Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“You still have Johnny Keegan’s personnel file handy?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’d like you to do me a favor. Call his former employers and ask for a reference.”

“Who needs a reference for a dead man?”

“I do. Write down everything they tell you and call me back.”

A moment later his cell phone rang. It was one of the homicide detectives, Kevin Griswold.

“Hey, Mason, your week off to a flying start?”

“A-plus.”

“Glad to hear that. I’d appreciate it if you’d drop by. We’ve got a few things we’d like to go over with you.”

“Sure. I can do that. Middle of the week be soon enough?”

“Make me wait that long and I’ll have to send someone to get you. My partner, Detective Cates, he misses you. Says he’d like it a lot if you got your ass down here right now.”

“I can do that too.”

Police headquarters was a monument to Missouri limestone and the public works projects of the Depression. It was on the east side of the downtown, one corner of a triangle that included City Hall and the Jackson County Courthouse. Homicide was on the second floor. An outer ring of cramped offices surrounded the detective’s bullpen, a collection of wooden and metal desks older than a lot of the department’s cold cases that had been shoved together to make sure no one had a private conversation about anything. There were three witness rooms down one hallway that ended with a lineup room on one side and a holding cage on the other.

Detectives on different shifts shared the same desks and offices, each one adding their own personal touches. Pictures of spouses and kids competed for space with those of boyfriends and girlfriends. The mismatched images fit in perfectly with homicide, where relationships often didn’t made sense but usually explained everything.

Griswold and Cates were sitting at their desks when Mason arrived. Griswold, who was on the phone, waved Mason toward them. Cates swung his feet from the desk to the floor and brushed past Mason on his way to the interrogation rooms, not apologizing for stepping on Mason’s foot. Cates was a little smaller than Mason, but he was looking for trouble. Mason knew better than to tease the bear on the bear’s home court. Griswold hung up the phone, smiling and shaking his head at the same time.

“I told you Detective Cates missed you. Follow me.” Griswold led him down the hall, past the witness rooms. Cates was waiting at the door to the lineup room. “Do me a favor before we get started. We’re one short for a lineup. Usually, we get one of the rookies to fill in, but everyone’s out. Only take a minute.”

The invitation made Mason uneasy. It was a reflex hesitation picked up from defending people after they’d been fingered in a lineup. Positive identification was rarely positive and often wrong. Five people who witness the same crime will tell five different versions from who did it to what they were wearing. Put someone who’s been beaten, robbed, or raped behind a two-way mirror with a zealous cop at her elbow giving a nudge when the suspect steps forward and don’t be surprised when she says, That’s the one. Mason didn’t want to be part of that process, but Griswold was giving him a C’mon, be a pal smile and Cates was giving him a What kind of pussy are you anyway? glare.

“I live to serve,” Mason said, and stepped into the room, taking his place at the end of the row nearest to the door.

Five men were standing around, shifting their weight back and forth, glancing at the two-way mirror. Two of them were young and black, both with shaved heads, gold jewelry, and attitudes. A third was mid-thirties, Hispanic, short, and fat. The other two were white guys in their fifties, soft around the middle like desk jockeys killing time until their next heart attack. They were all casually dressed, from blue jeans to khakis, their clothing the only similarity to Mason.

A lineup was supposed to consist of a group of people who were neither so similar nor dissimilar as to prejudice the ability of the witness to accurately identify the criminal. A defendant picked out of a lineup that was intended to make him stand out from the crowd had a good defense that the lineup was rigged against him. Stepping into the room, Mason concluded that the lineup was aimed at the Hispanic. He was the one who clearly stood out from the others by ethnicity, age, and physical condition. Even if the victim identified the Hispanic, the lineup would be easy to challenge in court.

One of the black men tried to intimidate everyone else with his ghetto glare. The fat Hispanic studied the floor as if he was hoping to get a glimpse of his feet. The other three looked around, impatient and uninterested. Griswold’s voice came over a speaker mounted in a corner. He told them to line up against the wall, take one step forward and back again when their number was called. Griswold was right. It only took a minute.

When they finished, Cates pointed Mason toward the nearest witness room, followed him inside, and closed the door. Cates was smiling so Mason didn’t, figuring anything that made Cates happy shouldn’t make him happy. A moment later, Griswold opened the door carrying a cup of coffee. He reached behind him with his free hand to close the door, but missed the knob. He grabbed for it a second time, the delay long enough for Mason to see Detective Samantha Greer escort Mark Hill from the other side of the lineup room.

Mason didn’t know whether his glimpse of Samantha and Mark Hill was intentional or accidental. Either way, he didn’t like it. That he’d been set up was plain, though the purpose was not. He decided to pretend he’d seen nothing and let Griswold and Cates spin it out for him.

The witness room was furnished with police chic: a wooden table with uneven legs scarred with initials and cigarette burns, metal folding chairs, and windows covered with chicken wire. The sun warmed the room and the wire, casting a checkerboard shadow on the surface of the table. Mason sat with his back to the windows. Cates stood behind him, leaning against the glass. Griswold sat across from Mason.

“Appreciate the help with the lineup,” Griswold said.

“I’ll waive my normal appearance fee.”

“All smart-ass all the time,” Cates said.

“And I thought you were just jealous of my good looks,” Mason said without turning around.

Griswold raised his hands. “My kids aren’t as big a pain in the ass as you two are. Give it a rest, why don’t you.”

Mason held up his right hand in a fist except for his extended little finger. “Hey, Cates. Pinky truce?”

“Asshole,” Cates said, smacking Mason’s hand. “This is a waste of time. Let me know when you get a good idea,” he said to Griswold. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“What can I do for you, Detective Griswold?” Mason asked after Cates left.

“You’re like a cold sore with a personality, you know that, Mason? Annoying as hell but amusing on someone else. Don’t tell Cates, but I liked the pinky truce.”

“Your secret is safe with me. What do you want?”

“Answers. Information. A road map. We know that somebody killed Charles Rockley and left him in your client’s car. Maybe it was your client and he was so busy playing let’s make a deal with the feds that he didn’t have time to get rid of the body. Maybe it was someone who wanted us to look at your client. You got any ideas who might want to set up your client?”

“I’ve got no idea. He’s a nice old man. Doesn’t bother anyone.”

“Cut the crap for five minutes, Mason. From what I hear, your nice old man has been fleecing people all his life, including a bunch that isn’t getting their Florida dream vacation.”