One Deadly Sister sr-1

by Rod Hoisington

  “At least you stopped talking.” Kagan spoke slowly. “What evidence do you think they have to justify an arrest? Any prior arrests? Do you own a gun?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing, for one thing your burned hand is evidence of an argument. Any previous arguments, perhaps at the party or such as that?”

  “Didn’t talk to him at the party. And he was alive when I left him Saturday.” Ray was warming up to Kagan and feeling better. Maybe there’s hope.

  “Indeed, as far as we know, their total case right now is you happened to meet him on the day he was shot. Let’s hope someone saw him or talked to him after you left, someone other than the murderer.”

  “I thought he was going to phone Tammy and warn her about me. That would show he was alive after I left, but she said he didn’t. Also, can we get the police to check out who sent me that text message with Towson’s address? It’s on my cell they took.”

  “We need to hire our own investigator.” He drew a dollar sign in the corner of his yellow pad and pointed to it. Ray saw it and understood. Kagan continued, “Okay, here’s what we do. They have you scheduled for a First Appearance in front of the judge at two. Before that happens, I want you to tell your story to Larry Moran. He’s the state attorney for this jurisdiction. He has absolute power over your incarceration.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “He has assistant state attorneys but he handles high-profile cases personally. He’s a real cutthroat. Don’t expect any pleasantries. Even so, your statement can’t hurt. You’ve nothing to hide. I’ll go see him right now to set it up. They should be eager to get your statement, and perhaps we’ll get an idea of the evidence they have. They won’t drop the charges, but we might do enough good to get you bonded out of here.” Kagan stood to leave. “Okay, before I go, is there anything I can handle for you personally?”

  “Not really.”

  “Contact a relative, collect your mail, put a dog in a kennel?”

  “No, thanks anyway.”

  “No relative for me to call?”

  “No.”

  “You travel light, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to realize that.”

  Attorney Jeremiah Kagan left and made the short walk across the boulevard to the office of State Attorney Lawrence Moran, located in the courthouse. Moran was indeed eager for a statement from the suspect. “Bring him on.” Moran and Police Chief, William Oehlert, were already feeling pressure from the public.

  The chief was personally troubled about the crime for another reason. He didn’t want any crime of consequence to happen in the city for the next 173 days. That was when he’d retire. Twenty years ago, the town was smaller and simpler, and he was one of only a handful of officers. Something was fudged back then because he was unmistakably below the minimum height to join any police force. He was the shortest one on the force. Some continued to call him “Shorty Oehlert” even after the City Council appointed him chief. “Hey Shorty, be careful some crook doesn’t step on you.” “Hey, I hear your wife calls you Shorty.” In another 173 days, he’d tell them where they could shove their dumbass nickname.

  His office closet held a half-packed cardboard box standing ready for the day he’d clean out his desk. Retirement was close enough he didn’t bother hiding his gardening books and catalogs. He wasn’t happy having the new homicide to deal with; he just wanted to get out while still healthy.

  The chief assigned the homicide to Detective Goddard, for two reasons. He was better than the other detectives, and he was a self-starter who most likely wouldn’t bother the chief very much.

  Best or not, not everyone liked Goddard. Some in the department believed he had progressed too fast. Other officers also had a degree in Criminal Justice and some had more time on the street. Seniority, as they well knew, wasn’t enough to qualify them for promotion to detective; it merely qualified them to take the detective exam. Goddard had aced the exam. Some officers were watching and waiting for him to screw up.

  Saturday evening they had called Goddard at home and told him to report to the homicide scene. He was there when the report came in about Tammy Jerrold’s 911 call. He went immediately to her office. He took suspect Reid into custody that night. He began the interrogation in a casual, non-threatening manner to keep the suspect responsive. Reid, however, had asked about a lawyer, and the questioning couldn’t legally continue.

  Sunday morning, Goddard had met with Chief Oehlert and State Attorney Moran who then made the decision to arrest Reid. “It appears I’ll be facing Jerry Kagan in court again.” Moran smiled.

  “I can see you’re trembling in your boots,” the chief said. “How did you finagle that?”

  Moran chuckled. “The judge instructed our office to assist Reid in finding suitable counsel, so I helpfully suggested Kagan. Reid didn’t know any better and accepted him.”

  Goddard was surprised the judge went for it. Somehow, he felt guilty about the underhanded setup, but it wasn’t up to him to suggest counsel for the defense.

  He recalled that old Jerry Kagan had dropped out of sight two years ago after facing Moran and losing a dramatic case. Kagan had defended an abused woman against the charge of murdering her violent husband. Kagan lost on a technicality when Moran was able to keep incriminating details of the husband’s evil past out of the trial.

  The woman was convicted. Each Christmas, they say, she sends Kagan a pleasant card from prison, blessing him, holding him blameless, and thanking him for helping her. He hates the holiday season that foreshadows the arrival of the unwanted reminder.

  Goddard always found Kagan straight, a gentleman who just never really made it. Anybody’s guess how sharp he was now. Shouldn’t be much of a challenge. Goddard felt sorry for him having to face the ruthless state attorney again. No one liked to interact with Little Bonaparte. That’s what some called him, not only for the physical similarities—baby faced, short, and stocky—but for his imperious personality as well. Goddard certainly didn’t care for him.

  At the requested meeting, Reid gave his statement relating the motel rendezvous with Loraine Dellin, the text message directing him to Al Towson’s apartment, the encounter with Towson, and the meeting with Tammy Jerrold. Goddard studied the suspect’s face and decided he didn’t believe his own words. Goddard knew, considering the town’s mood, even the most logical statement wasn’t going to get Reid released, and his statement was far from logical. Moran wasn’t about to buy some half-baked, innocent bystander tale.

  Kagan concluded by saying he hoped after hearing the explanation of why his client was at the victim’s apartment, Moran might permit bail while they checked out Reid’s story. Goddard quickly protested, but it was unnecessary. No way was Moran going to let this guy out of jail.

  After returning the suspect to his cell, Goddard reported to the chief, who asked, “What’s he look like, Chip?”

  “Ordinary, I guess kind of nerdy. He’s seems a little out of it. Made a strange statement, Moran is sending over a copy. Some townies were named.”

  “For example?”

  “He claims Loraine Dellin shot Sonny Barner who had raped Tammy Jerrold. Can you believe that?”

  “Are we talking about this town? Say it again.”

  “And Loraine was wearing a thong at a motel pool.”

  “You just ruined my day, Chip. You should never mention senior citizens in thongs.”

  “All pretty wild, isn’t it? He does admit to being in Towson’s apartment. You’ll see when you get the statement. He mentioned Norma Martin as well. Do we have anything on her?”

  “Not that I remember,” the chief said. “Where are all these names coming from? Damn it, we have to keep a lid on this. If any of this gets out—the names, another shooting and a rape rumor—this town will go bonkers.

  At two p.m., Goddard escorted Reid back to the courthouse for the First Appearance.

  Ray Reid stood before the judge and entered a plea of Not Guilty
. Kagan immediately requested Pretrial Release. State Attorney Moran objected stating that they have a witness who can place him at the apartment on the day of the murder, that the suspect’s prints were on cup shards found in the victim’s apartment, that they have evidence he had argued with the victim, and that he was the last person to see the victim alive.

  Kagan retorted that in a statement just given to the prosecution, his client voluntarily admitted he was at the apartment on that day and had explained the broken cup. Furthermore, the police couldn’t possibly have determined with any certainty at that early stage who indeed was the last person to see the victim alive and, in summary, the state’s proof of guilt wasn’t sufficiently evident to deny bail.

  Moran informed the court that the defendant was new in town and had insufficient ties to the community to assure future court appearances.

  The judge remanded the accused to police custody.

  As Goddard escorted Ray from the courtroom, Kagan asked him, “Did you have a chance to dump the calls on my client’s phone and get the source of that text? Someone directed him to Towson’s apartment mere hours before the killing.”

  Goddard moved closer before answering, “Off-the-record, Jerry, that text originated from an Internet connection at the InnTowner Motel.”

  Reid jumped in, “Yes! That’s where we were, the InnTowner! That proves what I told you. It was Loraine. She wouldn’t use her own phone it could be traced. She knew I was eager to get in touch with Tammy.”

  The detective was willing to continue the subject since Kagan wasn’t objecting. “Or did you send yourself the text from the motel before you left?”

  Ray had no immediate answer for that theory. Then he remembered. “What about this? Loraine gave me Tammy’s home phone number that is unlisted. I wrote it on a motel pad. The police took it from me when I was booked, so you have it. It proves Loraine gave me Tammy’s number.”

  “Yes, we have the note, but it doesn’t prove where you got the number.”

  “But I was in a motel room. How else could I obtain an unlisted number?”

  “Realtors don’t have unlisted numbers. You guys are going to have to do better than that.” Goddard knew Kagan would attempt the standard maneuvers. But in the end, Reid would remain essentially helpless in jail while the State Attorney’s Office used their considerable resources to prepare a case against him.

  Later that evening, Ray snapped out of his miserable mood when the jail officer brought his supper tray and told him some woman came in to see him that afternoon. Exciting news for a lonely guy facing his third night in the lockup.

  “Too bad it was after visiting hours,” the officer said.

  “Visitors, I can have visitors?”

  “Yeah, you’ll be cuffed while you’re out of the cell, but sure, we take you up to the visiting room.”

  A visitor would be comforting and he could use some of that. But, the visitor most likely would be some official with a form to fill out or the bearer of more bad news. “Well, who was it? What did she look like?”

  “Don’t know, wasn’t there, but some guy upstairs said she was a looker.”

  “A young looker or an old looker?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  His first visitor. Who would want to visit the town pariah? What he needed was a magical visitor, young or old, that could get him out of there. A young looker described Tammy who thought he was a nut, so it wouldn’t be her. An old looker would be Loraine. He’d love to confront her, but she wouldn’t dare show up.

  Who else is there?

  Chapter 10

  It was Tuesday morning, three days after the murder, and Ray woke up wondering about the woman turned away after visiting hours yesterday. Would she come back? He skipped the breakfast tray except for the coffee and eagerly awaited the jailer. At last, visiting hours. The jailer secured the handcuffs, and escorted him to the visiting room.

  She sat on one side of a long steel table in the sparsely furnished room. Against the wall, an officer sat on a high stool and a sergeant was at a small desk positioned at the main door. Of course, Ray recognized her: the friendly stockbroker from the office, the party hostess, the one with short blond hair, Meg—what was her last name?

  “Great that you came to see me. So, you bring greetings from the office, I guess.” He was smiling for the first time since being jailed.

  “Greetings from only me, I’m afraid. The company regrets ever hearing of you. I hate to tell you, but your boss has the word from upstairs, embarrassment to the corporation must end. You’ll be fired as soon as they can legally cover their butts.”

  “They sent you here to tell me that?”

  “God, no. I’m on my own. I thought someone should let you know what was happening. Too bad I accidentally got you involved with the murder victim’s ex-wife at my party. Did you notice I never introduced you to Loraine? I never dreamed she’d try to hook up with anyone, especially not you. I told her to bring a friend, but she showed up alone and jumped on you as if you were the last train out of town. She was on the hunt, so she brought out the big guns; tell me her short green dress with that neckline didn’t do a job on you.”

  “You should have marked her with skull and crossbones. But none of it was your fault. You didn’t know Towson would be shot, and I didn’t know that I was walking out the door with his ex.”

  “All the people at the party saw you two leave, and now they know Loraine slept with the guy who shot her ex. I’m assuming you slept with her—none of my business. When that juicy tidbit filters into the community at large it’s not going to help your case.”

  “You’re quite the sales person, aren’t you? You just told me my job and my life are doomed, and I’m sitting here grinning, eager for any more bad news just to hear you talk.”

  “I could sell water to a drowning man.”

  “Good that you’re so successful at something you like to do. All your buy and sell tickets come across my desk, I know you’re good.”

  “Not successful every time. I’ve been working on a personal scheme for about a month now, trying to get a particular idea into a certain guy’s head, but it’s not working. I can’t seem to get the pitch right. He’s ignoring me.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll win him over eventually. You have a marvelous appearance and a dynamite personality. I hope I thanked you at the party for inviting me.”

  “Well, you didn’t exactly go on and on about it.” Her mood seemed to change. She shook her head slightly and stood to leave. “Must run, I’m supposed to be out making calls this morning. But I wanted to see you.”

  “You’re my only visitor so far. Thanks for coming.”

  “Ray, I know you’re innocent, and it’s horrible you’re in this mess. I want you to know there are people who truly like you and are pulling for you. I want to be your friend.”

  “Well, I appreciate that.”

  “No, you don’t, but you will someday.” She turned and left.

  He started to get up when the officer put a hand on his shoulder. “Sit right there, you have another visitor.”

  He looked over to see his sister charge through the door. Was that really her? She signed in at the sergeant’s desk and then strode across the room with a briefcase tucked under her arm like a shotgun.

  She gave her brother a half-hearted wave and declared, “Okay, I’m here. Geez, orange really isn’t your color. And still wearing those dumb glasses.”

  They had known each other as adults and used to see each other a few times a year on holidays and such, invariably at their parent’s house before both died in an auto accident six years ago. Although they both lived in Philadelphia, their last physical contact had been at the funeral. At first, Sandy would occasionally phone him, and twice she invited him to dinner parties, but there was always some conflict and he was never able to make it.

  Now in her late twenties, she had changed. This wasn’t the sister he remembered. She seemed sharper, poised, and confident. She wo
re her brown hair very short and swished around in sassy disorder. A slight ribbon of midriff peeked between her sleeveless white blouse and knee-length denim skirt. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “God knows why I’m here, I certainly don’t.”

  “I’m really pleased. Sis, you’re really….”

  She threw him a bored look and interrupted, “Don’t call me, Sis. Don’t ever call me, Sis. Who was the nice-looking woman who just left?”

  “Someone from the office, Meg—I can’t remember her last name. She’s trying to help me, but it looks like I’ll be fired.”

  “She is not just someone—that’s obvious. Are you friends with her at the office? What does she do?”

  “Stockbroker. She comes by my office every day.”

  “Didn’t you notice her clothes? I recognize those slacks, Italian Prato linen, very in. I have no idea where to buy something like that, Palm Beach, I suppose.”

  She motioned with her hand and the policeman positioned by the wall first hesitated and then came over. “Officer, would you please let me see your logbook? I need the name, address and phone number of that young woman who just left here. Thank you.”

  The young officer was bewildered, “Ah, I don’t think—we don’t—we’re not supposed to do that.”

  Ray raised his hand and started to speak. His sister shushed him and kept going, “Just now, to get in here, I was required to write down that same information about myself. Your prisoner has a right to know who you’re permitting in here to see him. That log is a public record, and it didn’t suddenly become confidential. The sergeant over there, what’s his name?”

  The officer appeared panicky, as though wondering if he should disclose the sergeant’s name. “That’s Sergeant Lewis.”

  “Tell him I’d like to speak with him, please.”

  Ray sat astonished. The puzzled officer called for the sergeant, who walked over. With his white hair and slight bend, he appeared to be past retirement age, but was still in good shape, no doughnut paunch on this cop. She politely repeated her request.