  “Just curious,” I said. “Listen. There’s some information in that binder that I especially want Mr. Brooks to review. Please put it on his desk with a note asking him to call my cell phone, and I’ll tell him where to find it. Oh, and tell him it’s important, so I’d appreciate a call as soon as possible. Okay?”

  “Absolutely.” She was already scribbling on a sticky pad. “Are you driving back this afternoon?”

  I looked at my watch. “Actually, I’m dropping in to see a friend—then I’m heading home.”

  “Drive carefully,” she said.

  I nodded. “I really have to watch out for those Hummers. And the garbage trucks. They’re fiendish.”

  “I know. Devil drivers.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “Do be careful. And come back and see us soon.”

  • • •

  THE gray clouds lidded the city, trapping the heat and humidity, and stepping out of Aaron’s air-conditioned office was like stepping into a sauna. Out in the car, I rolled down the window, turned on the AC, and phoned Lucia to let her know that I’d be over in a half hour. Then I called McQuaid. It wasn’t going to be easy to explain just how I had happened to discover Richard Bowen’s nonsuicide note in a sealed envelope in a binder in the Houston office of my former lover Aaron Brooks. But I had to try. McQuaid was working an investigation for Charlie Lipman that involved Douglas Clark. He needed to know about this new development.