She is all smiles, felicitations on the results from the grand jury.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she says. “The county’s fortunate to have your services. A major coup for the board.”
Esterhauss shines.
Her idea of good fortune, it seems, is my subsidizing the county budget, holding at bay Nikki, who may lynch me if she does not leave me.
Seated at the other end of the curve is George Cayhill, the assistant dean for student affairs from the university. Cayhill and I met at the victims’ meeting weeks earlier. He extends a hand, a cordial welcome, then he returns to his menu like a man who knows business is about to be done here.
The timing of this meeting seems a bit fortuitous. I had tried to beg off, to postpone it for a few days. But Emil was insistent. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that tomorrow I am planning to make a clean breast of it, finally going public with information on the Scofield case, official confirmation that we are in fact looking for another killer. Since the first revelation in the papers, it has been no secret. The papers are black with headlines, the tube ablaze with speculation. There is little sense in attempting to stonewall it longer. I have told Claude to schedule an early morning press conference for the announcement. And I suspect he has told Emil.
Shaw possesses the charm of a good politician. She is talking in my ear, a flowing river of sincerity, broader than the Mississippi—and about as deep as Sarah’s wading pool. For the moment she’s grasping my hand like a coveted prize, smiling, with a gaze that has locked on me like some radar-guided weapons system.
“Please sit down,” she says. She slides back behind the table and motions me to follow. I am now trapped around the curve of the table, caught between Shaw and Esterhauss.
“A drink?” she says. The waiter, sensing commotion, an opportunity for new commerce, has made his way to our table. They already have cocktails lined up in front of them. I’ve been invited to this party a half hour late, maybe so the other guests could get their signals straight.
“A glass of white wine,” I say. The waiter starts to hand me the wine list. “Your house label,” I tell him.
“And fill this.” Emil hands the guy the empty linen-draped basket. Bread crumbs, a neat little column, like the bodies at Gettysburg, litter the table all the way to Emil’s place setting. If he keeps this up, we will need the “jaws-of-life” to extract him from behind the table when we’re done.
“Things seem to be moving very quickly,” says Esterhauss. He’s talking about the indictments. “The board is very pleased.”
“Glad to hear it,” I tell him. “Now if we can only satisfy a jury.”
“Indeed,” he says. Esterhauss is toying with his drink, something in a short tumbler. He is a tall, lean man, in his mid forties. Long wisps of hair, brown turning gray, are carefully combed to cover the thinning retreat on his crown, something that is growing like the polar hole in the ozone, and from all appearances, dreaded nearly as much by its owner.
Esterhauss operates the local hardware store. He is well spoken, and proper in his demeanor, a product of the university. A graduate with a degree in history, he lowered his expectations after school, the price of living in a quixotic college community with its limited horizons for those beyond academia. Like many of the aging hippies-turned-merchants in places like Berkeley, he is now commercially dug in for the duration, selling shovels and rakes in Davenport. But he has made the most of it, living the vicarious life of the statesman through local politics.
“How long before the actual trial starts?” he asks me.
“It’s always hard to say,” I tell him. “The art of any good defense is the stall.”
“I hope he can’t delay too long.”
“I wish you were the judge hearing his motions,” I say.
He laughs.
“You know the defense attorney, this man Chambers?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Is he good?”
I nod. “He’s aggressive. Unpredictable. Knows his way around a courtroom.”
“Once it gets started, I suppose what—a few weeks?” It is a dozen questions. This guy should do depositions. Esterhauss is trying to find out how long the actual trial will take. Pretty soon he’ll have his abacus out on the table, sliding little beads, calculating the cost to the county.
“Adrian Chambers knows all the organ stops of delay,” I tell him. “It is a tune he plays without much effort.” I tell him that it’s not possible for me to make a reasonable guess on the length of the trial until we are closer, until I know how many witnesses he is likely to call, the various theories of defense.
I could make him gag on lunch, tell him the truth, that it is likely that we will all be off enjoying the fruits of an ill-gotten retirement before this thing is cleanly in the can, before all of the criminal appeals are exhausted.
“They say he may be incompetent to stand trial,” says Cayhill.
“They’ll try to ride that horse,” I tell him. “The first move Chambers is likely to try will be to have his man sent to a state mental hospital, for a long stretch of treatment or, failing that, psychiatric evaluation.”
I hear a heavy sigh from Esterhauss, like he sees this thing dragging out, somewhere over the horizon, more little beads on the deficit side of the county’s ledger.
“Come on, fellas, give the man a break. Let him look at his menu, order some lunch.” Shaw is playing the maternal guardian. In what is quickly shaping up as a routine of “good cop–bad cop,” I get the clear impression she is not destined to be the one who will hit me with the sand-loaded sap. I’m still trying to figure who at this table is her equal, to play the heavy.
We order. I search for the Australian lobster—“market price.” As I am the guest, this will put a little stress on their government per diem. It is part of my cost for what I sense is shaping up as an in-house mugging.
We sip our drinks and munch on. We are halfway between the salad and the entrée.
“How long do you think before the rest of the indictments are brought?” says Esterhauss.
I look over at him, a question mark.
“Before they indict this fellow on the Scofield murders?” he says. He’s talking about Andre Iganovich.
I am jarred. I study them for a moment, Cayhill and Shaw. They are pictures of innocence. But I think it is all a little too pat.
I look at Emil. He’s busy ladling soup over the void as if he hasn’t heard this.
I am supposed to think that he has not told them we have no intention of charging the Russian with the Scofield killings. I begin to smile. They are playing this little farce for shock value, making me out as the heavy, the carrier of bad tidings, so that when they hear the facts, faced with their fury I will backpedal, consider the options, which I am sure they have by now well honed.
“You haven’t been following the papers,” I tell him. “There are problems with the evidence, major inconsistencies. I’m surprised you missed this.”
“We saw the stories,” says Esterhauss, “but I didn’t give it much credence.”
“So I guess this is gonna slow you down a little,” says Cayhill, “before you can indict him on the later crimes?”
“No,” I say. “It’s gonna stop me.”
He looks at me, big round eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not going to indict Andre Iganovich for the murders of Abbott and Karen Scofield.”
“My God, why not?” he says. His tone conveys volumes, the point being that if only I could massage this evidence a little, all the rough edges would drop off. Surely there must be some way I can make the facts fit the case.
“Why?” says Shaw.
“A simple reason,” I tell her. “He didn’t commit the crimes.”
There follows
the clink of silverware laid on china, in unison, like the sound of a well-trained chain gang breaking rock. Suddenly eight eyes are on me, boring in.
“You’re not serious?” Cayhill shakes his head. There’s a lot of scoffing going on around the table, like a choir chiming in for the chorus, looks of disbelief on their faces. Even Emil has been drafted for this part.
“I’ll tell you,” he says, “I don’t agree with this. It’s not the conclusion of my office,” he says, “my people. They see a definite link. It’s the state. I never thought it was a good idea to get too close to that place.”
That place he is talking about is the state crime lab, and Kay Sellig. It is an easy cop-out to blame her.
“Mr. Madriani.” It is left to Janice Shaw to be the voice of reason.
“Paul,” she says. “Do you mind if I call you Paul?”
“It’s my name,” I say.
She smiles broad and benign.
“Paul. You’ll have to excuse us, but this comes as a bit of a surprise,” she says. “You’ve knocked the wind out of us. The newspapers . . . one can only expect irresponsible speculation from the newspapers. But we in government, we must be more diligent, more responsible. How can you be so sure that this man didn’t kill Professor Scofield and his wife?”
“Former wife,” I say.
“Whatever,” she says, brushing this aside like it is just one more nettlesome little detail.
“It would be improper for me to discuss the substance of the evidence,” I tell them.
I give Emil a look. He shies away, breaking more bread, anything to busy himself.
“You will have to trust me on this,” I say. “Forensic experts are confident on this point. Iganovich did not kill the Scofields.”
Shaw looks down the table, a troubled expression. This is not going entirely as she’d expected.
She tries again. “You have to understand that we have a big problem here,” all the emphasis on the “b.”
“Since these murders started we’ve been a community living on the edge,” she says. “The citizens in my city have armed themselves to the teeth. They’re afraid to go to bed, afraid to walk on the streets at night, afraid of their own shadows. A month ago I came home from a late-night meeting and my own husband nearly shot me in our living room.”
Lost opportunities, I think.
I can imagine that this has put a dent in life in their little town. A clerk of the court once described Davenport as “Camelot on bicycles.”
Shaw keeps picking at it. “When this man was captured, well, we figured it was all over. Sure, there’d be a trial, some headlines, but the worst was behind us.
“If you take to the airwaves tomorrow,” she says, “tell the public there’s another killer still out there, still stalking them, well,” she says. She nods with emphasis, like the point is made. “We’re going to have major problems, a fatal lack of confidence in public safety.”
“Lack of confidence, hell,” says Cayhill. “We’ll have a goddamned panic.”
Shaw and Cayhill have broken from the script, shredded their little charade, the revelation that they know about the news conference, the substance of my intended announcement. It is the problem with deceptions, they require eternal maintenance.
“Well, obviously, Emil has told you about the planned news conference,” I say.
“I heard about it elsewhere,” says Shaw, a half-assed attempt to cover for him.
“No matter,” I say. “It was not intended to be a secret. You are the elected leaders of your community. You should know.”
I get a look from Emil, like “damned right.”
“I’m not interested in causing hysteria. But to continue to pretend that the focus of our investigation for the Scofield murders is on Iganovich is to play with lightning,” I tell them.
“How so?” says Cayhill. “What’s wrong with it? Is the defendant going to object?”
“Let’s ignore the trifling matter of justice for the moment and discuss only the practical,” I say.
Smiles from Shaw and Cayhill. They like this.
“Aren’t we taking some chances if we sit on this, ignore the evidence of a second killer?”
“What do you mean?” says Cayhill.
“What if this phantom, this second killer, what if he or she, or they murder again?” I say. “What then?” Suddenly there’s a perplexed look on Emil’s face. He has not considered this possibility.
“Who among you,” I say, “wants to tell the family of the victims that we had every good reason to suspect the existence of another killer, but that we conspired to suppress this information, in the interests of public calm?”
Silence around the table. I pause several seconds waiting for volunteers. No takers.
“Let me ask you a question,” says Shaw. “Do you have another suspect in the Scofield murders?”
“No. Not yet.”
She looks at Emil to see if maybe he has somebody in mind. Johnson shakes his head.
“Then I agree with George,” she says. “We should not go public, not yet. What do you think, Don?” She looks at Esterhauss.
They’re beginning to sound like this is a council meeting, as if with a quorum and a quick second, the item will be history.
Esterhauss has a troubled look, like a politician in deep squish. He can’t make up his mind.
“We can’t weather any more trouble, Don.” She looks at him, intense, stern, trying to assemble a quick backbone and jam it up his ass.
“Well?” she says. Shaw is a combination of Little Nell and Lady Macbeth.
“I guess so,” says Esterhauss.
“Agreed,” she says. “There will be no press conference.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “But I don’t recall asking for permission.”
I get an imperious look from Shaw.
“Let me make this as simple as I can for you.” She has suddenly turned to the darker side.
“So that there is no misunderstanding,” she says. “We are empowered by our various bodies, the city council in my case, the board of supervisors in Don’s, to instruct you not to discuss publicly the existence of another killer.”
“You’ve taken this up in public session?” I say.
“Of course not,” she says. “We treated it as a matter of litigation in closed emergency session yesterday afternoon.”
“Then you violated the open meetings act,” I say.
She looks at me and swallows.
“That exception, allowing closed meetings for items of litigation, applies only when the city or the county is a party to a lawsuit. It is not available for you to go behind closed doors to discuss the appropriate strategy in a murder trial, even if that were your role in the order of things, which it is not.”
I can see ire mixed with a lot of fear in her eyes, the realization that she has just owned up to a breach of the criminal statutes.
“Apart from any misdemeanor violations of the law,” I say, “the last time I looked, the litigation of a capital case was not something for a committee of the city council or the board of supervisors. The tactics of trial, the charges to be brought, are matters for a public prosecutor,” I say. “They are not points for political debate.”
Shaw gives me a stiff look, sorry that she’s been so cordial.
“You were appointed by the board, sir,” she says. “I would expect that you can be just as easily removed.”
“Nothing would please me more,” I tell her, “than to withdraw, to leave you with this case, but unless you know something about the presiding judge of your court that I do not, that isn’t going to happen.”
She still doesn’t get it.
“What’s he talking about?”
“We didn’t make the formal appointment,�
� says Esterhauss. “That’s the way the local papers reported it. Technically, the appointment of Mr. Madriani was made by Judge Ingel.”
“Certainly if we made a recommendation to the court, he’d have to listen,” she says.
Clearly the lady has never met Derek Ingel.
“Remove me,” I say, “and the attorney general will be called in to replace me.”
This draws a sober look from Shaw and Cayhill.
“Of course you could make your pitch to him,” I say. “But the court’s not going to remove a publicly appointed prosecutor because you have some political problems.” This last comment chills the conversation, just as our meals arrive.
I pick gingerly through the pricey pink shell of my lobster, as Janice Shaw sits next to me, choking down the white breast of chicken Marsala, like maybe it is crow with the feathers still on it.
Chapter Twenty-three
The blast from our news conference earlier in the week, confirmation of a copycat in the Scofield cases, has now spent itself. It is no longer hawked as the lead on the evening news. It has moved to the inside pages of the morning paper, unless and until we have another similar murder.
Yesterday I took a hit, of all places, from Jess Amara, Jeanette Scofield’s brother. Under the guise of putting a face on it, like maybe he wants to patch things up, he told me maybe we got off on the wrong foot, apologized for his harsh words and manner at his sister’s house that afternoon. Then in his own breathless style he hit me with the real reason for the call, his pitch, and questions as to why Iganovich is not being charged with his brother-in-law’s murder.
“It’s tough on my sister. My only interest in the case,” he assured me. “While this thing remains unsolved, she is constantly forced to deal with it. I know you understand,” he said, more compassion in his voice than I can honestly credit him. “The sooner she can close this chapter of her life and move on, the better.”
I told him that if he or the city PD knew of any facts linking Iganovich to the Scofield murders, I would appreciate the information. This brought silence and an abrupt end to our conversation, like who gives a shit about the evidence? Even the grieving widow it seems wants the Russian nailed, the case closed.
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