Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission (7 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Late in the afternoon, I was summoned to a meeting at police headquarters for a status report on the investigation. McConnell had temporarily commandeered a small conference room near the office of the Captain of Detectives. The walls were adorned with flip-chart paper identifying investigative leads that had been assigned to each member of the team.

Besides McConnell and me, Burnham from my office and Vince Turner were there. By fate and circumstance, the four of us had become, at least informally, the Vogue homicide investigation team. Also in attendance, much to my chagrin, were Captain Hyrum Locke, head of the Detective Bureau, and Deputy Chief of Police Clarence Puffer.

Puffer was a fifty-something career bureaucrat with a largely unremarkable career that had spanned more than twenty-seven years. He was a likable man of modest abilities whose career had flourished by making few enemies, avoiding controversy, and dodging difficult decisions whenever possible. The best thing I could say about him was that while he wouldn’t be much help, neither would he get in the way. I wish I could have said the same about Captain Hyrum Locke.

Locke wasn’t particularly popular with his own subordinates in the Detective Bureau because of his tendency to seize the spotlight and assume credit for the accomplishments of others. Also, he’d spent several years commanding the Department’s Internal Affairs unit, not an assignment that endeared you to your fellow officers. I decided to keep one eye on the ball and the other on Locke.

“You should all know that Mayor Baldwin has received a second telephone call from Richard Vogue reiterating his demand for a rapid resolution to the investigation,” said Locke. “The mayor is under extreme pressure from the Vogue family. It has also been suggested that I should assume direct command over the investigation. I’ve decided not to do that, at least for the time being. I do, however, intend to work more closely with Kate from here on out.”

Translated, that meant Locke would remain far enough in the background to distance himself from blame if the case went unsolved, yet close enough to seize the spotlight from Kate in the event an arrest was made. The guy was smart and calculating, I had to give him that.

Kate’s nonverbal demeanor suggested that she was irritated with Locke’s interference, but had to be careful how she responded. “Hyrum, it’s a little early to press the panic button. The investigation is still less than forty-eight hours old and we have a variety of solid leads.”

As I guessed, Puffer appeared content to sit quietly absorbing as many details about the investigation as possible. He’d probably been asked to serve as a conduit of information directly to Chief Hansen and indirectly to Mayor Baldwin. Before Locke could respond, Puffer looked up from the legal pad he was scribbling notes on and asked, “So what’s the status of our main subject, this John Merchant fellow?”

“Unfortunately, I personally checked his alibi and it looks solid. If the cigarette butts we found at the scene provide a DNA sample or latent prints, we’ll compare it to Merchant’s. In the meantime, he’s not going anywhere. When he’s well enough, he’ll be transferred from the hospital to the Salt Lake County Jail. He’s looking at several new felony charges and an impending probation revocation hearing. But right now, I’d have to say it doesn’t look promising,” said Kate.

“I should say not,” said Puffer. “Any other persons of interest?”

“Nope, not at the moment.”

“Vince, what have you got for us?” asked Locke.

“I got a warrant for Vogue’s Lexus, which we had towed to the police impound lot. The lab guys found a variety of latent prints but most of them belonged to Vogue. Winkler’s prints were also found, but that’s no surprise. There were other unidentified prints lifted from both the exterior and interior of the vehicle. Some of them will probably belong to other members of the family. I did find a plastic bag containing a half dozen adult video tapes, all of them run-of-the-mill commercial hardcore except one. The amateur tape featured Winkler performing alone and then with our victim doing the horizontal mamba,” said Turner.

That revelation raised a few eyebrows, including my own. “I wonder if anyone else has a copy of that tape. Sue Ann neglected to tell us about that little detail when we spoke with her. Maybe somebody was trying to blackmail him,” I said.

“Worth looking into,” said Locke.

Turner continued. “I’m also working with our burglary dicks to try to identify anyone from the local B&E crowd using the same modus operandi—so far, nothing.”

“Thanks, Vince. Kate, what have you got for us?”

“The autopsy results confirmed that the time of death was between eleven and eleven-thirty p.m. The contents of his stomach included a partially digested Mexican dinner, which was consistent with the statement given to us by Sue Ann regarding their meal at the Starlite Motel.

“The Medical Examiner estimated Vogue was shot from a distance of ten to twenty feet with some type of shotgun. The pellet pattern in the chest wound was dispersed, and the angle of the shot suggested the killer was most likely directly in front of Vogue, not firing from above or below.”

“And the CSI team did or did not find any shell casings?” asked Puffer.

“We didn’t find shell casings and the shotgun was discharged twice,” said Kate. “The chest wound produced serious damage to the heart and would have been fatal within minutes without the second shot to the head. The head shot was delivered point blank with the victim lying prone. Traces of powder burns found on the skin under the chin suggested that the barrel of the shotgun had been placed directly against the flesh.”

Burnham and I then explained the process we would follow in attempting to connect Vogue’s murder to his work on the parole board.

After that, Puffer and Locke stood, signaling an end to our meeting. “Thanks for the update, but, at the moment, it looks like you really don’t have shit,” said Puffer.

***

As soon as I got back on the street, my cell phone rang. It was Patti.

“Sam, we received a phone call about an hour ago that I thought you might be interested in. It might be nothing, but the call was in relation to the Vogue investigation.”

“You’ve got my undivided attention. Tell me more.”

“The caller was an elderly-sounding man who lives in the Avenues about three blocks from the victim’s home. He belongs to a Neighborhood Watch group, and he wants to report a strange vehicle parked in front of his home around the time of the murder.”

Realizing that I was probably embarking on a wild-goose chase, I got his name and address and drove to his home. Baxter Shaw turned out to be a charming, southern transplant, in his early seventies, who still retained a trace of his Southern accent.

I asked him about the vehicle he had observed parked near his home on the night of the Vogue murder.

“Well, it’s probably nothing,” he said. “I couldn’t make up my mind whether to report it or not. But after watching the local news and hearing about that awful murder here in the neighborhood, I thought it best to call someone. I belong to a Neighborhood Watch group, so I try to pay attention to anything going on around here that seems out of the ordinary.

“On the night Mr. Vogue was killed, I looked out my front living-room window and saw a light-colored Ford Escort parked across the street one house down from mine. I’d never seen it before. I’m quite sure it doesn’t belong to anyone living here in the neighborhood.”

“Do you recall what time it was when you first saw the vehicle?”

“Sure do,” he replied. “It was about five minutes before the ten o’clock news started. You see, I watch the ten o’clock news on KSL every night, and then go to bed promptly at ten-thirty after saying my evening prayers. I’ve been following the same routine for years.”

“Did you see anyone in or around the vehicle?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I would have called the police immediately had I seen anybody out there. That’s what we’re supposed to do, you know.”

“You didn’t by chance happen to get a license plate number, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he replied, handing me a folded cocktail napkin with Utah license plate number 184HBC printed on it in a shaky hand. “The car was still parked there when the news ended at ten-thirty, so I walked outside right before I went to bed and jotted down the license plate number. Did I do the right thing?”

“You sure did. This could turn out to be very important.”

I was anxious to leave so I could run a registration check on the plate, but I could tell Baxter Shaw was in no hurry to rush me out the door. He seemed lonely. He told that he’d moved to Salt Lake City sixteen years ago from Savannah, Georgia, after the death of his first wife. He married a divorced Mormon woman and converted to the LDS faith. His second wife had passed away eighteen months ago. He confessed that after his wife died, he returned to two old vices—an evening glass of wine and an occasional smoke with the pipe.

I liked Baxter Shaw. I wondered if Aunt June might like him as well. I decided to give some serious thought to playing matchmaker.

Chapter Sixteen

The license plate number Shaw had provided belonged to a 1995 Ford Escort. The registered owner was Charles Watts, a name that sounded vaguely familiar. The registration showed a Salt Lake City post-office box for an address.

I called the duty probation officer and requested a record check on Charles Watts. Moments later, I had an answer. Charles Watts, alias Chuck Waters, alias Slick Watts, was definitely one of ours. A local thug with a long criminal history, Watts had recently served a five-year sentence in the state prison on an aggravated robbery beef. He had been released from parole after undergoing community supervision for almost three years. I couldn’t recall having had any contact with him either as an inmate or a parolee.

I decided to dig a little deeper into Watts’ background before calling Kate. I wondered which parole board member had heard his case. Was it Levi Vogue? Was there any record of his having made threats against Vogue or other members of the parole board? What kind of an inmate had he been in prison? How had he performed on parole?

Department records confirmed that Watts’ name didn’t appear in the database of offenders who had threatened members of the parole board. The records did, however, portray a troubled history.

At twenty-eight, he had spent almost nine years of his life behind bars. He had served over two years in juvenile prison on two separate commitments. As an adult, he was in and out of county jail and prison several times for a variety of offenses, including his five years on the aggravated robbery conviction. What piqued my interest most was that Vogue had handled his parole grant hearing.

His prison caseworker described him as a model inmate. He worked part-time as a food handler in one of the prison dining facilities, finished his GED, and completed a substance abuse treatment program. His prison jacket was full of accolades from staff, and he had no record of disciplinary problems. After his release, the parole department supervised him for nearly three years without incident.

Seldom one to make the politically correct move, I decided, with a slight nudge from Burnham, to check in with Norm Sloan as previously directed. As much as it pained me, I first called Brad Ford, hoping he might be gone for the day or away from his phone. My good fortune held. He didn’t pick up and the call kicked into his voice mail.

“Brad, this is Sam. I was just trying to touch base and let you know where things stand. I’ll try the old man on his cell.”

Sloan answered on the second ring. “I’ve got good news and bad. Which would you like first?”

“Let’s start with the bad. Then it can only get better.”

“Salt Lake P.D. eliminated Merchant as a suspect. His alibi checked out. He’s an asshole, but in this case, he’s the wrong asshole.”

“And the good news?”

“We may have another suspect.” I then told him about the information provided by Baxter Shaw and the subsequent identification of Charles Watts as a possible perp.

“You consider that good news, Kincaid. Can’t you help Salt Lake P.D. find a homicide suspect
outside
our offender population?”

“Sorry about that, boss. It’s possible that this may turn out to be another dead end like John Merchant.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“I need to inform Salt Lake City P.D. Homicide. I haven’t said anything to them yet. As for Watts, I think we start digging into his whereabouts at the time of the murder, and see where that takes us. So far, we don’t have anybody who can place him near the scene.”

“All right. Let me know what develops. If you can’t reach me, get hold of Ford. Make sure I have a complete copy of Watts’ file on my desk first thing in the morning. And Sam, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten your appointment tomorrow morning with Marilyn Hastings from the Employee Assistance Program. She’s expecting you.”

“I can hardly wait.

“I’ll keep you informed as things develop with Watts.”

“See that you do,” he said, and the line went dead.

***

Burnham and I took the department’s last known address for Watts and drove to the residence. It was a new apartment complex located in an older part of Salt Lake City. The apartment manager told us that Watts had vacated the place one month prior and had left no forwarding address.

From there, we tried his last known place of employment, an all-night restaurant chain near downtown. We learned that he’d quit that job about the same time he moved out of the apartment. He had worked as a cook on the swing shift. The restaurant manager described him as a reliable employee who kept to himself. She didn’t have a forwarding address, but she gave us a home telephone number that turned out to be disconnected.

Burnham telephoned an old friend employed by Utah Power. Within minutes, we were rewarded with a return call that provided us with an address in West Valley City where Watts was listed as the individual paying the utility bill.

Watts lived on one side of a brown brick duplex located on a street filled with identical brown brick duplexes. The home looked empty. There were no vehicles parked in the driveway and no lights were on. I walked quietly onto the front porch, opened the mail box, and found several pieces of junk mail and a utility bill addressed to Watts.

After returning to the office, I was about to call Kate and tell her about Watts when my phone rang. It was McConnell calling to report a major breakthrough in the case.