“I believe that’s right.”
“Now, if I could get at the truth quickly, at the facts, there might be a way to protect you in court.”
“How?”
I took a little step closer. “Would you mind if I came in?”
She hesitated. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“Who told you that?”
“Somebody from the district attorney’s office. They said I wasn’t to talk to the defense. You seem like a nice young man, but I have to do what I’m told.”
A jolt of electric excitement shot through my body. There was a real possibility here of witness interference. A witness for the prosecution is not considered to be represented by the prosecutor and can be directly approached by the defense. An attempt to interfere with communication with defense attorneys or investigators is an ethical violation. If I could nail this down, it might come in very handy at trial.
“Miss Barth, are you sure this is what you were told?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“Do you remember the name of the person who told you this?”
She shook her head. “It was a nice young lady.”
“Does the name Sylvia Plotzske ring a bell?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think that’s it.”
“I know Sylvia.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Miss Barth, if I could come in for just a moment, I won’t take up much of your time. And I promise that if you get uncomfortable with anything I say, you can ask me to leave. Fair enough?”
The cogs and wheels turned inside her head. Then she unlatched the door and let me in.
Her house was Victorian—in size, decoration, and smell. It had an eerie sense of time standing still. The little woman took me into what would have been called the drawing room many years ago, and we sat on furniture that could have come from Mark Twain’s home.
“This is all so upsetting,” Daphne Barth said. “I don’t want to get into any trouble.”
“You won’t, Miss Barth.”
“It’s Mrs. Barth, young man. My dear Oscar and I were married for fifty-four years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s that?” She cocked one ear toward me.
“I said I was sorry.”
“You’ll have to speak up, young man. He was a rancher, you know.”
I nodded and smiled.
“He helped build Hinton. He was the first city commissioner.”
“Was he now?” I wanted to keep her talking. The more she talked, the easier it would be to transition into discussing the case.
“Oscar first came out here in 1936. We were living in Kansas then, but my dear Oscar was never one to be fenced in.”
“A real pioneer type, eh?”
“A free spirit, Oscar was. He was the smartest man I ever knew.” She described, in protracted detail, Oscar Barth’s acumen in the cattle business, his meeting with Franklin Delano Roosevelt—“Gave him a piece of his mind, my Oscar did”—and several other highlights of Oscar’s life.
Before I got her around to the night of the murder, my neck was almost sore from nodding and my cheeks from forcing a smile.
“I don’t remember anything about it,” Daphne Barth explained. “It was a night like any other night. I always make myself a pot of tea at nine o’clock or thereabouts. I like to drink it out on the porch when the nights are pleasant.”
“Was it pleasant that night?”
“Not that I remember. I drank my tea inside. I watched the -television.”
“Did you hear anything from across the street?”
“I did hear a loud voice, like I told the police, and I think he shouted her name.”
“You mean Rae’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I assume it was him.”
“Her husband?”
“That’s your client, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I think it was him.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“That’s all I remember.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.”
I scratched my forehead, not because it itched, but because I was trying to figure out why the prosecutor would be advising this woman not to talk to me when she had only one item of relevant testimony, which probably wouldn’t even be needed at trial.
I had just sat through a half hour of the history of Oscar Barth, and I was not about to let that investment go with such paltry returns. “How well did you know Rae Patino?” I asked.
“I never saw her very much. She was a night crawler.” She whispered the last two words.
“What, exactly, do you mean?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Help me out.”
She leaned a little forward, as if someone else might be listening. “She was fast.”
It was an old-fashioned term, but I’d heard it used in the South by some of the older ladies. “You mean she had rather loose morals?”
Daphne Barth nodded.
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I’ve been around the block, sonny.”
“Did you ever observe Rae Patino with other men?”
She shook her head. “But I know it just the same. The way she dressed.”
“Did you ever hear anything going on at her house? Any parties? Things like that?”
Again she shook her head. “Nothing wild, if that’s what you mean.”
I didn’t know what I meant. I was fishing for something, anything. “So, no noise,” I said offhandedly.
Oscar Barth’s widow frowned at that, like she suddenly remembered something. “There was a time,” she said, “when I heard a strange thumping.”
“Thumping?”
“Yes. It was loud. It was so loud, it rattled my windows and woke me up.”
“What was it?”
“It sounded like someone pounding on my front door. I was frightened. I didn’t dare get out of bed.”
“Someone trying to break into your house, maybe?”
“It was so loud, but then it suddenly stopped. I stayed in bed waiting for it to start again. When it didn’t, I got out of bed and went to the window. I peeked out.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Just a car driving by.”
“What kind of a car?”
“A big one, more like a truck.”
“Was it a truck?”
“No, it was more like a car than a truck. But it was like a truck.”
I almost laughed at the massive waste of time this had turned out to be. The pounding on the door might have been relevant, but without some identification tied into some incident at Rae Patino’s, it was useless.
I stood and thanked Daphne Barth. She asked if I had to go so soon. She probably wanted to fill me in on Oscar Barth’s childhood. I told her I had to get over to the jail and talk to my client. She asked if I would need to speak with her again.
“No, Mrs. Barth. This was all I needed.”
She looked disappointed.
Triple C was breathless on the phone, like he’d been jogging. I was in my car, driving to the jail.
“You ready for this?” he said.
“For what?”
“Something weird’s going on down here.”
“You talk to the bartender?”
“Yeah, I talked to him.”
“You get anything useful?” I was anxious for a bit of good news.
“Maybe. But that’s not the weird part.”
“Why don’t you tell me the weird part?”
“Our boy Delliplane? The surfer?”
“Yeah.”
“They fished his body out of the ocean this morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE HINTON COUNTY medical examiner, Chet Riordan, was a portly man with a bristle-brush mustache. He looked like he’d be some kid’s favo
rite uncle, not someone who spent his days around dead people. But it was clear that this guy loved his work.
“Your drownings, you see, can’t be proven by positive evidence,” Riordan said. We were sitting near his desk, which was in a cubicle in a small office a short walk from the courthouse. The ME munched Rye Krisp crackers as he spoke. “You eliminate other options, see, and then you look at the circumstances, and if they involve a lot of water, you got your drowning.”
“And that’s what we’ve got here?” I asked.
“More’n likely. You got your surfer out there a little too long, gets a little too tired. The others have gone in for the day. It’s happened before. You mix in some beer, some marijuana, you got yourself the big dive.”
“Big dive?” Trip said.
“That’s what I call a drowning. The big dive. I made that up myself.” His mustache moved, making me believe he smiled. Trip looked at me like he couldn’t believe this guy’s rap.
“What other details can you give us?” I asked.
“Well, you got your wet drownings and your dry drownings, and then you got—”
“Excuse me,” I said putting my hand up. “I mean about the victim. What about the victim?”
“He’s dead.”
I started to fantasize about pulling the guy’s mustache out hair by hair. Riordan laughed at his little joke, then continued. “Here’s the deal. I looked him over real good, and there was no sign of foul play. No cuts or abrasions, and no blows to the head, nothing like that. The guy looked in pretty good shape, so I doubt he had a heart attack or a stroke. The guy probably got out a little too far or got a little too tired. Then he fell off his board, and a wave took him down.”
Riordan took a bite of Rye Krisp. A few crumbs jumped into his mustache and held on for dear life. “When a drowning victim goes under, you see, he reaches a point where his body tells him to take a breath, or it’s bye-bye. He instinctively sucks in, but instead of air, he gets water. And then he gets desperate, sucks some more, gets more water, and his respiration stops. Cerebral anoxia sets in. And that’s the big dive, gentlemen.”
“So, you’re treating this as an accident?” Trip asked.
“I’m just your humble ME,” Riordan said. “I report the facts. The police do what they want. If they want my opinion, I’ll give it to them.” He held up a one-page report sheet in his hand.
“May I see that?” Trip asked.
Riordan shrugged and handed him the sheet. I said, “Did anybody find his surfboard?”
For a moment Riordan seemed surprised, as if he would never have considered such a question important. After all, surfboards don’t take the big dive. Then he said, “Yes, I believe the officer said his board was found on the beach.”
“Which officer would that be?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
Trip handed the report back to Riordan and gave me a little slap on the shoulder. “Let’s let Mr. Riordan get back to work,” he said.
That was a signal. Trip wanted to talk. I stood and thanked Riordan. He seemed a little disappointed we were leaving. He probably had lots more to tell us about causes of death.
We got in Trip’s car and just sat. “What’s up?” I asked.
“I got a hunch.”
“About what?”
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
“You mean Hinton.”
“Same thing.”
“And that rotten thing is?”
“If I tell you now, and it doesn’t turn out, that might make you disappointed.”
“Come on!”
Trip smiled his wide, teasing smile. “Steady, knave. You remember the first time you saw Delliplane?”
“Yeah, I was with you.”
“On the beach.”
“Right.”
“What was he doing?”
“Surfing.”
“And what was he doing when we talked to him?”
“Not surfing?”
“Think.”
“Come on, man, I’m tired.” But I knew my protests were in vain. Triple C liked the Socratic method.
“Think back. What was Delliplane doing?”
I closed my eyes and tried to picture the scene again. I got bits and pieces. I saw Chip Delliplane stick his surfboard, nose down, into the sand. “He stuck his surfboard in the sand,” I said.
“And then what?”
Eyes still closed, I looked again. And then I saw it. I opened my eyes and sat straight up. “His wet suit!”
“You’re warm.”
“He was getting out of his wet suit. Don’t wet suits make you buoyant?”
“Good guess, but no. Stuff they use now’s too thin. Keep looking.”
I was out of images and ideas. “That’s enough. Just tell me.”
“This is why you’re the lawyer, and I’m the gumshoe. It’s the little things. Like that little detail Riordan gave us. He said they found the board on the beach, you remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“When we talked to Delliplane, did you notice the little dangling thing on his surfboard?”
I thought back again and did see it. It was what surfers call a leash, which attaches to the board on one end and to the surfer’s ankle on the other. “So, if the board was supposed to be attached, why’d they find it on the beach instead of on his ankle?”
“You’ll make it yet, Einstein,” Trip said. “It’s possible the thing came off, but unlikely. I’m thinking there’s a good chance our boy was knocked off.”
“Because?”
“Because he talked to us.”
My case was getting stranger, but the next day things went nuts.
I took Dr. Hendrick Brown to see Howie.
Dr. Brown was in his sixties, his closely cropped black hair flecked with gray. He was tall and trim, with a salt-and-pepper mustache setting off sparkling eyes. He looked more like a storyteller than a psychiatrist, someone you could imagine sitting lankily around a pot-bellied stove telling tales about frogs and hound dogs.
I knew Brown from my days in the public defender’s office. He’d been employed as an expert a number of times by our office, because his price was right, and, as an African American, he had a natural affinity with our minority clients. His practice was aimed primarily at the poorer demographic areas of our fair city. He viewed his calling as a mission as much as a profession. Because he was not one of those fancy, Westside practitioners, he was treated with some disdain by others in his trade and by the prosecutors who had to cross-examine him.
But juries loved him.
When we were about twenty miles from Hinton, Brown asked, “So, do you want a theory, or do you want an explanation?”
“What’s the difference?” I said.
“It’s what you want out of this exam. I can question him about it and then try to figure out a theory of his mental state at the time, or we can go deep and try to get him to remember every detail of what happened.”
“I want to know as much as possible. Howie thinks he saw the devil. I want to know if that was something in his own mind, or if there was another person present. Is there any way we can get to that?”
“Hypnosis would be my first preference, but we won’t have the time or conditions for that.”
“What’s your second preference?”
“Bend the rules a little.”
I shot him a quick glance. He was smiling at me like a boy who was suggesting some mischief. “What, exactly, do you mean?” I asked.
Brown patted the medical bag he’d brought with him. “Sodium pentathol.”
“You want to shoot him up?”
“That’s an option.”
“But where? At the jail?”
“Unless they’re going to release him.”
“But we can’t. I think we have to give notice.”
“That’s why I said we bend the rules. Not break, bend. We make the exam, make a report, then give it to the prosecution in discover
y. That’s notice.”
“After the fact.”
“But you’ll have an idea about what really happened that night.”
Another possibility was that I could be facing the wrong end of an ethics charge if the prosecutors got angry enough. But I was running out of time. I had to know what happened. It was as much my own curiosity as it was anything else now.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE JAIL DEPUTY on duty recognized me, though not in a warm fashion. I was still the outsider. Worse, I was the big-city lawyer, even though my big city was a small office at the rear of a building, and my only client was a resident in his pokey. His look changed from contempt to suspicion when he noticed Dr. Hendrick Brown with me.
“Who’s he?” the jailer asked.
“This is a doctor,” I explained. “He’s going to examine my client.”
A temporary cloud of confusion came over the jailer’s face, which he blew away with bluster. “He’s not going to examine anybody here. You need a medical transfer. Now you go on down to the—”
“Excuse me. This is Dr. Hendrick Brown. He’s a psychiatrist. This isn’t a medical examination, it’s a mental evaluation. We don’t need any transfer for that.”
The jailer gave Brown a quick up-and-down, as if he was skeptical. “He got some ID?”
Brown reached in his coat and produced a card, which he placed before the jailer. The jailer looked at it, shrugged, and tossed it on his desk. “Doesn’t tell me anything.”
So the jailer, perhaps to break up a monotonous day, or because his supervisor chewed him out that morning, or maybe because his wife packed him a bologna sandwich for the third straight day, decided to play some hardball.
I took a swing. “Look, I can go over to the courthouse if you like, disturb Judge Abovian’s lunch, tell him they’re not cooperating down at the jail, and ask him what to do. But that’ll only mean you’ll have to process a bunch of paperwork while your supervisor asks you to explain why a judge is calling him up and screaming at him over the phone about interfering with the attorney-client relationship. We don’t want that, do we?”
The jailer thought about it. “You guys are all the same, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “Every one of us is here to make life miserable for somebody else.”
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