Close Case (8 page)

By eleven o’clock, the wine was gone, the dishes were washed, and even Gloria Gaynor was tired. Grace was hugging my father goodbye and Chuck was trying desperately to cajole a sneering Vinnie out of his dog bed, when Chuck’s cell phone interrupted.

“Lucky save,” I called out behind him, as he left the room to answer. I scooped up my now-compliant Frenchie and placed him in a laundry basket with the gifts I had been given—in spite of my explicit instructions.

Chuck’s call was a short one, but I could tell from the look he gave me when he returned to the dining room that something was up. We said a quick final goodbye to Dad; then Chuck broke the news to me on the porch.

The night was still young. We were going to East Precinct.

Before its designation as an interstate freeway, the stretch of I-84 running east from the bridges of downtown Portland to the gorges of the Columbia was labeled Highway 30. Despite the renumbering, the federalization, and the widening and ramping of a freeway through the middle of the city’s eastside neighborhoods, longtime locals still call the road the Banfield.

For our drive to East Precinct, Chuck eschewed the Banfield—as he usually does in favor of a straight shot down Division Street. He has never explained his aversion to the interstate, but I suspect it has something to do with Governor Charles Landon Forbes’s opposition to the project’s proposal more than twenty years ago. Chuck and his former-governor father aren’t what you’d call close these days, but some of a son’s earliest impressions are as much a part of him as his blood type and eye color.

From the passenger seat, I observed a blunt reminder that the city’s economic rise—and resulting gentrification—had not yet made its way eastward. We passed miles of blocks that had little to do with the Portland I knew and loved but which were mentioned all too frequently in the crime reports that filled my working days. With only a few exceptions, the streets here were suffused with used car lots, biker bars, strip clubs, head shops, discount appliance stores, so-called “lingerie modeling establishments,” and motor lodges that advertised the availability of cable. The apartment complexes and small houses that plugged the gaps had been populated for generations by welfare families—primarily white—who produced daughters who bore children to predatory men twice their age who despite so many promises never came around again.

“I feel like shit showing up here from a party,” Chuck said, as he parked his ’67 Jag in the precinct lot on East 106th. “I didn’t think Mike would be working this late.”

When I had told Chuck I’d offered Mike as a resource on Jessica Walters’s vandalism investigation, he had immediately wanted to serve at his side. I’d guilt-tripped him into staying put. Given what seemed like a tenuous connection between our murder and Jessica’s smash-and-grabs, I had feared bureau retribution for using MCT overtime to chase down vandalism leads. And yet here we were.

Fortunately, Chuck’s not much of a drinker, so he was good to go on the investigation. I’d had a couple, but the DA’s office left it to the attorney’s discretion to decide whether we were OK to work after hours. I know, it’s frightening.

Mike had called Chuck to notify him that he had arrested Todd Corbett, white male, nineteen years of age. Officially, Corbett had been brought in based on probable cause for the smashing of the front window at Noah’s Bagels on Northwest 23rd and Hoyt. The probable cause came from six different citizens who called the bureau’s help line after the local ten o’clock news led with a bystander’s home video footage of a previously unidentified male running from Noah’s, his baseball bat held high.

But the real reason Corbett found himself in the box with an MCT detective, instead of holding the ticket that was standard for most property crimes, was because Mike couldn’t help but be curious about a pissed-off kid with a chip on his shoulder, a bat, and a vicious swing, just minutes away from the spot where Percy Crenshaw’s head had been smashed in.

After showing our respective badges to the woman staffing the reception counter, we were buzzed through the front entrance, then worked our way down a series of hallways to the darkened observation area beside the interrogation room where Calabrese was questioning Corbett.

Through the one-way glass, I got my first glimpse of Todd Corbett. If he was in fact Crenshaw’s murderer, the most remarkable aspect of his appearance was how unremarkable it was. Aside from the cuffs that secured his hands behind his back, Corbett looked like any nineteen-year-old kid you might find ringing up cigarettes at a quickie mart. Even seated behind the laminate table, I could tell he was tall and lanky. His brown hair was probably meant to be shorter, but was overdue for a trim, hanging across his eyebrows. His thin upper lip was lined with a layer of facial fuzz, his chin sporting a matching tuft. He wore a small gold hoop through his left earlobe, a Trailblazers wind jacket, oversized blue jeans, and high-tops. A baseball cap—likely backwards when worn—rested on the tabletop, a sign that he had either offered or been forced to show some respect for Calabrese.

“Why’s Mike in there alone?” I asked Chuck. It was standard MCT practice to have another detective present during an interrogation, at least outside the room. Always better to have an additional witness.

“Because I was at your dad’s house watching you and Grace act like twelve-year-olds,” he whispered hurriedly, his attention devoted to the dynamic on the other side of the glass.

“Shouldn’t he have found someone else?”

“He was showing mug shots to some witnesses in Northwest when the public information office called him with the info on Corbett. A couple of East Precinct guys helped with the pickup, but I assume they’re back out on patrol.”

“Why does he still have cuffs on?”

“I’m sure Mike’s got a reason. Can’t hurt to scare the kid a little, right?”

“Are you going in?” I asked.

He shook his head and hit the button that turned on the sound, so we could hear what was being said on the other side of the glass. “I will if he needs me. He knew we were on our way.”

Mike leaned the entirety of his impressive weight toward Corbett’s face, supporting himself with both hands against the table. “Here’s the problem, Todd. You say you were at home watching TV but you don’t know what you were watching, there was no one home with you to help you out on that, and meanwhile I got a videotape that shows you, a baseball bat, and a whole lot of broken glass—”

“And I told you that was bullshit,” Corbett said, his narrow chest thrust forward.

Mike leaned in farther still. “Don’t interrupt. We still got the best part. See, if you watched as much TV as you claim, Todd, you’d know about Channel Twelve. They aired the home video tonight, including a nice big still of your pretty face—a face that’ll be nothing but problems for you inside, by the way. I got seven citizens who tell me it’s you.”

Corbett sat on that for half a minute, biting his lower lip nervously. “Yeah, well, maybe I got some people out there who don’t like me or something.”

“Well, I ain’t got a grudge against you, and I saw the pictures too. Even I can tell it’s you.”

Another pause and some more lip gnawing from Corbett. “So maybe I got a long-lost twin out there. I’ll talk to my mom about it.” He forced a laugh, but his bluster had died down considerably.

Mike stood, gave Corbett some space, then sat in the chair across from him. “Look, you and I are getting off on the wrong foot here. Let me be truthful. I been around long enough to have some perspective. I know damn well there’s worse crimes out there. Way worse. You know what I’m saying?”

Mike kept his eyes on Corbett, his new good-cop persona waiting for a response. Corbett shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “I guess.”

“And I already checked your records. You’re not a bad guy. Maybe a couple juvie pops for drinking, but no real priors. The truth is, Todd, I can see how it probably happened. You’re with some buddies downtown. People start getting rowdy. The police show up with gas and everyone starts freaking, am I right?” Corbett said nothing, but his expression showed he was thinking. Mike scooted his chair back from the table and crossed one ankle over the other knee, getting cozy with his new pal. “Actually, when I was your age—a little younger, maybe—me and my crew did something similar back in the Bronx. We got busted spray-painting a dick and some titties on the Kip’s Big Boy—you know those big statues of that goofy kid in overalls?”

Corbett let out an uncomfortable chuckle. I couldn’t help but wonder whether there even was a Big Boy in the Bronx. I was certain, though, that Calabrese had never been busted for defiling him.

“Anyway, couldn’t have been the crime of the century ’cause here I am.” Mike paused wistfully, then looked his target directly in the eye. “What I’m trying to say is, I can understand how you might have done something last night that was out of character. What I can’t understand, and what’s pissing me off, is you sitting here lying to my face about it.”

I had noticed that Mike wasn’t mentioning the Crenshaw murder. He was probably trying to assure Corbett that we hadn’t made the connection yet between Crenshaw’s Hillside death and the relatively benign chaos on the streets below. If Mike could lock Corbett in as armed, out of control, and just blocks from Percy’s house, he’d have more leverage as the questioning continued.

Corbett was still thinking. Chuck and I exchanged glances. We both recognized the signs: One more go from Calabrese should do it.

Mike saw this too and went for the close. “I’m more likely to cut you loose tonight with a citation if you just come clean with me. Otherwise, I can book you as a custody until a judge arraigns you tomorrow on felony criminal mischief.”

To some, that part of Mike’s act might sound like a threat to punish a suspect with arrest for refusing to confess. Courts, however, view this common police tactic as a lawful
offer of lenience
—a ticket instead of an arrest—in exchange for cooperation. Mike was being aggressive, but so far so good on the books.

His generous “offer” was enough to get Corbett talking. “So you’re saying you’ll let me out of here tonight with a ticket if I tell you what happened.”

“I see what you’re saying. You want to lock me in on that. You’re smart. You’re thinking,” Mike said, tapping his finger against his temple. “Yeah, sure, you’ve got my word.”

I looked at Chuck, worried, but he lifted his chin toward the window to tell me to keep watching. He trusted Mike to know the rules.

“I promise,” Mike said, holding up one hand, “if you come clean with me, I’ll write you a cite for the crim mischief. I won’t book you on that charge.”

“For real?”

“That’s my absolute word.”

I looked away for a moment, coming close to feeling a little sorry for Corbett. He had no clue as to what was about to happen. Then I remembered where my sympathies lay just a few hours earlier in Percy’s office, and I steeled myself. Mike’s job was to get the evidence, and my only job was to make sure he didn’t violate the law getting it. If the law let us sucker Corbett, and Corbett was willing to be suckered, so be it. Corbett’s defense attorney could feel sorry for him later.

Then, as I sensed he would, Corbett laid out for Mike the events that led to the rampage down 23rd. Not coincidentally, his version was much like the one Mike had set up for him in advance. Minding his own business. Clashes between cops and protesters. Caught up in the crowd. Not something he’d usually do. Yada yada yada.

He did add one fact—the influence of methamphetamines. The drug of choice for poor white trash like Corbett, crystal meth guarantees at least six hours—if not days—of complete euphoric mind melt. Users lose all control over their judgment, emotions, messianic power complexes, and voracious sexual appetites. Last month, I convicted a defendant who had axed his best friend to death after a meth binge for reasons he would never understand. Once Corbett threw a little meth into the picture, the progression from rowdiness to broken windows to random assaults—and possibly to Percy’s murder—seemed almost predictable.

Now that Corbett had admitted the vandalism, Mike just needed him to explain the rest in his own words. “Here’s the problem, Todd. Where’d the bat come from?”

A glimmer of worry crossed Corbett’s face but quickly disappeared. “That wasn’t mine. My friend had it in his car.”

“I figured as much,” Mike said. He removed a still photograph from a file folder on the table and laid it in front of Corbett. “That’s the picture they showed on Channel Twelve tonight. That right there is obviously you”—he pointed at Corbett’s face—“but right here on the side is another guy’s jean jacket. And on the video, it looks like he’s running next to you. Problem is, we can’t see his face. If you’re going to tell me it’s not your bat, you need to tell me whose it is. Otherwise, you take all the blame and you’re still a liar.”

“You never said anything about giving anyone else up.”

“That was before you told me the bat was someone else’s. And what did I say about coming clean?”

Corbett paused again, perhaps simply to comfort himself that he had at least hesitated before naming names. “It was Trevor’s.”

“Last name?”

“Hanks. Trevor Hanks. He lives near me, over on a hundred-fourth and Knight.”

Mike scratched the name down in his notebook, then stood again. “Anyone else?”

Corbett shook his head. “Nope. Just me and Trevor. There were plenty of other people acting crazy up there, but I don’t know who they were.”

“You’re not holding back on me, are you?”

“No, man.” Mike believed him. “I told you. We were totally fucked up. I don’t even remember half of what happened, but I know who I was with.”

Chuck called Ray Johnson to pass on the new name. He had already put together a throw-down including Corbett’s DMV photo. The plan was to show it to the superintendent who’d seen the men in the parking lot before the murder. They’d create another array now for Hanks, pasting his photograph next to those of five similar-looking men.

“Has Johnson found the super yet?” I asked.