Matters of Doubt Page 6

  “Of course you do,” I said. “If you have further questions for him, I plan to sit in.”

  Scott raised his eyebrows. “You’re a witness to this crime.”

  “He and I both are, lieutenant.”

  At this point, we heard the thwop, thwop, thwop of an incoming news helicopter. Scott looked up, shaded his eyes and said under his breath, “Just don’t crash in my friggin’ crime scene.”

  I was going to make a quip about “if it bleeds it leads” but thought better of it.

  As we were leaving I noticed the two ME technicians re-enacting the murder at the edge of the pool, where I’d seen the blood spatter. One technician was standing where Conyers had stood, facing the pool. The other, who was behind him, raised his right hand and simulated a blow to the head. Then the man playing Conyers spun around, and the other man smiled and nodded.

  I stopped dead when I saw that hand come up to strike the blow, that right hand. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Conyers’ wound was above his right ear. If his assailant was directly behind him when he struck the blow, then he was most likely right handed.

  Scott turned and gave me an impatient look as I stood there watching.

  I felt a twinge of hope, maybe even vindication, and suppressed an urge to smile.

  Chapter Ten

  “Look, gentlemen,” I said, allowing an edge of irritation in my voice, “Mr. Baxter’s a witness to this crime, and he is more than happy to discuss what he observed at the Conyers’ residence. He is not willing to join you in a fishing expedition. Now, if we can’t move on, I’m going to advise my client to terminate this voluntary interview.” We were downtown, in the middle of Picasso’s second round of questioning. Scott and Jones kept coming back to the altercation between Picasso and Conyers at Nicole Baxter’s memorial, and I’d heard enough of that. I guess they knew I wasn’t bluffing, because after exchanging a glance, they moved on to another line of questioning.

  They held us until about nine thirty that night, at which time we were informed they had a warrant to search Picasso’s cabin at Dignity Village. The search was intrusive, owing to the flood lights that were brought in, and just about every person living in the village was milling around, trying to get a peek at the action. There was a lot of grumbling and more than a few choice epithets were shouted by the residents, who saw the cops, to a person, as the enemy. I turned around to say something to Picasso and noticed he was gone. I found him a few minutes later kneeling down next to his neighbor, Joey, the Iraq war veteran. Joey sat outside his shed with his head in his hands, sobbing.

  “—It’s okay, big fella,” Picasso said in a low voice. “Nobody’s hurt. Everything’s cool. The cops are just looking around in my place. No big deal.” He reached into Joey’s shirt pocket and extracted a pack of Camels and a chrome plated lighter. “Here, man, have a smoke.” Joey wiped his eyes with his forearm and took a cigarette. I turned around before Picasso could see me watching and blended back into the crowd.

  Picasso had so few belongings that the search was over in less than an hour. I figured they were holding off on arresting him, hoping to find something more incriminating in the search. When this didn’t happen, Jones, Scott, and the search team left unceremoniously at a little past eleven, after warning us both to stay in town.

  As I was walking back to my car, my cell chirped. It was Nando. “What is going on, Calvin? I just heard you and some young fellow with a snake tattooed on his neck are being entertained by Portland homicide.”

  I had to chuckle. There wasn’t a lot that happened in Portland that Nando didn’t eventually hear about. I didn’t bother to ask how he found out. “Yeah, it’s true. The young artist you helped locate and I are witnesses in the murder of his mother’s boyfriend. The guy got his head drilled this afternoon up in the West Hills. Picasso found the body, and I came on the scene right after that. ”

  “Witnesses, not suspects?”

  “Well, there haven’t been any arrests, put it that way. The police just finished up a search of Picasso’s place over here at Dignity Village. They came up empty.”

  “Perhaps we need to talk?”

  “That would be good.”

  Twenty minutes later, Nando and I sat in the apartment above Caffeine Central. He’d brought a cold six-pack of La Tropical, his favorite Cuban beer, mail ordered from Miami. Nando was slumped on a couch, and I was pacing the floor in front of him. I said, “Going disco dancing later tonight?”

  A questioning look morphed into a smile as he reached down and fingered the heavy gold chain around his neck. “Disco was huge in Havana, but in those days, I couldn’t afford a chain like this. What can I say? The gold just feels good against my neck.” He dropped the smile and picked the thread of our conversation back up. “So, how can you be so sure the young man’s innocent?”

  I took a pull on my beer. “It was gut feel at first, and the more I pushed him, the more I believed his story. Look at it this way—Picasso’s a bright kid. If he wanted to kill Conyers, do you think he’d announce to the world he was going to his house, stab him in the head, then jump in the pool and pull him out? I don’t think so. And to top it off, I’m pretty sure the medical examiner’s going to conclude the killer was right handed. Picasso’s a south paw.”

  Nando smiled without showing his teeth and swung his left arm away from his body as if stroking a tennis shot. “Perhaps he has a wicked backhand.”

  “I don’t think so. Someone dealing a death blow is going to go for maximum power. Forehand, for sure.”

  Nando eyed me skeptically. “What if they struggled and Conyers pulled him into the swimming pool before Picasso hit him?”

  I shook my head vigorously. “No way. There was a blood spray pattern on the deck consistent with a single, sharp blow to the head. That blow put Conyers in the pool, I’m sure of it. And he didn’t take anyone with him.”

  Nando smiled again, a fleeting gleam of white teeth. “I know you are familiar with forensic evidence, but so much information from so little blood? As for the rest of your argument, you know and I know, my friend, that passion and anger can cause a man to do crazy things. It is not like you to make such a snap judgment.”

  I pushed down a surge of irritation at Nando’s skepticism, although deep down I knew he had a point. The little voice in my head reminded me of that. “It’s the way I see it.”

  He nodded at my hand holding a beer bottle. “You’re right handed. I’m sure this fact is not lost on the investigating officers.”

  I forced a smile as a tiny flame of anxiety lit in my stomach. “Who knows? If they give up on Picasso, they might turn on me.”

  Nando nodded. “You are a material witness to a brutal murder of a well known Portland business man. It would be easy for the police to drag you into this.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Your defense of the young man is admirable, but do you think it is wise, Calvin? Perhaps you should distance yourself from this situation.”

  I stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Look, Nando, I gave the kid the benefit of the doubt, okay? He’s being thrown to the wolves by someone, damn it. And you know as well as I do that the justice system will only be too happy to oblige. I can’t just stand by and watch that happen.”

  Nando sighed heavily, nodded, and drained his beer. “So, someone is setting the young artist up?”

  “No question in my mind. I mean, he’d already assaulted the guy once, and it was duly recorded in the newspaper. And to John Q Public he’s nothing but a pierced and tattooed thug—the perfect fall guy.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t have a clue, but I’m willing to bet it has something to do with the discovery of Nicole Baxter’s remains. I think Conyers must have known something, something important enough to get him killed.”

  Nando popped another beer open. “It would seem so. Otherwise, one woul
d have to assume the timing is coincidental, which, of course, it never is.”

  Nando left an hour later. I love the man, but he said absolutely nothing to make me feel better about my choice to stand by Picasso. I suppose that’s what friends are for—to tell you when you’re hell-bent for disaster whether you want to hear it or not. When I was wearing three-piece suits and worrying about my career down in L.A., I would have listened to my friend, but not now. It wasn’t just misplaced idealism, either, damn it. The case just didn’t sit right with me.

  I logged on my computer, typed in a complete set of notes covering the day, then fell into bed. Sleep came quickly, but I had a repeating dream of Conyers’ battered head floating past me as I fished a cold, swift river under a dark sky.

  Early the next morning I called Gertrude Johnson, whose ten-acre spread sat uphill from mine. She was my accountant as well as my only close neighbor and had agreed to feed Archie in my absence. Before I could ask her about my dog, she said, “Listen, Cal, I hope the time you’re spending in Portland is going to result in some receivables, because you were down almost twenty-five percent last month.”

  My stomach took a quarter turn. “Well, some months are like that, Gertie.”

  “Some months? This is getting to be a regular occurrence. You’re down almost twenty percent, year over year,” she shot back.

  “Portland’s not like the valley,” I countered. “Business is still pretty good here.” It was a true statement as far as it went. “How’s Archie?” Changing the subject seemed like the best way out.

  After that bracing conversation with Gertie, I headed to the medical clinic on foot with the objective of getting there ahead of Scott and Jones. I arrived at 7:50 to find the place locked and no police in sight. I grabbed an outside table at the little coffee shop and waited with a double cappuccino.

  Ten minutes later I saw Anna Eriksen coming down Davis. You can tell a lot about someone by the way they walk. Anna moved with long strides, her gait fluid, athletic—the walk of someone with strong purpose. Dark slacks accentuated the length of her legs, and I decided she must have chosen medicine over dancing or marathon running. But her shoulders were slightly stooped, and as she juggled her briefcase and fumbled for her keys at the door, I sensed she was tired, maybe exhausted. I wondered when she’d last taken a day off.

  I caught up to her as she was entering the clinic. She turned to speak and the sun lit the streaks of gold in her hair. “Oh, it’s you, Cal. I used the number on your card to call you yesterday and last night, but only got your machine. I’ve been worried sick. Is everything alright?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I didn’t check my messages last night.” After giving her my cell phone number, we went to her office where I took her through yesterday’s events.

  When I finished explaining my theory that Picasso was being set up, she raised a hand to her mouth and said, “My God, that has to be it. I know I told you Picasso was carrying around a lot of rage, but he would never hurt anyone.” She said it with a matter-of-fact assurance I found comforting, although her conviction seemed to rest more on a judgment of Picasso’s character than logic and evidence. I believed in him, too, but that small voice in my head would need proof, as well.

  She continued, “Frankly, I’m amazed the police didn’t arrest him. I mean, with all the hysteria about crimes committed by the homeless—”

  “Oh, they wanted to arrest him, alright, but they had no murder weapon, and my story tended to corroborate his. But, there’s more to come, I’m afraid.”

  Anna sighed and brushed back a lock of hair. Her eyes were the blue of glacial ice, but now they had warmth I could feel down to the soles of my feet. “Thanks for standing up for him, Cal. Most people either see these kids as a threat or a pitiful lost cause.”

  I mumbled something about her being welcome then added, “Uh, mind if I look around in the storeroom where Picasso keeps his computer?”

  She raised her eyebrows in a question, pulled a ring of keys from her smock and, holding the key in question, handed the ring to me. “It’s this one.”

  I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but it was the only other place I knew of besides his cabin that Picasso stored things. My gut said to check it out. I hated nasty surprises.

  The storage room was at the end of the hall, next to the back door. Shelves covering one wall were crammed with general supplies for the clinic. A mop in a bucket, a push broom, and a wooden stepladder spattered with paint were propped in the corner. Picasso’s computer sat on a narrow bench along with the backpack I’d seen in his place. At the back of the bench, eight or ten unopened cans of acrylic paint were lined up next to a jar of brushes.

  I took a quick look in his backpack. The main pouch contained his sketchbook, a half dozen pencils, a Philip K. Dick paperback, an apple, and the hammer I’d seen him use outside. In a smaller compartment, I found a pair of pliers, a pocket knife, a measuring tape, and a Phillips head screwdriver. His computer would be of great interest to Scott and Jones, so I disconnected it from the charger and put them both under my arm. God knows what he had on that machine.

  I handed the computer to Anna and told her to only give it up if it was specifically asked for. I stepped outside just as Picasso rode up on his bike. I glanced at my watch. “I’d like you to take a quick look in the store room before the law arrives. I already removed your computer. Doc has it in her office.”

  “Why?”

  “The cops don’t need to see it.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Good,” I answered, “but they still don’t need to see it.” As he followed me around to the back of the building, I said, “I want to know if anything’s there that shouldn’t be or if anything’s missing.”

  He entered the room ahead of me, looked around for a few moments and shrugged. “Looks cool to me. What’s the big deal?”

  “See anything out of the ordinary?”

  He glanced around again, half-heartedly. “Nothing.”

  I nodded in the direction of his backpack. “Those tools in your backpack, are they all there?”

  He took a cursory look. “Yeah.”

  “You don’t have something to open your paint cans with?”

  His eyes might have flared ever so slightly, but I wasn’t sure. “Yeah. It’s probably back at the village. I’ve got more sketching to do before I start painting.”

  “Okay.”

  Picasso took his backpack and went out the back door to begin working on his mural. I went down the hall to find Anna. She was just entering an examination room with a file folder in her hand and a stethoscope draped around her neck. “When does Milo get in?” I asked.

  She looked at her watch. “He’s late. I asked him to come in at eight this morning to help with some filing.” She sighed, and her eyes seemed to lose what little color they had. “He’s really not working out. I think he’s using again.”

  I went over to the coffee shop, bought Picasso a cup of green tea and brought it to him. He was busy sketching in another figure in his parade, Martin Luther King, maybe. I handed him the tea and said, “You doing okay?”

  He blew on the tea and took a sip. “I guess so. Had a hard time sleeping last night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Conyers’ face.” He shuddered. “That look, you know? Like he was so surprised he was dead.”

  I nodded. “Know what you mean.”

  “I hated the son of a bitch, but I can’t say I’m glad about what happened. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he didn’t kill mom.”

  I shrugged. “We just don’t know at this point. What can you tell me about the kid with the stretched earlobes—Milo?”

  Picasso smiled and tugged playfully on his own earlobe. “They’re called gauges, man. If you don’t make them too big, the holes will grow back when you take them out. Milo’s probably won’t. You thi
nk he’s in on this thing?”

  “He brought you the note, right? I talked to Doc this morning. She didn’t see any bike messenger yesterday, either. She’s checking with the rest of her staff, but I doubt if there was any messenger.”

  Picasso nodded. “Well, I never trusted the dude.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He considered this for a few moments, and seemed hesitant to talk. A code of the streets, I figured. “We used to call him Captain Smack before he got into that program over on Twelfth. They got him the job here. He had to agree to start using his real name, and get some of his nastier tats removed, and stay clean, of course. Dude used to move some heroin, man. Said he was straight, but I never bought it. I mean who’s ever straight after being on smack?”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  “I think he has an apartment now. Doc would have his address.” He looked around. “Where are the cops? You said they’d be around first thing.”

  “They’ll be here soon enough. And the media might show, too. Don’t talk to them. Not one syllable. Got that?”

  Anna was with a patient, but one of her nurses looked Milo’s address up for me, and I was off before Scott and Jones arrived. Milo lived over in Northeast, off Mississippi, in a tired old Craftsman that had been converted to a duplex. M. Hartung was written in child-like block letters on a card thumb-tacked next to the second floor buzzer. I rang twice but got no reply, although I could hear the thrum of music coming from the second floor. I tried the first floor buzzer. No reply there either.

  One swipe of a credit card against the lock and I was in the foyer, which greeted me with the aroma of bacon grease and mildew. The music—an incessant techno beat—was much louder now and definitely coming from Milo’s apartment. I took the stairs and rapped on his door, which was slightly ajar. Nothing.