Black Water (31 page)

She introduced Dr. John Stebbins, who nervously took Merci's place at the microphone and spoke of Deputy Wildcraft's medical condition: threat of infection, threat of edema, threat of seizure, threat of bleeding; loss of memory, possible hallucination, confabulation and erratic behavior.

"Is he suicidal?" asked Michelle Howland.

"That's not my area. I can't answer that."

"Is he dangerous?"

Stebbins cast a panicked glance at Rayborn, who shrugged encouragingly, trying to indicate the doctor could answer or not, up to him.

"I can't answer that, either. He's unpredictable," said Stebbins. "We just don't know. We've got to get him back under medical care. That is the only thing I can tell you for certain. I'm due in surgery in one hour. Thank you."

Stebbins banged his knee on the table leg on his way toward the back door, but the marshal had it open and waiting, and the doctor sidled out like a spy.

Rayborn went to the podium, looked up and focused on the CNB shooter because she'd never met him and he was a neutral being to her. She tried her best to sound like the cops she'd seen on TV, but she wasn't very good at talking that talk.

"We called this conference because we need Deputy Wildcraft to turn himself in to the nearest medical or law enforcement facility as soon as possible. We ask that anyone who has information on Mr. Wildcraft's whereabouts contact us immediately. It's for his own good. Mr. Wildcraft has a bad head wound, and as you know, the bullet still lodged in him. He needs medical attention, as Dr. Stebbins said. I want to stress that Deputy Wildcraft is not under warrant for arrest. We want to talk to him about the murder of his wife, Gwen, because he's a possible witness. No charges have been filed in regard to the confrontation with Mr. Brice on Monday morning. We need to question Deputy Wildcraft. We understand that the deputy is despondent over the death of his wife, is suffering a bad wound, and possibly feel hounded by certain members of the media. We're with you, Archie," she said, mustering a small smile. "Come back and talk to us. Questions?"

Perfect, she thought: that came out just right.

CBS News Radio: "Has Deputy Wildcraft contacted you since disappearing?"

Rayborn: "Yes. He appears to be feeling fine but is reluctant seek medical care."

"Why?"

"He is angered by a reporter trespassing on his property early on Monday morning. He thinks he may be seen as a suspect in the dead of his wife."

He thinks his wife is talking to him and he thinks he can track down a three-hundred-pound killer named Vorapin but I'm not at liberty to tell you this. And if I were, I wouldn't anyway.

"Is he a suspect in Gwen Wildcraft's murder?"

"I already told you he isn't."

"Sergeant Rayborn! Sergeant Rayborn—Michelle Howland, CNB. Can you tell us why Deputy Wildcraft is
not
a suspect in the death his wife, if his gun was used to kill her, and his fingerprints were on that weapon, and a paraffin test for gunshot residue came up
positive

Rayborn could have killed her, would have if there weren't many witnesses around. She felt like blood was boiling out of her ears. She imagined Howland being run over by a speeding armored c; then by a steamroller, then by a . . .

"Sure," she said evenly. "Because there's a lot more to a homicide case than fingerprints and gunshot residue. Come on, even you know that."

A hush, then.

"That's all you're going to say?"

"What else is there to say?"

Merci had already traced the invisible path of disclosure from Jim Gilliam's crime lab to the rosy red lips of Michelle Howland: DA Clay Brenkus to ADA Ryan Dawes to news rat Gary Brice to Michelle the Belle. She imagined Dawes freefalling through a canyon again, his extreme-sports shorts tightly gripping his butt in the fatal descent.

But Michelle wasn't done: "I was wondering why you claimed recently that the weapon was stolen from Arizona, and that the fingerprinting was inconclusive. We have those statements on tape. Which of your stories is the true one, Detective?"

"Those were preliminary findings, later disproven," she said calmly. "I did say those things, but I shouldn't have. It was too early for a statement. One of these days I'll learn to keep my mouth shut around you people."

This, meant as a self-deprecating joke, drew a weak media chuckle.

Then, Natalie Wildcraft, her voice cutting through the tension like a rusty ax: "Archie didn't kill her, you stupid women."

Cameras swung toward her, shooters re-aiming at the far end of the seats, where the Wildcrafts and Kuerners sat in a sudden wash of bright light. A chair tipped over and landed with a metallic bang that was louder than it should have been.

"She's right," said Earla Kuerner. "You people ought to be ashamed. All of you."

The nonreporters—Merci's friends and enemies—stood simultaneously for a better look, which gave a sense of things unraveling.

Natalie shielded her face from the lights with her small, bony hand, her big engagement ring flashing. "Good gracious, turn those damned things off."

The shooters pressed in close and fast, not about to lose position to each other. The reporters fired questions at the same time, then fired them louder, then began shouting them as the marshal at the back door shook his head and hustled bulkily around the table to restore order.

Natalie Wildcraft rasped furiously through the din,
"Get away, you leeches, you gutless leeches!"

Rayborn, thankful for something physical, rounded the podium help the marshal.

"Be easy," said Zamorra, also stepping toward the little riot.

Merci restrained Michelle Howland by the arm but Howland wheeled and hissed, "
Take your hands off me or I'll sue you out the department, bitch. "

"Cool it, Sergeant," snapped the marshal, moving toward her. Shocked and accelerating toward anger, Merci veered into Natalie Wildcraft, who had fought her way through the bristle of bodies and mikes to make for the door.

Natalie Wildcraft slapped her hard in the face, left side. Rayborn saw it coming but couldn't pull herself away from the focused fury the mother's eyes.

"Stupid women," Natalie barked again. "She acts like a judge and you act like a
friend."

She raised her hand again but Zamorra in one impossible motion caught the wrist and delivered it with something like grace into beckoning paw of her husband. George Wildcraft eased out of room, pulling her behind him.

Rayborn looked over at the video shooter who, alone in his group had turned to watch her and catch the action.

She shook her head and looked down to avoid the glare of video light.

The slap and the words and the exit of Natalie Wildcraft left a sudden silence in the room.

Earla and Lee Kuerner scuttled away like cold refugees.

Rayborn got behind the podium, threw back her thick dark hair and took a deep breath. She wondered if her cheek was as red a felt.

"Any
more
questions? Good. We'll talk again in, oh, how about . . . never. Does never work for you?"

At that moment the door opened and a sunny, overweight woman in a blue dress smiled at Merci. A legion of girls, all dressed in identical brown uniforms, swarmed in ahead of her.

"Brownie Troop seven-eight-eight, Tustin," she said. "Courthouse tour?"

"Please retreat to the information desk," said Merci. The Brownies had come to a communal stop when they saw Merci and the podium and the posters of Wildcraft and the video shooters and celebrity reporters.

"Girls! Girls—this way, please!"

Merci sat in the pen, waiting for Abelera to call or come over, fire her, take her badge and her gun, maybe whip her with his Sam Browne in the middle of the homicide pen.

She stared down at the recent arrivals on her desk: a department-wide notice of a birthday party for Assistant Sheriff Collins, suggested gift donation, twenty dollars; this month's newsletter from the Deputy Association; the "FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin"; blank timecards for the coming week.

She pushed them all aside for a look at Don Leitzel's neatly written note regarding the addresses in the navigational computer of the abandoned Cadillac STS.

Sgt. Rayborn—

Addresses contained in Sand Canyon car, in order of entry into the navigation system, are 83 Osier Lane, La Jolla (University of San Diego School of Medicine); 212
Saltair, Newport Beach; 4143 Agate, La Jolla.

I took the liberty of hitting the Orange and San Diego counties assessor's offices to see who the owners of these places are—hope you don't mind. These addresses belong to 1) the University of California,

2) Mr. Wyatt Wright, a single man, and

3) Dr. Sean Moss, a single man.

The Wright and Moss home purchases were both within the last year, 6.8 and 4.5 million dollars, respectively.

Don L.

"I'll be damned," she said out loud. Inside her the embarrassment of the press conference was whirling up against the excitement of this new evidence, and Merci felt a giddiness that went straight to her head "Cherbrenko and Vorapin used the Caddy."

"Huh?"

Sergeant Teague wheeled in his chair and looked at her.

"Those creeps that Crowder and Dobbs saw coming down the hill from Wildcraft's in a Cadillac at the crack of dawn—the same creeps were dialed in with home addresses for two of the OrganiVen founder and the UCSD medical school, where another founder was working. The arrogant shitheads stole an STS for transportation and dumped out on Sand Canyon."

"So?" Teague, large and only apparently sluggish, specialized dumb skepticism and Rayborn generally loved him for it.

"Gwen
worked
for OrganiVen. It's a stock fraud," she said. She was thinking out loud now, and things were making sense. "Everybody got rich, but now something's going wrong. Archie didn't kill her. And he didn't shoot himself. I'm damned sure of it now."

"What are you going to do with all his fingerprints on the gun?'

"Wipe them off."

"Good. I knew Arch didn't do it. He's a good kid."

Teague wheeled back around and burped quietly. "But let me guess—they wiped the STS clean."

"They sure did. Ike and Leitzel couldn't get a single print."

"Pros."

"But still dumb enough to leave the addresses on the navigatior system."

"Geniuses don't go into crime."

"A goddamned stock fraud," said Merci, still thinking out loud.

Teague spun around again. "So Archie's got the proof in the back of his mind, you might say. But nobody can get to it. Because to take out the bullet, it would probably kill him."

"The brain scans can't tell a thirty-eight from a thirty-two twenty-two or a twenty-five or a nine. They're not quite precise enough to show an exact diameter, with the mushrooming and fragging and all. But yeah, if you could get it out, you'd see it didn't come from his nine. It came from something one of those two guys in the car was packing. I'd bet my house on it.

"Teague shrugged. "So, when Archie dies of natural causes at the age of ninety-six, they can autopsy him, get the bullet and button down this case once and for all."

"Give me a break, Teague, I'm going to button this thing down by the time you quit burping."

"Feels like that could be a month."

"Give me a week." "Get 'em, Rayborn."

"I'll get 'em cold."

But Leitzel the Thorough wasn't the only good fairy to have visited Merci's desk while she was being slapped and cussed and pushed around by a
marshal.

A note from Ike Sumich lay just under Leitzel's:

Sergeant R—After many long-distance phone minutes I was able to determine that the shoe imprints were left by a size 16 Foot Rite "Comfort Strider." Two tread patterns were marketed in this country. What we found at Wildcraft's is the "Versa-Terra" by Markham.

NOTE: FOOT RITE ONLY SOLD THE COMFORT STRIDER IN SIZE 16 THROUGH CATALOGUES. NOT EVEN SPECIALTY BIG AND TALL STORES CARRIED SUCH A LARGE SIZE IN STOCK.

Here are the six most popular catalogues through which Foot Rite offered the shoe for sale in California.

Sumich listed the catalogue companies, their addresses, phone and fax numbers and Web site addresses.

"I love our crime lab guys," she said. "They're all cuties." Teague turned back to his desk. She got Sumich on the phone and thanked him for the good work. "This is what I need now," she said. "Get back to Foot Rite and find out if any of their catalogue retailers are specialty outfits."

"The ones I gave you are all specialty outfits—big and tall."

"Go a step further. Big and tall
executives
, because this guy might see himself as a businessman. Big and tall, ethnically targeted—look for European, Russian, Balkan, Slav. Try military surplus because alot of them have been selling Soviet stuff since the breakup. Try b and tall outdoorsmen, too—hunters and fishermen."

"Got it. Why a European businessman who likes Soviet surplus catalogues and loves to hunt and fish?"

"He's a Russian, Ike. A gangster, a fraudster and probably a killer. The hunting and fishing idea is pure hunch. Nothing more."

"Do you have a weight on him, by any chance?"

"I heard three-thirty, but that was as of a few years ago."

"I estimated three-fifty from the soil and the print depth. I didn't want to say anything because it was so much. I figured my estimate was just flat-out wrong."

"Vorapin. Zlatan Vorapin. Also known as Al Apin."

"Al Apeman."