Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“Have you questioned him?” I ask.

“That’s the bad part. He denies knowing anything. The guy’d make a good mason,” says Denny. “He builds a real solid stone wall. Can’t get him to budge.”

I can imagine that with two prior federal convictions, Mr. Coltrane is not anxious to volunteer information about more. What he was doing in the blind that night could probably get him accommodations at one of the federal country clubs for at least a few years.

But right now I’m more interested in how I’m going to get him transported north, where Claude and I can maybe work our magic on him, a subtle psychic rubber hose.

I tell Denny to stay put, that I will call him back. I place a call to the district attorney in San Diego. He is out but I draw his chief deputy. I introduce myself. There’s some bowing and scraping here, the deputy extending professional courtesy unaware that I’m not really elected in this county. I let him live with illusions. I am on my hands and knees over the phone, the desperate suppliant. In five minutes I have walked him through our dilemma. He agrees to help, to serve a witness subpoena on our behalf. He will do it immediately if I can fax him a captioned copy along with a copy of the complaint in our case. I hang up, tell one of the secretaries what to do, and I call Denny back.

“Where’s your guy?” I ask him.

“Still cooling his heels down the hall.”

“Can you bring him in there so I can talk to him?”

“Sure.”

There’s a lot of noise on the other end, shuffling of feet, doors being opened and closed. Three minutes later the speaker phone is back on and I’m introduced to Cleo Coltrane.

“Mr. Coltrane?”

Some dead air, like maybe the guy doesn’t recognize his own name.

“Yeah.” A surly voice, standard fare in this trade.

“My name is Paul Madriani, Mr. Coltrane. I’m the district attorney of Davenport County. At the present time a witness subpoena is being received down there in San Diego to be served on you.”

Silence from the other end, some coughing in the background.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Umm umm.” I can visualize tight lips, like perhaps I have said the words that will give this man quick amnesia.

“We have reason to believe, Mr. Coltrane, that your life may be in danger, because of what you saw along the Putah Creek up here that night. You don’t have to answer any questions,” I say. “But I think you know what I’m talking about.”

Nothing but dead air on the line.

He is not likely to say things on the phone to me, which he would not reveal to Denny and others who are there, whom he can see, offering warm smiles and empty promises. This is just as good. Without specific confirmation that this is our prime witness, I need not comply as yet with Judge Fisher’s discovery order, to disclose the identity of this witness to Adrian and company. At this point Coltrane is merely a lead, though I can feel in my bones that he is more.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah.” More wary this time.

“I understand that you are being held on an outstanding traffic warrant. That’s not a serious charge, as you know,” I say. “Still it would cost you some money, maybe some jail time. I’m in a position to help you.” The prosecutor as Good Samaritan.

“I would be willing to talk to the district attorney down there to request that those charges be dropped, dismissed, if you will voluntarily travel north with my officer, under the subpoena to talk to me. Now I can’t guarantee that the DA down there will do this, but I think he will. I can get a firm commitment before you leave. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Now you don’t have to say anything when you get here, just listen,” I say. “I think you should be aware of what physical danger you face. You are not under arrest. I want to make that clear. We simply want to talk to you. Are you willing to do this?”

“Ah. Let me ask ya a question,” he says. “You gonna put me in jail up there?”

He should worry more about bright lights and sleep deprivation.

“No. We will fly you up here at our expense, a round-trip ticket, and put you up in a hotel.” I don’t tell him that he may be batching with Denny and a dozen other cops down the hall. Right now I have only one goal, to get him in my physical clutches. He can watch Jekyll turn to Hyde after he gets here.

“All I want to do is talk to you,” I say, like the spider to the fly.

Silence. He is weighing his options.

“If you don’t come voluntarily, we will simply wait until after your current problems down there are over and then we will have to serve our subpoena. Then if you don’t come, we’ll have to arrest you,” I tell him. I don’t explain that by that time the ship will have sailed, my case against Andre Iganovich will be history.

“Sounds like I have no choice,” he says.

“You do,” I say. “You can either come the easy way or the hard way.”

“I guess,” he says, “I’ll come up there.”

“Good,” I say. “They’re gonna put you back in the cell now, just for a few minutes while we make all the arrangements. I look forward to meeting with you.”

“Sure,” he says, his tone dripping with cynicism.

I let him go and Denny is back on the line. I hear the door close, probably behind Coltrane on his way to the cell. Denny’s snickering, a high-pitched giggle. “You should sell shoes,” he says, “suede loafers.” A lot of cackling from the other cops.

I give Denny a few quick final instructions. There’s one final afternoon flight from San Diego to Capital City. Denny’s not sure he can make it. If he doesn’t, he says it will be tomorrow morning before he can get Coltrane up here for questioning. I tell him to do the best he can, to keep us posted, and then I hang up.

“You think it’s him?” says Claude.

“Don’t you?”

He nods. “Doesn’t even ask why somebody would want to kill him. Isn’t that the first thing you’d ask if somebody told you your life was in danger and you didn’t know why?”

“You caught that, too,” I say. “When he gets up here we can test him. There are a few things to play with. Details only the man in the blind would know.”

Claude heads out to make travel arrangements for Henderson and get some sleep. It is sure to be a long night.

As the door closes to my office I am left alone for the first time since arriving at the office this morning, left to consider the options available to me, my back to the wall.

With Tolar imploding on the stand this morning, I have no choice but to play the long odds. I can no longer sit back and finesse the issue of the copycat killer. I must know before I go further whether Andre Iganovich is the Scofield murderer. Cleo Coltrane is my last chance to salvage this case, my reputation and perhaps my career.

It is a hunch, the longest of shots, but one based on the dissolute nature of Adrian Chambers, that the Russian’s Canadian alibi, Adrian’s coveted ace which to date he has managed to conceal from us, is cooked up.

I start to believe that I have been wrong from the inception, that there is no copycat, that for whatever reason Iganovich used a knife on the Scofields, killed them someplace else and brought them to the river. When I know the truth, I will know the reason. If Cleo Coltrane can identify Iganovich as the killer on the creek that night, then this prime witness will be my poison pill, something I can use to put down Chambers’s case, his theory of defense, like a rabid dog.

I pick up the phone to call Nikki at the bed and breakfast. The man at the front desk answers.

“Laura Warren,” I say. It is the name we have registered Nikki under.