Matters of Doubt

by Warren C Easley

  Handras started to say something, but Scott waved him off. “We need to talk about that, but not now.” He turned to Handras. “Will you give us a few moments, detective?”

  After Handras left the room Scott took his glasses off and rubbed his temples, before cleaning them on his sleeve and putting them back on. The lines in his forehead looked like crevasses on an ice field in the harsh overhead light, and the only color in his face was from the tiny blood vessels cross-hatching his nose. “So, here you are again, right in the middle of a crime scene. What is it with you?”

  I shrugged. “What can I say? I’m having a bad summer.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you know more about this case than you told Handras? What was the beef between Vincent and Foster anyway? Foster clammed up after he admitted to killing Vincent.”

  I was caught. If I talked, I’d give away the defense that was starting to form around Picasso. On the other hand, I could sow some seeds of doubt in the mind of the lead detective on the case. Scott was a tough bastard, but I sensed he might listen. I said, “Foster confronted Vincent because he suspected that Vincent had killed his stepbrother, Mitch Conyers.”

  Scott sat back in his chair like I’d slapped him. He eyed me through thick lenses. “Why would he think that?”

  “Because Conyers was blackmailing Vincent, that’s why. I think Foster went to confront him, and things got out of hand. Foster’s got a nasty temper.”

  “How would he know about this blackmail?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered, which wasn’t a complete lie. “He was close to Conyers and must have put two and two together.”

  “How do you know about this?”

  “I have reason to believe Conyers had information that would be very damaging to Larry Vincent if it became public.”

  “What information?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “I can’t reveal that. Attorney-client privilege.”

  “Why didn’t Foster tell any of this to Handras?”

  “My guess is he didn’t want to sully his stepbrother’s reputation, although I think his attorneys will talk him out of such a display of loyalty.”

  “Is there any hard evidence to back this up?”

  “I have no idea what Foster knows.” I didn’t have any idea, and I feared whatever he knew was not enough to directly link Vincent to Conyers’ death. More dots needed connecting, and this wouldn’t be easy now that Vincent was dead.

  “What about you? What do you know?”

  I shrugged. “Not as much as I’d like. Do you ever listen to Larry Vincent’s show on KPOC?”

  Scott waived a hand dismissively. “Nah, I don’t listen to that right-wing crap.”

  “Yeah, but you know Vincent had been on a one man crusade to convict Danny Baxter without a trial. In light of what’s just happened, I’d say that’s pretty interesting.”

  Scott said, “Well, we’ll see how this all plays out with Foster. Meantime, your boy Baxter is still looking good for Conyers’ murder as far as I’m concerned. It’s gonna take a boatload of contrary evidence to turn that case around.”

  A hot flower of anger bloomed in my gut and rose to my chest. It wasn’t directed at Scott so much. Hell, he was just doing his job. It was directed at this whole, frustrating situation. All I could think to say was, “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Two days after I walked out of jail Picasso was arraigned for the first degree murder of Mitchell Conyers and ordered held without bail.

  “What happened to you?” Picasso asked. It was a week later, and I was visiting him in an interview room at the Multnomah County Jail. A faint scent of body odor left by the previous occupants hung in the air, and one of the overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered annoyingly. Alicia Cole was scheduled to meet with us but had a conflict at the last minute.

  I sat down across from him, put my briefcase down and pointed at the bare spot on my head. “You mean this? I, uh, went another round with the Russian cage fighter.”

  “You’re kidding!” He exclaimed with a grin he couldn’t force back. “Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

  I told him about the second fight. When I described how Semyon and I had somehow made peace, Picasso shook his head at me, “Don’t be too sure, Cal. He might change his mind about you after trying to eat through a straw for a month.”

  I shrugged. “How are you feeling?” His right arm was in a thick cast and sling, and his skin looked pale against a bright orange jump suit that sagged on his thin frame. But his eyes were clear and alert.

  “Like Joey used to say, ‘Everyday’s a holiday.’ Any luck with the art supplies?”

  I took a small sketch pad and a special issue ballpoint mounted on a pliable plastic shaft from my briefcase and handed them to him. “That’s the biggest pad they permit, and the only kind of pen you’re allowed to have.”

  He bent the shaft back and forth playfully. “Too bad. I was planning to use a pen to break out of here, but thanks anyway.” He shot the flickering fluorescent light an annoyed look, opened the pad and put pen to paper. “If I can’t draw I’m going to go nuts,” he added without looking up. “And I’m worried about my mural. Is it okay?”

  “It’s fine. Your posse’s taking good care of it.” I handed him a photo. “Here, they wanted me to give you this.” It was a picture of them kneeling in front of the mural, clowning around in various poses.

  He laughed. “Where’s Caitlin?”

  “She wasn’t around that day. She lost the apartment, you know. She’s, uh, hanging around a lot more with her old family, I hear.”

  He dropped the pen and massaged his forehead with his free hand. “Shit, that figures. She’s probably using again and God knows what else.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “She had a shot,” he said, more to himself than me.

  “I know. I guess some people have to hit bottom hard before they figure things out. But don’t worry, Doc’s not giving up on her.” What I didn’t tell him, of course, was what Doc had told me—that Picasso was probably the only person Caitlin ever listened to outside her “family.”

  We both fell silent. People shuffled by in the hall outside the room, and we heard a string of expletives followed by a loud, “Pipe down.” Picasso focused on something on the wall behind me for the longest time. “Well,” he said, finally, “at least she’s free to go wherever she wants.”

  “Hey,” I said, “don’t get down. We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “But that dude killing the shock jock’s a big setback, right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it’s harder to prove a dead man did something, but not impossible.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “From what Jessica Armandy was willing to tell me, Seth Foster went storming over to Vincent’s houseboat after she told him about the blackmail plot. He was going to get some answers, he told her. She said, ‘I knew he had a temper, but I never dreamed he’d kill the guy.’”

  “How did Armandy find out about Vincent?”

  I must have looked pretty sheepish as I paused to put an answer together. By this time, he was sketching again. “I, uh, told her about him. I was hoping she could link him directly with Conyers somehow. It didn’t quite work out that way.”

  He looked up from his sketch pad. “Jesus, Cal. You set the whole thing off.”

  I nodded. “I know. I screwed up. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

  He brushed my comments off with his free hand. “Don’t beat yourself up, man. If Armandy didn’t know what that dude was going to do, how the hell were you supposed to know?”

  “There’s more to the story,” I went on. “Turns out Vincent had an airtight alibi the day Conyers was killed. He was in Seattle doing a guest appearance. Lieutenant Scott called me last night to break that cheery bit of news.”

 
Picasso’s face clouded over. “Oh, man. Vincent getting killed is one thing, but having an alibi. That’s a clincher. I’m toast.”

  I put a cautionary hand up. “Yeah, that was my first reaction, too, but then it hit me—Vincent didn’t have the cajones to kill anyone himself. He hired people to do his dirty work. Just look at how he handled the scandal with Sherrill Blanchard. And that alibi seems way too convenient. He’s out of town exactly one day, the day Conyers was killed.”

  “So, you think he used a hit man or something?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I think.” I shook my head and made a face. “I should have thought of it a long time ago.”

  “But the hit man’s probably long gone by now.”

  “Not necessarily. He doesn’t know we’ve figured this out. That gives us an advantage.”

  I tried to leave him with some hope, but when time was up, I could see the concern lingering in Picasso’s eyes. Who could blame him? After all, the existence of a hit man was mostly conjecture at this point, and he knew that as well as I.

  When I was in my car I looked again at the sketch he’d torn off and handed to me as I was leaving the interview room. “Here,” he said, “this is for you. No extra charge.” It was a deft rendering of me, and he’d caught me looking sheepish. I could only laugh and shake my head.

  That afternoon I had a meeting with Cynthia Duncan and Alicia Cole in Cole’s office. The news from Cynthia wasn’t good. Sherrill Blanchard wasn’t willing to talk about what had happened between her and Larry Vincent. Cole asked, “Now that Vincent’s dead, do you think she’ll change her mind?”

  “I don’t know,” Cynthia answered. “At the moment, she’s still not returning my phone calls.”

  “Blanchard’s cooperation would be useful in Picasso’s defense,” Cole continued. “It’ll bolster the blackmail claim, which provides an alternative theory for Conyers’ murder.” As she said this, both Cole and I looked at Cynthia.

  Cynthia’s jaw flexed. “Don’t worry. I’ll get her to talk. The truth needs to be told about this creep. Right now, he’s being treated like some martyred hero. It’s disgusting.”

  The conversation swung to Seth Foster next. I asked Alicia, “When are they going to let you depose him?”

  “I’m getting the run around on that,” she answered. “He’s not talking except to claim self-defense and the DA’s still not sure whether to charge him with manslaughter or murder one. In any case, I haven’t heard a whiff of anything to suggest he’s saying he killed Vincent to avenge his stepbrother’s murder. That would be great for us, but I’m not sure we can count on it.”

  That evening I was supposed to have dinner with Anna. She’d promised to cook. But at about 5:30 she called and said she was snowed under with a report due to her board the next morning. I told her she still had to eat, and that Archie and I would bring something to her office.

  At 6:30 that evening I stood in front of the clinic with a hot pizza balanced on my palm, the box radiating warmth and smells that had Archie salivating despite the fact that I’d just fed him. When Anna opened the door, I handed her a cold six-pack of Mirror Pond. “Here. A couple of these will enhance your report writing ability. Guaranteed.”

  She took the beer and laughed, eyeing the pizza. “Sizzle Pie, my favorite order out, how did you know?” She kissed me on the cheek and patted Arch on the head. “Come in, I’m starving.” Strands of gold-streaked hair lay looped across her forehead, and her eyes shone like translucent blue ice above darkened half-moons of weariness.

  “That’s enough! I’ve got to stay awake tonight.” I was pouring a Mirror Pond into a plastic cup for her. Archie had settled in at her feet.

  I handed her a slice of pizza on a paper plate. “Can’t your board cut you some slack? I mean, you’re head doc and head administrator at the same time. Something’s gotta give.”

  She rolled her beautiful, tired eyes. “The board members are all busy people. Rescheduling is not an option.”

  She nibbled some cheese off the pizza and took a sip of beer. “How’re your plumbing skills?”

  I eyed her warily. “Uh, severely limited. What’s the problem?”

  “Oh, we’ve got a u-trap under the sink in the examining room that’s leaking. And the toilet in the back keeps running. A plumber will charge me two hundred bucks just to walk across the threshold. I’d rather spend that money on my patients. God, I miss Howard, even if he was a pain in the backside. That man could fix anything.”

  “Huh,” I said. “I forgot about him. Krebbs, wasn’t it? Howard Krebbs?”

  Anna nodded.

  “He never came around again after you had that falling out?”

  “Never saw him again. You know, he was all pissed off that I was standing by Picasso. It was funny, he worked around here as a volunteer, but I never had the feeling he had any empathy or compassion for the kids we serve. He always seemed kind of put off by them.”

  I set the slice of pizza that was halfway to my mouth back on the plate and leaned forward. A couple of gears in my head meshed. “When did he start working here?”

  “Around mid June, I guess. He just showed up one day. Said he was from Seattle and between jobs, that he just wanted to help out. I offered to pay him minimum wage, but he told me he would donate his time. I couldn’t believe my luck. He was a gift from the economic gods.”

  “Mid-June. That would be, what, three weeks or so after Nicole Baxter’s memorial service, right?”

  She nodded, her eyes widening. “Yes, and about the same amount of time before Conyers was killed. You don’t think he had anything —”

  “I don’t know, but my latest theory is Larry Vincent hired someone to kill Conyers. Howard was on the inside here, and the timing’s pretty good. He could have easily had Milo Hartung deliver the fake note to Picasso, taken the screwdriver from Picasso’s backpack, and killed Conyers with it. Was he around the day of the murder? That would be June 26.”

  Anna turned her chair around and pulled her calendar up on her computer screen. “Let’s see. Oh, of course, I remember now. I asked him to come in that morning to replace some fluorescent bulbs in the examination room. I was anxious to get that done because I was expecting guests from the mayor’s office and planning a brief tour.”

  “Was he around that afternoon?”

  She paused for a moment, tapping a folded index finger on her lips. “No. He left right after he changed the bulbs. That would have been 10:30, maybe, no later than eleven.”

  I nodded. “That fits. Conyers was killed that afternoon.”

  Her eyes enlarged again. “And Milo? You think he killed Milo that night?”

  “It would have been pretty easy, given Milo’s drug habit.”

  “But it seems so bizarre,” Anna said. “I mean, why didn’t Vincent just hire someone to go out and shoot Conyers, if he wanted to get rid of him? Why go to all the trouble of a frame-up?”

  I smiled and nodded. “I’ve asked myself the same question a dozen times. Look, Vincent wanted to get rid of Conyers, because he was tired of paying blackmail, right? He knew that he’d run the risk of becoming a prime suspect if the cops found out about that, and Vincent had no way of knowing who else might know. So, he would need a foolproof set up and a rock-solid alibi. Along comes a young, scary looking homeless man who attacks Conyers, threatens to kill him, and it all lands on the front page of The Oregonian. Voila. Vincent saw his chance and jumped on it.”

  Anna said, “Oh, my God. And he couldn’t do it alone, because he needed an alibi.”

  “Right. He was conveniently out of town that day. Plus, he could use the bully pulpit of his radio show to put pressure on the justice system to rush to judgment on Picasso.” I picked up a lined yellow pad and a pen from her desk and said, “Now, tell me everything you can remember about this guy.”

  We went back over Howard Kreb
b’s activities at the clinic, his comings and goings, including the exact date he started work and when he left, and his relationships with her staff. There were none to speak of, except that she had seen him talking to Milo Hartung a couple of times. He hadn’t revealed anything whatsoever about his personal life either, nor had he left any personal items behind except for a single deck of well worn playing cards. On a few occasions, Anna had seen him playing solitaire when things were slow.

  “Did you run a background check on him?” I asked next.

  Anna looked embarrassed for a moment. “No. I should have, but I didn’t. He was a volunteer, and I didn’t want to go through the time and expense. I needed him right away. Background checks take weeks.”

  “What about an address?”

  She pulled up a file on her computer screen. “Uh, I have an address, no phone number.” She wrote it down on a note pad, tore the sheet off and handed it to me. “Are you going to talk to him?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’m going to check him out, see if he’s still in town.”

  Anna’s face showed concern. “What if he finds out you’re investigating him?”

  I smiled. “Well, right now he’s just a gleam in my eye. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  Right.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Are you sure you gave me the right address for Krebbs?” I was sitting in my car talking to Anna at the address she’d given me in Gresham, a blue collar town just east of Portland. “Archie and I got a little restless, so we drove over to have a look at his place, you know, just to scope it out. It’s a motel. The kind you rent by the hour. It cost me twenty bucks to get the attendant to tell me Krebbs isn’t staying there.”

  I read the address back to her.

  A few moments later, she came back on the phone. “Yes, that’s the address I gave you. Maybe he’s moved.”

  “That’s a possibility. I asked the attendant to look back in June, and he just laughed. I don’t think they’re real big on record keeping at this place.”