Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

“I had hoped you might be looking for employment,” Proctor said. To Dart he came across as a male madam trying to lure Dart into homosexual prostitution.

“Walter Zeller worked for you after he left the department,” Dart said.

“It was quite the coup when we got Walter,” Proctor said, though he looked a little nervous, Dart thought. “A huge disappointment when he left. But then again, with all he’d been through-personally-not too big a surprise. I’m not sure he’ll ever be happy in the private sector.” He advised, “Some people aren’t made for this work. And I’m not saying it’s easier or more difficult than what you’re doing, where you are now-different is all.” He toyed with his wristwatch-also gold-plated, some of the finish worn off.

“Can I ask what he was working on when he was with you?”

“Of course you can ask.” He smiled a toothpaste smile and offered Dart a patronizing look. “If only I could answer,” he said, the smile not leaving his face. “The strongest selling point for any private security firm is confidentiality, Detective-the cornerstone of our business. I’m sure you understand.”

“It goes no further than me,” Dart promised. “I’m not here to lift your skirt.”

“Joe,” the man said earnestly, leaning forward and speaking softly. Dart wondered if the office had a hidden tape recorder. He basically confirmed this when Proctor reached out and triggered the remote, returning the music and covering his voice. Guys like Proctor thought of themselves as big shots; the real big shots never let on. “You wouldn’t believe the NDAs I have to sign. Nondisclosure agreements. The boilerplate runs twenty pages. Many go over fifty.” This length seemed to be a source of pride for Proctor. “You wouldn’t believe the penalties-seven figures in some cases. I’m bound legally and morally to keep my lips zipped-that’s all there is to it.” He didn’t have a moral ounce in his body. “So are my employees. It’s one reason we pull such large paychecks. People come to us to keep things quiet. Okay? Sorry.”

“So even if you wanted to help me, you couldn’t,” Dart tested.

“Of course I’d like to help.”

“Bullshit. Let me tell you something, Proctor. I’ll come here with subpoenas if I have to.”

“You’ll have to,” the man said, offering another staged smile, seemingly unaffected.

“Corporate? Private? Anything you can give me.”

“Sorry.”

Dart saw resistance in the man’s eyes. He didn’t want Dart to have this information. Out of stubbornness, or guilt?

“I’m in a position where I have to have no comment, Joe. I wish I could help you. Okay? Sorry.”

“What makes a man leave a cushy security job after only a couple months?” Dart asked. “That’s not privileged.”

“I told you: As far as I could tell he just wasn’t ready for this. We operate differently than you guys. Sure, we pay well; and for that we expect loyalty, dedication, attention to detail. My take is that Walter needed more time. He needed more time to grieve over his wife’s death-that’s my opinion.”

“You’re saying it was for personal reasons.”

“Absolutely.”

“Nothing to do with his work,” Dart pressed.

The man looked uncomfortable.

“You can answer that,” Dart reminded.

Proctor flashed his plastic smile. “You want to tell me what it is that you are working on, Joe? What’s your interest in Zeller?”

“Are we both interested in Zeller?” Dart asked.

“We serve a necessary function. I help ease your workload whether you acknowledge that or not.”

“You break laws to accomplish your clients’ needs. We uphold those laws.”

“We break the little laws-the ones you wish you could break. Chain of custody? Warrants for search and seizure? We’re rarely after a court settlement. We do what we’re hired to do.”

“To break the law.”

“Not at all. You know that, Joe. We play within the accepted boundaries. If we didn’t, we would be out of business. You know that.”

“You won’t help me with Zeller?” Dart asked.

“I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to-”

“And if I subpoena you, and it happens to leak to the media-”

“Are you threatening me, Joe?”

“I’m warning you, Terry,” he said, having never met the man before. “I’d rather keep the gloves on, but if they come off … I want you to know that I’m serious about this. We’re not talking about taking bedroom pictures of some CEO’s unfaithful wife.” This somehow caught Proctor where he lived. The man squared his shoulders and sat back in his chair, his face red, his fists and jaw clenched.

In an angry voice he said, “Don’t be an asshole, Dartelli. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I need answers.”

“You won’t get them here.”

“I’ll get them.”

“We’ll see.”

On his way back, Dart found a pay phone and called Gorman. “I need a client list for a security firm in town. Can you get it for me?”

“Proctor Securities?”

“Can you do it?”

“I can identify all deposits, and I can trace those deposits to bank accounts. Will that do?”

Dart gave him the dates of Zeller’s employment at Proctor.

“Are we getting somewhere?” Gorman asked hopefully. Part of the reason for the man’s participation over the years, Dart had come to understand, was the excitement. The speeding tickets were just an excuse.

“We’re getting somewhere,” Dart answered. But the closer we get, the worse it looks.

“I tell ya,” Teddy Bragg said to Dart, sitting in the cramped forensic sciences office. “This is rocket science, or might as well be, so if I lose you, speak up because I don’t want to have to explain everything all over again.”

Dart felt uneasy. Bragg had excitement in his bloodshot eyes, and he offered a wide smile of his capped teeth. Recently, Bragg had not been smiling about anything. His skin had a little more color to it. He had come to Dart in person, something unheard of for Bragg. He had ranted on about how Dart should thank him for doing all the necessary research because without it he wouldn’t know what he knew, and now that he knew what he knew, he knew it was important. “Critically important,” he had said.

Dart had followed him down the hall with his heart in his throat. He’d never seen Bragg like this.

“You look better,” Dart said.

“Feel better.” He pointed to a canister in the corner of the office that, amid all the other debris, Dart had failed to notice. “O-two,” he said, “good old oxygen-or new oxygen, actually.” He smiled again, showing off his dental work.

“Let me get this straight,” Dart offered, seeing the open pack of cigarettes on the man’s desk. “You’re still smoking, but now you’re taking oxygen as well.”

“Physician, heal thyself.”

“But you’re no MD, Buzz.”

“Mind your own business. It works. Don’t knock it. Are you paying attention? Are you?”

“Yes.”

He handed Dart a photocopy of a page containing too many boxes, all filled with numbers. “Full blood workup that you requested. Harold Payne.”

“What’s it tell us?” Dart asked.

“It tells me. I tell you ,” he replied arrogantly. “What it tells me , is that your boy was a quart low on androgens. Everything else checks out fine.”

“Androgens?”

“Male hormones. Testosterone and company. The ‘hard’ in hard-on.”

“Slow down, Buzz.”

“We aren’t even started yet. I tell ya-this is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This is the kind of thing that a guy like me lives for. You been there. You know.”