Adrian McKinty - Hidden River

Aristotle was wrong about nearly everything. Galileo disproved his physics, Darwin his biology, his pupil Alexander his politics, but he was right about technique. More important than being smart is being meticulous. We had a lot to do today and it was the longest day of the year and we could have done it if we’d been patient. But instead of techne —fuckups; instead of breaking the case — disaster.

In fourteen hours the sun had finally gone down on this long midsummer day and we were on the run from the Denver police, the state police and any other law enforcement agency you care to mention.

John patted me on the shoulder and we turned from the sunrise, walked back to the tents.

We decided on a division of the labor. I’d do Victoria’s old office in Boulder to see if the anonymous note writer was still around. I’d let John interview Victoria’s neighbors at her building in Denver. I’d have to do it again myself but it would give him something to do and there might be inconsistencies in their stories. John was a peeler, but I told him again how to interview someone. You don’t offer information and you take all they say with equanimity. You write down everything and if they’re going too fast you ask them to slow down.

Also at some point, I’d call the lawyer representing Hector Martinez — the supposed killer. Then I’d call up the police and book a talk with the lead detective.

The girls drove us to Boulder and we had eggs for breakfast. The girls had things to do, so we split and John caught the bus back to Denver. I was wearing a shirt and jeans, but I bought a tie to look more respectable.

Boulder had an interesting vibe, it was what happened when Grateful Dead fans became rich, yuppie, and comfortable. Every third store sold crystals and Tibetan prayer flags. The parking lot outside the yoga center was stuffed with brand-new Volvos and Range Rovers. The L.L. Bean-clad citizens were white, thin, smelling of soy and vitamins — the sort of smug baby-boom wankers so caught up in their path toward self-actualization that they really didn’t see the scores of homeless people begging on the pedestrian mall.

I found a phone booth that contained a potpourri basket to mitigate the stench of urine. I dialed my first number. Before I got through, I hung up. I had to rethink my story. I wanted to be very low-key at first. I know as a cop I hated private detectives with a passion. So instead, I decided I’d be a newspaperman.

I dialed the Denver police department.

“Detective Miller, please, my name is Jones, I work for the Irish Times, I’m looking into the Victoria Pat—”

“Detective Miller is out of town for a few days,” a woman said.

“Oh. Uh, well, can I speak to any other detectives on the Victoria Patawasti case?”

“Detective Hopkins is on leave.”

“Ok, is there a supervisor?”

“Detective Redhorse hasn’t come in yet.”

Dead air on the line.

“Ok, I’ll call back,” I said and hung up.

Damn. Better luck with the next call. The phone book was still attached to the booth. I looked it up and found Enrique Monroe, public defender, attorney-at-law, who was representing the accused. I dialed his number. Got a secretary, told her I was a reporter from Ireland looking into the Victoria Patawasti murder.

“Hello,” the lawyer said in a friendly manner.

“Hello, Mr. Monroe, my name is, uh, Simon Jones, I’m a reporter from Ireland. I’m investigating the Victoria Patawasti case and I’d very much like to speak to you.”

“I’ll give you all the help I can. I would be delighted to talk to you. Are you in town soon?”

“Yes, I’ll be in Denver very soon, I—”

“Well, let me tell you something, the police have got the wrong man, Mr. Jones. You can tell your readers that my client has an alibi for the night of the murder, if only I can persuade his friends to speak up for him.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Well, to be frank, they’re all illegal immigrants and they’re worried about their status. I think, though, that I’ll be able to turn them around, the police have no physical evidence at all. Nothing, this is an outrageous case. What newspaper did you say you worked for?”

“Uh, the Irish Times .”

“Listen, I know the people of Ireland want justice, I want justice, but my client is innocent. I’ve checked his alibi, it’s watertight. I’m working on his friends. Working on them. And with an alibi the DA will have to drop the charges.”

“That sounds interesting. Mr. Monroe, could we talk later in the week?”

“Impossible. I always want to talk to gentlemen of the press, but this week is impossible. I have to go to Pueblo then juve court. Look, how about Monday, next Monday? Nine o’clock.”

“What’s your address?”

“Evans and Downing. The Calendar Building, Suite Eleven, Denver, easy to find, I promise you. Well, look, I have to fly—”

“Let me ask you something. What did your client do for a living?” I asked.

“Hector’s a mover. He works for Grant Moving.”

“Where does he work?”

“Oh, he works all over the city, the whole metro area.”

“Boulder?”

“I believe so.”

“Let me guess, he’d done some moving work at the CAW headquarters in Boulder, right? They were moving from Boulder to Denver, isn’t that right?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Monroe said, sounding a little embarrassed.

“Don’t you think that’s where he could have dropped his driver’s license?” I suggested.

“I don’t know. I haven’t really looked at that in much detail. I’ve been trying so hard to get the alibi witnesses on board, I haven’t been working on anything else. I had just thought that the victim somehow found Hector’s license, put it in her purse, and was going to turn it in to the police. But yes, that’s possible. That license is the only piece of physical evidence linking my client to the murder. If I can dismiss that or if I can get the alibi to work I honestly think we’re home free.”

“No fingerprints, no hand prints or powder residue on your client?”

“Well, this isn’t the sort of thing I would want to discuss over the phone, but what I’m hearing from the DA is that their whole case is based on that license. Pretty thin stuff. They say he picked the lock but there were no scratches on the outside. They say he shot her because he panicked. But Hector’s a big guy, he could have just knocked her out. It’s weak, very weak.”

“I’ll bet you money that Hector’s firm did the moving in the CAW building. That’s why Victoria had his license. She found it there. Or even better, someone else picked it up, used it to frame Hector.”

There was a long pause on the line.

“Now that you mention it, it’s so plausible,” he said finally.

“Well, look, can you find out for me by Monday?” I asked.

“Of course, I’ll ask him. This could be very helpful.”

“Mr. Monroe, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll look forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you, I’ll see you then.”

I hung up. Typical overworked immigration lawyer, and I’d learned from bitter experience that you only believed half of what a defense attorney said. But even so. Maybe the murderer had found this poor guy’s Mexican driving license, knew he was almost certainly an illegal immigrant with no credibility, maybe even chatted to him, found out that he had a criminal record, decided to set him up. It would be very interesting to talk to Hector Martinez, could be he’d met the murderer or at least come into close physical contact with him. And it pointed again to that Boulder office.

It was noon. I was so tired. The temperature hovered around ninety degrees. Being five thousand feet up didn’t seem to help cool things down. I decided to skip lunch and walk over to the CAW building, which was just off the main pedestrian mall.