Deception (19 page)

“It was 3:00 a.m., okay? I’ll have it here in an evidence bag, inside a manila envelope with your name on it, for you to pick up. Won’t have a case number since it’s outside the system. I could get in trouble for this. So could you. You owe me, Detective.”

“Actually, we’re even now.”

I drove ten minutes to the Property Evidence Warehouse at Seventeenth and Jefferson, by Lincoln High School. It’s an old cement building with ramps that looks like it was a giant auto repair shop in a previous life. Once you get past signin and back to the evidence viewing room, the tables and chairs are bare and uninviting. But rather than go through the hoops of checking out evidence and having to bring it back, I decided to set up camp and tackle four evidence boxes we seized from Palatine’s file cabinet the night of the murder. With help, I found the boxes stacked in P-8, on rack shelving like Costco or Home Depot.

It took me two hours to go through three boxes of papers. Talk about panning mud and rocks. I nearly gave up, partly because the evidence viewing room is within smelling range of the two vaults in the back of the warehouse, which contain guns and drugs. I couldn’t smell the guns but caught periodic whiffs of marijuana. The primary offender, though, was crank, or meth, which smells like cat urine with a touch of fingernail polish. A couple of hours is all I can take.

In the back of the final box, which had the contents of the lowest file drawer, was a thick folder labeled “Special papers.” On top was a student’s five-year-old paper with a red grade on it: A+. Under it was a paper two years old, another seven years old, and fifteen more student papers, all marked A or A+, with dates ranging from fifteen years to three months ago.

I started reading these papers one by one. I’m no philosopher, but I’ve read great writers—including Rex Stout, Mickey Spillane, Dashiell Hammett, and Ross Macdonald. I’m talking the giants. So I know good writing and bad writing when I see it. Most of these papers were not good writing. No one would accuse these students of plagiarism.

Some papers had numbers penciled after the grade. The highest was a ten, the lowest was a one, and most were in between.

It was then I realized that not one of the papers was written by a guy.

I picked one paper I’d read, a treatise on a dude named Hobbes, with a red smiling face next to the A+, and a penciled number 3 next to that. The paper was written by a Cassandra Fields. I barely stayed awake while reading and decided to track her down to find out why the professor gave her an A+ and a smiley face for such mediocre writing.

I drove back to the Justice Center. If you want to find out about somebody quickly, it helps to be a cop. Within fifteen minutes I had a fax of Cassandra’s college transcript, knew where she lived and with whom and that she worked in the Multnomah County library, just a few minutes away. After another call, I found she’d be at work for three more hours. She agreed to meet me in a library conference room during her break, as long as I had proper ID.

Cassandra was attractive, though she’d put on weight since college. I knew this because I recognized her flaming red hair. She was one of dozens of young girls in the professor’s pictures.

She led me to a conference room with an ancient Greece theme, including a model of the Parthenon.

“As I said, I’m investigating the murder of Professor William Palatine. We’re talking to former students. You remember him?”

“Yes.”

“You remember what grade you got in his class?”

“I had him for two classes. I think I … got As.”

“Did you usually get As in your classes?”

Her face flushed, and she looked down. “Sometimes.”

“Well,” I said, looking at the top paper in my file, “in four years at the university, you got a total of three As. Two were from Professor Palatine. The other was a PE class.”

“You have my transcript?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” She was wringing her hands.

“Were you close to the professor?”

“I haven’t seen him since I graduated.”

“Were you seeing him before you graduated?”

“Yes, of course … I mean, I always saw him in class.”

“Only in class?”

“Mainly in class.”

“Ever go to his home?”

The best lie detector is experience. I’ve learned that some people spout lies too quickly, like a counterpunch. Some weigh and measure their lies to get the words right. For others, like Cassandra, the delay comes from a crisis of conscience in which they try to decide whether to lie or tell the truth. Her face and her hands told her story.

“I have a picture of you taken in his home.”

Her eyes widened and face whitened. “He took pictures?”

I nodded.

“I was never that kind of girl,” she said. “He was the first …” She started crying. “I’ve always regretted it. It makes me feel cheap. At first I thought I was special. He was never mean, really, but when he was finished with me, I knew it.”

“Did he write you poetry?”

She snapped backward as if I’d slapped her. “How did you know that?”

“Still have it?”

“I burned it years ago.”

“You remember what it looked like? Was the ink sort of thick?”

She nodded.

“What color was it?”

“Blue.”

“Did it look like this?” I handed her a card, the one from Palatine’s file drawer, with the three quotes about love.

“How did.? I burned it!”

“This one wasn’t to you.”

The redness came back to her face, which got wetter. She was using her sleeve. I wished I had Kleenex.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

She shook her head. “What are you going to do with the photos? Do people have to see them?”

“I only know of one.”

I handed it to her. She was standing in the picture with four other girls, two of them between her and the professor.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But I thought you said …”

“I just said I had a photo of you taken in his house.”

“Okay. Well … that’s good.”

“Thank you, Miss Fields. I’ll call you if I have more questions.”

I stood and moved to the door. She sat motionless.

“Are you coming out?”

She shook her head, no eye contact. “I’ll just stay here for now.”

“I’m … sorry.”

Her face rested on her hands, which were palm down on the table. I saw a box of Kleenex at the front desk, grabbed a handful, and took them back to Cassandra Fields. Still looking down, she sobbed when she clutched them. I put my hand lightly on her shoulder, then left her to her demons.

I grabbed a late lunch at the Pizza Schmizza three blocks south of the library, but it didn’t settle, so I left some, which shows how hard Cassandra’s story hit me. I returned to the central precinct at the Justice Center and made phone calls. There’s no point in telling you details about the other contacts I made, following up on A+ papers in Palatine’s file. Five of the nine I was able to reach on the telephone admitted that they’d had a relationship with Palatine. He hadn’t kept these papers for their literary value, but as reminders of something else.

But when the afternoon had finished, it was Cassandra Fields who haunted me, because hers was the only face I’d seen. I couldn’t shake her vulnerability, hurt, and shame. Had I been her father or brother I might have considered killing Palatine myself.

I’m no Victorian. I don’t much care what people do in their private lives. But a professor is in a power position, and if he abuses his power and seduces his students, and especially if he does it repeatedly, I think something should be done to him. Maybe not death, but something permanent.

Short of that, I’d volunteer to beat him within a millimeter of his life, because though I don’t use the metric system, I know a millimeter is a lot less than an inch.

I sat down in front of Billy the Bartender at Rosie O’Grady’s, munching on pretzels and peanuts. “What time did I leave here a week ago Wednesday night?”

“Like I should remember if
you
don’t?” Billy squinted at me. “Haven’t seen you since you was here Saturday.”

“I’m talking the Wednesday before that. When I came in the door, you were ragging on Mayor Branch’s “Beautify Portland” plan and how much it was going to cost Rosie’s. Remember when I left?”

“Checking out your own alibi?”

“Just answer my question.”

“Little after ten, I reckon. Ten thirty outside. Early for you. I asked if you wanted a cab, but you wasn’t in a mood to listen.”

“What mood was I in?”

“Ticked off.”

“About what?”

“Government. Religion. Education. The mayor. That newspaper guy. The police chief. You name it.”

“I mentioned the chief?”

“You called him names. Want I should repeat them?”

“What did I say about education?”

“You was groanin’ about liberal communist college professors who act like cops are the criminals.”

“I said that?”

“And a hundred other things. You pushed a customer who made a crack about donuts.”

“I didn’t push anybody.”

“Yeah you did. People were backing off. I heard one guy say you’re a lot tougher than you look … said he’d seen you knock somebody cold with a head butt. That true?”

“You’re sure I was gone by ten thirty?”

“Pretty sure,” he said, wiping the bar with a wet towel. “Get a memory, will you? Then you won’t have to use mine.”

I’ve had plenty of firsts. My first kiss, Heidi Holstrom, third grade. My first transistor radio—high-tech, costing me a twenty-dollar fortune—on which I listened to Elvis and Buddy Holly. My first date with Sharon at the original Spaghetti Factory in downtown Portland, back when spumoni ice cream had those little candied fruit doohickeys in it. My first NFL game, in Seattle at the old Kingdome, watching Jim Zorn and Steve Largent. My first World Series, in New York, Yankees versus Braves. My first arrest. My first solved homicide.

Most of the firsts, with the exception of my inauguration to the oven of Vietnam, when I melted into a puddle, I remember fondly. But today was another first.

I considered my inability to remember what I’d done after leaving Rosie’s. I thought about Wally’s Donuts, three lousy blocks from the professor’s. I thought about the Black Jack gum wrapper I’d removed from the crime scene. I weighed Billy’s testimony that I was mad enough to push people around.

It was another first for me when I wrote a new name on my suspect list.

Mine.

15

“Nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
S
ILVER
B
LAZE

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

I HAD MEANS
. I had opportunity. I didn’t have an alibi, and while it seemed that the alcohol in my system would have prevented me from the crime, it also might have emboldened me. Tangible evidence—both the gum wrapper and the rope—placed me at the scene.

But what could have been my motive? Did it lay in the gaps of my existence, the blackouts that had increased in frequency and duration?

One of the sore points in comics history is that Hal Jordan, Green Lantern, failed to save Coast City, his childhood home, from destruction. That failure turned him mad. Unable to prevent this terrible injustice, he tried to right all wrongs, but resorted to wrongdoing to do it. The great champion of good turned evil.

My meals with Jake and Clarence at Lou’s Diner were up to two a week—a bonus for working with Clarence, since it was natural to include Jake, who we trust and who we’re both more comfortable around than each other. This time we were meeting on a Saturday, after which Clarence and I would be working on the case. I sat at our booth, getting in a few beers before my buddies arrived, admiring the orange flower Rory called a gerbera daisy.

A dilemma is a problem for which you can see no solution.

When you work with a bunch of guys you’d die for in a heartbeat—even if you don’t like them all—and you follow the evidence, which tells you the murder was committed by one of them … and will cause mega-resentment from the other detectives … and make a community that’s already suspicious of cops believe they’ve been proven right … and when you’re working every day not just with cops you can’t trust, but a journalist … this is a dilemma. It weighed on me enough that it threatened my appetite, though the threat proved hollow.

Jake entered, said hi, then went right to the Rock-Ola, pressing C3. The haunting lyrics of “Bridge over Troubled Water” transported us again, and we were both thinking of Vietnam.

Clarence walked in halfway through, and my companions looked as melancholic as I felt. But eventually Rory came to the rescue, burgers dripping with Tillamook cheese and Lou’s special sauce, a doctored Thousand Island dressing. A mouthwatering feast that cures your ailments … or masks them, and I’ll settle for that.

“
Buonissimo?”
Rory asked, after we took our first bites.

“Buonissimo,” we said in unison, wiping our mouths.

Over lunch, Clarence talked about the hordes of boys interested in his teenage daughter, Keisha. Clarence asked, “What did you guys do when boys paid attention to your daughters?”

Jake deferred to me, which was odd, since he’s the good dad and I’m not. Still, it was nice to give an opinion on something besides murder or the problem of evil.

“I remember once we were at Dea’s, enjoying a father-daughter time, with extra fry sauce. In the middle of my Long Burger, I notice a guy, maybe seventeen, giving Kendra the eye. While she was looking at him, I unsnapped my SIG-Sauer P226, lifted it halfway out of the holster, and stared him down like he was a stray dog rummaging my flower garden. His eyes turned saucerlike, he left the remnants of his burger, and hit the pavement.”

Clarence was smiling, which he should do more often since it makes him look like his father.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Kendra was oblivious to what I’d done, which came in handy because these situations started happening a couple times a week. Approximately two dozen teenage boys, seeing me handle my pistol, decided there were other girls to look at besides Kendra. Finally she started noticing. ‘It makes me want to totally die when he does that,’ she told Sharon. Once upon a time she thought it was cool I was a detective, but eventually it became a great deal lower on the food chain than if I’d been a guitarist or assistant manager at Gap.”

“She went off to college, right?” Clarence said, as the Rock-Ola told us our answers were “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

“When she went to Portland State, she moved downtown, and I saw her a lot less. But I felt just as protective. Even after college, she was dating some loser, and I found out he’d knocked her down and slapped her around. She tried to keep Sharon from telling me, but I found out when I bumped into her girlfriend at Starbucks. Kendra was shuffling around like a bag lady, in a daze, waiting for the jerk to come back and beat her up again. When I saw her at Christmas a month later, she’d heard her ex-boyfriend was limping. Apparently he’d been beaten up in an alley by a guy wearing a ski mask.”

“No kidding?” Clarence said.

“Yeah. Her boyfriend bragged that he got in some good punches, even though the guy was 6’5” and used a bat on him. So he wasn’t only a woman-beater; he was a liar.”

“How do you know he was lying?”

“Because I’m only 6’1”, he didn’t land a single punch, and I didn’t use a bat. It was just Fist One and Fist Two.” I held them up.

Clarence started to laugh but looked at Jake and said, “Is he serious?”

Jake nodded.

For once, neither of them knew what to say.

At one thirty, Clarence and I set up camp at the Justice Center, where there’s extra elbow room on Saturdays. That’s good, because my workstation is too small for the two of us. Anything is. As Clarence sat writing on his notebook computer, I finished the final paperwork on the Lincoln Caldwell case.

Given Chief Lennox’s threats, I’d half expected Clarence to be yanked from the case by now. Apparently Raylon Berkley wasn’t willing to pull his fox out of the henhouse and was holding Lennox to his commitment.

“Look, Ollie … you found my sister’s killer,” Clarence said. “I owe you for that. I’m concerned what’s going to happen if you pursue this theory that the killer’s a detective.”

“You want me to back off too?”

“Don’t cops make it hard on other cops who …?”

“Who turn them in? Squeal like a pig? Guys believe the golden rule is
cops don’t tell on cops
. Since nobody looks after cops—it’s not like the
Tribune’s
watching our back—it becomes ‘we take care of our own.’ If you don’t, you’re a traitor.”

“Can’t you explore other options first?”

“You think I want this? Nothing’s worse than a dirty cop. And since when are you looking out for me?”

“My daddy liked you, Ollie. And he was a good judge of character.”

“Still am, son. Still am.” The man watching the unfolding events on earth smiled broadly and laughed loudly, reaching up to slap the back of the huge warrior beside him.

It suddenly clicked, seeming to come out of nowhere. I snapped my fingers at Clarence.

“My daughter took a class from Palatine. That’s when I visited his classroom. With Kendra!”

“That just came to you?”

“It was one of my sporadic attempts to be involved in my daughter’s life. I went to a couple of her classes. She made me promise not to show my gun or arrest anybody for smoking pot. It wasn’t a warm and fuzzy day. Maybe that’s why I’d pushed it to the back burner. It must have been … maybe ten years ago.”

“Call her. Talk to her about the professor.”

“There’re hundreds of students who took his class recently.”

“None of them would be your daughter.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“You’ve got a reason to meet with your daughter. Take advantage of it.”

“No way.”

“If you found out where Andrea is, would you call her?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you know where Kendra is. Call her.”

I shook my head. Clarence grabbed my cell phone from the desk. “I’ll call her. What’s her number?”

“Forget it.”

“You don’t know her number, do you?”

“I don’t know anybody’s number. I speed dial.”

“What’s her speed dial number?”

When I didn’t answer, Clarence pressed 1. “This retrieves messages? Oops. 911.” He cancelled.

“If you don’t give that back, you’ll need 911.” I reached for it, but he turned his back, which is roughly the size of Fenway’s Green Monster.

“Who’s 2? Homicide.” Clarence was pressing each number and waiting to see the ID pop up before he stopped the call. “3 is … Lou’s Diner. 4 is … Flying Pie Pizza? 5 is … Jake. I’ll let him know he got beat by pizza. 6 is … Ollie, I’m touched. I made your top six.”

“Only because the video store closed. You got bumped up. I plan to replace you with Krispy Kreme.”

“Number 7 is … Kendra! How’s that for detective work?”

“Give me my phone or I’ll pistol-whip you.”

“Is this Kendra?” Clarence asked.

I froze.

“Hi, this is Clarence Abernathy. You know, your dad’s friend? From the
Trib?”
Clarence paused. “No, that’s Jake Woods. I’m the other columnist. Yes, the big guy. There’s something else about me you may have noticed. No? Really? I’m black. Yeah. Most people pick up on that.” He laughed. “Anyway, can I ask you a question? Do you remember your philosophy prof from PSU?” He paused. “Dr. Palatine, right. You do? Good.”

With a lightning move I snatched the phone out of his ham-bone mitt.

“Hi, sweetie, this is Dad. I apologize for Mr. Abernathy. He can be irritating.”

“He sounds nice,” she said.

“He’s not.”

“What do you want?”

“You had Philosophy with Dr. Palatine?”

“I took him for 101, then Ethics and another class. Uh … Logic, I think.”

“Do you remember that day, maybe ten years ago, when I went with you to a couple classes?”

“I’ve tried to forget. Mom was going to come because it was a family visit day, but she got sick. She begged you to take her place. You didn’t want to.”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, I just—”

“No, you didn’t want to. More important things to do. Like always. You left my other class early.”

“Wasn’t that the all-women class?”

“Feminist Literature. There were two boys in the class. Anyway, you didn’t like it. What’s new? So, I hear Professor Palatine died.”

“I’m investigating his case.”

“Why am I not surprised? What do you want from me?”

“It’s been a while since we talked.”

“You didn’t call me. Your friend Clarence called. About the investigation?”

“Well … sort of.” I scowled at Clarence, who gave me a smug look. “Listen, since you had Palatine for three classes, would you mind talking to me about him? Telling me what you remember?”

“I’m busy. My job keeps me going.”

“How about tonight?”

“You think I’m not doing something on a Saturday night?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Lots of people knew Dr. Palatine better than me. I was only at his house once.”

“You were at his house?”

“He had groups of students over. There were maybe eight of us one night.”

“Well … it’s been a while since we’ve gotten together. Could I meet you at Lou’s Diner?”

“Do they serve vegetarian meals?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve seen … Lou’s has salads, right Clarence?”

“Their steak salad’s great.”

“Yeah, right,” I said to Kendra. “There’s a steak salad with bacon and—”

“Do you know what vegetarian means? I don’t eat meat.”

“Look, you could order the steak salad without the steak and the bacon, just with … you know, whatever’s left. What about tomorrow night at seven?”

“It would have to be Monday night. Eight would be better.”

“That’s pretty late for dinner, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Okay. Lou’s is on Yamhill, near Fourth, halfway between Pizza Schmizza and Chipotle Mexican Grill, you know where—”

“I’ve seen it. It’s near Pioneer Place, Saks Fifth Avenue, Gap, all the great shops.”

“Right. There’s those too.”

“That diner looks … out of it.”

“Lou’s is cutting-edge retro. Nonsmoking. Has flowers and everything. You’ll love it. See you Monday at eight?”

She hung up.

I looked at Clarence and his stupid smile.

“What?” I said. “You’ve never seen a guy ask his daughter to dinner? No Monday night football for me.”

I pressed 3.

“Lou’s Diner.”

“Rory? Ollie. Listen, do you guys have vegetarian food?”

He chuckled. “This is a funny joke, Mr. Ollie.”

“This isn’t a joke. My daughter’s a vegetarian.”

“I am so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, stuff happens. Anyway I’m meeting her there for dinner Monday night. Could you make her a steak salad without the steak and bacon? And with lots of extra tomatoes and green stuff?”

“Lettuce?”

“Yeah. Lettuce is good. How about cheese? Cheese isn’t meat, is it?”

“I do not think so. I am Italian. I never run out of cheese. But some vegetarians don’t eat dairy products, no?”

“That’s scary. Anyway, be sure you don’t run out of lettuce, okay?”

“We have many salads in a part of the menu you perhaps have never seen. All right, Mr. Ollie. I will reserve your booth and have some special flowers,
bellissimo.”

“Grazie,”
I said, hoping I didn’t mispronounce it.

I was going to have dinner alone with my vegetarian daughter.

Why did it feel like I was walking the Green Mile?

S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
1, 8:15
A.M
.

While waiting for Mr. Coffee, I looked across the street at Kyle Hanson’s. He’d told me he’d be gone this weekend—he always tells me when he’s leaving town, figuring why not have a cop keep his eye on the place. I decided he wouldn’t mind me borrowing his Sunday edition of the
Tribune
.

I searched for Abernathy’s column. There it was: “Follow the Evidence.” Sipping French roast, I read it: