J. Jance: Until Proven Guilty

“Any ideas?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Two people were on duty last night. Lillian Roberts and Dan Royden.”

“So which one runs off at the mouth?” I asked.

Baker looked at Peters, then nodded in my direction. “That’s one of the things I like about Detective Beaumont. He has such a way with words.” He paused briefly. “You ever hear of the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission?” he asked.

I nodded. Baker picked up a stray paper clip from his desk and lobbed it across the room, where it fell expertly into a chipped clear-glass vase that sat on a bookshelf near the window. From the number of paper clips in it and the few scattered in close proximity, I guessed catching paper clips was the vase’s sole reason for existence.

The chief medical examiner is a florid Scandinavian with a shock of white hair. His face flushed a little more violently than usual. “You ever have an EEOC grievance filed against you?”

I shook my head. He tossed another paper clip into the vase. “I have,” he said. “In this state that’s tantamount to political suicide. I don’t see this job as the end of the line, you know.”

As a matter of fact, the thought had never occurred to me. I thought once a medical examiner, always a medical examiner, but that shows how much I know. On the other hand, I suppose it’s a short jump from performing autopsies to political office. At least you’d have some preparation for handling the stench of corruption.

I said, “In other words, Lillian Roberts is Deep Throat.”

“Maybe she talks in her sleep,” he replied. “I’m not making any official accusations, mind you.”

Peters had been pretty much left out of the conversation, but now he put two and two together. “You mean Lillian Roberts and Maxwell Cole?”

Another paper clip clinked into the vase. Baker said nothing.

Peters was outraged. “I’d fire her ass.”

Baker studied Peters for a moment the way a small child might examine an ant before deliberately crushing it into the sidewalk. “You probably would,” he said, “but then, you don’t want to be King County Executive, either. Of course,” he added, “I’ll deny everything if any of this hits the street.”

There was no point in sticking around. I had to give Baker credit for letting us know the lay of the land. He could have left us fumbling around in the dark. Besides, I wanted to get Peters out of there before he said something we would both regret. I was afraid his combination of temper and mouth would end up getting us both in trouble. I helped myself to one of Baker’s paper clips and made a pretty respectable shot, considering I’d never tried it before. “See you at the polls,” I said over my shoulder.

I hurried Peters out the door. He was still blustering in the outer office, but I shushed him until we were outside and climbing into the car.

“Do we let him get away with that?” Peters exploded when I finally let him talk.

“We don’t have a whole hell of a lot of choice.”

“It’s…” Peters stopped, totally at a loss for words.

“It’s the way it is,” I finished for him, “and nothing you or I do is going to change it. We just have to work around it, that’s all.”

The drive from Capitol Hill to Magnolia was hair-raising. It’s common knowledge that police forces are stocked with frustrated juvenile delinquents who have grown up and gone straight, driving like hot rodders and justifying it in their minds because they are finally on the right side of the law. We didn’t talk as we drove. I was too busy considering whether or not my Last Will and Testament was up-to-date.

We wheeled onto Gay Avenue. “Oh-oh,” I said when I saw Maxwell Cole’s rust-colored Volvo parked in front of Suzanne Barstogi’s house. Max, Suzanne, and Michael Brodie were huddled on the front porch, deep in conversation. They broke it off as soon as we pulled up behind the Volvo. Peters didn’t recognize the car, but he swore under his breath when he recognized Maxwell’s walruslike visage.

Max hurried down the steps toward us as though some trace of the conversation might linger in the ethers of the front porch. He checked his speed and sauntered up to the gate.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I said before he had a chance. “What did they do, yank your column back onto the police beat?”

He reddened slightly. “I’m working on the column right now, as a matter of fact.”

Suzanne Barstogi came down from the porch and stood near the dangling gate. I ignored her and spoke directly to Maxwell for Suzanne’s benefit. “I hope you warned these nice folks that you don’t always quote people verbatim.” The good pastor came down to stand protectively, or maybe defensively, behind Suzanne.

“Knock it off,” Maxwell muttered.

“They know you’re the one who plastered Angela all over the front page this morning? I’ll bet they think you’re a really nice man. You tell ‘em what kind of movies you like to watch?”

“I said knock it off!”

“You know,” I said, focusing on the bulbous nose supporting his sagging glasses, “I’d like nothing better than to knock it off.” Maxwell got my subtle message.

He grabbed open the gate with such force that he wrested it from its last frail hinge. For a long moment he stood there holding the gate in his hand. I think he considered throwing it at me. Instead, he slammed it down and pushed his way past me to clamber into the Volvo. He drove off, leaving a trail of rubber on the asphalt.

“I’ll give you that one,” Peters grinned.

We turned our attention to Pastor Michael and Suzanne. I’ve already mentioned that I put in some time as a Fuller Brush salesman. In fact, that’s how I worked my way through the University of Washington. I learned a lot about life from a sales manager there. He had a list of trite sayings he would spew with little or no provocation. One that I particularly remember is, “Men change but seldom do they.” Those words flashed through my mind as Pastor Michael cordially extended his hand. “I suppose you have some more questions.”

My partner shot me a wondering glance. “We certainly do,” Peters said.

Brodie gave Suzanne a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Why don’t you run along inside with the others.” His smile was benevolent. “They can talk to you later if they need to.”

Suzanne backed away from him as though she, too, was wary of his change in demeanor. Unconcerned, Brodie picked up the fallen gate and appeared to study the possibility of reattaching it to the fence. There was a long scrape across the back of his hand. Peters saw it the same time I did.

“Will you be conducting the funeral?” I asked, looking for an opening.

“The services,” he corrected gently. “In Faith Tabernacle we don’t have funerals. Even though the circumstances in this case appear tragic, it is always an occasion for thanksgiving when one of the True Believers is called home to be with our Maker.”

“I see,” I said unnecessarily. I was trying to reconcile this seemingly soft-spoken, considerate man with the explosively tempered one I had seen the day before. It was inconceivable that the two could be one and the same. Yesterday he had been out of control. Today he was the picture of unctuous self-confidence.

“The Thanksgiving Service will be Sunday at two up on top of Queen Anne. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like,” he added.

Inconsequential small, talk quickly exhausted Peters’ patience. “How long have you known Suzanne Barstogi?” he interjected.

There was a slight but definite pause. “Eight or nine years, I suppose,” Brodie replied.

“You’ve known her since before Angel was born?”

Brodie nodded, and Peters continued. “What became of her husband?”