Sullivan's Law (9 page)

Daniel Metroix had claimed to have known her from the past. He'd seemed disappointed when Carolyn didn't remember him. Did she have a connection with this man somewhere? On the other hand, she'd been making a lot of inquiries. Word would have gotten out that she was looking into the circumstances of Tim Harrison's death. Could Charles Harrison have decided to use her as a means to ensure that if Metroix didn't die in the blast, a jury would sentence him to death for her murder? Too callous, she told herself. To step out of bounds to keep the individual responsible for your son's death off the street was understandable, particularly if Harrison was convinced the two surviving men had told the truth. To want Daniel Metroix dead would be the ultimate revenge, but nowhere near as maniacal as taking a probation officer with him. Another fact to consider was that the kind of people who set off explosives didn't care if innocent people were injured or killed.

Carolyn heard Hank speaking to White and turned to face the two officers, grimacing in pain as an excuse for her prolonged silence. “Why did they leave the electricity on if they were going to blow up the building next week?”

“Probably so the demo company could see what they were doing,” Hank said, crunching the empty Styrofoam cup in his hand. “The gas was turned off several days ago. Your buddy didn't even have hot water. If he was paying good money to stay there, why didn't he complain?”

Hank had a point. He also didn't know Daniel Metroix. A schizophrenic might go weeks without showering. Now that she thought of it, he'd been wearing the same clothes he'd worn at the interview. “What do you think happened?”

“Not sure yet,” the detective said, tossing the pieces of the Styrofoam cup into the trash. “My guess is Metroix figured out how to detonate one of the explosive devices near the room where you met him. We checked his prison record. He was known at Chino as the Engineer. The wires were already in place, so a guy with Metroix's type of expertise could have rigged the thing up pretty fast.”

“Your premise is shit,” Carolyn lashed out. “Metroix got a phone call right before the explosion. He swore he hadn't told anyone else he was staying at the motel. If he blew the place, who called him?”

“Anyone can make a phone ring,” Hank told her, smiling smugly. “The motel switchboard was automated. All Metroix had to do was set up a wake-up call for a specific time. He could have been working with another ex-con, or even someone still serving time at Chino. Metroix's a psycho. Nothing those people do makes sense.”

“You're prejudging this man because he has a mental illness,” Carolyn said, annoyed at the detective's narrow-mindedness.

“Maybe his voices told him you were the devil and he had to kill you.”

Seeing a young doctor speaking to a nurse outside in the corridor, Carolyn decided it was time to put an end to their conversation. Anyone connected with the Ventura police had to be considered a possible ally of Charles Harrison. By aligning herself with Daniel, however, she may have placed something far more valuable than her job at risk. She needed to get home to her children as quickly as possible.

“I don't feel well,” she said, reaching for her stomach. “I'd appreciate it if you'd leave now so I can speak to the doctor.”

“No problem,” Hank said. “Will you be at your office tomorrow in case we need to ask you a few more questions?”

“I'm not sure,” Carolyn said. “My office knows how to reach me.”

The detective moved closer to her bed. “You're playing a dangerous game here, Carolyn,” he said, a look on his face that said he knew she was terminating the interview for reasons other than her injuries. “Daniel Metroix is a violent criminal. You were his intended victim. The phone call was probably a ruse to get him out of the room. When you saw the wires on the ceiling, he lost several minutes. This thing was timed to the second. He was going to leave you there to die.”

“Let's say he did attempt to kill me,” Carolyn said. “What's his motive?”

Officer White found the nerve to speak again. “Maybe he doesn't like probation officers.”

The detective shook his head. “Was that a joke, idiot?”

“No, sir,” White said, his face blanching. “I thought…”

“After three months on the force,” Hank told him, “you don't think, speak, or so much as take a piss without my consent. Listen, watch, and learn. Got it? If not, you'll be looking for another job by next week.” He turned back to Carolyn. “Did anyone know you were going to be at that motel tonight?”

“Not that I know of,” she said, recalling the earlier conversations she'd had with John and her brother.

Hank Sawyer pointed to the door and White shuffled off in that direction. The detective lingered behind. “You're a smart lady. Why are you standing up for a murderer?”

Carolyn held her breath until the detective had left. He was shrewd all right. She should have learned something when he'd come down so hard on the rookie officer. Never offer information unless it benefits you.

Was Hank's wisdom worth contemplating? She'd been tough on Daniel, even though she'd only been doing her job. He wasn't the same as other parolees, though. Would he have had enough time to set up something as complex as a timed explosion? Could her harsh demeanor have incited him to the point where he'd want to kill her? His clever inventions aside, Daniel Metroix was a convicted murderer. Was he also a devious psychopath?

Another chilling thought entered her mind. For all she knew, everything that Daniel had told her could have been either a lie or a delusion. The drawings and computations she'd seen in his room looked impressive, yet under closer examination, they could turn out to be meaningless.

Climbing out of the hospital bed, Carolyn yanked the I.V. out of her arm, found her clothes in a plastic bag taped to the foot of the bed, dressed, and walked out to find a pay phone to call a cab. When she realized she'd left her purse inside the motel room, she placed her hands over her face and cried.

W
ednesday morning, Rebecca leaned over and shook her mother by the shoulder. “I'm sorry to wake you, Mom,” the girl said. Her curly dark hair was parted in the middle and pinned back with barrettes. “John said there wasn't anything to make for our lunches. You'll have to give us some money.”

Carolyn sat up in the bed, peering up at her daughter through red and irritated eyes. She'd finally caught a ride home with a nurse, collapsing in her bed before dawn. Damn, she thought, doubting if she'd ever see her purse again. At least she hadn't been carrying a lot of cash. Lately, she was lucky to keep a spare twenty on hand. In addition, her credit card was almost maxed out. Her salary paid the mortgage and put food on the table. Tapping it for tuition to law school had squeezed her dry. Now she'd have to go through the inconvenience of applying for a new driver's license, ATM card, and MasterCard.

Getting out of bed and slipping into her robe, she staggered to her closet and rummaged in the bottoms of all her purses. She found a crumpled five-dollar bill, several ones, and a handful of change. “I think there's eight dollars here,” she told her daughter, placing the money into the palm of her hand. “You take half and give John the rest.”

Rebecca was staring at the bandages on her mother's elbows. Carolyn's knees and legs had also been injured in her frantic escape down the concrete stairway, but the lower half of her body was hidden beneath her bathrobe.

“What happened?” the girl asked. “John said you were in some kind of accident. He wouldn't tell me anything else because he said you'd get mad at him.”

Carolyn pulled the girl into her arms, inhaling the fresh scent of her hair. At least her son had kept his mouth shut this time. There was no reason to frighten his sister by telling her that her mother had almost been killed.

“I tripped and fell down a flight of stairs,” she said, her eyes meeting John's across the room. “I'm fine, honey. Run along to school or you'll be late.”

Rebecca seemed to be afraid to leave. “Will you be here when we get home?”

“I promise,” Carolyn told her, deciding the night before had earned her a day off. She could work on her cases without going to the office, and she didn't have any scheduled appointments. Spouting off lies to Amy McFarland might have been tasteless, yet the four new cases Brad had claimed he'd assigned her had never materialized.

Carolyn was thankful that she'd left her briefcase in the car. If she'd taken it to the motel room with her, it would be lost as well. The only problem was getting her car back. She assumed it was in the parking lot of the Seagull Motel, unless the police had towed it.

She saw John standing in the doorway. “Paul Leighton helped me get the car home,” he said, tossing a set of keys onto the bed. “I thought you might need it.”

“Thanks,” Carolyn said, holding the front of her robe closed. “How did your friend manage to drive two cars?”

“Paul thought it would be okay if I drove the Infiniti,” he answered. “I knew you kept a spare set of keys in your drawer. It's not like I don't know how to drive, and it wasn't that far. You're not going to go off on me again, are you?”

“I thought I was supposed to call him professor,” his mother said. “And I wasn't mad at you last night.”

“Fine,” John said, stuffing the bills his sister had handed him into his pocket. “We need to leave. I let you sleep as long as possible. You look awful, by the way. Try to get some rest, okay? I'll fix dinner tonight.”

Rebecca hugged her mother and disappeared through the doorway with her brother. Carolyn returned to her bed, then grabbed the phone off the end table.

“I need to speak to Warden Lackner,” she said when a female voice answered. “I'm Daniel Metroix's parole officer.”

“Hold on,” she said. “I'll transfer you to Warden Lackner's office.”

Carolyn ended up speaking to half of the warden's staff before she finally reached his assistant, a man named Raphael Scribner. “How can I help you?” he asked politely.

“I'd prefer to discuss this with the warden,” she said. “Tell him it's urgent. I spoke to him yesterday.”

The warden's deep voice came on the phone. “This is Stephen Lackner.”

Carolyn gave him a rundown on the events of the night before, along with some of the things she'd uncovered related to the original crime.

“I need to ask you a few more questions about this lab. You said Daniel was good at fixing things. What type of things did he fix?”

“I already told you, Officer Sullivan,” the man said, his voice tinged with annoyance, “Daniel repaired various tools we use here at the prison.”

Yesterday it was small appliances, today it was tools. “Metroix told me he invented a number of things during his incarceration,” Carolyn said. “One of the earliest inventions he claimed he developed at your prison appeared to be a multiscreen monitoring system with recording capabilities. That's not exactly the same as fixing minor electrical appliances or tools.” She heard the warden breathing heavy. “He also said he developed a walking suit for a guard's daughter who was partially paralyzed. He called this walking suit an exoskeleton, and said the United States military as well as research facilities around the world are working day and night to perfect it.”

“Nonsense,” the warden said emphatically. “The man's mentally ill. I'm glad you weren't seriously injured. Other than that, I can't help you.”

“You allowed Metroix to work in the lab only if he agreed to sign over all rights to his inventions,” she continued. “Is that correct?”

“There were no inventions,” Warden Lackner said. “Everything we did was perfectly legal. Metroix called it a lab. It was only a workshop, part of a joint venture program. Some of the goods were used here at the prison, and others were sold to an outside vendor.”

Carolyn was beginning to peel off another layer in Daniel's complicated life story. The warden may have written letters in Daniel's behalf to the parole board, only to find a way to circumvent them and covertly convince the board to deny his parole. A man who conducted himself fine behind bars could nonetheless pose a threat to society, particularly if the warden had exaggerated the dangers presented by his illness. The next few questions would be the most pertinent, but for some reason, Carolyn didn't expect the warden to answer them truthfully.

“Let me see if I understand this correctly.” She could tell that he was annoyed. The inflection in his voice also indicated that he was nervous. She decided to turn the conversation around, hoping she could extract more information. “By law, the fruits of an inmate's labor go to the prison or whatever state governs the particular institution where he's incarcerated. Is that accurate, Warden Lackner?”

“Exactly,” he said, sighing in relief. “Goodbye, Officer Sullivan.”

“Don't hang up,” Carolyn shot out, knowing it was time to play hardball. “Metroix hired an attorney who believes there's a legal issue involved as to the ownership of his work. He wasn't merely repairing radios or making license plates. His designs and inventions have been professionally evaluated, Lackner. A great deal of money may be involved.”

The line fell silent for several moments. Finally the warden said, “I'm a busy man. I have a prison to run.”

Before Carolyn could say anything else, she realized he'd hung up on her. So, she thought, Charles Harrison might not be the only person who wanted to get rid of Daniel Metroix. She was certain the warden had lied to her. How many inventions were involved? Twenty-three years was a long time. Having gained some insight into his personality, she doubted if Daniel remembered even a portion of what he'd done. Setting the exoskeleton aside, if Warden Lackner had substituted his name on an invention that became a staple in every household, he could have a fortune at stake.

Realizing it was past ten o'clock, Carolyn dialed Brad Preston's direct line.

“What the hell went on last night?” he barked. “Your picture's on the front page of the newspaper. Hank Sawyer has already called me twice, demanding to know what we're going to do about Metroix.”

Carolyn rearranged the pillows behind her head, trying to get comfortable. “I'm not going to issue an order to violate his parole,” she said. “If the DA's office wants to file charges, that's their prerogative. Until I investigate this more thoroughly, my position is that Metroix was an innocent victim. This is far more complex than you could ever imagine, Brad. The warden at Chino might even have hired someone to knock off Metroix.”

“What is it with you and this man?” Brad asked, his voice so loud that Carolyn had to hold the phone a few inches away from her ear. “We've got a psycho who tried to blow up a motel with you in it. And you're trying to tell me this guy's not in violation of his parole! Not only that, you're making accusations against a prison warden. I'm beginning to wonder who's crazier, you or Metroix.”

“I have a massive headache, Brad,” she told him, closing her eyes. “Why don't you start by lowering your voice.”

“I assume you're not coming in today. Fill me in on what's going on.”

Carolyn told him what she'd learned so far about Daniel Metroix's case, along with a few details regarding her conversation with Warden Lackner. “The more likely scenario is that Charles Harrison contracted to have Daniel killed after his release from prison.”

“Since you seem to be certain that Metroix didn't cause his son's death, then why isn't Harrison convinced? He's not an ignorant man, you know.”

Carolyn carried the portable phone to the kitchen to put up a pot of coffee. The hangover, she decided, must have been caused by a combination of morphine and stress. The mellow, floating sensation she'd experienced the night before was gone. Every step made her feel as if her knees were going to crack open. To the staff in an emergency room, anything that wasn't life-threatening was considered minor. Whatever injuries she'd sustained weren't going to kill her, but they were most assuredly painful.

“You know how people are in situations like this,” she told him. “This was Harrison's only child. The man has tunnel vision, Brad. He's fixated all his grief and hatred on Metroix because Liam Armstrong and Nolan Houston swore he was responsible. Remember, I dated Armstrong. He was a bully and a coward. I also went to school with Houston. I don't remember much about him, though, other than the fact that he's good-looking and black. Once I wrestled with Armstrong in the backseat of his car, I tried to stay away from football players.”

“Why are you convinced that Metroix didn't set off the explosion? The warden verified he had a lab. Maybe Hank is right and he did possess the skills to pull something like this off.”

“If I hadn't dragged him out of that room,” Carolyn said forcefully, “Metroix would be dead. I had to fight him as it was. He didn't want to leave the designs for his inventions.”

“Now he's an inventor.”

“I saw some of his work,” she continued. “Warden Lackner tried to tell me he was making tools or appliances in some kind of joint venture program. I don't believe him.”

“You keep forgetting that Metroix is a schizophrenic.”

“So what?” Carolyn shouted, slamming the coffeepot down on the counter so hard she cracked the glass canister. “His illness is probably what made him a target for Armstrong, Houston, and Tim Harrison. These boys were nothing more than high-class thugs. You know what Metroix told me?”

“No,” Brad said, “but I'm certain you're going to tell me.”

“They taunted him, beat him, and then urinated in his face. Nice guys, huh?”

“Why didn't any of this come out at the trial?” he asked. “No matter what these boys did, they did it over twenty years ago. We've got people running around shooting and maiming innocent citizens as we speak. Those are the bastards we should be worried about, not some parolee from years back who's already served his time. Let's say Metroix did get shafted. Nothing's going to change that now.”

Carolyn removed the broom and the dustpan from the pantry closet so she could clean up the glass on the floor. “We're not talking ancient history anymore,” she told him, bracing herself against the kitchen counter. “Someone tried to kill Metroix last night. If this person or persons wasn't hired by Charles Harrison, our next probable suspect is the warden. The DA can ask for the death penalty in a murder for hire.”

“It's not a murder until the person is dead.”

“Keep giving me the runaround and it will be.”

“You're really serious about the warden?”

“Dead serious,” Carolyn told him. “How can we get our hands on the release papers Metroix signed for his inventions?”

“We don't have any jurisdiction at Chino,” Brad told her. “We'd have to get the state attorney general to issue a court order. Even if your man did invent something valuable, which I think is highly unlikely, the only releases you're going to find are the ones issued to the prison or the state.”

“Why can't we do a patent search under Stephen Lackner?”

“Be my guest,” he said. “I'll put a hundred dollars on the table that you're not going to find anything. Think about it. Lackner has to possess some degree of intelligence, or he would never have been made warden of a major prison facility. Keeping a large population of convicts under control means you have to understand how the criminal mind works.”

Carolyn stared out the kitchen window. She needed to mow the grass this weekend. She couldn't ask John, as the poor kid was already doing more than his share. She wished it was December instead of April; then she wouldn't have to worry about the lawn. “You mean he would have put the patents under another name?”