Probable Cause

by Ridley Pearson

  Karl Capp, who had been born perspiring, chewed vigorously on a Mongol number-two pencil. His soft round belly protruded over his tight belt, and he sat with his feet spread to accommodate its sag. He had a pale rubbery face and bright red cheeks. He lived under the conspiracy of angry eyes. Even when smiling, Capp had a bully image to overcome. Flecks of yellow pencil paint clung like canker sores to his lower lip.

  Capp was clearly uncomfortable. A veteran Monterey Peninsula cop and a man who ran his own show—with Hindeman more as a figurehead, by his way of thinking—the commander didn’t like being on this side of a desk. He made a point of establishing and maintaining the pecking order. Capp had yet to speak business in Dewitt’s office. Instead, the detective sergeant was always summoned to the commander’s office, where Capp apparently found security in his leather throne of an office chair.

  Clarence Hindeman, a physical man, rock solid in his early fifties, sported an ash-gray trimmed beard that hid his lack of chin. He preferred an open-neck shirt and a Western bolo to a conventional tie. He used his hands when he spoke, hard calloused hands that reflected his hobbies of carpentry and river rafting. He spoke in a forced, hoarse voice through a constricted throat. “So what we’ve got here is the apparent suicide of Jessie Osbourne’s boy.”

  Capp said boldly, “Apparent? We put this sucker to bed just as quickly as we can.”

  “Apparent suicide,” Dewitt reminded. “There are some inconsistencies.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Capp complained.

  “I’d like to keep this open for a couple of days,” Dewitt explained. “Wait for the various reports before we issue any statement. His clothes have been sent to the lab. Jessie Osbourne’s people gave us the name of a cousin, Priscilla Laughton, to I.D. him. Wanted to speak with Jessie, but she hasn’t returned my call. Autopsy is tentatively scheduled for tomorrow, though Thursday seems more likely. The thing of it is, Commander,” he said, addressing Capp, “if we go making a statement that we then have to correct, we’re a lot worse off. This’ll take a day or two at the most. A couple of tests and we’re a hell of a lot more certain what we have here.”

  “You have Jessie’s permission for the autopsy?” Capp asked. “That surprises me.”

  “Don’t need it,” Dewitt said, looking to Clarence for support.

  “Officially, Karl, we have to go with suspicious causes for the time being. That’s why I thought we should talk. You’ve read Dewitt’s notes I take it?”

  “Manny Roth’s not going to like this, Chief,” Capp said. His tongue found a flake of yellow paint he had missed on his lip. He spit it out. “He and Jessie are tight. She’s the one sponsoring his fund raiser, don’t forget.”

  “Our distinguished Mayor is a former golf pro, Commander,” Dewitt reminded, “not a policeman. There are certain procedures—”

  “And our detective’s a former nitpicker,” Capp interrupted. “If you were a policeman with a little more experience, you might understand the difference in approach between the Salinas lab and a cop shop.” To Hindeman he said, “In my opinion we ought to rethink this assignment, Chief. I realize I’m supposed to be the desk cop, but Dewitt’s only been with us two months. You couldn’t have foreseen something like this when you brought him on.”

  For Dewitt, the five months since the death of Steven Miller had been hell. He had been arrested on a charge of voluntary manslaughter for the shooting of Miller, and had endured a three-week trial that carried with it the pain of front-page publicity. His acquittal by jury was covered by CNN’s “Prime Time News” and picked up the following day by all three networks.

  He had been rescued by his friend of several years, Clarence Hindeman, now Carmel’s Chief of Police, who had called with a job offer of Detective Sergeant, a newly created position on the Carmel force, designed specifically for a man of Dewitt’s talents and experience. He had hoped, by accepting Hindeman’s offer, to settle into a quiet existence of tracing down bad checks and stolen bicycles in a small resort community. With the discovery of Osbourne’s body, he sensed they had a major case on their hands. It would be a simple matter to accede to Capp’s wishes, and forfeit the case. Instead, however, Dewitt, catching Hindeman’s eye, shook his head no. He wouldn’t give in that easily.

  Hindeman said sharply, “It’s Dewitt’s case, Karl. He reports to you, same as every investigation. This is why I brought him on: He has fifteen years of forensics behind him. Eight of those as an investigator. We’re set up just fine to handle this—”

  “He’s never handled a one-eighty-seven—”

  “One-eighty-seven?” asked Hindeman. “Who said anything about a homicide? We’re talking suicide here.”

  “He’s talking one-eighty-seven,” Capp contradicted, pointing at Dewitt. “He’s implying a one-eighty-seven.”

  “I’m asking for some reports,” Dewitt complained, “nothing more. Besides which, I’ve handled plenty of one-eighty-sevens as an FI. That’s not an issue here.”

  All three launched into a brief shouting match, which was only silenced by Rusty barking from the corner. Hindeman allowed Dewitt the luxury of having the dog in the station house. Rusty was technically considered a mascot. Hindeman gained control again. Dewitt snapped his fingers twice; Rusty lay down.

  “I’ve handled dozens of one-eighty-sevens,” Dewitt resumed. “There’s very little difference—”

  “There’s a fuckin’ huge difference,” Capp disagreed.

  “The point is moot,” Hindeman roared. “Have you or haven’t you read Dewitt’s crime-scene notes?”

  “So there’s no sand on the bottom of the guy’s shoes. So there’s some motor oil nearby. It’s a parking lot for Christ’s sake. That’s enough for suspicious causes, Chief? Gimme a break! We’re talking about Jessie Osbourne’s son, unless I missed something.”

  “Dewitt? You want to respond to that?” By nature of his rank and position, Hindeman tried to remain as neutral as possible, this despite their friendship, despite the fact their daughters were best friends. Although he slipped from time to time, Clarence Hindeman made a point of calling Dewitt by his last name when around the station house. He couldn’t afford to play favorites.

  “I’m simply pursuing a variety of possibilities,” Dewitt explained. “One thing you learn as a ‘nitpicker,’” he said with a glance at Capp, “the evidence will tell one and only one story. Anderson compromised the site. That’s an added headache. If you read my report, then you’re familiar with the fact that Osbourne’s luggage was jammed into the back of the trunk. Why? Can you explain that easily?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I care! I have evidence that isn’t adding up.”

  “Completely circumstantial,” Capp sneered.

  “Agreed. I won’t argue that. The evidence is circumstantial, and it may be nothing. But we won’t know that until all the evidence is in, right? Why are we making such a big deal out of this?” he asked Hindeman. “All I’m asking is we run a few tests and eliminate any surprises.”

  “You’re asking to delay a statement to the press. This is Jessie Osbourne’s son, Dewitt. This is an election year. You need it spelled out?”

  “Since there are those in this department who do not hold my opinion in very high regard,” he said, directing his comment at his commander, “I thought it only appropriate to solicit outside help. You will accept an opinion from the Salinas lab, I take it?”

  “Don’t start with me, Dewitt.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  Capp’s face turned scarlet and he adjusted his weight in the chair. “I think this is a mistake. My vote is to clean it up, make a statement to the press, and get this behind us as quickly as we can. Drawing it out with a bunch of circumstantial evidence isn’t going to help anyone, least of all Jessie Osbourne. And if Jessie’s unhappy, then Manny’s unhappy, and that’s bad for business.”

  “Karl,” Hindeman said, disappointed. “I’m not looking for votes, I’m looking for input.
Are you saying that the John Osbourne death is clearly a suicide? This in light of what Dewitt has turned up?”

  “I’m saying he hasn’t turned up squat.” He considered this for a moment. “You talk to Bill Saffeleti about some oil drops and the way this guy packed his trunk. You tell me how the DA’s office feels about it. Save ya the trouble. They’ll laugh you outta town.”

  Dewitt told Hindeman, “I think I’m being misunderstood here. We’re a small outfit. We don’t want to look like one by making a statement prematurely. A suicide note would help. A despondent phone call made to a close friend. Something along those lines. There again: We have to do the leg work if we’re going to explain this thing. I want to know where Osbourne was coming from, where he was headed, what he was up to. I want to be able to sit Jessie Osbourne down and tell her exactly what her son did from say six last night to six this morning. The media, if no one else, will put his last twenty-four hours together. Do we risk playing catch-up with the media?”

  “Karl?”

  “I don’t like it. The guy sucked fumes, Chief. Let’s bury him, not slice him open.”

  Rusty growled and rolled onto his back, awaiting affection. “We’ll wait for all the evidence to come in,” declared Hindeman, eyeing the dog. “For now, it’s an apparent suicide, investigation pending.”

  Capp pushed himself up from the uncomfortable chair and stormed out of the office.

  “There goes trouble,” said Dewitt.

  “If that dog farts in my office, you’ll know the meaning of trouble.”

  Dewitt and Rusty were gone in seconds.

  3

  The strip was held in a gloomy darkness, refreshed only by the occasional colorful glow of street signs and window advertisements. An eighteen-wheeler streamed past, its grinding whir caught in the Doppler effect, subsiding in the distance with a painful scream. The man paced in front of the pay telephone, toying with the quarters in his pants pocket. The air smelled of diesel. Across the way, through the dirty window of a bar, a pink neon palm tree pulsed intermittently, advertising a wine cooler. When the door to the bar was in use, the impatient man at the phone could hear the cheers from the Lakers game on the TV. He stopped his pacing and stared at the phone, his profile a craggy silhouette in the limited light. Would Lumbrowski even answer? They had to talk.

  He slipped the quarter into the slot and listened as it descended, clanking into the guts of the phone. By now, the number was memorized.

  One ring… He tapped his foot anxiously. “Come on,” he said.

  Two rings… “Bastard, answer the phone!”

  “Yeah?” spoke the wet husky voice.

  The sound of a voice took him so totally by surprise that he hesitated momentarily.

  “Yeah?” Lumbrowski repeated.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” he said.

  “Been busy. Real busy. Who the hell is this?”

  “You should stay closer to your phone.”

  “You should mind your own fuckin’ business.” The phone went dead.

  The man squinted, attempting to control his temper. He reeled his head back and exhaled indignantly. Calling to help, and he dares to hang up. “Mind your own business,” indeed.

  He stuffed another quarter into the phone and punched out the seven numbers.

  “Yeah?”

  “I saw what you did this morning,” he told Lumbrowski.

  Silence. The man’s heavy alcoholic breathing could be heard clearly.

  “I thought you might be interested in that.”

  “What do you know about it?” Lumbrowski asked.

  “I have certain needs.”

  “Money?”

  “That would help.”

  “Have we done business before?”

  “No.”

  “I’m busy right now. I got my own agenda.”

  “I’m sure you do. But I saw you.”

  Silence again.

  “You want what I have?”

  “You want what I have,” the man insisted.

  “I don’t think so.” He hung up. Again.

  The man pounded his fist against the phone and then tugged ferociously on the receiver. With both hands around the gooseneck sheath that housed the wire, he leaned his weight against the receiver and jerked on it repeatedly until it finally broke loose.

  He studied the phone’s receiver in his hand, its gooseneck casing and stripped wires dangling like a tail. He slammed it into its cradle and hurried across the street to the bar. He took a seat in a corner booth where the light didn’t hurt his eyes.

  After the game, a late-night “News Update” came onto the TV. He was on his third beer, and feeling better now. The anchorwoman wore a lot of makeup and smiled falsely, like a nurse. She said in a strident voice, “The body of the son of Sacramento County Representative Jessica Osbourne, John Galbraith Osbourne, was found by Carmel authorities in what has been described by a police spokesman as an apparent suicide. No details have been released and an investigation is pending, but sources at ‘News One’ have been told by persons close to the investigation that murder has not been ruled out. Detective James Dewitt, who is handling the investigation, refused comment. More on the intriguing investigation on tomorrow’s ‘Wake Up News Hour.’”

  The man drinking the beer set it down.

  “Murder has not been ruled out.” The words echoed in his brain.

  “You want another?” It was the waitress.

  “That changes everything,” said the man with the beer.

  2

  WEDNESDAY

  Dewitt showed his badge at the Carmel gate entrance to Pebble Beach in order to avoid paying the five-dollar fee charged tourists to drive the seventeen-mile scenic loop around the peninsula. He knew his way around the labyrinth of twisting roads that wound past the showcase homes. The compound was a mixture of nature preserve and housing development—million-dollar homes hidden in cedar forests, wild grasses and shrubs, green velvet golf courses, the dazzling irregular rocky shoreline at the foot of the ever-restless Pacific Ocean. He couldn’t help but wonder where all the money came from. This opulent display of wealth and privilege bordered on embarrassing. Even with the help of the union, he was at his limit. Anna’s head injury left her withering away in a fetal position in the Community Hospital and that, in turn, left Dewitt’s savings withering, as well.

  He had been advised to move her to a less-expensive public institution, and had weighed the decision carefully several times. With the closest available facility a two-hour drive away, however, James Dewitt rejected the idea, considering daily contact with family far more important for his daughter, despite her apparent physical detachment. They could try all they wanted—the doctors, accountants, even clergy—to convince him, but Dewitt would not abandon hope. Hope had proven a potent fuel these last five months.

  Just the thought of money played these same tapes inside his head repeatedly—a downward, depressing spiral he did not enjoy. The key to overcoming the loneliness—to survival—was optimism, an attitude of gratitude. A dozen such clichés bounced around inside his head and it seemed appropriate that he should be driving inside a forest yet unable to see it. As if to snap him out of his momentary doldrums, Rusty lurched forward from the backseat and laid his pink tongue from collar to ear. Dewitt reached back and scratched him. Spotting a beagle on a wire run, Rusty leaped to the side window and barked ferociously—always one for a helpless opponent. Dewitt was still shouting through the cacophony as he pulled to a stop in front of Priscilla Laughton’s ocean-view home.

  The entranceway’s redwood overhang was supported by nut-stained square pillars that stood twenty feet tall. Towering glass panels allowed Dewitt an unobstructed view through the house to the churning ocean beyond. Always changing colors—slate blue now. In front of twin doors of carved oak, an enormous tarnished brass bell hung inside an elaborate oriental frame. He rocked the hinged arm and the bell pealed sonorously, its haunting sound lost to the woods. Only then
did he spot the lighted doorbell to his left. This bell was some kind of snappy uptown wind chime, he realized too late—probably from Neiman-Marcus.

  Laughton was in her early thirties, dolled up, as this set tended to do so well. A two-hour face on a Jane Fonda body. A forearm laden with silver bangles. A two-hundred-watt tan, given the recent weather. A lioness hairdo. A small provocative gap between her bleached front teeth. Pink lip gloss, pale gray eyes, cosmetic cheekbones, dangling patinated earrings still swinging as she said, “You must be Detective Dewitt.”

  “Miss Laughton?”

  “Priscilla.” She showed him in. He looked around in awe, feeling unsure of himself, as he often did in museums. Where indeed did this kind of money come from? Gray granite foyer leading to a sunken living room with overstuffed furniture in designer fabrics. Fresh flowers everywhere, their pungent perfumes and vibrant colors intoxicating. Split-level and sprawling out toward an enormous lawn, manicured beyond reason, curling down to the doormat of the Pacific. The salmon couch swallowed him. He toyed nervously with a plaid bag tied with a red bow, which smelled like a pine forest in springtime.

  “I spoke with your aunt’s people,” he began.

  “Yes. I identified John late yesterday.” She paused. “I had never been inside a mortuary.”

  “It’s a terrible experience. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He paused until she looked at him. “Ms. Laughton, I hope you can appreciate that an investigation such as this can be extremely frustrating. Having never met the victim personally—”

  “Victim?”

  “Decedent,” Dewitt corrected. She looked at him skeptically. “Any evidence we turn up tells the investigator much more when framed within a personality, within a structure of behavior. Death should be a personal thing. Unfortunately, suicide, untimely death of a suspicious nature, is not. We investigators go around with plastic bags and Magic Markers, digging into people’s privacy. I’ve been through it from both sides, so I know how uncomfortable it can be. But we’re in the information business: The more information we have, the faster we’re through with the case. I mention this to you because Mrs. Osbourne’s aides seem very protective. They seem more interested in distancing her from the investigation than anything else. I can tell you from firsthand experience—and I’m hoping you’ll pass this along to her—that the more cooperative the family is, the sooner the investigation is wrapped up and put to bed.”