“Hey! We’re both adults. I’m the one who invited you here in the first place. It was an impulsive thing to do, and I usually don’t behave impulsively. And please don’t misunderstand. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy being with you because I do. It’s just too complicated right now. We need to call a timeout and think about this.”
“I understand what you’re saying and I agree.” I thanked her for a nice evening and headed home to take a cold shower.
Chapter Thirty-two
As I drove home and my libido returned to something approaching normal, a couple of thoughts occurred to me. The incident at Kate’s, while awkward, probably turned out for the best. Sleeping with someone changed things significantly. I hoped our impromptu interlude wouldn’t interfere with our ability to work together effectively. Besides, I’d have to be a couple bricks short of a full load not to recognize that Kate’s relationship with Tom Stoddard had progressed well beyond the casual dinner-date stage. The guy kept his beer in her refrigerator and probably some of his clothes in her closet. And what, if anything, would Kate say to Stoddard about her relationship with me? Perhaps, nothing. I was glad I didn’t have to deal with that one.
Since the divorce, providing stability for Sara has been my number one priority. A relationship with Kate, or anyone else for that matter, would only be a distraction.
***
I spent Sunday morning with Sara and Aunt June. I drove everybody over to Prospector Square, where we had brunch at a local favorite, the Ore House restaurant. During the meal, Aunt June asked about Baxter Shaw. “I know you’ve been busy. You probably haven’t had time to call that dear Baxter Shaw you were telling me about to arrange a little get-together?”
“Not yet. But let me see what I can do this week. I think Baxter might be one of those retired types who enjoys spending some of his spare time at the court house watching whatever interesting trial might be in progress. Would lunch be okay? And would you like me along as chaperon?” I teased.
“Well, I can sure put his time to better use than sitting around in some court room,” she said. “Lunch at Little America would be nice. As far as your acting as chaperon, thanks for the offer, but I think we’ll be just fine.”
After brunch, I dropped Aunt June back at the house and spent the rest of the morning with Sara at the local duck pond, you guessed it, feeding the ducks.
***
By mid-afternoon, I was off the mountain and in search of the three forgery suspects I had been assigned to interview.
Of the three—Walter Gale, Wendell Rich, and Vaughn Gardner—Gale looked to be the most interesting. Recently released from the Utah State Prison, where he had served five years on three concurrent one-to-fifteen-year forgery sentences, Gale had the look of a first-rate forger.
Gale was middle-aged, with no prior criminal history. He had billed himself as a legitimate buyer and seller of historical documents. Trouble was, most of the documents he sold as historic originals turned out to be high-quality forgeries.
Apparently, an experienced collector of historical documents became suspicious about a letter he’d purchased from Gale, allegedly written by legendary mountain man and scout, Kit Carson. He turned the letter over to a nationally renowned document examiner in New York City, who determined that it was an exceptionally well crafted fake. Gale’s world crumbled around him as victim after victim came forward with a variety of forged documents. His Department of Corrections file showed that the Board of Pardons had slapped him with a restitution bill of almost one-quarter of a million dollars.
I found Walter Gale living at the home of his married daughter in Provo. It seemed that his wife of twenty years divorced him shortly after he entered prison, and moved back to California to begin a new life. My gut told me Gale was too good at his craft to have involved himself in creating a forged suicide note like this one. It seemed far beneath his skill level, and besides, getting caught would earn him a one-way ticket back to prison. I hoped by contacting him without advance warning, if he was involved, he might confess, or slip and say something incriminating. He didn’t do either.
Gale was polite and cooperative. I showed him a copy of the suicide note and explained the nature of my visit. He firmly denied any involvement in the incident. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I’ve only been out of prison for a few months. My daughter and her husband have been kind enough to let me live with them while I try to put my life back together. I work forty hours a week as a salesman at an Ultimate Electronics store in Orem. I can’t have a checking account, a credit card, or any installment debt. I’ve got a restitution bill big enough to choke a horse. And I get the impression that my PO would like nothing better than to see me screw up so he can have me sent back to prison. I’ve been there and I’m not going back. And quite frankly, this looks like a simple job, not worthy of my time or expertise. And it probably didn’t pay much either.”
He sounded convincing. He volunteered to offer an opinion on the quality of the forgery. He examined the note and the samples of Slick Watts’ handwriting. He agreed with the document examiner’s conclusion that the suicide note was an above-average piece of work, not something done by a rank amateur.
“Tell me,” I said. “Can you think of anybody in the business who might be responsible for the job?”
“Sorry,” he replied. “I’m out of that life now, and I’m not about to look back. If you like, I could take a look at the list you’ve working from.”
I declined his offer, thanked him, and got up to leave.
As I reached the front door, Gale said, “Hey, Mr. Kincaid. Tell me why you’re limiting the search to guys out here in the community?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Just what I said. Who’s to say the guy who wrote that note isn’t locked up at the state prison right now?”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Walter?”
“No, not necessarily. It was just a thought,” he replied.
Chapter Thirty-three
I left Walter Gale, feeling ticked off and disturbed. Ticked off because I hadn’t considered the possibility the forger might be an inmate currently in prison. Disturbed by the implications of having the suicide note written by somebody currently serving time. How had I managed to overlook that possibility? Who would have asked an inmate to forge the note? Another inmate? Once written, how was it smuggled out of prison? And did Walter Gale know more than he was telling me? Was he trying to point me in the right direction without getting himself directly involved? I had an idea, two ideas actually. I decided to launch them simultaneously the next morning.
With a little more leg-work, I eliminated the other two forgery suspects. I found Wendell Rich at the Utah State Hospital on an involuntary civil commitment for mental health problems. He’d been there almost two years. I found an empty house with a “for sale” sign in the front yard at Vaughn Gardner’s address. A neighbor told me he had died of a massive heart attack a year ago while mowing his lawn.
***
Having eliminated Gardner, Rich, and Gale as suspects, I did something I rarely do—act on impulse. I’d been thinking about Kate and decided to steer the Cherokee toward her condo. A little voice in my head, which I chose to ignore, told me this was not a good plan. When I reached Kate’s complex, I drove in, parked, and knocked on her front door. Much to my surprise and chagrin, an equally surprised Tom Stoddard answered the door barefoot, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a tank top.
“Kincaid, what are you doing here?”
Recovering quickly, I said, “Hoping to catch Lieutenant McConnell. I need to chat with her for a couple of minutes about the investigation.”
Speaking in hushed tones, Stoddard said with more irritation in his voice than surprise, “Man, this is Sunday evening. Can’t this wait until tomorrow morning?”
Before I could answer, an unsuspecting McConnell sidled up next to him, also barefoot, and wearing a long-sleeve yellow shirt and a pair of blue jean shorts. Her hair was we
t as though she had just showered. The look on her face ranged somewhere between surprise and terror.
“Sam,” she stammered. “I take it we’ve got business to discuss. Come in. Excuse me for a second while I dry my hair.”
Stoddard ushered me into the living room and then disappeared into the bedroom. I could hear Kate and him arguing, but I was unable to make out exactly what they were saying. I couldn’t have walked into a more awkward situation. So much for acting on impulse.
After several minutes, Kate joined me in the living room. I apologized for the intrusion and offered to postpone our conversation until the next day. Stoddard hadn’t returned, but I sensed he was nearby and probably in a position to eavesdrop.
I explained the substance of my conversation with Walter Gale, including my suspicion that he might have known more than he had told me. I apologized for a second time in the span of a couple of minutes, this time for failing to recognize what should have been obvious from the get-go.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sam. No one, including me, gave a thought to the possibility an inmate forged that suicide note. The important question now is what do we do about it?”
I spent the next few minutes bringing her up to speed on the plan that had been taking shape in my head for the past couple of hours. In turn, Kate informed me that she and Vince had each located two of the three forgery suspects assigned to them. They hadn’t been able to find the other two. That eliminated seven possible suspects from our original list.
I was anxious to find out what Salt Lake City P.D. Vice had discovered from the weekend surveillance of the Starlite Motel, since part of my plan involved Sue Ann Winkler. Not caring much for Sue Ann, Kate seemed almost giddy as she described the weekend’s activities.
“We had vice teams watching the place Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and again on Saturday night. According to the report, on both Friday and Saturday nights there was a lot of activity around the place. We’re talking about johns checking in for one or two-hour dates with several different girls. Very little action on Saturday during the day until late in the afternoon, when business started to pick up again. The surveillance team identified the mother, Lou Ann Barlow, and her live-in, Frank Arnold, working the front desk and collecting money as people came in and out. Although they weren’t sure, they didn’t think Sue Ann was among the girls meeting dates at the place. The motel was definitely taking in revenue from prostitution activity. How do you think we should play it?”
“Let me pay a visit to Sue Ann right away and see what level of cooperation I can get from her. I want her to look at the enhanced videotape of the people who attended Levi’s funeral. If she’s uncooperative, then a raid on the motel might give her a reason to cooperate. I assume your vice unit would enjoy hitting the motel with a search warrant. If Frank and Mama get popped, maybe Sue Ann becomes a little more helpful,” I said.
“That works. The vice unit took surveillance photos and license plate numbers of the vehicles coming in and out of the motel. They’re busy identifying the girls and visiting a few johns. As soon as they’re finished, they should be able to get the warrant. I imagine they’ll go in, seize business records, and bust some folks. Customers will receive citations, but Frank and Lou Ann will probably get booked into jail on felony pimping charges. In all likelihood, some of the girls will turn out to be dancers from Satin & Lace,” said Kate.
She paused momentarily, lost in thought, and then continued. “Sam, we both know Sue Ann may not have been totally forthcoming in our interview with her. But what exactly do you hope to get from her?”
“Two things. First, I want to find out what, if anything, she’s held back from us. Second, I want the identity of the guy who Vogue included in his sexual liaisons with Sue Ann. It’s just a hunch, but if we can get our hands on this guy, I somehow think he might hold the key to solving our case.”
“God, I hope you’re right. Worst-case scenario, it’s another dead end. And by the way, more good news. The state crime lab found absolutely nothing when they went back to Wendover and processed the crime scene and Watts’ hotel room. His car had been wiped clean. The hotel room produced a variety of latent prints they are checking out for us. But don’t hold your breath. After all, it’s a hotel room, and it ought to have prints. They’ll let us know if the fingerprint database search produces anything useful.
“And one last thing. Jim Allen called Tom late Friday afternoon. Allen wanted to meet first thing tomorrow morning, but Tom made some excuse and set the meeting for five o’clock in the afternoon. The stall is on. Apparently, the D.A. wasn’t one bit happy to hear that Richard Vogue hired private investigators without consulting anybody. Although nobody has said anything yet, the brass are probably nervous about having the Vogue family find out about Levi’s extramarital activities.”
***
I left Kate’s condo with as much grace as I could muster under the circumstances. To describe the feeling as awkward was a serious understatement. I wanted to discuss things, and I sensed she did too. This, however, wasn’t the time or place. The investigation was reaching another critical juncture. I could feel it. And distractions just wouldn’t do.
Chapter Thirty-four
At eight-thirty the next morning, I gathered my unit for a meeting at the state prison. The staff of the Special Investigations Branch consisted of six investigators, two secretaries, and me. We are a pretty close-knit bunch. As I entered the conference room, one of my investigators, Marcy Everest, was busy entertaining the staff with one of her jokes. As I sat down, I heard her say, “So this guy’s been dead for several months, and then one day out of the clear blue, he speaks to an old friend. His friend says, ‘Hey Max, is that really you?’ Max answers, ‘Oh, yes, it’s me.’ And the friend says, ‘So Max, tell me what it’s like.’ And Max says, ‘Well it’s really pretty good. I sleep in, get up when I want, have a little breakfast, have some great sex, and then take a nap. A little later in the day, I wake up again, have another meal, have some more great sex, and then take another snooze. That’s kind of my routine now. It’s good.’ So the friend says, ‘Wow, Max, so that’s what Heaven is really like.’ And Max says, ‘Who the hell said anything about Heaven? I’m a buffalo in Montana.’”
The room erupted with laughter, and then we settled down to work.
My agenda was relatively short. I wanted to talk about the Vogue/Watts murder investigation. “Folks, it’s time to use our inmate sources to see what kind of information is out there. I know when we do that it creates stress among both the inmates and the staff. But in this instance, we’ve come to a near standstill. So here’s what I want you to do. I’d like each of you to contact all of your inmate sources. See what they can find out for us. As usual, be careful what kind of reward you negotiate with them. When in doubt, talk with me first.
“Terry, get this request to all the correctional officer shift commanders so they can make an announcement at roll-call meetings. We want all our COs to keep an ear to the ground for any information that might be helpful. Marcy, you do the same thing with the clinical staff supervisors, teachers, maintenance workers, and culinary employees. Basically, we want the assistance of everybody employed inside the prison who has regular contact with inmates. We should probably anticipate the usual whining from the clinical staff. They never like it when we pressure them or inmates to provide snitch information. It interferes with their client-therapist trust-building relationship or some such bullshit. Pass them and their complaints along to me. I’ll deal with them. Any questions?”
There were none, and our meeting broke up. Terry stuck around to provide me with an update on what he’d learned from Charles Watts’ friends as well as his sister.
He dug around for a minute and finally pulled out a dog-eared, yellow lined legal pad sporting what appeared to be a large coffee stain in the middle of the page. The page was covered with unreadable handwritten notes that might have been written in Swahili. “Sorry,” he began. “I haven’t
had time to sit down and translate my notes into a coherent report.”
“Are you sure we’re not going to need a team of investigators to help translate those notes?” I asked, smiling.
“Up yours. You want to hear what I got or not?”
“What’s the matter with you, Terry—you off your meds again?”
“No, but if you keep talking, you’re going to need your own meds, as in pain meds. Got it?”
“Loud and clear. Fill me in.”
“Here’s what I’ve learned so far. After asking around, I discovered an inmate by the name of Herbert Walker who probably qualifies as the closest thing to a friend Slick Watts had when he was inside. Walker described Watts as a private sort of guy; polite, but never very forthcoming. He said his contact with Watts occurred mostly in the prison culinary, where they both worked as cooks. Away from work, they spent time together gambling, poker usually. The most significant thing Walker shared concerned some things Slick said about what he was planning to do once released.”
“Such as,” I said.
“Don’t get too excited. Walker was clear that Watts never got real specific. The gist of it was that Slick intimated that once paroled, he had some kind of contact on the outside who intended to employ him at something very lucrative. When pressed for details, Watts refused to be specific. Walker believed that whatever Slick had in mind, it wasn’t flipping pancakes at the local IHOP. Walker felt certain the employment involved something illegal and highly profitable, and would allow Watts to operate solo,” Burnham said.
“Shit, that could be anything from dealing dope to carrying out contract murders and everything in between,” I said. After a moment of silence, it hit me right between the eyes. “Ah, Christ, Burnham. I know where you’re going with this. You’re about to tell me that Slick Watts was working as a self-employed contract killer. Right?”
Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission Page 14