Master Shioda, whose English I will soon learn is flawless, keeps his gaze locked on Dasher as the big man speaks to me. Then, he says gently to the big man, “When you come first time, you use this,” he pats Dasher’s impressive bicep. “This one,” he says, gesturing to me, “also use this,” and here Master Shioda taps my forehead. Dasher rolls his eyes and makes a face at me, plainly disgusted. “Enjoy your stay with Mr. Miagi. I’ll see you in three months, Soldier. And if you ever try any of this shit on me, I’ll kill you.”
* * *
“George Jeffries was brought into the emergency room at St. Luke’s Cornwall Hospital by ambulance just after 1am on Sunday morning. His left knee had multiple torn ligaments as well as damage to the meniscus. An orthopedic surgeon performed arthroscopic surgery yesterday to repair the meniscus and assess the damage to the ligaments. George was released from St. Luke’s yesterday afternoon at 6pm. He took a taxi from there to his car, which was parked in New Paltz, then drove it – against medical advice – to the Days Inn in Kingston, where he had been staying for the weekend. It appears that Mr. Jeffries was surprised there by an assailant who shot him and took the cash and credit cards from his wallet, as well as his watch.” Sheriff Buddy Peterson pauses to slide a photo to me across his desk.
George is lying facedown on the floor of a motel room. He’s been shot in the back of the head, at close range. From the position of the body, he was kneeling when he was shot, which must have been excruciatingly painful after what I’d done to him. I can see a dozen little details that tell me the killer is a pro, but I keep my mouth shut. I rub my neck. It’s stiff from sleeping on the little cot in the holding cell. My back has grown used to better mattresses since I left the service. My watch has not been returned to me, but I can see from the clock on the paneled wall beside the Sheriff’s desk that it is nine-thirty in the morning. At least I’ve caught up on my sleep.
“Not two hours after this homicide occurred yesterday, I answered a call from a White Plains reporter asking to meet me today to speak about the death of Mel Harris. This reporter suggested to me in the strongest terms that her death was not self-inflicted and that she believed Mr. Jeffries to be the cause. I made some enquiries and learned that Mr. Jeffries had just been released from a local hospital, so I sent my deputies to his motel room to bring him in for questioning. I also discovered that Mr. Jeffries had been in a bar fight in New Paltz, leading to his injuries. I was able to talk to the bar manager, who explained that Mr. Jeffries had assaulted their bouncer and broke his nose, and that a young man approximately six feet tall with black hair and an athletic build intervened and disabled Mr. Jeffries, causing the injuries that sent him to the hospital. I was told this man left the scene before the police arrived…” Buddy pauses here and looks up, making eye contact with me. “It was obvious to me that this was you. Then no sooner do I start wondering what the hell is going on between you and this George Jeffries than my deputies call back in a panic saying they’ve found him murdered in his motel room.”
“What time did they find George?” I ask.
“Just after eight last night.”
“I was having dinner with my sister Ginny – you can ask her. There’s a credit card receipt in my wallet.” Buddy stops to ponder this for a moment.
“I’m sure you have an alibi, son,” he says slowly in that patient, matter-of-fact tone you use to explain things to someone who’s a little slow. “In fact, I’m absolutely convinced of that. But let me lay this out for you straight, okay? Forget about the assault at the bar. You’re in a world of trouble here.
“Do you know how the justice system works in Ulster County? It’s not very sophisticated. There are rural magistrates. In some towns, they’re not even full time and they actually move from place to place. They aren’t like big city judges in New York or Washington. The magistrate that hears arraignments in Kingston doesn’t even have a law degree – he’s a second cousin of the State Assemblyman from that district. So if the police in Kingston tie you to this murder, they’re going to arraign you. And I can almost guarantee that he’ll hold you over for trial.
“Now you may be able to get a fancy lawyer to prove that you didn’t kill George. But then again you might not. George was threatening your ex-girlfriend – I have the restraining order right here. You’re a decorated war veteran. You put George in the hospital on Saturday night and then this reporter tells you that he killed your ex. I don’t think anyone around here would hesitate to believe your sister would lie about an alibi to protect you. Either way, even if you win, you’re going to lose your security clearance and your job in the process. Your career will be over. That’s a sad fact, but that’s just the way things go.” Buddy lets this sink in for a moment. I realize he’s not bluffing – it’s a conceivable scenario.
“Son, I’m your friend. I don’t want to see this happen. But I’m in a tight situation here. This reporter friend of yours is threatening to write a story about Mel’s death. That would be very embarrassing to me and my department. More importantly, it would force me to reopen the investigation, and you would certainly get caught up in that.
“I bear some of the responsibility. I was pretty distraught over Mel’s death just like everyone else here. We didn’t investigate the way we probably should have. And for what it’s worth, Ms. Ryan’s story about Mr. Jeffries is plausible. I was over at the house this morning and it does appear that it was broken into. And now that I know about the restraining order, I can put two and two together. I should have figured this out last week, but I didn’t. But Mel’s been buried and the man who killed her is dead, so if we want to start proving what actually happened, it’ll get pretty messy.
“Frankly, son, I’m not a big city cop, I’m just a small town peace officer. From my perspective, whether or not you killed Mr. Jeffries, justice was done. He paid the price for something terrible that he did. And I don’t think you’re any danger to society. You’re a hero to the people of this town and I’m not interested in tarnishing your name.” I see where this is heading as Buddy speaks and I wait patiently for him to pull the hook he’s baited.
“The Kingston police haven’t tied you to Mr. Jeffries’ death. They don’t know you were the one who attacked George on Saturday night,” Buddy says as he spits a stream of yellow tobacco juice into an old-fashioned spittoon next to his wastebasket. I refrain from pointing out that George attacked me, not the other way around. “And like us, they have enough crime in their town that they might think this was a random break-in. So I’m willing to let this rest and keep my mouth shut. But it won’t work if your reporter friend starts stirring things up by writing a story. That can only lead folks to you. It probably wouldn’t hurt either if you got the hell out of town to let things die down for a while. Do you catch my drift?”
I nod. “I read you five by five.”
* * *
I have the midnight black GTO spooled up to 80 miles an hour on the New York State Thruway heading south when my cell phone rings. I’ve ignored the five increasingly urgent text and voice messages from Veronica that started coming through last night because I need time to think. But this call is not from her. It’s Sammie.
“Dude, I think you gave me the wrong phone number for that 9-1-1 call,” he says.
“Come again?”
“I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but it sure wasn’t this,” he says and plays the recording to me.
“9-1-1 – what is the nature of your emergency?” a female voice asks.
“Hello? Hello?” a male voice with a Slavic accent: Russian or possibly Ukrainian. “Very sorry I am trying to reach information for pizza delivery – Dominos.” The voice pauses and the 9-1-1 operator interjects, “Sir, this is 9-1-1 – the number for emergencies. Please hang up and dial 4-1-1 for information.” The Russian voice laughs and replies, “Please excuse, I am very sorry.” The 9-1-1 operator says, “That’s alright, sir, have a good day.” Then the phone disconnects.
“That’s
not the voice I was expecting to hear either. Can you read back the number you checked?” I ask and Sammie does. It is the same number I’d given him. “Can you check to see who the phone is listed under?”
“I did – the number is registered to Melissa Harris on Orchard Road in Conestoga, New York,” he replies.
“That’s the right one. Can they have mixed up the call logs?”
“Yeah, that was my first thought, too, but there’s no mistake. The systems are routinely audited and double-checked. They have to be able to send the police or fire department to the address of anyone who calls in, even if the caller doesn’t know their own address, so accuracy is a big deal for them. I think you can be 99.9% certain that the call came from that house,” Sammy concludes briskly. “Anyway, is this at all helpful?”
“In a way,” I reply and ponder for a second. “Is there any way of finding out if anyone else has pulled this recording?”
“Hold on the line and let me check,” Sammy says. I wait a few minutes before he returns. “It looks like a Sheriff Peterson from Conestoga requested it on Thursday, the day after the call,” Sammy confirms.
I exhale a whistle. “That’s very helpful. I’ll be in touch, Sammie.”
I run through the sequence of events again in my mind before dialing information in New York City, asking for the business number for the bank where George worked. When the receptionist answers I ask for George Jeffries. A moment later another woman picks up the phone.
“George Jeffries’ line, this is Nancy,” the woman says smoothly.
“I’m trying to reach George Jeffries,” I reply.
“I’m sorry, he’s not in at the moment, would you like to leave a message?”
“When can I reach him?” I press.
“Are you a friend of Mr. Jeffries?” the woman asks.
“We’ve met,” I reply truthfully.
“Well, I’m sorry to say that Mr. Jeffries is…deceased,” the woman says after a few seconds of consideration. Then I hear her falter over the phone. “I’m very sorry but we just found out about this and everyone here is in shock.”
“No, I apologize,” I offer. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Perhaps you can help me, though. I sent a package by courier over to your group last week and it was received at 6:30pm on Wednesday night. I’m trying to track it and couldn’t read the signature. Could it have been George who signed for it?”
“Let me check his calendar...” the woman says, and I hear computer keys clicking. “Ah yes, I remember. We were finalizing a deal that evening and Mr. Jeffries was in the office all night. He actually didn’t leave until late the next afternoon. I’d be surprised if he signed for a courier delivery, though. I stayed late that night as well and that’s what he has – I mean, had me for.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say and hang up before she can ask me any questions. Then I call Veronica.
She’s clearly angry with me until I explain that I didn’t return her calls because I’ve spent a night in jail. Then she apologizes, sounding both horrified and remorseful. She tells me that she left a message for the Sheriff before we met, but she was too embarrassed to tell me when I dismissed her concerns. She wanted to find out what time Mel killed herself to see if the 9-1-1 call came before or after. Sheriff Peterson called her back just after I had called her from my car last night, and dragged the entire story out of her. In no uncertain terms he ordered her to meet him at 7am this morning, then had her take him through all the things she showed me. Then he promised to investigate and asked her to hold off speaking to her editors for a couple of days. He didn’t tell her anything about George’s death, which she is shocked to hear about from me. I relay the Sheriff’s ultimatum.
“Well thank God you know Sheriff Peterson personally,” she says, “because he’s right about the magistrate system in this state. It’s a mess – it’s been written up in the New York Times. Who knows what would have happened to you if you got caught up in all that?”
“I’m still in it. I can’t ask you not to write a story about this. That’s your job, isn’t it?”
“My job is writing feature stories for a suburban newspaper, not speculating about murders! Even if I wanted to, do you have any idea what it would take to get a story like this printed? You don’t want to know. Don’t worry, you’re safe.”
“I don’t think so. We’ve still got two problems,” I say, sighing.
“Which are?”
“I was able to listen to the recording of the 9-1-1 call last Wednesday night from Mel’s apartment. It wasn’t George’s voice. The speaker was Russian or maybe Ukrainian. After I heard the recording, I called George’s bank. I talked to his assistant. It turns out that George was at work all night on Wednesday. He was there finalizing some deal until mid-day on Thursday, in fact. He couldn’t have killed Mel.”
I slow the GTO, checking for traffic in the rearview mirror. Then I pull quickly across two lanes, exiting the Thruway at the last minute. “That’s the first problem,” I say to Veronica as I bring the GTO to a halt in front of the traffic light at the end of the exit ramp.
“What’s the second problem?” she asks.
“When he was interrogating me this morning, Buddy Peterson was hiding something. He was lying to me.”
“How do you know that?” Veronica asks.
“He listened to the recording of that 9-1-1 call last week. That should have been enough to investigate the cause of Mel’s death,” I tell her. It’s true enough. But I didn’t need to know about the recording to know Buddy Peterson wasn’t telling the truth.
So the obvious question is this: if I know Buddy is lying to me and covering something up, why am I leaving Conestoga as fast as my ride will carry me? It’s not because I’m afraid of getting locked up. I’m not worried about losing my job. I know that if I dig into this my own way, I’ll figure out what’s really going on. I’m good at that, world class. No, that’s not what has me running. The real reason is this: I know that if I put myself in the middle of this mess, people are going to get hurt, and not just the ones who deserve it. It’s already happened to George, although I don’t entirely put him in the innocent bystander category. This is the burden I promised myself I wasn’t going to carry around any more.
But it’s too late now; I’ve crossed the Rubicon. I’ve asked too many questions and I know too much. Someone I’ve respected since I was a child just lied to my face, and now I’ve confirmed it. I make two quick turns and then I’m on the Thruway again, heading back north towards Conestoga.
* * *
“What is Buddy Peterson hiding?” I muse aloud as I sip coffee and push a lone French fry around the rim of my plate with a fork. I look over Veronica’s shoulder at a couple passing outside the diner, fingers casually entwined. I stare for a moment then look away.
“Are you sure he’s hiding something? He seems like a pretty good guy.”
“I thought so too. But it’s all too convenient. George gets killed almost immediately after you finger him to the Sheriff. And Buddy is suddenly convinced that he made a mistake about Mel’s suicide after hearing some sketchy circumstantial evidence?”
“Sketchy?” Veronica sounds indignant but looks amused.
“How about ‘inconclusive’?” I amend, and she shrugs her agreement. “My point is that Buddy Peterson is not an idiot. I spent most of the day with him yesterday. He’s cautious and thorough. He thinks things through. So hearing him flip-flop from calling Mel’s death a suicide to a murder in a nanosecond, then pinning it on George – conveniently dead…I just don’t buy it.”
“He’s obviously trying to protect someone,” Veronica taps a lacquered nail against her coffee cup as she says what I’m thinking.
“Yes, but who?”
“Himself. People almost always lie to protect themselves or someone very close to them. Unless his wife or kids are responsible, I’d say he’s involved somehow,” Veronica observes. It’s the first time she’s sounded like a reporter to me. �
�Are you absolutely sure that the 9-1-1 call you heard was real?” she asks.
“Pretty close. This is a system tested and verified a bunch of different ways. They use those addresses to direct emergency responders, so they have to be accurate. Apparently they can keep the line open even if you hang it up,” I explain, repeating what Sammie has told me. “The more interesting question is, what does it mean if it’s really the call from Mel’s place?”
Veronica pauses to consider this. “I don’t know,” she says finally.
“Let’s assume that the person who killed Mel did break in through the rear door. That means the murder wasn’t just about some argument that got out of hand, like a parent angry about his kid’s grades. Someone like that would have pushed his way in through the front door. George might have broken down the rear door if he’d been thinking clearly enough to want to avoid being seen knocking down Mel’s front door. But the voice on the 9-1-1 recording wasn’t George’s, because George was in New York City at the time. So the other possibility is that someone decided he had to kill Mel and had to do it quickly. If you assume that, the killer did a pretty good job.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whoever killed her must have done it spontaneously, but he obviously didn’t want to get caught. So he thinks, how can I make this look like a suicide? Because if he tries to make it look like an accident, like Mel slipped in the bathtub and broke her neck or electrocuted herself accidentally, there’s going to be more of a forensic investigation, and those kinds of setups fall apart quickly unless they’re well planned. I mean, this guy has already broken the lock on the back door, right? So he needs something that will keep the cops from looking too closely. Suicide does that. Unless there’s a reason to suspect foul play, there isn’t much of an investigation.”
Operator - 01 Page 8