No Place to Die (16 page)

He shook his head. Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “None. At least not until last fall. Shit, you know how it is, Sean. By the time McClain finally came to trial, Quigly and I were already several cases down the line with new ones comin’ in every week. We stopped long enough to accept the pats on the back we thought we deserved and then went on to other business and forgot all about Carl McClain.”

“I can sure as hell understand that,” I conceded.

“Damn right,” he said, somewhat defensively. Shaking his head, he said, “Ever since I read about the pimp
confessing, I’ve been waiting for the shit to start raining down, but we did it by the book, Sean.

“At the time, two or three people alibied Woolsey. His other girls claimed that they didn’t know anybody who would have had a reason to kill Kelly, and none of them suggested that there was any trouble between her and the pimp. Apparently, even Bambi didn’t know that Kelly was holding out on him—or at least she didn’t admit to knowing it, and so we had no reason to look at him.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” I agreed.

The conversation paused and I said, “Do you have any idea where Quigly is these days?”

Miller pointed north. “Montana somewhere, that is if he’s not dead by now. He took his pension three or four years after the McClain case and got the hell out of the desert. Said he’d rather shovel snow and freeze his ass off than spend another summer frying down here. Why do you ask—you gonna talk to him too?”

“No point.” I shrugged. “We’re warning everybody who was associated with the McClain case that he’s out, apparently looking for revenge. But if Quigly’s hidden away somewhere in Montana, he’s probably not a likely target.”

“And I am, I suppose?”

“I’d certainly think so, Mike,” I sighed. “I can’t believe that the guy intends to stop with a couple of jurors and his defense attorney. If he blames her for what happened, you gotta think he’s pretty pissed at you too.”

“No doubt,” he agreed.

He thought about that for a few minutes, then said, “You got a recent photo?”

“About seven months old. We’ve given it to the media. I’d imagine it’s on the air by now.”

“I’ll take a look,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ve still got a permit to carry, so if he does come after me, I’ll be ready.”

Miller walked me back out through the garage, and again I admired the Mustang. As we stood in the driveway, he said, “So what’s it like, workin’ with a girl?”

“Shit, Mike,” I laughed, “if Maggie heard you say that, she’d hand you your fuckin’ lunch. The woman’s tougher than you are, and the mouth on her would make you sound like an altar boy.”

He arched his eyebrows, and I said, “Seriously, Mike, she’s a damn good detective and she more than holds her own in the unit. It’s not like the old days, working with you, of course, but it’s a helluva big improvement over being saddled with Snyder.”

“Yeah, well, working with Homer Simpson would be an improvement over Snyder,” he conceded. “So, you gonna catch this bastard, Sean?”

“I hope so,” I said, getting into my Chevy. “But in the meantime, be careful Mike—I mean it. This cocksucker is serious.”

“I get the message,” he replied. “So you and your tough new partner get out there and find him.”

Leaning on the door of my car, he looked up and down the street as if evaluating his defensive perimeter. Then, looking back to me, he said, “What the hell do you suppose the bastard did with Thompson?”

“God only knows,” I sighed. “On the plus side, we haven’t found her body yet, which may mean that she’s still alive. But if she is, that may not be so good, either.”

“Yeah, I get your meaning.”

He tapped the roof of the car a couple of times and then said, “Okay, Richardson, get on it, just like I showed you how. And don’t be such a stranger.”

Beverly was lying awake on the bed when she heard McClain’s key in the lock a little after noon. She sat up and watched apprehensively as he opened the door, wondering what sort of mood he’d be in. After seeming to soften a bit during dinner the night before, he’d left the house and returned an hour later, apparently furious.

Beverly had no idea what might have set him off. She was sure that she hadn’t done anything to upset him, but he’d burst into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Without saying a word, he’d stripped off his clothes and dropped them onto the floor. Then, moving very deliberately, he had picked Beverly up from the chair where she’d been sitting at the card table and thrown her onto the bed.

She’d pleaded with him, begging him to tell her what was wrong, but he’d refused to make any response. Straddling her on the bed, he ripped her blouse off, sending the buttons scattering across the floor of the room. Then he tore off her bra and her skirt and raped her more violently than at any time since the night he’d abducted her. When he was finished, he’d left her sobbing on the bed, snatched up his clothes, and left the room again, slamming the door behind him. Through the entire ordeal, he’d not spoken a single word.

A couple of hours later, he’d come back into the room, obviously drunk. It was the first time Beverly had known him to drink anything, save for the beer he’d
consumed with the chicken dinner. He fell onto the bed beside her, then reached out to pull her to him. She pushed herself away and got off of the bed. McClain reached out in her direction, then let his arm fall limply onto the bed. “Aw, fuck it,” he said, and then passed out.

Beverly lay awake through most of the night watching him sleep, speculating about what might have caused his behavior to change so dramatically from the early evening and trying to calculate how she should react to it. Finally, she’d fallen asleep herself, and when she’d awakened about seven thirty in the morning, McClain was no longer in the room.

He returned a little after eight, still quiet, but apparently no longer angry. Avoiding any eye contact with Beverly, he set her breakfast on the card table, leaving the box of granola along with it. He left the room for a minute again, then returned with a clean white long-sleeve shirt. He draped the shirt over the back of one of the chairs. Without looking at Beverly, he pointed at the box of cereal. “I should be back with lunch a little after noon, but if you get hungry…”

Leaving the sentence unfinished, he had turned, left the room, and locked the door behind him. Beverly watched him go, unable to fathom what he might be thinking. Finally, she got up from the bed and showered. Her own clothes were completely ruined, and so she’d put on the shirt he had left and then had eaten her breakfast.

Now, as she watched him come into the room, she sensed that the fury of last night had passed, at least for the moment. McClain set two Subway bags on the card table and looked directly at her for the first time today. Then, looking quickly away again, he said, “Lunch is ready if you are.”

She watched as he set two sandwiches and two drinks on the card table. Then he crumpled up the
bags and set them on the floor beside him. Saying nothing, Beverly got up from the bed and sat down across from him.

“There’s one tuna salad and one turkey,” he said. “You can take your pick.”

She looked at him, waiting until he raised his eyes to meet hers. “Either’s fine with me,” she replied. “Really. If you have a preference, take it.”

McClain shrugged and reached for the tuna salad. They unwrapped their sandwiches and ate quietly for several minutes. McClain seemed lost in thought. There was almost a contrite air about him, and he continued to look practically anywhere except directly at Beverly. Finally, she set down her sandwich and broke the silence. In a quiet voice, she said, “I’m sorry, but could I ask a favor?”

McClain set his sandwich on the table and picked up his soft drink. Looking at her across the top of the cup, he said, “What?”

“Well, it’s just…I was wondering if you’d mind bringing me something to wear? My own clothes…”

Looking away, she hesitated for a couple of seconds and then looked back at him. “If you could get me a couple of T-shirts, and maybe a pair of sweatpants or something—just so that I’d have something to put on. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. You could just go to a Target or someplace like that…”

McClain sat quietly for a moment, apparently mulling it over. Then he sighed and got up. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. He turned and walked out of the room, abandoning his sandwich, half-eaten on the table behind him.

Leaving Mike Miller, I drove through an In-N-Out Burger store and picked up a late lunch. I was eating at my desk and sorting through my message slips when Elaine walked through the door, wearing a new black pants suit. She’d colored her hair again within the last couple of days, and it looked as though this time she’d had the job done professionally.

It suddenly struck me that she’d recently lost a little weight as well, and I wondered if there was a new man in her life that I hadn’t heard about yet. She perched on the desk and helped herself to a French fry.

“Better not let McClinton see you do that,” I cautioned.

“Why?” she taunted. “Would she be upset because I was eating a French fry, or because I was eating one of
your
French fries?”

“Oh, bite me, Elaine.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she laughed.

Quickly changing the subject, I said, “So how are you and Greg coming with your list?”

She finished the French fry and said, “We’ve put together a basic list that includes the judge, the prosecutor, the principal witnesses who testified against McClain, and all of the jurors who served at the trial—or at least the ones who’ve survived so far. And you’ve already talked to the lead detective. So the first thing I came in here to ask you is, how far do we go with this? Who else should we be thinking of here?”

I took a sip of my Coke. “Jesus, Elaine, I’m not sure.
We’ve got no way of knowing who in the hell the guy might have decided to target. It sounds to me like you’ve listed the most obvious possibilities, but to be on the safe side, we should probably have Media Relations amplify their original press release.

“When we gave them McClain’s picture this morning, we simply indicated that he was wanted for questioning in the Fletcher and Collins killings. I guess we’d better go ahead and announce that new information leads us to believe that McClain is trying to settle scores with the people who sent him to prison. That way anybody who was even remotely related to the case will at least have fair warning. I’ll run it by the lieutenant.”

She nodded, swallowing another French fry. “Okay. The second thing I wanted to ask you is, Chickie and I thought it would be better to see as many of the people on the list as we can in person rather than just talking to them over the phone. We’ll want to know if they’ve noticed anyone watching them, if they’ve been getting weird phone calls, and shit like that. Plus, they’ll probably need some hand-holding.”

“Makes sense,” I agreed.

“So do you and McClinton want to take part of the list?”

“Sure. We’ll want to get to these people as quickly as possible, preferably before they hear it on the news and panic.”

“Okay,” she said.

She pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder she’d brought in with her and handed it to me. “Here’s half the list. There were three jurors and one minor witness who disappeared from the local records while McClain was in Lewis. We’re assuming that they simply moved away, but so far at least we’ve got no forwarding addresses.

“Presumably, if we can’t find ’em, McClain can’t
either, but maybe they’ll hear a newscast or read about it in the papers. Otherwise,” she said, pointing to the list, “the addresses and phone numbers are current.”

Taking the sheet of paper, I said, “We’ll get right on it.”

Elaine grabbed the last of the fries, hopped down from the desk, and headed out the door. “Thanks for lunch,” she said.

I walked down the hall and found Maggie at her desk, sorting through her own message slips and eating an apple. I explained the plan of attack and she collected her purse and jacket. After a typically beautiful spring morning, it had turned into a cloudy afternoon, and as we walked out into the parking lot, the sky began spitting rain.

“Oops,” Maggie observed sarcastically. “Rain during the peak of the tourist season. The chamber of commerce will be pissed about that.”

“No doubt,” I agreed.

We had seven names on our list, and I mentally sorted their addresses into an order that would allow us to get to them most efficiently. Doubtless, some of them would be at work or whatever, and we’d have to get back to them in the evening, but this seemed the most logical approach.

Accordingly, the first person we attempted to contact was Byron Patterson. On the list she gave me, Elaine had identified Patterson as an expert witness, but there was no indication as to what he might have testified about.

We arrived at his home to find him taking a set of golf clubs out of the back of an SUV. I parked in the driveway behind him, and Maggie and I hurried out of the rain and into the shelter of the open garage. As we did, Patterson hung the golf bag on a rack that also held a couple of tennis racquets, a serious backpack, and two expensive mountain bikes. Not surprisingly,
Patterson was thin and fit even though he was obviously somewhere in his middle sixties.

Maggie and I introduced ourselves and I told Patterson that we understood that he’d testified at the murder trial of Carl McClain.

“Right,” he said, nodding his head. “I was the one who made the blood-type match between McClain and the semen that was found in the victim’s throat. And,” he said a bit defensively, “even though it now turns out that McClain was innocent, the blood types
did
match.”

“Yes, sir,” Maggie said. “We all understand that the technology back then wasn’t what it is today.”

“No, ma’am,” Patterson agreed, “it certainly wasn’t. But we did the best we could with what we had. So why are you asking about McClain’s trial at this late date? I saw the article in the
Republic
. I know that the mistake was corrected and that McClain was set free.”

“Yes, he was,” I said. “And while he should have been released, of course, unfortunately it looks like he’s come out of the system determined to revenge himself on the people who put him there. Since his release, two of the jurors from his trial have been shot to death, and the woman who served as his public defender has been kidnapped.”

Patterson’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly serious,” Maggie said. “We’re warning everyone who was associated with McClain’s conviction to be on guard.”

“You think he’s coming after me?” Patterson asked anxiously.

“We have no way of knowing that, Mr. Patterson,” I answered. “We only know what he’s apparently done so far, not what he intends to do. We don’t know who else might be on his list.”

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, at a minimum,” I said, “be alert to what’s
going on around you. Don’t open your door to anyone that you don’t recognize. Keep an eye out for unfamiliar vehicles parked in the neighborhood. We think that McClain is driving an older black van, but we don’t know if that’s the only vehicle he’s using. Be alert to anyone who might seem to be following you. Let us know if you get any hang-ups or other odd phone calls. Do you have caller ID?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’d suggest that you make a list of calls that come from numbers you don’t recognize. We presume that McClain must be scouting his targets. If he is watching you, perhaps we can catch him in the act.”

Patterson shook his head. “Jesus, Detective, I don’t know…”

“As an alternative, Mr. Patterson,” Maggie interjected, “if it’s at all possible, you might want to think about leaving town for a few days without letting anyone other than us know where you’re going. We’re mounting an intensive public manhunt for McClain. With any luck, we’ll run him to ground shortly and eliminate the potential threat.”

Patterson nodded slowly. “Well, I suppose we could go visit my brother up in Payson for a couple of days…”

“That might be the safest bet,” I agreed. “But again, if you do notice anyone who seems to be taking an undue interest in you before you can get away, be sure to let us know.”

I gave Patterson one of my business cards, and he promised to call if he noticed anything out of the ordinary in the next thirty minutes or so. “After that,” he said, “I expect to be packed up and on the road. I just hope that you can catch this guy quickly, though. My wife and my sister-in-law don’t get along all that well.”

The next name on our list was a juror named Brenda Dulles. Nobody answered the door at her apartment,
so I wrote a message on the back of one of my cards, asking her to call me as soon as possible, and wedged the card between the door and the jamb.

The third name was that of Harold Roe, the prosecutor who’d won McClain’s conviction. We arrived at his home about three thirty, by which time the rain had stopped falling. The clouds had scudded away, and it had turned into a beautiful afternoon. As had been the case at our last stop, no one answered the door. Again I left a card, and Maggie and I were walking back to the car when a Buick sedan pulled into the driveway and the garage door began rolling up.

The Buick braked to a stop in the garage, and a wellcoiffed woman in her middle fifties got out of the car carrying a couple of large shopping bags from Nordstrom’s and Neiman Marcus. She identified herself as Roe’s wife, Rachel, and expressed surprise at the fact that her husband hadn’t answered the door. Pointing back at a Lincoln Town Car sitting in the garage next to her Buick, she said, “As you can see, his car’s right there, so he
must
be here. Probably he just didn’t hear you.”

Roe led us into the garage and opened a door that took us through a mudroom and into the kitchen. She dropped her keys and the shopping bags on the counter and called her husband’s name. But the house was completely silent, and no one responded. Looking perplexed, Roe said, “That’s odd. Harold won’t even walk down to the mailbox. If his car is here, then he’s got to be here too.”

We followed her out of the kitchen and into a hallway that led toward the back of the house. “Harold?” she called again.

A moment later, she let out a sharp scream. I stepped up beside her and saw the body of a man, presumably her husband, slumped over in a chair in the study. He’d been shot at least twice and was obviously dead.

Mrs. Roe screamed again and then collapsed. Maggie and I caught her before she hit the floor and carried her over to a couch in the living room. Then I pulled out my cell phone and called for backup.

While Maggie stayed with Mrs. Roe, I drew my weapon and moved carefully through the house. The rest of the rooms appeared to be undisturbed, and the shooter was obviously long gone. I holstered my weapon and went back to the living room to let Maggie know that the place was clear. Then I walked over to the study and stood in the doorway, taking in the scene.

Some papers and a couple of pictures were lying on the floor next to the body, and it looked as if they’d been swept off a corner of the desk. Except for that—and for the body, of course—the room appeared to be in good order. If the killer had been looking for something in the study or somewhere else in the house, he or she had looked very carefully. But I was fairly certain of the fact that Roe had not surprised a burglar.

For the next several hours, we worked the scene along with the Crime Scene Response team, the ME, and the rest of the usual cast. We canvassed the neighborhood, but found no one who had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. No one reported seeing a black van anywhere near Roe’s home.

Inevitably, the shooting had drawn a swarm of local media. By the time Maggie and I were ready to leave, two news-channel helicopters were hovering over the scene, and I counted vans from four different television stations parked haphazardly in the street with their satellite dishes pointed skyward, ready to dispatch the latest bloody horrors to the greater metro area just before bedtime. The reporters pressed against the crime-scene barriers, and a patrolman was struggling to keep them in check.

As Maggie and I made our way to the car, several of the reporters shouted my name, and I reluctantly
turned and walked over to the barricade. Six or seven reporters shouted questions simultaneously and then thrust their microphones in front of my face.

By now, of course, the reporters had discovered and announced the victim’s identity; there would be no courteous withholding of the information until family members could be notified. Several of the reporters demanded to know if Roe had been killed by Carl McClain.

I held up my hands and waited until things were as quiet as they were likely to get. Then I said, “I’ll make a brief statement now, but will take no questions. Media Relations will probably hold a press conference later and will answer your questions then. For the moment all I can tell you is that we have a shooting victim whom you’ve already identified as Mr. Harold Roe, a local attorney.

“As most of you know by now, Mr. Roe was the attorney who prosecuted Carl McClain for the murder of Gloria Kelly. As you also know, we are looking for Mr. McClain in connection with the deaths of two other people who were involved in his trial. At this time, however, we have no conclusive evidence to suggest that Mr. McClain was involved in this crime.

“As we did earlier today, we would ask anyone who has information regarding Mr. McClain’s whereabouts to contact the police. But again, we would warn any such person not to make direct contact with Mr. McClain, whom we believe to be armed and extremely dangerous.”

I turned and headed toward the car, ignoring the questions shouted at my back. The patrolmen parted the crowd, and Maggie and I made our way back to the department, where we found the lieutenant still in his office, waiting for us. We dropped into chairs in front of the desk and gave him the details of the latest shooting.
I finished the update and asked him what Pierce and Chickris had accomplished.

Leaning back in his chair, he said, “They’ve contacted all of the people on their list, either in person or over the phone. The only exception is the judge who presided over the case. He’s a widower named Walter Beckman who lives alone in a condominium complex in Scottsdale, and he seems to be missing.

“Beckman failed to show up for his usual golf game this morning, and he didn’t call the club or anyone else to say that he’d be late or that he’d be unable to come for some reason. Apparently that was totally out of character, and so his playing partners were worried that something might have happened to him.