Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  He didn’t stop to see who it was, of course. He was already running, and that only made him run all the faster. Could have been anyone …

  Who was he kidding? he asked himself as he raced back toward the plant, his heart pounding in his chest. Who else would be hiding in the bushes? Who else would be stalking George? It could only be one person.

  The killer. Harvey’s killer. Maggie’s killer.

  George would be next.

  Which at the least meant Fred himself wasn’t next. But it also meant he couldn’t be far behind.

  Forget about talking to George, he counseled himself. George was a dead man. The best thing Fred could do now was stay as far away from him as possible. And figure out how to get himself to safety. Without giving up the merchandise.

  That was the trick. A smarter man would’ve probably just given it up. You can’t spend it when you’re dead, right? But he had worked so hard for this. Had invested so much time. It was his ultimate triumph over those clods who had always treated him like a second stringer. His final in-your-face.

  He couldn’t give that up now. No matter how stupid it was. Or lethal. He just couldn’t do it.

  He slowed as he approached the office building. He was safe now, for the moment at least, and he didn’t want to arouse suspicion.

  He strolled calmly through the back door. He ducked into the men’s room, ripped off a paper towel, and mopped his brow.

  He couldn’t go on forever like this. He had to do something. But what?

  What could he possibly do?

  Chapter 21

  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL Oklahoma day—the sun was shining, the ozone count was down, the azaleas were blooming—and how was Loving spending this magnificent day? Trapped in a suit and tie, standing in a reception line outside the First Baptist Church of Blackwood, Oklahoma.

  Such a job he had.

  Loving grabbed the man’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Great sermon, Reverend.”

  The Baptist minister smiled modestly. “Oh, it was nothing.”

  “Nothin"? I thought it was dynamite. The best I’ve heard in years.” Which was absolutely true—because Loving hadn’t been inside a church in years. Not since he married Laverne, and that was one hell of a long time ago now.

  “Well,” the reverend beamed, “sometimes the Holy Spirit does move me. I’m only a vessel, you know. Only a vessel.”

  “I specially liked that part about not bearin" false witness. And not holdin" back when you have a chance to help someone in need.” Loving whipped around to face the man behind him. “Didn’t you, Archie?”

  Archie Turnbull was stunned. His lips parted speechlessly.

  Turnbull was wearing what was obviously his Sunday best, which was still not very good. He was standing next to his wife, a middle-aged woman with a pleasant expression, and six children of various ages, including a young pre-teenaged girl.

  Turnbull’s wife smiled, a bit uneasily. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “My name’s Loving,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m your husband’s conscience. So it’s only natural that I would come to church with him.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t quite understand—”

  “Archie can explain it to you.”

  “You … know Archie?”

  “Archie and I have met,” Loving said, not taking his eyes off the man. “Several times.”

  “What are you doing here?” Archie said urgently. He glanced around, trying to see if anyone was watching. “This is our church, for God’s sake!”

  “What better place?” Loving replied. “The truth shall set you free, Archie.” He glanced over at the girl. “I guess this must be Becky.” He smiled. “I can see why Billy Elkins liked her.”

  “Leave my family alone!” Turnbull pushed his wife and children toward the parking lot as quickly as possible.

  Loving watched as they scurried away from him. Coming to the man’s church had been a pretty extreme tactic, but time was running out. Soon the summary judgment motion would make the truth a moot point. He had wanted to take one more shot at cracking Turnbull before it was too late.

  One last, desperate shot. And he had failed.

  Mike was surprised to find out how many people worked at the Blaylock plant on a Sunday. He was also surprised to see that there could be so many employees he hadn’t talked to yet. It seemed like he had grilled everyone here, some of them twice. But of course, even using every available man in his department, that wasn’t possible. The best he could do was quiz those who seemed most closely related to the victims. But if there was one thing of which Mike was now certain, it was that whatever the link between them might have been, if there was one, it wasn’t immediately apparent. So for all he knew, he could be interviewing exactly the wrong people.

  And on that happy note, he decided to go to the bathroom. Some daily chores were inescapable, even for a master detective. He pushed into one of the stalls, locked the door, pulled down his pants, and took a seat on the porcelain throne.

  Maybe a minute later, he heard the rush of air that told him someone else had entered the bathroom. He didn’t think much about it—not until he heard the footsteps stop just outside his stall.

  “Psst.”

  Mike stared at the closed stall door. Was this for real?

  “Psst. Are you the cop?”

  Mike considered lying about it, but what the hell. “Yeah. Who wants to know?”

  “I gotta talk to you.”

  Mike wondered to whom he was speaking. He didn’t recognize the voice. All he could see was that he was wearing badly tattered brown Hush Puppies. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right out.”

  “I don’t have a minute.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. Everyone was in such a goddamn hurry these days. “Just one minute and I’ll—”

  “Here’s all I wanted to tell you. Follow the money.”

  Follow the money: "What the hell did that mean? It sounded like something out of All the President’s Men. Or was that “Show me the money?” He could never keep his movies straight. “Look, who are you, anyway?”

  “Gotta go.” Mike saw the Hush Puppies disappear from the opening below the stall door.

  As quickly as possible, Mike pulled up his pants and opened the door.

  His informant was gone.

  He raced out the door, well aware that he had not yet taken time to attend to such amenities as zipping up his fly.

  No sight of his mysterious informant. The people working in the offices outside looked as if they hadn’t moved in a year.

  After he’d pulled himself together, Mike walked the floor, checking for the Hush Puppies. He didn’t find any. Could be the guy had another pair of shoes. Could be he didn’t work on this floor. For that matter, could be he didn’t work in the whole damn building.

  Mike interrogated several people on the floor, but no one had noticed anyone going into or out of the men’s room.

  Which left Mike back at square one. Exactly where he had been before. With one minor difference.

  Follow the money?

  Archie Turnbull sat in a darkened room. All the lights were off, although the television was on, casting a unearthly flickering blue glow over his skin. There was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table beside him, half empty. He was cradling a glass in his hands, half full.

  The booze had hit his stomach like a Molotov cocktail. He hadn’t eaten all day, several days maybe. He hadn’t slept well for weeks, not since this whole business began. Tonight, he had snapped at Becky for no reason. Well, that wasn’t true. There was a reason. But the fault was his, not hers.

  He heard the soft shuffle of his wife’s slippers in the room behind him. “I’m going to bed now,” she announced.

  “Good,” he answered. “It’s late.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “No. Not now.” He turned slightly. “I’ll be up later.”

  There was a long pause. “Is there anything I can get you?”


  He didn’t answer her directly. “Gloria, have you ever been over to see Cecily Elkins? I mean, since … Billy.”

  “No,” she replied. “I’ve thought about it often enough. I wanted to … I don’t know. To take her a pot roast or something. Anything that might help. But every time I started, I … I just never made it.”

  She didn’t need to explain. He knew exactly what she was talking about. He had been through the same thing himself. He’d also thought of going over, trying to comfort Cecily. God knows he’d been over often enough when Billy was alive; he’d always liked and admired Cecily. And the boy. But since Billy died, somehow, that house had become off-limits. It had become a house of death. And whether due to superstition or just plain fear, he didn’t want to go there. No parent would. He knew that, after the initial burst of sympathy, most of the other families in Blackwood had stopped visiting, too.

  His wife spoke again. “I guess in part I thought she wouldn’t want to see me. I mean, since you work at Blaylock and all.”

  Turnbull nodded his understanding. When he’d first heard that Cecily was blaming the plant for her son’s death, he thought she’d gone off the deep end. A pathetic lonely mother desperately grasping at straws. But now …

  “You know, Archie … it wouldn’t matter to me”—he could sense she was struggling with words, struggling to express something she only barely understood—”whatever you want to do. I’ve always trusted you. You’ve always taken good care of me.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do now.”

  “But I don’t need money or … promotions or cars or any of that to be taken care of, Archie. And that goes for the children, too. All we need is you. All we want is for you to be happy.”

  Thank you, he thought silently, into the void surrounding him. Thank you for releasing me.

  “I love you,” he said, after a long while.

  “I know you do,” she replied. “It’s one of your best qualities.”

  He listened to the soft swishing sounds of her slippers as she padded up the stairs. After she was long gone, he pushed the Jack Daniel’s bottle away, picked up the phone, and dialed 4-1-1.

  “Yeah. I need the number for an attorney. No, I don’t know exactly where he is. Somewhere in Tulsa. The last name’s Kincaid.”

  Ben knew if he formally announced that he wanted to redepose Turnbull, Colby would fight tooth and nail to prevent it, and Blaylock would bring every ounce of pressure he could on the poor man. So he decided to surprise them. Why not? Colby had said he liked surprises.

  Colby was expecting a middle-level functionary from the EPA when he instead saw Archie Turnbull enter the deposition room. “What’s going on here?” he said, rising.

  “I’ve got a few more questions for Mr. Turnbull,” Ben said nonchalantly.

  “You can’t do that. You’ve already deposed him.”

  “I kept the depo open in the event further information was uncovered, remember? And boy, has it ever been uncovered.”

  Colby turned his attention to Turnbull. “What’s happening here? I told you if you had any questions about the suit or your testimony, you were to call me.”

  Turnbull averted his eyes nervously.

  Colby blazed ahead. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, Kincaid, but it won’t wash. This man works for H. P. Blaylock. That makes him de facto my client. I will not permit him to be deposed or redeposed unless and until I’ve had an adequate opportunity to prepare him.”

  “I think you’ve already prepared him quite enough,” Ben answered. “Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Turnbull?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I see no reason to delay. Please take a seat.”

  Colby was enraged. “Have you been talking to Turnbull behind my back? In case you’ve forgotten, Kincaid, the Rules of Professional Conduct preclude you from speaking to my clients outside my presence, and in the case of a corporation, that includes all the employees.”

  “I haven’t said a word to the man,” Ben replied. “All I’ve done is listen. And I got an earful. Now stop whining and sit down.”

  The witness was resworn. Ben saw no point in repeating the preliminaries. He cut straight to the quick. “We’re on the record. Mr. Turnbull, this deposition is a continuation of your previous deposition taken in this suit two weeks ago today—”

  “To which I object,” Colby cut in. “For the record, I have not had proper notice. Mr. Kincaid is deposing my witness without giving me an opportunity to prepare. I move to strike the entire proceeding.”

  “Objection noted, but this is just a continuation of the previous deposition, for which Mr. Colby had notice and ample time to prepare.” He knew he had to keep moving. If he gave Colby a toehold, he’d never get through this. “Mr. Turnbull, have you had a chance to reflect on the testimony you gave two weeks ago?”

  “I have.”

  “Is there any aspect of your prior testimony you wish to … change? Or amend?”

  “Objection!” Colby fumed. “Leading the witness!”

  “I can lead. He’s your witness.”

  “Not today, he isn’t. Again, I object. This is outrageous.”

  “The witness may answer the question,” Ben intoned, ignoring Colby.

  “Yes,” Turnbull replied. “There are some things I … didn’t get quite right last time.”

  “With regard to what?”

  “Blaylock’s waste-disposal procedures.”

  “Please describe to me what really happened.”

  “Objection!” Colby shouted. “What is this, deposition by ambush?”

  Ben kept his eyes focused straight ahead. “The witness will answer the question.”

  Turnbull started, but Colby cut him off.

  “No, he will not!” Colby rose to his feet. “This is the most grossly inappropriate procedure I’ve encountered in twenty-three years of practicing law. As the representative of the defendant and the witness’s employer, I instruct the witness not to answer.”

  Ben drew in his breath. He had suspected Colby would try something like this. And planned accordingly. “Are you claiming this question intrudes upon the attorney-client privilege?”

  “No, I’m claiming this whole procedure is grossly inappropriate!”

  “Because the witness is trying to tell the truth? Yeah, I can see how that might put your nose out of joint.”

  Colby looked as if the top of his head might fly off at any moment. “This deposition is over.” He walked behind the court reporter and yanked the power cord to her laptop out of the wall socket.

  “You don’t have the right to terminate my deposition, Colby,” Ben said.

  “This is my conference room,” he growled. “I’ll do whatever the hell I please.”

  Ben walked around the large mahogany table. He opened the door a crack. “Christina?”

  She appeared in an instant. “He’s on line one. We’ve been talking about cocker spaniels.”

  Good old Christina. She knew everyone, or at least knew someone who knew someone who knew someone. He reentered the conference room and strolled to the phone.

  “That’s my phone,” Colby spat out, “and I’m not taking any calls.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll want to take this one.” He punched the button to activate the speakerphone. “Are you there?”

  “This is Magistrate Grant. What seems to be the problem?”

  As red as Colby’s face had been before, it became absolutely ashen when he heard the voice on the phone.

  “Magistrate Grant,” Ben said, “we’re having a bit of a discovery dispute here. I remember when we were in your office you said you were available to resolve any problems that might arise. I appreciate you being good to your word.”

  The magistrate’s voice crackled over the speaker box. “What’s the problem, Mr. Kincaid?”

  After the initial shock faded, Colby recovered himself. “The problem is,” he shouted across the room, “Kincaid’s trying to depose my witness w
ithout giving me advance notice!”

  “That’s not precisely so,” Ben said calmly. “This is a continuation of a deposition taken two weeks before, of which Mr. Colby had notice and ample prep time. Last night, the witness called me on his own initiative and told me he wanted to amend his testimony. Naturally, I want to give him a chance to do so.”

  “It’s grossly improper!” Colby shouted. “Kincaid can’t contact my clients!”

  “He contacted me,” Ben emphasized. “The only thing I told him was where and when to show up.”

  “Well, that doesn’t seem improper to me,” the magistrate remarked. “A bit irregular, perhaps, but not improper.”

  “But I haven’t even had a chance to talk to the man!” Colby insisted.

  “Is the witness there?” the magistrate asked.

  Turnbull cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, sir. I am.”

  “Do you wish to speak to your attorney?”

  “No, sir. I don’t. We’ve spoken before and … I’m ready to proceed now.”

  “Well,” the magistrate said, “I’m not going to force a man to consult with counsel against his will.”

  “He’s my witness!” Colby spat back.

  “Yes,” the magistrate said. His voice had acquired a bit of an edge. “He’s your witness. He’s not your property. If he wants to testify, he can. So get on with it. I’ll remain on the line, just in case there are any additional problems.”

  Colby lowered himself into his chair, so angry he could barely contain himself. The court reporter plugged herself back in. Ben retook his seat.

  “Mr. Turnbull, please describe Blaylock’s waste-disposal procedures. As they really were practiced.”

  “Objection,” Colby said. “Asked and answered.”

  “Overruled.” The magistrate’s voice came in clear over the speaker box.

  “Then I object for lack of personal knowledge.”

  “Overruled,” the magistrate repeated, without missing a beat. “The witness will answer.”

  “The liquid waste was collected in drums, and sometimes, the drums were hauled off to designated disposal sites,” Turnbull said. “But that was expensive, and Mr. Blaylock was always trying to cut costs. So sometimes he wouldn’t do it. Especially during busy periods when a great amount of waste collected.”