The Last Innocent Man

by Phillip Margolin

“What about Larry?”

  “Can I come in?” he repeated.

  Jenny paused for a second, then led the way to the living room. David watched her walk. Her back was rigid, her steps precise, as if she were prepared to flee. Her reticence depressed him, but he should have expected it. Once during the ride over he had fantasized a tear-stained reunion, with Jenny throwing herself into his arms. He had been a fool even to think of such a thing. He was grateful she would so much as talk to him.

  “What about Larry?” she asked again when they were seated on one of the living-room sofas.

  “Jenny, he may be innocent.”

  Jenny looked bewildered.

  “I have a client, a man I am representing on another matter. He has confessed to killing Darlene Hersch.”

  Jenny shook her head as if to clear it. She was off balance. She had always believed that Larry was innocent, but what would this all mean for her?

  “I don’t understand. Someone else confessed to killing that woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Why haven’t you gone to the police?”

  “It’s very complicated. The confession, it was told to me in confidence. It’s a privileged communication. By law I can’t reveal it to anyone without my client’s permission.”

  “Will Larry…? Does this mean he’ll go free?”

  “Not unless my client allows me to tell the police.”

  “But surely…he wouldn’t let an innocent man stay in prison.”

  “You have to understand. This man…it’s a game to him. He gets pleasure out of hurting people. He confessed to me because he knows I can’t tell the authorities. He told me to torment me. I’m not even certain that he’s telling me the truth.”

  “Wait a minute. What do you mean it might not be the truth?”

  “He did this once before. Confessed to committing a crime. That time he retracted the confession. It could all be a practical joke.”

  David saw the confusion on Jenny’s face. He looked away and caught his reflection in the window glass. It startled him. He looked weak and pathetic. The type of person who would be susceptible to the meanest practical joke.

  “If this is all some kind of joke, why did you come here? Why are you telling me this?”

  “Don’t, Jenny. I had to talk to someone. I couldn’t keep it inside any longer. And I don’t think it is a joke. There’s something about this man. I know he’s capable of killing.”

  “But why me, David? Why did you come to me?”

  She was watching him intently, searching with her question for far more than she had asked. David tried to read her eyes. He was afraid to say what was in his heart. Afraid of making a fool of himself. Afraid he had already lost her. But he knew that this was the moment to speak, not evade, and he gathered his courage.

  “I came to you because I still love you. I never stopped.”

  David paused and Jenny saw that he was crying.

  “Jenny, I’ve been a mess since the trial. I’ve lost my self-respect, and I’ve lost interest in everything that ever meant anything to me. But not my love for you. I just couldn’t face you.”

  David looked away. Jenny felt as if a dam had broken inside her, setting free emotions she had thought she would never feel again. She reached up and touched David’s cheek.

  “God, Jenny,” he sobbed. She held him tight.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered, rocking him back and forth.

  “I didn’t know what to do and I had no one I could go to.”

  “You always had me, David. Always.”

  “I couldn’t come to you. Not after what I did to Larry.”

  “You didn’t do anything to Larry. Larry and I did something to you. We lied to you and used you.”

  David sat up and held her by the shoulders. “It was wrong. What I did was wrong. We both know that. I should never have represented Larry feeling the way I do about you. Now we have to get him out of prison.”

  “I still think you should tell the police,” Jenny said firmly.

  David shook his head. “You don’t understand. Since the confession was made in confidence, nothing I reveal could ever be used in court. He could deny he ever made a confession, and there would be nothing we could do.”

  “Who is this man? Who killed Darlene Hersch?”

  David hesitated. Even now his legal training made him rebel at the thought of violating the code of ethics.

  “Thomas Gault,” he said finally.

  “Oh, my God. I knew Julie Webster. That was horrible.”

  “I know, Jenny. And I’m the man responsible for putting Gault back on the street so he could kill again.”

  “There must be something we can do.”

  “I’ve thought about it and thought about it. I can’t find any way out. Anything I initiate will…”

  David paused. The germ of an idea came to him. What if…? David started pacing back and forth. Jenny watched him. There was a fire in his eyes that had burned constantly in the old David. It made her feel good to see it again and to think that she may have had something to do with rekindling it.

  Terry Conklin scanned the diners in the all-night restaurant and spotted David in a booth toward the back. David was sipping from his second cup of coffee when Conklin reached him.

  “This better be good,” the investigator said. “I was sound asleep. Rose is really pissed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Conklin was going to say something else, but one look at David stopped him. He had not seen the lawyer since Stafford’s trial, and the change in his friend’s appearance was startling. David’s face was puffy, his eyes were bloodshot, and his suit was creased and stained.

  A waitress appeared and Conklin ordered coffee. As soon as she walked off, David said,

  “I want to hire you.”

  “I’m pretty busy, Dave.”

  “I know, but I’m desperate. I’m willing to pay twice your regular rate and cover the cost of anyone you hire to take up the slack on your cases.”

  “This is that important?”

  David nodded.

  “Who’s the client?”

  “Me.”

  “What’s this about?” Conklin asked cautiously. If David was in some kind of trouble, it would explain his appearance, but Conklin could not imagine David’s doing anything illegal or unethical.

  “A client of mine told me some information in confidence. I have to know if he was telling me the truth or if he’s lying to me.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “Thomas Gault.”

  “I thought that case was over.”

  “It is.”

  “So this is something new.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “I can’t disclose that. I’m afraid anything you find may be tainted if I break the confidence.”

  “Tainted? How?”

  “If a lawyer reveals an attorney confidence and the police use the information to solve a crime, I believe the courts would prevent the district attorney from using the evidence at trial.”

  “So you can’t tell me what Gault said?” Conklin asked incredulously.

  “That’s right.”

  “How am I supposed to conduct an investigation if I don’t know what I’m investigating?”

  “I can tell you information that doesn’t violate the confidence, and I’ll answer any questions I can.”

  Conklin started to make a sarcastic remark, but he saw the pain on David’s face.

  “Okay. I’ll play it your way. What can you tell me?”

  “I’m upset because Larry Stafford was convicted.”

  Conklin’s brow furrowed. “This is about the Stafford case?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “So Gault told you something about the Stafford case and you think he might be lying.”

  David did not respond.

  “I feel like I’m playing twenty questions.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t stop. I feel as ridiculous as you do, but this is too important to screw up. I want you to be able to pass a polygraph test if a defense lawyer asks if I broke Gault’s confidence with you. Now, think about what you know.”

  “You told me that you’re upset because Stafford was convicted, you want to know if Gault lied to you about something that probably concerns the Stafford case. I don’t get…”

  Conklin paused. He studied David. In all the time he’d known Nash, he had never seen him looking like this. It would take something monumental to destroy his friend’s self-confidence. Conklin leaned forward and stared directly into David’s eyes.

  “Gault told you he killed Darlene Hersch, and you want me to find out if he lied,” Conklin said. David did not move. Conklin slumped against the back of the booth.

  “Have your secretary send me a retainer agreement setting out the terms of your employment,” David said.

  4

  Terry Conklin’s investigation started in the public library. There were numerous articles about Thomas Gault, because he was a famous writer. After Gault won the Pulitzer, The New York Times Magazine featured a cover story that gave a detailed account of his service as a mercenary in South Africa, Liberia, and several other African nations and included interviews with soldiers of fortune who had served with him. If Gault killed his wife, it would not have been the first time he had done in someone with his bare hands.

  After the library Terry went to police headquarters, where he obtained copies of police reports of incidents involving Gault. Conklin expected the domestic-violence complaints filed by Julie Webster Gault, but he was surprised by several reports of assaults committed by Gault in bars, including a recent account of a fight at a dockside bar called The Dutchman. Terry noted with interest that the incident had occurred only days before his meeting with David. He also noted that the person who posted bail for Gault was none other than his new client, David Nash.

  Conklin interviewed the bartender and another witness, who recounted Gault’s fighting skills and the impersonal way he had provoked the fight. Conklin ran down an ex-girl friend who was still afraid of Gault, even though she had not seen him in over two years. Two other women refused to talk to Terry.

  Conklin was initially troubled by Detective Ortiz’s description of Hersch’s killer as having curly blond hair, but he remembered that Merton Grimes’s description of the killer’s hair would fit the way Gault had worn his hair when he was tried for Julie Gault’s murder. If Gault used a wig to disguise himself because of all the publicity his trial engendered, it would explain the differences in the descriptions of Hersch’s killer. Conklin also learned that Gault owned a beige Mercedes.

  At the end of a week Terry Conklin was convinced that Thomas Gault could easily have killed Darlene Hersch, but he had absolutely no proof Gault even knew who the dead policewoman was. Conklin was reduced to following Gault in the hopes that his quarry would lead him to a witness or evidence that would help him solve David’s dilemma.

  Each morning Conklin parked his car on a side road near Gault’s property and climbed a small hill, where he watched the house from a copse of trees. Conklin rarely observed any activity before ten, when Gault would leave the house for an hour-long run. Gault always looked as if he had broken a sweat before the run, and Conklin guessed the writer performed some kind of physical exercise before leaving the house.

  Three times a week Gault worked out at a local dojo, where he received private lessons from the owner, a former instructor of unarmed combat for the South Korean Army. On the days he did not go to the dojo, Gault did not leave his house before midafternoon.

  If Gault’s activities during the daytime were dull, his nights were anything but. Gault spent almost every evening in a bar or nightclub. On one occasion Gault returned home with a woman, who left by cab shortly before Gault’s run. Toward the beginning of the second week, Gault’s evening routine changed. Instead of going directly home from the bar or nightclub, Gault drove to Portland’s industrial area. He always parked near a deserted warehouse that backed on the Columbia River. The warehouse had “Wexler Electronics” written on the side in peeling red paint. Conklin checked the corporate records. The company had gone under a year ago, and the property was tied up in litigation.

  The first time Gault drove to the warehouse, Conklin waited in his car. A high chain-link fence separated the warehouse from a strip of sandy land that sloped down to the river. Conklin watched Gault take a large rug and a flashlight from the trunk of his car and disappear around the side of the warehouse that abutted the fence. Half an hour later Gault reappeared. He seemed winded. Conklin saw him wipe his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then drop the flashlight into his trunk and drive off.

  The second night Gault took the flashlight and a large toolbox from the car, returning an hour later with both items.

  On the third night Conklin did not follow Gault when he left the warehouse. As soon as Gault’s car was out of sight, Conklin took a flashlight out of his glove compartment and walked to the fence. The wind from the river chilled him. He hunched against it and played the light beam over the ground, then along the warehouse wall. Nothing.

  Conklin heard a sharp tapping in front of him. He raised the beam. A door was snapping against the side of the building. Conklin approached it cautiously. He looked around, then entered the warehouse. The high roof shut out the moon and stars, leaving the flashlight beam as the only source of light. Conklin was overcome by a sense of dread. He felt enveloped by the darkness, as if he were fathoms deep in the ocean at the point where light is completely absorbed by the water.

  The flashlight showed Conklin rusted girders, an abandoned wooden pallet on which an open and empty packing crate rested, and random stacks of two-by-fours covered by cobwebs and dust. He took a few steps forward and picked out a section of the floor that was covered by the rug Gault had taken from the car on the first evening. Conklin walked over to the rug. It was cheap and dull green. He shone the light around the area and saw nothing else that would help explain why Gault had left it in the warehouse or why Gault had returned to this place on three successive evenings.

  “I hope you like the rug.”

  Conklin jumped and almost dropped the light.

  “I bought it for you.”

  Conklin turned in a circle, but there was no one there.

  “Before I give you your gift, you will have to answer some questions, Mr. Conklin.”

  “Gault?”

  “Who else have you been following for the past two weeks?”

  “We can talk. Why don’t we go outside?” Conklin said, turning slowly so as to face the place where Gault’s voice had been.

  “No, thank you. Here will be just fine. Sound won’t carry as far. Lowers the risk of someone hearing you scream.”

  5

  “Mr. Nash,” David’s secretary said, “it’s Mr. Gault again.”

  David felt a flush of fear, then anger.

  “Tell him I’m in conference.”

  “He says he’ll come down and cause a scene if you try to put him off.”

  “Jesus.” David looked out the window. “Okay. Put him through.”

  “Hey, old buddy,” Gault said as soon as David picked up the phone, “I need your help.”

  “Look, Tom, let me make this clear. I don’t want anything to do with you. Not now. Not ever.”

  “Hey, no need to be so hostile.”

  “Listen…”

  “No, you listen,” Gault said. There was an unmistakable edge to his voice. “If you hang up this phone, I might have to call theOregonian with an interesting item about Mrs. Stafford. You remember her, don’t you?”

  David sucked in a breath. “All right. What do you want?”

  “Just some advice. What say we meet for lunch? My treat.”

  Gault had chosen a small French restaurant in northwest Portland. The lunch crowd was made up of a round table of older women, several businessmen on expense accounts, and
a few young lovers. The maitre d’ showed David to Gault’s table, and the writer greeted him with a relaxed smile.

  “Some Reisling?” Gault suggested, taking a tall bottle of wine from the ice bucket at the side of the table.

  “Let’s just cut to the chase, Tom. I’m tired of games.”

  “Oh? That wasn’t my impression. Nonetheless, I agree. Let’s get down to business. I’m working on a new book and I’m stuck for an ending. I hoped you could help me out. The book is about a writer. Someone like me, actually. Now, this writer is minding his own business when he gets the funny feeling that he’s being followed. Sure enough, he is.

  “At first the writer thinks it’s just some literary groupie, but the fellow never approaches him. The writer begins to get nervous, so he lays a little trap.”

  Gault paused to watch David’s reaction.

  “It must be a pretty good plot,” Gault said. “I see I’ve got you on the edge of your seat already. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The trap. The writer has heard that old saw ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ and sets out to pique his tail’s curiosity. Each evening he goes to an out-of-the-way, deserted location and does something mysterious, hoping that the mystery man will follow him inside, where it is nice and quiet and the writer can ask a few questions without having to worry about being disturbed.

  “After three nights our little pussy takes the bait. Guess what happens next?”

  David sat in stunned silence.

  “No guesses? Well, you see, the writer loves his privacy and he certainly doesn’t appreciate anyone violating it. Do you know what my character does to this intruder?”

  Gault smiled. The blood had drained from David’s face.

  “In my story the writer tortures this fellow, who answers every question he is asked. It’s quite a violent scene. Blood spraying all over, bones cracking. I may have to tone it down before submitting it to my editor. She has a weak stomach, and I don’t know if she’ll be able to take this much graphic violence.

  “Anyway, the writer has just had some trouble with the law, so he has to keep this little incident hush-hush. All this torture has taken place on a large rug that does an admirable job of absorbing the blood. The writer rolls up the dead man in the rug, cleans up the mess, and gets rid of the body, leaving no clues for a sleuth to find. But that’s where I’m stuck. What happens next? For the life of me, I can’t figure it out.