The Undertaker's Widow (22 page)

“One thing. If you do that one thing, you'll be safe. If you don't, Andrea Chapman's body will be found, the police will get these pictures and you will rot in a rat-infested prison on St. Jerome until the day you are hanged by the neck in the prison courtyard. Now, ask me what the one thing is.”

Quinn hesitated.

“Come on. You can do it. Ask me how you can save your life.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Everything in your power to see that Ellen Crease is convicted of the murder of her husband. Once the jury returns a verdict of guilty, Andrea Chapman's body will disappear forever and all copies of the photographs you are holding will be destroyed.”

“I … I can't rig the trial. She could be sentenced to death.”

“So could you. Do you have an alibi for the day Andrea died? Can you explain where you went in your rented car?” The man walked over to Quinn and held out his hand. “Please hand me the photographs, Judge.”

Quinn's hand shook as he picked up the pictures. The man took them and walked to the front door.

“You know what you have to do to save your life. Keep your mouth shut, do it, and you'll survive.”

The door closed and the man was gone. Quinn concentrated on fighting the nausea, but it was no good. He raced into the bathroom and threw up several times. Then he collapsed on the bathroom floor. Quinn remembered Andrea's smile, her laugh. An image of her running toward the sea came to him unbidden. Then, superimposed on that vision was an image of her body beaten and mutilated. Quinn squeezed his eyes shut and willed the vision away. He leaned against the bathroom wall and breathed deeply.

After a while Quinn struggled to his feet, cupped his hands and gulped cold water from the tap, then splashed it on his face. He had almost regained his composure when he remembered the call from the detective. Quinn had told him that he had not seen Andrea after he left the airport. The photographs would destroy him.

Quinn went into his kitchen and poured a glass of Scotch, which he drank quickly. The Scotch burned away some of his fear. Quinn took the liquor bottle into the living room, refilled his glass and collapsed on the couch. He reviewed everything that had happened to him since Andrea sat next to him on the plane trip to St. Jerome.

The first thought that occurred to Quinn was chilling. Until this evening, Quinn believed that Andrea Chapman's murder was not connected to him in any way.
Now Quinn knew that Andrea Chapman had been killed to set him up. It was the only way to explain what happened to Laura in Miami. The people who wanted Crease convicted had learned about Quinn's trip to St. Jerome. They had lured Laura to Miami with a fat retainer check so they could make certain that the first-class seat next to Quinn would be vacant. He had been played for a fool from the beginning.

Frank Price eyed Quinn as he let him into the apartment. The judge's tie was loose, his suit coat was rumpled and there were stains on his wrinkled white shirt. His complexion was pasty and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

“For someone who's just been on vacation in a tropical paradise, you don't look so hot.”

“Too much work,” Quinn mumbled without conviction. Price gave him a harder look.

“How are things with you and Laura?” Price asked as he led Quinn into the living room.

“Fine. Everything is fine,” Quinn said.

Only after he answered did it occur to Quinn that Price had asked about the health of his relationship with Laura and not the usual small-talk question about the state of his wife's health. Quinn wondered if Laura had talked to Frank at work. Price was watching him closely.

“We're separated,” Quinn confessed.

Suddenly, Price looked every bit of his eighty years.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said.

Quinn heard a slight tremor in Price's voice. Quinn knew that the old man loved him and hoped he would have a good marriage. He could see how much his separation from Laura hurt Frank.

“I'm living in an apartment. It's just temporary.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Quinn shook his head. “We'll work it out. I still love her. I think she loves me.”

“If you need my help I'm always here for you.”

“I know that.”

“I put up some coffee, but you look like you can use something stronger.”

Quinn wanted a glass of Scotch, then thought better of it.

“Coffee will be fine.”

Price carried two mugs of steaming coffee into the living room.

“I came for some information and I need it in confidence,” he told Price.

“Oh?”

Quinn wrapped his large hands around the mug for warmth.

“I'm hearing the pretrial motions in Ellen Crease's case. Do you know her?”

“We've met at political functions and I know people who know her. We're not friends.”

“What about her husband, Lamar Hoyt?”

“He was a major contributor to the Republican Party. I've had dinner with him.”

“Frank, can you think of anyone with a grudge against Ellen Crease? I'm talking about something very serious. Something that would motivate a person to want to hurt Crease very badly.”

Price was clearly uncomfortable.

“This is highly irregular, Dick. This extra-judicial inquiry into the background of a defendant whose case you're hearing. Do you mind telling me what prompted this visit?”

“I … I can't explain why I'm here. You're going
to have to take it on faith that the information I'm asking for is crucial to a decision I have to make.”

“If you're in some kind of trouble …,” Price started.

“Frank, I know I can trust you. I just can't confide in you.”

“Does this have anything to do with Laura?”

“No,” Quinn lied.

Price hesitated for a moment, but he could see how desperate Quinn looked.

“Ellen Crease has always been confrontational and she's made several political enemies, even in her own party. We never minded her ambition when she was running aggressive campaigns against Democratic opponents, though I, and others, did find her methods objectionable on occasion, but I can tell you that she has not endeared herself to the party by challenging an incumbent Republican senator.”

“How did she get away with going after Gage?”

“Crease doesn't feel that she's accountable to anyone. She has a very committed following on the far right and her husband's money.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who would be so upset with Crease that he would try to have her killed?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“What if the man who broke into the Hoyt mansion came to kill Ellen Crease and not Lamar Hoyt? Crease would be innocent.”

“Dick, do you realize what you're doing? You're a judge, for Christ's sake. You have to remain impartial. You have no business playing detective like this. In fact, you're violating your oath by taking sides in this case.”

“I know that, and I can't explain why I'm asking you these questions. Please, Frank, I need your help.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?”

Quinn looked away. Price was very troubled. For a
moment, Quinn worried that he was going to end the meeting. Then Price said, “There are two people I can think of who would have the motive and personality to do what you're suggesting. Lamar Hoyt, Jr., was a constant source of concern to Lamar since he was a child. He is irresponsible and he has a history of violence. I know of two assault charges that Lamar was able to settle out of court by paying off the complaining witnesses. Junior has been quite vocal about his hatred of his stepmother. I assume you've heard about the will contest?”

Quinn nodded.

“Then, there's Benjamin Gage. Have you heard the rumors about his connection to Otto Keeler's death?”

“I never paid that much attention to them.”

“I have no idea if there's any truth to them, but they won't go away. Gage made his fortune in the computer industry with a company called StarData. Otto Keeler and Gage started the company. For a while, StarData looked like it might take off, but it experienced a serious funding problem. Just when things looked darkest, the StarData building burned down. Otto Keeler was killed in the blaze. Gage assumed total control over the company and he used the millions the company received from Keeler's key man insurance and the fire insurance to help StarData turn the corner financially. The origin of the fire was unquestionably arson and there was no reason anyone uncovered for Keeler sleeping in the building on the evening of the blaze. There was never any evidence connecting Gage to the fire, but the police took a very hard look at him for a long time.

“Other than Gage and Lamar, Jr., I can't think of anyone else who would have a reason to try to do what you're suggesting.”

Quinn stood. He looked drained and distant. Price gripped Quinn's shoulders.

“Let me help you, Dick.”

Quinn smiled sadly. Then he embraced Price.

“I love you, Frank. But I've got to do this on my own.”

Quinn let Price go and headed for the door.

“If you change your mind …,” Price said.

“I know,” Quinn answered.

“Officer Yoshida, how are you employed?” Cedric Riker asked.

“I'm a criminalist with the Oregon State Police Forensic Laboratory in Portland.”

“Please give Judge Quinn your academic background.”

Yoshida turned toward Quinn. He had testified in his court on a few occasions and was perfectly relaxed on the witness stand.

“I graduated from Portland State University with a B.S. in chemistry in 1989 and returned to PSU for courses in genetic biology and forensic DNA analysis. From 1989 to 1990, I worked as an analytical chemist. Then, in 1990, I became an Oregon State Police officer assigned to the crime lab.”

“Over the years, have you had training in crime scene investigation and, more specifically, in the analysis of bloodstain patterns?”

“Yes, sir. I attended the Oregon State Medical Examiners' death investigation class in 1990, a blood pattern analysis training program at the Police Academy in 1991, an advanced crime scene training program in 1992, and I completed a basic, intermediate and advanced serology training program in 1992. Over the years, I have read numerous articles in the area and attended
many seminars where these subjects were discussed.”

“As part of your duties, do you go to crime scenes and collect evidence?”

“Yes.”

“How many crime scenes have you investigated?”

Yoshida laughed. “Gosh, I don't know. I never kept a count. It's a lot, though. I investigate several homicides each year. Then, there are other scenes.”

“Okay. Now, were you one of the criminalists who went to the Hoyt estate on the evening that Lamar Hoyt and Martin Jablonski were shot to death?”

“I was.”

“Please describe the scene for Judge Quinn.”

Yoshida left the witness box and walked over to a large diagram of the murder scene that he had prepared. The diagram was resting on an easel.

“The crime scene we are interested in is the master bedroom on the second floor of Mr. Hoyt's mansion. To get to that room, you climb a set of stairs to the second floor, then go down a long corridor in a westerly direction.”

Yoshida picked up a wooden pointer and placed its tip on a section of the drawing that represented the door to the hall.

“The master bedroom itself is a rectangle. The door between the bedroom and the hall is in the east wall at the southeast corner of the bedroom.”

Yoshida moved his pointer to the bathroom doorway.

“The northern wall in the hall is also the south wall of the bathroom. When you enter the bedroom, you can see the bathroom door if you look to your right.”

Yoshida moved the pointer again.

“If you are standing in the doorway and you look directly across the room, you'll see the west wall. A good
portion of that wall is a large window with a view of the pool and part of the yard. Halfway between the west and east walls is a king-size bed. The headboard touches the north wall. Directly across from the foot of the bed is an armoire approximately seven feet high. It contains a television and its back touches the south wall. My information from the first officers on the scene and an interview with the houseman, James Allen, is that the lights in the room were off when the crime occurred and that the television was also off.”

“When you entered the crime scene, what did you see?”

Yoshida pointed to a stick figure that had been positioned between the small box that represented the armoire and the slightly larger box that represented the king-size bed.

“The first thing I saw was the body of Martin Jablonski. He was facedown with his feet almost touching the armoire and his head facing the bed. There was a pool of blood under his body approximately ten feet from the foot of the bed and one foot from the west-facing side of the armoire. There was also a .45-caliber handgun lying on the floor near Mr. Jablonski's right hand.”