The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  “Small world,” Farrell said. “I wondered why Sandy said you specifically asked for me.”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Not being a believer in coincidence,” Farrell went on, “I have to ask: does my history, which you admittedly know so well, have anything to do with why you want to hire me?”

  “It does.”

  Farrell took this in, gazing into his bourbon.

  “Not a lot of people approve of what I did. Some of them, like your daughter, wanted me jailed for it.”

  “You did what you had to do, Bob.”

  “I’m not referring to tracking down Vernon Slocum,” Farrell corrected him. “I meant as a superior court judge, how do you feel about me getting off?”

  “You took down a monster. You succeeded where the proper authorities failed. You saved lives. And you managed to protect your daughter, your partner, and yourself in the process. An impressive feat. In your shoes, I’d have done the same if I could.”

  “Your daughter doesn’t share your sentiments. I only met her once, at the federal courthouse in San Francisco, when the deal was sealed. She was fit to be tied. She ranted at the federal attorney for several minutes about what a ‘gross miscarriage of justice’ it was. She believes I should be occupying a cell in a federal penitentiary. Hell, I thought she was going to clobber me right there in the courtroom.”

  “That’s my Paige, all right,” Callen conceded. “She’s very passionate about following rules.”

  “You can say that again.” Farrell eyed the Judge coolly. “Does your daughter know you want to employ me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When she finds, out there’ll be fireworks.”

  “I don’t care. I want Paige protected. I want to commission you to find out who this degenerate stalking her is.” The Judge paused again. “I want him dealt with.”

  “Those are two different things.”

  “I don’t believe they are. Both achieve the same goal: keeping my daughter safe.”

  “Two different things,” Farrell repeated. “Protecting your daughter and hunting for her stalker are separate tasks. Both are labor-intensive.” He tilted his head. “Why not let the police handle it?”

  Callen shook his head dismissively. “The police have to play by the rules. Not only do they have to play by those rules while trying to catch this perpetrator, they are simultaneously handcuffed by the requirement to build a legal case against him for prosecution in criminal court. Somewhere behind these considerations is keeping Paige safe.”

  “For a superior court judge,” Farrell noted, “you exhibit a remarkable lack of faith in the criminal justice system.”

  “Correction: I’m a retired superior court judge. Any allegiance I may have had to the criminal justice system is subordinate to my duty as a father. After reviewing your history and the documentation of your hunt for serial killer Vernon Slocum, which the federal authorities chronicled in minute detail–”

  “The Feds are good at that,” Farrell cut in.

  “–I’m frankly rather surprised at your squeamishness.”

  “I’m not squeamish about breaking rules,” Farrell countered. “Or the law, when it’s necessary. I’m just not accustomed to meeting superior court judges who hold similar views.”

  “As I say, I’m a father first.”

  “I understand. I have a daughter myself.”

  “Then you know why I want to hire you.”

  “Not entirely,” Farrell said. “I’m a one-man band. Why not employ one of the larger, established private investigation firms? They have the resources and manpower to handle both a wide-ranging investigation and around-the-clock protection. Surely money isn’t a barrier; why hire me?”

  Judge Callen drained his scotch and extended the glass to Farrell. Farrell did likewise and stood up, gathering the Judge’s empty glass along with his. He made his way back to the bar and busied himself refreshing their drinks.

  “You can make mine a double,” the Judge said.

  “Way ahead of you. You were saying?”

  “I already told you I read the full dossier on you, Bob. I know about your nearly thirty years as a San Francisco police inspector. I know about your Vietnam service. And as I already told you, I know all about your blood hunt for Vernon Slocum. I know what you did, why, and how you did it.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question,” Farrell said, handing the older man his scotch. “Why me?”

  “I’ll do you the courtesy of speaking bluntly,” the Judge said. “You’re obviously a man who speaks his mind.”

  “Life is too short to do otherwise.”

  “Simply put, you, Mister Farrell, are an exceptionally resolute man. You always get the job done.”

  “I’m flattered by your confidence in me,” Farrell said, after taking a sizeable gulp of his own drink, “but that may not be enough. I can’t guarantee results. Nobody can. Anyone who claims otherwise, in this line of work, is either incompetent, lying, or a fool.”

  “Another reason I want you handling this case,” the Judge said. “You’re a realist. You’re not going to blow smoke up my ass and try to placate me with a lot of excuses and bureaucratic double-talk like the police do.”

  “That’s not the only reason you want to hire me, is it?”

  “No,” the Judge admitted. “It’s not.”

  “It’s because I’m a father?”

  “Correct. We share a common bond. What would you do to protect your child?”

  “What wouldn’t I do?” Farrell said, staring again into his drink.

  “Precisely why you’re the man for this job.”

  “Judge Callen” – Farrell looked up – “I haven’t said I would take this case yet.”

  “Of course you’ll take the case,” Callen announced, as if it was already settled. “If it’s money you’re worried about–”

  “It’s not money,” Farrell said. “When I went after Vernon Slocum, it was personal. Begging your pardon, but this isn’t. I cracked a lot of eggs to make that omelet and damn near paid with my life. I almost got my partner killed, and the both of us barely escaped a long prison jolt.”

  “I am aware of the sacrifices you made,” the Judge said. “Remember, I read your dossier.”

  “I’m not talking about sacrifice, Your Honor,” Farrell said. “I’m being practical. You may have forgotten that I forced the Feds and several local DAs like your daughter Paige, into swallowing all the criminal charges we’d accumulated while on the hunt; but they sure as hell didn’t forget. Any one of them would jump at the chance to put me on the grill again, with your daughter leading the pack. I’m sorry for your troubles, but I don’t need that kind of grief. I don’t want to go to prison.”

  “I am not without influence,” Callen said.

  “And I’m not unfamiliar with your reputation, Your Honor. ‘Iron Gene’ they call you. You’re owed a lot of favors and have your hands in a lot of pockets. But I’m not sure even your influence is going to do me any good if I find myself in hot water with the Department of Justice or the Alameda County District Attorney’s office again.”

  “Your reservations are understandable. I am prepared to pay whatever fee is necessary to allay your qualms and take this case.”

  “Maybe I have lavish notions,” Farrell pointed out. “What if you can’t afford me?”

  Judge Callen sipped scotch, his jaw tightening. When he spoke again his voice was quiet and hard. “I am an old man. I have more money than I could spend in several lifetimes. But I only have one daughter.” He challenged Farrell with his eyes. “You tell me what it will take to obtain your services and I’ll pay. No quibbling and no questions asked. And I’ll pay in cash, under the table, so you don’t have to worry about the IRS.”

  “That gets my attention. But there’s another thing,” Farrell said, meeting the Judge’s eyes. “From what little you’ve told me, your daughter’s stalker smells local. If you didn’t know it already, I’m persona non gra
ta with the Alameda police.”

  “I seem to remember reading something in your file about taking two Alameda officers hostage here in town.”

  “Believe me, at the time I had no choice. If I’d let the Alameda cops arrest me that night, a little girl named Kirsten Ballantine would be dead and hanging from a tree. My point is,” Farrell continued, “if I’m going to catch this creep, I’ll need to be privy to the official Alameda police investigation. You can bet I’m the last person the Alameda cops are going to want to cooperate with.”

  “I’ve already got that covered,” Callen told him. “I’ll get daily briefings from the sergeant assigned to Paige’s case. I can pass that information on to you.”

  Farrell rubbed his chin and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

  “Please take the case, Bob,” the Judge pressed, sensing his hesitation. “Paige is my little girl.” His voice faded to almost a whisper. “She’s all I’ve got.”

  Farrell stood up. “All right, Your Honor. I’m your man. But it’s going to cost you.” He stood up and extended his hand. The Judge waved dismissively at the mention of cost and shook Farrell’s extended hand.

  “One last thing: I’m going to have to hire some help. Like I said, I can’t babysit your daughter and track her stalker at the same time. I want to bring on a partner.”

  “Run the case however you see fit.”

  “I’m only telling you because I might need more than money to hire this guy. I’ll need your political influence if I’m going to convince him to come aboard. Still game?”

  “Not a problem,” the Judge assured. “Who exactly do you plan to hire?”

  “I have someone in mind,” Farrell said.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Kearns opened his apartment door, the first thing he noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke. The second thing he noticed was Bob Farrell’s bony frame seated on a folding chair next to the stack of boxes that served as his makeshift kitchen table.

  “Hello, Kevin,” Farrell drawled around his cigarette without getting up. “Long time no see.”

  “I’d ask how you got in here, but I know about your ability to pick locks.” Kearns shook his head. “You mind putting that out? I breathe this air.”

  Farrell ground out his smoke in an empty tuna can, which Kearns recognized as the same one he’d discarded into the trash bin under his sink the night previous. He noticed Farrell’s battered flask on the table next to the improvised ashtray. The flask’s cap was already open. Farrell’s tan raincoat was draped over the back of his chair. “Come in, why don’t you?” Kearns said sarcastically. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Why, thank you,” Farrell said. “Don’t mind if I do.” He gestured with his arm. “Love what you’ve done with the place. What do you call this décor? ‘Early American Grapes of Wrath’?”

  “It ain’t much,” Kearns conceded, looking around the sparse apartment. “But it’s home. At least for now.”

  “You look well,” Farrell said, appraising Kearns. “California living must be doing you some good.”

  Kearns was in his mid-twenties and stood a shade under six feet tall. He had a muscular physique set under sandy-colored military-length hair. He was clad in athletic shoes, warm-up pants, and a pastel-hued, high-collared shirt with the flowery name and logo of a popular health club chain embroidered on the front.

  “What’s with the monkey suit?” Farrell asked. “You a doorman at a hair salon?”

  Kearns looked at himself and chuckled. “Not quite, but close. I work the evening shift at a fitness center. That’s what you Californians call a gym.”

  “Please tell me you aren’t teaching aerobics?” Farrell gasped.

  Kearns laughed. “Almost as bad. I teach overweight housewives and mid-life cubicle dwellers how to train with weights.”

  “I’ll bet all your female customers swoon over that corn-fed Iowa charm of yours.”

  “Most of them are old enough to be my grandma,” Kearns said. Farrell stood and the men shook hands. “Good to see you, Bob.”

  “I brought you some beer,” Farrell pointed to the tiny refrigerator in what was supposed to be the apartment’s kitchen. “Help yourself.”

  Kearns’ studio apartment was located directly over the bar in one of Alameda’s most popular taverns. This made the rent cheap but the peace and quiet scarce. Fortunately, it was almost midnight on a Monday evening and the bar had only a few patrons left. On weekends, the raucous sounds of revelers lasted until well after 2am.

  Kearns found a six-pack of Anchor Steam inside the fridge and opened one with his Swiss army knife. He sat down on the edge of the bed, which was the only other piece of furniture in the apartment. Farrell resumed his seat.

  “So how’re you doing, Kevin?” Farrell punctuated his question with a swig from his flask.

  “Getting by. No complaints.”

  “Still going to school?”

  Kearns nodded. “I’m a senior now, if it matters. Most of my credits from Iowa State transferred to Cal State Hayward. With any luck, I’ll have my bachelor’s by Christmas.”

  “When do you find time to study?”

  “That’s a good question. I’m up every morning before dawn and at school by seven. I barely have time to commute from Hayward to the gym in Alameda after class in the afternoon, and don’t get off work until past eleven. I work double shifts both days on weekends.”

  “How’re the finances holding up?”

  “I’m making ends meet,” Kearns said, taking a pull from the bottle. “Got no college debt, which is all that matters right now. And as you can see” – Kearns swept the tiny apartment’s water-stained walls with his beer bottle – “I’m living a life of opulence.”

  “I looked in your garbage can when I was searching for an ashtray,” Farrell smirked. “Macaroni and cheese and canned tuna ain’t exactly an opulent diet.”

  “It fills the belly,” Kearns said.

  “That it does. How are the police applications going?”

  “Don’t ask,” Kearns said, rubbing his brow.

  “You still running into a wall at the background check?

  “Yeah. Eight so far this year. I’ve still got a couple of applications out. I figure I’ll go to an even ten before I throw in the towel.”

  “I’m sorry, Kevin.”

  Kearns had been consistently applying to Bay Area police departments for most of the past year. Part of the deal that Farrell arranged with the federal prosecutors was to expunge Kearns’ record of arrest and the criminal charges he and Farrell had accrued during their search for Vernon Slocum. But as Kearns soon found out, sealing a record and keeping people from talking about it were two different things.

  Each time Kearns applied to a police department, he aced the written test, slam-dunked the physical agility test, and easily managed the oral interview. His experience as a deputy sheriff back in Iowa, as well as his military training, ensured he was always at the top of the hiring list.

  As soon as Kearns’ application reached the background investigation phase, however, his candidacy as a police recruit would be mysteriously terminated. Eight times in as many months, Kearns received a form letter from the police background investigator stating he was no longer being considered as a viable candidate. No reason was given, and by California civil service rules, none was required.

  But he knew the truth. The reason he continued to have his police applications torpedoed was because his name was on a list. A federal list. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Kearns could never prove it, but the word had been put out: he’d been blackballed. Farrell knew it, too.

  “Kevin,” Farrell began softly. “You don’t have to live like this. You’ve got nothing to prove. Move in with me until you find something solid, or at least until you finish your college degree.”

  “That’s a generous offer,” Kearns said, “but I can’t. You live in San Francisco. If I move in with you, everybody is going to think we’re dating.” He finished his bee
r in one long gulp. “Not that I have anything against gay people, mind you,” he said. “It’s just that you’re not my type.”

  “Too sophisticated for a bumpkin like you?”

  “Too shady.” Kearns got up to get another beer.

  “That’s your pride talking,” Farrell said, not unkindly.

  “Maybe,” Kearns conceded, popping the bottle cap with the attachment on his pocketknife.

  “So, what’s your plan? Keep filing futile police applications until your hair goes gray?”

  “I’ll give it until I graduate college. If I can’t get hired on with a police agency by then, I’ll go back in the army, this time as a commissioned officer. At least in the service, I’ll have a steady paycheck coming in and a roof over my head.”

  “That isn’t what you really want, though, is it?”

  “No,” Kearns conceded, “it’s not. Did one hitch in the army already; green isn’t my color. But it beats the unemployment line.” He held his bottle out to Farrell. “To what do I owe an unannounced visit from Private Eye Bob Farrell? And with him bearing gifts?”

  “Inherently suspicious,” Farrell said, clinking his flask against Kearns’ beer. “You’re a born detective, Kevin; you just won’t admit it.”

  “Not much to detect,” Kearns said. “You’re as subtle as a freight train.”

  “I need your help. On a job.”

  “Not interested,” Kearns said.

  “Won’t you at least hear me out?”

  “There’s no point. I quit the private investigation business. I don’t want to peek in people’s windows anymore or follow deadbeats around. We tried it already, remember? For over six months, I let you drag me all over Northern California playing Dick Tracy, and all it did was make me feel shittier about losing my career as a cop. No thanks, Bob. Been there and done that.”