Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“Heartbreak Hotel,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog.” He had a full pompadour, well oiled, and cut long, Elvis-style. He didn’t look like the Presley impersonators who worked for Karadimos. Kruger looked more like the young Elvis, when the singer was first starting out. I figured that if you wanted to get a job with Karadimos, all you had to do was grow sideburns and dress up like the King.

“What was he arrested for?” I asked.

“The shmuck got caught trying to fly drugs across the border. First offense, his folks posted bail, he assumed Fischer’s ID, and then split. Pop and Mom lost the house.

Nice guy, huh?” Sol said.

“Probably likes pepper in his soup,” I said.

We finished lunch at two o’clock, but before we left Rocco’s, I stopped at the phone booth, called the district attorney’s office and asked to speak with Bobbi Allen. After the encounter in the courtroom, she was the last person I wanted to talk to, but I had no choice.

I had filed a motion asking the court to grant me access to the Graham house. The motion had been approved, which meant I had a legal right to visit the crime scene. But in order to cross the police line legally, someone from the D.A.’s office would have to accompany me.

“What do you want, O’Brien?” Bobbi’s voice had the same harsh tone I’d heard in the judge’s chambers.

“I’m going to the Graham house. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“It’s still a crime scene.”

“I want an escort.”

“I’m too busy.”

“Send someone.”

“I can’t spare anyone. Try back in a few weeks.”

“I’ll be at the house in twenty minutes.”

“Better not cross the police line.”

“I’m going in, with or without someone to escort me.”

“You cross the line without an escort and I’ll-”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll see if I can send someone,” she said before slamming the phone down.

She knew I would file a complaint with Judge Koito. It would make her look bad. But she wasn’t going to make anything easy for me.

It took me twenty-two minutes to drive to Gloria Graham’s house on Rosewood Avenue. I parked at the curb but didn’t see a cop or anyone from the D.A.’s office. I decided to wait, but I wasn’t going to wait forever. From the inside of my car, I surveyed the neighborhood.

Rosewood was a pleasant enough street. Mature elm trees shaded the sidewalk in front of well-maintained tract homes. A late model black Ford pick-up truck, polished to a mirror shine, was parked in a driveway a few doors away. A man wearing a sleeveless undershirt and khaki chinos stood in his front yard sprinkling his lawn and smoking a cigar. A woman in the doorway of the house shouted something to him, but I was too far away to hear what she said. I sat in the car for fifteen minutes, waiting.

To hell with Bobbi, I’m going in. Let her file the complaint. I’ll get a slap on the wrist, so what.

Gloria’s property was bound up, trussed, with yellow police tape. The tape wound around the perimeter of her yard, driveway, and house. Printed on it repeatedly were the words, “POLICE LINE-DO NOT CROSS.” The tape fluttered and twisted in the breeze and offered no resistance to my intrusion as I slipped under it and entered the crime scene. Doing a slow shuffle up the driveway with my eyes on the ground, I kicked a dirt clod that rested on the concrete. It disintegrated into a spray of dust.

The police investigators would have picked the scene over and bagged, tagged, or photographed any piece of evidence that would help their case against Rodriguez. I too had the right to have any article I found at the scene tagged and placed in the evidence locker. I doubted that I’d find anything, but still, I wanted to get a feel of the place.

Walking around the corner of the house to the backyard, I sidestepped the faded white spray-painted outline of her fallen body where the police had marked it. I thought of the pretty girl in the cheerleader’s outfit. The girl in the photograph at the Munsons’ home. The girl, young and full of life, the girl with dreams of a future filled with happiness. Her future wasn’t much, just a ghostly image sprayed on the uncut grass with two cents worth of white paint.

The trees that Rodriguez had planted-just sticks really-were flourishing. On one of the trees, a few baby green leaves, still tightly curled, sprouted from tiny buds on the web-like branches. Glancing around the yard, I noticed Rodriguez’s shovel lying on the grass. A lemon-colored hose snaked from a bib at the side of the house, its nozzle resting on a circle of dirt. There were two other dirt patches next to it, each about two feet in diameter. I figured this must have been where Rodriguez had originally planted the tress.

My feet left deep impressions in the grass as I walked across the lawn to the house. It needed mowing. Who would do that now? I wondered as I mounted the porch steps that led to the house.

The screen door hung by a single hinge. I pushed it out of the way and tried the knob of the back door, the one that opened into the kitchen. Locked. I descended the steps and heard the sound of someone approaching.

“Hold it right there.” A police officer in uniform stood a few feet in front of me, his legs spread, his right hand resting on his holstered gun. He stared at me with a severe expression on his face.

“Bobbi Allen send you?” I asked.

“You’re in the middle of a crime scene.”

“I’m the defense lawyer on this case. I have a right to be here.”

He waved his fingers at me in a come-on manner. “Let’s see some I.D. Slowly remove your wallet and hand it to me.”

“I called the D.A.’s office and told Miss Allen I was going to be here.”

“You should’ve waited until someone got here before you busted in and contaminated the place.”

I passed my driver’s license and bar card to the cop. “I didn’t contaminate anything.”

He handed back my ID. “Lotta talk about you at the station, O’Brien. Now, did you mess with anything here?”

“I’m an officer of the court, for chrissakes. What do you think? I’d plant some false evidence? Especially after the forensic team has swept this place clean?”

“From what I heard, it wouldn’t have been the first time you tried something like that.”

“What’s your name anyway?”

“Officer Kemp, Leon Kemp.”

“You’re out of line, Kemp. Those charges were dismissed.”

“Yeah sure, just don’t try it here. You won’t get away with that sort of thing while I’m on the job.”

I shook my head and sighed.

Kemp unlocked the kitchen door and moved aside. I opened it and the thick and strong, sour stench of mold and rot engulfed me. I moved slowly into the dark kitchen. The shades were drawn. I exhaled slowly as I flipped on the light switch. The room was a mess. Patches of black powdered graphite covered the cupboards, tabletop, and drawers, places where Rodriguez’s fingerprints might have been found.

Nothing in the room seemed to have been changed or altered since the night of Gloria’s murder, except for the disturbance caused by the police investigation. Dirty dishes from her final meal were still in the sink. A full trashcan sat next to the door. A broom leaned against the table.

I stood in the center of the kitchen and glanced around. But I knew right off that several little things didn’t seem right. The cabinet doors were partially opened, some drawers were pulled out about an inch, and four ice cube trays were on the countertop.

Walking into the living room, I had the same feeling as I did in the kitchen. I darted into the bedroom and looked around. The closet door was open, her clothes were in a heap on the floor, and her dresser drawers were pulled out an inch or so. Then I remembered the police report. It said that the house had been searched. I knew what was troubling me.