Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission (4 page)

Chapter Seven

It was late in the morning and I hadn’t made an appearance at my office. Actually, I have two offices. The Department of Corrections requires that I maintain an office at central headquarters in Salt Lake City. My staff in the SIB, however, is housed in one of the administrative buildings at the state prison twenty-five minutes south of Salt Lake City. That’s the location of my other office. In reality, much of what we do require our presence at the prison.

I knew I would return later in the afternoon to the Starlite Motel, so rather than driving south to the prison, I headed to department headquarters. I had a tentative plan, and I wanted to assign my most experienced investigator to do some of the legwork.

Terry Burnham had been a Salt Lake City police detective for twenty-four years until his retirement three years ago. Like a lot of cops, the adjustment to retirement did not come easily. In less than a year, he concluded that evening bridge groups and weekly golf outings with his fellow retirees left him empty and unfulfilled. So two years ago I offered him a job in the SIB. He was a good hire, and adapted quickly to the prison environment and the world of the inmate. He was the best investigator in the SIB.

***

Burnham hadn’t been in my office for more than five minutes when we were interrupted by Norm Sloan’s administrative assistant, Brad Ford. He wanted an immediate update on the investigation so he could run the information back to Sloan. As soon as Sloan told me he expected daily briefings on the investigation, I sensed that Ford might become a nagging pest. My instincts appeared to be correct.

Ford stood nervously in front of my desk, unsure of whether he should sit down in the empty chair across from Burnham or remain standing. I didn’t invite him to sit. “Brad, what can I do for you?”

“Well, Sam, given the old man’s insistence on regular briefings, I thought you and I should agree on a time each day, maybe late in the afternoon, when we can get together for updates on the investigation.”

You’ve got to be kidding me!

“We can talk about that later, but now isn’t a good time,” I said. “You’ve caught me right in the middle of an important planning meeting.”

“When would be a good time?”

“I’ll do my best to get back to you first thing in the morning, how’s that?”

“That’s not good enough—what do you expect me to tell the director?” A sour note of irritation now showed in an otherwise unflappable demeanor.

Tell him any damn thing you want. Just get the hell out of my office!

“Tell him things are progressing smoothly and that I’ll get back to him as soon as possible. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.”

Ford’s face turned bright red. He started to speak, but instead, turned on his heel and marched out the door.

“I guess I don’t have to tell you where he’s going,” Burnham said.

“I’ll probably catch hell later, but it won’t be the first time. Let’s get back to work.”

Officially, Ford was Sloan’s media spokesperson, and unofficially, his self-appointed administrative assistant. People in the department perceived him to be a self-serving climber who lacked significant corrections experience and as someone who hadn’t paid his dues in the field. Leaks to the press or divulging too much information might enhance his prestige and visibility while damaging our investigation. We couldn’t afford that.

***

Burnham and I agreed to pursue leads from the angle that someone in our offender population was responsible for Vogue’s murder. Several tasks required our immediate attention.

“Terry, why don’t you start by searching our computer database for inmates, past or present, who have ever threatened members of the Board of Pardons. While you’re at it, let’s identify anybody who has threatened or assaulted any member of the prison staff.”

“Okay. I’ll get right on it. How far back do you want me to go?”

“Six years ought to do it. There’s no point in going back prior to the time Vogue was hired as a parole board member.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Yeah, one more thing. Contact Gallagher at the Board of Pardons and tell him that we’re going to need a list of every parole case handled by Vogue from the time he was hired until his death. They won’t let the files out of the office, so you’ll have to review them there.”

“I can do that. I’ll also cross reference Vogue’s parole cases against whatever turns up from our own database.”

“Good idea. If you get lucky, you might just find a match.”

I explained to Terry what I had learned at the Starlite Motel. I told him that I would discreetly attempt to determine whether Levi’s murder was in any way connected to his trysts at the motel.

“You want me to begin putting feelers out among our inmate snitches?” asked Terry.

“Not yet. I’d like to hold off on that until I talk to the director. Keep me posted on anything you learn. The Old Man is going to be all over me on this one. I can just feel it.”

***

On my way back to the Starlite Motel, I detoured past the Gold’s Gym in Midvale. I was greeted at the front desk by a perky-looking brunette with well-toned muscles and less body fat than Kate Moss. She identified herself as the gym manager. Her name was Brandy Alexander, leaving me to wonder exactly what it was that possessed parents to name children the way they do. When asked about Bill Allred’s membership at the gym, she quickly produced his membership records.

“Mr. Allred joined the gym almost five years ago,” she said, staring intently into the computer screen. “He visits regularly, three to four times a week, usually in the evenings.”

“How about guests?” I said. “Is he allowed to bring guests?”

She paused while bringing up a different screen. “Yes, it looks like Mr. Allred brought another gentleman by the name of Levi Vogue with him, let’s see, on nine different occasions over six months. Mr. Vogue came in often enough that we eventually got him to join.”

“And when was that?”

“Three months ago. It’s funny, though, my computer tells me that Mr. Vogue never came back after joining—not once in three months.”

Alexander printed me a copy of the membership records and I left the gym wondering why Allred had chosen to downplay his friendship with our murder victim. It was clear from the records that Vogue visited the gym as Allred’s guest more frequently than Allred cared to admit.

Chapter Eight

Lou Ann Barlow turned out to be a real piece of work. A former stripper turned motel owner, she had a mouth on her that would have made Larry Flynt blush. I was ushered into her small office behind the front desk. She was standing in front of a four-drawer file cabinet, with her back to me, busily filing.

She was a tall, statuesque peroxide blond, who, in her early fifties, still looked good enough to take center stage. Despite the cosmetic surgery, her face showed some age, but her body was long and lean with outstanding breasts.

She caught me gaping at her pronounced chest and said, “I’m up here, honey. How the fuck can I help you?”

I showed her my identification and muttered an embarrassed introduction.

“As Mr. Arnold probably told you, I’m investigating the murder of Levi Vogue. I understand that your daughter, Sue Ann, was involved in a relationship with him. Frank told me that they sometimes met here at the motel. What can you tell me about that?”

“Nothin’ really. And Frank tends to get talkin’ about shit that isn’t any of his goddamn business. I’ll have to speak with him about that.”

“Look, I know you’re trying to protect your daughter, but she might have information that would help us solve a murder. She’s not in trouble, but it is imperative that I talk to her as soon as possible.”

“Like I already told you Mr.—what’s your name again?”

“Kincaid, Sam Kincaid.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, Mr. Kincaid, like I already told ya, I don’t really know anything. I will tell you this, though. My Sue Ann wouldn’t have anything to do with no murder.”

She was starting to piss me off. “Mrs. Barlow, let me put this to you another way. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, and like it or not, your daughter is somehow involved. I don’t know if she’s a suspect or a material witness, but I’m going to have to talk with her. I need your cooperation. It would save us both a lot of trouble if you’d help me out.”

“None of my fuckin’ business, honey. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some heavy-duty filing to do here.”

Diplomacy had obviously failed, and I knew it was time for a small attitude adjustment. “Good idea. When the Fire Marshal and the people from the health department show up, they’ll probably need to check those records. When’s the last time you had a top-to-bottom inspection of this place?”

She didn’t like that idea very well. Actually, I don’t know a soul in either the health or fire departments, but what the hell, it worked. Her tone became noticeably more congenial.

“Okay, okay, honey. You made your point. I don’t need that kind of problem. I’ll tell you what I can, but it ain’t gonna be much.”

“I’d appreciate that very much, Mrs. Barlow.”

“Sue Ann has been seeing this Vogue fella for nine or ten months now. She’s nuts about the two-timin’ bum. She knew he was married and had several kids. I tried to tell her that married guys like him aren’t about to leave the wife, kids, and their cozy upscale lifestyle for a stripper—even a young, pretty one like my Sue Ann. But Sue Ann doesn’t listen very well. I haven’t been able to tell her anything in years, particularly as it relates to men.”

“So, how often did they get together?”

“From what she said, I got the impression she was seein’ him once or twice a week.”

“Where would they meet?”

“Mostly here at the motel as far as I know. It bothered her that he didn’t want to take her out in public. He was probably afraid of being seen by one of his rich, uptown friends. On occasion, he’d drop into Satin & Lace to watch her dance. I think he got off watching all that young pussy.

“One time he tried to talk Sue Ann into bringing another one of the dancers back to the motel with her. He said he wanted to try a threesome.”

“And did Sue Ann comply with his request?”

“No, I think she told him that the other dancer wouldn’t go for it.”

“I’m sorry to ask you this, Mrs. Barlow, but do you know if Vogue was paying Sue Ann for their time together?”

“You know, she never said, and I didn’t ask her. I do know that he was constantly buying her presents. Come to think of it, she did mention one time that he paid her rent.”

“Could they have been spending time together in Sue Ann’s apartment?”

“Yeah, I guess it’s possible, but Sue Ann shares the apartment with another dancer. As paranoid as this ass-wipe was about his precious reputation, I doubt he’d want to spend time at her apartment with the roommate around. Besides, the girls have a rule about not bringing guys back to their place.”

“Do you know when they were last together?”

“Frank was working the front desk last night and he said Vogue drove in about seven-thirty and left about eleven.”

“Is Frank certain it was Vogue he saw last night?”

“Yeah. He drives a fancy new white Lexus. It’s the only thing he drives. We don’t get too many of them around here.”

“Thanks for your assistance, Mrs. Barlow. Is there anything else you can tell me that might be helpful?”

“Just one thing, and you didn’t hear it from me, okay. Sue Ann has this boyfriend, a real scary SOB if you know what I mean. His name is John Merchant. People call him Big Bad John. He’s a real possessive, jealous guy with a God-awful temper. A first class jerk if you ask me.”

“Why should I be interested in Sue Ann’s boyfriend?”

“Because he almost beat a guy to death with a tire iron one night outside Satin & Lace. It seems this guy was paying a little too much attention to Sue Ann during a table dance—getting a little too handsy for his own good. John took exception to the attention the guy was givin’ her and started a fight. According to Sue Ann, it wasn’t the first time he came after a customer he thought was coming on to her. The club kicked both of them out, so John took a tire iron to the guy in the parking lot. Now the management won’t even allow him in the club when Sue Ann is working.”

“Did Merchant end up serving time for the assault?”

“Yeah, he ended up gettin’ some kind of fancy deal that kept him out of prison. They threw his ass in the county jail for almost a year. He’s been out a couple of months now and is back seein’ Sue Ann. I told her to dump him like a hot rock, but, like I said, she ain’t listening to me these days. That’s the guy you need to be checkin’ out.”

“Was Mr. Merchant aware of the relationship between Vogue and your daughter?”

“I wouldn’t know that. You’d have to ask Sue Ann. They seemed to spend enough time together that it wouldn’t surprise me if he figured it out.”

“One last question, Mrs. Barlow, and I’ll let you get back to that filing. Do you happen to know if Merchant is a smoker?”

“Like a chimney—couple of packs a day, I’d guess.”

***

After obtaining Sue Ann’s address and pager number, I left the motel and ran into Frank in the parking lot. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was about to catch hell from Lou Ann and should probably expect to sleep on the couch for the next few nights.

Chapter Nine

It was late in the afternoon, and I hadn’t heard anything from McConnell. I decided I’d better let her know that we now had a possible perp in our murder investigation. Certainly, John Merchant fit the bill. And I couldn’t rule out involvement by Sue Ann Winkler, even though her mother had tried to convince me she was nuts about Vogue and wouldn’t have had anything to do with killing him. With Merchant, we had motive, not so with Sue Ann, at least not yet.

Before calling McConnell, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the office. My assistant, Patti Wheeler, answered on the first ring. “You’ve been a bad boy again, haven’t you? I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.”

“I know,” I confessed. “I know I should keep my cell turned on. But you know how much I hate the damn thing. So, tell me what’s going on.”

“Two things. First, Brad Ford must have gone straight to Sloan and complained that you brushed him off when he asked you for information on the status of the investigation earlier today. Sloan wants to talk with you ASAP. From the tone of his voice, I think you should assume that you’re going to get your butt chewed.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun, but it won’t be the first time. What else?”

“The Salt Lake mayor and chief of police are holding a news conference this evening at five to report on the investigation. Apparently, the press has been pestering everybody all day for some details on the case. They want you and Lt. McConnell to brief them on the investigation beforehand and then attend the news conference just in case something comes up. Sloan wants you there, too. You know how paranoid he is about press relations.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where are they holding the news conference?”

“The mayor’s conference room at city hall.”

“Have you heard from McConnell this afternoon?”

“Oh yeah, she called a little after one o’clock looking for you. She was at the Medical Examiner’s Office for Vogue’s autopsy.”

“Well, good for her. It could be worse. It could have been me attending that autopsy. I bet she won’t be going out tonight for spaghetti.”

“Gross. Anybody ever tell you what a macabre sense of humor you have?”

“Only you, dear, only you.

“Patti, will you run Sue Ann Winkler and John Merchant through the Utah Bureau of Criminal Identification and the National Crime Information Center? I want past criminal history on both and any outstanding warrants. And run Merchant through our database and tell me whether he’s currently on probation for assault.

“Call me back as soon as you have something.”

“Sure. And Sam, keep your phone turned on, will ya?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I decided to call Norm Sloan to update him on the investigation and absorb whatever tongue-lashing he felt inclined to administer. On the second ring, Brad Ford picked up. It was obvious from his condescending tone of voice that he was delighted I had called.

I was transferred to Norm Sloan, who wasted no time on preliminaries. “Mr. Kincaid, so nice of you to favor me with a call. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient for you. Brad reported earlier in the day that you were too busy to brief him on the status of the investigation. That made me very unhappy. Tell me, do you realize I have someone to whom I’m accountable?”

I’d heard this tone before. When Sloan wanted to chew somebody out, he rarely raised his voice or swore. Instead, he used an acrimonious, caustic tone that left no doubt in the mind of the recipient just how unhappy he was. Since I’m working to improve my tact and diplomacy, not usually two of my strengths, I responded in as contrite a manner as possible, hoping it didn’t sound as phony as it felt. “Yes sir, I know you’re accountable to a variety of different constituencies.”

“Do you, Mr. Kincaid! Well, at least we’re making a little progress. I’ll just bet you’ve heard of Orrin Spencer Walker. You know the chap. Governor Walker. The same Governor Walker who wanted me to fire you a couple of years ago over that little disturbance at the prison. You can probably imagine how embarrassed I was this afternoon when he called, and I had to tell him my star investigator hadn’t checked in all day, and I didn’t know a thing about the investigation. It won’t happen again, will it?”

“Absolutely not. You’re right. I’m sorry for leaving you hanging out like that. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” he snapped. “It better not. Now bring me up to speed, and for God’s sake, give me some good news. I’ve had calls today from two television stations, both daily newspapers, and half the radio stations in town.”

I spent the next few minutes giving him the good news and the bad. I tried the good news first by explaining that we had identified a likely perp. The bad news outweighed the good news by a long shot—that our suspect might currently be on probation for aggravated assault. It didn’t help his disposition any when I told him the suspect’s girlfriend had been having a clandestine affair with Vogue for several months, and that this might be the motive for his murder. It really made his day when I explained that Sue Ann Barlow was a nude dancer in a club frequented by Vogue.

“Oh, that’s just dandy, Kincaid. What you’re telling me is that the Chairman of the Board of Pardons was a sexual pervert, hanging around nude bars with a stripper, and that the guy who killed him is in our offender population. It doesn’t get much uglier than that.”

“So far, none of this information has been corroborated. We haven’t had time to interview Winkler or her boyfriend. We’ll get that done as quickly as we can.”

“What other kinds of leads are being pursued?”

“The usual focus—family and friends, the local B&E crowd. Terry and I are looking into the possibility that the murder was somehow connected to his employment on the board.”

“What about physical evidence?”

“Can’t say for sure. The lab crew was still processing the house as well as Vogue’s car when we left. They did find a couple of fresh cigarette butts by the side of the garage, but they may or may not be connected to the murder. They’ll be checked for latent prints or possibly a DNA sample.”

“And the murder weapon?”

“No weapon, no shell casings.

“There is one avenue that I haven’t pursued yet.”

“Yes. And that would be?” snapped Sloan.

“We haven’t put the word out among our inmate snitches. If Levi’s murder is in any way connected to somebody in our prison population, inmate informants would probably hear about it.”

“I don’t want you to do that yet. Let’s hold off, for say, twenty-four hours, and see if the investigation produces an arrest. If not, then you can have my blessing for using prison snitches. I know how useful they can be, but at the same time, the last thing we need right now is a prison disturbance on our hands. Only use prison snitches as a last resort.”

To his credit, Sloan had learned to choose his battles carefully. He’d been savvy enough to successfully navigate the troubled waters of an angry public that wanted increasingly punitive measures against criminals; a state legislature eager, in the name of re-election, to placate that angry public; and a governor who wanted nothing more than to have his corrections department operate smoothly and quietly without creating political waves for his administration. So far, Sloan had been successful at doing just that.

Sloan concluded our telephone conversation with some words of caution: “You know, Sam, be damned careful with this information about Levi’s extracurricular activities. Between Vogue’s and Margaret’s families, they swing a lot of political clout. If this gets out, the press will have a field day with it. And if the families conclude that we’ve turned this murder investigation into a character assassination of the dearly departed, they’ll close ranks fast and turn up the political heat. In the meantime, let’s hope the murder is unrelated to both his fooling around and our offender population, then maybe this will all go away quietly. If it doesn’t, keep your head down because the fallout is likely to get real serious. And Sam, if it turns out that you’re the guy who exposed the marital infidelity, things could get a lot more difficult for you.”

An ugly case growing uglier by the minute, I thought.