The Pardon

Chapter 21

Stafford and his assistants left Jack’s house at about eight o’clock. Jack’s tennis shoes were in the lab by eight-thirty. Stafford and his partner hung around the police station for the preliminary results, patiently waiting in the senior detective’s office. Stafford was at his desk, still in that faded blue blazer he never seemed to take off, his white shirt collar unbuttoned and wide polyester tie dropped over his chair. He was buying himself smoking cigarettes and straightening out paper clips. Bradley was in the chair beside the window, wadding up yesterday’s newspaper into little balls and shooting free throws into the wastebasket in the corner.

The phone rang at ten. “Stafford,” the detective answered eagerly, cigarette smoke pouring from his lips as he spoke.

Bradley watched expectantly as his partner nodded and grunted.

“Got him!” Stafford proclaimed as he hung up. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms smugly across his chest. “Perfect match on the Reeboks. Twenty-seven glorious prints all over the apartment, and even one on the windowsill. Can’t say I’m surprised. I knew in my gut Swyteck did it. But I’m pleased as hell we can prove it.”

Bradley nodded slowly. “Congratulations,” he said, though he spoke without heart.

Stafford looked questioningly at his partner. “I would have expected a little more excitement than that, Jamahl.”

Bradley hesitated, but there was something he needed to say. “Frankly, Lon, you just seem a little too eager to nail this guy. That’s all.”

Stafford’s eyes flared with anger, but he kept control. “Listen to me,” he lectured. “I’ve been a cop more than forty years, son. I know enough to listen to my instincts. And my instincts say that Jack Swyteck lost his cool after that trial, and he blew Goss away. I know what I’m talking about,” he growled, then took a drag from his cigarette. “The system is just a game to these criminal defense lawyers. They don’t care about the truth. They’ll say or do whatever it takes to win: ‘My client ate too many Twinkies,’ or ‘My client watched too much television.’ I’ve heard it all and I’ve seen ’em all, and Swyteck ranks up there with the worst. I listened to Eddy Goss confess murder right to my face. Right to my damn face. And then I watched Fancy Jack Swyteck convince a jury his client wasn’t guilty. That boy made a fool out of me. I’ve watched that son of a bitch do it time and time again. And every time he wins, another killer goes back on the street. Usually it’s on a technicality or some flaky defense. And Swyteck’s just getting warmed up. He’s a tenderfoot. Can you imagine him doing this for the next twenty-five, thirty years?”

Bradley swallowed apprehensively. He knew the dangers of a cop who let the ends justify the means-especially one who seemed out for revenge. “So what are you saying, Lon? Somebody’s got to stop him?”

Stafford’s expression turned very cold. “No,” he snapped. “All I’m saying is that this slick defense lawyer has got himself into deep trouble, and I’m gonna make damn sure he pays for it. So excuse me if I seem a little too happy about catchin’ myself a killer, okay?”

Bradley nodded slowly. “Okay, chief,” he shrugged, seeming to back off. “After all, you do have twenty-seven footprints.”

“You’re damn right I do.”

“But don’t forget,” said Bradley, shooting him a look. “There’s still an unidentified footprint right outside the apartment door. We know it’s not from Goss. It’s not the right shoe size. And we know it’s not from Swyteck, either, since he was wearing the Reeboks.”

“So what,” said Stafford, waving it off. “It’s from the janitor or somebody else in the building.”

Bradley shook his head. “No, it’s not, Lon. That’s a very clean print. You can see the insignia on the heel very plainly: two crossed oars. Those are Wiggins wing tips-three-hundred-dollar jobs. There ain’t no janitor and nobody in that slum of an apartment building who wears three-hundred-dollar wing tips.”

“Look, Jamahl,” Stafford grimaced. “We got twenty-seven footprints from Jack Swyteck inside the apartment. We got one stray footprint outside the apartment. Quit bein’ a pain in the ass, will ya?”

Bradley sighed. His doubts weren’t alleviated, but he didn’t want to provoke his partner. “Maybe you’re right,” he said as he rose from his chair and stepped toward the door. Then he stopped. “But let me put it to you this way, Lon. Twenty-seven footprints from the same pair of shoes add up to how many people?”

Stafford shrugged, as if the question were stupid. “One, of course,” he said.

“That’s right. And no matter how you look at it, one single footprint from a different pair of shoes adds up to what?”

“One person,” Stafford answered reluctantly.

“Right,” said Bradley, “as in one other person. Think about it,” he said.