Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3) (2 page)

He held her for a moment, then released her and moved into the hall, followed by the others. “Where is he?”

“In the Court.”

Poulson briskly led the group down a broad hallway. They passed through the Great Hall’s vast expanse of Alabama marble and rows of monolithic columns, collective footsteps ricocheting off the hard floor, black robes flowing behind them. A security guard snapped to attention. He’d never seen all nine of them walking as a group through a public area before.

They passed through huge double doors leading into the courtroom. The doors closed behind them with a heavy sigh. They rose and looked toward the bench, then tentatively moved up one of two interior aisles. There, seated in the Chief Justice’s chair, was Clarence Sutherland. His head was cocked to one side, which caused wavy blond hair to droop in that direction. He appeared to be smiling, although it was more of a grimace. He was dressed in the same slate gray suit Poulson remembered him as having worn the previous day, green paisley tie neatly knotted against his Adam’s apple, pale blue lisle button-down shirt curving to the contour of his vest. The only thing unusual was his forehead. In the center of it was a small, crusted hole from which blood had erupted over his right eye and down to his upper lip, where the beginnings of a moustache had trapped it and kept it from flowing further.

“He’s dead,” Morgan Childs said, stepping closer and craning his neck to get a better look.

“Murdered,” Temple Conover said.

“In the Supreme Court,” Chief Justice Jonathan Poulson added, like a judgment.

Lieutenant Martin Teller of the Washington Metropolitan Police Department took a bite of prune Danish. His phone hadn’t stopped ringing since Clarence Sutherland’s body was discovered. He’d just hung up on the head of security for the Supreme Court, who had cleared him for twenty-four-hour unlimited access to the court building until the investigation was over. Now, he was talking to a reporter from
The Washington Post
. “You know more than I do at this stage,” he said. “Yeah, that’s right, it was a .22 and he was sitting in the Chief Justice’s chair when it happened. Other than that… what? Who told you that?… Your sources are privileged? Wonderful, so are mine. Sure, I’ll get back to you the minute we come up with something.” How many times over the years had he said
that
?

He hung up the phone and finished the Danish, washing it down with the cold remains of a container of coffee. He opened a file folder on his desk marked SUTHERLAND, C. HOMICIDE, and read the only two pieces of paper in it, then closed it and lighted a clove cigarette. He’d discovered cloves six months earlier while trying to quit smoking, his rationalization being that they tasted so bad he’d be reluctant to light one up. It hadn’t worked. He was now a two-pack-a-day clove cigarette smoker.

The phone rang. “Detective Teller,” he said.

“Good morning,” a pleasant female voice said. “This is Susanna Pinscher at the Justice Department. I’m calling about the Sutherland matter.”

“Matter?” he muttered to himself. At Justice even a murder was a legal “matter.” “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’ve been assigned to the case over here at Justice. I was told you’d be handling it at MPD and thought we should touch base.”

Touch base… boy, she had all the lines. Still, it made sense. “Okay.”

“Look, Lieutenant Teller, could we get together this afternoon? I’d like to set up a system to pool information.”

“Do you have any?”

“Any what?”

“Information. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Just background on the deceased, the circumstances of his being found, how he was killed.”

“We’re even.”

Her sigh wasn’t lost on him. He’d try to be more cooperative. “It’s been a tough morning, Miss Pinscher. Sorry if I seem short. Sure, let’s get together.”

“How about three this afternoon?”

“No good for me. I’m interviewing Sutherland’s family then.” He silently debated it, then asked, “Want to come with me?”

“Well, I… yes, thank you, I appreciate the offer.”

“I’ll meet you in front of Sutherland’s house at three. Know where it is?”

“I have the address. What kind of car should I look for?”

“Forget the car. You’ll know me immediately.”

“Really? How?”

“I’m the handsomest detective on the force, a cross between Paul Newman and Walter Matthau.”

“And modest as all get out.”

“Yeah, that’s me. See you at three.”

He hung up, stood, stretched and looked out his window over a blustery October Washington day. “Almost winter,” he muttered as he rolled down his shirt sleeves. The right cuff flapped open. He’d noticed the missing button while dressing that morning but was running late. Besides, all his other shirts were missing buttons too. He slipped on his suit jacket and went to a small cracked mirror hanging crookedly near the door. Some days he felt younger than his forty-six years, but this wasn’t one of them. His reflection in the cracked glass didn’t help. He’d put on weight and was developing jowls beneath prominent pink cheeks. Loss of thin, brown, straight hair had advanced enough to cause him to start parting it lower so that the long strands could be combed up over the balding spot. “Moonface,” he’d been called in high school. He smiled as he turned to retrieve the Sutherland folder from his desk. No matter what age had done to him, he looked better now than when he was in high school. At least the acne was gone.

Five minutes later he was seated around a small, scarred conference table with his superior, Dorian Mars, four years younger and possessing a master’s degree in criminology and a Ph.D. in psychology. Also at the table were four other detectives assigned to the Sutherland case.

“This is the most important case in my career in law enforcement,” Mars said, puffing on a pipe. He looked at
Teller. “It’ll be a pressure cooker until it’s solved, Martin. They’re already talking bottom line. Which means our collective neck if we don’t handle things well…”

Teller nodded solemnly and adjusted the buttonless cuff beneath his jacket sleeve. He opened the Sutherland folder and said, “We’ll stay in the kitchen, Dorian, no matter how hot it gets,” wishing he was able to curb a recent tendency to mimic his boss’s penchant for the well-worn phrase.

***

He was late getting to the Sutherland house, a huge and sprawling white stucco and red brick home set back on four acres in Chevy Chase. The original house had reflected the Federal style of architecture popular during its construction in 1810. Numerous additions and wings had transformed it into a more eclectic dwelling.

Parked in front of a long, winding driveway was an MPD squad car. Two uniformed officers stood next to it. Another car was parked twenty feet further up the road. Teller pulled his unmarked blue Buick Regal behind the second vehicle. The door opened and Susanna Pinscher stepped out, a nicely turned pair of legs leading the way. Teller was immediately aware of her beauty. He judged her to be about five feet four inches tall but she carried herself taller. Clean, thick, black, gently wavy hair with errant single strands of gray fluttered in the breeze. Her face was definite and strong, each individual component prominent yet in sync with the others. She was fair, with full, sensuous lips etched in red, large expressive green eyes defined by an appropriate amount of mascara, rouge so expertly applied to her cheeks that the color seemed to emanate from within.

She extended her hand and smiled. He took it and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay. I just got here. You are Martin Teller?”

“You didn’t know me right off?”

She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Definitely Paul Newman. I don’t see the Matthau, though.”

“I think we can work together, Miss Pinscher. Come on.”

They walked up the driveway. He allowed her to get ahead of him and took in her figure. A subtle pleated plaid skirt swung easily from her hips. She wore a blue blazer over a white blouse. She suddenly stopped, looked over her shoulder and asked, “Coming?”

“I’m with you.” So far.

They told a uniformed black maid who they were, and she asked them to wait in the foyer. Teller looked around and whistled softly. “It’s bigger than my whole apartment.”

“He’s a successful psychiatrist,” Susanna said.

“There are poor ones?”

The maid returned and led them across a vast expanse of study and through another door, then along a corridor until reaching a separate wing. She knocked on heavy sliding doors. They opened and the maid stepped back to allow them to enter.

“Good morning, I’m Vera Jones, Dr. Sutherland’s secretary. I hope you don’t mind waiting. This dreadful thing has taken a toll on everyone, especially the immediate family.”

“Of course,” Susanna said.

The patient-reception area, which was also her office, was decorated in subtle earth tones, spacious and strikingly neat. Two sharpened pencils were lined up perfectly parallel to each other on top of a yellow legal pad on her polished desk. A large leather appointment book was squared with the corner of the desk.

Everything in order, like the woman, Teller told himself.

Vera Jones appeared the last word in a dedicated, organized secretary. Fortyish, tall and slender, her clothing was like her hair, matter-of-fact, nondescript, functional and
not likely to detract from whatever business was at hand. She held herself erect and moved through the office like a blind person who knows her surroundings so intimately that a stranger would assume she was sighted. Her face was a series of sharp angles. Her mouth, wide and thin, was undoubtedly capable of being drawn even thinner under pressure.

Still, Teller thought, this could well be a sensuous woman. He’d come to the conclusion after his divorce that sexuality had nothing to do with sexiness. The overtly sexual female wearing provocative clothing, flirting, leading conversations into sexual innuendo was likely to be deceptive. He’d come to appreciate and trust subtlety, respond to it. He glanced at Susanna, who’d taken a leather wing chair next to Vera’s desk, and wondered at her style.

Vera sat behind her desk and checked the pencils’ alignment. She sighed; her breasts rose beneath a forest green sweater. Teller noticed their fullness. He took a matching chair across from Susanna and asked, “How long have you worked for Dr. Sutherland, Miss Jones?”

The turn of her head was abrupt, as though the question had startled her. “Twenty-two years,” she said.

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes, it is.” She paused, looked down at the desk top. “Is there any possibility of postponing this interview?”

“Why?” Teller asked.

“It seems so… so unnecessary considering the personal tragedy the family must face. The boy hasn’t even been buried yet.”

“That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Teller looked at Susanna before saying, “I don’t like it either, Miss Jones, but I don’t make the rules.”

A faint light came to life on a compact telephone console
on her desk, accompanied by a gentle bell. “Excuse me,” she said. She got up and disappeared through a door.

“What do you know about him?” Teller asked Susanna.

“The doctor? Probably the most famous psychiatrist in Washington, confidant to the rich and powerful, a special advisor to the former administration on mental health issues, very rich and powerful, a world figure in his profession.”

“What about his kid?”

“Clarence? Very little except that he’s dead, murdered in the Supreme Court, of all places. He graduated from law school with honors and probably had a prestigious law career ahead of him.”

“What else?”

She shrugged.

“I understand he was considered one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors.”

“That’s natural in a city with more women than men.”

Vera returned and said in a soft voice, “Dr. Sutherland will see you now.”

His office was surprisingly small, considering the dimensions of the rest of the house. A glass coffee table in front of a beige couch served as his desk. Two orange club chairs faced the table. A comfortable brown leather recliner was in front of a draped window immediately to the couch’s left. On the wall behind the club chairs was an ornate dark leather couch, its headrest curving up like a swan’s neck.

“A relic,” Dr. Sutherland said coldly from behind the glass table as he noticed Teller’s interest in the couch. He hadn’t stood when they’d entered.

Teller smiled. “You don’t use it?”

“Seldom, only when a patient insists. Most don’t. Please sit down.
You
can use that couch if you’d like.”

Teller looked at the leather couch, turned to Sutherland and said, “Thanks, I think I will.” He sat on it and extended a leg along its length. Susanna sat in one of the club chairs.

Dr. Sutherland leaned back on his couch and took in his visitors with restless eyes beneath bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He had a full head of white hair that threatened to erupt any moment into disarray. He was deeply tanned—sunlamp or Caribbean vacations? Teller wondered. His dress was studied casualness, sharply creased twill riding pants, boots shined to a mirror finish, a blue button-down shirt and pale yellow cardigan sweater. He evidently was aware that he was being scrutinized because he said, “I’ve canceled all professional obligations since this tragedy with my son.”

“Of course,” Susanna said.

“My condolences,” Teller said.

“Thank you.”

“It was good of you to see us,” Susanna said.

“I didn’t expect both of you. Mr. Teller had made the appointment. Might I ask what official connection you have in this matter?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Susanna Pinscher. I’m with the Justice Department. Naturally, when something of this magnitude occurs, we’re brought into it.”

“The world is brought into it,” he said, removing glasses that changed tint with the light, and rubbing his eyes. “Have either of you ever lost a child?” he asked.

“No,” Teller said. “It must be tough. I have a couple of kids…”

Sutherland replaced his glasses on his nose and looked at Susanna. “Do you have children, Mrs. Pinscher?”