CHAPTER V

Damon Powell wiped the sweat off his brow, then straightened and gazed into the camera for his mug shot. He tried to look calm and non-threatening, but the flash erupted before he was ready, and he had the distinct impression his photo would look just how he felt—hot, flustered and desperate.

“No, over here,” instructed the booking officer, handing him a packet of prison clothing and motioning him toward the holding area.

“All right…,” he began, determined to appear cooperative and reasonable.

“Shut up, punk.” He quickly changed and handed his street clothes and personal belongings over and watched as they were catalogued and signed in.

A guard led him down a narrow hall, shoved him into a small cubicle and slammed the steel door shut. There was a cut-out in the upper panel of the door, but it was operable only from the outside.

Damon glanced around to take stock of his surroundings.

A flimsy steel cot with one thin coverlet took up most of one wall. A small stainless steel sink with one spigot was on the back wall, and a urinal was set into the far corner. One straight-backed chair faced a small metal table bolted to the opposite wall. There was scarcely room to turn around, and Damon immediately began to feel claustrophobic.

He stretched his arms and rubbed his hands together, trying to regain feeling in them. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the cot and tried to relax, but the strain of the last few hours wouldn’t allow it.

The horror of it all had not sunk in yet. He was still trying to make sense of what the police detective had said about Marilyn.

Dead? Impossible! He had spent a happy and relaxing early evening with her, dining at their favorite Italian restaurant…joking, laughing…a few serious moments, discussing the wonderful future they had planned together.

They had eaten early and he had taken her straight back to her father’s house a little before dusk. They both had busy schedules and had agreed to call it an evening so they could get a good night’s sleep.

He had kissed her on the porch…a sweet long-lasting kiss…then waited while she unlocked the door….

Wait.

That was the puzzle piece that didn’t fit. The front door wasn’t locked. They both had remarked on it.

“Dad must be getting forgetful,” she said, turning the knob. She smiled. “Too much on his mind, I expect. He usually isn’t this lax.”

“Do you want me to come in, check things out, just to be sure…?”

He remembered now, the faint chill of apprehension which had come over him.

“No. I’m sure everything’s fine. He’s probably still working in his office. He might have stepped out on the porch to catch a breath of air then forgot to latch the door when he went back in.”

“All right, if you’re sure…,” he said.

He had hesitated a moment, then lightly brushed the top of her head with his hand and swung off the top step as she stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind her. The lock clicked.

That he was sure of.

He had to tell Gail, as soon as possible. He glanced anxiously down the brightly-lit hall leading back to the booking room.

Where was she? She should have been here by now.

He was suddenly scared to death…and deeply saddened…at the thought of what was to come. He had been through all this before.

It had changed his life completely.

Now, he knew, his life was going to change completely again…and he had no control over what was about to happen to him.

* * * *

Damon, seated on the cot in a deep reverie, was startled a while later when the steel door suddenly clanked open.

“C’mon. Yer mouthpiece is here.”

Damon stood still while the cuffs and shackles were put in place then followed the taciturn guard awkwardly out into the corridor as directed.

He knew enough not to argue or hesitate.

“Pick your battles,” was the phrase that echoed in his mind, and he obeyed.

Gail looked up when the orange-suited prisoner shuffled in and took a seat across from her at a pitted metal table. The cubicle was small, square, and painted a sickly institutional green.

A faint odor of fear, sweat and Lysol permeated the room.

The guard removed Damon’s handcuffs and gave Gail a brief nod. “I’ll be right outside, ma’am, in case you need anything.”

He glared meaningful at Damon.

“Thank you, officer, I’ll be just fine.”

She waited a beat, until the guard left, clanking the door shut behind him.

“You okay?” she asked.

“As ‘okay’ as I can be, under the circumstances. Gail, I forgot to mention it, but would…could you let my parents know what’s happened. I try to go out there a couple of times a week. If they don’t hear from me, they’ll start to worry. Tell them not to try to come here just yet. I’ll get together with them just as soon as I possibly can. Please….”

Gail was alarmed at how swiftly his demeanor had changed, from the relaxed and competent young man she’d chatted with yesterday, to this new Damon, pinch-faced and desperate.

“Of course I will. I’ll take care of that just as soon as we’re through here and have a little more information,” she said, then added: “They haven’t tried to interrogate you yet, have they?”

“No. They brought me in, finger-printed me, photographed me, then stuck me in the holding cell. No one’s tried to talk to me since I’ve been here.”

“Good. Now, listen to me, and listen hard. Don’t offer them a thing. Not one thing. Do you hear? Hugo’s begun his own investigation. We’re pulling the whole team together on this one, Damon. We’re not going to let you go down….”

“Gail. I thought of something I have to tell you…let Hugo know.” He lowered his voice and spoke in a quiet monotone, hoping any bugs in the room wouldn’t be able to pick it up.

“I think whoever did this was already in the house when I left. Marilyn tried to use her key, but the door was unlocked, which was totally unlike Hal. He had no idea when we were coming back, so there would have been no reason for him to unlock the door before she came home.”

Gail nodded.

“All right. That’s a good piece of evidence. I’ll get Hugo going on that possibility right away. Of course the cops will have been all over the scene, looking for fingerprints and anything else. But as soon as we get the all clear, Hugo will go in and look for anything they might have missed. I suspect they’ve already fingered you for this, so they won’t be looking very hard for evidence to prove otherwise. That gives us a bit of an advantage.”

“I could kick myself for not going in with her,” he said. “Just to check things out. She thought Hal might have stepped out on the porch for a breath of air or something then just forgot to lock the door when he went back in. I don’t buy that really, and didn’t at the time. I should have insisted…”

“You can’t beat yourself up over this, Damon. It won’t change things, and it won’t do us any good down the road. Keep your wits about you and keep trying to think of anything…anything at all…that might shed some light on this.”

“I’m trying, Gail. I’m honestly trying. But I keep dredging up the memories of the Seymour trial, and it scares the hell out of me. I feel like someone is out to get me, for whatever reason. And I don’t understand why.”

Just then there was a brief rap followed by the scrape of the door opening.

“They’re ready to interrogate you,” the guard announced, motioning to Damon to stand and place his hands behind his back once again.

“You coming?” he added to Gail.

“Yes. Definitely,” she said.

As the guard led Damon out and down the hall in the other direction, away from the cells, Gail was directed a different way, towards the public section of the night court. She tried to gather her thoughts as she prepared for the brief preliminary hearing to decide on bail.

So someone had been in the house when Damon and Marilyn got there last evening. Probably had already subdued Hal and waylaid his daughter as soon as she entered the house. She might have been killed instantly, or tortured over the evening.

Her stomach revolted at the thought. Poor Hal. What a tragic situation.

But where was he? Was Marilyn’s father dead, too?

Or had he survived to tell the tale?

* * * *

“Oof!”

Damon had more or less anticipated the quick hard jab to his solar plexus, but he was not fast enough to maneuver away in time to avoid the main thrust.

He tripped awkwardly over his own ankle shackles and stumbled into the rough stucco wall of the back walkway leading from the holding cells to the interrogation rooms of the County Jail.

He paused and bent over for a moment to catch his breath. He tried to ignore the dull throb starting somewhere in the middle of his belly. He would have a helluva bruise there tomorrow. No doubt about it.

“Watcher there,” rumbled the guard, grabbing at Damon’s manacled hands and pulling him back to an upright position.

“Got to be careful in here, Mr. Powell. Lottsa rules and regulations here, if ya’ get my drift. Feller could get hurt real bad, if he don’t watch his P’s and Q’s.”

“Yessir,” Damon said, gazing steadily at a point about two inches below the man’s stubbled chin. He was well aware of the animosity against him, and fully expected a little man-handling before things settled down.

“Yessir,” he repeated. “I just tripped. I’ll try not to do that again.”

“You better believe you’ll ‘try.’” Jim Richards had been around a long time and knew just how much leeway he had in dealing with this riff-raff.

“I ain’t got no time to baby-sit yer sorry ass,” he added with a sniff of disdain. “‘Sides. We ain’t got no sympathy for the likes of you and yer kind. Lady-killer!”

The latter was hissed directly into Damon’s ear.

Damon continued to look down, stoically ignoring the other man’s jibes. He was at a definite disadvantage here, but was determined to survive this debacle. He hoped Gail would be able to convince them to allow bail. Otherwise….

This was not the same Damon Powell who had been hauled before the bar five years earlier. In the intervening time he had pulled himself together, made amends with his parents, gone back to school, and gained the trust, and even friendship, from people he admired and respected.

And Marilyn—his dear Marilyn—had become the love of his life. She was his total reason for being. She had been the one he wanted at his side through all that life had to offer….

And now—according to all reports—she had been viciously and senselessly murdered.

Why? Why me? Why now?

Those questions and many more were bubbling up in his mind as he numbly followed Richards down the not-so-clean, musty-smelling corridor where he would meet up with Gail and his accusers.

And endure more questions he couldn’t answer and more insinuations and innuendo about his past.

He shook his head dumbly like a gored ox being led to its final appointment.

Looked like no matter how he tried, he just couldn’t catch a break in this world.

No way.

The duo made their clanking way through several intervening security doors before Richards finally came to a halt.

“Hold up, now. Doncher move a muscle, hear? Or you’ll be sorry you ever got up this mornin’”

Pointing Damon face forward towards the sickly green wall, the guard knocked then opened the door into the largest interrogation room. He pulled his prisoner roughly about and shoved him forward.

“Here’s Prisoner Powell, Sir,” Richards announced, sketching a quick salute and addressing the senior detective seated at the table.

“Thank you, Jim,” said Charlie Hudson, motioning to the vacant seat on the far side of the table.

“Take a seat, Mr. Powell,” he added, then…for benefit of the recorder… “Damon Powell has just entered the room for interrogation. Also present are Detective Charles Hudson, Sergeant Arthur Rolfe, and prisoner’s counsel, Ms. Gail Brevard.”

There was a brief scuffling of chairs as everyone got settled, and the prisoner’s handcuffs were removed. Gail looked anxiously at Damon’s strained face, before staring pointedly at Jim Richards. Damon vaguely shook his head at her, trying to avoid any unpleasantness.

“Are you all right,” she asked.

“I’m fine, Gail. Just let it go.” He was clutching his midsection, obviously in pain.

Hudson ignored this brief exchange and shuffled a few papers in front of him before glancing up at Jim Richards hovering near the door.

“That’ll be all, Jim. We’ll call you when we need you again.”

“Yessir. I’ll be right outside the door…if you need me.” He glared at Damon, now seated at the table next to Gail, then ducked outside.

Once the door was closed, Hudson looked up at Damon. “State your name for the record.”

“Damon Powell.”

“And you reside within the township of Cathcart?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your occupation?”

“I’m employed part-time by the Goldthwaite agency. I’m also attending law school and interning for Osterwitz and Brevard while I study for the bar exam.” This last was uttered with an air of pride. He looked the detective squarely in the eye.

Hudson nodded, paused and checked his records again.

“What were you doing on the evening of November 3rd, between the hours of 5:00 p.m. and midnight?”

Powell glanced at Gail who nodded. No point in stonewalling here. All of this was pretty straightforward.

“I was having a very early dinner at the Napoli Restaurant in Midtown with my fiancée, Marilyn Watson. We finished our meal at approximately 5:00 p.m., and then I drove her to her father’s house in Long Hills. We arrived there by 5:30 or a little after and I dropped her off. Then I returned to my apartment back in Midtown. I studied for a while, watched the news then went to bed.”

“What did you and Miss Watson discuss during your dinner?”

The small recorder spun away to Charlie Hudson’s right, and he referred from time to time to a thick folder in front of him.

Damon glanced at Gail, seated next to him. She nodded. This was safe enough.

“We just chatted really. We both had to be up quite early this morning, so we didn’t spend a lot of time. We ate a light meal, talked about what was going at work, and our classes. Things like that. Nothing of any importance.”

“Were you aware that her father would be waiting up for her at home?”

“We weren’t that late. As I said, I think we got to the house by 5:30 or a little after. I saw her to the door, then left. I didn’t see Hal, but I assumed he was inside the house, either working in his office or having his own dinner and watching TV.”

“Did you have any cross words with Miss Watson or any kind of argument during dinner?”

Gail held up her hand and stopped him.

“Mr. Powell has already characterized their discussion as benign. I don’t think he needs to describe the conversation further than that.”

Hudson grimaced and glanced down at the folder in front of him.

“Do you carry a firearm, Mr. Powell?”

“Don’t answer that Damon.”

“Ms. Brevard,” Charlie said, turning to Gail in exasperation. “That’s a simple enough question, and one that Mr. Powell should be happy to answer.”

Before Gail could say anything further, Damon interrupted.

“No. I do not carry a weapon of any kind. I certainly wouldn’t have been carrying one yesterday.”

Gail cringed. She had not wanted the questioning to veer off into this territory. But, at least Damon had had the sense to answer in the negative.

“Where and when did you and Miss Watson meet yesterday…and what time exactly did you arrive at the Napoli Restaurant?”

“Well, let’s see. I made reservations for 4:30. My last class was out at 3:30, but the traffic between Midtown and Long Hills is murder about then….”

Damon shook his head and cringed at his unintentional use of the word “murder.” After a moment, he continued.

“It took me about half an hour to get to the Watson house. Mari…Miss Watson had been working with her father in his law office yesterday afternoon. The two of them drove home together, but I’m not sure of the time. I believe she had changed clothes before I picked her up at approximately 4:00 or so. She met me in front of the house, and Mr. Watson didn’t come out, so I didn’t see him at all. I just assumed he was still inside. I actually had suggested he join us, but he said he had some things he wanted to work on through the evening, so he took a rain check.”

“So, you’re telling me you never saw Hal Watson at all yesterday? What about during the day?”

“No. Yesterday was a full day for me at school. I had two classes, and I took advantage of the time between them to study in the library and work on some papers that were due. If I had been working at the law firm that day or running errands for Hugo, I might have run into him, perhaps at the court house. But that wasn’t the case yesterday. As I said, He didn’t come out of the house when I picked up his daughter, and he didn’t make an appearance when I brought her home either. So, no. I didn’t see him at all yesterday.”

Gail had been jotting down notes while Damon spoke. He had told her all this earlier, but she wanted to keep a clear picture in her mind of the sequence of events. Everything would depend on Damon’s story coming across clear, not muddled.

“Now. Let’s move on to the events following your arrival at the Watson house after the dinner date. What did you and Miss Watson do and say during the time you arrived together, and the time you say you left alone.”

Gail held up a hand again.

“I believe Mr. Powell has already explained exactly what occurred when he left Miss Watson off at her father’s house.”

She looked at Damon and shook her head. “Don’t answer this one, Damon. He’s fishing.”

“Ms. Brevard. You don’t want to get into the situation where you could be accused of hampering an investigation.”

Hudson glared at her.

“I’m sorry, Detective Hudson. But if you’ll play back that tape, I’m sure you will realize that you have already asked a version of that question, and Mr. Powell has answered it fully.

“Now, if you have nothing else at this time, I’d like to seek bond for my client.”

“One more question, if you please.” Hudson glanced down again at his notes. “Where did you go after you say you left the Watson house last evening?”

This time Gail remained silent. She already knew the answer and it would not harm Damon.

“As I said, I went straight back to my apartment in Midtown. I was scheduled to work for Hugo today, and I wanted to get some more done on those school papers I mentioned. I worked a bit, watched the news on TV, took a shower and went to bed. I slept soundly until about six this morning, when I got up and got ready for the day. I fixed myself some breakfast, ate and cleared up the dishes, then left the apartment about 8 a.m. Once again, traffic was heavy and it took me about 20 or 30 minutes to get in to the office. Hugo had called a staff meeting for 8:30, and I got there just in time to attend. He can confirm that fact.”

Damon stopped and sat back, drained. The stress of the interview was etched into his face, and his usual happy-go-lucky manner had disappeared completely.

“Did you see or speak to her father at the house before leaving?”

Gail started to object, but thought better of it. Damon had already answered this question, but let Charlie spin his wheels if he wanted.

“No, as I told you before. We both had early classes the next morning. I walked her up to the door, said goodnight and left.”

“Did you see her enter the house?”

Damon paused and thought back. “Yes. I saw her enter the house. She stopped in the doorway and waved me on, then turned, made her way into the house, and closed the door behind her.”

He swallowed and put his head down in agony. If only he had stayed long enough to see her safely inside. If he had just gone in and spoken to Hal. If he had just made sure, absolutely sure, everything was all right. He would never be able to forgive himself for his lapse in judgment.

He completely disregarded the fact that the same horrible fate might have befallen him, if he had entered that house of horror that night.

As far as he was concerned, he might as well be dead right now anyway.

Gail spoke up.

“I don’t think my client has anything further to add about this, Detective. There should be a record at the Napoli of his dinner out with the victim before returning her to her father’s home and care.

“I assume you’re making every effort to find Mr. Watson,” she added. “He can provide proof of Mr. Powell’s statement. Without any concrete evidence to the contrary, it must be assumed that events transpired just as my client states: He had an uneventful dinner out with his fiancée, returned her home, watched her enter the house without problem then went back to his own apartment where he spent the rest of the evening studying for his next day classes.”

Charles Hudson stared her down.

“But that’s just the problem, Counselor. Hal Watson disappeared from his home that very evening. Presumably he witnessed the fatal attack on his daughter and, as a result, was taken to some other place where he is either being held prisoner—or has become a second victim in this heinous crime. Until, and if, Watson is found, Damon Powell remains a ‘person of interest,’ to us—and we are going to act accordingly.”

Gail abruptly changed the subject.

“Who’s on tonight, Charlie?” she said, glancing at her watch. “I intend to request bail, and the sooner we get out of here, the sooner you can get back to looking for Hal.”

“You might have a little trouble with that, Counselor,” Hudson sneered. “Ballou’s on, I think. Lots of luck, there.”

Aaron Ballou was a law-and-order judge, well known for his tough stance on crime.

“Well, let’s see,” Gail said. “The first thing I’ll request is a complete physical exam for my client. He appears to be in some discomfort from the handling he’s had in just a few hours under your care here….”

Damon grimaced and Hudson sighed.

He made a pretense of shuffling through his papers again. “Now, Counselor. No need to get on your high horse. I suspect your client tripped and fell…or something of the sort. Right, Powell?”

Damon nodded, but Gail ignored the exchange.

“Are we done here, Detective? The sooner we get into night court, the better.”

Charles Hudson thought a moment. He knew old Jim Richards well enough to acknowledge the guard had probably handled Powell a little too roughly. If he admitted it, he’d done the same thing with this very prisoner five years ago…the first time he’d encountered him.

Too bad he hadn’t saved the taxpayers a little dough and finished the job then, he mused. Public sentiment at the time was certain Powell had offed the lovely and popular young Vivian Seymour. There would have been a brief enquiry, followed by a complete vindication of his actions. Wag, his partner at the time, would’ve stood behind him 100 percent. He was sure of that. Yes. It was too bad something couldn’t be done now to push the balance to his favor. He would have to think about that a bit more.

Gail stood up.

“That’s enough, Detective. We’re through now. Will you please release my client for the bond hearing? I’ll be requesting that he be released on his own recognizance. He has ties to the community and is no risk for flight. My firm will vouch for that.”

Charlie Hudson knew when to back down. There would be plenty more opportunities to question Damon Powell. He would see to that.

“All right,” he said, motioning to Jim Richards, lurking just outside the glass-windowed door. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Hudson conferred with Richards briefly, then motioned attorney and client forward.

“Judge Ballou is available in fourteen. We’ll see if he agrees with your request or not.”

Thank heavens, Gail thought. She wasn’t at all sure she could convince that old curmudgeon Ballou that Damon Powell was not a risk for flight, but she would sure give it her all.

She gave Damon a reassuring smile as Richards cuffed him again for the parade down to night court.

With any luck she could get him released on O.R. She was furious at his appearance, when Richards had dragged him into the interrogation room. Damon wasn’t talking, but she was sure he had been handled roughly, and a physical exam would prove it.

That might work in her favor, as she tried to convince Ballou her client was not safe in the general population.

She could also mention the fact that too much publicity about her client being held in connection with the unsolved murder, would give her plenty of ammunition to request a change of venue, a ploy all judges loathed to review.

Yes, that just might work. Then they all could get back to looking for Hal Watson, wherever he might be.