Silent Witness (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Kate and I parted company after lunch. She dropped me at my car and then headed to her office. Now, more than ever, Kate wanted to get a look at the estate of Arnold Ginsberg. The information provided by Susan Fleming would give her sufficient probable cause to obtain a warrant.

I had two issues on my plate. One was a visit to Walter Bradshaw's lawyer, Gordon Dixon. I had decided to follow a piece of advice from an experienced parole officer—if you want to know about what's going on in the lives of offenders you supervise, visit them in their own homes as opposed to any place else. I decided to test that advice on Gordon Dixon. A visit to his home, say around dinner time, might get me an introduction to wife number one, Joan, and perhaps some additional sister wives. In a worst case scenario, I'd end up getting the front door closed impolitely in my face.

The other thing I needed to do was to pay a second visit to Walter Bradshaw at the prison. I had more questions for the prophet.

Unfortunately, fate intervened and propelled me down an entirely different path, one that would ultimately change the course of the SIB and my own career.

My cell phone rang. The caller was Sergeant Marcy Everest, one of my top investigators. “Sam, where are you? We need to meet ASAP.”

I didn't like her tone. It had a note of urgency, usually not a good sign. “I'm in Salt Lake City, Marcy. Can this wait until I return to the office?”

“No, it can't, and I don't want to talk in the office.”

This definitely wasn't good, I could feel it. In this business, whenever I dealt with a staff member, and the issue combined urgency with secrecy, something was seriously wrong, and it might involve employees. If it was an employee, I hoped it wasn't one of mine. “Okay. I'm headed toward the prison now. Where would you like to meet?”

“I could meet you at Guadalahonky's in fifteen minutes?” Guadalahonky's was a Mexican restaurant located near the state prison often frequented by department employees.

I arrived ahead of Everest and took a seat in a rear booth, in a place that would provide a modicum of privacy. All things considered, Everest had a bright career in front of her. By any measure, she should have been a lieutenant by now. But with budget cuts, it just hadn't happened. She had been with the department since she was twenty-one, and she'd just had her thirtieth birthday. She was also the office practical joker, which provided a sense of levity to an otherwise stressful environment.

She didn't look happy when she sat down. “You don't look so good, Marcy, are you okay?”

“Not really, I hate doing this. It makes me feel like a snitch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Terry's drinking on the job.”

I sighed. “How do you know that?”

“I smelled it on him. This was the second time. I wasn't so sure the first time, so I let it go. But today, there was no doubt. Patti smelled it, too. We decided that I should talk to you about it right away. I almost challenged him on the spot but then thought better of it. He can be a little intimidating.”

“No, I'm glad you came directly to me. When was the first incident?”

“Maybe a week or so ago.”

“Where's Terry now?”

“He was at the office when I left.”

“Okay, I'll head in right away. I want you to write this up as an incident report—confidential, of course, for my eyes only.”

“Christ, Sam, do I have to put this in writing? How are you going to handle this?”

“Yes, you do.”

“But…”

“No, Marcy, no buts. I don't like this any better than you do, but we are going to do the right thing. This isn't like a sales clerk in a retail store who occasionally takes a nip on the job. This is a prison. You bring drugs or alcohol onto prison grounds, you just committed a felony. You know that, I know that, and so does Terry.”

“Shit,” she said, loud enough that it drew looks from surrounding tables. “We don't know if he's bringing alcohol into the prison. He might be drinking someplace else.”

“I hope he's not bringing alcohol into the prison. Either way, I can't have him drinking on the job.”

I drove straight to the prison hoping all the while that Marcy was wrong, but knowing that she probably wasn't. Terry Burnham liked his scotch, always had. From time to time, I worried about his drinking. Since the death of his wife a couple of years ago, it seemed like he had his nose in the bottle more often than he should have. Yet I'd never gotten any sense that he might be drinking on the job.

I debated about how best to handle the situation. If Burnham was in the office and I could smell the alcohol, I might be able to handle it without involving Marcy Everest. I admired her for coming forward, not everybody would have. At this moment, she had to be feeling lousy. The pressure in this business to simply look the other way when faced with illegal or unethical behavior from a fellow officer can be enormous.

For me the feelings were personal. Burnham was not only the best and most experienced investigator in the SIB, he was also my friend. Most of the investigators in the SIB were relatively young. Burnham's age and years of experience working in law enforcement outside the prison system had always brought a sense of stability to the office. I had always trusted him to capably run the place in my absence.

By the time I got back, Burnham was gone. “You just missed him,” said Patti, looking up from her computer. “He left about ten minutes ago.”

Marcy arrived moments after I did. There were just the three of us left in the office. I dropped into Burnham's chair and tried to open his desk. It was locked. I then rooted around in my own desk until I found the small ring of keys I was looking for. One of them was a master, and it would unlock every desk in the SIB. I unlocked Burnham's. The silver flask was hidden in a bottom drawer covered with files. I opened it and took a sniff.

“Shit,” I muttered. I was hoping that if Marcy's allegation proved true, that at least he wasn't bringing the stuff on to prison grounds. Obviously, that wasn't the case. The entire episode would have been a lot more manageable if Terry had been doing a three martini lunch someplace and then showing up at work afterward.

Marcy and Patti were both looking over my shoulder glumly when I discovered the flask. “What happens now?” asked Patti.

“I don't have many options. In the morning, I'll have to notify the director of institutional operations here at the prison as well as the executive director's office. Terry will be relieved of his duties pending an investigation by the Salt Lake County Sheriff's Office.”

“Oh, geez, do we have to handle it that way?” said Marcy. Her eyes were welling with tears. “Can't you just take care of it quietly. Maybe you can talk to him, get him into treatment, something like that.”

“I know it's painful but we can't do it that way. I'm sure we can get him some help, if he's willing. And we might be able to save his job, maybe.”

The unknown factor would be the response from the department's new executive director, Benjamin Cates. I wasn't sure what he'd want done. If only my former boss, Norm Sloan, were here. Then maybe….

“Please don't talk about this to anyone else in the office. Marcy, I'd like your report in my hands first thing in the morning. Both of you can expect to be interviewed by somebody from the sheriff's office. I'll try to catch Terry either tonight or at his home in the morning. I'd rather spare him the humiliation of coming into the office only to be turned around and sent home on suspension.”

I went into my office and closed the door. I called Marilyn Hastings, a clinical social worker, who contracted with the department to provide employee assistance counseling. I explained what I knew and asked her if Burnham could get in to see her the next day. After juggling something else on her calendar, she agreed to meet him for what she described as an assessment session at ten-thirty the next morning.

“You haven't even placed this guy on suspension, correct?”

“That's right. He has no idea this is coming.”

“Wonderful. So we don't know whether he'll even show up tomorrow.”

I saw no reason to bullshit her. Hastings had been around the block more than a few times, and I suspected that she'd seen it all.

“He's got a temper. If I had to take a guess at his initial reaction, I'd say defensive and royally pissed off.”

“That's pretty common at first,” she said.

“I'll do everything I can to convince him to see you, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it if I were you?”

And that's how we left it.

Chapter Twenty-three

Burnham rented a small home in the Sugarhouse area of Salt Lake City. Sugarhouse was a funky part of town, that as late as the early 1950s, had housed the state prison. In recent years, it was going through a renaissance of sorts with a mix of new construction, coupled with the restoration of many older homes. Its proximity to downtown and the University of Utah made it a popular place to live.

Terry was sitting in a leather recliner in front of a big screen television watching a Packers/Bears football game when I tapped on the front door. He had a glass of what I assumed was scotch-and-soda in one hand and the bottle of Johnny Walker in the other. He looked hammered. He waved the bottle at me and motioned for me to come in.

I sat on a leather couch next to him. “Tough day, huh.”

“Yeah, sort of. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Sam?” he slurred.

There would be no easy way to say it. “Lately Terry, I've been growing increasingly concerned about your drinking. You seem to be hitting it pretty hard.”

“I can handle it. No need for you to worry about it.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“What'ya mean?”

“I think you've been drinking on the job.”

A note of alarm began to register through bloodshot eyes. “Who says?”

I held up the flask I'd recovered from his desk. “I do, Terry. It pains me to do this, but I came here to inform you that you're suspended from duty effective immediately. There'll be an investigation conducted by the sheriff's department.”

For a moment, he was silent, chin down almost on his chest. “So, this is how it ends, huh.”

“Not necessarily, but it's going to be up to you.” I handed him my business card with the contact information printed on the back for Marilyn Hastings and the employee assistance program.

“What's this?” he growled.

“It's an appointment tomorrow morning for you to see the department's EAP counselor. You need to get some help for the drinking problem. And you need to start right now.”

“Fuck the EAP and fuck you,” he sneered. “I don't have a drinking problem.”

“I think you do, Terry. I'm your friend, not just your boss. I'd like to try to help you get through this, but you've got to take the first step. And the first step is a treatment program.”

“And if I don't.”

“It's the best chance you've got if you want a shot at saving your job. Get into treatment, Terry, and do it now. This thing's going to get looked at all the way up the line—everybody from the sheriff's office to the DA, and internally, by Director Cates and his staff.”

I got up to leave. I felt like I'd worn out my welcome, and frankly, there wasn't much else to say. Burnham was drunk and surly. To stay longer would have invited a knock-down, dragged out argument. He didn't look up or say a word as I left.

The afternoon had been emotionally exhausting. I felt like I needed a drink, maybe two. The drive home gave me time to think. My planned visit to Gordon Dixon's home and a second interview with Walter Bradshaw would have to wait a day.

In the morning, I would have to make a painful call to the sheriff's department, one that would trigger an internal investigation against Terry Burnham. That investigation might lead to criminal charges and bring about the end of his career with the department.

I was going to have to walk a fine line on this one and I knew it. People would be watching, plenty of them. On one hand, if Burnham tried to help himself by immediately seeking treatment for the alcohol problem, I would do everything in my power to salvage his career. On the other hand, I had to lead by example. Most of the investigators in the SIB were young. They were going to be here a lot longer than Terry or me. They had to understand that the rules apply to everyone and that nobody gets a free ride. I would do nothing to obstruct or try to influence the outcome of the investigation. And I had a pretty good idea what that outcome would be.

***

Aunt June had decided to make tonight's dinner a celebratory one in honor of the newest member of the Kincaid family. When I walked into the house, I discovered that Bob the Basset Hound had not only arrived on the premises but had already begun to stake out the house as his personal territory. He eyed me suspiciously, gave one half-hearted woof, and then went back to his nap, flopping in front of the fire place.

Aunt June put me right to work. “Mind setting the table while I finish tossing the salad,” she said. “I've ordered in pizza. It should be here any minute. We weren't sure what time you'd make it and Sara was starving.”

“No problem. How does she like the dog?”

“I tell you, Sam, that little girl was so excited when I picked her up at school this afternoon that there was going to be no waiting until you got home from work before we went to see Bob. This was supposed to be a short home visit, but Sara's been playing with the poor guy all afternoon and he's exhausted. If you're okay with it, I think Bob has found a new home.”

“You like him?”

“He's a sweetheart. He'll fit right in, and Sara adores the little guy.”

“He doesn't look so little to me. I'll bet that dog hasn't missed a French fry in years.”

“He does need to lose a little weight. That'll be your job.”

“Great.”

“Nicole called—again. I think you'd better give her a call.”

I looked at my watch. “I'll give her a call after dinner.”

We ate pizza, a Caesar salad, and a loaf of warm French bread. Sara was on such a high that it was difficult to get her to sit still for five minutes and eat. Afterward, she came around the dinner table and hopped into my lap. “Thanks for letting me have Bob, Daddy. He's sooo cute.”

She was working me and I knew it. “So you think we ought to keep, Bob?” I asked.

Sara looked at me like I was crazy—a look that said how could I even ask such a question. “Of course, Daddy, he's very happy here.”

“Okay, then. It's a done deal. Bob's the newest member of our family,” I said. “Don't you think Bob Kincaid sounds a little funny for a dog? Should we give him a new name?”

She paused for a moment. “No. He looks like a Bob, don't you think?”

How could I argue with that? “Yes, I think he does.”

I went into my study after dinner and closed the door. It was nearly ten o'clock Atlanta time. Part of me didn't want to return the call. What really was there to say? Nicole and I were now adversaries in a way we'd never been before. Always in the past, acting in Sara's best interest trumped whatever strain existed between us. It felt different now. I didn't expect Nicole to capitulate in her effort to gain custody of Sara, and I certainly didn't plan to. Yet this had been her second attempt to reach me. I decided to make the call.

Nicole answered on the first ring. The call was brief, strained, and semi-cordial. We exchanged awkward niceties before I took the first shot.

“Why the hell did you do this, Nicole? I think we've both tried to act in what we always believed was Sara's best interest—at least until now.”

“I am acting in Sara's best interest, always have and always will. I won't have our daughter in the line of fire because of your job. You damn near got her killed a few months ago. I recognize that, and if you were honest with yourself, so would you.”

What could I say to that? Nicole was right. A case I was investigating placed not only Sara's life in danger but Aunt June's as well. I tried to imagine what my new Atlanta lawyer would want me to say. Probably nothing, and that's exactly what I did. I answered with another question.

“Why the process server on our front door, Nicole? You didn't have to do it that way. If you had just called, I would have accepted service of the legal papers anywhere.”

“Point taken, but in the final analysis, I don't see what difference it makes,” she replied.

“The difference is that I had a total stranger stalking my house. It really upset Aunt June, and what if Sara had seen the guy. She would have freaked out.”

“Have you told her yet?”

“Not yet. I know I'm going to have to, but I don't want to do that until it's absolutely necessary.”

An awkward pause followed before I said, “I guess I was hoping you might change your mind and I'd never have to tell her.”

“I'm not going to change my mind, Sam. Why don't you change yours?”

“I don't think so. Why did you bother calling me, Nicole?”

“I have a proposition I'd like you to think about.”

“I'm listening.”

“What if we retained joint custody of Sara but changed the primary custody to me. I'd be willing to reduce the amount of days I travel. My folks have agreed to stay at my place when I'm gone so that Sara's life wouldn't be disrupted.”

“That's nice of them,” I said, doing my best to sound sincere.

“Sara can spend summers with you and Aunt June. She's about reached an age where she can travel alone. With my travel benefits, she can visit anytime she wants. She loves to snowboard, so we'd want to schedule some winter trips to Utah.”

“And what about the major holidays?”

“Same arrangement we have now. We continue to alternate Christmas, Thanksgiving, and her birthday. By my calculation, she'd be spending between seven and eight months with me and four to five with you. What do you think?”

Before I could answer, my cell phone rang. “Hold on a minute, I've got to answer this.” I set the office phone down while I rummaged through the mess on my desk in search of my cell. When I found it, I glanced at the caller identification. The call was coming from Robin Joiner's friend, Tracy Sanders. I answered.

“Detective Kincaid, this is Tracy Sanders,” the voice said, choking back sobs. “They were waiting for us. They've taken Robin….”

“Hold on Tracy, slow down and try to calm down. Where are you and what happened?”

I listened.

“Alright, here's what I want you to do. Stay where you are, don't move, and try not to touch anything. I'll have units from Salt Lake P.D. at your place in minutes. I'm coming down from Park City just as fast as I can make it. Sit tight.” I disconnected.

“Nicole, I gotta go, emergency. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I dialed 911 and had uniforms responding within seconds. I grabbed my gear and headed out the door.