Face of a Killer

17

Sydney grabbed the manila envelope from her top desk drawer, and she and Carillo walked to the Chili’s across the street, took a corner table by the kitchen, because they could both sit with their backs to the wall, and the waitress who worked that section knew Carillo. Without asking, she brought them a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and said the appetizer was en route.

“So what’s on your mind?” Carillo asked as he poured the beer and handed one to her.

“No small talk first?”

“Guess that depends on how much of it you want me to remember,” he said, lifting up his glass. “So feel free to proceed at will.”

“Ground rules, first. This stays between us, without being pipelined to Scotty.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“My father’s murder,” she said, figuring it best to just come out with it.

“He was killed in a robbery, right?”

“So it was reported. I went to San Quentin and spoke with the man who allegedly killed him. He’s due to be executed within a week, I don’t think he did it, and there’s this stuff about my father’s military background that isn’t making sense, and only came to light after the suicide of a nominee for the administrator for the Office of Federal Procurement Policy.”

“Okay… Nothing complicated there. But just to keep this simple, remember, I’m drinking here, so start with your old man’s murder.”

She gave him a rundown on her father’s case as she recalled it, ending with Wheeler’s arrest, and then her recent interview of him. She stared down into her beer glass, shaking her head, again feeling as though what Wheeler had told her sounded so inadequate, inconsequential. “I can’t help asking myself what if he didn’t do it?”

“Do what? The murder? Are you nuts?”

“No,” she said, taking a sip of her beer. “I am not nuts. And I am definitely having doubts.”

“I’ll admit I’m not completely familiar with the case, other than what Scotty told me,” he said, refilling his glass. “But even so, you can’t be serious that a ten-minute conversation with the convicted killer could change your mind.”

“Just added a new perspective. Especially in light of everything else that’s come about recently.”

“Perspective?” He held the pitcher over her glass, but she waved him off. “Then clue me in, because frankly I’m lost.”

“The prosecution said he’d lied about being friends with my father, that he’d made it all up to cover for the robbery. That this church who gave Wheeler’s name to my father never existed. They based their case on that. But what he said in there, he could only have known if my father had befriended him. They were private things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the canister under the counter.” And she told him about what she’d done as a kid, taking the money to play video games.

“You’re feeling guilty, is all. You took some money, blamed yourself, and now you’re trying to justify that guilt so that you don’t have to-”

“Trust me. When it comes to psychoanalyzing something, I’ve got the market cornered. It’s more than that. He knew about the twenty under the till, and why my father kept one there after he closed out each night.”

“Not enough.”

“And my father told him to pay him back on Tuesday. That meant it was a gift.”

“Okay. That one I definitely don’t get.”

“Popeye?” she said. “Wimpy?”

“Your point?”

“Wimpy was my father’s favorite character, always begging for money, offering to gladly pay on Tuesday for a hamburger today? If my father told someone they could pay him back on Tuesday, it meant he didn’t expect the money back.”

“Hate to tell you this, but you’re not giving me anything earthshaking.”

“He only told that to people he cared about. They didn’t even have to know what it meant. But we knew. My mother and I.”

“News flash. Empathy with cartoon characters does not make for good court cases.”

“It tells me there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Carillo said nothing for quite some time, just sat there, drinking his beer. Finally, “I know I’m going to regret this… Let me look at the case.”

That was the last thing she expected. “You’re going to help me?”

“No. I’m going to look at the case. I want to see if he fits the profile. Give it to me when we go back.”

Better than nothing, she figured. “And if he doesn’t fit the profile?”

“It’d be interesting to find out why, because it doesn’t make sense. Santa Arleta PD is a good department. Too small to facilitate a cover-up of that magnitude. The suspect has the burns on his hands, from the fire being set to cover for the crime. Beyond that, I’d have to ask, who had motive to kill your father? He owned a pizza parlor, for God’s sake.”

“Maybe there was something else going on there. His old manager had ties to organized crime.”

“Like what? Money laundering?”

“Or something. And, like I said, I think he lied about his military background. This only came to light after Will McKnight’s suicide the other day.”

“Who is Will McKnight?”

“He was a friend of my father’s and Senator Gnoble’s. They were all in the army together.”

He lowered his beer to the table. “What does this have to do with Gnoble?”

“I’m not sure, unless Gnoble was somehow involved in getting McKnight’s name in front of the president for consideration as the U.S. procurement czar.”

“Wouldn’t that sort of make the big news? Some guy about to be appointed to oversee the entire federal government’s purchasing budget offs himself and it doesn’t even make the Chronicle headlines, much less every network on TV?”

“His nomination wasn’t made public yet. They wanted to do the background first to avoid delays in the appointment.”

“So either the government is finally becoming efficient, or someone knew he might not pass muster? I’m assuming the Bureau did the background?”

“Special Agent Hatcher.”

“He’s sure it’s suicide?”

“As far as I know. More importantly, McKnight left a suicide note, which I want to see, if only for the timing of it all.”

“You think it’s going to tell you something?”

“I won’t know until I see it, which is probably why Scotty made sure I was assigned to the Jane Doe case.”

Carillo, mid-sip, nearly spit his beer from his mouth. “What makes you think Scotty was involved?”

“You tell me he wasn’t, and I’ll believe it.”

He held her gaze, took a breath. “All right, he did ask. But knowing Scotty it’s got everything to do with scoring points with you later, if you do good on the case, get assigned to violent crimes, then hear who got you assigned. Grateful you hops in bed with helpful him, isn’t that how it works? I mean, why wouldn’t he want you to figure out what’s going on with your father’s case?”

“Some misguided sense of shielding me from the hurt and painful memories of it all? At least I’m hoping that’s what it is, because this was delivered in the mail, sent anonymously.” She held up the envelope, then slid out the contents, handed them to Carillo.

“And what does any of this have to do with Scotty?”

“It was something he didn’t want me to see. Why else would he show up in town the day before it arrives, then appear at my house and pluck it out of the mail, like maybe he was expecting to find it.”

“And was he?”

“He said McKnight mentioned mailing it just before he died. Hearsay via Hatcher’s interview of him over the phone. Regardless, McKnight kept apologizing for something he did to my father in the army. So if that’s why he sent the photo, it’s not making sense to me. Not only that, but McKnight left a suicide note that no one can seem to get me a copy of. I think they found something in that note that sent them scrambling, and I want to see it.”

Carillo stared at the photograph a good long time, asked her who she could identify. She pointed out her father, Gnoble, and McKnight, and he asked, “Special ops?”

“That’s what my neighbor said when he saw the picture. I was always under the belief my father was a contract civilian. A photographer.”

“That’s a standard cover, saying they do something innocuous for the government. It’d be nice to know who these other two are. Maybe that’ll tell you something. Scotty didn’t say anything about this?”

“Other than he thought it pointed to my father being involved in some blackmail scheme against McKnight, right before he tried to take it from me? No.”

“You want me to ask him about it?”

“If he went to this much trouble to keep me from looking into it, I don’t want him to know I think there’s more to it. He has too many connections, and I can picture him getting me transferred to some file room back at HQ just so he can keep tabs on me.”

“You saying you want me to lie to the guy? I’m not sure you’re ready for a big step like that, Pollyanna. That’d be going from black and white to downright murky,” he said, as the waitress arrived with a heaping plate of nachos, covered with sour cream, guacamole, chicken, and cheese. She gave them each a small plate, set out a fresh bowl of salsa, and took away the old. Carillo refilled his beer glass, eyed the foam, watched it settle, dissipate, before pinning his gaze on her. “You want this, you’re going to need to take that rule book of yours and stash it. You know how many cases wouldn’t get solved if everything was done by the book?”

“You’re not suggesting anything illegal, are you?”

Carillo gave a heavy sigh, the sort that told her he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth at all. “First thing, Pollyanna, there are rules. And then there are rules. Bend a little, break a little. You do what needs to be done without killing the case. The question is, how bad do you want this?”

She hesitated. But not for long. “So what you’re saying is that they’re sort of like principles or guidelines?”

“Exactly.”

“How is that going to get me to Houston PD to get a copy of McKnight’s alleged suicide note when it’s not even one of my cases?”

“It is now. Scotty’s got to be all hot and heavy over it for some reason, which means some crime going on somewhere. What you’re doing is following a hunch. Taking the initiative. So, first thing I’d do, when we get back to the office, you make copies of the photo and the letter McKnight sent you, tuck them away, then call Scotty and tell him you thought better of it, now that you’ve had time to calm down. You give them back to him. Next up, you give me your father’s murder investigation, so I can read up on that tonight, figure out where it all ties in. Lastly, we look for a case that’ll get you to Houston.”

“I’m not good at this whole lying thing. I don’t think I can take some case, try to pretend it’s related to something I’m working on.”

“Proficiency comes with experience,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast. “And my experience tells me you might want to thank Scotty for getting you assigned to the Jane Doe case after all.”

“Why is that?”

“There’s a lot of land in Texas. There’s gotta be a crime somewhere near there with an MO we can fit into the parameters of our Jane Doe case. And once we find one, someone’s gotta fly out, check into it. Wouldn’t be right if we didn’t investigate every lead.”

“And who better than me?”

“You catch on quick, Pollyanna.”