Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

by Michael Norman

  ***

  Even with the dose of caffeine, sheer exhaustion finally took over. We left the bar just ahead of closing. As we parted, Kate turned and said, “Hey, Sam, don’t plan on an extended vacation sitting at home on your backside. It’s not going to happen.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time I made it home, it was after two. I parked in the driveway so I didn’t have to raise the garage door and risk waking Sara and Aunt June. I entered quietly through the front door and tip-toed into the kitchen.

  The light above the stove was on, and I found a note from Aunt June reminding me that Sara’s parent-teacher conference was scheduled for this morning at seven-thirty. She wanted to know if she needed to go in my place. Aside from the early morning hour, the time was actually good since I had just been placed on administrative leave.

  Despite my attempt to be quiet, Aunt June appeared in the kitchen wondering if everything was okay. I briefly recounted the events of the past twenty-four hours, including the shooting of John Merchant and my subsequent suspension from duty. She had heard about the shooting on the ten o’clock news and hoped I wasn’t involved. The press hadn’t released any names.

  “I’m real sorry you had to shoot that man. It must make you feel just awful,” she said. “But I know one thing. If there had been any other way of handling the situation, you would have taken it. You just be patient. In the end, you’ll be exonerated and back to work sooner than you think. I’ll say a little prayer for you and the fellow you had to shoot.”

  At six a.m., I awoke with a start to find a pair of small, very cold feet pressed against my bare leg. Sara had slipped out of her room and into mine, something she does with some regularity.

  “Wake up, Daddy, you’re snoring again,” she said, grinning.

  “The only person who snores in this family is lying beside me right now,” I replied with as much indignation as I could muster. “In fact, you snore so loud sometimes, you sound just like the Lion King.”

  “I do not,” she said with a giggle.

  After a few minutes of light bantering and plenty of tickles, we agreed to get dressed and go out to breakfast before her parent-teacher conference. Sara is a very social and very bright little girl. If it’s true that much of who we are is a product of our genetic makeup, then Sara was lucky to get her mom’s propensity for good grades, because she certainly didn’t get it from me.

  By the time we finished breakfast and made it to school, I was just in time for my appointment with her teacher. Her grades were among the best in the class. She had, however, received an unsatisfactory mark for citizenship, which reflected a growing tendency to be the class chatter-box. We would have to work on that.

  ***

  I spent the remainder of the morning restlessly loafing around the house wondering how long it would be before my fate was decided. At twelve-thirty the phone rang. It was Burnham calling from the University of Utah Hospital. It seemed that John Merchant had come out of surgery and was much improved. After a few hours in intensive care, he was moved into a regular room with the added luxury of twenty-four-hour security at his door. And he was singing like Placido Domingo at the Boston Pops.

  “Guess what, Sam? No sooner had this asswipe come out from under the anesthetic when he demanded to talk with Jenny Owens. She called me right away and I met her here. The tough guy is in there right now babbling like an idiot. You’d think Owens was his mother instead of his PO. He alternates between wanting to discuss the murder and demanding that we cut him a deal for his cooperation. I think he’s scared shitless that he’ll end up at the prison hooked up with some inmate, bigger and tougher than he is, shoving something up his candy ass every night.”

  “I’m not surprised that he wants to cut a deal. He’s looking at several new felony charges and a certain probation revocation. That gives us some serious leverage. I hope she remembered to Mirandize him before she started asking questions,” I said.

  “No problem. She took care of that first thing,” said Burnham.

  “What did he have to say?”

  “That’s the bad news. Merchant denied any involvement in or knowledge of the murder. He claimed not to have even known about Vogue’s relationship with Sue Ann. He maintained that Winkler makes just about as much money turning tricks for customers from the club as she does from dancing. And get this little tidbit. It seems that Sue Ann is in business with her mother. Most of the trick activity occurs at the motel with Mom getting a percentage of the action. The old broad even pulls a few tricks herself with selected clients,” said Burnham.

  “Does he have an alibi?”

  “We’re checking that out right now. He claims he spent the evening of the murder at the home of his brother in Midvale. He says they had dinner, drank a couple of beers, and shot pool all evening. We ran a check on the brother. He’s clean. No prior record, gainfully employed, married with a couple of kids. We passed the alibi information along to McConnell, and she’s got somebody from her team trying to contact the brother for verification.”

  It was now clear to me that if Merchant’s alibi checked out, our investigation would be back at square one. A confirmed alibi would eliminate him as a suspect.

  I hadn’t been off the phone long when it rang again. Caller ID provided me with a number I instantly recognized. It was Sloan calling from the private line in his executive office suite.

  “Hi, Sam. I’ve got good news and bad. Which would you like first?”

  “Let’s have the bad.”

  Sloan actually seemed to be enjoying this moment of quiet torment. “Well, the bad news isn’t really all that bad,” he said after a lengthy pause. “You have an appointment tomorrow morning at nine with Dr. Marilyn Hastings from the Employee Assistance Program. And don’t waste your breath complaining, because it won’t do you any good. Any employee involved in a shooting incident goes straight to counseling, no exceptions. And Kincaid, I know your tendency to disparage department policy and procedure, but don’t trifle with me on this one. If the department shrink gives me any indication you’re not being cooperative, I will suspend you from duty immediately. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Absolutely. I assume this means I’m back on the job.”

  “That’s the good news. I received a call from the Salt Lake County Attorney’s Office late this morning advising me that they have concluded last night’s shooting was justified, and that no criminal charges will be filed against you. Somebody from Salt Lake City P.D. must want you back on the case pretty bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a deadly force case reviewed so quickly.

  “Also, my executive management team, after consulting with the department’s administrative law judge, has concluded that your actions did not violate department policy on the use of deadly force. I concurred with their conclusion.

  “To answer your question, yes, you’re reinstated and may return to work at once. Understand, however, that I’m bending the rules here a little. Technically, I shouldn’t let you go back to work until the department shrink gives you clearance. I’ll assume this is just a formality so long as you do your part.”

  We concluded our conversation with Sloan reminding me that while the apprehension of a probation violator was important, it brought us no closer to finding Levi Vogue’s killer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Late in the afternoon, I was summoned to a meeting at police headquarters for a status report on the investigation. McConnell had temporarily commandeered a small conference room near the office of the Captain of Detectives. The walls were adorned with flip-chart paper identifying investigative leads that had been assigned to each member of the team.

  Besides McConnell and me, Burnham from my office and Vince Turner were there. By fate and circumstance, the four of us had become, at least informally, the Vogue homicide investigation team. Also in attendance, much to my chagrin, were Captain Hyrum Locke, head of the Detective Bureau, and Deputy Chief of Police Clarence Puffer.

  Puffer
was a fifty-something career bureaucrat with a largely unremarkable career that had spanned more than twenty-seven years. He was a likable man of modest abilities whose career had flourished by making few enemies, avoiding controversy, and dodging difficult decisions whenever possible. The best thing I could say about him was that while he wouldn’t be much help, neither would he get in the way. I wish I could have said the same about Captain Hyrum Locke.

  Locke wasn’t particularly popular with his own subordinates in the Detective Bureau because of his tendency to seize the spotlight and assume credit for the accomplishments of others. Also, he’d spent several years commanding the Department’s Internal Affairs unit, not an assignment that endeared you to your fellow officers. I decided to keep one eye on the ball and the other on Locke.

  “You should all know that Mayor Baldwin has received a second telephone call from Richard Vogue reiterating his demand for a rapid resolution to the investigation,” said Locke. “The mayor is under extreme pressure from the Vogue family. It has also been suggested that I should assume direct command over the investigation. I’ve decided not to do that, at least for the time being. I do, however, intend to work more closely with Kate from here on out.”

  Translated, that meant Locke would remain far enough in the background to distance himself from blame if the case went unsolved, yet close enough to seize the spotlight from Kate in the event an arrest was made. The guy was smart and calculating, I had to give him that.

  Kate’s nonverbal demeanor suggested that she was irritated with Locke’s interference, but had to be careful how she responded. “Hyrum, it’s a little early to press the panic button. The investigation is still less than forty-eight hours old and we have a variety of solid leads.”

  As I guessed, Puffer appeared content to sit quietly absorbing as many details about the investigation as possible. He’d probably been asked to serve as a conduit of information directly to Chief Hansen and indirectly to Mayor Baldwin. Before Locke could respond, Puffer looked up from the legal pad he was scribbling notes on and asked, “So what’s the status of our main subject, this John Merchant fellow?”

  “Unfortunately, I personally checked his alibi and it looks solid. If the cigarette butts we found at the scene provide a DNA sample or latent prints, we’ll compare it to Merchant’s. In the meantime, he’s not going anywhere. When he’s well enough, he’ll be transferred from the hospital to the Salt Lake County Jail. He’s looking at several new felony charges and an impending probation revocation hearing. But right now, I’d have to say it doesn’t look promising,” said Kate.

  “I should say not,” said Puffer. “Any other persons of interest?”

  “Nope, not at the moment.”

  “Vince, what have you got for us?” asked Locke.

  “I got a warrant for Vogue’s Lexus, which we had towed to the police impound lot. The lab guys found a variety of latent prints but most of them belonged to Vogue. Winkler’s prints were also found, but that’s no surprise. There were other unidentified prints lifted from both the exterior and interior of the vehicle. Some of them will probably belong to other members of the family. I did find a plastic bag containing a half dozen adult video tapes, all of them run-of-the-mill commercial hardcore except one. The amateur tape featured Winkler performing alone and then with our victim doing the horizontal mamba,” said Turner.

  That revelation raised a few eyebrows, including my own. “I wonder if anyone else has a copy of that tape. Sue Ann neglected to tell us about that little detail when we spoke with her. Maybe somebody was trying to blackmail him,” I said.

  “Worth looking into,” said Locke.

  Turner continued. “I’m also working with our burglary dicks to try to identify anyone from the local B&E crowd using the same modus operandi—so far, nothing.”

  “Thanks, Vince. Kate, what have you got for us?”

  “The autopsy results confirmed that the time of death was between eleven and eleven-thirty p.m. The contents of his stomach included a partially digested Mexican dinner, which was consistent with the statement given to us by Sue Ann regarding their meal at the Starlite Motel.

  “The Medical Examiner estimated Vogue was shot from a distance of ten to twenty feet with some type of shotgun. The pellet pattern in the chest wound was dispersed, and the angle of the shot suggested the killer was most likely directly in front of Vogue, not firing from above or below.”

  “And the CSI team did or did not find any shell casings?” asked Puffer.

  “We didn’t find shell casings and the shotgun was discharged twice,” said Kate. “The chest wound produced serious damage to the heart and would have been fatal within minutes without the second shot to the head. The head shot was delivered point blank with the victim lying prone. Traces of powder burns found on the skin under the chin suggested that the barrel of the shotgun had been placed directly against the flesh.”

  Burnham and I then explained the process we would follow in attempting to connect Vogue’s murder to his work on the parole board.

  After that, Puffer and Locke stood, signaling an end to our meeting. “Thanks for the update, but, at the moment, it looks like you really don’t have shit,” said Puffer.

  ***

  As soon as I got back on the street, my cell phone rang. It was Patti.

  “Sam, we received a phone call about an hour ago that I thought you might be interested in. It might be nothing, but the call was in relation to the Vogue investigation.”

  “You’ve got my undivided attention. Tell me more.”

  “The caller was an elderly-sounding man who lives in the Avenues about three blocks from the victim’s home. He belongs to a Neighborhood Watch group, and he wants to report a strange vehicle parked in front of his home around the time of the murder.”

  Realizing that I was probably embarking on a wild-goose chase, I got his name and address and drove to his home. Baxter Shaw turned out to be a charming, southern transplant, in his early seventies, who still retained a trace of his Southern accent.

  I asked him about the vehicle he had observed parked near his home on the night of the Vogue murder.

  “Well, it’s probably nothing,” he said. “I couldn’t make up my mind whether to report it or not. But after watching the local news and hearing about that awful murder here in the neighborhood, I thought it best to call someone. I belong to a Neighborhood Watch group, so I try to pay attention to anything going on around here that seems out of the ordinary.

  “On the night Mr. Vogue was killed, I looked out my front living-room window and saw a light-colored Ford Escort parked across the street one house down from mine. I’d never seen it before. I’m quite sure it doesn’t belong to anyone living here in the neighborhood.”

  “Do you recall what time it was when you first saw the vehicle?”

  “Sure do,” he replied. “It was about five minutes before the ten o’clock news started. You see, I watch the ten o’clock news on KSL every night, and then go to bed promptly at ten-thirty after saying my evening prayers. I’ve been following the same routine for years.”

  “Did you see anyone in or around the vehicle?”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I would have called the police immediately had I seen anybody out there. That’s what we’re supposed to do, you know.”

  “You didn’t by chance happen to get a license plate number, did you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” he replied, handing me a folded cocktail napkin with Utah license plate number 184HBC printed on it in a shaky hand. “The car was still parked there when the news ended at ten-thirty, so I walked outside right before I went to bed and jotted down the license plate number. Did I do the right thing?”

  “You sure did. This could turn out to be very important.”

  I was anxious to leave so I could run a registration check on the plate, but I could tell Baxter Shaw was in no hurry to rush me out the door. He seemed lonely. He told that he’d moved to Salt Lake City sixteen years ago from
Savannah, Georgia, after the death of his first wife. He married a divorced Mormon woman and converted to the LDS faith. His second wife had passed away eighteen months ago. He confessed that after his wife died, he returned to two old vices—an evening glass of wine and an occasional smoke with the pipe.

  I liked Baxter Shaw. I wondered if Aunt June might like him as well. I decided to give some serious thought to playing matchmaker.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The license plate number Shaw had provided belonged to a 1995 Ford Escort. The registered owner was Charles Watts, a name that sounded vaguely familiar. The registration showed a Salt Lake City post-office box for an address.

  I called the duty probation officer and requested a record check on Charles Watts. Moments later, I had an answer. Charles Watts, alias Chuck Waters, alias Slick Watts, was definitely one of ours. A local thug with a long criminal history, Watts had recently served a five-year sentence in the state prison on an aggravated robbery beef. He had been released from parole after undergoing community supervision for almost three years. I couldn’t recall having had any contact with him either as an inmate or a parolee.

  I decided to dig a little deeper into Watts’ background before calling Kate. I wondered which parole board member had heard his case. Was it Levi Vogue? Was there any record of his having made threats against Vogue or other members of the parole board? What kind of an inmate had he been in prison? How had he performed on parole?

  Department records confirmed that Watts’ name didn’t appear in the database of offenders who had threatened members of the parole board. The records did, however, portray a troubled history.

  At twenty-eight, he had spent almost nine years of his life behind bars. He had served over two years in juvenile prison on two separate commitments. As an adult, he was in and out of county jail and prison several times for a variety of offenses, including his five years on the aggravated robbery conviction. What piqued my interest most was that Vogue had handled his parole grant hearing.