Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“Iganovich,” says Claude.

“Yes. Iganovich,” says Amara. “What can you tell us about him?”

Claude is looking at Amara, a picture of exasperation, as if somehow he’s been outflanked.

“I should introduce you,” he says. “For those of you who haven’t met him, Sergeant Amara is a member of the Davenport City Police Department.” The reason for Claude’s cool reception of Amara is clear. He knows, through scuttlebutt in his department, that Amara will have more information on the Russian, as well as other aspects of the case, than has appeared in the local newspapers or on the tube.

All eyes around the table fix on Amara. Suddenly this group of grieving orphans has found a common resource, someone on the inside who like themselves has suffered a personal loss in this thing.

“Are you close to an arrest?” says Amara.

“We have leads,” says Claude. “We’ve issued an all-points bulletin.”

“Then you think he’s left the area?”

The others are watching and listening, leaving the inquiries to someone who knows what to ask.

“We have reason to believe that he has.”

“Then you know where he’s gone?”

“We have leads.” Claude is back to safe ground.

Based on the Air Canada information, police now believe that Iganovich has fled north. The cops cannot confirm that he boarded a flight, as he no doubt used an alias to buy his ticket. There is an open border between the two countries not requiring passports. In his apartment the cops have found two credit cards issued in his name. Iganovich knows that to use these is to leave a trail like irradiated bread crumbs. Authorities have frozen his small bank account to prevent any further ATM transfers. They believe this was the source of purchase for the airline ticket. When you’re on the lam, cash is king. Broke, they believe he will be forced to the surface soon, driven to commit some foolish act for money.

“But you’re focusing on a general area?” says Amara. He’s back to geography.

“We have an idea,” says Claude. It’s clear he’s not going to give anything else away. If Amara knows more he will have to say so.

“Do you have any idea where they are looking?” This latter comes from Park, but it’s not directed to Claude, instead to Amara.

The officer shrugs his shoulders, like this is not his party.

Park has a look of bewilderment about him, like a favorite dog when its master moves a ball too quickly from one hand to the other. It is a dazed expression I have seen before, in the eyes of loved ones seeking answers in the days and hours immediately after a brutal murder.

“This man,” says Park. “This Ivan Iganovich.”

“Andre,” says Claude. “We believe his name is Andre Iganovich.”

Park absorbs this without much interest. “According to the newspapers he was a security guard at the university? Is that true?” he says.

Claude makes a face of concession.

Park cannot seem to comprehend how the suspect in his daughter’s murder could hold such a position of trust.

“Dr. Park. The university didn’t hire this man.” It is Cayhill from the far end of the table. “We hired a licensed private security firm under a contract to provide some basic security for a number of buildings owned by the university.”

None of this seems to make much of a dent on Dr. Park or his wife. The woman, it seems, is in another world, a cocoon of grief. She seems not yet to have come to grips with the notion that twenty years of tender love now lies on a coroner’s cold steel slab two blocks from here.

“The important point,” says Cayhill, “is that the suspect, Mr. Iganovich, was not a university employee. He was an employee of the security firm.” Cayhill smiles likes some Fuller Brush salesman.

“No,” says Park. “The important point is that my daughter is dead.”

“Oh, of course,” says Cayhill. “I didn’t mean. . well, you know what I mean.”

Cayhill is busy riding the wooden rocking horse of civil liability, putting forth the theories of defense as laid out by the university’s lawyers, trying to stem any early thought of a civil suit. This is the farthest thing from Park’s mind at the moment.

He looks at his wife with a wrinkled expression, like who could care about such details at a time like this. From the look on their faces they still hold out hope that something said here perhaps will relieve a little of the pain of this loss. It is the perpetual quest of survivors in violent crime, the search for some explanation to a random death, the pursuit of an element of reason that at least in their minds gives some justification to a senseless act. The Parks have not yet reached the horn of cynicism. That will take hold as days and weeks turn to months, as the justice process moves through its slow grind.

Suddenly there is a loud clamor and noise from the other room, Emil’s little meeting with the press. It’s one of the sheriff’s deputies coming through the door behind us. He closes it, again locking out the din from the other room, leans over and passes a message slip to Claude, who reads it.

“Excuse me,” he says. “Mr. Madriani will handle the briefing for the moment. I will be right back.”

Suddenly eyes are on me.

“I have a question,” says Amara. “Do we know how the suspect came into the country?”

This draws a blank expression from me. “I don’t,” I say.

“In order to get into the country an immigrant usually requires a sponsor,” he says, “a relative, friend, maybe an employer.”

“I’m sure that investigators are looking into that.” Actually I am not, but I make a mental note to talk to Claude about it in a private moment.

The gathering starts to digress, private conversations cropping up around the table as the survivors begin to communicate their common pain.

Park is talking to Amara, quietly about the immigration item, sponsors and the like. He is taking notes on a piece of paper he’s taken from his pocket. As I watch him I wonder what the purpose of this missive can be. I had been warned by the shrinks that survivors of crime often react in predictable patterns. When the suspended disbelief of death finally dissolves it will first turn to rage, and then obsession.

Claude has come back. He settles into his chair and leans into my ear, the hissing of words. “Go home,” he says, “and pack. Enough for several days. We have a flight, ten, tomorrow morning.”

I look at him. He says nothing more, but from the expression on his face the message is clear. Somewhere on this planet Andre Iganovich has come to ground.

After three days and four phone calls I have finally hooked up with Kay Sellig. I brace myself for bad news. It is written in her eyes.

“So much for special weapons and tactics,” she says. She is looking up at me, leaning on one of the metal tables in her stainless steel kingdom where we meet this morning. Sellig is commenting on the curious circumstances surrounding the capture of Andre Iganovich.

I am anxious to hear what she has to say, but I am in a hurry. “I’m on my way to the airport,” I tell her, “with a flight in less than two hours.”

“Vancouver?” she says.

I nod.

I am booked with Dusalt to fly to British Columbia. It seems that Claude’s strategy, the full-court press on the Russian’s finances, has spun gold. Iganovich was picked up by Canadian authorities yesterday afternoon, after an altercation with, of all things, two department store security guards. He was detained by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police after some suspicious conduct involving a scarf in a Hudson Bay Company store. While no shop theft charges were brought, the officers discovered the outstanding American warrant for murder. He now sits in a detention facility in Vancouver.