The Question of the Felonious Friend (15 page)

At that time, papers filed with the county clerk of Somerset indicated that Mason Clayton was in fact the owner of a power washing and roofing company called Able Home Help, of which he was the only operating officer listed. Instead of being an employee as we had been told, Mason was the proprietor of the company. Either both he and Sandy had deliberately misled Ms. Washburn and myself, or Mason had also lied to his sister and kept his purchase of the business from her.

That was curious, but not worthy of serious concern on its own. Family dynamics, since Mother is the only relative I have ever known on a daily basis, are not my strong suit, but I am aware they are often complicated. Mason wanting to keep his ownership of his business from his sister (and one assumes his mother and brother) was his own affair. It had occurred years before Richard Handy's murder and appeared to have no connection to that incident, which was at the core of the question Mason had asked me to answer.

His business dealings took an ominous turn, however, only three months before Richard's death. At that time, Able Home Help had filed for Chapter XI bankruptcy protection against its creditors, which included suppliers of construction materials, a company providing liability insurance for Mason's employees and clients, and Ms. Annette Cantonara, who apparently had been owed $32,000 by the business for faulty work done at her home, which had been repaired but for which she had paid another contractor to complete.

I looked at the time on my iMac; it was 9:03 p.m. I exhaled; that was not too late to telephone Ms. Washburn. Her voice on the other end of a call does not create any of the anxiety I would have speaking to even an occasional acquaintance. I took my cellular phone from my pocket and called her.

“What's going on, Samuel?” she asked. Ms. Washburn knew if I was calling after business hours, there must have been a development in the question.

I told her what I had discovered about Mason and Able Home Help. Ms. Washburn's voice was slightly strained for reasons I could not discern, but she said, “That's interesting, but I'm not sure it has anything to do with the question we're answering, does it?”

“It does,” I said, “when it is noted that there is a second partner listed on the corporation papers for Able Home Help. Tyler Clayton.”

Eighteen

“I don't understand,” Ms.
Washburn said as she drove the next morning. “I've had a whole night to think about it and I still don't understand: Why would Mason put Tyler on his corporation papers as a partner and not tell him?”

I too had thought about this overnight. “We can't be sure Tyler didn't know,” I said. “Since Richard's death he has not been especially communicative. But the idea that Tyler might need some income later in life, as a trust fund of sorts, might make sense. When we see Mason we will ask.”

Ms. Washburn did not look especially satisfied with that explanation, but she did not comment. “How do you want to play this meeting with Detective Hessler?” she asked.

“Play?” I said. It did not occur to me that seeing the detective again would be similar to a game, with winners and losers.

“Yes, Samuel. It's something people say. How should we approach the situation? The detective is a police officer and we're Questions Answered, a private company that has no standing in the criminal justice community. What do you think will be the best tactic to get him to actually tell us something that might be helpful? What do you have planned?”

We were only four minutes from the Somerset police headquarters by my estimation and that of Ms. Washburn's global positioning satellite device. There was no longer much time to discuss strategy. “It never occurred to me that we would need a plan of action,” I said. “I intend to ask the detective questions and see what his answers will be.”

Ms. Washburn sighed just a little. “This might be a very short meeting,” she said.

Indeed, at first it appeared Hessler would not see us at all. Despite Ms. Washburn having called ahead to ask him for a meeting, the detective had not alerted the dispatcher working at the front desk and she almost refused to allow us into the detective's office. When I insisted she page Hessler and ask if we should be allowed in, she finally capitulated and we were eventually led into the bullpen area inside. Hessler, as a lead detective, had one of the larger, more private cubicles.

“Why should I talk to you?” he said, as if asking for a reminder. “What can I possibly gain in this investigation from talking to you?”

“Possibly the correct answer to the question of who killed Richard Handy,” I suggested.

“I know who killed Richard Handy. Tyler Clayton killed Richard Handy. He told me that himself.”

Ms. Washburn gestured toward the two very functional but not comfortable-looking chairs in front of Hessler's desk. “May we?” she asked. Hessler nodded and we sat down. “Now, detective, certainly you've been smart enough to research Tyler's ASD.”

“ASD?” he asked, as she no doubt had anticipated he would.

“Autism spectrum disorder. And since you have looked into it, probably talking to his therapist Dr. Shean, you know that what he keeps repeating over and over again probably has nothing at all to do with the situation or the truth. Not to mention that a person with that kind of disorder is inclined to agree to anything after even moderate interrogation because he wants to give the people asking the questions what they want. So Tyler's confession will get thrown out of court in about two minutes.”

“The kid was found holding the murder weapon over the dead body of the victim with nobody else in that area of the store,” Hessler reminded us. “I'll take my chances in court.”

“Do you want to convict Tyler if he did not murder Richard Handy?” I asked. “Because the overwhelming evidence to this point suggests that he did not.”

Hessler pointed his finger like a gun barrel. “Gun. Hand. Body. Confession. What evidence is there that says Clayton didn't pull the trigger?”

“There is the matter of hundred-dollar bills in the tip jar that were only for Richard Handy. There is the premeditation of bringing spray paint for the security cameras, which is inconsistent with Tyler's behaviors, particularly if he were acting irrationally based on the answer I had given him to his question about Richard's friendship. And there is this.” I gestured to Ms. Washburn and she produced the Tenduline die in its sandwich bag from her tote. She placed it on Hessler's desk.

“What is that?” Hessler said, reaching for the bag.

“It's evidence we found at the crime scene that apparently your team missed,” I said. “If you require a witness, Mr. Robinson the store owner was present when I found it.”

“That doesn't tell me what it is, or why I should care,” the detective responded.

He was correct about that. I endeavored to correct my error. “It is called a Tenduline. It is a very specific, very unusual die used in the game Swords and Sorcerers, which I'm sure you know was a pastime of Richard's.” I did not mention Tyler Clayton's participation in the game because I saw no benefit to giving the detective that knowledge if he had not obtained it for himself.

“And so did Clayton,” he said. Detective Hessler was not incompetent by anyone's standards.

“That is true. This is a very rare item, something that must be specifically ordered. There are very few of them in the country. And we found it lying in the area where Richard Handy's body fell. It may have fallen from his hand when he hit the floor.”

“So? He could have dropped a harmonica too. That doesn't tell us anything about the way he died.”

“Perhaps it does,” I said. “This is not the kind of thing a person carries around in his hand casually. Richard had it with him for a reason, and he was holding it at the moment he was shot for a reason.”

“Okay, I'll play along,” Hessler said. “What's the reason?”

“I don't know. But consider this: When you arrested Tyler Clayton at the store, in what condition did you find his shoes?”

Hessler squinted at me. “His shoes?”

“Were they covered in blood?”

Ms. Washburn grimaced. I did not understand why because I do not have an emotional reaction to the sight of blood.

“Yes,” Hessler said. “The soles had blood all over them, and some milk too.”

“How about the tops of his shoes? His trouser legs? His shirt? Any blood there?”

Hessler looked at a photograph, probably of Tyler while being booked. “No. The rest of him was clean.”

“Don't you think it's odd that a man standing that close to another and shooting him four times would not have been stained with his blood?”

Hessler frowned. Police officers do not care to have their work questioned. To be fair, most people in all professions feel that way.

“I'll grant you it's strange. But it doesn't prove anything,” he said. “Nobody else in the store had that kind of spatter on them, either. And somebody for sure shot Richard Handy.”

“Very well. May we have access to your evidence lab?”

Hessler stared briefly. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “No.” Then he paused. “What do you want to look at?”

“The security video from the Quik N EZ,” I told him.

Hessler waved his left hand to dismiss the idea. “I've looked at it. You won't be able to see anything. A kid walks in wearing a hood and bending over so his face is hidden. Then a hand comes up and sprays the camera. Three cameras, all the same. You won't see anything.”

“I don't expect to see anything,” I told him. “I'm curious about what I will be able to hear.”

It didn't take long for Hessler to set up a viewing of the security video in the same interrogation room where we had seen Tyler Clayton after his arrest. A monitor mounted on the ceiling provided the picture and sound, which Hessler had a uniformed officer feed through an electronics console outside the room.

“What are we looking for?” he asked.

“We are listening,” I said.

Before he could protest, the screen came to life. (It remained an inanimate object, but that expression indicates the recorded image appeared on the screen.) As expected, the image was divided into three sections on the screen: One showing the counter, one showing the entrance to the convenience store, and the third positioned in the back near the dairy display, where Richard Handy was shot.

“Watch the entrance first,” Hessler said, although it was obvious that was what we should be doing.

Sure enough, four seconds after the image appeared, a figure approximately Tyler Clayton's height and build, wearing the same loose, dark, hooded sweatshirt he usually sported, along with a Chicago Cubs baseball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses, walked into the store, seemingly studying the floor. It was difficult to see any facial feature.

The figure walked out of frame in the direction of the camera and immediately after a hand was seen in very large close-up on the screen, followed by something difficult to focus on. “That's the nozzle of the spray can,” Hessler said. And his claim was borne out a second later when the screen suddenly went black.

Because neither of the other cameras was trained in the direction of the one near the entrance, the vandal was not visible immediately. Clearly the high angle from the counter camera meant it was mounted near the ceiling from somewhere across the store. I remembered from our visits to the Quik N EZ that it was on the facing wall of the dairy counter, behind a display of magazines.

“He must have snuck under another camera here,” Hessler said. There was no footage on that camera that showed anything but Richard Handy and Billy Martinez at the counter. But from somewhere off-screen a voice shouted, “Richard!” and he looked up in the direction of the dairy display.

“That sounds like Clayton's voice,” Hessler said. Indeed, it might very well have been Tyler Clayton calling to the assistant manager. I refocused on the screen, thinking about that.

Without a word, Richard looked at Billy, who nodded and took over the cash register on which Richard was working. Richard, in what would be his last mistake, walked away from the counter toward the dairy display. Then the camera facing the cashiers went black too.

“He went for the third camera last,” Hessler pointed out. I came close to saying how obvious that statement was, but Ms. Washburn shook her head slightly. That indicated the statement would not be well received. I watched the last monitor.

There, as a voice I did not recognize called out, “Hey!”, probably spotting the vandal spraying the last camera (the monitor went black after a huge close-up of a hand), Richard Handy's voice—which I recognized—could be heard saying, “Dude! What?”

And then there were four shots, and screaming began.

“It goes on like that for a while,” Hessler said.

I held up a hand to quiet him, and he stopped talking. I was listening very carefully and closed my eyes to better concentrate on the sound. After a few seconds I opened my eyes and said, “There! Did you hear it?”

Hessler and Ms. Washburn looked at me. “Hear
what
?” Hessler said.

“All I heard was a sort of jumble of screaming and general confusion,” Ms. Washburn told me. Her description was more useful than Hessler's question.

“Yes. How would you describe the general confusion?” I asked her.

I knew Ms. Washburn well enough to anticipate her answer would be to narrow her eyes and say, “General.” But she did not do that. Instead she pursed her lips, trying to come up with the most accurate answer to my question.

“A few moans, possibly Richard in pain,” she said. She closed her eyes to better recall the sound. “Someone shouted out to call the police. But under that was a just sort of hum of either activity or speech. I couldn't tell. Does it matter?” Ms. Washburn opened her eyes and looked at me.

I turned toward Hessler. “May we run the last minute or so again?”

He appeared puzzled but picked up the phone on the desk and pushed a button. “Can you replay the last minute?” He replaced the receiver and the three of us, perhaps reflexively, turned our attention to a screen we knew would be completely black.

Through the obvious coat of paint on the lenses came the sounds we had heard before. Ms. Washburn was correct: Richard's groans were audible, certainly, but after six seconds they ceased as he undoubtedly died quickly. There was the sound of woman shouting to call 911 and some general shouting. Someone shouted, “He's got a gun!”, which seemed superfluous.

But underneath the identifiable sounds was something considerably lower. Not close enough to any of the three cameras and their directional microphones to be higher in the sound mix was an unmistakably familiar noise.

Tyler Clayton was saying, “Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn … ”