J. Jance - Without Due Process

“Anybody follow you?”

“Are you kidding? Even if they were, who would notice? Do you watch the rearview mirror when you’re on your way to a crime scene?”

“Hardly ever.”

“I rest my case.”

“Have you been in any kind of a beef with someone here at the department?”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before I answered, remembering Janice Morraine’s blurted theory that a fellow cop might have killed Ben Weston. But I couldn’t think of anyone at Seattle PD who would be that happy if J. P. Beaumont was no more.

“You mean other than you?” I returned.

Kramer glared at me. “Yeah. Who else other than me? I’d already gone home, remember?”

“I don’t know of anyone.”

“The place was crawling with reporters. I know you don’t like them. Is the feeling mutual?”

“Most likely, but I can’t think of any of them who’d have balls enough to take a shot at someone they didn’t like. Besides, the ones I know are mostly opposed to guns as a matter of principle.”

Kramer made another note. “Who all was still here when this happened?”

“Janice Morraine and the rest of her crew from the Crime Lab. And there were two officers from Patrol who were left on duty guarding the front and back doors. They’re the ones who brought me back here, Officers Simmons and Deddens.”

“And nobody got a good look at the car?”

“No. It was dark-maroon or black maybe, but I can’t be sure. It was too far away to get even a glimpse of the license.”

It was morning now. People leaving their houses on their way to school and work slowed and stared openly at the two men sitting on the steps of Ben Weston’s house-at the two men and also at the grim-looking yellow tape that had been wrapped around the outside of the yard.

Kramer got up stiffly and stretched. “I’m going to go take a look at that hole in the wall. Is the slug still in it?”

“No, Janice Morraine had one of her guys dig it out. They’re gone now, but they said they’d have it whenever anybody needed it.”

I let Kramer go by himself to examine the bullet hole. He certainly didn’t need me holding his hand while he looked at the shattered mirror and the crater in the wallboard. I was waiting for him to come back out on the porch when a beater of a BMW stopped in the street, and a tall black man got out. He started toward the gate. He stopped at the barrier created by a strand of yellow crime scene tape.

“You can’t come in here,” I called. “It’s off limits.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m a police officer.”

“Oh,” he said. “Good. You’re just who I’m looking for.” With that he ignored what I had said, stepped easily over the tape, and came on into the yard anyway.

Knees creaking, heels yelping in pain, I got up and limped forward to head him off. “I tell you, you can’t come in here. Who are you?”

When he stopped next to me, I realized he dwarfed me. He held out his hand. “Johnson,” he said. “Carl Johnson. I’m the principal of McClure Middle School.”

If I hadn’t been two thirds brain-dead, I would have made the connection without him having to draw me a picture, but I was too slow on the uptake.

“Douglas Weston attends my school,” he explained. “One of my parents called me at home and told me something had happened, that police cars had been here during the night. I’m always concerned about anything that affects one of my children, so I came by to see if I could be of any help. What’s going on?”

For a moment, I didn’t know whether to hug the man or what. His appearance was an answer to a prayer. “Do you happen to know how to get hold of Adam Jackson’s mother?”

“Adam? He’s here too?”

I nodded. Carl Johnson frowned. “I don’t know her number right off the bat, but I’m sure I could get it for you from the office. If Adam spent the night here, it probably means she’s on call.”

“On call?”

“Emma Jackson is doing her residency with University Hospital. She told me about it at the beginning of the year. She has trouble getting a sitter for those thirty-six-hour shifts, so Adam often spends the night with the Westons. You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”

I reached in my pocket and pulled out a card. He read it, then met my eyes over the top of the card. “This says Homicide.” I nodded. “Has someone been killed?”

“Several people,” I answered quietly. “Maybe you’d better have a seat here on the porch so I can tell you about what happened.”

Carl Johnson shed real tears when I told him, but he jumped up as soon as I finished. “I’d better get back to school,” he said urgently. “I need to alert the faculty and the counselors. The district has a team of people who come in to help in situations like this, but I’d better hurry. I want to be there when word gets out.”

He started away, then stopped and turned back. “Where will you be?” he asked. “I’ll call you with Emma Jackson’s phone number as soon as I get back to my office.”

I gave him my home number. “I’m going to race home, take a shower, and change clothes. It’ll only take a few minutes. If there’s no answer, leave the number on my machine, but please don’t make any effort to contact Emma until after I do.”

“Of course,” Carl Johnson agreed. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off making any kind of official announcement, again at least until after I get in touch with her.”

“You’ll let me know?”

“Yes,” I said. “Go ahead and start gathering up the people you need. Just don’t give out any names until you get an official go-ahead.”

“Right,” he said. “I understand.”

Carl Johnson strode away from me, his broad shoulders straight, his chin set. Again he stepped over the yellow tape. His ancient Beamer sputtered and backfired before he was able to start it on the third try.

Educators like him seem to be rare these days-old-time teachers who put kids first and everything else second. From the looks of the car he drove, making money sure as hell wasn’t Carl Johnson’s first priority. No matter what the salary schedule, we’ll never be able to pay the Carl Johnsons of this world a fraction of what they’re worth.

Janice Morraine came out on the porch just as Carl was driving away, his car coughing and choking. “Who was that?” she asked.

“His name’s Carl Johnson,” I told her, “and he’s a national treasure.”

She leveled a hard stare at me, as though I were some kind of raving maniac. “You don’t seem to have a car here. Would you like a ride back downtown?” Detective Kramer had taken off while I was dealing with Carl Johnson, and only now did it occur to me that I was totally without transportation.

Considering my previous behavior, I was a little surprised Janice Morraine made the offer. Maybe the fact that someone almost killed me had softened her bony little heart. “I’d appreciate it,” I said, meaning every word. “So would my bone spurs.”

“It won’t take much longer,” she said. “I’ve got one more load of gear to take out to the van.”

She turned down my offer of help with the loading. While waiting for her to finish stowing equipment in her state-owned Aerostar, I stood off to one side and thought about Paul Kramer’s questions. It seemed unlikely to me that anyone so apparently inoffensive as Gentle Ben Weston would have two entirely different sets of enemies out to kill him, both on the same night. I suffer from the homicide detective’s natural aversion to coincidences, and two entirely separate murder plots at once was a bit of a stretch. That being the case, then the second scenario was far more likely-a vicious murderer was out to do in any number of Seattle’s finest and their families as well.