Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

After murdering Gloria, why would the killer toss her house? What did he hope to find? And, I wondered, did he find what he was looking for?

My eyes swept the small bedroom. A dresser rested against the wall, close to her bed. A mirror mounted over the dresser had photos and other memorabilia tucked into the edges. Her pretty face smiled at me from the pictures: at the beach, the mountains around a campfire with friends. She looked young and carefree, a girl full of life, not like someone who had been embezzling from a criminal enterprise. Ticket stubs to a concert-the Grateful Dead at the Hollywood Bowl-a few cards, a scattering of dried flowers rested on the dresser.

When I picked up one of the pictures to take a closer look, a small card in an envelope, the kind used when sending flowers, fell out from behind it. I picked it up by its edges.

The card inside wasn’t signed, but there was a quote written on it: “Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.” The quote sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I wondered if Welch had sent the card. The D.A.’s office obviously knew the card couldn’t be used in their case against Rodriguez, or it would have been tagged and bagged. But, I made a mental note to petition the court to have it marked as evidence for the defense, if needed.

I walked over to the desk on the other side of the room. Papers littered the top; open bills were tossed about. The wastebasket next to the desk was turned over, the trash spilled out onto the floor. I bent down but didn’t see anything incriminating. I righted the wastebasket and saw an empty letter-sized envelope that must have been under it. I picked it up and flipped it over. It was addressed to Gloria, handwritten, and postmarked Friday from Sacramento, the day before she died. The envelope didn’t have a return address, but the handwriting on it matched the writing on the little card with the quote-tall and spidery, with exaggerated loops. It looked like the scrawl of an egomaniac, but maybe it was just my mood. I would want the envelope tagged and dusted for prints.

Kemp tapped me on my shoulder. “You through? My shift’s about done.”

I tossed the envelope on the desk. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Hodges’s theory about the case stated that Rodriguez killed Gloria in a rage because she resisted his sexual advances. But how’d he explain to the D.A. that Rodriguez searched the house after he supposedly killed her? He didn’t kill her in a fit of passion and then decide to burglarize the home. Gloria’s TV and her stereo had been untouched-and what kind of burglar leaves behind a box full of jewelry? Was Rodriguez looking for his lawnmower? I didn’t think so.

I left the house and walked back to the Corvette. When I reached my car, I sat behind the wheel and let my gaze drift down the street. The guy in the undershirt was gone, but his hose, lying on the grass, continued to gush.

I had to think. I had a feeling I was on to something.

What about the envelope I found: could it have held the letter that ended the relationship? Maybe it was nothing. The cops knew the envelope had nothing to do with Rodriguez or it would be in the evidence locker. I knew they’d only take evidence that would help their case against my client.

But what about the house being searched? What was the murderer looking for? Incriminating love letters, perhaps? My mind reeled; questions kept coming. Perhaps the killer was looking for the money Gloria had embezzled. Who knew about the money? Bonnie Munson said that Gloria had been worried about the Greek. Would Karadimos suddenly fly down from Sacramento and kill her, as Sol had figured, then search the house in the middle of the night for cash that wasn’t even there? No way, he’s smarter than that. If Karadimos tossed the house, it had to be something more important than money to lure him here. It had to be an immediate problem.

Gloria had called Sacramento on the day she died. Did she call Welch and make demands? Maybe hit him with a threat, a little jab to the solar plexus? Tell him she’d ruin him?

Maybe Gloria had something other than her words to back up the threats. Maybe she had something in writing, something more than the Dear John letter. Maybe she had documents, ledgers, or journals that tied the senator to Karadimos.

Welch could have told Karadimos about the call, told the Greek to have her taken care of. That would have gotten the Greek’s fat ass onto the plane that night, and it would have provoked him to make an unannounced visit.

But if that were the case, wouldn’t he just have a hit man do the job? There’d be no need at all to fly down from Sacramento.

The sun beat down on my car and I started to roast. I hung my left arm outside the car and felt the hot August air drift through my fingers. A thought grabbed me and I couldn’t shake it loose. Every notion I had about the case was pure speculation. I had nothing tangible or solid.

The prosecution would have facts and photos. Hard evidence, the knife with Gloria’s blood still on it, for example. Bobbi had a witness, a neighbor who would point at Rodriguez, and say, “That’s him! That’s the man I saw arguing with Gloria Graham just before she was murdered.”

What would I do then? Would I stand in front of the twelve jurors, who’d be waiting for solid answers to the prosecutor’s claims and say, “Well, folks, you see, I have this feeling in my gut.”

I glanced across the street. A movement in the window caught my eye. I could see Mrs. Wilson, Bobbi’s witness, stealing a look at me through a slit in her Venetian blinds. I walked to her house and rang the doorbell.

A wary eye peeked at me when the door cracked open a few inches. “Are you Mrs. Wilson?”

“Yes,” the woman replied in a meek voice.

I slipped my card through the opening. “My name is Jimmy O’Brien. I’m representing the poor man who’s wrongly accused of the murder that happened across the street. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“The police said you would try to see me. They told me I don’t have to talk to you.”

“That’s true, you don’t-but I’m just trying to clear up a few points. Get the facts straight in my mind. It won’t take long.”

“They said that you would try to trick me.”

I smiled and held my arms out, spread my fingers and twisted my open hands a few times. “I haven’t any tricks up my sleeve. I’m just a lawyer trying to do my job, not a magician.”

“You seem like a nice man, but I already told the detectives everything I know.”

“Mrs. Wilson, I’m sure you did, but it’s up to me to make certain they wrote what you told them correctly in the report.”

“You think they’d lie?”

“No, not at all,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster. “I just want to ensure that an innocent man doesn’t go to prison because of a clerical error.”

“Oh, my…”

“You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

“No, I guess not…” Her voice trailed off, and she was quiet for a moment, then she said, “It’s hot outside. C’mon in.”

She closed the door, released the security chain, and opened it again. Mrs. Wilson, in her late sixties, had gray hair cut short in an attractive manner. She wore a light blue housedress and only a touch of makeup. I stepped into her small living room and sat in a wicker armchair.

“Would you care for a cool drink?”

“Sure.”

“Jamaica?”

“Pardon me?”

“Jamaica, it’s a delicious drink. My late husband, Raul, taught me how to make it. I just brewed a fresh batch. It’s served chilled, like iced tea.”