AHMM, April 2009 Read online

  Irish clenched his teeth. Grenades were a sore subject. The last time Irish told Pacheco to go screw himself, he and Mucker ended up doing six years in the federal pen on an explosives beef. Irish in Supermax in Colorado. Mucker in Sheridan, Wyoming. They'd only been out two months.

  "Go screw yourself."

  "I wouldn't go down that road again, if I were you."

  "You ain't me. And you can't touch me on this thing. No D.A. is gonna build a case on a greasy Burger King receipt."

  Pacheco knew that, too, but that wasn't his point, so he pushed on.

  "What I haven't quite figured out is what you were doing with those punks,” Pacheco said. “The way I hear it, they spent five years hanging around the Oakland chapter but never made the cut. Something about missing drugs or cutting a deal with the Aryan Brotherhood. Or maybe it was because they didn't step up in that Hot August Nights shootout in Reno. Or maybe it was rumors about them being informants."

  Irish shrugged. “I wouldn't know anything about all that."

  "That's what I figure. And I also figure you don't know something that's even more peculiar than Billy claiming he needed two generators.” Pacheco surrounded the last two words with air quotes. “Much more peculiar.” Pacheco raised his eyebrows. “You want to know what it is?"

  "I don't give a—"

  Pacheco stopped Irish again with a wagging forefinger. “That was another rhetorical question.” Pacheco grinned. “Remember, you're the guy that wanted to be a suspect."

  Irish rolled his eyes. “Asshole."

  "The peculiar part...” Pacheco squinted up at the ceiling. “No. I'll get to that later."

  Pacheco drew a large square on his legal pad.

  "You know why I like investigating homicides?” Pacheco didn't wait for Irish to begin to answer. “It's because sometimes they're like their own little world."

  Irish's eyes glazed over.

  "A little too abstract.” Pacheco drummed his fingers on the table, his face brightened. “How about this? We're about the same age. You ever read those kids’ crime novels when you were growing up?"

  Irish didn't respond. Pacheco guessed he finally caught on to playing the part of a suspect, one who already invoked.

  Pacheco continued. “The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew and those locked room puzzles. I liked those a lot when I was a kid. A dead guy in a locked room and you had to figure out what happened just from the evidence inside those four little walls."

  Pacheco drew four small circles in the square.

  "Except in this case, in our little world, there's more than one person inside. One of them is dead, but there's still three left."

  Pacheco looked up at Irish. “Just nod if you're still with me."

  Irish tried to look impatient. “If that's what it takes to get this over with."

  "I'll take that as a nod,” Pacheco said. “Now, as long as the survivors don't say anything that conflicts with the physical evidence, then they can claim whatever they want about what happened inside. They can make up any kind of story. Any kind. And I mean that, literally.” Pacheco squinted up toward the ceiling again. “Or maybe it's figuratively.” Pacheco smiled. “I guess it depends on whether they're telling the truth."

  Irish's eyes flickered.

  "I know what you're thinking,” Pacheco said. “There's different kinds of physical evidence.” Pacheco knew that wasn't at all what Irish was thinking. “One kind is what you could call intrinsic evidence. You know what intrinsic means."

  Irish nodded even though it wasn't a question.

  "Like blood spatter and gunshot residue and slugs in walls. If those fit together right, maybe they don't actually prove self-defense like what Billy says happened, but at least they don't contradict it. So we can't use that kind of evidence against him."

  Pacheco raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward the empty chair. Irish looked at his watch, put on a sour face, then walked over and sat down.

  Pacheco pushed on. “Then there's what we might call extrinsic evidence. Things that connect the little inside world to the big outside world. Like chemical receipts, like when people are cooking meth in a garage. Like what Mucker was doing."

  "You learn all this shit in detective school?” Irish asked. “Or you just make it up as you go along?"

  "A little of each,” Pacheco answered. “But hang on a little longer so I can get to the peculiar part."

  Irish glanced at the door. “I know where I want to get."

  Pacheco ignored him. “The peculiar part is that Billy and his brother left something really important out of their story. Really important.” Pacheco displayed mock puzzlement. “I wonder what that could be?"

  Irish grinned at Pacheco. “Was that a rhetorical question?"

  "Of course. I only ask rhetorical questions of suspects."

  "Suspect? I'm not sure anymore what I'm suspected of."

  "Nothing."

  "Then why am I a suspect?"

  "Because you signed the Miranda form."

  "I only signed it because I thought you were accusing me of killing Mucker."

  "You know I wasn't accusing you. Billy already said he did it. I told you, all you can be is a witness."

  "What about the 148.9?"

  "We agreed that was chicken shit."

  Irish threw up his hands. He reached across the desk, grabbed the form, then tore it up. “Then why are we going through all this?"

  "We're going through all of this to get to the peculiar part.” Pacheco again drummed his fingers, this time ending with a thump of his forefinger. “That's why."

  "It's like this.” Pacheco leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “Every time I've investigated a case where the killer claimed self-defense, the suspect is begging me: ‘Go ask Tommy or Johnny or Sonny. They saw the whole thing.’ No exceptions. Not in twenty-seven years wearing a badge. The more witnesses the better. Always. They know the weight of testimony is exponential—I assume you know what exponential means."

  "Was that a question?"

  "You can answer questions now. You tore up the Miranda form."

  "I know what exponential means."

  "And that's just the way it plays out in court. Exponential—” Pacheco spread his hands. “—it's like when snitches testify. One snitch, the jury believes sometimes—sometimes not. They always wonder if the snitch is lying for money or to get out of jail. But five snitches, juries always believe—even if all of them are getting paid off with cash or get-out-of-jail-free cards."

  "I ain't no snitch."

  "I didn't say you were. I was just using an analogy. It's just a way of saying that you'd think Billy and his brother would want to have as many people supporting their story as possible. Maybe they could've kept themselves from getting arrested in the first place. In fact, I've been sitting at my desk for days waiting for them to call, begging me, ‘Go ask Irish. Go ask Irish,’ but there they are, sitting in jail, silent as sleeping snakes.” Pacheco exhaled loudly. “Makes you wonder. Doesn't it?"

  Irish propped his elbows on the table, then rested his chin on his folded hands.

  Pacheco pulled out the ID tech's report. A diagram of the garage on the first page, arrows pointing to where shell casings and blood spatter were found. He then withdrew crime scene photos showing a tire iron in Mucker's right hand.

  "Billy's self-defense story is perfect,” Pacheco said. “It precisely matches the little world of the garage crime scene. Preeee-cisely. Mucker comes after him with the tire iron, and bang-bang he's dead. Billy's even got a bruise on his forehead."

  Irish glanced at his fingerprint on the Burger King receipt.

  "Exactly,” Pacheco said, “but they didn't know you left that little gem behind."

  Pacheco withdrew another latent fingerprint. “Or this one from the tire iron in Mucker's hand.” He held it up. “Whose print do you think this is?"

  Irish laughed. “You know how many times I've been in Mucker's garage in the last twenty years. Hundreds. I'
ve been there seven, eight times just since we got out of the joint. My fingerprints are all over that place."

  "I know that,” Pacheco said. “That's why you're not a suspect."

  Irish nodded. “Damn right."

  "In fact, the chances are slim we'll even convict Billy. All Billy has to do is get up on the witness stand and his statement to me comes in. It's the rules of evidence. He tells the jury, ‘I told the detective right away it was self-defense. He just refused to listen to me.’ Then Billy's brother hops up there and corroborates it. And the jurors look over at me thinking, ‘You idiot. He told you it was self-defense and you can't impeach him with the crime scene evidence. That's called reasonable doubt. Why are you wasting our time?’ They take his statement into the deliberation room and it sits there like a pothole too big to drive around. Chances are pretty good we lose and he walks out the door.” Pacheco shrugged. “Knowing all that, I think the D.A. will probably tell me to cut them loose; never even make them go to court."

  Pacheco rose, then paced the room like a college professor following a train of thought.

  "But, still, you've got to ask yourself why they left you out of the story.” Pacheco stopped, then looked at Irish. “If it was me, I know I would be asking myself that. Exponential is exponential. One more witness makes it a slam dunk not guilty—especially if that witness isn't a blood relative. That's what I'd want if I was facing life in prison. I'd want a sure thing. After all, they're not forensic scientists, they don't know if they've accounted for every spot of blood, every bruise, every fingerprint, every greasy footprint on the garage floor.” Pacheco jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “In fact, I'll bet they're wondering about that very thing sitting over there in the jail."

  Irish picked up the Burger King receipt. “Maybe the guy who dropped this came and left before the shooting,” Irish said. “Maybe there wasn't no other witness."

  Pacheco shook his head. “Not possible. I timed the ride from Burger King. It's twenty minutes away driving—and the guy who owns that fingerprint never walks. Neighbors heard Harleys ride up, but none left until a minute after the shooting.” Pacheco paused, then glanced at the receipt. “The timing says the finger that made this print was there when Mucker got killed."

  Irish didn't argue.

  Pacheco paced again without speaking for a full fifteen seconds. He finally stopped, then turned toward Irish. “So the question is, why didn't they mention you were there?"

  Irish didn't answer.

  "How about this: They had about a week to get their stories together before we arrested them, what with us having to process all the fingerprints and DNA, then finding the shack where they were holed up. And all that time they knew they'd get in even deeper shit if they gave the name of a Hell's Angel to a cop, trying to use him as a witness. HA's kill for that."

  Irish nodded slowly. Nobody's stupid enough to commit that kind of suicide.

  Pacheco furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “But I'm not sure that had anything to do with why they exercised your right to remain silent.” Pacheco raised a finger. “I've got another theory."

  "I figured.” Irish put on an exasperated expression.

  Pacheco paused, hands extended toward Irish, ready to reframe the question. “You ever watch soap operas?” Pacheco asked.

  "I don't bother with that crap."

  "If you did, you'd know what they do when they're going to kill off a character."

  "What do they do?"

  "What do they do?” Pacheco smiled, anticipating the punch line. “They just write him out of the story."

  Irish dropped his hands to the table. Pacheco finally got his attention.

  "And you know how the guy playing the part finds out?"

  "No. How does the poor unemployed bastard find out?"

  Pacheco reached into an envelope and pulled out Billy Willis's signed statement, then slid it across the table. “Somebody shows him the script."

  * * * *

  "I didn't think Billy and his brother be coming after me that fast,” Irish told Pacheco two weeks later in the same interrogation room.

  "Me either. The D.A. only dropped the charges yesterday afternoon. It even crossed my mind that they might chicken out, load up their Harley saddlebags, and make a run for it.” Pacheco focused on the bruise above Irish's left eye. “What happened?"

  "Depends who I am this time."

  "That's up to you. But you've been a suspect for so many years it's kind of hard for me to think of you as victim."

  Irish grinned. “It's a new part for me too."

  "All I know at this point is that the crime scene guys said there must have been a hell of a struggle. Looked just like the inside of Mucker's garage, but a whole lot bloodier—and of course, it's Billy and his brother that's laying there dead."

  Irish held his grin. “I think you got yourself another one of those locked-room puzzles."

  "Then it's pretty much in your hands to tell me what happened."

  "I don't think so.” Irish leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I'm gonna invoke my rights. The way I figure it, it worked perfect last time. Just ... perfect."

  Pacheco reached into his folder and pulled out a Miranda form. He wrote the Willis brothers’ homicide case number at the top, then slid it over to Irish, who signed it and slid it back.

  Irish started to stand, but Pacheco froze him with a raised palm. “There's something I should tell you, so you'll know what you're facing."

  "What's that?” Irish dropped back into his chair.

  "There's a witness."

  Irish grinned again, this time broader, almost taunting. “There were two witnesses, and now they're dead."

  "That's what I mean."

  Irish's grin turned to cardboard, his eyes narrowed.

  "I told you Billy's statement matched the physical evidence,” Pacheco said. “But I didn't say it was true.” It was Pacheco's turn to grin. “It took me a few days, but I figured it out.” Pacheco paused. Even after all those years interrogating suspects, he still enjoyed the dramatic moment.

  One, one thousand.

  Two, one thousand.

  Three, one thousand.

  "You killed Mucker—"

  Irish sat up. “Bullshit—"

  "Still pissed off that he wouldn't take the fall in the grenade case. They were his, right? Cost you six years of your life."

  Irish clenched his jaw.

  "So when Mucker went after Billy in the garage, you said to yourself, ‘I ain't going down again.’ A heartbeat later, you splattered Mucker's brains all over his workbench. Then you made those two weasels cover for you. Billy wrote you out of the script because you told him you'd kill him if he left you in."

  "I think my lawyer would call that wild speculation, maybe even—"

  "Then you got to thinking after we talked two weeks ago. You reckoned that Billy and his brother would roll on you the first time they got caught dirty. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Even I knew they cut and ran in Reno, leaving real Hell's Angels bleeding out in the street. Punks like that are afraid to do time. You know it. I know it. They know it ... well, knew it.” Pacheco jabbed a forefinger at Irish. “You started kicking yourself: ‘Why didn't I just cap all three? Not leave any witnesses.’”

  "That's even wilder—"

  "And a couple miles away, Billy and his brother were sitting in jail shaking like toy poodles, thinking you'd come after them as soon as they got out. They decided to make the first move and hit you before you hit them, but you were lying in wait.” Pacheco pointed at the bruise on Irish's forehead. “And I'll bet you've got a first-rate self-defense story all made up, just like the one you put together for Billy."

  "You're going off the deep end. I wasn't even there when he killed Mucker."

  "Your fingerprints were all over the place. We agreed on that last time—"

  "That doesn't mean shit—"

  "But that's not what's going to send you to the
joint for the rest of your life. What's going to send you away is that you lied about being there at all.” Pacheco shook his head. “Stupid, stupid thing to do. Jury's going to decide that only a guilty man would lie about that. Should've kept your mouth shut."

  Irish laughed, dismissing Pacheco with a wave of his hand. “You can't use what I said. The court'll throw it out in a heartbeat. I invoked."

  Pacheco removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his sports jacket, then dumped the torn up Miranda form on the table.

  Irish's voice turned hard. “Don't screw with me, asshole. That was because you said I was a witness, not a suspect."

  Pacheco smiled sheepishly. “I guess I was wrong."

  Irish opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. He stared at Pacheco for a long moment, then smiled to himself as he settled back in his chair. “Nice try, pal, but no cigar. You should've made this move when Billy was still alive. All you got left is Billy's statement saying he killed Mucker. And he ain't around no more to contradict it."

  Pacheco shook his head. “That's not how it works. I guess you weren't paying attention last time."

  "I hung on your every word."

  "Tell me if this sounds familiar: ‘All Billy has to do is get up on the witness stand and his statement comes in. It's the rules of evidence.’ Same for his brother."

  Irish's eyes widened. He wasn't a rocket scientist, but the causes and effects snapped together in three quick jolts: No Billy. No testimony. No statement.

  "It's like it never existed,” Pacheco said.

  Irish's body froze in his chair, but his eyes darted around as if looking for a physical escape from a legal straitjacket.

  Pacheco shook his head slowly. “I can't believe in all your cases your lawyer never told you that."

  Irish's eyes stopped moving.

  "But maybe he didn't need to,” Pacheco said.

  One, one thousand.

  Two, one thousand.

  Three, one thousand.

  "You said it yourself a couple of minutes ago."

  One, one thousand.

  Two, one thousand.

  Irish licked his lips.

  "There were two witnesses,” Pacheco said, “and now they're dead."