Deception

  “Need help?”

  “Just leave, would you?”

  “I’ll take you to your car. No, I’ll drive you home.”

  “You’re so stubborn.”

  “Your mom used to say we were the two most stubborn people she knew.”

  Finally, Kendra eased herself out of the booth, standing awkwardly. That’s when I realized my daughter was pregnant.

  17

  “Of all the facts presented to us, we had to pick just those which we deemed to be essential, and then piece them together in their order, so as to reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events.”

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE NAVAL TREATY

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 8:00 A.M.

  “DID YOU SEE THIS?” Kim Suda pushed the newspaper in front of my face, at my desk.

  I was staring at a photograph of Professor William Palatine, on his back, on the floor, noose around his neck. I checked the paper’s date. December 3: today.

  “This is a joke, right? Somebody printed one of those dummies. This can’t be the real Tribune.”

  “I bought it off a newsstand.”

  I read the article, written by Mike Button. Among other things, he said, “An anonymous source inside the Portland Police revealed that the leading suspect in the Palatine murder investigation is a street person. He’ll likely be arrested within the week.”

  I punched 6 for Abernathy. No answer. I declined leaving a message lest it be used against me at my murder trial.

  I stewed in my juices fifteen minutes, skulking back and forth in homicide, eyes on the glass entrance. Finally, I saw Abernathy. I locked my laser stare on him when he was still twenty feet away.

  “You’re off this case, Abernathy. It’s over!”

  A half dozen heads turned our way, secretaries to detectives.

  “First I knew of this is when Geneva showed me the paper this morning.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth.” He raised his right catcher’s mitt.

  “Your friend Carpenter gave those photos to someone.”

  “They belong to the Trib, not Carp. She’s a pro, our best photojournalist. She’s turned down offers from the LA Times and Chicago Tribune. She’d never pull a stunt like this. She says the photos were on file, ready to go in case we got clearance.”

  “Never happened.”

  “I know that. Carp’s as mad as you and I are. Somebody got hold of them and took it to print.”

  “Who?”

  “Button refuses to identify his source.” Clarence’s face looked as hot as mine felt. “He’s willing to be a first amendment martyr. I think he wants to go to jail. Winston doesn’t understand how it got through editorial without coming to him. I told Button he’d be fired. Winston says they’re discussing it on the upper levels. Berkley’s involved.”

  “Too late for that, isn’t it?”

  “I know it’s false about the street person, but it’s better than spilling the truth, isn’t it? Does it really compromise the investigation?”

  “Confidential crime scene information in public hands? Of course it compromises the investigation. Until now, if we interview suspects and they make an unguarded comment about the noose around the neck or the skin color or body position, it’d be enough to finger them. Now their only mistake—and I’ll grant you it’s a big one—is reading the Tribune.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. But I didn’t do it. And it wasn’t just photos either. It was information, some accurate, some false, like the street person part. It wasn’t from you, me, or Carp. Could it have come from Manny?”

  Clarence didn’t notice Manny had just come up behind him, newspaper in hand.

  “From me? I don’t work for the Tribune, hotshot.”

  “You didn’t leak anything?” I asked Manny.

  He gave me his thousand-yard stare, the one that would make Clint Eastwood melt like a salted slug. Manny redirected his stare to Clarence, then threw the newspaper on the floor in front of him. He stepped on it, grinding his heel into it.

  My sentiments exactly.

  “I heard the scuttlebutt about Noel Barrows,” Officer Taylor Burchatz said over the phone at my workstation. “For what it’s worth, I saw him the night of the Palatine murder.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Do Drop Inn, 59th and Foster.”

  “You’re sure it was Barrows?”

  “Absolutely. It’s not like we’re friends, but I know him well enough to recognize him.”

  “What time did you see him?”

  “I came at nine thirty. Left late, close to midnight. He was there the whole time.”

  “You’re sure it was Wednesday—week before last?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice try. Everybody wants to give Noel an alibi.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “Look, Noel says he was home alone that night. What kind of a half-wit would withhold his alibi for murder?”

  “All I know is, I saw him.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Bartender’s Barry. He might remember. There were probably a half dozen guys hanging around him. I know a few first names—Stu, Steve, Alan.”

  “Exactly when did you leave?”

  “After sports. I saw highlights of the Blazer game.”

  “Sports is over about 11:25. You’re saying Noel was still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This isn’t a put-on? If you’ve talked to Barry and got him to go along with this, we’re talking perjury, obstruction of justice, and—”

  “I don’t know what your deal is, Chandler. I’m calling because I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to go after an innocent man. An innocent cop. Figured I should speak up. Maybe you want him to go down? That it? Maybe I should call a lieutenant or captain or somebody who wants to hear the truth?”

  “Calm down,” I said. “I’ll call Barry now and check it out. If it’s true, I owe you an apology.”

  Ninety minutes later, Manny, Clarence, and I sat at the conference table, door closed. Noel and Jack walked in together.

  “Why are you here?” I asked Jack.

  “Because I’m Noel’s partner. And friend.”

  “But you’re not his lawyer. Let him talk, okay? Don’t put words in his mouth. Not like last time. Got it?”

  Jack’s face flushed, but he nodded.

  “I’ve been doing this many years,” I said to Noel. “I’ve told countless suspects that they’re lying about their alibi, and that’s what I’m going to tell you.”

  “Hold on, Ollie,” Jack said. “You can’t just—”

  “Shut up and let me finish, Jack.” I looked at Noel. “But until now I’ve never once sat down with a murder suspect and accused him of lying about not having an alibi.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jack said.

  I stepped between Jack and Noel to get Noel’s full attention. “I got a call from an Officer Burchatz. He saw you that night at the Do Drop Inn.”

  Noel’s face twitched. His hands shook.

  “He said you were still there when he left, near midnight.”

  “Maybe he’s got the wrong night,” Noel said.

  “No. I talked with Barry, the bartender. He says it must have been midnight when you left. You were there with a half dozen guys. He gave me names. I already called Stu, Steve, and Alan. These guys aren’t Phi Beta Brilliant, but all three confirm you were there.”

  Jack looked at Noel. “Is it true?”

  Noel looked like a junior high boy who’d been caught red-handed.

  “Did I miss something,” I said, “or was your bacon just saved? Why in the ever-lovin’ world would you deny a murder alibi?”

  Noel stood, face flushed, hands darting. “Look, we were the up team, for crying out loud. You know department policy. You’re not supposed to be drinking when you’re on call!”

  “It’s not just department policy,” Jack said. “It’s my policy. No exceptions. Ever.”
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  “I know,” Noel said. “But we’d been on call for a week. I figured, what are the chances of somebody getting murdered that night? So I just … went to the Do Drop.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You have this alibi, with multiple witnesses, proving you couldn’t have committed a murder for which there’s evidence against you. And you wouldn’t tell us this because … Jack would be disappointed you’d had a few drinks?”

  “He always tells me to stay off the drinks and go to bed early,” Noel said. “I … didn’t want to admit it.”

  “So now you’re ‘admitting’ that you were at the Do Drop Inn between 10:45 and 11:45?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You weren’t?”

  “It was more like between 9:00 and 12:15. I guess I got home around twelve thirty.”

  “Actually, Noel, between 9:00 and 12:15 includes between 10:45 and 11:45. Jack will explain it to you.” I’ve spent days trying to wring the truth out of people, but this was ridiculous. “Write down the names of guys there that night.” I handed him my pad and a pen.

  He jotted down five names, two of which were new. Blushing, he handed it back to me.

  Jack threw his arms around Noel. “Congratulations, bud. You’ve got yourself an alibi!”

  Noel smiled sheepishly.

  “But,” Jack said, “if you ever go to a bar again when we’re on call, I’ll kill you myself!”

  I left the conference room, head aching and thinking about that other little item. Noel’s fingerprints were still on the murder weapon.

  I called Phil, asking how a man with an ironclad alibi could have his fingerprints on the murder weapon, even though he swears he didn’t touch it. He couldn’t explain it but said he’d get back to me.

  For an hour at my desk, I examined with a magnifying glass a hundred of the professor’s photos we’d bagged from his house, looking for a particular camera angle. I couldn’t find what I was looking for.

  I called Manny, who rarely hangs around precinct. “I want you to go over our list of the professor’s family and friends and colleagues. Call and ask if they have pictures taken at the professor’s house, anytime in the last three years. If they do, I want to borrow them. We’ll make copies and return them.”

  One thing I like about Manny is that he seldom asks why. Within an hour, he called back. He’d already talked with three people who had pictures taken at the professor’s. The professor’s sister-in-law, easier to get hold of than her doctor husband, said she had a couple dozen.

  There were a number of things I needed to do, but I lacked manpower. I needed to recruit some.

  I called Paul Anderson, ex-skater and beat cop and now larceny detective. He knows the streets better than anybody. He said he and his partner were on surveillance, but I was welcome to join them. I got his location, grabbed Clarence, and headed for my car.

  When Clarence and I approached, Paul was sitting in an unmarked car with his partner, Gerald Griffin. I knocked on their passenger-side back door. After Griffin lowered his hardware, we crawled into the backseat, and I gave them a peace offering … a box of Krispy Kremes.

  As Anderson smacked his lips on a warm glazed, I said, “You wouldn’t have a half day to spare for an old friend who’s an underresourced homicide detective?”

  “Wish I did, Ollie. If there were a moratorium on theft, I’d be glad to help.”

  “Who you watching?”

  “Clancy Baines, the guy in the navy blue sweatshirt.” He pointed. “Word is he robbed the liquor store on Twelfth and made away with a sackful of bills. Fifteen hundred dollars—way more than they should’ve had in the till. We’re sure the money’s in his room. Positive he’s behind a dozen other robberies. We take this dude and crime plummets.”

  “Insufficient grounds for a search warrant?”

  “And he knows it,” Griffin said.

  “He’s a drug dealer too,” Paul said. “We’re hoping to see him sell so we can get a warrant. But he’s not going to deal in front of us. He just steps around a corner. He’s got his soldiers keeping their eyes out. They know exactly where we are.” He nodded toward two teenage boys leaning against the wall ten feet away, pretending not to look at us.

  “So,” Griffin said, “he’s not only robbing the community; he’s robbing our time.”

  “If I get him for you in the next twenty minutes,” I said, “would you give me four hours each?”

  “You kidding? We’d give you a whole day each. But how—”

  “Two entrances to the apartments, front and back?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Okay, after we step out of the car, give us five minutes. Then you get out and stretch. I’ll call your cell. Answer, sound excited, say you’ll be there right away, and lay rubber when you take off. Then circle the block and wait out of sight. In ten minutes or so, Clancy Baines will be running out the front door, carrying the money.”

  “What are you talking about?” Griffin asked. “Why would—?”

  “When you see the bag or box or whatever, you’ll have grounds for believing it’s the money and you can look at it. Then you take him in. I’ll call you later about your indentured servitude.”

  “Come on, Ollie, you can’t possibly—”

  “Just do it,” I said.

  Clarence and I went to the back of the apartments. He wanted an explanation, but I told him, “Just follow my taillights, okay? I need you right here at the back door. You got a good look at Clancy Baines? He’ll be carrying something in his hand. Make a threatening move toward him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just plant your body in front of him, that’s all. One look at you will probably be enough. Make it so his only other option is the front door.”

  “But why—”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  He sighed and nodded.

  I peeked around the corner and saw Anderson outside his car, the two street soldiers within earshot. I punched his number and watched him answer. I said, “There’s a bank robbery, kidnapping, assault, rioting, terrorist activity, pipe bombs, and a hijacking at the county courthouse! We need you here now! Pronto! Get going, you lazy no-good cop! Peel rubber! And don’t stop for donuts!”

  I disconnected and heard his excited voice from the street. He might have overacted, but when the tires screeched, everybody noticed. He was gone.

  I waited, giving Anderson and Griffin time to park and sneak back on foot. I called to make sure they were in position. Anderson said they were lurking in the shadows, with a clear view.

  “Ready?” I asked Clarence.

  I grabbed handfuls of newspaper that had blown up against the apartment, stepped in the back door, found a metal garbage can in the hallway, then pushed it into a tiled alcove. I put in about half the day’s Tribune, flicked a BIC lighter I keep in my trench coat, and watched the smoke rise. No one was in the hall, so I let the smoke build. The alarm didn’t trigger, so I pulled the alarm on the wall.

  This alarm was … well, alarming. Really loud. I yelled, “Fire!” and the manager yelled, “Fire!” and pretty soon a dozen people were yelling, “Fire!” Within ten seconds residents were rushing out their doors. Some took longer, getting kids, pets, pictures, and iPods. Several ran into the building, past the manager who was waving everyone out. Clancy Baines rushed in, turned the corner, right through the smoke, and ran up the stairs, three at a time.

  Within a minute, Baines was back down the stairs, a bulging Nike gym bag in hand. He ran pell-mell toward the back of the building, where he was met by the hulking frame of Clarence Abernathy. Baines pivoted and ran out the front door, clutching that gym bag like it held ten grand.

  I stepped to the front door and watched Baines run into the street, where Anderson and Griffin grabbed him. I watched Anderson zip open the bag and smile broadly. Griffin was talking to Baines while he handcuffed him.

  I went to the manager and identified myself as a cop. “The fire’s in that garbage c
an,” I said, pointing. Fifteen seconds later he had a fire extinguisher on it, and within a few minutes the smoke was clearing.

  I walked out the back to Clarence. “Who says the Tribune is worthless? It makes first-class smoke. A man’s brought to justice, and we’ve got a day’s work each from two grateful cops.”

  We walked to my car. Clarence turned back to gaze at the smoky apartment and then at me. We heard the sirens of the approaching fire truck, and when it flashed past, I pulled out and headed to Baja Fresh for lunch. A Steak Burrito Ultimo, with four containers of those chopped tomatoes, was callin’ my name.

  As I drove, Abernathy looked back at the scene and a couple of times opened his mouth like a goldfish. In a way unusual for journalists, he didn’t know what to say.

  18

  “It is fortunate for this community that I am not a criminal.”

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE ADVENTURE OF THE BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1:45 P.M.

  ON OUR WAY BACK to the Justice Center from the fire and Baja Fresh, Phil Oref called.

  “You’re not going to believe this. First, those are the fingerprints of Noel Barrows on the murder weapon.”

  “So what am I not going to believe?”

  “I studied the prints with a close-up lens. I found traces of plastic.”

  “So?”

  “Somebody took the detective’s fingerprint, made a plastic mold, then pressed it down to leave Barrows’s prints. In other words, the prints are his, but he never touched the gun. The prints were planted.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I found definite traces of the kind of moldable plastic you can duplicate a print from. It’s exactly what I’d use if I were framing somebody.”

  “I’ve heard that could be done. But it’s rare, isn’t it?”

  “Extremely. I’ve never seen it. I’ve played with doing it myself, to see how hard it would be. But I never would’ve looked for it if you hadn’t told me about the alibi. You have to look for it to see it. And you’d really need to know what you’re doing to plant it.”