The Fed Man (24 page)

She looked at the group again before continuing. “Good stuff, huh? And I have one more for you. The small paint chip discovered at the initial crime scene is a definite match to the paint on the red Nissan that was found in Mr. Schwartz’s driveway.”

She took a deep breath and, feeling that she was on a roll, held up her right hand with the index finger extended. “And the last bit of information I have is that the man shot in the pit by Mr. Washburn was definitely identified as Darius Levinson.” Her shoulders slumped a bit and the smile vanished as she added, “But I still don’t have a clue who this Darius Levinson character is. Do any of you know who or what he is?”

Doug was about to answer when C. J. looked at his partner and held up his hand. “In a moment, my friend. But first, do you all remember at our first meeting when I mentioned the name Edmond Locard?”

Looking around at the group and seeing only a few nods, he continued. “Well, I informed you that he was a criminologist who, about 1910, developed a theory that every contact leaves its trace. What Marie just told us about this criminal proves once again the old boy’s theory about criminals in general, and this one in particular. Dumb, stupid bastards. Pardon me for that, Marie.” With his traditional hand-sweeping gesture, he bowed slightly to Doug and said, “Douglas, would you please enlighten us now.”

“Only if you’re done, my friend.” Seeing the nod from C. J., Doug cleared his throat and stood.

“I hope you don’t mind if I stand, but I sometimes believe I think better while I’m on my feet. Young Mr. Levinson is an interesting character and presents a very interesting story. As you all know, I did go to Duluth to visit with the new juvenile judge, who, by the way, is a very sharp young lady and not only in matters of the law. But she’s also strictly by the book. I presented our case and, after careful review and deliberation, she agreed with my tenet that Minnesota statute 260B.171 allows the court to provide records on juvenile adjudications to a law-enforcement agency if, and this was the salient point of my presentation, the court determines that providing the records will serve public safety. According to the judge, it was a bit of a stretch, but the extenuating circumstances seemed to dictate that she provide us his records.”

He took a deep breath, put on just a hint of a smile, and said, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll sit as I give you the story on Darius Levinson.”

Without waiting for approval, he sat, adjusted his papers and glasses, and continued. “Our perpetrator, Darius Levinson, was born twenty-six years ago in Duluth to an unwed mother by the name of Angela Marie Hoverton. Ms. Hoverton, who has since left Duluth with no forwarding address, apparently thought her young boy needed a father so she married one Arnold Levinson, a serious alcoholic and a deadbeat. He adopted young Darius and gave him his name. Arnold was found dead three years ago.

“And this is where it gets interesting. The medical examiner determined that he was acutely intoxicated with a blood alcohol of .42, but the cause of death was suffocation.”

Looking up from his papers, he went on. “You may have already guessed what he found …” he paused for effect, and then added, “a light green crew sock stuffed down his throat. This case, incidentally, is still in the Duluth PD’s cold-case department with no leads.

“It seems that Darius Levinson started his life of crime at a young age. His first encounter with the juvenile system was at the age of nine, when he destroyed a neighbor’s lawn ornament.”

Doug began running his finger down a list as he continued. “He progressed to petty theft and a number of cases of public vandalism as well as personal injury. It would appear that young Darius was the victim of learned behavior. Apparently, he got the crap beat out of him on a regular basis and seemed to think that the thing to do was to take it out on someone else, especially if they were younger and smaller than he was.”

Looking up from his list, he added, “The judge also volunteered that a number of neighborhood pets were reported as having mysteriously disappeared, but the police were never able to make a connection to the Levinson boy.”

Referring to his notes again, he went on to say, “The juvenile records also mentioned that aptitude tests, IQ tests, et cetera, all showed that Darius was actually a pretty bright young boy, but the records from his school would suggest that he did not apply
himself because he barely passed. Reviewing the reports from his teachers would indicate that some of his passing grades were gifts.”

He pushed the file forward on the table, slouched back a bit, and added, “An additional discovery from his school files is that he was considered by everyone to be a loner. He had absolutely no friends and did not participate in any extracurricular activities.”

Marie raised her hand. “May I ask a question?” Without waiting for an okay, she asked, “Well, how did he come to live in Oak Ridge? I mean, why here?”

Nube leaned forward, looked at Briscoe, and said, “If I may, Mr. Briscoe?” After Doug’s nod and a look at C. J., who also nodded, Nube continued. “We learned that Darius Levinson was living in a dilapidated old trailer house in Oak Ridge for the past year and that he had been working at the local processing plant. We visited with their human resources director and were told that he performed his duties to satisfaction, but, again, he was a loner.”

Marie placed both palms flat down on the table, looked at Nube, and again asked with the suggestion of an edge in her voice, “Yeah, okay, but why Oak Ridge?”

Nube held his hands up, gesturing for her to hang on a minute. He forced a small smile and then said, “I think I can answer your question and bring this whole matter together if you just give me a minute. When we learned Darius’s identity, I asked Naldie to obtain a search warrant so we could enter his trailer house. The place, as you can imagine, was a mess except for one room. He converted one of the bedrooms into a study. We found an old
overstuffed leather chair and a bookcase with just a few books, mainly some poetry by Frost and Henley. Primarily, the bookcase contained, I do believe, every album that Bob Dylan ever recorded.

“Next to the chair was an old leather-bound three-ring binder with the words ‘My Favorite Poems, A Description of Life, A Way of Life’ inscribed in the cover.”

Pushing back, he let out an audible sigh and continued. “Now I want to tell you that that made for some interesting reading.” Passing a number of pieces of paper to everyone, he added, “I’ve made copies of the contents for each of you. I think we’ll find the answers to some of our questions in the one entitled ‘Note to Dad,’ which, I’m sure, you’ll recognize is typed in Franklin Gothic font as were all the notes he left me. Take a few minutes to read it and then I’ll give you what I believe is the final answer.”

They all paged through the sheets Nube had given them until finding the suggested piece.

When everyone had finished reading, he said, “I played a hunch after reading this and asked Dr. Anthony to collect a DNA swab from Darius for me. Then I asked Marie to allow me to review the tubes containing the swabs of all us, which were taken as we initiated the first murder investigation.”

“I chose one and asked Marie to send it to a DNA diagnostic center for a paternity test.” He passed another sheet of paper to everyone. “The results confirmed my suspicions. They showed that there is a 99.99 percent probability that Dr. Joseph Anthony is Darius Levinson’s father.

“I brought this information to Mr. Briscoe and Mr. Stone and, with their approval, I took the liberty of discussing the findings with Dr. Anthony. Obviously, the man is totally devastated. Reflecting, though, he said the timing was right. After his wife died, he moved to Oak Ridge, as we all know. Through his prior connections with the University of Minnesota Duluth, he applied
for and was accepted to co-teach a semester course on forensics. He recalls meeting an Angela Hoverton and that they had a brief fling, but he never knew she became pregnant and he never heard from her again. He said he’s lived his entire life with a hole in his heart because he never had children. It was really sad to see him hold his head in his hands and say over and over, ‘And to think …’

“When he regained his composure, he told me that during the autopsy he performed on his own son, he found a large meningioma, which is a benign brain tumor. This may have caused some symptoms, but he wasn’t sure that it would cause his abnormal behavior. Before I left his office, he informed me that he would be taking a lengthy sabbatical to sort things out.”

Nube pushed back his chair, lifted his arms, and said, “In essence, we have a young boy born out of wedlock whose mother tries to do the right thing by marrying someone so he would have a father who would take care of them. Somewhere along the line, the boy develops a sociopathic personality disorder. His only goal in life is to find his biological father, which, somehow, he was able to do. He moves to Oak Ridge and the story unfolds. But what we don’t know is why he never attempted to contact Dr. Anthony.”

The silence in the room was deafening until Marie spoke up, “But where did he get the drugs?”

Doc coughed and then said, “Let me take a run at that one. Perhaps an easy way to answer that is to tell you the true story of a visit I had with a teenage boy in my office several years ago. I asked him if the drug problem was as bad as everyone thought it was in
our area and if it was easy to obtain drugs. I vividly recall that he just looked at me for several seconds, began to smile, and answered my question with another question, “Just tell me what you want, Doc, and I’ll be back with it in thirty minutes.” He went on to tell me that he could get me anything I wanted except for heroin. It’s sad to say and it’s an indictment on our society, but it’s out there, Marie, and if you have the money and the disposition, you can find anything.”

After allowing everyone time to digest the information they had received, Pete spoke up. “I have a question. What about Sam Washburn? What’s going to happen to him?”

C. J. leaned forward and answered, “I do believe it’s my turn. Doug and I have looked into this on old Sam’s behalf. To insure that there will not be a conflict of interest, we spoke with a colleague of ours in Duluth who will represent Sam pro bono. It’s the thought of all three of us that this is a case of justifiable homicide and Sam Washburn will not be charged.

“Now, there is one last piece of business that I think we need to address.” He went to the door, opened it slightly, and said, “Francie, it’s time.”

He held the door open for their office manager as she entered carrying a large tray with a bottle of Dewar’s twelve-year and a large bottle of Diet Pepsi along with eight glasses of ice. C. J. poured them all a generous glass of Dewar’s and Doug took a glass of Diet Pepsi. He then raised his glass and said, “As we bring this case to a close, I would like to take this opportunity, on behalf of my good
friend Doug Briscoe and myself, to propose a toast to the best crime-fighting, justice-seeking team we’ve ever had the pleasure to work with.”

The ambience of the conference room, which had been quiet and serious, was immediately lightened by the sound of glasses clinking and backs being lightly slapped.

Nube was glad that Steve Smithson had told him he did not have to work on Saturday. The one celebratory drink had led to finishing the bottle of Dewar’s, which C. J., somehow, replaced with a second bottle. His intent was to sleep in this morning, but the early morning sun found its way through his half-closed curtains and seemed to be burning a hole into his head. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and, despite the slight reminder of last night’s celebration, he found himself smiling. He remembered that en route home he drove by the Jamesons just to make sure that all looked well and safe.

His smile disappeared, however, when he remembered that he had to finish his report and send it off to Corrales this morning. He was almost finished with it, but the thought of having to relive the case again this morning was distasteful.

He took a couple of ibuprofen and, after a quick, hot shower, the remnants of last night were gone. He thought about frying some bacon and eggs, but recalled that even after a year of practicing,
he just didn’t have the knack of getting either just right. His smile returned as he thought that must also be a woman’s thing.

It took him an hour to conclude his report and, after reading it for the third time to insure that it was free of typos and complete, he hit the send button. Leaning back in his chair, he ran his hands through his hair while thinking of the next item on his agenda—what would he tell Corrales when he called her?

After reviewing his options and then running each scenario through his mind a couple of times, he stood, took a deep breath, and thought to himself that he would call her later. He had another call to make right now. He could feel the smile grow and the blush begin as he walked to the phone. He dialed the number and on the second ring he heard a small voice say, “Hello.”

“Hey, PJ. This is Nube. How would you like to go hit some balls and then maybe get some ice cream?”