“You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you, Harley? Don’t you presume Doug innocent? He has that right, you know. Stay objective.”
Kaiser snorted a short, derisive laugh. “Doug’s got a serious problem, Manning, and you know it. I like the guy—we grew up together—and I’m giving him every benefit of the doubt. But I can’t simply look the other way when I’m faced with a compelling piece of evidence. What’s happened to your objectivity? Is it out the window because you and Doug are friends, because you’re…‘alike’?”
“Hot coffee, black,” said the waitress—a fortuitous interruption. “And your Lillet, Mr. Manning. Need some more time with the menus?”
“We haven’t looked yet,” I told her with a wan smile, and she disappeared.
Kaiser sipped his coffee. Returning the cup to the saucer, he huffed a long breath through puckered lips, blowing off steam—the coffee was indeed hot. Oddly, this process seemed to calm him. “Look,” he told me, “contention serves no purpose here. There’s a riddle to be solved: Who killed Carrol Cantrell? You have your suspicions, and I have mine, but ultimately there’s only one answer. It’s safe to say, all concerned are in search of that answer—the one answer, the truth.”
“Of course.” I nodded my assent—his reasonable words left little room for argument. Tasting my Lillet, I reviewed the whole riddle as the soothing, velvety liquor wrapped my tongue. After swallowing, I told him, “Our hunches may differ, Harley, but we can at least agree on the known facts. Consider: Cantrell came to Dumont with the stated purpose of judging a miniatures show. He arrived here early, as did Bruno Hérisson, with whom he shared a long-standing and bitter professional rivalry. On Sunday morning at eleven-thirty, I found Cantrell dead, apparently the victim of a strangulation that occurred around nine that morning. On Monday, Deputy Kerr found the draft of an extortion note in the victim’s computer, implying that there’d been sexual relations with the sheriff and attempting to extort unspecified ‘considerations’ from the sheriff, presumably hush money. Now, if there’s any truth to the assertion that Doug and Cantrell had been—”
“It’s true.” Kaiser wasn’t gloating, merely stating a fact. “As you know, Doug turned the whole investigation over to Deputy Kerr late Monday, after the note was found. Since then, Doug decided to clear the air, I guess, and to spare the investigation the unseemly grunt work of digging into the dirty details. He provided Kerr with a statement, acknowledging that he and Carrol Cantrell had spent several nights together. He insists, however, that when he left the coach house at around seven Sunday morning, Cantrell was alive and well, and no threats of blackmail had ever been made.”
This was news to me. I took a quick sip from my glass and swallowed without tasting it. “When did Doug provide this statement?”
“Wednesday—yesterday.”
I thought aloud, “He didn’t mention it to me. Was it late in the day?”
“In fact, it was. It may have been in the evening.”
I sat back, mulling the implications of Pierce’s statement to his deputy. First, it meant that he had taken an enormous, difficult step forward in acknowledging his sexual identity. Dumont County now had a self-declared gay sheriff. In terms of the murder investigation, he’d proven his integrity—and I couldn’t have felt prouder of him for risking such honesty. In terms of the election, however, he’d wandered onto thin ice.
This alone gave me plenty to ponder, but I also recognized a further, more insidious, implication to what Kaiser had just told me. I now knew that Kaiser and Deputy Kerr had in fact spoken to each other since my Wednesday-morning meeting with Kerr at the Register. Kaiser had baldly told me otherwise not five minutes earlier; he had lied to me. While recognizing that the DA did not “owe” me the truth—the official murder investigation was frankly none of my business—he had committed this lie in the guise of fellowship and cooperation. So I knew that he was not trustworthy. Was there reason to assume, then, that he was capable of complicity in the very crime he now sought to prosecute? And what of Deputy Dan? Were he and Kaiser possibly involved in this together?
Picking up our discussion, I told Kaiser, “Logically, then, we’re faced with two possibilities. Either Doug lied in his statement about not being blackmailed by Cantrell, or Doug left the guy happy as a clam on Sunday morning, which suggests that the extortion note was planted by someone other than the victim, most likely the killer himself.” I arched my brows as if to ask, Have I overlooked anything?
Kaiser gulped from his coffee cup—it had cooled some. He agreed, “Those would seem to be the two possibilities. If Pierce did it, his motive was clear enough. If someone else did it, the only one with a known motive was Bruno, but he appears to have a strong alibi. I know of no one else who had a ‘problem’ with Cantrell.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Do you?”
Of course I did. Kaiser himself had a major problem with Cantrell, as did anyone else with an interest in the outcome of the pending obscenity trial. By his question, he implied that he still knew nothing of Cantrell’s links to the ACLU, that he had no idea that Cantrell’s purpose in Dumont was to thwart Kaiser’s efforts in court. I knew this background only because Lucille Haring’s own research had revealed it. I strongly suspected that Kaiser had known it all along, as suggested by his strange visit to the coach house with Miriam Westerman on Saturday morning. For whatever reason, Kaiser was choosing to play dumb on this point, and I saw no reason to challenge him on the issue—not yet—so I decided to play the same game. I told him, “Maybe we need to look at this more…broadly.”
“What does that mean?” He asked the question with a smirk, as if I were a half-wit, and a meddling one at that. Clearly, he did not appreciate my interest in this case. He wanted me to simply go away.
He could bet I wouldn’t, though, so his only choice was to follow my discussion down this new path.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, explaining, as if these were fresh ideas, “What if we’ve missed something—something obvious?”
“Like what?” Sarcastically, he suggested, “A suicide note? Maybe Cantrell strangled himself.”
I wanted to slap Kaiser’s smug poodle-puss. Instead, I laughed off his comment, telling him, “No, of course not. But what if Cantrell was not, in fact, strangled? Maybe the killer contrived the crime scene to make it look that way.” I was grasping for possibilities, however remote.
Kaiser shook his head. “Vernon issued his initial findings no more than an hour ago.” Kaiser was referring to Dumont County’s coroner, Vernon Formhals. “He estimates the time of death to be very near nine o’clock that morning, as we’d already guessed, and he confirms that Carrol Cantrell was indeed strangled. Vernon’s final report, though, will not be issued until results of routine toxicology tests are received.”
“That can take weeks,” I thought aloud.
“Yes, sometimes.”
So I ventured into stickier territory, conceding, “Okay, let’s assume Cantrell died of strangulation. We know the method. But we’re not sure of the motive.”
“We’ve got two strong possibilities,” Kaiser reminded me.
“But maybe there’s a third.”
“I can’t imagine what. Probate revealed no heirs or business associates who stood to profit from the crime.”
There. He’d opened the door. So I played my hand, telling him, “You’re well aware, then, that probate also revealed Cantrell’s business dealings in the porn industry. Further, the Register’s own investigation revealed Cantrell’s reputation as a free-speech crusader. And a simple phone call to Aldrich and Associates confirmed that he had a purpose in Dumont not related to the miniatures show. He was here to fight you in court on the obscenity issue—and there’s plenty to suggest that you knew this.”
Fingering his saucer, Kaiser leaned forward, as if to suggest that we should both lower our voices. “All right. That’s a factor.”
“When did you know this background, Harley?”
Wit
h a quiet laugh (sort of a breathy sneer), he told me, “I’m not accountable to you, Manning.”
“But I’m accountable to my readers,” I reminded him without flinching. “The people of Dumont County deserve to know if their elected district attorney has engaged in unethical behavior—for the purpose of swaying the outcome of a politically sensitive trial. The issue is witness tampering. It’s a serious matter, and to my way of thinking, it might warrant a page-one editorial. If so, tomorrow morning’s headline will ask a simple, direct question: WHAT DID HARLEY KAISER KNOW, AND WHEN DID HE KNOW IT?” Sitting back comfortably, I concluded, “Or would you prefer to clear the air right now?”
Again he laughed quietly, but this time it was no sneer—he was squirming. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s any need to make a public hoo-ha over this, is there? Especially when your suspicions—which are quite understandable, Mark—can be dispatched so easily. What exactly would you like to know?” He stretched his lips into a false, toothy smile, the very picture of accommodation.
Before restating my question, I slipped my pen and steno pad onto the table, readying both for note-taking. He knew that his words were for public consumption when I asked, “What was your purpose in visiting Carrol Cantrell at the coach house last Saturday?”
Mechanically, like a witness on the stand, he recited, “My only purpose in being there was to accompany Miriam Westerman. As I told you before, the visit was her idea. When we overheard Cantrell on the phone and he mentioned the Miller standard, I was stunned. I suddenly realized that I may have put myself in an ethically questionable position that could compromise the pending trial. On Monday, when Aldrich and Associates issued their witness list for the defense, I learned that Cantrell had in fact been slated to testify. On Tuesday, with the release of the California probate report, I learned of his interest in the pornographic video industry. But none of that background was known to me on Saturday when I met him.”
Looking up from the notes I was writing, I asked, “When Miriam suggested the visit, didn’t you ask its purpose?”
“Of course. It all seemed so…lamebrained.”
“That’s Miriam,” I muttered.
Gliding past this, he continued, “She simply told me that the visit was important. She told me coyly that I’d understand later.”
“When you left the coach house, did you ask her to explain?”
“No—at that point I didn’t want to know. I suspected that Cantrell might somehow be linked to the trial, so I deliberately put my blinders on. I wanted no direct knowledge of his purpose here.”
“Did you assume at that point that Miriam knew why he was here?”
He shrugged. “She must have, right?”
Rhetorically, I wondered aloud, “But how could she possibly…?”
“Ask her yourself,” he told me, mustering a bit of his old spunk.
“My point, Harley, is this: Carrol Cantrell came to Dumont to testify at an obscenity trial, and now he’s dead. Doesn’t it seem at least feasible that there’s some connection? Why haven’t you brought this possibility to the attention of the sheriff’s investigation? Why haven’t you explored this angle yourself?”
He glanced at my pad. “I’d appreciate it if you’d put away your notes now.”
I did so, then repeated, “Why haven’t you officially explored these matters?”
Quietly but firmly, he answered, “Because there’s nothing to explore. If Cantrell’s death is related to the obscenity case, it points directly to me—obviously. But good Lord, I didn’t kill the guy. So what the hell would I investigate?”
Barely above a whisper, I suggested, “Conspiracy,” leaning close.
He seemed astounded. Collecting his thoughts, he whispered fiercely, “Are you insane? Who—just for the sake of argument, please—who could conceivably populate the cast of characters in this imaginary conspiracy? Who, besides me, has a vested interest in the outcome of that obscenity trial?”
Dryly, I ticked off, “Deputy Kerr. Miriam Westerman. Dr. Tenelli.”
He rolled his eyes. He didn’t bother whispering when he lectured, “I won’t even address the absurdity of your suggestion that either Dan Kerr or Miriam Westerman could be a party to murder. But if you seriously believe that I’ll tolerate your audacity in even hinting that there could be collusion with Benjamin Tenelli, you’re sadly mistaken. You’re still a newcomer to Dumont, Manning, but in case you haven’t heard, you’d better learn that Ben Tenelli is probably the finest man who’s ever served this community. His name is not to be invoked lightly—and I’m frankly appalled that you would stoop to use him in such a manner.”
I took a moment to set my glass aside, a deliberate movement that allowed me to lean within inches of Kaiser over the table. “Harley, I’m equally appalled that you would stoop to use him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you actually think that I’m willing to assume sheer coincidence in the timing of the County Plan Commission’s call for a crackdown on porn? Doesn’t it strike you as a tad suspicious that the revered doctor’s report, which stops just short of demanding the forced closure of Dumont’s porn shops, was issued virtually on the eve of an obscenity trial that, politically, you must win? Harley, face it: it looks for all the world as if you exerted some behind-the-scenes influence on Tenelli and his committee.”
As I spoke, Kaiser’s expression of dismay transformed itself to a look of confusion, then amusement. He now broke into laughter—loud, gut-forced laughter that quelled conversation throughout the dining room and fetched an audience of quizzical stares. As his laughter waned, he made a show of dabbing tears from his eyes with his napkin as he turned to apologize to nearby tables for the outburst.
When the others had returned their attention to their lunch, when the noise of the room swelled to its previous level, Kaiser’s expression turned dead serious. He fixed me in his stare and told me, “You’ve got it backwards. If there’s been any pressure exerted between Tenelli and me, it hasn’t been from me—but from him.”
Thinking this through, I couldn’t imagine what Kaiser meant.
Reading the confusion in my face, he explained, “Ben Tenelli has spent a lot of time on the phone with me in recent months, and he’s shown a lot of interest in the impending trial. He’s expressed concern about the timing of the case, and at times I’ve felt that he was rushing me. He called it ‘good strategy’ for the trial to open in conjunction with his committee’s report.”
“‘Strategy’? Why the plan? What’s the goal?”
“The good of the community, I’m sure. Ben feels strongly that the porn shops have a negative impact on Dumont’s economic development.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“The man’s above reproach, Mark. He’s as good as they get, a model of altruism.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Returning to the office after lunch, I was pondering the several new angles I’d gleaned from Kaiser, when Connie called to me from her lobby window, “Mr. Manning—the sheriff’s upstairs with Miss Haring. They both need to see you.”
Waving my thanks for the message, I climbed the flight of stairs to the newsroom, looked about for Doug Pierce and Lucille Haring, then noticed that they were huddled at the table in my outer office. Crossing through the maze of news desks, I could see through the glass wall of my office that the table was spread with a mess of paperwork. As I entered the room, I closed the door behind me, asking, “What’s up?”
They both stood. Lucy pointed to the pile of papers on the table. “Today’s mail brought an inordinate number of letters to the editor, and—guess what—they’re all on the same topic.”
Doug explained, “They all demand my resignation.”
With a wry laugh, I conjectured, “And their wording is uncannily similar.”
“‘Uncanny’ hardly describes it,” said Lucy, sitting, picking a handful of the letters at random. “Listen: ‘Dumont County’s chief law-enforcement officer has committed
an abomination against Mother Nature.’ And another: ‘Sheriff Pierce has used his penis as a weapon to intimidate Dumont’s citizens and to disgust Mother Nature.’ And still another: ‘Mother Nature herself has decreed this flagrant penis cultist unfit for public office.’”
“I’ve got the idea,” I told Lucy before she could read more. Sitting at the table, I sifted through a stack of the letters, confirming that they were all alike. Not only was their wording similar, but they were all handwritten, all lacking return addresses, all signed with jerky pseudonyms like Watching and Waiting, A Friend of the Family, and the highly original A Concerned Citizen. One was even signed by Mother Nature herself. Turning to Pierce, I said, “Considering the source, I wouldn’t let these bother you. Rest assured—they’ll never see print.”
He sat next to me. “Thanks, Mark. Things are starting to move pretty fast now. Frankly, my future is feeling uncertain. The last thing I need is a hostile letter-writing campaign from a bunch of crazed feminists.” Turning to Lucy, he added, “No offense, Miss Haring.”
“None taken,” she assured him, sitting with us at the table. “I’ve always supported equality of the sexes in the workplace and in society at large, but Miriam Westerman and her group take the notion to another plane entirely.”
“The cosmological plane,” I suggested with a derisive laugh. “What’s the group’s full name? I always have trouble with it.”
Lucy scratched her scalp. “Beats me. I’ll look it up.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Pierce, whose history with Westerman traced back to their high-school days. “FSNACH, or Fem-Snach, stands for the Feminist Society for the New Age of Cosmological Holism. Catchy, huh?”
Lucy shook her head in dismay. “And to think: Miriam Westerman is now headmistress of a school that indoctrinates kids with such crap.”
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