by Paul Heald
“Here we go,” she said, “maybe he’s confessed, and you’re off the hook.”
“Shhhh . . .” He turned up the volume.
“This morning in Los Angeles,” a middle-aged reporter announced in front of the county courthouse, “adult film maker Donald Frisch Johansson pleaded innocent to all charges stemming from the death of Jade Delilah. The killing took place in his office on the night he was hosting an event to celebrate the nationwide release of his newest movie. In a surprise courtroom maneuver, he dismissed his attorney and stated that he would represent himself pro se. The judge ordered a psychological evaluation to determine whether Johansson was mentally capable of proceeding on his own. In addition, Johansson requested that the court permit a friend, Professor Stanley S. Hopkins, to conduct the investigation on his behalf.” A picture from her husband’s biographic page on the university website flashed on the screen. Angela groaned. She had always hated the sheepish grin in her husband’s official faculty photo.
“Hopkins is a sociology professor and former fraternity brother of Johansson’s. According to our sources, he is currently in Los Angeles interviewing adult film stars for his latest book.” The reporter smirked into the camera. “Nice work if you can get it! Back to you, Karl.”
Stanley clicked off the television and tossed the remote onto a chair. “This is not good,” he sighed. “I thought I could just quietly talk to people and then report to Don what I found out.” She turned off her light and put her head on his shoulder. “He must have had to give my name to the judge so the cops would send me the forensic reports.” He turned the light off and wrapped his arms around her.
“Well,” she offered, “you’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame.”
“That’s not why I’m doing this.”
XIII.
JAILHOUSE BLUES
The unwelcome television report gave Stanley the sense that he had an official role to play. He felt an enlarged sense of responsibility and resolved to spend his evenings questioning witnesses and suspects who were not on the daytime interview schedule. In particular, he wanted to talk to Chance Geary, but before he did anything, he had to pay a visit to the Los Angeles County jail. As he and Angela had been drifting off to sleep, Detective McCaffrey had called and demanded to talk to him and his client the following morning. Angela reluctantly agreed to conduct the morning interviews by herself, and they shared a restless night, both obsessing on what awaited them the next day.
He hit terrible traffic and arrived twenty minutes late to find a stormy McCaffrey waiting for him in the large marble lobby of the county jail. Before he could say hello, the detective turned his back, waved his hand, and led them through the metal detectors and into the lock up. In a small interview room they found the prisoner and a portly man in light weight navy suit who got up and shook McCaffrey’s hand.
“Hey Stu,” the lawyer said to the detective, “good to see you.”
He then turned to Stanley and extended his hand, “I’m Jerry Dermott, Mr. Johansson’s lawyer, whether he likes it or not, at least until the judge grants his petition to represent himself.” Dermott carried a stack of file folders under his left arm and seemed comfortable in the jail, like a doctor making his rounds on a busy morning. “It’s departmental policy for me to be with the suspect during questioning until I’m officially relieved of duty.”
Stanley could not see any overt signs of incompetence in the public defender, but Don had not complained about the attorney’s skill, just his caseload and lack of zeal. He thought the prisoner was crazy to cast away the lawyer’s expertise; he would not want to be without professional assistance in the intimidating atmosphere of the lockup. “Is there any chance that the judge will deny his motion?”
“I doubt it,” Dermott explained. “He’s sane, and he’s got a college education. They let people with way fewer qualifications than that represent themselves.” He shrugged his shoulders with a good-natured smile. “And besides, it’s his constitutional right.”
“Yeah,” McCaffrey interjected, “and it’s my constitutional pain in the ass. Pro se’s don’t know what the fuck they’re doing, and if you’re really this guy’s friend, you’ll convince him to work with Mr. Dermott here.”
The public defender nodded and added. “I’m pretty sure that I could convince the district attorney that the charge should really be manslaughter instead of murder one.” Dermott looked over at the detective hopefully. “Right, Stu?”
“When bats fly out of my ass and fertilize the lawn,” McCaffrey replied. He looked down at the prisoner sitting quietly in his steel chair and continued slowly. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble proving premeditation here.” Don flinched at the provocative bluff but stayed silent. He sat with his arms crossed, staring at the wall behind the detective. “Nope, no trouble at all. It seems that Mr. Johansson had a major league crush on his victim. Kind of an open secret, as far as we can tell. And we have a sworn statement by his secretary that he and Ms. Delilah had engaged in several violent arguments in his office. The same office, of course, where she was eventually murdered.” He slapped the public defender heartily on the shoulder. “Sorry Jerry, but this is a death penalty case all the way.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Don said through clenched teeth, eyes fixed on the detective.
“Don’t say anything,” the lawyer warned him.
“I just want him to understand that.” He looked from the attorney back to the detective. “He should be out looking for the real killer.”
“Sure, O.J.,” McCaffrey saluted, “we’ll get right on it.”
“That’s enough, Stu. Why don’t we just get down to business?” Dermott sat and the other two men followed his lead. “You’ve got the preliminary forensics and the medical examiner’s report?”
“Here’s the crime scene report, but the M.E. won’t be done until tomorrow.” He pushed a manila folder over to the public defender. “I don’t want to ruin the ending for you, but you’ll want to pay close attention to the fingerprint evidence which shows Mr. Johansson’s prints on the handle of the murder weapon. His prints and his alone.”
Stanley scooted his chair closer so he could see the file. “Is it okay for me to read it too?”
“Why not,” McCaffrey replied, “there’s nothing but the obvious in there.”
He digested the report quickly with a tingling sense that he had already found a hole in the state’s case. “No prints other than Don’s?” Stanley ventured after he finished. “That’s odd.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing my prints should be on there. I carried it from Illinois and handed it to him.” He felt a surge of adrenalin as he blindsided the veteran detective. “Isn’t that suspicious? Sounds like someone wiped his own prints off the paddle and then wrapped Don’s hand around it.”
“Ya think so, Sherlock?” McCaffrey responded with a laugh. “Isn’t it more likely that your friend polished it up before he put it on the wall? That would be the normal thing to do, and it would explain why we only have one set of prints.”
Stanley’s face reddened but he did not reply. He saw Don mouthing, good try.
The detective continued. “Let’s finish up, if we could. Professor Hopkins, you’re the main reason we’re here today. Mr. Johansson told the court that you’re gonna be his investigator. Now, unfortunately there’s no official approval you need to get. In theory, anybody can investigate anything and the prisoner here is entitled to see all our reports, and he can give them to you if he wants.” He punctuated his next statement with a pointed gesture at the professor. “But if I’m going to be dealing with you, then you’re going to follow some ground rules. First of all, have you ever conducted a criminal investigation before?”
“Not as such,” he said after a moment’s pause.
“Not as such?”
“I did a semester-long practicum in the criminal defense clinic in law school. That involved interviewing witnesses and helping attorneys during a
rraignments and probable cause hearings.” He had earned an A in the course but so had almost all the other students. All of his clients had pleaded guilty except for one woman who did not go to trial until after Stanley had graduated. He had enjoyed the clinic. It had been more relevant and engaging than Estate Tax or Partnership Law. “But I’ve never done an investigation for someone, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” McCaffrey stated bluntly. “So, you don’t really know squat, do you? Well, let me begin your education. First, the law requires I send copies of these written reports and any exculpatory evidence that we uncover in the course of our investigation.”
“I’d also like a copy of the guest list and access to Mr. Johansson’s office,” Stanley added, “so that I can conduct my own search.”
“I can fax the list to your hotel, if you give me the number.” McCaffrey tossed one of his cards to Stanley who wrote down the name of the hotel and his room number. “But I’ll have to check whether we’re done in the office yet.” He pocketed the card without looking at it. Stanley got the impression that the detective did not like him, but he could only guess whether the resentment had something to do with him personally or just his siding with the defense. Maybe he got a bad grade in sociology in high school.
“Most importantly,” McCaffrey continued, “we need to have a little talk about witness tampering. This usually isn’t a problem with professionals, but when friends of the accused get involved in an investigation, there’s a serious possibility that an interviewer will cross the line from mere questioning to an attempt to influence testimony. If that happens, charges will be filed, and you’ll find yourself sitting where your friend is. Do you understand me?” The detective’s expression left little doubt that he would love to carry out his threat.
“I think so.”
“And this would include encouraging witnesses to be uncooperative with the police.” He stood up and nodded at Dermott. “Not that we need any more evidence to build our case. Your client pretty much tied it up in a nice package and gave it to us. Now, Jerry, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go meet with the district attorney.” He got up and frowned at Stanley. “Remember what I said.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” The public defender asked the professor once the detective had left the room.
“To be honest,” Stanley replied, “I’m not really sure.” Despite his doubts, he had a growing confidence that he would uncover more facts than the police, given that they seemed to have stopped looking. “Do you think that I could have a couple of moments alone with Don? There are some things I’d like to ask him about.”
“Sure, if that’s what he wants.” Dermott looked at the prisoner who nodded his head. “Alright, but I wish you’d convince him of the stupidity of what he’s doing. Neither of you have any experience in this kind of thing. And if McCaffrey is serious about proving premeditation, he’ll ask the district attorney to charge this as a capital case.” With that final admonition, the lawyer rose and left two men alone.
“That was pretty intense,” Stanley said with a shake of his head. “Are you sure you don’t want his help?” Dermott did not seem to be a bad guy. Surely, it would be better to keep him. He looked carefully at Don and tried to crawl inside his head.
“Are you kidding?” the prisoner replied emphatically. “Did you notice how chummy he was with that bastard McCaffrey? What does it say when the cops are encouraging you to hire the public defender? Dermott just wants me to plead guilty to second degree murder and count it as a victory for the defense.” With the two other men out of the room, he was much more animated. He leaned forward in his chair and crossed his arms on the table. “Before you and McCaffrey got here, Dermott asked me about the party and about Jade. I don’t think he believed a word I told him.”
“Did you mention Jade’s manager?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Stanley gave his friend a puzzled look. “I’ve only been on the case one day, and Geary’s name stands out like a sore thumb.”
“So, you know about Chance already?” Johansson looked down at his jump suit and flicked something off the top of his leg. “How’d you find out about him?”
“Tracey Savannah. We talked to her yesterday.” Stanley leaned forward on the table and pressed his question. “He sounds like a serious suspect. How come you didn’t mention him to Dermott or McCaffrey?”
“Because he wasn’t at the party,” he admitted with a sigh. “Chance Geary may be an utter piece of shit, but I don’t see how he could have done it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because every security guard in the building was instructed to turn him away if he showed up. In fact, keeping him out was their number one priority. You could go ahead and check the surveillance recordings, but I’d be stunned if you see him make an appearance.”
“Surveillance recordings?”
“There’s a video camera in the lobby. Anyone who came to the party should be recorded.”
“I see.” Stanley wrote a note to himself to get copies of whatever the surveillance camera had picked up. He wondered briefly if McCaffrey knew about the recording device.
“You could talk to the guards too, but I can’t imagine that he got in.”
“But if he did?”
“He’d be a great suspect, wouldn’t he?” He shrugged and leaned back in the chair. “The only good thing about being here is avoiding him. He’d kill me if he could.”
“Because he was in love with Jade?”
Don snorted. “Love? It was more like pride of ownership. Psychotic children don’t like their toys taken away.”
Stanley nodded and then took five minutes to sketch out his preliminary plan for the investigation. Even if Johansson killed Jade Delilah, there were still mysteries to unravel. What sort of relationship did the two have? Why did it end in murder instead of a series of nasty text messages? Maybe their story would shed some light on Don’s descent into the porn industry. “Two more questions before I go. First, I need somewhere to work from, close to the people I want to talk to. Is there an office at Eden I can use? Space for me and my laptop? It’d also be nice if I could use your secretary to track folks down.”
“Good. We’ve suspended all production, but Miriam is still there answering the phones, watching the server, and filling DVD orders. I’ll call her and tell her to set you up.”
“You’ve got access to a phone?” He nodded. “That’s something at least.” An expression of concern creased the sociologist’s face. “Are you doing okay in here? You’re not getting, uh, hassled too much, are you?”
The disgraced movie mogul managed a wry smile. “As long as the Eden supply of soft core posters and autographed celebrity panties holds out, I’ll be fine. I’m having Miriam send my cellmate something almost every day. With him on my side, I’ve got no worries.” There was an unexpected twinkle in his eye. “I’ve been hinting at a role for him in my next film.”
XIV.
PAGE TURNERS
Ellen McCaffrey sat at her computer and put the finishing touches on Jade Delilah’s autopsy report. After a third proofread, she sent the document to the printer in the secretarial pool and told her assistant to bring it back for her signature. While she waited, she checked her agenda and cursed the bad luck of drawing her ex-husband on a case once again. Ever since the divorce he had been hypercritical of her work, so she labored to make sure that every sentence was clear and unambiguous, no infinitives split and no modifiers dangling. It was ironic. Had Stuart decided to pursue his original plan of becoming a high school English teacher, they would probably still be married.
Her assistant returned with the three page report, and Ellen sat down to scan it one final time. The attacker’s fury startled her again with undiminished force. A blunt instrument, almost certainly the fraternity paddle found in the room with her, had reduced the right side of Delilah’s face to a bloody mess of bone and sinew. She had been struck once
, probably by a left-handed person, while she was standing. A slicing bruise on the right side of her face indicated that she had hit her head on something with a sharp edge while she fell to the ground. A coffee table lay between Jade and the sofa in the suspect’s office, and the mark was consistent with a hard fall against it. After she lay sprawled on the carpet, the assailant struck her several more times, obscuring any evidence of the angle of the first blow that might have provided a clue to the assailant’s height.
The victim had been in excellent physical condition when she was killed. Apart from two small silicone implants, unusual in a woman whose natural bust measurements would have been at least 34D, and some uterine scarring probably caused by a case of chlamydia, the examiner could find nothing out of the ordinary. The toxicology report showed a low level of alcohol in her blood and trace levels of methamphetamine, neither in quantities likely to impair her judgment on the night of the murder. She had not had coitus within twenty-four hours of her death.
She signed the report and put it in her ‘out’ box. Stuart was going to have to be satisfied with a report that described no physical evidence of the suspect’s involvement with the victim: no gouged skin underneath her fingernails, no tell-tale semen providing evidence of the murderer’s DNA. She had found a short blond hair caught on a ring on the victim’s left hand, but given the description of the suspect, it would probably not match his dark hair. She could have picked it up at dinner or in Johansson’s office. Or she may have struggled with someone and pulled it out of his or her head. The condition of the follicles was consistent with such a theory, but hardly dispositive. Stuart hated loose ends that created opportunities for defense attorneys; he would not be happy to read about the stray hair.
In theory, she no longer cared about what made Stuart McCaffrey happy or unhappy. Their marriage had ended in an acrimonious divorce two years earlier, and with two grown children living on the east coast, there had been little reason to maintain anything more than civilized relations. At fifty-four, she saw little reason to resume dating, not that anyone had asked. She had no idea whether he had found female companionship, nor did she care. In any event, it had not been another woman who put the finishing touches on their marriage. It had been a man.