Due Justice (31 page)

Physical examinations of Einstein's brain have been going on since it was retained for study after his death.

Goal setting and visualization are now de rigueur not only for athletes, but for salesmen, doctors, even day care providers.

Our popular culture has intuitively believed that attitude can cure cancer, although it's never been proved.

Imagine the impact on all of society if Morgan's theory had been proved by the scientific method. This would not only be The Silicone Solution, it could be the beginning of a solution to all illness and all achievement.

Man could truly control his own destiny. It would stir more moral debate than cloning, put physicians out of business, cause the gross national product to soar.

And the theory would make the scientist who popularized it immortal as well as rich.

Morgan's solution was so simple that, like the concept of ulcers caused by virus, and colds caused by germs, it would take years before the world would accept it. It would be controversial and next to impossible to prove empirically.

But Robin was right, too. Morgan's theory wouldn't end implant litigation. Too many had too much at stake for that.

No.

The Silicone Solution itself was worth killing for, but it just didn't feel right to me.

Trust your intuition, Kate says.

Greed is a common motive for murder, sure. But this murder was powered by passion.

Before removing the disk from the computer I looked at its directory structure and tried to decipher it.

Everybody has their own way of naming computer files, and some of his I could figure out.

“Rpt.dr1,” “Rpt.dr2,” were easy: drafts of his reports.

“Cronin.pat” and “mem.pat” were a little tougher, but when I called them up on the screen, they turned out to be lists of patients participating in Morgan's study who had received Cronin and MEM type implants. “Cronin.rup” and other similar files contained data on patients who claimed their Cronin type implants ruptured, and so on.

I examined the entire disk, reviewed files I couldn't figure out by their names. Everything was related to his report, and once I figured out Morgan's system, I would normally have skipped the rest.

But I decided to be thorough rather than impatient, just this one time.

As much as I like to believe in divine insight, or brilliant flashes of genius, I'm sorry to report that thorough, like slow and steady, wins the race.

Eventually, neck screaming through tense muscles, I found it. Buried in the sub directory containing files labeled “.pay”: A list of women who had paid Morgan, amounts paid, and when. His very own accounts receivable list.

The total was staggering: enough to pay Frank Johnson's blackmail and then some.

Most of the women in town old enough to have known Morgan in the biblical sense were listed.

The amounts didn't seem reflective of net worth; had they paid more or less depending on how valuable silence was to them?

Some had paid only a few hundred dollars once. Others had paid installments for longer than home mortgages amortized. For some, Morgan's blackmail scheme seemed to be as perpetual as Foucault's pendulum as long as he was alive to collect it. I doubt it could be an asset of his estate. That is, unless someone planned to take up where Morgan left off.

I copied the disk twice for safety; hid the original and one copy in my locked box of discs.

Then, I erased the “pay” files from the copy I put in my pocket to give Chief Hathaway.

No reason to splash these names all over the
Times
. If Tory Warwick, Carolyn Young, Cilla Worthington and even Kate had paid to keep their affairs with Morgan quiet and never complained, I couldn't see that any valid purpose would be served by disclosing their business now.

The amounts each paid were curious, though. You'd think one of the wealthier women would have been the biggest contributor.

Still, his biggest depositor must have hated him for years as he slowly drove her into poverty. I could imagine her rage, her embarrassment, the scandal of it all.

I'd been right.

This was a murder of passion.

But how to prove it, that was the question.

As I walked out of the study, the house phone rang again. I figured it would be Frank, no longer content to talk to the answering machine, like he had the last three times he called.

“Willa Carson here,” I said.

“Chief Hathaway is here to see you,” the downstairs hostess said.

“Send him up, please.”

I went out to the veranda to get George and checked on Carly. Unbelievably, she was still sleeping.

Hathaway sat in what George had begun calling “the Hathaway chair.” He came right to the point.

“We released Christian Grover. Not enough evidence to charge him with murder or blackmail,” he said. “We'll keep looking.”

“Of course,” George said.

Hathaway asked, “Have you found Carly Austin?”

Bad timing. The words were barely out of his mouth when she walked into the room. Hathaway flashed a glare my way. We might all find ourselves in trouble if we were hiding suspects.

“We might be able to help you there, Chief,” George told him, dryly.

When you're caught with your hand in the cookie jar, it doesn't help to claim you're looking for the vacuum cleaner.

I said, “It seems Carly has been hiding at Christian Grover's house because she believes she saw the man who murdered Michael Morgan.”

Braced myself for the explosion, but it didn't happen.

Maybe Grover had said something to get his own ass out of trouble, or maybe the chief just took one look at Carly and realized that she could never have completed the coverup alone. Surely he considered whether she and Grover did it together. Two people could have managed it. Morgan wasn't that big.

Before Hathaway could get too worked up, George said, “Why don't you tell the chief who killed Morgan and how you know that, Carly.”

And she did.

When she finished, I provided the disk in my pocket, along with a short summary of its contents.

Neither George nor I believed her conclusions but neither one of us said Carly was wrong.

Carly saw O'Connell at Morgan's house that night. But O'Connell didn't kill Morgan; he was there to help the killer dispose of the body.

Ben permitted Carly to leave. I've seen slower moving jets than her exit. True love was a powerful motivator, I thought sourly.

We brewed more coffee; I laid out my plan and they both liked it.

We agreed to implement tomorrow.

I didn't promise my plan would draw a valid confession, although both O'Connell and I knew who had killed Morgan.

My arrogance, and too much television, made me believe that under pressure he would name a killer who would never be charged otherwise.

If I hadn't been so tired I'd have recalled his
elan
since the murder. Maybe then I'd have avoided the horrible final scene.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Tampa, Florida

Monday 5:30 p.m.

January 25, 1999

I SET IT UP carefully. I'd be spending half an hour alone with a nasty tempered man who was an accessory to murder.

I don't know whether it's easier to kill when you've got nothing more to lose, but I wasn't interested in testing the hypothesis.

Unlike Dr. Morgan, I've never had the patience for science.

My clerk scheduled our meeting for 5:30, after the trial day. My bailiff would be close by. Security in Federal Buildings is tight since the Oklahoma City bombing. I was sure he wouldn't be able to bring in a gun or a knife, and I also thought I could probably take him if I didn't let him sneak up behind me again. Long enough for the bailiff to arrive, anyway.

Belt and suspenders: I scheduled Ben Hathaway for 5:45. Clever, eh? That's why they pay me the big bucks.

O'Connell arrived ten minutes early. I made him wait five minutes past his appointment time before I allowed my secretary show him in. Business as usual.

When he walked in, he looked around the room as if he was expecting someone else to be there.

I said, “O'Connell, please, sit down.”

Waved toward one of the green leather chairs. I didn't need the elevated platform under my desk to enable me to tower over the normally nervous chair inhabitants. But I occupied the office my predecessor had decorated it. He was only about five feet tall, and I'm sure you've got your own ideas about little men with a little power.

In this instance, though, I confess that I felt more confident being a foot taller than I otherwise am.

O'Connell looked up at me from his chair. It put him a little more off balance, unsure.

“Judge Carson.” He nodded.

Was he that cool, or reverting to forty years of training?

He said, “Good of you to see me. What can I do for you?”

Smooth.

But I had no intention of allowing him to take over this time.

Put two people in a room who are used to having complete control over their lives sometime and watch what happens. It's a little like two male lions in the same cage. Right now we were circling. He watched for clues.

He hadn't dared to ignore my “invitation” with a case currently in trial in my courtroom. But he wanted to know why I'd summoned him here and he wouldn't ask twice.

I let him simmer a while longer. “Excuse me one minute while I review this order, O'Connell. I'll be right with you.”

One of my former partners used to sit in a room with one other occupant in complete silence. Nature abhors a vacuum, he would say. Pretty soon, most people will talk to fill up the silence. O'Connell Worthington was too old and too crafty a player to chatter without purpose. But the silence worked its magic. He began to perspire; a little damp above his upper lip, but it was definitely there.

“Too warm in here for you, O'Connell?” I asked him, letting him know I'd noticed.

“I'm fine, Judge. Thank you.”

He clearly wasn't fine.

I was winning round one, and we both knew it.

“O'Connell, I asked you here because I need a little advice.” I said, after ten more minutes of silence, putting the order I'd been revising to one side.

He crossed his legs and put his arms on the chair's arms. Giving advice was a role he was all too familiar and comfortable with; I sensed him relax.

I said, “I heard something and I'm wondering how I should handle it. I thought you might be able to help me.”

Ah, the irresistible damsel in distress.

“I'd be delighted to help you in any way I can, Wilhelmina. What is it?” Gallant, chivalrous O'Connell asked me.

He smiled.

He struggled to look normal.

But he wasn't.

I looked directly into his eyes. “I know who killed Michael Morgan.”

What had I expected? Tears? A breakdown?

His poker face was perfect. Not a twitch.

He didn't say anything.

He seemed unconcerned about whether I knew who the killer was; calculating whether I could prove it.

Lawyers know: if you can't prove it, it didn't happen.

A fine sheen of perspiration now covered his face.

I kept silent, waiting him out.

After a while he cleared his throat and said, “Are you sure?”

Up until that moment, some part of me had doubted Carly's word, doubted Morgan's blackmail story, doubted those damn pictures on the piano.

I wanted O'Connell Worthington to be what I had thought he was. An honorable gentleman, an ethical lawyer with a lovely wife and beautiful family.

Like I'd told Carly, some “perfect” lives only seem that way to outsiders.

Now I knew O'Connell was none of the things I had believed him to be, and it saddened me more than I'd expected.

He
was
at Morgan's house that night. He
did
put the gun in his pocket, and he
was
driving a large, dark sedan. I could feel it. This time, Carly was right.

But I was also right: he wasn't a killer. He couldn't be. My judgment just couldn't be that wrong. Again.

I said, “Yes, I'm sure. I've had testimony from an eye witness.”

“Who's the witness? Are you sure he's credible?”

“She. I believe her; and I've had quite a bit of experience with prevaricators.”

I'd kept a steady eye on him as we talked.

He'd started to squirm, but you'd have to know O'Connell to notice it.