Deception (32 page)

Right now at least one murderer is reading this column. He thinks he’ll get away with three murders and attempts on my own life. He’s wrong. I’m going to catch him.

Like Green Lantern of old, I am a relentless seeker of truth and upholder of justice. I make my pledge to this city as Green Lantern did: “In brightest day, in darkest night, no evil shall escape my sight. Let those who worship evil’s might, beware my power … Green Lantern’s light!”

Crime must be punished. Justice must be done. The boil must be lanced, the pus removed.

The name’s Chandler. Ollie Chandler. I am a detective.

Justice is my middle name.

Crossing the Morrison Bridge heading east, I decided to drop off my masterpiece at Clarence’s house in North Portland.

Clarence’s house is immaculate, lawn edged and alive even in winter, and picket fence a perfect glossy white. It doesn’t remind me of my place. Geneva hugged me, and a couple of teenagers—Clarence’s daughter Keisha and her cousin Celeste—extended their hands, made eye contact, and distinctly said “Hello.” No mumbling. Respect is big in the Abernathy family. Clarence’s daddy would be proud.

“Here’s my guest article,” I announced to Clarence, handing it to him, neatly printed out in a cool font called Franklin Gothic Medium, which I picked out after trying a couple dozen.

“I’ll read it and let you know.”

“Why not read it now?”

He sat down at the kitchen table while Geneva offered coffee. Earl Grey was mercifully absent. She took me in the family room and showed me another Negro League team picture they’d located, the 1949 Birmingham Black Barons. There was Obadiah Abernathy, smile bigger than life.

After fifteen minutes lost in memorabilia and telling Geneva how much I missed her father-in-law, I came back to Clarence, now sitting in the living room. My eye caught a furry little creature in a cage, spinning on a wheel.

“Didn’t know you had a hamster,” I said.

“Clarence brought him home last week,” Geneva said. “He’s adorable. The kids love him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Brent,” she said.

Clarence pretended to read, ignoring my grin.

“What do you think of my article?” I asked.

“Well,” Clarence said, “I hardly know what to say.”

“That good?”

“It needs … a little editing.”

“What do you mean
editing?”

Clarence pointed toward an
American Heritage
dictionary on the shelf. “Look it up.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a bit … melodramatic. ‘Call me Ollie’? ‘The name’s Chandler. Ollie Chandler. I am a detective’?”

“You make it sound silly.”

“It sounds silly on its own. Reminds me of
Dragnet.”

“I like Joe Friday.”

“It shows.”

“What else?”

“ ‘Justice is my middle name’?”

“Justice
is
my middle name.”

“I know, but. Anyway, who’s Green Lantern?”

I looked at him. “Charter member, Justice League of America. Dell Comics. Hal Jordan, test pilot. What college did you go to?”

“Oregon State University.”

“What’d they teach you anyway?”

He pointed at my article. “Asphalt jungle? And the pus thing’s got to go.”

“Why?”

“People read the paper over breakfast. We don’t want them puking on the Trib.”

“Isn’t that redundant?”

“And yet you want to write for it, don’t you?”

“You said I could.”

“No pus. I’ll ratchet down the melodrama so nobody laughs at you.”

“I want to see your edit before it goes to press.”

“I’ve got to get Celeste to volleyball.”

“Go ahead. But you and your loved ones sleep peacefully tonight because of the work I do. You and Geneva and the kids and Brent.”

He straightened his back and saluted me. “Go, walk our city’s asphalt jungle, Green Lantern. For your middle name is Justice. And you are Ollie Chandler, detective … lancer of boils and relentless foe of pus.”

I suspect he wasn’t entirely sincere.

28

“When Gregson, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths—which, by the way, is their normal state—the matter is laid before me.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
S
IGN OF
F
OUR

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
16, 12:15
P.M
.

IT
WAS
A
COLD
DAY
but sunny; time for lunch at Lou’s again. On our table was one big light blue bloom. Rory called it a hydrangea. I took his word for it.

“You used to come only on Thursdays,” Rory said. “I am happy to see you more often.”

“We’ve got more to talk about right now,” I said.

“It is always a pleasure to serve the three of you.” I found myself wishing more people were like Rory Santelli. It would be a better world.

I asked the guys if this time we could put a hold on the Christian stuff. I wasn’t in the mood.

They asked me what was next on the Palatine case. I said hang on and pulled out the only quarter I had. I looked for “MacArthur Park,” history’s longest song, with the quality of lyrics—sung by an actor, not a singer—that makes it seem even longer. I pressed C5 three times. If we needed it, that should cover us a couple of days.

“I’m going to check out a few alibis myself,” I said as I sat down. “Karl Baylor first.”

“Why Karl?” Clarence asked.

“I don’t like the way he struts around showing off his gun.”

“You’re criticizing a man for being attached to his gun?” Jake asked.

“He’s a Jesus freak. Isn’t he supposed to be a pacifist?”

“If he were a pacifist, you’d berate him for that too,” Jake said. “You’re not judging him because he’s a Christian, are you?”

“He can kiss the Blarney stone or worship the dung beetle for all I care.”

“Listen to yourself.”

“You try listening to me first, and let me know how it is.”

“I
have
been listening—and trust me, you’re not missing much. Seriously, Ollie, what have you got against Baylor?”

“I just don’t like him.”

“I detect a history, Detective. You going to deny that?”

“Okay.” I gestured too dramatically, then put my hands around the coffee cup to keep them down. “After Sharon died, I came back to the office. It was … weird.”

“Like people didn’t know what to say.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Same thing happened when Finney and Doc were killed.”

“Same with Dani and Felicia,” Clarence said. “People say nothing, or sometimes they say the wrong thing.”

“Anyway,” I said, “most guys looked the other way or said ‘Sorry’ when they passed by. Jack and Noel took me out for a beer. We talked about sports. Tommi was the only one who hugged me, which was fine. I don’t want to be hugged by Cimmatoni. Kim Suda got me a Hallmark card. Point is, I didn’t have to say anything back.”

“What did Baylor do?”

My hands started moving, and I restrained them again. “He comes up to me by the snack table and says, ‘I’m sorry.’ Okay. Thought he was done. But no, he’s a
Christian
. He has to say something more. So he says, ‘She’s with Jesus; she’s better off.’ She’s better off? She’s dead, for crying out loud. And if there’s a Jesus, He’s got plenty of other people with Him. Why did He need my wife? But Baylor still wouldn’t stop. He says, ‘Somehow it’ll all work out for the best.’ ”

“He really said that?” Clarence asked.

“I’ll never forget it. Then he quoted from the Bible, saying her death was really a good thing.”

“I’ll bet it was Romans 8:28,” Clarence said. “ ‘All things work together for good to those who love God.’ ”

“That was it. He was saying my wife’s better off without me.”

“That’s not what he meant,” Jake said.

“You’re as big a know-it-all as he is, aren’t you?”

“I’m just saying that—”

“Jesus has Sharon, but I don’t. I’m supposed to be happy about that?”

“MacArthur Park” started over. They both looked at the Rock-Ola, then at me.

“Not again,” Clarence mumbled.

“Hey, I only had a quarter. You wanna limbo with Chubby Checker, cough up your own two bits!”

“Okay,” Jake said, “Baylor shouldn’t have said it that way. I think he was trying to comfort, but he used the wrong words. The passage he quoted is true, but there’s a right place and time and way to say it. That was the wrong one. I’ve done the same thing … we Christians can be dopes, just like everybody else.”

“More
than everybody else. Give me an atheist any day. Give me Bertrand Russell. He’d never say something stupid like that.”

“Don’t set up atheists as your role models. Professor Palatine was a Bertrand Russell fan. You don’t idolize him, do you?”

“I don’t even think God exists,” I said.

“If He doesn’t,” Jake said, “then why are you so mad at Him?”

I stared at him, but he didn’t melt. “At least an atheist wouldn’t tell me God had a reason for killing Sharon. What it comes down to is if there’s a God and He’s all-powerful, then He chose for her to die. Am I right or am I wrong?”

“There’s truth in it, but I wouldn’t put it that way exactly,” Jake said.

“Right. Because your job is to be God’s PR guy, to run interference, bolster His public image.”

“He doesn’t need me for PR.”

“Yeah? Well, He’s not doing so well on His own.”

“He doesn’t look at His approval ratings. And we don’t get a vote.” Jake cocked his head. “Did you tell Baylor how you felt when he said that?”

“No, Dr. Phil. I didn’t.”

As I walked out the door Richard Harris was singing “Someone left a cake out in the rain.”

Right
, I thought.
Exactly
.

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
16, 3:30
P.M
.

Two hours later I sat in the Gresham WinCo parking lot, wearing a Mariners baseball cap and an old camo jacket, faded green and brown. No trench coat, no fedora. I don’t wear glasses except for reading, but I have a pair of thick ones with uncorrected lenses for special occasions. I’d never met Karl Baylor’s wife, but if I ever saw her again, I didn’t want to be recognized.

I’d followed her from her house. I watched her get out of her navy blue Toyota. She was short and energetic, walking briskly, two kids in tow.

After studying her movements in WinCo, I positioned myself at the end of the next aisle. As she was slowly moving her cart, looking at a display of Nalley bread and butter pickles, I backed into her, assuming the posture of someone who’d established position. It’s an art form, like Allen Iverson drawing the charge.

Her cart hit me.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have been watching.”

“No problem.” I looked at her, like she was familiar. “Didn’t I see you at that church … Um, Good Shepherd, was that it?”

“Yes. Good Shepherd Community Church. You go there?”

“Not often.” As in, not ever.

“I’m Tiffany Baylor,” she said, reaching out her little hand. “My husband’s Karl. These are our children, Matthew and Kivren.”

I smiled at the cute kids. “When I was at your church, seems like they were talking about a couples conference. In Gresham, right?”

“The Holiday Inn on Hogan. Karl and I went. It was great.”

“Nice you could get the time off.”

“Usually they’re on weekends but this was a Tuesday and Wednesday night. Karl’s schedule’s weird. He’s a police officer.”

I raised my hands. “I didn’t do it.”

She laughed. “People always say stuff like that. He’s a detective. Anyway, he works weird hours. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”

“You were lucky to make it through the conference without him getting called out.”

“Actually he did get called out on police business after we’d gone to bed. But by the time I woke up, he was back. He was tired, but he can get by on a few hours’ sleep.”

“Too bad he got called away your first night.”

“Second night. Tuesday we were together every minute. It was glorious.”

“I have a buddy who’s a police detective in LA. He and his wife go to bed at ten, but she says he gets 3:00 a.m. calls.”

She nodded. “Same with Karl. That night he got called after 10:30, but I was asleep, barely heard the phone. He gets up, kisses me good night. Next thing I know it’s morning, and he’s there beside me. Said he was gone just a few hours. I sleep like a log when we’re away from the kids.” She giggled like a schoolgirl, taking a jar of red hot salsa from Matthew and putting it back on the shelf.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Self-employed,” I said. “Management consulting. Pays the bills while I write a novel.”

“I lead a women’s Bible study at church on Wednesday mornings. Your wife might enjoy it.”

“Oh. My wife isn’t … she died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” At least she didn’t quote the Bible to tell me it was okay. “I shouldn’t have assumed you. Sometimes I talk before I think. I’m really sorry. I hope we see you in church again. I’d love for you to meet Karl. I know you’d like him. What did you say your name is?”

“Uh, Joe. Joe Greenley. Pleasure to meet you, Tiffany.”

“What’d you learn about Karl Baylor?” Clarence asked as we sat at my workstation.

“I like his wife better than I like him. Also, he’s a liar. His alibi doesn’t hold.”

“No kidding?”

“That Wednesday night he left around 10:30. Supposedly he was called away on police business. His wife didn’t see him until morning. He could’ve been gone five hours, and she wouldn’t have known.

“He wouldn’t have needed five hours,” Clarence said.

“Two would have been plenty. Hotel’s maybe twenty minutes from Palatine’s.”

“Who called him?”

“Couldn’t have been homicide. There were just two cases that night, ours and Jack and Noel’s. But he told his wife it was police work. He lied to her. And to us.”

“You got all that out of her?”

I nodded.

“Think Baylor will be mad at you for interviewing his wife?”

“She didn’t know she was being interviewed.”

“How could she not know?”

“You’d be surprised what people don’t know. Things aren’t always as they appear, remember? That can work in the detective’s favor too. It’s a game, really. We have to outplay other people in order to outplay the killer.”

“You make it sound like chess.”

“I play chess. Most criminals play checkers. Take my murder before last. Lincoln Caldwell blows away Jimmy Ross. He lets himself be seen in the hallway, in his red sweatpants, of all things. Then he leaves fingerprints at the scene. And manages to cut himself and leave blood! Stupid is as stupid does. Caldwell holds a patent on stupid.”

“Stupid.” Clarence said, pointing pen at pad. “Got it.”

“The smart ones have a plan. They wear gloves. Disguises. Even a ski mask works. If they know police procedure, they know if they’re not holding a gun they won’t be shot, even if they’re running away, not without multiple warnings. Even then it’s a last resort.”

“And he’d know they’d have to get back to the crime scene quick,” Clarence said.

“Right. He knows they’d have to break off pursuit and hightail it back to Palatine’s.”

Clarence scratched more notes. “A homicide detective would make a smart killer.”

“Sure. Take your friend Karl Baylor, who told one lie to his wife and another to us to give him an alibi.”

“He’s not my friend. I met him two weeks ago.”

“Suppose the killer’s disguise isn’t a ski mask. Suppose it’s being a church-attending guy. Going to church places him above suspicion.”

“Sounds to me like that’s what makes you suspect him.”

“I’ve tagged killers who go to church every Sunday.”

“You’ve probably tagged killers who help the poor. That doesn’t mean people who help the poor should be your primary suspects.”

“A homicide detective would think it through, do his homework, draw up a plan. Wouldn’t use a credit card to buy fertilizer for an explosive. Doesn’t ask, ‘Anybody know how much cyanide it takes to kill someone?’ People remember those questions. He doesn’t Google ‘how to kill your boss’ so his hard drive has a history of murder tips. If he does, he uses someone else’s computer or knows how to erase his seven times so computer forensics can’t recover it. If he prints hard copy, he burns it, doesn’t put it out in his trash. Doesn’t stand in front of surveillance cameras at the department store where he buys a pickax.”

“He knows how you think as well as you know how he’d think, right?”

“Detectives peel away layers of lies to find the truth buried beneath. A smart killer creates the illusion he didn’t do it. He makes sure no evidence points to him and some evidence points elsewhere.”

“Like the fingerprints?”

“Nearly worked. But he also raises suspicions. This investigation’s like walking through a circus fun house. You see a lot, but it’s distorted. We have to get past the deception to see things as they really are.”

“You’re a truth seeker,” Clarence said. “And truth seekers have open minds?”

“Sure. It’s not enough to know somebody’s lying. Many people lie. We need to know why they’re lying. Sherlock Holmes said people lie for three reasons: to gain, to cover, or to protect. So what’s your friend Karl Baylor hoping to gain by his lies? Who’s he covering? Who’s he protecting? My guess? Just himself.”

W
EDNESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
18, 7:00
P.M
.

The homicide detail gathered for a reception at the Heathman Hotel in downtown Portland. Sergeant Seymour kicked it off by saying, “Things have been tense lately. We got permission from the captain to use some budgeted funds for this party. No offense intended in not inviting spouses, but we thought we needed some positive time just for the team. We’ve got crab cakes, deli cheeses, baked breads, Greek salad, cheesecakes, and blackberry pie. You’re off duty, and we’ve got your favorite drinks. Karl and Tommi are the up team, so there’s water and coffee and pop for them. Everybody else, drink up!”