Close Case Page 8

  From the passenger seat, I observed a blunt reminder that the city’s economic rise—and resulting gentrification—had not yet made its way eastward. We passed miles of blocks that had little to do with the Portland I knew and loved but which were mentioned all too frequently in the crime reports that filled my working days. With only a few exceptions, the streets here were suffused with used car lots, biker bars, strip clubs, head shops, discount appliance stores, so-called “lingerie modeling establishments,” and motor lodges that advertised the availability of cable. The apartment complexes and small houses that plugged the gaps had been populated for generations by welfare families—primarily white—who produced daughters who bore children to predatory men twice their age who despite so many promises never came around again.

  “I feel like shit showing up here from a party,” Chuck said, as he parked his ’67 Jag in the precinct lot on East 106th. “I didn’t think Mike would be working this late.”

  When I had told Chuck I’d offered Mike as a resource on Jessica Walters’s vandalism investigation, he had immediately wanted to serve at his side. I’d guilt-tripped him into staying put. Given what seemed like a tenuous connection between our murder and Jessica’s smash-and-grabs, I had feared bureau retribution for using MCT overtime to chase down vandalism leads. And yet here we were.

  Fortunately, Chuck’s not much of a drinker, so he was good to go on the investigation. I’d had a couple, but the DA’s office left it to the attorney’s discretion to decide whether we were OK to work after hours. I know, it’s frightening.

  Mike had called Chuck to notify him that he had arrested Todd Corbett, white male, nineteen years of age. Officially, Corbett had been brought in based on probable cause for the smashing of the front window at Noah’s Bagels on Northwest 23rd and Hoyt. The probable cause came from six different citizens who called the bureau’s help line after the local ten o’clock news led with a bystander’s home video footage of a previously unidentified male running from Noah’s, his baseball bat held high.

  But the real reason Corbett found himself in the box with an MCT detective, instead of holding the ticket that was standard for most property crimes, was because Mike couldn’t help but be curious about a pissed-off kid with a chip on his shoulder, a bat, and a vicious swing, just minutes away from the spot where Percy Crenshaw’s head had been smashed in.

  After showing our respective badges to the woman staffing the reception counter, we were buzzed through the front entrance, then worked our way down a series of hallways to the darkened observation area beside the interrogation room where Calabrese was questioning Corbett.

  Through the one-way glass, I got my first glimpse of Todd Corbett. If he was in fact Crenshaw’s murderer, the most remarkable aspect of his appearance was how unremarkable it was. Aside from the cuffs that secured his hands behind his back, Corbett looked like any nineteen-year-old kid you might find ringing up cigarettes at a quickie mart. Even seated behind the laminate table, I could tell he was tall and lanky. His brown hair was probably meant to be shorter, but was overdue for a trim, hanging across his eyebrows. His thin upper lip was lined with a layer of facial fuzz, his chin sporting a matching tuft. He wore a small gold hoop through his left earlobe, a Trailblazers wind jacket, oversized blue jeans, and high-tops. A baseball cap—likely backwards when worn—rested on the tabletop, a sign that he had either offered or been forced to show some respect for Calabrese.

  “Why’s Mike in there alone?” I asked Chuck. It was standard MCT practice to have another detective present during an interrogation, at least outside the room. Always better to have an additional witness.

  “Because I was at your dad’s house watching you and Grace act like twelve-year-olds,” he whispered hurriedly, his attention devoted to the dynamic on the other side of the glass.

  “Shouldn’t he have found someone else?”

  “He was showing mug shots to some witnesses in Northwest when the public information office called him with the info on Corbett. A couple of East Precinct guys helped with the pickup, but I assume they’re back out on patrol.”

  “Why does he still have cuffs on?”

  “I’m sure Mike’s got a reason. Can’t hurt to scare the kid a little, right?”

  “Are you going in?” I asked.

  He shook his head and hit the button that turned on the sound, so we could hear what was being said on the other side of the glass. “I will if he needs me. He knew we were on our way.”

  Mike leaned the entirety of his impressive weight toward Corbett’s face, supporting himself with both hands against the table. “Here’s the problem, Todd. You say you were at home watching TV but you don’t know what you were watching, there was no one home with you to help you out on that, and meanwhile I got a videotape that shows you, a baseball bat, and a whole lot of broken glass—”

  “And I told you that was bullshit,” Corbett said, his narrow chest thrust forward.

  Mike leaned in farther still. “Don’t interrupt. We still got the best part. See, if you watched as much TV as you claim, Todd, you’d know about Channel Twelve. They aired the home video tonight, including a nice big still of your pretty face—a face that’ll be nothing but problems for you inside, by the way. I got seven citizens who tell me it’s you.”

  Corbett sat on that for half a minute, biting his lower lip nervously. “Yeah, well, maybe I got some people out there who don’t like me or something.”

  “Well, I ain’t got a grudge against you, and I saw the pictures too. Even I can tell it’s you.”

  Another pause and some more lip gnawing from Corbett. “So maybe I got a long-lost twin out there. I’ll talk to my mom about it.” He forced a laugh, but his bluster had died down considerably.

  Mike stood, gave Corbett some space, then sat in the chair across from him. “Look, you and I are getting off on the wrong foot here. Let me be truthful. I been around long enough to have some perspective. I know damn well there’s worse crimes out there. Way worse. You know what I’m saying?”

  Mike kept his eyes on Corbett, his new good-cop persona waiting for a response. Corbett shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “I guess.”

  “And I already checked your records. You’re not a bad guy. Maybe a couple juvie pops for drinking, but no real priors. The truth is, Todd, I can see how it probably happened. You’re with some buddies downtown. People start getting rowdy. The police show up with gas and everyone starts freaking, am I right?” Corbett said nothing, but his expression showed he was thinking. Mike scooted his chair back from the table and crossed one ankle over the other knee, getting cozy with his new pal. “Actually, when I was your age—a little younger, maybe—me and my crew did something similar back in the Bronx. We got busted spray-painting a dick and some titties on the Kip’s Big Boy—you know those big statues of that goofy kid in overalls?”

  Corbett let out an uncomfortable chuckle. I couldn’t help but wonder whether there even was a Big Boy in the Bronx. I was certain, though, that Calabrese had never been busted for defiling him.

  “Anyway, couldn’t have been the crime of the century ’cause here I am.” Mike paused wistfully, then looked his target directly in the eye. “What I’m trying to say is, I can understand how you might have done something last night that was out of character. What I can’t understand, and what’s pissing me off, is you sitting here lying to my face about it.”

  I had noticed that Mike wasn’t mentioning the Crenshaw murder. He was probably trying to assure Corbett that we hadn’t made the connection yet between Crenshaw’s Hillside death and the relatively benign chaos on the streets below. If Mike could lock Corbett in as armed, out of control, and just blocks from Percy’s house, he’d have more leverage as the questioning continued.

  Corbett was still thinking. Chuck and I exchanged glances. We both recognized the signs: One more go from Calabrese should do it.

  Mike saw this too and went for the close. “I’m more likely to cut you loose tonight with a citation
if you just come clean with me. Otherwise, I can book you as a custody until a judge arraigns you tomorrow on felony criminal mischief.”

  To some, that part of Mike’s act might sound like a threat to punish a suspect with arrest for refusing to confess. Courts, however, view this common police tactic as a lawful offer of lenience—a ticket instead of an arrest—in exchange for cooperation. Mike was being aggressive, but so far so good on the books.

  His generous “offer” was enough to get Corbett talking. “So you’re saying you’ll let me out of here tonight with a ticket if I tell you what happened.”

  “I see what you’re saying. You want to lock me in on that. You’re smart. You’re thinking,” Mike said, tapping his finger against his temple. “Yeah, sure, you’ve got my word.”

  I looked at Chuck, worried, but he lifted his chin toward the window to tell me to keep watching. He trusted Mike to know the rules.

  “I promise,” Mike said, holding up one hand, “if you come clean with me, I’ll write you a cite for the crim mischief. I won’t book you on that charge.”

  “For real?”

  “That’s my absolute word.”

  I looked away for a moment, coming close to feeling a little sorry for Corbett. He had no clue as to what was about to happen. Then I remembered where my sympathies lay just a few hours earlier in Percy’s office, and I steeled myself. Mike’s job was to get the evidence, and my only job was to make sure he didn’t violate the law getting it. If the law let us sucker Corbett, and Corbett was willing to be suckered, so be it. Corbett’s defense attorney could feel sorry for him later.

  Then, as I sensed he would, Corbett laid out for Mike the events that led to the rampage down 23rd. Not coincidentally, his version was much like the one Mike had set up for him in advance. Minding his own business. Clashes between cops and protesters. Caught up in the crowd. Not something he’d usually do. Yada yada yada.

  He did add one fact—the influence of methamphetamines. The drug of choice for poor white trash like Corbett, crystal meth guarantees at least six hours—if not days—of complete euphoric mind melt. Users lose all control over their judgment, emotions, messianic power complexes, and voracious sexual appetites. Last month, I convicted a defendant who had axed his best friend to death after a meth binge for reasons he would never understand. Once Corbett threw a little meth into the picture, the progression from rowdiness to broken windows to random assaults—and possibly to Percy’s murder—seemed almost predictable.

  Now that Corbett had admitted the vandalism, Mike just needed him to explain the rest in his own words. “Here’s the problem, Todd. Where’d the bat come from?”

  A glimmer of worry crossed Corbett’s face but quickly disappeared. “That wasn’t mine. My friend had it in his car.”

  “I figured as much,” Mike said. He removed a still photograph from a file folder on the table and laid it in front of Corbett. “That’s the picture they showed on Channel Twelve tonight. That right there is obviously you”—he pointed at Corbett’s face—“but right here on the side is another guy’s jean jacket. And on the video, it looks like he’s running next to you. Problem is, we can’t see his face. If you’re going to tell me it’s not your bat, you need to tell me whose it is. Otherwise, you take all the blame and you’re still a liar.”

  “You never said anything about giving anyone else up.”

  “That was before you told me the bat was someone else’s. And what did I say about coming clean?”

  Corbett paused again, perhaps simply to comfort himself that he had at least hesitated before naming names. “It was Trevor’s.”

  “Last name?”

  “Hanks. Trevor Hanks. He lives near me, over on a hundred-fourth and Knight.”

  Mike scratched the name down in his notebook, then stood again. “Anyone else?”

  Corbett shook his head. “Nope. Just me and Trevor. There were plenty of other people acting crazy up there, but I don’t know who they were.”

  “You’re not holding back on me, are you?”

  “No, man.” Mike believed him. “I told you. We were totally fucked up. I don’t even remember half of what happened, but I know who I was with.”

  Chuck called Ray Johnson to pass on the new name. He had already put together a throw-down including Corbett’s DMV photo. The plan was to show it to the superintendent who’d seen the men in the parking lot before the murder. They’d create another array now for Hanks, pasting his photograph next to those of five similar-looking men.

  “Has Johnson found the super yet?” I asked.

  “No luck,” Chuck said, flipping his phone shut. “He’s not home. Ray tried his pager number, but nothing yet. Reminds me why I left apartment life behind. Can never find a super when you need one.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and smiled.

  “Yeah, I thought that’s all it was,” I said, smiling back.

  Back inside the box, Todd Corbett had the erroneous impression he was going home. “So, are we done here?” he asked Mike, reaching for his ball cap.

  “Actually, Todd, we’re in a bit of a jam.” After all Mike’s talk about honesty, he sounded genuinely disappointed in Corbett. “Here’s the problem. I’ve got a dead body on Hillside, bashed in with a baseball bat, only a few blocks from where you just told me you were going to town with—guess what? A baseball bat. I really can’t ignore that, you know what I’m saying?”

  Corbett looked like a train had just come barreling out at him from the inside of a sink drain. Mike’s intentionally schizophrenic questioning was probably unsettling enough, but Corbett had undoubtedly confessed to the property crimes only because he was convinced that the police hadn’t connected those to Percy’s murder. His body slumped in the chair as he realized his mistake.

  “You hearing me, Todd? You see my predicament?”

  “What about that crap you said about the ticket and your word and all?”

  “But that’s not what I’m not talking about. We’re done with that subject, and I’m still giving you a cite. No booking. But you see the spot I’m in on this killing, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know nothing about that. You never said nothing about a murder.”

  “Sure, but you also said you didn’t know anything about all the broken windows on Twenty-third. And you’re probably going to tell me you don’t know anything about these poor people who got walloped at random walking down the street that night, even though I got pictures of that too.”

  “I told you what you wanted to know about the shit on Twenty-third. But I’m telling you, I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “You’re going to have to come up with something better than that, Todd. I mean, what else are people gonna think other than that you and”—he looked at his notebook—“this Hanks guy went a little bit further with the bat a few blocks over. Same time, same neighborhood, same weapon. You said yourself you were so tweaked out you can’t even remember what happened. How can you be sure you didn’t do it, Todd?”

  They went back and forth like that as the minutes, and then the hour, passed. Mike resorted to all the standard interrogation techniques. He covered the tabletop with pictures of Percy, alive and dead. He continually mentioned the witnesses at the apartment, implying that they’d seen more than they had. He suggested that Corbett could reduce his liability if Percy had provoked him in some way, or if Hanks had been the instigator, or if the meth made him do it.

  I was growing tired. More important, I was becoming convinced that Mike was wasting his time; Corbett wasn’t going to budge. Even Mike looked like he needed a break, which surely meant Corbett needed one too.

  But then the dynamic of the conversation shifted.

  “So do I need a lawyer or something?” Corbett asked.

  Mike slid a piece of paper on the table in front of him toward our viewing window with his fingertips. He was making sure Chuck and I knew that Corbett had already signed a waiver of his Miranda rights. Believe it or not, once that’s done, only a cr
ystal-clear request for counsel suffices to invoke a defendant’s rights. Corbett’s weak-willed question would be seen as an “ambiguous” reference to counsel that Mike was free to ignore, no different legally from a statement about a baseball game.

  “That’s entirely up to you. You know your rights. But I can tell you one thing, though: a lawyer? He’s gonna tell you to clam up and go to trial. And that decision right there would leave you facing capital murder charges. You know what that means, right?”

  Corbett shrugged his shoulders.

  “That means the State goes for the death penalty, Todd. And once that lawyer of yours tucks you away in a cell tonight to wait for a trial—months down the road—you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna go to Trevor’s house and have a talk with him, just like this one. And he might not call that lawyer, you see? He might decide to say you were the one who did the whole thing. After all, you’re the one with the bat in the pictures, right? Then it’s you looking at the needle, and him looking at a plea bargain.”

  “I don’t like where this is going,” I said to Chuck.

  “He’s got the waiver, Sam. And I didn’t hear the kid say he wanted a lawyer.”

  “He can still claim his statements are involuntary. A waiver isn’t consent to coercion.” And Oregon judges were especially uncomfortable when the threat of lethal injection was thrown around the interrogation room.

  “Mike knows what he’s doing,” Chuck said, “and we need that confession.”

  I knew Matt was on his mind. Despite his alibi, the cop husband of the victim’s girlfriend would be a natural target for the defense at trial—unless, of course, the defendant confessed now. Jurors convict defendants who confess. And defendants don’t go to trial when they know a jury will convict.

  I looked at him uncertainly. “It’s fine,” he assured me.

  Todd Corbett didn’t think so. “They’re gonna kill me? You got to be kidding me. I’ve told you everything I know. And I’m getting tired, man, and I gotta use the can. I want my ticket, and then I want to go home.”