The Last Innocent Man (21 page)

“M
r. Nash,” David’s secretary said, “it’s Mr. Gault again.”

David felt a flush of fear, then anger.

“Tell him I’m in conference.”

“He says he’ll come down and cause a scene if you try to put him off.”

“Jesus.” David looked out the window. “Okay. Put him through.”

“Hey, old buddy,” Gault said as soon as David picked up the phone, “I need your help.”

“Look, Tom, let me make this clear. I don’t want anything to do with you. Not now. Not ever.”

“Hey, no need to be so hostile.”

“Listen…”

“No, you listen,” Gault said. There was an unmistakable edge to his voice. “If you hang up this phone, I might have to call the
Oregonian
with an interesting item about Mrs. Stafford. You remember her, don’t you?”

David sucked in a breath. “All right. What do you want?”

“Just some advice. What say we meet for lunch? My treat.”

G
AULT HAD CHOSEN
a small French restaurant in northwest Portland. The lunch crowd was made up of a round table of older women, several businessmen on expense accounts, and a few young lovers. The maître d’ showed David to Gault’s table, and the writer greeted him with a relaxed smile.

“Some Reisling?” Gault suggested, taking a tall bottle of wine from the ice bucket at the side of the table.

“Let’s just cut to the chase, Tom. I’m tired of games.”

“Oh? That wasn’t my impression. Nonetheless, I agree. Let’s get down to business. I’m working on a new book and I’m stuck for an ending. I hoped you could help me out. The book is about a writer. Someone like me, actually. Now, this writer is minding his own business when he gets the funny feeling that he’s being followed. Sure enough, he is.

“At first the writer thinks it’s just some literary groupie, but the fellow never approaches him. The writer begins to get nervous, so he lays a little trap.”

Gault paused to watch David’s reaction.

“It must be a pretty good plot,” Gault said. “I see I’ve got you on the edge of your seat already. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The trap. The writer has heard that old saw ‘Curi
osity killed the cat’ and sets out to pique his tail’s curiosity. Each evening he goes to an out-of-the-way, deserted location and does something mysterious, hoping that the mystery man will follow him inside, where it is nice and quiet and the writer can ask a few questions without having to worry about being disturbed.

“After three nights our little pussy takes the bait. Guess what happens next?”

David sat in stunned silence.

“No guesses? Well, you see, the writer loves his privacy and he certainly doesn’t appreciate anyone violating it. Do you know what my character does to this intruder?”

Gault smiled. The blood had drained from David’s face.

“In my story the writer tortures this fellow, who answers every question he is asked. It’s quite a violent scene. Blood spraying all over, bones cracking. I may have to tone it down before submitting it to my editor. She has a weak stomach, and I don’t know if she’ll be able to take this much graphic violence.

“Anyway, the writer has just had some trouble with the law, so he has to keep this little incident hush-hush. All this torture has taken place on a large rug that does an admirable job of absorbing the blood. The writer rolls up the dead man in the rug, cleans up the mess, and gets rid of the body, leaving no clues for a sleuth to find. But that’s where I’m stuck. What happens next? For the life of me, I can’t figure it out.

“My character knows the identity of the dastardly coward who hired the victim. I guess the writer could confront him. But I don’t know…. That seems like such a cliché, and the critics have been so lavish in praising my
originality.” Gault shrugged. “I’ll admit I’m stumped. That’s why I called. You have a fertile imagination. I hoped you could help me.”

David stood up so quickly, he knocked over his chair. Gault watched, greatly amused. The sound of the chair crashing to the floor brought on a sudden hush in the restaurant. The diners turned toward David as he staggered away. Gault threw his head back, and his laughter followed David out onto the street.

M
onica Powers was getting ready for bed when the doorbell rang. She put a bathrobe on over her nightgown and went to the door. David had never been to her apartment and she was surprised to see him. She was more surprised by his appearance. Since the Stafford trial she had heard disturbing rumors about David, and his disheveled clothes, bloodshot eyes, and uncombed hair seemed to bear them out.

“I need your help, Monica,” David said. His shoulders were hunched, and he could not look directly at her when he spoke. Monica stood aside and let David into the apartment.

“You look awful. What’s going on?”

David wandered into the living room and slumped
down onto the couch. Monica sat opposite the couch on a straight-back chair. Suddenly David’s shoulders shook and he began to cry. He hid his face in his hands. Monica rushed to the couch.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” David sobbed.

Monica held him tight and rocked him. David clung to her. After a few minutes she could feel him relax and she let go. David ran his coat sleeve across his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he managed.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

David rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

“It’s Terry Conklin. He’s dead and I’m responsible.”

“What?!”

“Thomas Gault tortured him and buried the body.”

“I don’t understand….”

David sat up and leaned forward. He looked straight down, his head bowed.

“Gault told me something in confidence. I couldn’t go to the police. What Gault said was protected by the attorney-client privilege. Gault is a sadist. He’d confessed to killing someone before to unnerve me. Then he told me it was a joke. He had me so confused. When he…when he told me this new information… I believed him, but he’s such a convincing liar…”

David paused. His lips were dry and his throat was raw from crying.

“I… I thought I’d be clever, so I hired Terry to check out Gault’s story. Then, yesterday, I met with Gault. He told me he tortured Terry to death and disposed of the body.”

“He confessed to murder?” Monica asked, as if she were not certain she had heard David correctly.

“Not directly.”

David recounted his lunch conversation with Gault.

“How do you know Gault isn’t playing another sadistic game with you?” Monica asked when he was done.

“Terry is missing. I called his wife as soon as I got back to my office. Rose doesn’t know where he is. He always comes home or checks in with her. She hasn’t heard from him since the day before yesterday.”

“What did Gault say that prompted you to hire Terry Conklin?” Monica asked.

David hesitated. Then he said,

“He told me he murdered Darlene Hersch.”

“Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch.”

“Gault has a build similar to Larry Stafford’s, he drives a beige Mercedes, and he showed me the curly blond wig he wore when he murdered Darlene Hersch. He also confessed to other killings, including Julie Gault’s.

“Remember Grimes’s testimony about the killer having brown hair? Gault has brown hair. If Gault wore a curly blond wig, then took it off in his car, Ortiz would have seen a man with curly blond hair and Grimes would have seen a man with brown hair.”

“Ortiz is still certain he saw Stafford.”

“You know what the lighting conditions were like that night. You saw Terry Conklin’s pictures.”

“Very skillfully taken pictures, I must admit,” Monica said sarcastically.

“No, Monica, those pictures weren’t doctored. I had other professional photographers duplicate Terry’s work. They weren’t phonies.”

“I know,” Monica said with a sigh. “I sent a police photographer to the motel, and he got similar results.”

David spent the next half hour going over his relationship with Gault from their first contact to the meeting at the restaurant. He omitted only reference to Jenny and their affair. He knew it would be better to tell Monica everything, but he couldn’t bring himself to reveal their relationship.

“I don’t know,” Monica said when he was finished. “Gault obviously has mental problems or else he wouldn’t be playing this kind of game with you, whether the confession is true or false. But he did retract his first confession, and as you pointed out, there isn’t a shred of evidence that connects him to the murder of Darlene Hersch. As for Terry Conklin, we don’t even have a body.”

“He did it, Monica. If you’d been there and heard him…”

“I wasn’t, though.”

“Does that mean you won’t do anything?”

“No, David. You wouldn’t have come to see me if you didn’t think Gault murdered Darlene Hersch and Terry Conklin.”

Monica paused. She seemed uncertain whether to continue with what she was going to say.

“David,” she asked hesitantly, “what happened to you during Stafford’s trial? You seemed to fold up and die when I put Johnson on. You must know that you had a good chance to keep him from testifying.”

David looked at the tabletop to avoid looking at Monica.

“I won’t discuss the Stafford trial. You’ll have to respect my wishes.”

Monica wanted to pursue the matter, but she sensed David’s pain. She had too much respect for him to go any further.

“I think I should bring Bert Ortiz in on this,” she said. “He’s the one you have to convince. If he doesn’t change his mind, you have no case.”

“You’re right,” David agreed. “Can he be trusted to keep this quiet?”

“I think so.”

“Then call him.”

“D
AVID GAVE ME
some very unsettling information about the Darlene Hersch murder tonight. I want you to hear it, but you have to agree to keep this meeting confidential.”

Ortiz was confused. When Monica had called, she had told him she wanted to discuss the Stafford case, but she had refused to be more specific. His first thought was that she had found out about his arrangement with T.V. Johnson, and he had given a great deal of thought to what he would say if Monica accused him of setting up the pimp. Then, when he’d arrived, he was surprised to see David.

“I’ll keep what he says secret,” Ortiz agreed. He sat in an armchair opposite David, and Monica sat beside David on the couch.

Ortiz listened as David repeated what he had told Monica.

“What do you think?” Monica asked when David finished.

“I don’t know,” Ortiz answered cautiously. He couldn’t believe his luck, but he did not want to appear overexcited. “This is all so sudden. I’m pretty positive about Stafford, but…What do you think, Monica?”

“I don’t know either, Bert. But I think you should look into the possibility that we were mistaken.”

“How do we know this isn’t another one of Gault’s pranks? After all, you’re the guy who says he’s unbalanced,” Ortiz asked.

David shook his head. “It could be, but I think we have to operate on the assumption that it isn’t.”

“Okay. That leaves us with the problem of proving Gault killed Darlene and Conklin. How do we do that?”

David shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure out the answer to that question all day.”

“We can try to establish where he was the night Darlene died,” Monica said. She turned toward David.

“Didn’t he tell you he tried to get some action at a few bars earlier in the evening?”

“He did,” David answered. “We could circulate a picture and see if anyone recognizes him.”

“That was months ago,” Ortiz said. “No one is going to remember Gault after all this time, especially if he was in disguise. And we don’t even know what bars he went to. It could be any bar in Portland.”

“You’re right,” Monica agreed.

“What about the wig?” Ortiz asked David suddenly. “You said he showed you the wig. That means he kept it all this time, even though it could tie him into the murder.”

“That’s right,” David said. “He probably still has it.”

“Monica, let’s write out an affidavit for a warrant to search Gault’s house,” Ortiz said, excited by the prospect.

“We can’t, Bert. That wig was shown to David as part of a confidential communication. He’s the only one who’s seen it, and he can’t violate the confidence.”

“Shit.”

Ortiz stood up and began pacing.

“How about putting a tap on his phone or wiring David, then putting the two in contact?” he suggested.

“We have the same problem. It would be an invasion of the attorney-client privilege,” David said. “Besides, I doubt that Gault will discuss this over the phone. He’s too smart. He’d suspect something was up.”

The three were silent for several minutes. Finally, Monica said, “Look, I have a trial tomorrow, and I have to get some sleep. Why don’t we think about the problem and get back in touch after five?”

“I agree,” David said. “I’m exhausted. We might get some ideas after a night’s sleep. I’ll call in the late afternoon, Monica, and we can arrange a place to meet.”

“H
OW DOES IT
feel to be working for the good guys?” Ortiz asked when they were alone in the elevator.

David blushed. He hadn’t quite thought of it in those terms, but there was a good feeling in trying to keep someone from hurting others, instead of trying to make a shambles of conscientious police work.

“I never felt I was working for the bad guys,” David answered defensively.

“Yeah, well,” Ortiz answered with a grin.

As it turned out, Stafford had been a “good guy,” David thought. Gregory had been right, after all. You couldn’t have one system of justice for the guilty and one for the innocent. If David had defended Stafford instead of judging him, Stafford might be free now.

O
RTIZ WAS THINKING
about Thomas Gault as he walked to his car. How could they trap him? There had to be a way.
He heard David’s car door open and shut. His car was nearby in the apartment parking lot. He unlocked the door and sat behind the wheel.

David drove by and Ortiz lit up a cigarette. He felt sorry for Nash. The guy looked awful. He wondered how he would feel carrying around the burden of Gault’s confession and not being able to do anything about it. Then he realized that that was exactly what he was doing.

Ortiz started his car. He was bushed. He’d sleep tonight. No alarms, either. He glanced out the window at nothing in particular as he neared the exit to the street. David’s car was half a block away, headed east. Across the street, to the west, a car turned on its lights and attracted Ortiz’s attention. His heart stopped. He slowed and pulled into an empty parking space after shutting off his lights. The car across the street pulled into traffic, keeping some distance behind David’s car. Ortiz backed out of the space and started to follow. The car was a beige Mercedes.