Close Case Page 25

  The name didn’t sound familiar. It sounded funny but not familiar. “Did she say what it was about?”

  “No. She said she met you when you were at the newspaper recently.”

  I vaguely recalled a woman at Percy’s office when Chuck and I conducted the search. “Can she call me later?”

  “I suggested that already, and she insisted on waiting until you were free.”

  Crap. It had only been an hour since I learned that my case was falling apart. Could the press possibly be on to the story already?

  “Go ahead and send her in. And Alice—thanks, you know, for not saying anything.”

  “About what?” she asked, and winked before she walked away.

  I felt a momentary sense of relief once Heidi Hatmaker left my office. She didn’t know anything about the case against Corbett and Hanks after all. She had come fishing for background about street-level drug sales in northeast Portland for an article Percy left unfinished.

  I felt more than a little guilty about the way the encounter had unfolded. I had been picturing the angle a reporter in her shoes might take: Manipulative detective coerces young men’s confessions, crime lab tampers with evidence, love-struck prosecutor looks the other way. When she initially said she hoped to get a minute of my time for a story, I nearly took her head off. In light of her actual objective, I must have come across like the coldest of ice queens.

  Still, what was she thinking? That I’d offer up a one-hour private tutorial on the Portland drug market? Percy had been around long enough to have a feel for the streets himself. Maybe he could have pulled off a story about the subtle ways police can manipulate the market by cracking down in one hot spot or on one particular drug, focusing street resources and reverse buys accordingly. But it would take more than an hour to give a novice the kind of background information needed for that story. I told her to call me Monday, or, better yet, to call the bureau’s DVD, but I’m sure she realized I was blowing her off.

  I didn’t have a choice. I had no time to spare. There was only so much I could do on the Crenshaw case while I waited for Chuck to interview Tamara, but I was expecting one of Russ’s bi-hourly checkups any minute. I’d be dumping colossally bad news on him for the second time in as many calls, and I wanted to be as prepared as possible.

  I called Jeffrey Sandler, the medical examiner who had conducted Percy’s autopsy. Just as I’d assumed, multiple blows from a blunt instrument was as specific as he could be about the cause of Percy’s injuries. He was prepared to testify that the injuries were consistent with a bat; however, he would have to concede on cross-examination that any number of items could also have been the weapon of choice.

  “Based on the injuries I observed, I am fairly confident that the weapon had a rounded rather than a hard, square edge. And from the size of the injuries, I imagine this weapon to be of a substantial width, something more like a baseball bat than, say, a crowbar.”

  “What about a baton?”

  “Like a child’s baton? I’d have to see it, but I suspect it would be too narrow to create the victim’s injuries.”

  “No, I meant more like a police baton.”

  “I see.”

  “Not specifically,” I added quickly. “I’m just trying to get an idea how thin an instrument the defense could hypothesize without contradicting the physical evidence. It was the first thing that came to mind between a bat and a crowbar.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I’d have to measure a baton and go back and look at the photographs of the injuries, but, yes, I imagine it’s within the realm of what we’re talking about. That’s nothing to worry about, of course. Physical evidence must always be viewed as part of the larger evidentiary picture. The blood evidence, the fibers, the non-physical evidence against the defendants.”

  “Obviously,” I said. “I just need to be prepared. It always helps to anticipate the defense.”

  “They do make the job more interesting, don’t they?”

  My next call was to Peter Anderson. He sounded groggy when he picked up. I looked at my watch: three o’clock. He was some eyewitness, all right.

  “Hi, Peter. It’s Samantha Kincaid from the DA’s office. I just wanted to touch base with you on the status of the case since the hearing yesterday.”

  “It went OK, don’t you think?”

  “You were great. In fact, it looks like one of the defendants is going to be pleading guilty. The other one will either take a deal soon or, if not, we’ll have his codefendant’s testimony against him.”

  “So will you still need me to testify?”

  “We’ll play it by ear, but it’s possible we won’t need you after all. I did want to go through some of the questions the defense attorney was asking you, though.”

  “You mean that junk about my ex?”

  “No. Like I said, that really isn’t a subject that would be admissible in front of a jury.”

  “That’s good, ’cause, man, it is a mess. We got attorneys fighting over the divorce and the money, plus, you know, it just sucks to split up.”

  “I can imagine. Like I said, we really don’t need to go over it.” Take a hint, dude. I do not want to hear anything more about your nasty divorce. “But I’ve been thinking about what the defense attorney said—about how the defendants’ pictures had been all over the news the morning Detective Johnson talked to you.”

  “Yeah, she said that. But, man, I was out of it. The last thing I was doing was watching the news. Plus, I’d remember if I heard anything about the case. It’s not every day someone gets killed at Vista Heights.”

  “Oh, I know. I don’t think you were actually watching the coverage. But I was thinking about how sometimes if I’m puttering around the house, I’ll have the TV on in the background and won’t even be watching it. Sometimes I even turn the volume off. Is there a remote chance that you could have caught even a glimpse of the story?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it, but, yeah, I guess I might have had the television on. I know I wasn’t watching it, though.”

  “But you might have seen something?” I was leading him, but I needed to know if the possibility existed, no matter how unlikely. “If so, it’s fine. We’ve got one of the defendants on board now, so it might be better not to use your testimony if the defense attorney’s going to be able to confuse the jury with it.”

  “Sure, I see what you’re saying. Yeah, I guess I’m like you. I keep the TV on almost all the time, especially now that Marcy’s gone. Maybe I had it on that morning, I’m really not sure.”

  That was all I needed to know.

  I preempted Russ and dialed his home number. At least this way he’d know I was trying to keep him in the loop—a seriously screwed-up loop, unfortunately, but one in which I was indeed keeping him tightly encircled.

  “We’ve got another problem,” I said. I brought him up to speed. Then, just as Chuck and I had, we walked through the evidence I thought we’d had against Corbett and Hanks, trying to determine whether each piece was reconcilable with the new defense story.

  “If Anderson’s memory was tainted by media coverage, and we buy the notion that the defendants were willing to confess to murder to avoid the rape charge, that really only leaves the bat,” I concluded. “Someone put that bat in the Dumpster behind the Red Raccoon, and whoever it was had access to Percy Crenshaw’s blood and fibers from his condo and Hanks’s Jeep.”

  “If that’s the only thing your case is hanging on, you don’t have a case.”

  “Russ, I know I don’t have a case anymore. I’m trying to figure out what happened. If the defendants were assaulting Tamara Lyons when Percy was killed—and it’s starting to look like they were—how do we explain the bat? If we can figure that out, maybe we can figure out who actually killed Percy.”

  “It could be anyone, Sam. By the time that bat was pulled out of the Dumpster, the arrests were all over the news, including their addresses. Bad guy takes the weapon and drops it, sealing up the case. End of story.
”

  “And the fibers?”

  “Your vic probably had fibers from his condo somewhere on him, and those transferred onto the bat. The other fibers? You drew a bad break. They happened to look like the Jeep’s carpet. Shit happens.”

  “So you really think they’re innocent?”

  “I don’t think in those terms anymore. What matters is that you no longer have enough evidence to pursue the murder charge. Period.” It had been six months, yet I was still surprised to have a supervisor who appeared to exercise fair judgment and sound reason. “It’s good to set up the poly first, though. I assume under the circumstances the defendants are willing to sit tight for a few days.”

  “They’re not going anywhere.”

  “What are you planning to do about Calabrese?”

  So I hadn’t been alone in my instincts. “If he got a confession from an innocent suspect—and there’s even a question about the processing of the trace evidence—I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “No, you don’t. We pull him from MCT.”

  “Just temporarily though, right?”

  “Well, at least until this is sorted out.”

  “What do you mean, ‘at least’?”

  “I mean, maybe he shouldn’t be there at all. Even if you get an explanation for the fiber evidence being hinky, you’ve got a coerced confession from a kid who didn’t do it.”

  “Kicking him entirely out of the unit seems a little severe.”

  “Out of the unit? Try out of the bureau. His credibility’s shot. First, Lopez gets a look at his IA file, and now this. From here on out, you can bet this case will bite us in the ass every time he gets a statement. Besides, you said it yourself—he was totally out of control in there.”

  I paused, considering the other side of the picture, the one my father said I might never understand.

  “Right, Sam?”

  “From our perspective, yes. Not from theirs.”

  “Well, unless you want your ass on the line, too, ours is the perspective that matters. Are you calling his lieutenant?”

  “Are you telling me that he’ll definitely be kicked out? Not just from MCT, but from the bureau?”

  “What do you want me to say, Sam? No, not definitely. You know how hard it can be to fire a cop. If it makes you feel better, when this shakes out, you won’t be the one to make the decision. It’ll be up to the bureau, and they’ll probably talk to Duncan, who will consult with me. Now are you calling the lieutenant or not?”

  “Like I said, I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “Good, I thought I was going to have to fight you on that one.”

  There was a time when I would have met his expectations. And Chuck’s.

  “So that’s all you can do for now,” he said. “That, and break the news to Duncan.”

  “You won’t call him for me again?”

  “Are you kidding? Word to the wise: The last time I spoke to him, he was pretty damn grumpy.”

  I called Duncan’s keeper, Donna, to check if he was available and headed downstairs to deliver the bad news.

  Duncan was affable, at first.

  “Thanks for coming by, Sam, but I don’t think there’s anything we need to cover here. The grand jurors got sucked in by Hamilton, and that’s all there is to it. I talked to Selma Gooding. She says the victim’s mom was pretty shaken up but made a point of emphasizing how well you treated her. I’ve called the press in for a public statement at four. Do you want to stand with me for that?”

  “Whatever you prefer.”

  “I don’t think it will be necessary. Very good.”

  “I’m actually here about something else. The defendants in the Crenshaw case have come forward with an alibi of sorts for the time of the murder.”

  He was initially as incredulous as I was, until I explained how the defendants themselves had been fuzzy about their own timeline until Tamara cooperated.

  “Christ, Kincaid, sometimes I think you let more people out of jail than you put in. Does anything ever go right on your cases?”

  “Occasionally, sir, when the police arrest the right people.”

  “Touché. Well, all I can say is, what a cluster fuck. There’s nothing at all in the Corbett kid’s confession that can be corroborated? It all came from Calabrese?”

  “Right.”

  “And you were there for the interrogation?”

  “Yes, sir.” He stared at me blankly. “I know, it was a screw up. I should have made Calabrese go back in and get more detail.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “What do you want me to say, Duncan? I told you, I know I made a mistake. It was late, we were tired, I chewed out Calabrese for his tactics, and I wasn’t focusing on the content of the confession.”

  “And your boyfriend was there.”

  “Honestly, Duncan, I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Arguing with Duncan on this point was pure biological reflex.

  “You shouldn’t think of yourself as one of the gang, Sam. Your job when it comes to the cops is to get in their faces when you need to, tell Calabrese to get the hell back into the box and get a confession that can be verified later if the defendant retracts it. I know you can do that—hell, I can’t count the number of lawyers I’ve talked to who’ve been on the receiving side of one of your outbursts. But you want these guys to like you for some reason; maybe it’s because they’re Forbes’s buddies. Will you at least think about that? Maybe we need to reconsider your decision to work cases with him.”

  “Fine,” I said, realizing it was time for me to start facing my own concerns on this issue, as much as I hated hearing them voiced by someone else.

  Duncan looked at me skeptically.

  “I will think about it. I promise.” I held up three fingers: scout’s honor.

  “All right. So when’s this poly going to happen?”

  “I told MCT to get it as soon as possible, but who knows.” The few trained polygraphers in Portland have erratic schedules, and they insist on time to study the case and develop the decoy and material questions.

  “Let’s do what we can to keep this under wraps right now. Make sure the defense lawyers know we won’t be happy if the story gets out before we’ve nailed it all down.”

  “What about Percy’s family?”

  “There’s no need to tell them anything as long as we’re in a holding pattern. Obviously, you can fill them in before we dismiss the charges, if that in fact occurs. And that won’t be an easy conversation. We may have to face the reality that this case could be left unsolved.”

  “That seems overly pessimistic. The bureau can keep working it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will. But they better find a videotape of the murder if they want a conviction. Anyone we ultimately charge is going to point to the evidence we had against Corbett and Hanks and argue reasonable doubt.”

  I didn’t think I could feel any worse about my failure to prevent this mess when I had the chance, but I was wrong.

  By the time I got home, every channel was opening their six o’clock news broadcasts with the Hamilton case. Duncan really was the master of spin, proudly defending the decision to take a difficult case to the grand jury because it was “the right thing to do, even if we couldn’t win it.” The Chief of Police stood at Duncan’s side at the lectern, nodding, then announced that the bureau was terminating Hamilton for cause and was prepared to defend its decision in the courts. Duncan had even brought in Selma Gooding for the press conference, as a friend of Delores Tompkins’s family. She thanked the bureau, Duncan, and his “very able assistant, Samantha Kincaid,” for trying to do what was right.

  Once again, Duncan had not only avoided a potential land mine but had turned it around in his favor. Perhaps that was why, seventeen years into his tenure as District Attorney, no one even bothered running against him anymore.

  I clicked off the television when I heard Chuck’s key in the lock.

  “Hey,” I called.

  “
Hey.”

  I picked up the New York Times crossword from the coffee table and feigned concentration as he walked into the room.

  “I heard about the grand jury’s decision on Hamilton,” he said. “When you didn’t mention it, I assumed it had gone all right.”

  “Nope. I guess I was so preoccupied by Lisa’s little bombshell that I forgot to tell you.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. For what it’s worth, it looked to me like a bad shooting. I should’ve spoken up for you with the guys.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk to Tamara Lyons?” We were back to cop and prosecutor talk.

  “Yeah, I caught her at home, if you can call it that. She lives in that shitty trailer park on a hundred twenty-second.”

  East Portland had more than its fair share of shitty trailer parks, but I knew the one he was referring to. “And?”

  “And…I think she’s telling the truth,” he said, obviously disappointed, plopping down on the sofa across from me. “When she was describing the rape, it definitely seemed legitimate. Plus, I could tell she still had mixed feelings about helping them out of their current predicament. Can’t say I blame her.”

  Me neither.

  “Then I gave her a ride to work. She didn’t tell the Fred Meyer people what happened, so I said I was tracking down the timeline of a couple guys she knew. Anyway, two of her coworkers remember her saying she was going out to party with her ex-boyfriend and one of his friends. And I also talked to the girl that Tamara called Sunday night. I couldn’t get a poly set until Tuesday, but so far it all adds up.”

  I nodded. “How’s Mike?”

  He pursed his lips. “Mad. Very mad. At you, specifically. They didn’t just transfer him. They suspended him. And it looks like they’re going to try to make it stick.”

  “I ran it by my office, Chuck. It was going to happen, whether I fought it or not. It’s probably just temporary.”

  “Probably?” he said, clearly taken aback.

  I couldn’t bring myself to explain it to Chuck. Instead, I just shrugged my shoulders again. “Most likely. I don’t know. It remains to be determined. And not by me. That kind of thing’s over my head.”