Deception (49 page)

I checked statistics. There’s a much higher rate of suicide by hanging among men than women. Still, it happens.

I was just about to close Melissa’s file when my eyes fell on a red scribble. It was probably just the slip of a pen, but it was enough to draw my attention to something else: the date. The report had been filed on November 21. Melissa’s date of death was November 20.

I looked again at the estimated time of death. A neighbor had heard a noise, which in retrospect was probably when she hung herself. She’d died just after 11:35 p.m.

Melissa Glissan died exactly ten years before the professor.

Not just ten years to the day, but to the hour.

Likely, to the minute.

52

“There are limits, you see, to our friend’s intelligence. It would have been a coup-mattre had he deduced what I would deduce and acted accordingly.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
F
INAL
P
ROBLEM

F
RIDAY
, J
ANUARY
10, 3:00
P.M
.

I
DROPPED
BY
JACK’S
DESK
, and we small talked. He mentioned Linda would be out all night at a get-together with old college roommates in Corvallis, ninety minutes away. He and Noel were going to a Winterhawks game after dinner.

Jack left at 4:30. I called Carp and asked if I could borrow her car. When I came by, I also asked if she could doctor up a couple photos for me. When I showed her what I wanted, she smiled. But didn’t ask questions. I like that.

At 6:25 p.m. I sat in Carp’s silver Subaru Impreza, across the street from the Nine Daggers Tavern near 39th and Belmont. My Taurus slicktop wouldn’t stick out to most people, but cops notice cars. Carp’s car was cleaner than most operating rooms, and since she’d seen the archaeological dig in my car, she asked me not to eat in it. Where are you supposed to eat dinner if not in a car? But I promised.

With the help of my ProStaff binoculars, I watched Jack and Noel eat dinner, looking like father and son. It took me back to when Jack was my partner, and we’d come weekly to the Nine Daggers. We had a ritual. After arresting a killer, one month later we’d down a bottle of wine, our toast to taking out the bad guy. In a few cases we celebrated annually. I still remembered Harvey Blanda, April 11, and Theda Pranke, July 27.

Jack always made it interesting. He made it seem like we were doing something that mattered. If Sharon were still alive, we’d be with Jack and Linda every week, like the old days.

I felt like a louse tailing Jack. I didn’t know what I was looking for.

After dinner they got in Jack’s car and drove away, I assumed to the hockey game. I headed the other direction.

When I broke into Jack Glissan’s house that night, it felt creepy. I’d remembered that Jack and Linda had left Melissa’s room as it was. Some visit a gravesite. Some bring the ashes into their home. They kept the room as it was. A shrine. Every day it reminded them of Melissa’s life … and death.

Sharon kept Chad’s favorite little gray sweatpants and white muscle shirt. Every time I saw it, it cut my heart. It also made me think about the guy who rear-ended us. If Jack and Linda blamed anyone for Melissa’s death, her room might have kept that anger alive.

I shone my flashlight, close range, around Melissa’s room. I recalled Jack and I coming in there with her and Kendra when they were grade-schoolers. The only time I remembered being in Melissa’s room after her death was with Sharon. Linda showed us around, like a curator, making speeches about various items in the room. I thought there had been a journal or a diary and maybe a photo album.

In Melissa’s top dresser drawer, I found her scrapbook. What interested me most were the last three months of her junior year of college, preceding her suicide. Three photos had been removed. Why?

I snuck into Jack’s office. I went through his desk drawers, checking files with the flashlight. In the lower right drawer I found one called “Melissa’s Case.”

I opened it, disappointed to see only two photos, glossies that reflected too much of the flashlight. I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light. One picture was of a man holding a hardbound book, appearing to read from it. The book was red. On the cover I saw several words, one of them “Poems.”

The man was Professor William Palatine.

The other picture was of the professor with two young women. I knew instantly I’d seen it, or rather a low-quality replica of it, in Carp’s office. This photo had been visible on the fireplace mantel, in the photo that cost me fifty Starbucks.

It was a clear photograph of Melissa Glissan and Kendra Chandler, but the left third of the photo had been cut off. The professor was gone.

I heard a noise. In a microsecond I switched off the light.

I stood still in the darkness, hoping no one had seen the light in the door crack. I thought of crawling into the bathtub and hiding behind the shower curtain, but I didn’t want to risk the noise. Suddenly the door flew open and the light streamed on.

I was looking down the barrel of a gun.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Detective Ollie Chandler,” I said. “Jack’s friend. Who are you?”

“Jack’s brother.”

“Warren?”

We’d met two or three times, but it had been years.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice edgy.

“Want to see my ID?” I said. Never reach for your pocket without permission when a nervous man is pointing a gun at your face.

“I remember,” he said. “You’re the dopey one.”

It’s good to be remembered.

“That’s me.”

If I was Dopey, he was Grumpy. I was hoping the other dwarves weren’t with him.

“Could you lower the gun, please?”

“I asked what you’re doing here.”

“I have a good reason,” I said. “I’ll explain. What are
you
doing here?”

“Visiting from Redding. Linda’s gone, and Jack’s at a hockey game. I hate hockey. Had dinner with an old friend; now I’m back. What’s your story?”

“We’re planning a party to honor Jack for forty years on the detective force,” I said, holding up three pictures.

“You stealing from Jack?”

“Not stealing. Planting.” I handed him the pictures. “It’s a prank. Fake photos of him arresting celebrities. Look here—he’s with Lucille Ball. This one’s with Frank Sinatra. See we’re rubbing it in that he’s been around long enough to have dealt with those people. Funny, huh? We’re all going to come back to his office, and I’ll pull out this stack that I was just going to hide up there in his closet. I’m a prankster. You know, the dopey one. I was just planting them when I heard a noise. Afraid it was Jack, so I hid in the bathroom. You can’t let Jack know, okay? It’s a surprise.”

“When’s the party?”

“Soon. Real soon. I’d love to invite you, but it’s just the detectives. After the party’s over, he’ll tell you all about it. I’m not sure even Linda knows. One of the wives is pulling it off, maybe.”

He put down his gun, looking at the photos. He smiled. “Where’d you get these made?”

“My friend’s a professional photographer. She does miracles with Photoshop.”

“There had to be a better way to do this than breaking in,” Grumpy said.

“I figured if anybody caught me, it’d be Jack. We’d get a good laugh out of it.”

“If he didn’t shoot you first,” Warren said. “You’re lucky I know how to handle a gun.”

We moved down the hall. “Just let me put the pictures up here.” I slid them under an old Kodak slide tray on the upper closet shelf. “All right, I’m going now. Good thing I’m a cop and you know I’m his friend, huh? Don’t say anything until after his party, okay?”

He nodded like an insider. “Can you get me a copy of the one with Jack and Frank Sinatra?”

“Sure,” I said.

As we walked to the front door, I pointed to a family photo, Jack and Linda and Melissa. “Must be tough to lose a child like that.”

“Yeah,” he said, as he opened the door and stepped out behind me.

His voice was ice-cold. Under the porch light, what I saw on his face wasn’t grief or hurt. It was rage.

When I got to the car, I pulled out of my coat pocket the photograph of Melissa and Kendra and put it under the flashlight.

I put myself in Jack’s place. If Kendra had committed suicide and I had a few miscellaneous pictures, what would I do with them? Why put it in a file? And if I did, I wouldn’t call it “Kendra’s Case.” Because “case” is a murder I’m investigating.

Was that what “Melissa’s Case” meant to Jack? If so, why did he have this picture of Melissa and Kendra? And why was the professor cut out? Was this a huge coincidence—or was this the actual photo taken from the crime scene and now defaced? If so, did that mean Jack was the murderer?

On my way home I called Carp. “Thanks for the pictures of Jack and the celebrities. Thought it wouldn’t be necessary, but they saved my bacon.”

“Speaking of bacon,” she said, “there’s a new place on Third and Ash called McGraw’s Outlaw Barbecue. Supposedly they have killer ribs wrapped in bacon. Meet me there for lunch tomorrow, 11:45?”

“Sure,” I said.

What a woman.

I called Tommi and asked if she might put together a party for Jack for his years of service. I suggested she talk to Linda and see if it could be at Jack’s so we could see his memorabilia.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Tommi said. “Didn’t you read the e-mails?”

“I’m not always good with e-mails. Especially attachments.”

She laughed. “Sarge felt bad about not having a detectives New Year’s party with everything that’s happened. Only a few of us were at the chief’s. With Brandon’s death, they decided to honor him. It’s not exactly a party, obviously, but it’s a get-together. And it’s at Jack and Linda’s tomorrow night! You knew that, right? You’re just kidding me. Anyway, I’m sure we could honor Jack too. That’s a great idea.”

“Should have read my e-mail. Could have helped in a conversation I had twenty minutes ago.”

“Hey, Ollie? I think it’s sweet that you’re being so sensitive to Jack. How many men would be thoughtful enough to suggest we all get together and honor him like that?”

“Sometimes you women underestimate us men. We’re a lot more sensitive than you give us credit for.”

“You’re right,” Tommi said. “I really owe you an apology.”

53

“It is a question of cubic capacity
.

A man with so large a brain must have something in it.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
A
DVENTURE OF THE
B
LUE CARBUNCLE

S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
11, 7:00
P.M
.

IN
LIGHT
OF
BRANDON’S
DEATH
and Jack being honored, Chief Lennox came to the get-together.

Well, whoop-de-do.

Lennox invited Clarence, hoping he’d put a good spin on the camaraderie of the detectives in this tragic time. The chief came prepared, makeup and all.

We all dressed up, rare for this group. I wore my old blue sport coat. Sharon hated that coat, which was perfect because she never nagged me to wear it.

I wasn’t going to ruin Jack’s party. He’d served honorably forty years. Until he’d murdered a man. Apparently more than one. Including Phillips.

“As you know,” Sarge said, “this gathering hasn’t been on the calendar long. With Brandon’s death, we considered canceling it. But it seemed like we needed another chance to connect. Brandon’s funeral’s Monday, and we’ll honor him there, but we could … think about him now.

“Brandon was a fine cop. An outstanding detective. And a good man. We already miss him. Let’s bow our heads in silence a minute, in tribute to our comrade—and to our commitment to find his killer.”

That minute of silence felt like five. After some told stories about Phillips, we switched gears to honor the living, Jack Glissan, for forty years of service.

Captain Swiridoff said, “Brandon Phillips would have been the first to join us in tribute to a man he deeply respected, Jack Glissan.”

Those words hit me like a harpoon through a lung.

He presented a trophy, a pretty cool-looking one. It was a pewter Sherlock Holmes, with a deerstalker cap and a drop-stem pipe.

Lieutenant Nicks said, “Jack Glissan’s the finest detective I’ve ever known.” After a long pause he added, “present company excepted.” There were a few laughs.

I noticed Chief Lennox looking down through his reading glasses at notes, mouthing words.

Sarge said, “Anybody got some stories about Jack?”

Tommi told a funny stakeout story about working with Jack as a first-year detective. They even got Cimma to tell a story where Jack rescued him out of a sewer.

“Jack’s been a partner and a friend, like family to me,” Noel said.

Tommi teared up and Noel teared up and a couple of us made fun of him, as we men like to do to help get us through tender moments.

Abruptly, the chief strode across the front of the room and turned to address us, like he was Patton and we were his army.

“In the toughest of times, Jack Glissan has been a model Portland detective. He’s a man of integrity. A champion of justice. He’s a role model. He’s the face not only of this department, but of our Portland Police.”

Clarence was writing down every word. I wondered if the words were forming themselves into a noose, since Lennox would be quoted on the front page when Jack Glissan went down.

“When he retires, his loss will be deeply felt. I hope we’ll have him several more years at least.” The chief hit stride saying, “Jack Glissan is as good as gold. He does his job rain or shine. He pulls out the stops in his defense of justice. He’s fit as a fiddle …”

“Hard as nails,” Suda whispered.

“A force to be reckoned with,” I muttered.

“White as a ghost,” Clarence said.

“Up a creek without a paddle,” I said, my double meaning unknown.

“He whispers sweet nothings in my ear.”

I turned. It was Linda Glissan, two drinks in hand, headed back to Jack.

“Sorry,” I said.

“We’re on the same page,” Linda said, smiling. “Jack and I are going to get some laughs out of this.”

The chief droned on. “These have been the times that try men’s souls. The eye of accusation has been turned upon this detective department. This is the price we pay for working on the front lines. I’m confident the reputation of this detective department, and of the Portland Police, will come out unscathed. And we can salute Jack Glissan as a man we’re all proud to have represent us.”

He spoke as if to thousands, as in a capitol rotunda, way too loud and emphatic for a living room. Applause was polite but restrained.

Sarge stood. “Before we eat, any more tributes to Jack?”

Eyes fell on me.

“Jack’s been a great detective,” I said. “I consider myself privileged to have been his friend.”

“There’s plenty to eat,” Linda said, saving me. “The department paid for the food and drinks, so make yourselves at home. And fill your pockets when you leave.”

While Jack was pumping hands, I took my drink and sat in the back hallway, leaning against the wall. I looked at the doorway to Jack’s office. He used to have foosball in there. We’d spent hours battling while Linda and Sharon talked in the living room.

I considered whether to pull out those pictures of him arresting Lucille Ball and Frank Sinatra. No. It was pointless now.

A familiar voice said, “I noticed your wording. Jack’s
been
a great detective. I consider myself privileged to
have been
his friend.”

“I do,” I said, looking up at Jack.

“But you didn’t say ‘I consider myself privileged to
be
his friend.’ ”

He had a wineglass in his hand.

“Special occasion,” he said. “I told them to take every ounce of it out of the house when the party’s over so Linda doesn’t have to look at it.” He took a gulp. “How’s the investigation?”

“Now’s not the time. It’s a party. We’re honoring you.”

“May as well just say it, old buddy.”

“Okay. I know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“About Melissa. And Palatine. And what you did.”

I pulled a replica of the sliced picture of Melissa and Kendra from my sport coat pocket and showed it to Jack. He stared at it, nodding. His face turned stormy for a moment. Then his eyes got wet.

“Know what it’s like to lose your child? Sorry. I know you do. But Melissa was my only child. My little girl. At least you still have Kendra. And Andrea maybe. Every day I see Melissa’s face, the color of eggplant, hanging there. I see the rope around her neck. Knowing what I knew about the professor, what would you have done?”

“I understand why it bothered you to see your daughter’s picture on his mantel,” I said. “I can see why you’d want to remove it. But why didn’t you destroy it? You knew I was looking for it.”

“Ever try to destroy your daughter’s picture?”

“No.”

“I didn’t expect you to break into my house and steal it. Not even a warrant? We used to be friends.”

“Weren’t you the one who always said, ‘Follow the evidence’?”

“My mistake,” he said, mustering a faint smile.

“It looks like a few different fingerprints on the photo. I turned it in. Yeah, even without a warrant. This is a copy. I’m guessing we’ve got your prints and some of the professor’s. Not like you to slip up.”

He shrugged. “You do things differently when it’s your daughter. Maybe part of you knows you’re wrong, and you need to give fate a fair chance of catching you.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I don’t believe in anything. Not since Melissa died. There’s no justice. There’s just us.”

It sounded chilling when Jack said it.

I turned to him. “Do I have to build the case, or will you admit you killed him?”

He looked like a three-legged rat in a gallon of motor oil.

“What about your alibi?” I asked. “I can see Linda lying to protect you. But Phillips? Why?”

“Phillips didn’t lie for me. I lied for him.”

“You lost me.”

“Phillips begged me to give him an alibi.”

“You’re saying … he killed the professor?”

“He asked me what I’d been doing that night. I told him I was home with Linda. He was with another woman. Cheating on Sheila. He’d told her he was out working on a case. His alibi for the Palatine murder was the other woman. But he couldn’t say that or Sheila would find him out. He asked if I’d say he was with me and Linda.”

“So Phillips thought you were lying to give him an alibi … when he was providing one for you.”

“I had Linda. He thought I was doing him this big favor.” Jack shook his head and sighed.

“And then … Phillips grew a conscience? You knew he was going to tell me he’d lied? Which meant you’d lied. That’s why you killed him?”

“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he said lifelessly. “Don’t be hard on Linda. She didn’t know what I’d done. She goes to bed at ten, out like a light. I stay up till one. She lied about coming downstairs at 11:30 because I asked her to protect Phillips. I never told her why. Sheila’s her friend.”

I nodded, not feeling the usual adrenaline rush at cornering a killer.

“Have you thought about the irony that Kendra’s in that picture with Melissa?” Jack asked. “We were friends then. They were friends. It could’ve been your daughter. What if the professor had seduced Kendra? What if she’d taken her life?”

“Then I’d have beaten the livin’ tar out of him. And if I killed him, you’d be coming after me.”

“Maybe I would,” Jack said.

“But killing Phillips? I thought I knew you better than that.”

“It’s been a long time since you knew me, Ollie. When a man takes your daughter away, you can’t get past it. Some sins can’t be forgiven.”

“It’s been ten years.”

“It’s been simmering ten years. Finally it boiled over.”

“But he didn’t actually kill her.”

“Sure he did. He seduced her; then he moved on and rejected her. She couldn’t get over him, couldn’t deal with the shame. She started taking drugs to numb the pain. Can you imagine that?”

“Yeah. I can.”

“Finally she shut everybody out and killed herself. Her roommate knew about Palatine. I called around at the college assuming we could at least get him fired. I filed a complaint. They looked into it, said he denied it. No proof. No justice.”

“Frederick, Hedstrom, and Phillips didn’t hurt Melissa.”

Jack stared into the hallway’s dark shadows.

“Why play games at the crime scene?”

He slid down beside me, sitting on the floor. Our shoulders touched.

“It all meant something. The ink—love letters he wrote her. The noose—the way she killed herself. The insulin—her condition that gave her mood swings, made her more susceptible to depression.”

“What triggered it? The ten-year anniversary of her death?

“It was the
Tribune.”

“What do you mean?”

“Five or six months ago, there’s this article about the professor getting an award—Teacher of the Year. There’s a picture with two starry-eyed girls, students. One of them was looking at him, and I just got the feeling she was about to be another conquest, like Melissa. I couldn’t handle it. Something snapped. I thought,
This guy deserves the death penalty for what he did to my daughter. And he’s messing with other guys’ daughters?
And he’s not just getting away with it. He’s getting awards. But what put me over is that this article came out on Melissa’s birthday.”

“June 12,” I said, remembering the conversation with Carp.

“It was that picture in the
Trib
that made me want to go after him. If not for him, she’d still be alive. If not for the
Trib
, he’d still be alive. I realized the tenth anniversary of her death was only five months away. I decided to wait.”

“But if the date was preset, that means you only had a one in five chance of investigating the case yourself.”

“I figured if we got the case, it was destiny saying I’d get away with it. If one of the other four teams got it, I’d see what happened. I’d make it a fair fight. You got the call instead of us. Ironic since the professor died first. If someone had called 911 within an hour, or the second victim had been stabbed instead of shot and not discovered until later, Palatine would have been found first, and I’d have investigated the case. Piece of cake.”

I stared at my old friend. Something he’d said kept going through my mind.
Some sins can’t be forgiven
.

“I need to talk to Linda,” Jack said.

“Did Noel know about it?”

“Noel? I’d never drag that boy into it. I made sure he knew nothing. This was between me and the professor. Noel’s young. He’s got a life in front of him. I talk to Noel about nearly everything, but never Melissa. That was private. Between me and Linda. Between me and … Palatine.”

Jack picked up a drink he’d set aside. He extended his arm as if to make a toast to someone invisible.

“You’re going to arrest me,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Can we wait until after the party?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“I know.” He put his hand on my knee.

We leaned against the wall next to each other, me and my old buddy, like two little boys figuring out what to do on a rainy day. The best partner I’d ever had. Why couldn’t it have been Cimmatoni or Baylor or Suda … any of them? Why did it have to be Jack?

“Tell Noel I’m sorry,” Jack said. “He’ll feel … left out. He’d follow me to Mars. But I didn’t want him to.”

“What are you guys doing on the floor?” Linda leaned down and kissed Jack.

“We need to talk,” Jack said, standing.

“Slip away during the party? Sounds romantic.”

“In my office.”

“But … we have guests.”

He took Linda’s hand and led her into his office. For twenty-seven minutes I watched the door, warding off people who periodically came asking, “Where’s the man of honor? Where’s Linda? We’re low on hors d’oeuvres.”