Capital Crimes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “He might,” said Jane. “For all I know he’s in Timbuktu. I always hated the place. Dirty, lousy plumbing—roughing it was his idea.” Her eyes softened. “When Davida and I were on the river, roughing it seemed fine—”

  Amanda broke in: “Do we have your permission to enter the property, including the interior of the cabin?”

  “Sure, why not—” She gasped. “You really think he—oh, God, oh, God.” Rising to her feet, hands fisted. “Go. If it was him, go and kill him. I’ll draw you a map.”

  Barnes floored his Honda. The car balked, tried to tackle the grade, kicked back, finally slipped into gear and chugged along.

  Blackness all around. Amanda rechecked her gun and wondered if the backup they’d called would get there. Rural sheriff, claiming to be understaffed. He hadn’t sounded too impressed to begin with and “Berkeley” had caused him to grow silent.

  That’s unincorporated land, not really our jurisdiction.

  Whose is it?

  Good question. I’ll see what I can do.

  The tiny car continued to labor up the mountain road. Why did a big man like Will drive such dinky wheels?

  Up here in the boonies, small things like insufficient acceleration mattered. Jane’s scrawled map was helpful to a point, then everything started to look the same and landmarks vanished in the darkness. The GPS Amanda had attached to her handheld computer had been rendered useless ten miles back, reception blocked by massive oaks and giant redwoods.

  “What’s wrong?” said Will.

  “With what?”

  “You’re fidgeting. Like you do when you have serious doubts.”

  “If we really suspect this joker of blowing off Davida’s head, we could be making a big mistake by going in alone.”

  “Davida was sleeping. We’re wide awake.”

  “Mr. Macho.”

  “Hey,” he said, “it’s a social call. We’ll ring the guy’s doorbell and act nice and polite.”

  “It’s almost ten PM and we didn’t clear it with Torres.”

  “We tried. Is it our fault he’s at a fund-raiser?” Shaking his head. “Community gardens, there’s a law-enforcement issue for you.”

  Amanda went silent.

  Five miles later, Barnes said, “You know, maybe it’s a good idea for you to wait in the car, especially if Parker doesn’t cotton to women.”

  “I should just sit by and watch as Parker plugs you in the gut?”

  “If you hear rat-a-tat put the pedal to the metal and get the hell out of here. You’ve got someone to go home to.”

  “Not funny, Will.”

  Barnes smiled. Wondering if he’d really been aiming for humor.

  He slowed to five per, had Amanda shine a flashlight on Jane’s map, drove another ten miles and forked left. “Nothing is going to happen to me or to you. We’re just paying the guy a visit, that’s all.”

  Amanda shook her head. “Just make sure your gun is drawn.”

  They came to a dirt lane marked by a small wooden sign, nearly overtaken by vines and suckers.

  RISING GLEN NO TRESPASSING.

  A chain-link gate sagged on its hinges. Barnes got out. No lock, the clasp wasn’t even set in place. Swinging the gate inward, he got back in the car and coasted down on a rutted dirt lane.

  Amanda said, “It’s so dark I can barely see my hands.”

  Barnes stopped, had another look at the map, clicked off the flashlight. “When we come to a pond, it’s fifty yards to the right.”

  Moments later, Amanda spotted a pinpoint of light.

  A sliver of moon breaking on water. She pointed. “Over there.”

  Off in the distance, another dot of illumination. Amber, like the lit end of a cigarette.

  They watched for a while. The dot never moved.

  Barnes said, “Probably a porch light.” He aimed the Honda at it, driving carefully along the curving surfaces of the pond bank.

  A small structure came into view. More of a lean-to than a cabin, fashioned of rough planks and topped with tar paper. Low-wattage porchlight, no illumination through any of the windows.

  Parked to the side was a Chevy Blazer, long unwashed, tires so underinflated they were perilously close to flat.

  Barnes said, “Guy treats his wheels like that, he’s not taking care of himself.”

  Amanda said, “I’m sure he’ll love getting woken up.”

  Barnes killed the headlights, switched off the engine. The two of them got out of the car, just stood there. Something small and frightened scurried into the brush. An owl hooted. A burble sounded from the pond.

  The air smelled pure, herbally sweet.

  Amanda said, “Is that the theme from Deliverance I hear wafting through the piney woods?”

  Both detectives checked their weapons and headed for the cabin.

  Barnes whispered, “You hear anything, save yourself and the young’uns and take the wagon back to Laramie.”

  Amanda said, “Let’s get this damn thing over with.”

  “You bet,” said Barnes, figuring he sounded pretty mellow. The gun in his hand was so cold that he wondered about frostbite.

  Halfway to the cabin’s front door, the detectives agreed that Barnes would do the talking and Amanda would be on the watch for any weird behavior on Parker Seldey’s part.

  A second after they’d reached that accord, two booms exploded into the night and the sweet air turned sulfurous.

  Barnes hit the ground and reached out to push Amanda out of the firing line. She did the same for him and their fingers touched momentarily.

  Then both of them stretched on their bellies and two-handed their guns.

  A hoarse voice screamed, “Get the hell off my property!”

  Barnes screamed back: “Police. We just want to talk to you, Mr. Seldey.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you!”

  A flash from the doorway was followed by another concussive burst. Something whizzed by Barnes’s right ear. Sighting a stand of small oaks, he crept and slithered for cover, while motioning for Amanda to do the same.

  Not knowing if she could see him.

  Hearing her I-told-you-so. Minus the usual good-natured inflection.

  She did have someone to go home to…he made it to the trees.

  Amanda had gotten there first.

  Both of them holding their breath as Parker Seldey stepped into the porch light. Rifle in one hand, flashlight in the other.

  Seldey swept the earth with the electric torch.

  Amanda whispered, “Don’t move, pard.” Without warning, she crouched, straightened a bit, kept her body low, and ran toward the car.

  Seldey shouted something incoherent and aimed the rifle at her back. Barnes fired first. Seldey pivoted toward the source, shot three times, missed Barnes by inches.

  Barnes scooted back, struggling for silence. Seldey advanced on him, sweeping with the flashlight, muttering, breathing hard.

  When he was twenty feet away, Barnes began to make out details, limned by sparse moonlight. Baggy T-shirt, shorts, bony knees. A thatch of hair, the woolly outlines of an untrimmed beard.

  Seldey got closer. Barnes smelled him—the hormonal reek of fury and fear.

  Seldey swept the ground. The beam must’ve caught a glimpse of something because Seldey hoisted the rifle and aimed—

  Noise to his back made him pivot. A car engine racing.

  Seldey aimed at that—was knocked backward by white light.

  Amanda flashing the high beams, blinding Seldey.

  The startled man fired into the sky.

  Barnes was on him, wresting the gun away, pounding Seldey’s face.

  No resistance from Seldey and Barnes rolled him over, put his knee on Seldey’s back. Was ready to cuff him but Amanda did it first.

  Everyone panting.

  They rolled Seldey over and had a look at him. Mountain-man hair almost obscured patrician features. Sharp brown eyes. Maybe not sharp. Inflamed.

  Seldey said, “Why’
re you here? There’s no full moon, they only come with the full moon.”

  “Who’s they?” said Amanda. Squeezing the words out between gasps.

  “My friends. The forest people.” Seldey laughed. “Just kidding. Do you guys have any weed?” Rattling the cuffs. “And maybe you should take this shit off. If you do, I can put you out of your misery.”

  22

  Within an hour, dozens of enforcement officials had collected outside the cabin. Parker Seldey was taken away and the structure was taped off.

  By the early-morning hours, an arsenal had been removed, including three shotguns. Seldey was living like a savage in the insect-infested cabin, with no outdoor plumbing and food rotting in tins. No phone or computer but Seldey had brought a ham radio and a battery-op VCR. A CS unit from Sacramento scoured his meager belongings. Don Newell showed up at three AM but didn’t do much other than stand around.

  Barnes and Amanda borrowed a sheriff’s phone that worked and told the story to Captain Torres. Being woken up didn’t endear them to the boss and Torres wasn’t mollified by Amanda’s assurance that they’d had consent from the legal owner to enter the property.

  Blood spatter on Parker Seldey’s jeans and shirt calmed him down a bit.

  “But I’m reserving judgment until you get real evidence.”

  That happened two days later—a rush DNA matched the blood to Davida and word had it Seldey’s attorney would be going for a plea, some sort of mental health explanation.

  Barnes gave Laura Novacente the exclusive. In return, she invited him to her place for an “intimate dinner.” Being a gentleman, Barnes let her down easy.

  Laura showed class. Call if it doesn’t work out, Will.

  Of course, I will.

  The citizens of Berkeley were pleased with the arrest of Parker Seldey for the murder of Davida Grayson. Seldey being a registered Republican turned satisfaction to glee and someone talked about silk-screening a T-shirt capitalizing on that fact. Final message yet to be decided.

  Everyone settling down.

  Except Amanda Isis.

  Early Friday morning found Barnes and Amanda at their favorite corner table at Melanie’s. He was on his second double espresso and his third muffin. She sipped foam off of her cappuccino and picked at her croissant.

  Barnes was in a great mood, looking forward to a second weekend with Marge Dunn. He’d volunteered to fly to LA but Marge asked if she could come back up north.

  Smart woman; nothing was as beautiful as the Bay Area on a crisp, cool day. Barnes figured to ask Amanda for more social advice, because the weekend in Napa had turned out perfect. He’d arrived with several ideas to run by her, but she was quiet—almost sullen.

  “What’s wrong?” Barnes asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that. You didn’t like the wine I sent you or something?”

  “You didn’t have to send me wine, Will. I was just doing my job.”

  “Your job was saving my life. The guy at the liquor store told me it was good stuff.”

  “It was and I thank you.”

  “So what’s bugging you, Mandy? And be honest. I’m not good at this shrink stuff.”

  “Speaking of shrinks, I just talked to the psychiatrist who’s taking care of Seldey,” she said. “She says the guy’s clearly psychotic.”

  “I don’t need a shrink to tell me that.”

  “He’s actively paranoid, Will, as in unable to form a coherent plan of action. Yesterday he had to be straitjacketed because he scratched himself raw. He claimed that voices were telling him to repent by skinning himself like they did to Jesus in that Mel Gibson movie.”

  “So he’s faking it, trying for reduced culpability.”

  “He’s not trying to get out of anything. Just the opposite, he keeps ranting about shooting Davida, saying he’s proud of it.”

  “All that’s the DA’s problem.”

  “Maybe it’s our problem, Will. As in getting the entire picture. You see a guy that disordered planning a careful murder all by his lonesome? He says voices told him to kill Davida. What I’m wondering is, was one of them real?”

  “Someone coached him?”

  “Davida may have welcomed the homeless but given all Jane told Davida about Parker, you see Davida letting him in at two AM? His having a key would change the equation. What if someone pointed him in the right direction and said ‘Go boom’? Someone who knew him, realized he was crazy. Someone who had power over him. And might have a key. And knew she was drinking because she drank with her.”

  “Jane?”

  “Who else?” Amanda said.

  “Why would Parker obey her? They hated each other.”

  “That’s according to Jane. What do you remember about him?”

  “Not much, he wasn’t a local. I think he grew up in Hillsborough or some other high-priced spread. Maybe went to Stanford.”

  “Will, I’ve been asking around discreetly. No one from the good old days knows him, and he didn’t grow up in NoCal, he’s from Massachusetts.”

  “So?”

  “My point is that everything we know about him has been filtered through Jane. Jane told us she expected Parker to pay off the cabin. But if he was that compromised mentally, how could that happen? Maybe she let him stay because he was useful to her. She kept him on the side because she knew she was going to use him to murder Davida.”

  “If Parker was crazy, why would Jane rely upon him? Hell, why would she marry him in the first place?”

  “Maybe his pathology was under control—medicated officially or otherwise. Maybe being married to Jane helped him maintain. When she petitioned for divorce—and the paperwork says she initiated—he broke down. As to how she’d rely on him, she knew him well enough—understood which buttons to push.”

  “Sounds like a movie,” said Barnes. “You’re stretching. Why?”

  “It just doesn’t sit right with me. The guy’s too crazy to do it all by his lonesome.”

  “What’s Jane’s motive?”

  “Davida was going to dump her and it pissed her off. Or Davida was about to out her and she couldn’t handle it. You saw how squeamish she was when we talked to her at Lucille’s. What better way to get rid of Davida than to sic poor psychotic Parker on her, telling Parker that it was all Davida’s fault that they broke up in the first place? Davida dies, Parker’s locked up. Talk about killing two birds.”

  “Inventive,” said Barnes. “You thinking of quitting and writing screenplays?”

  “Granted, I can’t prove any of it, and maybe it’ll turn out to be fantasy. You want me to check it out alone, or with you?”

  “That’s my choice?”

  “You bet, pard.”

  Barnes pinged a spoon against his demitasse. “If Parker’s that disturbed, maybe he’s got some prior hospitalizations that will tell us more about how his head works. Why don’t you check that out?”

  “And you’ll talk to Jane.”

  “I was thinking I’d look into Jane and Parker’s financials, see if she was supporting him and for how long. You want us to do everything together, fine, no more cowboy.”

  Amanda laughed. “No, I was just asking. Let’s divide it up. You can even wear that string tie.”

  23

  It took the detectives several days to get a reluctant go-ahead from Captain Torres. With the evidence presented and corroborated, the boss had no choice but he told them to be “tactful.” Whatever that meant.

  Giving the order to both of them but looking straight at Barnes. Amanda had covered him, claiming the hotdog to Seldey’s cabin was a joint decision, but Torres was no fool.

  He kept his mouth shut and said, “Yes, sir.” Saluted behind Torres’s back as the captain hurried off to a meeting.

  The Woman’s Association was doing a brisk lunch trade, tables of genteel ladies exercising their jaw muscles on gossip and the tri-tip special. Barnes felt stiff in a jacket and tie, but Amanda glided through the dining room in a na
vy suit with matching pumps.

  The table they were looking for was in the corner. Six septuagenarian females chattering and wielding silverware with finishing-school precision. Five of them focusing their attention on a black-haired dowager in a black knit suit and pearl earrings. A thin old woman, bordering on emaciation, with shoe-polish hair drawn back in a bun. Her blue eyes flashed with excitement as she spoke.

  Eunice Meyerhoff enjoyed holding court.

  When Barnes and Amanda reached her table, she looked up. Blinked. Smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Detectives, what are you doing here?”

  Barnes said, “Hi, ladies, how’s everything?”

  The women clucked pleasantries in unison. Eunice said, “We’re just about done with our meal. Would you like to join us for dessert?”

  Amanda said, “Actually, Mrs. Meyerhoff, we need to speak to you in private. Just for a second.”

  Eunice’s companions stared at her. She bristled. Beamed. “Why, of course.”

  Barnes took her by the elbow. As they crossed the dining room, Eunice waved to other diners. When they got past the tables, her jaw tightened around her smile. “What is this about, Detective Barnes?”

  “We need your help,” said Amanda.

  “And how long will it take? Today is Boston cream pie, which I adore. The kitchen generally runs out if one hesitates too long.”

  “Maybe the ladies should order dessert without you,” Barnes told her.

  Eunice stiffened in his grasp. Skinny but tough, like an old wild turkey, annealed by challenge.

  Out in the lobby, Eunice said, “Where shall we chat?”

  Amanda said, “Let’s use your room. Nice and private.”

  “I don’t—well, if you insist.” A frail smile. “I suppose…” She patted Barnes’s arm. “So muscular, William. You were always a good worker.”

  The elevator ride was silent. Eunice fished out her key and opened the door to a surprisingly shabby little room papered in a lilac print. The carpet was worn, the drapery was gray and dusty and the place emitted a nursing-home smell. Leaded-glass windows let in some natural light but the day was overcast. Nearly all the space was taken up by a queen bed, a simple wood chair, a chipped nightstand that held a clock radio and an old Bakelite dial phone, and a folding suitcase rack.