Probable Cause

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Probable Cause Page 11

by Ridley Pearson


  “You haven’t been charged yet, Woodman. We’re just having a talk. You were arrested on suspicion.”

  Wood viewed Dewitt skeptically. “Cut the shit, man. What you trying to say?”

  “Yes, what exactly are you saying, Detective?” Mahoney asked, stirring again.

  “I would welcome Mr. Wood’s cooperation. If I gain the information I need, and if further investigation suggests Mr. Wood was not directly involved in the homicides—”

  “Don’t want nothin’ to do with no murders.”

  “I see little reason why Mr. Wood couldn’t walk on the present charges. We might want him later as a witness. Tilly might want his help on another matter. But this is all negotiable, Counselor.”

  The attorney checked that her client understood Dewitt, which he did. Wood said, “I help you out man.”

  “Mr. Wood, I’m going to show you a couple of photographs. One of a cream-colored Chevy Luv pickup truck, the other of a Pioneer KP fifty-five-fifty car stereo. According to a statement made by the man’s wife, the stereo must have been stolen the day or evening of January eleventh. Possibly the early-morning hours of the twelfth.” He handed a Polaroid to Wood, who examined it indifferently. “That particular car stereo was found in your possession. I would like to know how that came about. I need to know exactly where that truck was parked. That’s my sole interest in this.”

  “Shit, man, you kiddin’ me? When’s this again?”

  Dewitt repeated, “Wednesday, Woodman. Maybe very early Thursday morning. We’re talking two, three days ago.”

  Wood scratched his head. “You think I keep a diary or something, whitebread? How the fuck, you know, am I supposed to remember that?” He mocked, “A Pioneer fi’ty-fi fi’ty. What the fuck, man?”

  “Where do you steal the stereos from?”

  “Who says, you know, I stold any stereos, man?” He looked to his attorney.

  She frowned at him. “Mr. Wood, I would think carefully if I were you. The detective is offering you a trade. You can skate on this charge if you use your head.”

  “I mean, you know, I hear what you say in’, whitebread, but sheeit, you know, I don’t know shit about no fi’ty-fi fi’ty.”

  “What I’m talking about,” Dewitt said harshly, leaning forward, “is this pickup truck. How many pickup trucks did you hit this week, for Christ’s sake? You left your prints in the truck. The man was dead. You see how it works? Your prints, a dead body. You need it any more clear than that? What I’m offering, what I’m suggesting, is that you think real hard before you screw this thing up for yourself. Okay? You stole those stereos, didn’t you, Marvin?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right. You know, that’s right,” he said, nervously looking between the two. “I stole it, that’s right.”

  “From where?”

  He ran his big hand over his mouth and shook his head. “I just cruise around, you know. I see a good hit, I make it. I’m outta there. Where? Shit, man, I don’t know where.”

  “Apparently, I’m not getting through,” he said to counsel.

  “Mr. Wood,” she said in that warm molasses voice of hers, “Detective Dewitt would appreciate it if you would detail for him the locations a person might steal a stereo from, places a person might feel safest. If you can’t remember this particular truck, that’s fine. This week, what types of places did you hit?”

  Wood nodded somewhat apprehensively to himself, as if answering some internal question. He clearly didn’t trust either of them. “You’re askin’ me cause I’m like an expert or somet’in,” he said to Dewitt. “Is that what this bitch is saying?”

  Mahoney delivered a wicked backhand across Wood’s cheek. She took him by the chin then, as Dewitt used to take Rusty by the chin, and she said venomously, “I am not a bitch, Mr. Wood. I am not a cunt. I am not a broad. I am not a split-tail. I am your attorney. I have a name and you’ll address me correctly, or you’ll have yourself another public defender, one whom you will find much less tolerant than me. Is that clear?”

  Wood’s nostrils flared.

  Dewitt had never seen a public defender strike a suspect. Marvin Wood seemed less shocked than Dewitt. His nostrils flared, but he said nothing.

  “Clear?”

  “I gotcha,” Wood said.

  “From where, Mr. Wood, might you have lifted that stereo?” Dewitt asked.

  “The whole deal is to find a car that you know ain’t gonna get no traffic. Can’t be no traffic in the lot, neither. You catch that?”

  “Where, for instance?” Dewitt asked.

  “Movie theaters, motels is good, city park maybe, you know, during a ball game or somet’in. A couple ‘a smaller bars. An office building, you know, the underground garage, you know, at night. You know. Anyplace the man ain’t gonna come up and surprise you. Listen up, there are dudes who hit cars in the middle of the day, you know, we’re talking about one minute of work. Crack mostly… you know, they gotta get their next hit. But not the smart dude. Smart dude wait for dark and pick a spot he know be cool. Hit one car, maybe a couple, and lie low for a few days.” He waved his hand and said proudly, “Never hit the same kind of place more than once a month.”

  Mahoney looked over at Dewitt. Dewitt had caught it, too. “So you do keep track of the places you’ve hit,” he said. “You must keep track or you’d repeat.”

  “The kind of place. Sure. But not no Pioneer fi’ty-fi fi’ty. Not no Chevy Luv truck.”

  “What kind of places did you hit this week? What kind of places are off your list right now?”

  “Right now? No more motels right now.” He looked to the ceiling. “Hey, that’s it, right, white-bread? I probably hit it at a motel, ‘cause I’m staying away from motels right now.” Wood looked first to Dewitt and then to Mahoney.

  Dewitt nodded at him and said, “What we’re going to do, Wood, is run some lab work on your car, its contents, and your trailer. If you weren’t involved in the actual murders, then more than likely, we can prove your innocence—”

  “That’ll be a first,” he grumbled sarcastically.

  Dewitt continued, “I don’t believe you killed McDuff, Wood, and I think we can prove it. But you’ve got to help us. Talk to me about the stuff in that box we found.”

  “I’m careful, man. That’s all. I cut way back on my lifting. I got me a job, I got me probation. Things okay right now. So I’m careful. I happen to lift somet’in’, then I sit on the shit at least three weeks, sometimes longer before I fence it, you hear? Word on the street is that Seaside real pissed off about all the car stereo shit going down, so I back way off, right dude? At least three weeks, and then I fence it maybe San Jose or Santa Cruz. I ain’t no amateur, man.”

  “No, you’re no amateur,” Dewitt agreed. “No one would argue that.” He paused. “Which motels are off your list, Wood?” Dewitt asked, thinking that the killer might have cleaned out all receipts in an attempt to hide a particular motel or lounge where the victims had been spotted. For an instant, he could actually see the killer lurking in the shadows, stalking his victims. He felt his blood pressure rise. Was he stalking someone at this very moment?

  “I don’t know, man,” Wood moaned. “Shit. Seems to me it was at a motel, man. Okay?” Wood said. Dewitt couldn’t tell whether he was simply providing him with what he wanted to hear or telling the truth.

  “In Seaside? A motel here in Seaside? Or was it Monterey, or Carmel?” If he couldn’t narrow it down, the information might prove useless—the Monterey area had more motels, it seemed, than gas stations.

  Wood scrunched his eyes tightly. “Shit, man. Too many fucking questions.”

  “Think,” Mahoney encouraged. “He’s willing to make a deal with us, Marvin. You understand? A deal. No charges.”

  Tilly broke through the door, disturbing the moment and drawing their attention. “You can’t go offering that, Dewitt,” he said.

  “Peter!” Dewitt chided.

  “Detective?” Mahoney asked Dewitt.

&
nbsp; Tilly added, “You want to trade away the homicide, that’s your stupidity, but you sure as hell can’t promise ‘no charges.’ Not without consulting Saffeleti. Not without some discussion.”

  “You been bullshitting me?” asked a horrified Marvin Wood. Mahoney and Dewitt looked over at him. “Fuck! You bullshitting me?”

  “Get out of here, Tilly!” Dewitt shouted.

  “You can’t make that promise,” the detective repeated. “That’s not right,” he told Mahoney.

  “Out!” Dewitt took a step toward him. “Shut the door, Tilly!”

  Tilly backed off.

  “What the fuck?” Wood asked. “You bullshitting me?”

  “Detective?” Mahoney inquired.

  Dewitt looked toward the mirror and glared at Tilly, who he knew was on the other side, ear to speaker box. “Detective Tilly will want some questions answered, as well. I explained that up front. But if you’re willing to cooperate, cooperate fully, there’s no reason to think you will face charges.”

  “You’re bullshitting me, aren’t you, man? What the fuck? Same fucking shit, whitebread. I was lying about all of it, man. Okay? Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Chevy. Don’t know nothin’!”

  “Marvin,” Mahoney pleaded, “don’t do this. Trust me.”

  Wood stared at her. “I want me another PD. I want me a man, not some cunt,” he said.

  Mahoney began packing her briefcase immediately, her motions hard and jerky. Dewitt slumped in fatigue. “Fool,” he said to Wood. He waited for her. They left the interrogation room together.

  As he pulled the door shut, she said, “I’d like to talk with you in private, Detective, when you have a moment.” She didn’t wait for a reply; she walked down the narrow hall, hips pumping like pistons, and rounded the corner.

  He followed her into the officer’s lounge, a room with two worn couches, some folding chairs, a partially melted Mr. Coffee and two concession machines, soda and munchies. Her skirt was hiked up high, her shoes off, and she was rubbing her feet. When she bent over to work on her toes, she offered Dewitt a view of tan full breasts. He wondered whether she was aware of that, deciding, Of course she is. “What a business,” she commented.

  “I thought we had something going,” he said, realizing too late that she might take it as a pass.

  “Me, too,” she replied in a warmer tone of voice, aiming her green eyes at him.

  “You’ve dealt with Tilly before?”

  “Detective Tilly thinks from the waist down,” she said, bending over and offering him that view again.

  “You gonna call another PD?” he asked.

  “To hell with him,” she said. “Let Tilly do it. I’m done with this case.”

  “What do you think?”

  “About what he said?”

  “Yes. Was he just handing me what I wanted to hear, or was he telling the truth?”

  “My opinion?” she asked. “It’s not everyone who asks for my opinion.”

  “I’m asking.” His fatigue made him intolerant of her games.

  She fiddled with her hair. “He hit that truck, and I think he hit it at a motel and doesn’t remember much more than that. From his sheet, I’m guessing Seaside.”

  Dewitt nodded in agreement. “That’s what I thought, too. From his sheet, I’d guess Seaside, but—”

  Mahoney cut him off. “Why don’t we talk about this later?”

  “Later?” Dewitt was surprised, and a little annoyed at the way she interrupted him. Mahoney leaned over to slip her shoes back on. “You look a little tired. Stressed-out. I make a mean cup of espresso, have a hot tub with an outrageous view, and give a hell of a back rub. It is a Saturday, after all.”

  There it was: the invitation. Dewitt didn’t know what to say.

  “A massage always helps me to unwind,” she said, running her hand through her hair, closing her eyes, and heaving a sigh of exhaustion, with emphasis on the inhale and its effect on her chest.

  Escalation. She’d gone from a back rub to a full massage.

  “Are you interested?” she said in a lascivious voice.

  “What is it with you?” Dewitt asked. He was too tired: He knew he should stop himself, but his mouth ran on without him. “Why the showgirl act? You flaunt yourself like there’s only one thing on your mind. I don’t buy it. You’re brighter than that. You have guys like Tilly hard at a hundred yards. Is that the challenge for you? Is that the thrill?” He stood up. “Christ Almighty! Are we doing business here or are you running a singles spa? Espresso and a massage? I’m trying to stop a goddamned killer, in case you missed the headlines. Your client has information I need. That’s what I’m after. What the hell are you after?”

  She stood. “Forget it, Dewitt! Fuck you and your white horse.”

  Her face bunched up like a crushed paper bag. They were contact lenses. One of them was coming out. There were tears in her eyes. She stalked toward the door.

  “Leala!” Dewitt tried in an apologetic tone, realizing he had gone too far. A lot of good that did.

  She paused just long enough to say, “See you in court, sometime, Detective. Good luck if I do. We’ll see what we see.”

  Her forced smile was anything but reassuring.

  3

  Back in his office in Carmel, Dewitt glanced into the corner by the file cabinet, hoping beyond reason Rusty might be there.

  “You okay?” Nelson asked, the DOJ files stacked on Dewitt’s desk in front of him.

  “Wish everyone would stop asking that.” He took his seat behind the desk. “So,” he said, “you think you’ve got something.”

  Nelson set the folder down, as if precious and fragile. “They gave us the stack in alphabetical order,” he explained. “It’s top-heavy. It took a while to get to the C’s. How could there be so many asphyxiations in just five years?”

  Dewitt opened the file. On the tab was printed the name Harvey Collette. Inside, the face was thin, gaunt, the expression placid, the skin lactic. Bug eyes and a bottle-cap mouth, remorseless and distant. “Talk to me,” he said to Nelson.

  “Sacramento area nearly five years ago. Fuckin’ file doesn’t tell us much except that he staged the asphyxiation to cover rapes. The thing that caught my eye was the use of a PVC fitting and garden hose. It’s damn close, Sergeant. I got through all of these,” he said, touching the pile.

  “If this guy wasn’t already in the nuthouse, I’d say he did Osbourne and McDuff.”

  “PVC?”

  “And garden hose.”

  “Staging the asphyxiation?”

  “Made them look like suicides to cover the fact he had actually suffocated them. Trick was, he suffocated them into unconsciousness, raped them, and then got ’em sucking fumes before they came to. Looked a lot like suicide. Nakimita was the one who caught it,” he said, referring to the legendary medical examiner. “Found cotton fibers on the tongues of all five victims. From the pillowcases. Guy copped an insanity plea and has been locked up in Atascadero ever since.”

  “It’s good work, Nelson. I’ll follow up. You feel like taking on something else? I know you’re supposed to be off this weekend. I can pass it along to M.C.S.O. if need be.”

  “I’m game.”

  Dewitt dug out Clare’s lab report. “It’s a Plexiglas made by Phillips Petroleum. I need to know common usage, availability, and dealers in the area. Understand?”

  “How it’s used and who can get it.”

  “That’s it.”

  “On a Saturday, I don’t know.”

  “Refineries run twenty-four hours a day. Someone, somewhere knows something. Right?” Dewitt asked.

  “That’s what we’re taught. If you believe everything you’re taught.”

  “If you get that handled, then check with M.C.S.O. They have some informants inside the high school. There’s a rumor John Osbourne was carrying an ounce of coke. It apparently was never delivered. We sure as hell didn’t find it on him. A name or two would help our cause. See what they have.


  “You think the kills are drug-related?”

  Dewitt shook his head. “With this link to Harvey Collette? No, I don’t. I think we’re dealing with a copycat psycho. But what the fuck do I know?”

  4

  Commander Karl Capp lived in a housing development on the north edge of Seaside. Dewitt felt awkward interrupting Capp on the weekend, even having phoned ahead. Capp was a nine-to-five cop. Charlotte Capp looked like Mrs. Santa Claus, a portly woman with pale skin, Irish cheeks, and legs mapped with varicose veins. “He’s in there,” she said curtly after opening the door.

  Dewitt wiped his feet on a rubber mat that read, HOME SWEET HOME, and found Capp standing in the small living room. It occurred to him that most of the time he saw Capp, the man was sitting down. A toy poodle, wearing a pink collar and a coat of white fluffy fur shot out from behind a forest-green vinyl recliner and wagged its stubby tail vigorously. James didn’t touch it.

  Capp wore his game face. “This won’t take long, I hope.”

  “Shouldn’t.”

  “Good.”

  Dewitt reviewed Clare’s most recent evidence for the man, the discovery of Harvey Collette, and then said tentatively, “Since I report to you, I wanted to get your agreement that we should put a BOL out on Lumbrowski and bring him in for questioning as soon as possible. I also—”

  “Based on?” the commander interrupted.

  “The motor oil,” Dewitt said. “We’ve got him dead to rights. He was at both crime scenes.”

  The commander paced his small living room, his poodle following behind loyally, stub wagging. Dewitt’s heart panged for Rusty; he was briefly caught up in memories.

  He reminded, “And an eyewitness.”

  Capp said, “Forget the eyewitness, Dewitt. Too far away to do you any good. And as for that oil… you know he beat the impoundment, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  Capp seemed to stumble over his words. “I heard you tried to have the car impounded… but that he beat it on a technicality. Thing about the Brow, Dewitt, is you gotta know what you’re up against, who you’re up against. As I understand it, it was a question of procedure. He’s been a cop longer than you. You could bring him in for questioning, but you can only impound the car following specific charges, or if it’s in violation of a traffic code. At any rate, he burned it. Deputy DA on-call couldn’t reach Saffeleti and wanted no part of it himself. So what I’m saying is, I don’t think that oil will do you any good until your ducks are in a row.”

 

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