Final Appeal (16 page)

“No, Mike. If you got a bad grade, it was the teacher's fault, not yours. You could do no wrong as far as Aunt Alice was concerned.”

“I'm surprised you didn't grow up hating me, Stan. It sounds like you had good reason.”

“Don't be silly, Mike. You're my brother. I figured out Aunt Alice's reasons before long anyway. You looked like Mom, and she was Aunt Alice's favorite sister. It was almost like having her back again. And I looked like Dad. Aunt Alice always blamed him for that accident, you know. She was nice enough when he came to see us, but there was no love lost there.”

Michael was silent. He'd never understood the whole thing before. Of course, he'd known that his aunt had been partial to him, but it sounded as if Stan had really gotten a raw deal. If the shoe had been on the other foot, he wasn't sure he could have been so forgiving.

“Well, I've got to run, Mike. Things are moving right along on your appeal, but there's still a lot of work to do. Joyce is taking an extra hour for lunch today but just as soon as she gets back I'll have her print out the file she typed in yesterday. Then I can start tying up the loose ends.”

“The file is on your computer?”

“That's right.”

“What kind do you have, Stan?”

“IBM. I bought the whole system through them. They installed it and trained the girls.”

“What's your operating system?”

There was a moment of silence, and when Stan answered, his voice was tentative. “I'm not sure, Mikey. Something that starts with a D, I think. They told me, but it was one of those computer terms, and I didn't pay much attention.”

“Do you know if you're using Microsoft Word?”

“That sounds familiar. Why?”

“If you need that file right away, I think I can tell you how to print it out. Got a pen?”

“Sure, just a second.” Michael heard his brother snap open his briefcase. “I'm ready, Mike. Shoot.”

“You have to call up the file. Do you know how to do that?”

Stan sighed. “I do now. One of my junior law clerks had to show me how the other day.”

There was a note of chagrin in Stan's voice, and Michael decided not to comment on how simple the task was. His brother was obviously embarrassed he'd been forced to ask for help.

“First turn on your printer, if it's not already on. There should be an on–off switch on it somewhere. And then do whatever you have to do to bring up your file. When you see it on the screen, hit the escape button on your keyboard. It's the one marked ESC. In a second or so, you'll see a menu on the bottom with all kinds of stuff you don't have to worry about. Just hit P for print and press the Enter button. That should make your file print out.”

“Okay. I got it written down. How did you know all that, anyway?”

“That's easy. They sent an instruction book with the computer you ordered. It's sitting right here in front of me, and I've been reading it out loud to you.”

“Oh, no wonder!” Stan sounded relieved. “Now, you're sure this'll work on my machine?”

“I'm not sure of anything, but it's worth a try.”

“Thanks, Mikey I'll do it. That computer I sent, it's not too frustrating for you, is it?”

“No, not at all.”

“So you think it's easy, then?”

There was an edge to Stan's voice, and Michael backed off. “No, Stan. It's certainly not easy, but remember, I'm just playing around. If an operation's too difficult for me, I just skip it and go on to something that's simpler.”

“Yes, that makes sense.” Stan sighed deeply. “I guess computers are only frustrating when you're working on a project. Okay, Mikey. I'll go back to the office and try those instructions you read to me. And I'll call you at nine. Check?”

“Check.”

When Michael hung up the phone he was smiling. He didn't have the instruction book in front of him, but it had been wise to claim he did. Stan would feel good if he managed to print out that file. He'd attribute it to his superior intelligence. But if something backfired, he could blame it on Michael's faulty instructions.

As he went back to work on his writing, Michael realized that Stan was a lot like Aunt Alice. She claimed it was all to her credit when Stan had aced a test. But if he'd received a mark that was less than perfect, it was all Stan's fault for not studying hard enough. Now Stan was treating Michael exactly the way Aunt Alice had treated him.

Michael and Toni were in the bedroom that he'd used as his office. She'd just installed a thesaurus program on his computer, and now she was in the process of teaching him how to use it.

“It's all set, Mike. All you have to remember is to select the word then press Control 7 to access the program.”

Michael bent down to kiss the back of her neck. She looked very cute with her hair pulled up on the top of her head.

“Cut that out, Mike. You're not concentrating.”

“Oh, yes I am. You said to select the word and press Control 7.”

“All right, then.” Toni stood up and gestured for Mike to take her place in front of the keyboard. “Type a word, any word, and try it.”

Mike was trying to think of a good word to type when she bent over and kissed the back of his neck. He grinned and typed the word KISS.

“Good word, Mike. Now use the thesaurus program.”

They watched as the screen divided into two parts. A message flashed on. LOOKING UP KISS After a surprisingly short time, part of the screen filled with synonyms.

“Look at that, Toni. It's listing my favorite words. There's caress, embrace, fondle, hug, squeeze, and touch.”

Toni laughed and picked up her keys. “I think I'd better leave before that list gives you ideas. Dinner at six? I've got a couple of frozen pizzas I can attempt to incinerate.”

“Sounds great to me.” Michael walked her to the door. “I haven't had a pizza in years.”

“In years?”

Toni looked at him sharply, and Michael winced. “I guess it just seems like years. I really love pizza. I think I could eat it every night.”

“Don't say that. If you stick with me, you may have to.”

Toni opened the door and ran straight into Harry Evans. He was holding a plate in one hand and reaching for the doorbell with the other.

“Hi, Harry.” Toni reached for the plate and uncovered it. “Doris's molasses cookies!”

Before Harry had time to react, Toni grabbed a handful and ran down the hall to her own apartment. Harry looked at Michael and shrugged. “This whole plateful was for you, but I guess it's a little late to tell you that. I sure hope Toni doesn't decide to try purse-snatching. My boys could never catch her.”

“At least she left me a couple.” Michael took the plate Harry handed him. “Would you like to come in?

Harry nodded. “Sure, Mike.”

Michael opened the door, and Harry headed straight for the couch. “Nice place, Mike. Did you decorate it yourself?”

“No, I rented it furnished. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Harry shook his head. “I've got to get back down to the precinct, but I wanted to talk to you first. Did Doris tell you we picked up a suspect in the Robinson murder?”

Michael nodded. “Yes, she mentioned it this morning.”

“Well, we had to let him go. Turned out he had an airtight alibi, and now we have to start over from scratch.”

“That's too bad. Do you have any other suspects?”

“A few. You don't mind answering a couple of questions, do you, Mike?”

“No, Captain Evans. Of course not.” Michael's heart began pounding, and he fought to keep his apprehension from showing. Had someone uncovered a current picture of Michael Hart? Or told the police about the surgery?

“Call me Harry. I'm only Captain Evans at work, and we're friends, right, Mike?”

“Sure, Harry.” Michael braced himself. Harry was trying to throw him off balance by acting friendly.

“Doris tells me you're writing a book. Who's your publisher, Mike?”

“I don't have one yet.”

“No publisher?” Harry frowned. “That means you don't have a contract. Or an advance.”

“That's right, Harry.”

“It must be tough to do all that writing without knowing if it's going to sell or not. What do you do for money, Mike?”

Michael thought fast. Harry was probing into his background, and it was best to stick to the story he'd given Toni and Doris. “There's some family money. If I'm careful, it should last until the book's finished.”

“Well, that's good to hear, Mike. You moved here from Iowa, right?”

“No, Harry. I'm from Cleveland, Ohio.” Michael took a deep breath. Harry was trying to trip him up, playing with him like a cat with a mouse.

“That's a good place to be from,” Harry laughed. “You're not married, are you, Mike?”

“No, I'm single.”

Harry nodded. “That's what Doris said. She thinks you're a real nice guy, Mike. It's a lot harder for me to take people at face value. I guess I've been a cop too long.”

Michael couldn't stand it anymore. If Harry had figured out who he was, why didn't he just arrest him and get it over with? “Why all these questions, Harry? What do you really want to know?”

Harry cleared his throat. “You see, Mike, Toni's a good friend of ours, and I can see she's really interested in you. I wouldn't like to see her hurt, if you catch my drift.”

It took a moment for Harry's words to sink in. When they did, Michael breathed a big sigh of relief. Harry was probing into his background, his finances, and his marital status because he was concerned for Toni. “You can relax, Harry. I'd never hurt Toni. She's very important to me.”

Harry grinned and slapped him on the back so hard that Michael winced. “That's what I like to hear. I guess I can stop worrying about Toni and concentrate on the Robinson case. You want a quick rundown, Mike? It'd make one hell of a book!”

“Sure, Harry.”

“Okay, but don't mention it to Toni. It's not for a lady's ears, if you know what I mean. I've been on the force for twenty years, and this was the worst one I've ever seen.”

“The paper said Robinson was stabbed.”

“Oh, he was, Mike. I'm talking about the stiff. That even made the photographer puke and those guys have seen everything.”

“The stiff?”

“Yeah, remember the artist who fell off that scaffolding on the interchange?” Harry waited until Michael nodded. “Well, he was in the casket, and the perp hacked him up into little pieces. The police shrink says some wackos get their kicks that way. Can you imagine?”

Michael felt sick. “Not really.”

“We get necrophiliacs once in a while, but they usually don't do any damage. Just love 'em and leave 'em. You know what a necrophiliac is, don't you, Mike?”

“Not from personal experience, but I've heard about it.”

Harry laughed and slapped him on the back again. Michael figured he'd probably have bruises in the morning.

“That's a good one, Mike. Anyway, there were pieces of this stiff all over the place. Took us almost an hour to find them all.”

Michael swallowed hard. “Did he cut up Robinson, too?”

“Nope. And it's a good thing. The lab boys would have gone crazy trying to separate the pieces. I figure Robinson came down to check out the noise. And the perp got scared and stabbed him in the back with his own embalming needle.”

“That's—uh—very interesting, Harry.”

“It was no picnic, I can tell you that! Took me an hour before I could eat my breakfast. Say, Mike, you're not going to get sick on me, are you? You look kind of green around the gills.”

Michael swallowed again. “I'll be all right. I just never realized that police work was so hard on the stomach.”

“Sometimes. But it can be fun, too. Some of those stories the old-timers tell are a riot. You want to join me for a beer sometime? I can take you to a cop bar and introduce you around.”

When was the last time someone had asked him to go out for a beer? At least ten years, that much was certain. The opportunities for social contacts at Oakdale had been nonexistent. There had been Jack—Michael counted him as a friend—and one nurse he'd liked, but that was about it. Carrying on a conversation with a catatonic was a lot like talking to the wall. Patients weren't encouraged to interact with other patients. Each one was a separate island of pain and misery, and no one attempted to build a bridge with words.

Harry was still speaking, and Michael hoped he hadn't noticed his momentary lapse of attention.

“. . . promise you, Mike. You'd hear lots of stories for your books. So how about it?”

Michael started to agree. A cop bar would be a great setting for a book. But then he remembered his current situation.

“That sounds like fun, but can I call you, Harry? I'm pretty tied up for the next couple of weeks.”

“Anytime, Mike. Just let me know.” Harry stood up. “Well, I've got to run. Doris is fixing me some dinner, and all this talking's made me hungry.”

An hour later, Michael still hadn't tasted Doris's cookies. Harry's story had taken away his appetite, but at least he had a wonderful setting for his second book. It would be about a group of old-time policemen who traded stories in a cop bar. He couldn't start writing it yet—not until he'd finished his current work—but it was never too early to start gathering information.

Michael made a glossary of police slang and entered the word “perp.” Then he selected it and tried out the thesaurus program. “Perp” wasn't listed, but “perpetrator” was. He got a list of eighteen synonyms, including convict, felon, and scofflaw, a word he'd never seen before.

The perp who'd killed Lester Robinson had been a real wacko, to use Harry's word. Michael didn't bother looking that up in the thesaurus. He knew what it meant from personal experience.

Michael leaned back in his chair and sighed. It was clear Harry thought the mutilation of Neal Wallace's body had been the random act of a madman. But what if it wasn't? What if the perp had known Neal and hated him enough to want to wipe out any trace of his existence?

There was a frown on Michael's face as he thought about the juror. It was a good thing Harry didn't know that Neal had been the foreman of the jury that had convicted him. If the police ever made that connection, Michael Hart would be the number one suspect. He was a wacko, after all. At least Harry would think so. They didn't lock people up at Oakdale for no reason. And if Harry ever interviewed the Oakdale psychiatrist, he'd claim that Michael hated Neal Wallace enough to do such a bizarre thing, especially if Michael had been sleepwalking and in the grip of his nightmare about killing the jurors. But he hadn't done it. Michael was sure of that. Nightmare or no nightmare, sleepwalking or no sleepwalking, he just couldn't believe he was capable of that kind of insanity. But someone had done it. And the perp had to be a wacko who was even sicker than Michael had been at his sickest.

Slightly relieved, Michael brought up the file for his current book. He worked for an hour before another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The moment it occurred to him, he saved his file and reached for the phone. “Toni? It's Mike. I really hate to disturb you, but Harry gave me an idea for a murder mystery, and I'm trying it on for size. Do you have a program for statistics that I could borrow?”

Michael frowned as Toni answered. “Thanks, Toni. Of course it would be great if you ran it for me, but how about your work? You're sure? Okay, I'll hold on while you load it, no problem.”

Michael drummed his fingers on the desk as he waited. He'd have to think in terms of plot points now, and hide his real reason for needing the statistics. Toni was bright. And she put things together in a flash. He didn't want her to guess who he really was before Stan had cleared him. Then he could tell her the whole story.

Toni's voice came back on the line and Michael smiled. “You're ready? Okay. I'd better give you the whole story, because I'm not sure which numbers you'll have to use. Let's say there are seven people left out of an original group of... I'm not sure. Let's make it seven out of a dozen. What kind of group? Let me think . . .”

Michael took a moment to think of something that would be close to a jury. “A panel, Toni. An important panel where they had to give their opinion on an issue. And they were chosen at random from the community. They didn't know each other before they appeared on the panel.”

Toni asked another question, and Michael frowned. This was more difficult than he'd thought. “Yes, let's put them in roughly the same geographical area—a large city the size of Los Angeles. Then three of them are murdered only days apart. You've got it? Good. Can your program tell me the probability that the crimes are related?”

Toni asked a question, and Michael nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him. “Seven left out of twelve, that's right. The other five? Let's say they all died of natural causes. Or accidentally.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Toni asked another question. “No. The panel's disbanded now. It has been for, say, ten years. Let's assume they haven't stayed in touch. Age group? From early thirties to sixties. That should cover it. Sex? Make it half and half for the original panel. You've got it? Thanks, Toni. I'll wait.”

Michael held his breath as Toni's program ran. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the results. When she came back on the line, much sooner than he'd expected, his hands were shaking. And they were shaking even harder when she'd told him the results.

“Are you sure?” Michael fought to keep his voice steady. “Okay. Thanks a lot, Toni. I really appreciate it. What? Yes, it'll work out just fine. One other question, if you have time. Is there any way you can give me the probability that the other four will be murdered?”

In only a few seconds, Toni was back on the line. Michael swallowed hard as she gave him the answer.