David Ellis: In the Company of Liars

She stands outside two hours later, at nine in the morning. The air is cool and crisp; she prefers spring mornings to any other, even under these circumstances. By now the reporters have arrived and are lining the crime-scene tape, shouting questions to anyone who appears to resemble law enforcement.Was this a suicide? Where was she found? Did she leave a note?

McCoy peers at them, silent, through her sunglasses.Something like that, she does not say to them.

Four sedans are lined up along the curb now. Neighbors have gathered around the home as well. This is not the first news of something amiss at the Pagone residence, but there’s been nothing this public, at least not since the search warrant was executed months ago.

Jane McCoy appreciates her anonymity. Like many agents, she is relatively unknown to reporters. She is unaccustomed to scenes like this. Most of what the agents do is under the radar, and here she is, being photographed and taped standing outside the home. It is a matter of courtesy more than anything. She is waiting for someone.

She sees a steel-blue Mercedes pull up quickly to the curb. Roger Ogren, an assistant county attorney, pops out. From what she knows of him, which isn’t much, she wouldn’t expect the flashy ride. Not his personality and quite the fat price tag for his government salary. But every boy needs a toy.

Ogren uses the remote on his keychain to lock up the car and walks up toward the house. He walks under the tape, stops on the front lawn, looks around, finally focuses on Jane.

“Agent McCoy,” he says.

“It’s Jane, Roger.”

He puts his hands on his hips, wets his lips. “Suicide?”

She nods. “Bullet in the mouth.”

He sighs deeply, seems to deflate. Hurry up and stop-he was in the full heat of trial mode, and now the defendant is dead.

“No sign of forced entry,” McCoy elaborates. “No sign of foul play at all. GSR on her hand and wrist.”

Ogren does not take the news well. The woman he was prosecuting, driven to suicide.

“You were going for the death penalty, anyway,” McCoy says.

He runs his hands through his hair. “She was a killer. I was about two trial days away from proving that.”

“I know. I was following it. You were doing very well.”

“Suicide.” Roger Ogren stands helplessly a moment. He is in a suit, but his shirt is open at the neck. He got ready in a hurry. He sighs and seems to deflate.

“It’s not your fault,” McCoy offers, in case he needs to hear it. “If anything, it’s mine. This lady was up to some bad stuff. Not just this murder.”

“Not just this murder,” Ogren repeats. “But you won’t tell me what.”

“You know I can’t.”

She tries to read his expression. Really, how upset can he be? Like she said, he was seeking the death penalty, after all. If the defendant killed herself because she couldn’t face prison, and ultimately a lethal injection, she just saved everyone the trouble.

He wanted the conviction, she assumes. He’s not feeling guilt. He wanted the “w,” the pats on the back, the victory lap at the prosecutor’s office, the press coverage.

“Everyone knew she was going down,” McCoy adds. “Everyone knew you had her.”

Ogren stretches, arches his back, extends his arms. Full trial mode, probably hasn’t had much sleep. And now this. Like the whole prosecution was just a false start.

“She’s not up there anymore,” McCoy says. “You want to go see the body?”

Ogren looks over the house wistfully. He is suddenly a man without a place. This is not his crime scene.

“As long as you’re sure she’s dead,” he deadpans, an attempt at dark humor that falls flat.

She smiles at him. “You want to see the statuette?”

Ogren does a double-take, suddenly perks up. “The-what are you talking about?”

“The statuette,” she says. “The little trophy. The award from the manufacturers’ association. You always thought she used it to kill Sam Dil-”

Ogren steps toward her. “You have it? It was here in her house?”

Jane McCoy gestures behind her. “She had it in her office upstairs.”

“That’s not possible.” The prosecutor squints. “She moved it there, maybe.”

“Exactly,” Jane agrees. “She had buried it somewhere initially. You can tell because there’s some dirt on it. But there’s some blood on it, too, and we’re getting prints off it. I assume it’s the murder weapon. We’ve inventoried it. We’ll make it available to you guys.”

Roger Ogren is speechless. It is confirmation that he never had. A murder weapon that had never been found. McCoy wonders if there was any residual doubt in the prosecutor’s mind, any lingering question of whether he was accusing the right person. If so, the murder weapon, in the home of the accused, should erase that doubt.

“This was her way of pleading guilty,” McCoy tells him. “Before she went, she wanted the record clear, I guess.”

Ogren nods aimlessly, his eyes unfocused. “And what about the gun?”

“A revolver. Serial numbers scratched. She must have bought it on the street.”

Ogren stares at her.Weird, he must be thinking. “Okay. I’ll give you a call,” he says. “I think we would like that statuette, actually.”

“Sure. Call me.”

He turns to leave but stops, looks back at the federal agent. “Why did you say it’s your fault? Her killing herself?”

She makes a face. “I was squeezing her. Maybe too hard.”

Ogren gives her a look of compromise. Squeezing is something any prosecutor can understand. No one ever knows how much pressure is just right.

“You got what you wanted, Roger. Justice was served.”

He laughs. A bitter chuckle. “This wouldn’t have happened if she weren’t out on bail,” he says. “She couldn’t have gotten a gun and she couldn’t have killed herself.”

McCoy lifts her shoulders. “Hey, you wanted her dead, she’s dead.”

The prosecutor glares at McCoy, then turns and walks to his car. He can’t deny that he was seeking the death penalty, of course, which means he cannot deny that he wanted death for Allison Pagone. But he doesn’t appreciate the bluntness of McCoy’s comment. As if Roger Ogren were a killer, too.

“I’ll bethe’s pissed,” Harrick says, walking up, watching Ogren leave.

“Something like that.”

They walk to their car and drive away. Once in the vehicle, Harrick, driving, casts a look at McCoy. “Something bothering you? Talk to me, Janey.”

“It looked too clean,” she says. “There’s such a thing as looking too much like a suicide.”

“Oh, come on.” Owen Harrick shrugs. He was a city cop for eight years. He’s witnessed a lot more suicide scenes than Jane McCoy.

“A bathtub?” McCoy asks.

“It’s private,” Harrick answers. “She wanted intimacy. It’s also easier to clean up.”

“Oh, she didn’t want to mess up the house?” McCoy looks at her partner. “She’s worried about resale value?”

“It’s the house she raised her daughter in. She cares about how it looks. You’re thinking way too hard on this. It’s a suicide, Jane. She thought about it first, is all. People do plan suicides.”

McCoy is silent.

“She killed Sam Dillon,” Harrick continues, turning a corner and leaving the sight line of Allison Pagone’s home. “She killed him and she felt remorse. That works for me.”

“I hope so.” McCoy’s head falls back against the head cushion. It will be another sleepless night for her.

The small turn of his head, as if his attention were diverted. The set of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth. The line of his mouth turned, ever so slightly, from a smile to something more primitive, almost a snarl but not so prominent. A stolen moment, an entirely private moment in public, a stolen glance among a roomful of people, intended for private consumption.