Smoke Screen (33 page)

He ended by saying, “No one—no one but you and the investigating detectives—ever heard my claim that I’d suffered a complete memory loss due to my unwitting ingestion of a drug. I was advised by my good friend Jay to keep that aspect of the story quiet. He said it would only make things look worse for me if I breathed a word about being drugged. People would think I’d been snorting coke along with Suzi Monroe.

“But when I heard Ms. Shelley say she suspected she’d been given a date rape drug that had wiped clean her memory of the night Jay was murdered, I knew we were victims of the same cover-up. And the motive—criminal lawyers like you are sticklers for motivation, right?—the motive of the perpetrators was to keep secret the facts of what happened to Cleveland Jones and who the actual arsonist was.”

“Jay was going to tell me the night he died,” Britt interjected. “If he did, I can’t remember it. But I’m certain it was his need to unburden his conscience that got him killed.”

Looking squarely at the attorney general, Raley said, “When Suzi Monroe died, you wanted me to take the fall for it. No doubt I would have, if not for Cassandra Mellors’s intervention.”

Fordyce frowned sourly. “Seems she’s still your champion. Does she know any of this about Cleveland Jones?”

“I shared my suspicion, yes.”

Fordyce dragged his hands down his face. After a moment, he lowered his hands and, looking like a man making a last-ditch effort to save himself, said, “If this is about payback, Mr. Gannon, please keep in mind that I didn’t indict you. I spared you prosecution.”

“Correct. But you might just as well have branded me guilty. I lost my job. I lost five fucking years of my life because you and the others set me up with Suzi Monroe and then saw to it that she snorted enough cocaine to kill her.”

Britt nudged his knee with hers, reminding him of the camera, and his promise to keep his temper under control. Nothing would be served if this came out looking like a personal vendetta. They were seeking justice, not revenge.

Fordyce glanced at the camera, then addressed Raley. “I’ll admit that it never felt right to me, that girl’s death. It bothered me that she died in Jay Burgess’s apartment, a
policeman’s
apartment. When Candy brought you to my office, and you told me that your defense was a short-term memory loss, my suspicion was further aroused.”

“Suspicion?”

“Suspicion that something was out of whack. You were as clean-cut as they come. You were engaged to be married. Not that a diamond ring prevents people from cheating, but you didn’t share your friend Jay’s reputation for promiscuity. You had no history of drug use, your record was spotless, you were the fire department’s rising star.”

He held up his index finger. “But the real snag in my mind was that you were investigating the fire, and the detectives assigned to the Suzi Monroe case were the heroes of that fire.”

“So were you.”

“Yes.”

Raley hoped the camera was capturing the remorse evident in Fordyce’s face and voice. His shoulders no longer seemed so wide, his posture not so proud. He was staring at his hands as they rested on his desk. Was he having a Pontius Pilate moment, staring at the guilty stains on his hands, which only he could see?

Raley didn’t let himself be moved by the man’s penitent demeanor. “It felt out of whack, it had a snag, but you didn’t look too hard to find out why, did you?”

“No.” Slowly, Fordyce raised his head and looked directly into the camera. “I didn’t look too hard because the case involved policemen, decorated heroes of the police force, and I was about to announce my candidacy for the office of attorney general. An AG depends on the solid support of law enforcement agencies. I didn’t want to alienate peace officers statewide by suggesting that a few were involved in a cover-up and very possibly murder.”

Raley realized he was holding his breath. He glanced at Britt. She still held the camcorder steady on Fordyce, but she looked over at Raley to see if he realized the significance of the startling, self-indicting statement they’d just recorded.

She seized on it, asking, “What happened in the interrogation room with Cleveland Jones?”

Her voice, her demeanor, were gentle, nonthreatening, nonjudgmental, suggesting that she and the AG were the only ones present and that she had an earnest and unselfish interest in his cathartic admission.

So it came as a mild surprise to Raley when Fordyce said, “I don’t know, Britt.” He addressed her through the camera lens. “I shirked my duty on the Suzi Monroe matter because it was expedient. It was a self-serving evasion of responsibility that cost Mr. Gannon here dearly. I’m sorry for that. If I could, I would give him back those years of disgrace he’s unjustly suffered, but I can’t.

“But I don’t know what happened in that interrogation room. Or how Cleveland Jones died, or who started the fire.” When he saw that Raley was about to speak, he held up his hand, forestalling him. “You don’t have to take my word for it. It’s fact. You can check it out.”

“Tell us,” Britt said.

“I left my office in the courthouse a little before six o’clock, bound for the police station.”

“Why were you going to the police station that late in the day?”

“To pick up some new evidence on a case that was coming up for trial. I was to meet the investigating officer at the reception desk. I was just about to enter the building when the fire alarm sounded. I rushed inside. There are survivors, people who were in the lobby at the time, who can support this.

“At first, we thought it was a false alarm. In that old building, something was always malfunctioning. Several people cracked jokes about it. Someone asked if it was a fire drill.”

He paused, staring into space, as though re-creating that scene in his mind. “But almost immediately we smelled smoke and realized it was the real thing. I hustled people out through the main entrance and then ran along the corridors on the ground floor, shouting at people in the various offices to exit as quickly as possible.” He paused again, shrugged. “You know the rest.”

Britt said, “You’re being modest. You went up the stairwell and began escorting people out from upper floors.”

He nodded.

“So you truly were a hero,” she said.

“That day, I did the right thing.” Looking at Raley, he added, “It was later that I didn’t.”

Raley thought he must be the best liar in the history of the art, or he was telling the truth. “You’ve got witnesses who can testify that, when you walked into the police station, the alarm was already sounding?”

“Yes. Even police personnel who were at the reception desk that day.”

“Had you been there earlier?”

“Earlier that day, you mean? No. That, too, can be substantiated. Even the district attorney has to sign in at the reception desk.”

“The register was destroyed in the fire.”

“I wasn’t there earlier, Mr. Gannon. I didn’t even leave my office for lunch, and my secretary can attest to that. It became a memorable day, so even minor details took on relevance.”

“You never questioned Cleveland Jones?”

“No. I swear it. I didn’t even know what he looked like until his picture, his mug shot, was published in the newspaper days following the fire.”

Britt said, “We’ve heard from a reliable source that Pat Wickham, Senior, called you, asking that you go over there and threaten to throw the book at Jones if he didn’t confess to assault.”

Pat Jr. wasn’t exactly what Raley would call a “reliable source,” but Fordyce seemed to believe her.

He said, “Pat Wickham did call me. Earlier that afternoon. He said he had a skinhead in custody. A career criminal and general lowlife that they’d wanted to put away for a long time. But Cleveland Jones knew how to work the system, he said. He was dicking them around, and I quote. He said there was to be no plea bargain this time, that they had a chance to nail Cleveland Jones, but good.

“He asked me to provide some additional pressure that might result in a confession, which would save the state the cost of a trial. He wanted me to go over there, talk to Jones, lay it on thick how bleak his future looked. But I was busy and I couldn’t get away right then. I told him I’d look in when I came over later in the day on the other errand.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as though searching his memory. “I remember wondering why he was obsessed with this assault charge. That’s bad, but it wasn’t like Jones was accused of battery rape, multiple murder, or child molestation.” He leaned across his desk toward Raley. “What am I missing? Tell me.”

“I don’t have any proof.”

“I haven’t asked for any. What do you speculate happened?”

“I don’t know who actually made the arrest,” Raley told him. “That’s one of the details nobody was willing to share. What our source has told us is that Pat Senior, George McGowan, and Jay Burgess were looking for Jones and were determined to see that he got hard time. Given that, I assume one or any combination of the three picked him up. Either during the arrest or, more likely, in the course of questioning him, they got rough, and it resulted in the skull fractures that proved fatal.”

“You’re saying they beat him to death?”

“Probably his death was an accident. But he died, and they panicked. They had to do something to cover the crime.”

Fordyce frowned. “Fires are unreliable covers for murders. Those three would know that. Forensics would show that Jones didn’t die of fire-related causes.”

“True. What I suspect is that they set the contents of the wastebasket on fire in order to convince everyone that Jones went crazy in that room. They thought it would back up their lie of how irrationally he’d started behaving. They planned to put the fire out quickly. Create a little smoke, but nothing more. It would have served its purpose without too much harm being done.

“What they didn’t count on was their small fire getting sucked into the antiquated ventilation system and spreading rapidly through the infrastructure. Before they knew it, the blaze was burning out of control, engulfing the stories above them, causing the building to collapse on itself.”

“Realizing what they’d done, they saved those they could,” Britt said softly.

“But there were still seven bodies to dig out of the rubble,” Raley added.

“Jesus.” Fordyce rubbed his forehead as though it had begun to ache. When at last he lowered his hand and looked at them, he said, “Three senior detectives questioning one skinhead punk? Why was that?”

“Turn off the camera.” Raley knew they had to tell Fordyce about Pat Jr., but he wanted to protect his confidence, too. Britt, knowing why he didn’t want this part of their interview recorded, did as he asked.

“Pat Wickham’s son is gay,” he told Fordyce. “Jones had assaulted him in Hampton Park, broke his leg, busted his face. He sustained bad, disfiguring, permanent damage. Pat Senior wanted to give Jones some of his own medicine, and he got his buddies to help him.”

Fordyce divided a look between them, then stood up and moved to the window that afforded him a view of his swimming pool. He gazed out onto the pool for several moments, then turned back to face them. “That’s the piece that was missing. Now that I have it, it makes sense. They had two secrets to protect.”

“There’s more,” Britt said, switching the camera back on. “We don’t believe Pat Senior died in the line of duty.” She related what Pat Jr. had told them about his father’s steep decline after the fire. “He went downhill even further after Suzi Monroe’s death and his part in that cover-up.”

Fordyce said, “He cracked under the burden of his guilt.”

“A breakdown seemed imminent to those close to him,” Britt said. “Apparently Jay and George McGowan were afraid that he would confess and then they would all topple. Raley and I suspect his slaying wasn’t a random crime. Jay was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He wanted to clear his conscience before he died.”

“So McGowan had to dispose of him, too,” Fordyce said thoughtfully.

She raised her shoulder and gave him a significant look, letting him draw the logical conclusion. Then he looked at Raley, who said, “McGowan is the only one left breathing.”

“No wonder he’s been dodging my calls.” The AG sighed heavily, then asked, “Do you have any proof whatsoever of what you’re alleging?”

Britt answered. “No. But McGowan must be afraid that I do. My car is at the bottom of the Combahee River.” She told him about that horrifying experience. “I would be down there with it if Raley hadn’t been behind me. He saw my car disappear.”

Fordyce turned to him. “You rescued her?”

“I got lucky. Another minute, she would have drowned.”

“Well, that explains your ‘disappearance,’” the AG said to Britt. “You were safe so long as you were believed dead.”

“I was afraid I wouldn’t live long if I came forward.”

Raley assessed Fordyce. He appeared to believe them, but he was a careful man, whose courtroom win-loss record was impressive, partly because he never took anything at face value but filtered everything through the innate skepticism of a good trial lawyer.

“I hope you realize the seriousness of these allegations,” Fordyce said. “By process of elimination, you’re suggesting that George McGowan is an arsonist and murderer. And that he also made this attempt on Britt’s life.”

“We’re alleging that he conspired in all those crimes,” Raley said. “Until just a few minutes ago, we thought you two were probably in cahoots.”

Fordyce glanced at the pistol still lying on the table amid framed family photos and smiled grimly. “That explains why you came here armed.”

“I think McGowan hired two men to take care of Jay and Britt,” Raley said. “Not musclemen, not thuggish, but blend-in types. They searched my home and truck two days ago. Britt recognized one of them from The Wheelhouse, where she met Jay. The same two were at his funeral. They followed me from there, but I eluded them. We ran into them again last night but managed to get away.” He didn’t give the details of that encounter and was glad Fordyce didn’t ask. “We’re guessing they’re the two who forced Britt’s car off the road, although she can’t swear to it.” He paused, then said, “That more or less brings you up to date. That’s where we are.”