Copp In Deep, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (7 page)

I found the ones at home in the library. One was crumpled just inside the door, a youngish man wearing a business suit he would never need again. An older man wearing silk pajamas and a dressing gown was collapsed in a chair behind the desk, deep in the sleep from which one never awakens.

These guys had been dead for quite a while.

I assumed that the man in the dressing gown was Morris Putnam, had no idea who the other stiff was and didn't especially care at the moment. My survival instinct was telling me to get the hell out of there quick but I guess the police instinct was stronger. I was searching through the desk drawers when the sheriffs made a grand entrance with weapons drawn and irresistible demands. I served with these guys for five years myself so I knew it was no time for idle debate.

I meekly took the spread right there at the desk. They took my guns without comment, and cuffed me.

There were no questions, no explanations.

This was one of those times when the right to remain silent should be vigorously exercised. It's a passive right, though, and damn small comfort when it's the only right you've got.

Chapter Ten

I here should
have been reason enough to doubt I that these people had been dead long enough to go stiff but their killer was still hanging around. But, see, police investigations do not ordinarily proceed on grounds of reasonable doubt. They leave that to the courts. The police take it by the numbers—not calculus but basic arithmetic—and what they see is what you get. An armed man standing over a dead body equals killer and victim, as simply as one plus one. Forget that "innocent until proven guilty" routine. That too is for the courts. Has nothing whatever to do with police procedure.

So I knew what I was in for. I was already wanted for questioning in connection with another killing, and possibly several more if they'd tied me to the freeway thing. Didn't take these guys any mental gymnastics whatever to come up with that score. Procedure is procedure, however, and it took us a long time to get there.

I'd figured that it was about nine o'clock when I arrived at the Putnam home, give or take five minutes. I sat outside in a police car until nearly ten, then I was taken down to the Altadena substation and sat around there for another hour awaiting transport to the county jail. I knew some of these guys, by sight if not by name, but that doesn't cut you any slack in a homicide. I wasn't treated badly but there were no special considerations either.

The booking procedure took forever. It was past midnight before the sergeant even came in and started writing it up. By then I was damned near a basket case. Every hurt I'd incurred over the previous twenty-four hours was making itself felt again, which did nothing to bolster a crumbling morale as the immensity of my problem began to settle on me.

Which is to say that I was feeling mean and nasty when the homicide team finally took it over. Those guys would have laughed me into a padded cell if I'd told them the story. So I told them nothing. They played the usual games—good guy, bad guy—bait and switch—derision and sympathy—but I remained surly and uncooperative through it all, and now it's two o'clock and I am dying inside.

That is where I was when the FBI took over.

They have a big contingent here in L.A., hundreds of agents and I don't know how many different departments but I know it is a damned big operation. The two who came in to talk to me looked and acted like senior people. Of course you never know with these guys. Talking to an FBI guy is like talking to a lawyer, in fact

it's usually the same thing, so they all act like senior people.

These two wanted to talk about Walter
Mathison
, the one that tried to whack me at Gina's apartment. What did I know about him?—how long had I known him?—what was the connection with the
Sarastova
woman . . . ?

They got me on that one. I unbuttoned my lip at that point long enough to ask, "Who's she?"

She lived in the apartment in which
Mathison
was killed. What was my relationship with her? Was she a client? How long since I'd seen Thomas Chase? What was my present relationship with Chase? How long had I known Morris Putnam and George
Delancey
and what was my relationship with them? What did I know about a shooting on the freeway in which three men were killed?

I just glared at them through all of that. The one was a Special Agent Browning—did most of the talking—the other Special Agent Vasquez. Smooth as silk, both of them, but tough as hell also under that surface, and these are the kind of guys you want to worry about. So I told them nothing. I saw them huddling with the homicide team before they left. Shortly thereafter I was accorded my right to one telephone call, and it took another hour for my lawyer to arrive.

We have an arrangement, my lawyer and I. We work for each other as the need arises and all we pay each other is expenses. Works out to a pretty good balance for both of us, but I think he was a little afraid of this one.

"Jesus, Joe," he growled at me, "I think you've outdone yourself this time. These people are ready to throw the book at you."

I growled back, "Yeah, well, let them get in line. I've had everything else thrown at me today already."

He said, "Don't be flippant about this. You're in deep trouble. You'll have to spend at least the rest of the night in jail. How much bail could you go?"

"Try fifty cents."

"Get serious about this and do it damn quick. How much could you raise?"

So I got serious about it and we made a list of assets. Looked sort of pitiful, on paper like that. Equity in my house was by far the best thing I had going. Bondsmen demand at least ten percent in security up front. We figured I had ten percent of damned little, which can be demoralizing as hell when you realize that it is the net residue of your life's work.

"I'll see what I can do," the lawyer said worriedly, and left me on that note.

Now it is four o'clock and the "procedure" has run its course. I am strip-searched and taken to a holding cell. It is not all that bad, considering where I have been the past seven hours. This is not "justice" but we have not even reached that plateau yet. First comes a damn lot of abject humility.

You can be denied bail under our system if you've been accused of a heinous crime and someone can convince a judge that your release pending trial would constitute a menace to society. But judges are part of the "innocent until proven guilty" procedure so it's tough making something like that stick before the question of guilt has been decided. They are supposed to give the benefit of any doubt to your constitutional rights. So I knew I was in pretty deep when my lawyer came back at eleven o'clock that morning with the news that the prosecutor was demanding that I be retained without bail. The judge was going to announce his decision at one o'clock. Even if he ruled in our favor, he would probably impose a very high figure for bail, high enough that I would have to rot in jail until I got my day in court.

"How high would that be?" I wondered aloud.

"It could go to a million dollars."

I said, "I'll rot, yeah."

But it seemed that maybe I was being offered a deal by the prosecutor. If I would be more cooperative . . .

"What do they want?"

The lawyer acted a bit embarrassed. "It seems that there are national security implications, Joe. They want you to tell them what you've been doing, on whose behalf—where, when, all the details. I doubt that they will be satisfied until you've incriminated yourself in one area or another, that's my worry. I advise you to talk to them but in my presence only. Let's at least create the impression that you're trying to cooperate but control the damage all we can. If the deal falls through then at least I'll have something to take before the judge to argue for a reasonable bail."

"What exactly am I being charged with?" I asked.

"You don't know?"

"I was booked on suspicion of homicide, haven't seen the actual charges," I replied.

"Well they've got you for three."

I swallowed hard and said, "Okay."

"A Walter
Mathison
—who, incidentally, was a Special Agent of the FBI—a George
Delancey
and a Morris Putnam."

"That was
Delancey
, eh?"

"What do you know about these people, Joe?"

I said, "Not nearly enough to cop for their murders. I shot
Mathison
, sure, because he was shooting at me, but I didn't know at the time that he was FBI. The other two guys I just walked in on.
Dammit
, they were stiff already."

"The theory is that you came back to look for something."

"That's too dumb," I said. "I don't even know how they died."

"They were shot." He was looking at me hard and close. "With your gun."

I looked him back, harder and closer. "Neither of my guns had even been fired since . . ."

"Yeah?"

I said, "Oh shit."

"What?"

"A certain person walked away with one of my guns early yesterday. It was out of my hands until late last night, just before I went out to Putnam's house."

"All three men were killed with the same weapon, Joe. This gun that was out of your hands all day yesterday—was it by chance an odd-size big
calibre
?—a .41 Magnum Smith & Wesson?"

      
I sighed and said, "That's it."

      
"They have a ballistics match on it."

      
 
I said, "I'll talk."

The lawyer patted my hand and said, "I'll tell them," and went out of there quick. Damn right I'd talk.

I would talk to anyone who would listen.

      
It was quite a party. Present were two detectives from the sheriff s homicide team, a guy from LAPD, two prosecutors and the two FBI men, Browning and Vasquez. Plus me and my lawyer, of course, and a stenographer. The room was crowded and stuffy and I felt like a jerk. One of the prosecutors was a woman, pretty little thing with a sympathetic smile masking a mind of cold steel.

I told it pretty straight, beginning with the Sunday night meeting with Tom Chase and the illegal entry at the Russian consulate, my discovery and escape through the second story window. Browning wanted to know what I'd taken from
Gudgaloff’s
office. I told them about the black book, explained that I'd had time to only glance inside to verify the contents and that it seemed to contain the information I'd been sent for.

Of course I told about the encounter with Gina out-

side the consulate but for some strange reason I covered her the best I could, said I didn't know her last name and that was not exactly a lie, explained how we'd spotted the police stakeout on my car so she'd offered to put me up for the night, told about the shooting at her apartment and my decision to take her to the mountain cabin.

The FBI guys wanted minute detail concerning
Mathison
. They kept interrupting, probing, trying their best to trip me up and make me admit that I had surprised
Mathison
in Gina's apartment and shot him cold. So I finally had to make a big deal out of the fact that I had not tried to conceal the shooting but had actually reported it by telephone to LAPD. I also pointed out that only two shots had been fired, one by me and one by
Mathison
, and his had buried itself in the wall beside my head right at the front door—so who had surprised whom, and where the hell was his authorization to enter that apartment anyway?

The chief prosecutor had to step in and break that up. I was invited to continue the story, which I did but without all the personal stuff between Gina and me. I just told them that we went to sleep and she was gone when I woke, also gone was my evidence and my pistol. I related the whole thing about being picked up on the mountain road by the people from the consulate, the CHP pullover and the quick switch between cars, the ensuing shoot-out on the freeway ramp. Again, here, I got into it with the FBI. I had to show them my cuts and bruises and they still couldn't believe that I had walked

away from that if I had been inside the car with the victims.

The LAPD guy wanted a physical description of the CHP motorcycle officer who'd pulled us over while I was in the Russians' car. Who the hell can give a description like that? Those guys all look exactly alike, describe one and you describe them all. I asked if they couldn't get verification from the CHP but nobody volunteered to answer that so I went on with the story. Told them about my second encounter with Gina at my place and the third one in Beverly Hills—though I covered
Cherche
, too, all I could—how I got my gun back and how I busted the tail I picked up there. The FBI was all ears again as I related the
PowerTron
security connection but this time they let me continue without interruption.