Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery (26 page)

In the morning I made coffee, fixed some toast with a little peanut butter, and cut a banana into thin slices and layered it on the toast. It was something my mom used to do when I stayed home from school with a cold. Then I shoveled the path from yet another snowfall, checked
my e-mail for sales coupons, and even scrubbed away the hard water stains on my shower stall, which had been there for years.

Procrastination is highly underrated. If more politicians thinking of starting a war said, “I’ll decide tomorrow,” we’d be in better shape. But unfortunately even the most noble of procrastination efforts have to be called off eventually. So when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I started a computer search.

I could find little on Doug’s background, except an office address, which I already had. It’s amazing that even in these days of Facebook, Google, and a thousand other sites that invade our privacy and record every fleeting thought for eternity, there are still some people who manage to keep a low cyber profile. Doug was one of them.

Next I tried Walt, and this time I got tons of hits, but all of them were about what a great chef he was. The fire at his former restaurant was listed as electrical, with the owners hoping to rebuild. Once again, nothing that I didn’t already know.

I changed tactics and looked up Tim and came up just as empty as I had with Doug. The story of Tim’s 1991 arrest and trial wasn’t widely covered on the Internet. As Tim said, he was just another guy with a drug problem and a dead wife. But I was hoping for a little background information before I went to the trouble and considerable expense of ordering trial transcripts, so I called the
Peoria Sun
newspaper and asked for archives.

Newspapers keep archives of all their stories, even the old ones, like Tim’s, that aren’t posted on the websites. Problem is, newspaper people have a tendency to look down on the true crime television producers. With good reason, I’ll grant you, but also because they’re jealous. I make more money, have more free time, and my industry may be choking on its own vomit, but, unlike newspapers, TV’s not becoming as irrelevant as a globe with the USSR printed on it.

The woman who answered my call didn’t seem aware that her profession was on its way out. She seemed hurried and nearly out of breath. “We’re really busy here,” she said once I’d explained what I needed. “You’ll have to put a request in writing on the letterhead of the company you work for, with a detailed account of the dates and headlines you’re interested in, and we’ll get back to you in six to eight weeks.”

“I don’t
work for a company,” I explained. “I’m freelance. And I’m kind of screwed. My boss moved up the deadline by three weeks, so I’m scrambling to get everything together, or else I’ll probably be replaced on the project.”

“Can’t you just ask for more time?” She sounded a little less annoyed and just a tiny bit more helpful. It was my opening.

“Has your boss ever given you more time?”

She laughed. “Good point.”

“I’m living day to day, just waiting to get replaced with a computer,” I said. “I’ve got a mortgage and an ex who doesn’t pay child support—” She grunted. I’d hit the right nerve. “And if I get fired, I’m going to have to move my kids in with my parents.”

“Listen,” she whispered into the phone, “what you can do is get a code for the archive files on the Internet. Then you can have everything immediately.”

“How do I get that?”

“You have to have business with the paper. I can’t just give it to you.”

She wanted to help—I could hear it in her voice—but she also couldn’t break the rules. At least without a really good reason. So I pushed a little harder.

“I totally get it.” I used my most empathetic voice. “They have all these inflexible rules you have to follow. It puts you in a bind when it shouldn’t. I guess I can see if my ex can watch the kids for a day or two, and drive down to Peoria. Then I can go through your archives in person, right?”

“Yeah. If that’s what you want to do.”

“It’s not, but I’m stuck between an asshole boss and a creep of an ex-husband. What can I do? The most important thing to me is my kids. I’d do anything for them. I just hope they know that.”

“They do,” she said, the urgency from earlier becoming the fatigue of working moms everywhere. “I know my kids get frustrated with my schedule, but they know everything I’m doing is for them.”

“Absolutely.” I had her. “It just sucks when I have to keep letting them down.” I sniffed a little. Maybe that was overdoing it, but it worked. She gave me the code to the Internet search after getting me to swear I’d never reveal to anyone where I’d gotten it. I swore, and at
least that part was the truth. I didn’t feel good about it, but I didn’t feel good about most things, so it was just another item to add to the list.

“Care about people, my ass,” I said after I hung up. I poured myself another cup of coffee before punching in the code and digging into the arrest and trial of Tim Campbell.

It was pretty much as he’d described it. Hours after his wife’s death, Tim was arrested for her murder. Twenty-year-old Jenny Campbell had died of multiple stab wounds from a kitchen knife, in the kitchen of the apartment she’d shared with Tim. Their neighbor, Cody Daniels, son of a prominent local politician, was the only witness to the crime. A photo of a much younger Tim staring at the ground as he was led away in handcuffs was just below the headline
DRUG-RELATED MURDERS ON THE RISE IN PEORIA
. Even as he was led to jail he was already being turned from person to statistic.

Subsequent stories covering the trial were brief and perfunctory. The prosecution put Cody on the stand, along with a forensic expert and Jenny’s mother. Tim’s lawyer didn’t call any witnesses for the defense. Tim was convicted in two hours, just long enough for the jury to have lunch and take a single vote. Six months later, Tim’s lawyer appeared in another newspaper story. He’d been convicted of drunk driving, his third, and was subsequently disbarred.

Maybe Tim hadn’t done it. Maybe he had spent twenty years in jail for a murder committed by a well-connected neighbor. Of course, Tim wasn’t entirely innocent. Even in his own version of events, he was willing to let his wife be taken advantage of as payment for drugs. Hardly a good guy, but that’s not what Tim was claiming to be.

I once interviewed a reverend for one of those TV churches who said that everyone’s a sinner, but no one’s beyond redemption. Later he was convicted of tax fraud. But even with his own sinning, it was possible the TV reverend had been right. Maybe Tim could be redeemed, and maybe I could redeem him.

But if I did, then Vera was right. I was changing into someone nicer. And that wasn’t the image I’d spent a lifetime creating.

O
ne of the sad, sick truths of our judicial system is that if you go on trial for something, you are very likely to be convicted. Prosecutors don’t go to trial unless they feel confident, because state’s attorneys don’t like to screw up their conviction rates. Juries have an unconscious bias that if you’re a defendant, you must have done something wrong. Most defense attorneys don’t have the zeal of Perry Mason, and most defendants don’t have the money to pay for the ones who do.

Once convicted, the chances of getting out on appeal are almost zero. New evidence, even evidence that proves innocence, is often ignored by the courts. Once Tim had been led away in handcuffs, he was on a short path to Dugan, guilty or not.

Still, I reminded myself, I had more important people to protect. Myself, for one. After I was done with the few articles available on Tim, I satisfied myself that I was at least trying to do the right thing and returned to the more relevant job of finding someone to blame for Erik’s murder. I looked through the tape of Erik’s interview and wrote down the names of the restaurants he’d mentioned to impress me. Two were in New York, and calls to both got me nowhere. One had closed and at the other, the management had changed several times. No one knew Erik Price or cared much that he was dead. A third restaurant was in France, but my French was rusty. I could say, “Je m’appelle Kate,” but after I said my name, I’d be stuck, so I didn’t bother trying.

The fourth and final restaurant was a trendy bistro type in Old Town, a section of the city where at least two-thirds of the businesses are trendy bistros. I called, but after the seventh ring I gave up, wrapped myself up for the subzero weather, and headed out.

“I’m looking for someone who knew Erik Price,” I said to the leggy blond hostess with an eating disorder and four-hundred-dollar shoes. The phone next to her was ringing but she seemed oblivious to it, and barely aware of me. “Excuse me,”
I said a little more loudly. “I’m looking for someone who can talk to me about a former employee, Erik Price.”

She looked at me, blinking slowly, as if my words had no meaning. Then she bent her head slightly, glanced at a large book in front of her, and looked up at me again. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but we don’t have a reservation for an Erik Price, and you really have to have a reservation.”

“He’s not eating here. He used to work here.”

“Well, if he
used
to work here, then he’s probably not here now.”

I smiled. I wanted to slap her, but even a light tap probably would have broken a few bones.

“He’s dead,” I explained. “Murdered. I need to talk to someone here who knew him.”

She blinked even more slowly. “I can call someone.”

“What a delightful skill.”

“Excuse me?” She glanced toward the artsy types, the young professionals, the moneyed moms with strollers filling up the tables. She was probably debating if I would cause a scene and ruin the ambience. I was trying to convey with my crossed arms and loud sighs that I would. “I’ll call Thomas.” She said this as if everyone knew Thomas and was appropriately awed by him. I showed no awe, which clearly irked her. She pressed one number on the phone, chatted for a moment. It seemed to exhaust her, so she sat on a stool next to the hostess station and stared off into space, ignoring the couple who had walked in looking for a seat. Nearly every chic eatery in the city had a woman like her as gatekeeper, which is why I preferred takeout food and diners to chic eateries.

A few minutes later, an older man with gelled hair and a perfectly tailored gray suit came from the back of the restaurant.

“I’m Thomas Knight. I’m the owner.” He held out his hand and shook mine. “You were asking about Erik?”

“Yes. He recently passed away.”

“I heard about it. It’s tragic. Why don’t you come to my office?”

He showed me to a small room at the back of the restaurant that had little more than a desk and two chairs. Restaurants, even fancy
ones, save all their decor for the front of the house. Kitchens and offices are all business.

“I’m sorry things are a bit disorganized,” he said. “I need to concentrate my efforts on sorting through all of this…stuff, but you know how it is. So many other things to be done. You’re a friend of Erik’s?”

“We didn’t know each other well, but I liked him,” I said. “I’m putting together a video.” It was vague but honest, and seemed like a better reason than “I’m trying to get my friend off the hook for his murder.” I sat down on the wooden café chair that was wedged between the door and the desk. “You knew Erik?”

“For fifteen years,” he said. “He came here after a few years working in kitchens around the Midwest.”

“Not Paris and New York?”

He laughed. “Indianapolis, if I remember correctly.”

“And he worked as a sous chef here?”

“No. I don’t think he ever worked as a sous chef. Maybe worked the line at some point, but it wasn’t in him.”

“What wasn’t?”

“The art. He wanted desperately to be a chef, and he had the technical skills, but he didn’t have the touch. He couldn’t make a sauce sing.”

“I didn’t know they sang,” I said.

“The good ones do.” He smiled at me. “You aren’t a foodie.”

Unlike most people who consider food the ultimate life experience, he didn’t say it as an insult, which made me immediately like him.

“No, I’m not a foodie,” I admitted. “I have to dress, but I don’t care about designer labels. I have to eat, but I don’t really care about chefs, or great restaurants, or ambience. Not that I don’t enjoy a good meal,” I added as a sort of apology.

“Pity. Are you putting together the video for a memorial service?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’m working on a television show about the Club Car, the restaurant—”

Thomas nodded. “With Walt Russo and Roman Papadakis.”

“Yes. Do you know them?”

“Walt, yes. A wonderful chef. Wasting his talents at that place. But Roman I’ve never met. He has a reputation, of course, but we haven’t crossed paths.”

“What’s his reputation?”

“
Hard businessman. Someone who knows how to get things done. Absolutely necessary if you’re going to succeed in restaurants.”

“You know anything about his cousin dying in a fire some years back?”

He hesitated. “I heard about it, of course. You should ask his wife. She was his bookkeeper at the time. Mousy little thing then, from what I’ve heard.”