Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

The RHD brass hats must’ve figured Mrs. Hathaway’s murder was a high-profile case, or maybe a politically sensitive one. Otherwise, homicide detectives from the Hollywood Division would head up the investigation, which would be the normal routine for murders committed in the Los Feliz area. Only top-flight detectives with a high level of expertise worked out of the prestigious third floor at Parker Center. Over the years the big dicks of RHD investigated some of the most notorious Los Angeles homicides: the Black Dahlia, the Robert Kennedy assassination, and most recently the Manson Family murders. I couldn’t understand why an ordinary, everyday murder of an anonymous old lady rated such firepower.

Sergeant Farrell, his partner Officer Tim Ryan, a lieutenant named Donald Brodie and I sat in one of the unadorned RHD interrogation rooms. Brodie lit up a Marlboro and slid the distinctive red and white pack across the table. “Go ahead and smoke, O’Brien. We might be here a while.”

“Thanks, but I quit after I left the job.”

“Yeah, we know. You used to be a cop. Looked up your record: unimpressive.”

“Are we here to talk about me? If so, that’s fine, because I can’t discuss anything about Roberts-client privilege. You know that, Lieutenant.”

“Doesn’t hold up, Counselor. Privilege only extends to the crimes he committed before he retained you, not for crimes he may have committed after that. Am I right?”

“Yeah, you’re right as far as that goes. Just don’t ask about conversations I may have had with him regarding our past relationship.”

“If he talked about any crime he planned to commit in the future, you’re required to report what he said to the authorities. I’m right about that, too. Aren’t I?”

“He didn’t tell me anything about any future crimes, because he wasn’t planning to commit any. He planned to go to New York and start a new life.”

“Just for the record, you’re not representing Alexander Roberts in this matter, are you?”

“If he needs me, I’ll be there. C’mon, Lieutenant, let’s get on with this. I’ve got other stuff to take care of today.”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s talk about the old lady. Are you okay with that?”

“For chrissakes, get to the point.”

“All right, Mr. O’Brien. I just want it understood that I’m not asking you to violate any attorney/client privilege you may have had with the suspect. And I want it on the record that I have the right to question you regarding this crime as it relates to Alexander Roberts.”

“Is this room bugged?”

“It’s routine to tape theses interviews, you know that. And it’s legal under California Penal Code, title-”

“I know the law, Lieutenant.”

“Okay, we’ll get to Roberts later, but first I want to talk about Mrs. Hathaway. She died sometime late last night from a gunshot to the head.” He paused for a couple of beats and leaned into me. “And we have reason to believe that you knew, or had some sort of relationship with the deceased. We know this because your business card was found at the scene.”

“Yeah, I met her once. Went to see her at the motel about the Roberts case. I wanted to ask her a few questions about the girl he had supposedly killed in one of her bungalows back in ’45. Also, I figured it might be helpful to see the room where the murder took place, might shed some light.”

“Did it?”

“Did it what?”

“Shed some light.”

“Not really.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Almost thirty years later Roberts returns and drops the hammer on the woman who’d rented him the room.” The lieutenant shook his head. “He held that anger in his gut all those years. First day out, he pops her.”

“He had no motive.”

“Could’ve been revenge.”

“Revenge for what?”

“We’re working on it.”

We continued to play interrogatory dodgeball, and I was it. The cops hovered over me, lobbing questions about Hathaway and Roberts, which for the most part I answered, but some I adroitly deflected if I felt my answer would touch on the murder back in ’45. I even managed to toss a few questions their way.

“Lt. Brodie, listen to me. Roberts had been in prison for twenty-nine years, had limited contact with the outside, and when he was released I took him directly to the terminal. Okay, maybe he missed the bus, maybe he didn’t, but you’re trying to tell me that within twelve hours from the time he walked through those prison gates Roberts was somehow able to make a connection with someone who gave him a gun and then get a ride to the other side of town and shoot Mrs. Hathaway. All this for no apparent reason? Doesn’t make sense.”

“We don’t see it that way. He’s probably been planning this hit for years, had it all laid out before he was released. Somebody hid a gun where he could find it, and-”

“You gotta be kidding me. He didn’t know he was getting out. Roberts figured he’d be locked up forever. He wasn’t planning a murder, for crying out loud!”

“The physical evidence speaks for itself.”

“What evidence?”

He pulled a clear plastic bag from his jacket pocket. The bag was sealed and marked, EVIDENCE. It also had a case number and the date written on it. Visible inside the bag was a small paper tag, like the price tag you’d find on a new article of clothing. Though the plastic I could see Roberts’s prison number printed on the tag in black ink-CDC # V-34560.

“The tag came from Roberts’s dress-out clothes,” the lieutenant said. “We found it at the scene. He probably didn’t even know they tag the clothes before they ship them to the prison. Record keeping.” He nodded and a hint of a smile appeared on his face. “I’ll bet when we run the prints found at the motel, Roberts’s will be among them.”

“Look, Lieutenant, Roberts didn’t do this. He couldn’t have. I know the guy. He’s no killer. I don’t know how his clothing tag ended up at the scene, but there has to be an explanation, and Greyhound screwed up when they said he never boarded the bus. Big companies make mistakes all the time. Hell, I’ll bet he’s halfway to New York by now.”

My eyes shifted, focusing on each detective one at a time. All three of them looked back at me as if I had a few loose wires dangling in my head. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was crazy, but somehow I knew Roberts didn’t kill that old woman.

After about twenty minutes the interview started to become repetitive.

I needed to get out of the smoke-filled room, get some fresh air and mull over what I’d learned from the cops. Plus I was dying inside, concerned about the firm’s finances. I had to call Mabel. I had to see if there was any fallout from Balford over being pulled off the Hicks case. I knew I wasn’t in trouble with the LAPD. But if the judge figured I was somehow involved with Hathaway’s murder, even by association, she’d eliminate my name from the list. With even a hint of complicity there would be no way I could talk her out of getting rid of me for good.

“Sorry, guys,” I said. “Hate to break up our little chit-chat, but I’ve got to check with my office. Is there a phone around here?”

“I have one more question before you leave,” Brodie said. “Tell me straight. Did you really take Roberts to the bus terminal, or maybe you dropped him somewhere else?”

“I’ll say it once more. I picked him up at the prison and took him directly to the Greyhound terminal downtown. I got him there in plenty of time to catch the bus.”

“Okay, I believe you. But I had to ask, and just for the record, is there anything else you can tell us about your meeting with Hathaway?”

“That’s two questions.”

I stood and walked to the interrogation room door, but stopped and thought for moment. The interview was being taped. I didn’t want to appear to be uncooperative. Why make it worse with Balford? I turned back to the lieutenant.