“So where are we? Are we ready to go to the grand jury?” I asked the detective. I was way more polite than my boss. I’d let detective Loren Logan sit before I’d started in with the questions.
“She has an alibi.” Logan put his police file on the table. Pushed up the sleeves on his sweater. He had to be hot. The building heat was on even though it was warm outside. Myself, I was sweating like a woman coming up on menopause.
“Is it confirmed?” I asked as I pulled my blouse away from my body to keep it from sticking.
“From Wetzel, sure,” he said.
I’d only worked with Logan once before. He was a little more taciturn than before. Didn’t have time to dig around as to why. I leaned forward to get something out of him about the case.
“The main suspect?” I probed. “We’re now taking their word?”
If innocence and guilt were up to the defendants of the world, the prisons would be empty. As far as I could tell, we weren’t at the truth serum stage of human evolution. In vino veritas wasn’t yet court approved.
“Her attorney was present during questioning,” Logan offered.
“Do you believe her?” I asked. I’d seen more than one detective’s head turned by a pretty face. Lizzy Borden had ridden the demure train to acquittal after all.
“I’m not in the trust business,” Logan said, monotone. “I’m in the verify business.”
I pulled my pad toward me. Turned to a clean page. Somehow this “should be easy” murder trial was going to be a lot of work. Seemed to be my lot in life. I wasn’t at all looking forward to this like I once would have when I was young and didn’t know any better.
Pope would be breathing down my neck. My boss had some kind of hard-on for Wetzel. My cop was going all wishy-washy. Looked like Logan thought the defendant was innocent. They were never innocent. Not guilty, sure. But something had gone on there with Wetzel and the guy. Smoke and fire and all that.
My guess was that she’d either faked the phone call or had someone call her. Wetzel had tied the victim up, then she’d shot him through the heart. I hadn’t pinpointed a why, but I didn’t have to prove motive. Just means and opportunity. Sprinkle a little DNA, expert forensic testimony, and previous felony conviction on top and the twelve in the box would pronounce her guilty as sin.
“Who’s the carrier?” I asked, pen poised, ready to entertain Logan’s trust but verify theory.
Logan flipped open the file, though I suspected he knew the answer without cribbing.
“AT&T. She’s got an iPhone.”
“Damn.” I pulled at my blouse again. Silk was hot even though it looked cool. Then I sighed. Apple’s security was nearly as hard to crack as Blackberry. “That’s going to be some work. Let’s get started on the warrant.” I’d put together an airtight request. The judge would sign it, no problem.
Then it would disappear into the carrier’s legal department while they determined if this somehow fit into the narrow band of cases where they’d give up the phone location information.
Logan shrugged in sympathy. “We’re in that weird place where the law hasn’t kept up with technology. I think—”
I didn’t get to hear what Logan thought because there was a knock, and before I could speak, my door swung open. I’d expected Pope. She had an uncanny knack for forgetting social niceties, and showing up when I wasn’t prepared for whatever interrogation she’d planned.
When I looked up, I was surprised to see Cleveland Heights police detective Darlene Webb. Don’t think I’d seen her in nearly two years. Not since we’d flamed out on the Juliana Clarke murder case.
Webb must have worked on her appearance, because for once she didn’t look like a child playing dress-up. Her suit quality was upgraded, and she’d gotten a real haircut somewhere outside of a discount salon or her bathroom mirror.
“Can I come in?” Webb asked, though she was already moving toward my desk. Then she was standing, shifting from one foot to another. More of a party than I was expecting.
“Darlene Webb,” I introduced. Pointed toward the man sitting across from me. “Do you know Loren Logan?”
They shook hands warily. Not a lot of blue brotherhood vibes flowing. Maybe it was the different departments. City versus suburbs and all that.
“Nice to meet you,” Logan said. Webb nodded.
“I’m working on a warrant with Detective Logan.” I looked at Webb and waved toward the door. “Can you wait outside for thirty minutes or so?”
When Webb didn’t move, I looked at her more closely. Our eyes met.
“Ja Roach was murdered,” she blurted out. I dropped my pen. Forgot about Logan and digital privacy and probable cause for the long minute it took me to process what she’d said. When they both looked at me, I realized I’d been silent for a long time. Maybe too long. I wanted to point out that I was sober this morning. But saying that would reveal how often I wasn’t. Shifting my weight forward in my chair goosed my brain into action.
“What? When?” I asked a second question before Webb could answer the first.
“Saturday night.”
“As in October third?” I inquired as I counted back from today’s date.
“Yes.”
“Who is Ja Roach?” Logan asked.
“Drug addict,” Webb said.
“Confidential informant,” I clarified.
“So he’s dead, huh? Did someone he inform on kill him?” Logan asked.
“Don’t think so.” The detective shook her head. Her hair wasn’t messy when she steadied. Fell right back into a neat bob. “He wasn’t really active,” Webb said to me and Logan.
“Do you have a suspect?” I asked. I assumed she needed a more complicated search warrant than the lower-level prosecutors could do. Or even maybe another cell records request. In some ways, the Fourth Amendment law was getting more difficult to navigate with more spheres of privacy popping up the founding fathers hadn’t anticipated. I made a mental note to propose a continuing-ed class for the rank-and-file attorneys.
“That’s kind of why I’m here,” Webb said.
Logan looked between Webb and me. I think the expression on his face could have been described as incredulous. “You think the prosecutor here can help you figure out who the suspect is?”
“Roach worked with the prosecutors for years,” Webb said. “It’s not unrealistic to think someone he informed on figured out the source of the information. Anyways, I believe he was a pet of Pope.”
“A pet?” Logan didn’t hide his confusion. I didn’t point out that his inexperience was showing. Maybe Walsh would take him aside and give him a rundown on county politics someday soon. There were ever-shifting hierarchical relationships that one needed to navigate in order to succeed.
“He worked for Pope in Lakewood, Cleveland, and maybe even Cleveland Heights,” Webb explained. “I will try to get access to records and any detectives he worked with. But if you already have that info, then I could shortcut the investigation and get closer to possible murder suspects.”
What went unsaid, but was understood by everyone in my office was that an inverse relationship exists between time and likelihood of solving a murder.
“Have you talked to Tyisha Cooley?” I asked. A lot of bodies had dropped around her. Irrationally, I feared for the safety of a woman I’d unsuccessfully prosecuted for murder.
“You think she’s a suspect?” This time it was Webb whose face was a mask of confusion.
“Not exactly.” I had no facts to back up my hunch that the former defendant may be in possible danger. “Can you contact her PO, though?”
“I guess.” Webb shrugged. I hoped it meant she was taking a mental note to do what I’d asked.
“How was he killed? I didn’t see anything on the news or in the papers.” I tried not to read too much news, otherwise I got depressed by the state of the economy or whatever war was brewing. But I did keep an eye on the local crime section of the papers to see what trends there were or what was coming down the pike.
“Shot.”
“In Cleveland Heights? I thought he lived in Lakewood. Had that apartment forever.” When Webb and I had checked his RAP sheet during the Cooley case, he’d been the most stable drug addict I’d ever come across. He’d never moved.
Webb shrugged, again. She’d never been particularly talkative. Finally, she filled in some details.
“Abandoned house up near East Cleveland. He still lived at that same loft in Lakewood. But maybe it was easier to score drugs over on the other side of town. Maybe he was visiting someone. Who knows?”
It wasn’t unheard of. Some people liked to get high together. It was kind of a social occasion. Or it was a way for the ones who couldn’t afford to score drugs to barter whatever they could for a hit.
“Ballistics?” I asked because eventually we’d need to pin down a suspect. Every so often a gun could give us a suspect.
“It’s a three fifty-seven Magnum.”
“The murder weapon of the moment,” Logan said.
“Your case too?” Webb asked.
“Guy shot through the heart with a Model 19.”
“Old police gun, wasn’t it?” Webb asked.
“Think so. Lots of old-timers still use it as their personal weapon. Walsh…my partner, close to retirement, uses it as his concealed weapon.”
Police regulations allowed every officer to carry a concealed personal weapon in addition to their department-issued Glock. As if one gun weren’t enough.
“So, you’ll get me what you have?” Webb asked me.
“Call me after you’ve checked on Cooley,” I said not promising anything. The fact that Ja Roach had worked closely with Pope over so many years meant I’d have to think out my next steps very carefully.
Our computer database access was logged. I don’t think anyone in county IT or Pope ever monitored what we did. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t. Like the proverbial guy who watched the “wrong” kinds of videos at work, it wasn’t an issue until it was.
“I’ll let you get back to your warrant,” Webb said. To Logan, “Good luck with yours. Hopefully you’re closer to a suspect than I am.”
Webb strode out with the same confidence she’d come in with.
“Pope’s pets?” Logan asked. He furrowed his brow. I didn’t think he was playing at naivete.
I was quiet for a moment. Weighing the need for discretion. Couldn’t think of a reason to keep my mouth shut or how sharing information could come back to haunt me.
“Between you and me, Pope has a cadre of people who do her favors. Informants. Her favorite cops. Snitches. Probably has one in this office.” I thumped my chest, held up my hands, empty palms facing the detective. “It’s not me.”
“Cops?” A wrinkle puckered between his brows. “Quid pro quo?”
That last question I didn’t acknowledge. Instead I said, “Obviously it’s not you. Otherwise you’d know it.”
“Here’s what I have for the warrant.” Logan pulled his notes closer, ending the discussion of my boss’ manipulation of those in her orbit to suit her purposes, mixing political and prosecutorial expediency in a way the no legislator had ever intended and therefore didn’t quite outlaw.
“Let’s get to work.” I sighed. “Maybe I’ll get at least one guilty verdict this year.”