Part 12 (1/2)
Spill it,” Woodrow said quietly, concerned now.
”Woodrow, I am bound by my oath as an attorney to do what is in the best interest of my client.”
”Tara ...” Woodrow warned.
”He says he killed that woman, the clerk, at the Circle K last Independence Day. The murder on 47.”
”Whoa,” Woodrow breathed, his coffee cup tipping as his hand went slack. Luckily he had enough presence of mind to right it before a drop of the dark stuff spilled on his creamy slacks.
Quickly he put it on the desk and pulled his chair closer.
”Are you sure?”
Tara laughed lifelessly.
”I'm not sure about any thing. I talked to him at length before I took him on as a client. I met him in a social situation. He came recommended. I didn't pick him up off the street, he wasn't waiting in my office, he didn't put a gun to my head. He seemed like a nice, normal kind of guy initially. The last thing I expected to hear was something like this. But there are other things, feelings of apprehension, odd behavior of his that comes and goes. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I've seen enough to think that I'm not dealing with a sociopath. I know he has been under the care of a doctor for much of his life. He hasn't come asking for punishment. He wants my help to get him off the streets.”
”We should call George on this immediately. You know that, don't you?” Woodrow said, yet he made no move to pick up the phone. He had nothing.
Not a name, not a clue as to whom Tara was talking about.
”Woodrow, please. I didn't come here for such a simplistic resolution, you know that. I'm not here to turn him in. The man believes, and I believe, that he is mentally disturbed. He's asked me to get him help. If he truly is the Circle K killer, he needs it and I'll want to get it for him fast. I don't want him on the streets, and quite truthfully, I don't want him near me.”
”Hmm.” Woodrow harrumphed in a most thoughtful manner. He looked at her from under his lashes, a look she'd seen him use on many a cowering witness when he was demanding the truth.
”If he's threatening people, Tara, you're fully privileged to breach the confidentiality. I will make sure that your client is separated from you quickly and kept incarcerated until there's a resolution to this problem.”
”He isn't threatening anyone, Woodrow. That's the point. He's concerned that he might have another episode. The idea of that doesn't const.i.tute a threat. But if he's concerned, so am I. And you are too, if I had to guess. So all three of us want the same thing.”
”I suppose that's true. We may not want it in the same way.” Woodrow twisted in the chair and crossed his legs, ankle over knee. He had a rather handsome profile. He didn't quite look so gnome like from that angle. He had been smart and was photographed that way for some of his campaign literature. He looked back at her too soon.
”Why not tell me what you want first? Since this is new to me, I need time to mull it over. Better if I have your take to think about at the same time.”
”Okay. Fair enough.” Tara watched him carefully, trying to discern if there was anything going on in Woodrow's head. There were no vibes.
Either she was more unnerved than she thought, or Woodrow was simply taking it all in and the wheels weren't turning yet. She began to talk.
”There is a way we can do this so that everyone wins and justice will still be served. Since I'm not sure if this guy is just spinning a tale, I asked him for some specific information. I'd like you to go to George Amos. Get the status on this thing and the lowdown on those details. I've already confirmed the file is still open. I have my client's permission to give you this information only.”
Woodrow nodded. Tara was walking a fine line and she was doing it beautifully. Woodrow searched for a pen and paper as he talked.
”You don't think he might be covering for someone else? Using you to do exactly this so that he can find out what the status of this thing is?”
”The thought crossed my mind,” Tara admitted.
”A lot of things have crossed my mind. Believe me, if he's a confessor or playing some kind of game, I'll be thrilled to cut him loose.” Then she'd tell Donna about her beloved's strange sense of humor.
This bit of information she kept to herself.
”But my next step has to be predicated on what you're going to do. Will you see George?”
”Why not ask him yourself, Tara? It would be more expedient.” He faced Tara. She looked tired.
Beautiful, but tired. Ben had been the luckiest guy in high school to have her. Too bad they all had to grow up.
”I don't think it would be wise.” Tara shook her head.
”Caroline found out George knew the woman. George isn't exactly the most judicious law man in the best of situations. I don't want to make this personal, and I don't want to give his imagination something to work on. You can approach this like a routine inquiry. Tell him you want to make sure your calendar is clear if there's anything new. Make it casual, Woodrow. Just take a look at the file and check out these details. Please.”
”And once that's done?” He was playing with a pen now, his coffee getting cold, his eyes downcast.
He was thinking. Tara could almost see the wheels.
”When we're sure this man is who he says and has done what he professes, then I'd like the District Attorney's Office to pet.i.tion the court for hospitalization for my client. If your office makes the pet.i.tion, my client is hospitalized with impunity. Anything said to the doctors can't be used against him in a court of law. He's safe from self-incrimination.
I have done my duty and remanded him to the care of professionals who can monitor his behavior and, hopefully, help him.”
”And this office has made that possible,” Woodrow objected, his brows pulled together tight.
”I think it would be more judicious to get him behind bars. We're not talking about jaywalking here.”
”Woodrow, if he did this, then he's got real problems.
He needs to be given all protection under the law. And,” she said quietly, ”you run a risk if you arrest and attempt to indict. If the grand jury won't return a true bill, the public will be outraged. This isn't fixing a high school basketball game, Woodrow.
If you try and fail, the voters will just see you chasing your tail again. I'd hate to see that. I'd hate for you to jeopardize your position, or the governor's seat.”
Woodrow's gaze never left hers. They didn't war with their eyes, their body language never changed, but in their heads both knew what had transpired. Tara had thought this through and was willing to play hardball.
”I suppose it could happen,” he said finally.
Smoothly he pulled his coffee toward him, lifted it, and drank. Tara knew it had to be cold, but he didn't react if it was. He was being decisive. Theatrics were dear to an attorney, as much for buying time as masking a disadvantage. Finally, he said, ”All right. I'll take the first step. Let's go for it. Give me what you got.”
Tara closed her eyes, a little prayer of thanks flitting through her mind as she reached into her briefcase. From it she withdrew a sheet of yellow lined paper, neatly folded. She didn't hand it to Woodrow. Instead, she unfolded it, held it in front of her so that he couldn't see her notes, and looked up before she began to read.
”Let's do this as quietly as possible.”
”Exactly correct. Down to the pinky finger. Look here. See where it's wrapped around the metal thing that's sticking out from the shelf like she's kind of holding on to it? Whew, this guy is good.
I can't remember the last time I peed, and he's got a dead body from six months ago locked in his head down to how her fingers looked. Jeez, that's weird.”
Harry Johnson made the comment. His partner Clay Williams took up the task.
”The other stuff checks out, too. The cardboard hat she was wearing, the positions of bullet entry, the one that just chipped her skull right here.”
Woodrow listened without a second glance at Harry and Clay. No doubt they had many endearing qualities that set them apart from the rest of the human race and each other. Yet when they worked, the similarities were uncanny. They finished each other's sentences and came to the same conclusion within seconds. They dressed alike: short-sleeve s.h.i.+rts, brown Sansabelt pants, lace-up shoes, black and brown ties that hung halfway down their bellies. They were guests Woodrow had been unhappy to see at this particular party.
”Good pictures,” Woodrow said, eyeing the cork board on which the coroner's photos were laid out helter-skelter. Woodrow wasn't skittish. He'd seen a dozen murder scenes, but he didn't take delight in lingering over them. Clay, or Harry, was showing them like they were last year's vacation stills. Woodrow glanced at it again, sorry to find himself thinking what a wonderful exhibit they would make in front of a jury. d.a.m.n effective.