Silent Witness (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

I called Kate's home number on my way down the mountain and got no answer. I then tried her cell. Same result. As a last resort, I dialed her office number thinking that she might be working late. I was about to disconnect when Kate's partner, Vince Turner, picked up. Turner informed me that Kate had left the office an hour earlier and had mentioned stopping at the New Yorker for a drink. The New Yorker is an upscale restaurant and private club located in the heart of downtown Salt Lake.

Since she wasn't answering her cell or her home phone, I figured the New Yorker might be a good bet. I pulled into valet parking, flashed my identification at the young attendant, and told her I'd be right back.

When I spotted Kate, I stopped in my tracks. She was seated at the bar with her back to me. She wasn't alone. Seated next to her was deputy district attorney Tom Stoddard, her old boyfriend. They were leaned into each other, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a laugh. At the conclusion of the banter, they looked into each others eyes, lifted glasses, and Stoddard whispered something in her ear before they touched glasses in a toast.

Okay, I'll admit it, I felt threatened. The scene playing out before me involved my girlfriend enjoying an intimate moment with an old lover. I felt like a voyeur watching a scene unfold through the lens of a camera. For a moment, I wasn't sure what to do. I could discreetly withdraw, call the restaurant on my cell and have her paged. Or I could take a deep breath, walk right up and act like nothing was wrong. I decided on the latter approach with only one caveat: not to behave like a jealous, insecure, idiotic, twit. Instead, I decided to play this out with as happy a face as I could muster considering the circumstances.

I walked up behind Kate and tapped her on the shoulder. They both glanced over and the smiles instantly disappeared. The look on their faces ranged between simple surprise and outright guilt—almost like two kids who'd just been caught by their parents screwing in the back seat of the family sedan. “Sorry to interrupt, but we've got a problem. Robin Joiner has just been kidnapped from Tracy Sander's apartment. Uniforms are on scene securing the place and trying to calm her down.”

Kate stood and reached for her purse. “When did it go down?”

“Not sure. They left Sanders tied up in the bedroom. From what I could tell it took her a while to work herself free.”

“How did it happen?”

“Not sure of that either. She was pretty shook up. She said there were three of them waiting inside the apartment when they arrived.”

Stoddard chimed in. “Can she identify anybody?”

“Oh, yeah, she recognized Joseph Bradshaw right away. She wasn't sure about the other two, but I'll bet we're talking about the Allred boys or one of the Allreds and Joey's brother, Albert.”

I turned to leave. “Since Tom's here, maybe he ought to come along—wouldn't hurt to have a DA on scene. I'll meet you at the apartment.”

“Sure,” he said, as I began to walk away. “I'd be glad to help.”

Kate said, “Wait, Sam, I'll ride with you.”

“No, why don't you drive your own? That way when we're finished, I can head back to Park City.”

Almost as an afterthought, I said, “You two okay to drive?”

Kate shot me a look. Stoddard didn't say anything.

Okay, that was a bit caustic. But what's that old saying, ‘friends don't let friends drive drunk,' especially not cop friends.

***

By the time we arrived, Sanders had calmed down, and the crime scene was under control. She'd been tied up but was otherwise unhurt. The responding patrol officers hadn't waited. They'd immediately requested a CSI unit. The CSI team was already busy photographing the place, dusting for latent prints, and gathering evidence. And there seemed to be ample physical evidence left in the apartment.

The Bradshaws if nothing else were sloppy. It seemed that they left a calling card every place they made an appearance. Sander's apartment was no exception. A cursory look around the place suggested that they had made themselves right at home. They'd cleaned out the fridge, helped themselves to milk, soda, chips, cookies, and even beer. The place looked like a junk food eater's nirvana. The duct tape and scissors used to secure Sanders had been tossed on the living room floor. The lab crew would probably find latents plastered on everything they touched.

It occurred to me that at the rate the Bradshaw family was racking up new offenses, once apprehended, they probably wouldn't see the light of day for about a hundred years. And given the copious amount of evidence left haphazardly at every crime scene, prosecutors would be drooling with anticipation at the prospect of trying these cases.

Kate had pulled Sanders off to one side and was talking to her in hushed tones. Stoddard stood nearby, hands in pockets, listening attentively. After several minutes, Kate broke away and strode over to where I was standing.

“What's the plan?” I asked.

“She's pretty shook up and doesn't want to stay here tonight.”

“Can't say as I blame her.”

“I'm going to get her something to eat and then take her down to headquarters and show her a photo lineup. She was positive about Joey but didn't recognize the other two.”

“We've got a pretty good idea who Joey hangs with, and besides, you're gonna find their prints all over this place,” I said.

“Will you come along?”

“No, I think I'll pass. You don't need my help for this. I'll check with you in the morning.”

As I turned to leave, Kate grabbed me by the arm. Glancing at Stoddard, she said, “We need to talk. It wasn't what you think.”

“Don't assume you know what I'm thinking. You're busy and I'm beat. Let's just let it go until tomorrow. We'll have a chance to talk then.”

***

After I left Sander's apartment, I made another phone call to the home of Betty Joiner. If our information was correct and she was employed as a dealer in one of the Mesquite casinos, she might well be at work. She hadn't returned my earlier call, and I had the distinct feeling that she didn't plan to. Perhaps her relationship with Robin was so badly fractured that the two wanted nothing to do with each other.

The number rang several times before a low, gravelly sounding voice came on the line and said, “I'm not here to take your call, you know what to do.” I quickly deduced that Betty Joiner would not be a lady I'd want blowing sweet nothings in my ear on a cold winter night. Her voice bore an uncanny resemblance to George Papalopsis, the Greek auto mechanic in Park City, who serviced my SUV.

I left a blunt message hoping that it might provoke a return call. “Mrs. Joiner, this is Sam Kincaid from the Utah Department of Corrections. I left you a message earlier that you haven't returned. If you're home, would you please pick-up.” I paused—nothing.

“It's urgent that you call me as soon as possible. I regret having to tell you that the status of your daughter's case has changed from that of a missing person to the victim of an aggravated kidnapping. Robin was abducted from a friend's apartment sometime late this afternoon. Regardless of the time, please call me the moment you receive this message.” I left my cell number and disconnected.

Five minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was Betty Joiner. She was probably home all along and decided that the gravity of the circumstances outweighed whatever baggage existed between mother and daughter. I was approaching Lamb's canyon along I-80 when the call came. I couldn't have been in a worse location for cell phone reception. We exchanged a brief, garbled message, and then the line went dead. I sped to the top of Parley's summit, pulled off to the side of the interstate, and quickly redialed her number.

She answered on the first ring. “Yeah.”

I wasn't in the mood to waste time on small talk. “Thanks for getting back to me, Mrs. Joiner. Tell me what you can about your daughter's relationship with Joseph Bradshaw.”

She paused. “Is that who kidnapped her?”

“We think so, Joey and some others. Now tell me about their relationship.”

“They met when Robin was a freshman attending Dixie State College in St. George. They ended up in a class together and became friends.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Maybe five, six years.”

“Did the relationship evolve into something more than just friendship?”

“Like an intimate relationship, is that what you mean?”

Jesus! Let me get you a crayon and I'll draw you a picture.
“Yes.”

“Yeah, it did. I'm not exactly sure when they became serious, but it's been an on-again, off-again relationship for quite a long time.”

“Did Robin know that the Bradshaws were members of Warren Jeffs FLDS church, and if so, had she become involved in polygamy?”

“She didn't know, at least not at first. I'm not sure when or how she found out. At some point, he must have told her. And hell no, she was never involved with polygamy. What kind of daughter you think I got?”

I was beginning to wonder.

“In fact,” she said, “Robin was doing everything she could to get Joey away from the family and the religion. I told her more than once that I thought she was wasting her time. She wouldn't listen—kids you know.”

“I take it you didn't approve of the relationship,” I said.

“No shit, Sherlock. How happy would you be if you discovered that your daughter had become involved with one of those child abusing scumbags?”

Point taken. I didn't want to ask the next question but I did. Maybe I didn't want to hear the answer. “As you know, Mrs. Joiner, some members of the Bradshaw family have been involved in committing crimes. Because of her relationship with Joey, do you think it's possible that Robin has participated in any of those offenses?”

“Not on your life, mister.” Her voice had dropped another octave. “Like I already told you, Robin was trying to get Joey away from the family. She's a social work graduate student at the university, not some trashy street criminal.”

“I'm relieved to hear that,” I said, not necessarily believing it, but hoping that I sounded sincere.

I gave Betty Joiner Kate's phone number and promised her that one of us would keep her abreast of developments in the case.

Chapter Twenty-five

When I arrived at the prison early the next morning, I found a note on my desk summoning me to the maximum security housing unit, where the prophet, Walter Bradshaw, had asked to see me. There was also a phone message from my boss, Director Benjamin Cates, requesting that I call him immediately. This call would be about Terry Burnham, of that I was certain.

“Good morning, Sam. Thanks for getting back to me so promptly. I wanted to speak with you for a minute about the incident involving Investigator Burnham.”

He had an agenda, that's for sure. I was about to find out what it was.

“I just wanted to be certain that you and I are on the same page in terms of how I want this investigation handled.”

“Okay.”

“I don't want your office investigating the Burnham case. I prefer to have the Salt Lake County Sheriff's Office handle the matter. I recognize that normal protocol authorizes your staff to carry out the investigation; however, under the present circumstances, that isn't such a good idea.”

The ‘normal protocol' Cates referred to had to do with department policy. My unit, the SIB, typically conducted investigations involving employee misconduct. In this instance, because the employee in question worked for the SIB, Cates had decided that the case should be handled by an agency outside the department of corrections. Anticipating that, I was one step ahead of him.

“I happen to agree with you, sir,” I said. “Early this morning, I contacted the internal affairs unit at the sheriff's office, and they've assigned a detective to conduct the investigation. In fact, she's supposed to be here any minute.”

I fumbled through the paperwork on my desk until I found her name. “Yeah, she's a detective sergeant by the name of Melanie Egan. I've never met her before, but they assured me she's top notch.”

“Glad you agree with me on this. It isn't that I think your office wouldn't have done a thorough, impartial job. It's really about appearances and the need for public confidence that we won't tolerate this kind of behavior from one of our own.”

It sounded to me like Cates had decided Terry Burnham was guilty even before the investigation had begun. Impartiality and public confidence was one thing, but I hoped this wouldn't turn into a lynch mob with the executive director carrying the rope.

***

Within thirty minutes of my conversation with Cates, Patti ushered into my office Detective Sergeant Melanie Egan. Egan looked to be in her early thirties, short, plump, with long brown hair pulled back and tied in a pony tail. From her looks and demeanor, all business.

As Patti closed my office door, she said, “Lieutenant McConnell called—wants you to call her as soon as possible.” I nodded.

I gave Egan a brief summary of the case beginning with Patti and Marcy Everest's observations of Terry the previous day. I told her about my subsequent search of his desk including the discovery of the flask containing the alcohol.

“Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” she said.

“I think so,” I replied, a note of sadness and resignation in my voice.

She hadn't missed that. I could tell from the quizzical look she gave me.

“And you're in possession of the physical evidence?”

I nodded, reaching into a desk drawer. I removed the flask, and passed it across to her.

“Thanks,” Egan said. “If it's okay with you, I'd like to get your statement on the record and follow that with interviews of your secretary and Investigator Everest.”

Again I nodded. Egan produced a small voice-activated tape recorder and placed it on the desk between us. She quickly glanced over her notes and began the interview. After we finished, I offered to let her use the small conference room in our office from which she could conduct the interviews with Patti and Marcy Everest.

After Egan left my office, I closed the door and sat quietly, contemplating where all this was headed. For almost the past twenty-four hours, it had consumed a lot of my time and energy.

I didn't like how this was making me feel. I had to admit that I felt exactly like Marcy Everest did—like a snitch turning on a fellow officer. I would never betray that emotion to anyone else on my staff. I didn't want them to sense my reluctance. I needed them to understand that we had rules and professional ethics for a good reason and that we all had to follow them. Otherwise, the system wouldn't work for anybody.

***

The Burnham mess had proven a distraction from the other major mess in my professional life, the Ginsberg murder investigation. I dialed Kate's office and got her on the first ring.

“Sam, we finally got a break. AFIS came back with a print match from the murder weapon.”

“Anybody we know?”

“Don't think so,” said Kate. “His name is Anthony Barnes. The hit came from a check of military records. It seems that Mr. Barnes was an enlisted serviceman in the U.S. Army. He was on active duty for almost three years, achieved the rank of private first class, and then received a general discharge a little over two years ago from Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

“Know anything about what a general discharge entails?”

“Not a lot. I'm pretty sure that it's a form of honorable discharge, but it does send up a red flag. There's got to be something there that isn't quite right, otherwise the guy would have left the military with an honorable discharge.”

“I'll contact the military police at Fort Campbell and see what they can tell me,” she said.

“Good place to start, but I think you'll end up contacting the Adjutant General Corp. They'll have the particulars on his discharge.”

“You think the military police won't?”

“Probably not. The military police will have a record of any misconduct occurring on or around the base, but I don't think they typically hold discharge information.”

“You mean, say, this guy assaulted somebody in a bar and got arrested, that's the kind of information the military police would have.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, I'll get right on it. I'll start with the military police and then move on to the Adjutant General Corp if necessary.” said Kate.

“Can we put Mr. Barnes in Utah?” I asked.

“Looks like he lives here. I ran him through DMV and he shows a Utah driver's license with an address in Ogden.”

“Care to pay him a visit?” I asked.

“Absolutely. I'll be anxious to have him explain how his prints ended up on our murder weapon.”

“I'll bet. What have you got for a physical description on Mr. Barnes?”

“Let's see, his driver's license shows that he's six-feet, five-inches, one-hundred ninety-five pounds, brown and brown. Why'd you ask?”

“Oh, just something the medical examiner told me after Ginsberg's autopsy.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“Dr. Chandler-Soames theory is that we should be looking for a tall perp, at least a couple of inches taller than Ginsberg who she measured at six-feet, two-inches.”

“And that was because the tire iron blow to the back of the vic's head was struck at a downward angle,” said Kate.

“That's right. So, if the ME's theory is correct, this guy fits the profile.”

“When would you like to take a drive to Ogden?”

“Why don't I pick you up in front of your office at noon. We can grab a sandwich, have that discussion we didn't have last night, and then go see Anthony Barnes. In the mean time, I need to pay Walter Bradshaw a visit. He's asked to see me.”

“I'll be anxious to hear what he wants to see you about,” said Kate. “See you at noon.”