Sullivan's Law (13 page)

Before he got back on his feet, Carolyn tossed her arms around his neck and embraced him. His words had been echoes of her own. Funny, she thought, remembering all the childhood injuries, colds, viruses, and flus she'd nursed over the years. Once children matured, they treated much of the wisdom they'd acquired as if it had magically appeared, seldom giving credit to the parents who'd implanted it.

“Are you sure you don't want to become a doctor?” Carolyn asked, letting her arms slide down his muscular shoulders. “You'd make a good one.”

“Never know,” John said, smiling as he hurried out of the room.

 

Carolyn drove both Rebecca and John to school Thursday morning, then headed to the government center complex. The night before, she'd made a list of the various people she needed to contact regarding Daniel and the events surrounding Tim Harrison's death. The situation with the warden might have to wait until she obtained more specific information about his inventions. She couldn't tell if someone held or had applied for a patent until she knew precisely what had been invented.

Brad was probably right. If Warden Lackner was corrupt, he would have been sophisticated enough not to register the patents under his own name.

Modern technology had provided many benefits to criminal investigators, yet it had also placed barriers around those they needed to contact. Due to constant soliciting, hardly anyone had a listed phone number, even in a town the size of Ventura. In reality, there was no such thing as a small town anymore. The entire universe was electronically connected. Being in law enforcement, Carolyn could obtain an unlisted number without a problem, but she couldn't prevent a person from blocking a call or not picking up the phone unless they knew the caller. Probation and parole officers now spent untold hours trying to perform what had once been one of the most simplistic aspects of their job—calling and checking up on their offenders. Months could pass before an officer could confirm that a probationer had actually absconded or was merely hidden behind a wall of security, either on their jobs or in the homes where they resided. Some measure of proof was necessary to file the appropriate court documents, and although surprise visits sounded good on paper, appearing at a probationer's door without notice could either be a waste of already overburdened officers' time, or place them in grave danger.

Carolyn ran into Veronica in the hallway. “You look terrible,” the woman exclaimed. “I thought you were going to become famous defending criminals, not getting yourself blown to pieces.” When Carolyn glared at her, she quickly added, “I'm joking, okay? Can't you smile every now and then? Seriously, are you okay? Everyone's been talking about you and this Metroix fellow.”

Veronica took Carolyn's hand and pulled her into one of the interview rooms. “You're not carrying on with him, are you? I mean, the newspapers said you were in his motel room.”

“Please,” Carolyn said, too pressed for time to listen to her habitual jabbering. “How could you even think such a thing? I wasn't able to collect all the information I needed from him at the office. Metroix is a supervision case. It's required that we check their living environment. Right now, his home is a motel.”

The woman pointed at her chest. “Don't blame me, honey. I'm your friend. People talk, that's all. Preston is looking for you, by the way, and he doesn't look very happy.”

Carolyn poured herself a cup of coffee from the break room, then carried it back to her desk. The first thing she did was call the records division to see if they could furnish her with the phone numbers and addresses for Liam Armstrong and Nolan Houston. As soon as she hung up the phone, Brad strode into her cubicle, red-faced and furious.

“The least you could have done was check in with me this morning,” he yelled at her. “You weren't able to come to work yesterday, but you felt good enough to get Metroix out of jail. Hank Sawyer went ballistic a few minutes ago. He demanded that I force you to tell me where you stashed him.”

Carolyn continued making notes to herself on a yellow pad, not so much as raising her head. Finally she tossed her pen aside, mad that she had to fight her own agency as well as the police to do what she felt was her job. Brad had never questioned her judgment before, nor had any of the district attorneys or judges. The only people who ever complained about her were defense attorneys. Did Brad really believe she would protect a man who posed a threat to the community, or more specifically, someone who was out to harm her or her family? “Hank Sawyer has no right to know Daniel Metroix's whereabouts. No criminal charges were filed. I'm the officer you assigned to supervise this man. The only person he's required by law to keep apprised of his whereabouts is me.”

“Sometimes I forget how hardheaded you are,” Brad said, yanking a chair from the other desk and straddling it backwards. “Look, why go to war over this? We're supposed to work in concert with the PD. Hank has a right to interrogate a witness to a crime. And what happened at that motel wasn't a minor incident. Not only that, he says someone left you a threatening note and smashed your car up yesterday. Why didn't you tell me?”

Carolyn stared out the window, her anger dissipating as she fell deep in thought. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the case seemed to be scattered in pieces. The time element was a major problem. Somehow she had to find a way to resurrect the events of the past, then successfully connect them to the crimes of the present. She also had to consider that this might be a puzzle that could never be solved.

Carolyn recalled awakening at four in the morning when she was a teenager. She'd gone to the kitchen for a glass of milk and found her father working at the kitchen table, stacks of papers in front of him, all covered with complex equations. He used to concentrate so intently that Carolyn and Neil had placed bets as to who could distract him. They'd rattle pots and pans, blast their radios, even stand in front of him and scream that someone was breaking into the house. Carolyn had been shocked when her father had stopped working that morning and talked to her. He'd explained that he was attempting to solve the Riemann hypnosis, the Holy Grail of mathematics. After his death, her mother told Carolyn and Neil that their father's obsession with this unsolved problem was the reason he'd been unemployed for so many years. As she grew older, Carolyn had become more like her father. She now realized how hard it must have been for him to let go and take a teaching position so he could support his family.

Pulling herself back to the present, Carolyn asked, “Did Hank know if the crime lab found any fingerprints or other evidence on the note left on my car?”

“Since you're convinced Charles Harrison is behind this, did you really expect them to find any incriminating evidence?” Brad stood, shoving the chair aside. “The least you could do is look at me when I talk to you.”

“I refuse to respond when you yell at me,” Carolyn said calmly. She swivelled her chair around to face him. “I'm not only smarter than you, Brad, I'm more professional.”

“I'm not sleeping with Amy McFarland.”

“Right,” she said. “Don't try to bluff at poker. Is she good in bed?”

“Not since you told her I'm engaged.”

Carolyn locked eyes with him. “Guess you'll have to buy her a ring.”

It took a while before Brad realized she was teasing. They'd bantered back and forth for years, making an otherwise unpleasant job more bearable. A person who overheard some of their conversations would assume they despised each other. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“You're beginning to sound like yourself again,” he said. “I'm not sleeping with Amy McFarland, okay? The girl wants to get married and have babies. I don't have it in me to change dirty diapers.”

“I was afraid they wouldn't find anything worthwhile on the note,” Carolyn said, returning to the business at hand. “It was written on cardboard. You know, the kind of heavy, coarse paper they put inside men's shirts at the dry cleaners.” She fiddled with a strand of hair. “At least we know something about this person.”

“What's that?”

“They're not poor,” she said. “Poor people don't send their shirts out to be washed and ironed. Maybe Charles Harrison wrote the note himself.”

“And showed up in your driveway with a crowbar?” Brad argued. “That's absurd, Carolyn. I called around. Harrison's on his last leg. The booze got to him. His liver is shot and he's waiting for a transplant.”

Carolyn gave him a coy smile. “So he hires classy thugs.”

Brad laughed. “Yesterday you were ready to go after a prison warden. Now Harrison's back in the hot seat.”

“I haven't had a chance to check out the patent situation,” she explained. “Lackner would have to work awfully fast to trash my car only a short time after I got off the phone with him.” She stared at the center of his chest. “That's the most hideous tie I've ever seen, Brad. Are those headless naked ladies?”

“You're losing your eyesight,” he said, laughing. “They're bowling pins.” After all the trouble she'd encountered, Carolyn Sullivan was gutsy enough to keep her sense of humor, one of the reasons he generally catered to her demands. As much as they squabbled, he not only cared for her, he respected her.

“We have to cooperate with the police,” he said, serious again. “Be reasonable, Carolyn.”

“I'll cooperate,” she told him, holding her ground. “I'm not willing to cooperate right now.”

“What do you want me to do?” Brad asked. “Can you afford to be suspended without pay? Maybe you should give your children some thought before you answer. Don't forget, I have to report to Robert Wilson. He knows you dropped the ball on Downly.”

“My children and I are fine,” Carolyn said. “I'm going to make an appointment to speak to Judge Shoeffel.”

Brad raised his voice again. “You're taking this to Arline Shoeffel? You've got balls. I wouldn't have the nerve to present a case this weak to any judge, let alone the presiding judge herself.” He paused, then remembered. “Oh, you know Shoeffel from law school, right? She teaches one of your classes.”

“Don't you understand my problem, Brad?” Carolyn said. “I don't know who to trust at the police department. I'd like to think Hank isn't involved, but how can I be certain? The only way to clear this up is to go straight to the top.”

“Hank was a rookie when Metroix was sent to prison,” Brad told her, thinking she was being paranoid. “And some of the officers at the PD weren't even born.”

“I don't care,” she said, “I refuse to allow this man to be assassinated.”

“You really believe things could go that far?”

“Absolutely,” Carolyn said, touching the tender spot on her right elbow. The rest of the injuries she'd sustained the night of the explosion were healing nicely. Daniel had been lucky, as he'd been wearing Levi's and a long sleeve shirt. “Didn't you tell me Harrison was on his deathbed? What kind of punishment can you hold over a dying man's head? He may be determined to take Metroix with him. I'm not going to let him.”

“You know,” Brad said, belching, “you're going to give me a damn ulcer. You want to play lawyer, I'm sure between the PD and the DA's office, we can come up with hundreds of botched cases. That's not your job. What's the status on the Sandoval shooting?”

“I've already interviewed Lois Mason,” Carolyn told him, having no idea where she'd even placed the paperwork. “The report isn't due for two weeks.”

“What about Eddie Downly?” Brad asked. “Even with the rape charges, you have to officially violate his probation. Of course, once he's convicted, you'll be assigned to handle the pre-sentence investigation.”

On this case, there would be no disagreements. “What's the latest on the girl?”

“She's still at Methodist Hospital,” Brad told her. “The lab found tissue and blood under her nails. A bloody finger-print from her neck appears to be Downly's, but it's the DNA that will nail him. Three witnesses from the neighborhood picked him out of a lineup. He'd been stalking her for five or six days. At least the sick fuck didn't kill her.”

“Do you know which DA will be prosecuting? I'd like to see how many counts they're going to file.” Carolyn gritted her teeth. “I'd be more than happy to pay Downly a visit. What I'd really like to do is to take him out and shoot him.”

“A meat grinder would be more appropriate,” Brad told her, stretching his lanky frame. “Against my better judgment,” he continued, “I'm not going to interfere in the Metroix case. You've got one day. But if Hank or anyone from the PD calls me again, I'm transferring the call to you. You want to be in the field alone, then that's where you're going to be.”

Carolyn cleared her throat. “My gun was in the motel room,” she said. “I'll need another one, as well as a shoulder holster. My holster was in my car, and the PD impounded the car for evidence. Oh, and I also need a new cell phone. Right now, I'm using my own for agency business.”

“I'll write the requisitions,” Brad told her. “You can pick them up from Rachel. My suggestion is you head over to the supply clerk immediately. Try not to kill anyone. And for God's sake, don't let this man we're all supposed to be protecting play around with your gun. I'd like to see you pass the bar exam, not help your kids pick out a casket.”

A
t eleven-fifteen that morning, Carolyn was flipping through the pages of Fast Eddie's file. Although she had been assigned to supervise him, another officer had investigated the case prior to sentencing. The indifference represented in the report was appalling. The victim's statement consisted of only a few sentences. Putting on her headset, she dialed a number.

Once she concluded the call, Carolyn removed a pair of heels from her file cabinet, stepped into them, then left her flats under her desk and walked briskly toward the ladies' room.

Standing in front of the mirror, she searched her makeup bag until she found a tube of bright red lipstick. After she put on several coats of mascara, she looked in the mirror. Something was missing. Ah, she thought, removing a black pencil to line her eyes.

Finished with her face, she rolled her skirt up at the waist until the hemline was several inches above her knees. Placing the makeup bag back into her purse, she unbuttoned the top of her blouse, wanting her cleavage to be visible. Luckily, she didn't need a Wonder Bra, what some women thought was the greatest invention of the twentieth century. In the breast department, nature had been more than generous.

Carolyn took the elevator to the first floor, left through the back door of the building, and continued around the corner to the men's jail.

“Visiting hours aren't until three,” Deputy Herschel Wells told her, a tall man with short brown hair and an olive complexion.

Carolyn filled out a form requesting to see Eddie Downly, placing it along with another document into the metal bin. “I'm Edward Downly's probation officer. I need to see him.”

“You must be shitting me,” Wells said, his tongue sweeping across his lips as he gawked at her chest. “You aren't planning on going inside like that, are you? We'll have a riot on our hands.”

“Get the damn prisoner,” Carolyn said gruffly. “I don't have time to stand around here all day. I'm placing a hold on Downly for violation of probation. I gave you the paperwork.”

“It's almost lunchtime,” Wells told her. “If I pull him now, he won't get to eat.”

Carolyn's eyes narrowed. “Downly raped an eight-year-old girl. He doesn't deserve to live, let alone eat. Have one of your men park him in an interview room.”

Wells pulled up the inmate's booking sheet on the computer, then looked back at Carolyn. “You're asking for trouble, you know. Can't you get whatever information you need from Downly through the glass?”

What the deputy was referring to was the regular visiting area of the jail. A bulletproof sheet of glass separated the inmates from anyone who came to see them. They used a phone to communicate. Probation officers, police officers, and attorneys had the option of what they referred to as a face-to-face interview. For security reasons, the inmate and visitor were locked inside a room by a jailer. Many of Carolyn's fellow officers refused to place themselves in such close contact with a violent offender, knowing they could be attacked or used as a hostage in an escape attempt. The more serious the crime, however, the greater importance Carolyn placed on a face-to-face interview. Her goal was to get the offender to trust her, hoping he would provide information she could use to justify a longer term of imprisonment. She didn't use a tape recorder as most officers did, nor did she take notes. Inmates would seldom open up when they knew their words were being recorded.

Compiling an accurate criminal history was crucial. Carolyn had handled offenders with a ten-page rap sheet who were presented to the court as first-time offenders. The law stated that unless the prior offense resulted in a conviction, the incident could not be considered at sentencing. With the deluge of cases flooding the courts throughout the country, dispositions were not always reported. Plea bargains presented another problem. An arrest for assault with a deadly weapon could end up as a conviction for theft, rapes could appear as breaking and entering, and vehicular manslaughter could be knocked down to a misdemeanor traffic violation. If the offender supplied the details of the actual offense, however, the information was then admissible with or without a formal disposition. Carolyn did everything humanly possible to provide the court with a detailed and usable criminal history.

She loved to see the look on a criminal's face when the judge handed down a lengthy prison term, knowing the guy had expected to receive no more than a few months in jail. What enraged offenders the most, though, was the realization that they'd brought this on themselves by talking so openly to the pretty probation officer.

Carolyn had suffered only one frightening experience. It had happened not long after she'd been hired. The old jail, located in Oxnard, a sister city to Ventura, had been a dark, dilapidated structure. Since there were only two interview rooms, they occasionally used a large open room that had at one time been a shower. The man Carolyn had been assigned to submit a pre-sentence report on had been a Hispanic male facing sentencing on five counts of residential burglary. Of course, had she been dressed as she was today, she felt certain the man would have raped her. As it was, he'd chased her around the room for almost two hours, ripping her blouse and slamming her head against the concrete floor. Carolyn had screamed for help, but no one had heard her. Because it was shift change, the officer who'd locked her inside had forgotten to tell anyone that she was there.

The new jail was a marvel of modern technology. When she hit the buzzer, a jailer usually responded within a matter of minutes.

“Get the prisoner,” Carolyn told Deputy Wells. “I know how to take care of myself.”

Once she passed through the security doors, Carolyn stopped and stored her purse and her new gun in a locker. An older deputy with balding hair and a bulging stomach appeared to escort her through the corridors.

“Looks like it's show time, Sullivan,” Alex Barker said, having watched Carolyn in action for years. “You know what the inmates call you these days, don't you?”

She didn't really care, but she liked Barker. She occasionally asked him to do favors for her. “The Wicked Witch of the North?”

“Worse than that,” the deputy said, talking over the din of wolf whistles and profanity coming from the men in the cells. “Not these idiots, of course,” he added. “The men in this block are pre-trial. It's the guys serving time who call you the Angel of Death.”

“Sounds good to me,” Carolyn said, smiling.

“The story goes that a drop-dead gorgeous broad pays a visit, and the next thing they know, the inmate disappears. They're too stupid to figure out that the guy has been shipped off to prison.”

Barker unlocked the door to a small, windowless room. “This your man?”

Carolyn nodded, seeing a slender young male slumped in a chair. A probation officer held an advantage over the investigating police officers. She didn't have to read the prisoner his Miranda rights. Her duty was to determine whether or not he had violated the terms and conditions of his probation. In order to do this, she had to address the issue of the pending offense.

“Hi, Eddie,” she said, once Barker had closed the door and locked it. “Long time no see. Sorry I cut into your lunch hour.”

“The food here isn't worth eating,” Eddie said, scowling. He tilted his head to one side, squinting as he peered up at her. “You're my probation officer, right? You look different.”

Carolyn took a seat at the table. They needed to establish whether or not Eddie was a pedophile. Not all men who raped a child fell into that category. Many were merely sexual predators. Overpowering their victims aroused them, and age was not always a factor. She'd known rapists whose victims ran the gamut from women old enough to be their grandmother to teenagers and children.

Eddie glanced at her breasts, then furtively looked away. A rapist would have been turned on by the seductive manner in which she was dressed. If Eddie was a pedophile, there could be other victims. He'd strangled Luisa Cortez and left her for dead. The police would have to check all missing persons reports on prepubescent children.

Now Carolyn had to play a different role.

She braced her head in her hand. “Sorry,” she said, yawning. “I'm really bushed today. I spent the night at my boyfriend's house. I forgot to bring a change of clothing. We went to the Rolling Stones concert at the Staples Center. I didn't get much sleep.”

“You like the Stones?” Eddie asked, relaxing. “They're old, man.”

“My boyfriend's a fan,” Carolyn told him. “Anyway, I didn't come to talk about myself. What's going on, Eddie? The police charged you with rape. I thought you'd be married by now. Everything seemed to be fine the last time I saw you.”

“I didn't do it,” he protested, his face flushing. “Do I look like someone who'd have to rape a kid? Girls go crazy over me. The cops locked me up and let the twisted asshole who did this get away.” He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Have you talked to them? You know, the police? What kind of evidence do they have? Did the girl die? They wouldn't let me watch TV last night.”

“Luisa Cortez survived,” Carolyn said, biting the inside of her mouth to keep from jumping across the table and gouging his eyes out. She remembered the phone call, waiting for the most opportune moment. “Where were you at the time of the crime?”

“I was with my friends,” Eddie said, coughing. “The cops have already talked to them. I have an airtight alibi.”

Carolyn opened the file. “Are you referring to Teddy Mayfield and Sam Howard?”

“Yeah,” he said, excited. “I've been trying to call them. They cleared me, didn't they? The cops promised me they'd talk to them.”

“Both of these men are in jail in San Francisco. They were arrested in a hit and run accident the day before the rape.” Carolyn watched as he squirmed in his seat. “Mayfield and Howard also had an active warrant for possession with intent to distribute. I think you picked the wrong people to cover for you, Eddie. I assume you bought your drugs from them.”

Eddie shot her a black gaze. “You're lying. You came here to trick me, make me say something incriminating.” He moved his right hand up and down. “That's why you came here with your tits hanging out.”

“I thought you were smart,” Carolyn said, opening the file again and pulling out the crime scene photos Hank Sawyer had sent to her. “Drug dealers aren't very reliable.” She turned the pictures around so he could see them.

Luisa Cortez was covered with blood and dirt. Abrasions encircled her small neck. She was nude and her legs were spread open, her pencil-thin arms limp at her sides. Between her legs were purplish bruises and streaks of dried blood. A few feet away were a torn flower print dress, a pair of white cotton panties, and two socks decorated with kittens. The girl's sneakers had not been recovered, leaving the police to believe that she'd been raped at another location, then thrown out of a moving car. One of the first things Luisa had inquired about when she'd regained consciousness at the hospital was her new shoes with heart-shaped cutouts. Carolyn suspected Eddie had kept the shoes as a souvenir.

His mouth fell open as he stared at the images. She saw his hand shaking as he tried to push the photos aside. This was the part pedophiles didn't want to remember—the terrible reality of their actions. They somehow convinced themselves that they cared for the children they attacked. She'd caught one man when he'd showed up for his seven-year-old victim's parent/teacher conference.

Carolyn slammed her fist down as hard as she could, flattening his hand on the table.

“Stop,” Eddie cried. “You're hurting me.”

“Am I really hurting you?” Carolyn asked, hissing the words through clenched teeth. “Look at the pictures, Eddie. Did you enjoy what you did to Luisa Cortez? You like little girls, don't you? I talked to Maria Valdez today.” She watched the shock register on his face. “Maria's sister, Rosita, lied when she reported you to the police. She did it to protect her seven-year-old sister, save her from the trauma of a trial. You molested Maria, not Rosita. You can't get it up with a real woman.”

Sweat was poring off Eddie's face. “You're off your rocker. I don't know what you're talking about. Rosita was my girlfriend.”

“Let me give you some free legal advice,” Carolyn told him. “Plead guilty to kidnapping, rape, and attempted murder. The DA has more than enough evidence to convict you. Remember when you registered as a sex offender and went to the lab so they could collect a DNA sample? You might have kept Luisa's shoes as a souvenir, but we have something of yours that's going to cost you your freedom. Your DNA has been matched to evidence found on Luisa's body. Not only that, she can identify you. You might as well have left your phone number and address.”

Eddie yanked his hand away, tears gushing from his eyes. He started to speak, then decided against it, scooting his chair to the back of the room.

“As part of the plea bargain,” Carolyn continued, “insist that you serve your prison time in protective custody. If you don't, the inmates will kill you. Being in prison doesn't mean these men don't have sisters, daughters, or nieces.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “If there are other victims, maybe in other states, you could stay out of prison longer if you cooperate and tell the truth. You know how the system works. You have to be tried in whatever city holds jurisdiction. Then when everyone is finished with you, they ship you to prison. Once you get to the joint, you're a dead man.”

Carolyn stood, stepping backward toward the door, fearful he might try to retaliate. Eddie was staring into space, though, contemplating what she'd told him. She hit the buzzer, relieved when she heard the key turn in the lock. As soon as Alex Barker opened the door, she spun around and stepped through.