The Last Innocent Man (19 page)

“Do you do this often?” David asked after a while.

“Curious, aren’t you?” Gault laughed. “Yeah, Dave, I do it often, only I usually don’t get suckered like I did tonight.

“It’s a good feeling when you fight. Even when you get hit. The pain makes you feel alive, and the hitting…there’s nothing like a solid punch. The feeling moves up your arm and through your body like electricity. No, there’s nothing like it, except maybe a kill.”

David stared at Gault in disbelief.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Completely. I’m too tired and sore to joke, old buddy.”

“You actually enjoy hurting people?”

“It’s not the hurting, it’s the not knowing how it will turn out. The fear when you start and the satisfaction when you win.”

“But, my God, you could get killed in one of those places.”

“Sure. And that makes it better. There’s no Marquis of Queensberry rules in the jungle. You play for keeps. We did that in the bush, old buddy. Played for keeps. So did the niggers. Hand to hand with no referee. It makes you feel alive, because when you’re near death or when you end someone else’s life, you realize the value of your own and how fragile that gift is.”

David was shaken. He knew from his association with Gault how volatile the writer’s personality was. And, of course, he knew about Gault’s soldiering. But he had never thought about the writer as a professional killer. He remembered the time when Gault had strung him along about killing his wife. Was this another joke, or had his confession been the truth, after all?

“Life is experience, Dave. Without adventure we die. War makes you alive. Fear makes you alive. You must know that. Why else do you handle murder cases? Come on. Admit it. There’s a vicarious thrill being that close to death and the person who caused it. Doesn’t a little bit of secret admiration ever worm its way into your heart, old buddy, when you sit next to a man who has had the courage to take another human’s life?”

“No, Tom. I’ve never felt that way,” David said.

“Yeah?” Gault answered skeptically. “Well, different strokes for different folks. Right, old buddy?”

David didn’t answer and Gault closed his eyes. The darkened countryside swept by in a blur. Neither man spoke again until they arrived at the lake.

A
STONE WALL
with an iron gate marked the boundaries of Gault’s property. A half-mile driveway led from the gate, through the woods, to an isolated hilltop overlooking a small lake. Gault’s home, with its wood-gabled roof and porous-stone exterior, was modeled after a French country house. David stopped in front and nudged Gault awake.

“Sorry I fell asleep on you,” Gault said. He sat up and stretched. “Why don’t you come on in and I’ll fix you a drink?”

“It’s almost four
A.M.
, Tom. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“You can sack out here. It’ll save you the trip home.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Actually, there was a little legal matter I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Can’t it keep? I’m out on my feet.”

“I’ll get you some coffee. Besides, I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

The house was dark inside and Gault turned on a few lights. He left David in a small study and went for the coffee. The oak woodwork and floors gave the room a Gothic quality that unsettled David. A grotesque mask, which Gault had collected in Africa, hung from the wall across from him, and a gray stone fireplace sat in the shadows to his rear.

“What’s new with Larry Stafford’s case?” Gault asked
innocently the moment he entered the room. David felt his heart skip.

“I don’t know,” David answered. “Jerry Bloch is handling the appeal.”

“That was a tough break for you,” Gault said as he sat down across from David. “I thought you had that one, then that pimp testified.”

Gault paused; then a small smile turned up the corners of his lips.

“Just between us boys, Dave, did he do it?”

“I can’t talk about that, Tom,” David said, hoping Gault would change the subject. “That’s privileged information.”

“Sure, I forgot. Say, what would happen if someone popped up and confessed? You know, said he did it. Would that guy get off because Stafford’s been found guilty?”

“Not if the person who confessed was the killer. They’d let Stafford out and put the real murderer on trial.”

“That makes sense.”

For a moment Gault appeared to be deep in thought. David was very tired and he wanted to get on with Gault’s problem. He was about to speak when Gault said, “I’ve got one for you, old buddy. What if some guy came to you as a client and told you he did it, but he says he doesn’t want you to tell anyone. What happens then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t repeat anything a client tells you, right? I mean, there’s that privilege, right?”

“I see what you’re getting at. I’d have to do some research, but I guess I couldn’t tell anyone about the confession.”

A wry smile played on Gault’s lips.

“And an innocent man would stay in prison.”

There was a wistfulness in Gault’s tone that alarmed David.

“Yes,” he answered uneasily.

“That would put you in a tough position, wouldn’t it, old buddy?”

“Look, Tom, I really am tired. What’s this legal problem that’s so urgent?”

“Don’t want to discuss the murder of that police lady, huh?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t you want to know who did it?” Gault asked in a voice so low that David wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.

“Got your interest now, don’t I? But, hell, if you’re really tired, we can talk some other time.”

David didn’t move and he didn’t answer. He was suddenly very aware of how isolated Gault’s house was. The writer’s eyes twinkled, giving a devilish cast to his handsome features.

“You know, I really felt bad when Larry was convicted. I thought for sure you’d get him off. And there’s another thing. I don’t think it’s fair, his getting all the credit when I did all the work. It’s sort of like someone getting a Pulitzer for a book I ghosted.”

“Are you telling me that you killed Darlene Hersch?”

“That’s right, old buddy. I did it.”

“If this is another joke like that confession to Julie’s murder, it’s in bad taste.”

Gault’s smile widened.

“I killed Julie, too. I want you to know that. And there have been others.”

“Ortiz said the killer had curly blond hair,” David said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“He did.”

Gault stood up and walked over to a desk near the doorway. He pulled a blond wig from the bottom drawer and showed it to David.

“I was so damn famous after that trial, I had to disguise myself every time I wanted a little action.

“You know, Dave, there are some girls that like to get laid by the criminal element, but you’d be surprised at the number that are turned off by the prospect of winding up the evening dead. Actually, I don’t look half-bad as a blond.”

“Why did you kill Darlene Hersch?”

“I’m a little ashamed about that. The truth is, I panicked. I’d been out at a few bars and couldn’t score. Then, what do I behold, but a vision of loveliness standing on the corner.”

Gault shook his head sadly at the memory.

“I had terrific plans for Darlene, but she went ahead and spoiled everything by trying to arrest me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, I panicked. Hit her quick. Then I realized I’d have to finish her. I’d had enough of the law after my murder trial, and I didn’t relish another trial for assaulting a police officer.”

“And the others you mentioned?”

A wistful expression replaced Gault’s smile.

“You know, you’d think I would have been happiest after I made all that money from the books and the movies, but the years as a mercenary were the best times. I felt alive then.

“Life is dull, Dave, deadly dull. One boring, repetitive
act after another, until you die. But a creative person can create experiences. Being rich was an experience. And marrying that bitch movie star. It’s something most people only read about, but I made it happen. Only that gets boring, too, so you have to move on.

“All experiences become boring after a while, Dave, except one. Killing never gets boring.”

“Why are you telling me this?” David asked.

“I trust you, Dave. Especially after the way you worked so hard to defend me when, in your heart, you thought I was guilty. I still remember your closing argument. So forceful. So sincere. And all the time you thought I was guilty as sin. A man who can lie like that can be trusted.

“I’ve wanted to discuss, I guess you’d call it my philosophy, for a long time, but until I learned about this attorney-client privilege, I couldn’t take the risk. Now I feel a lot better, knowing that anything I tell you is confidential.”

David couldn’t move or speak. He felt wasted. Gault studied him, then burst out laughing. David half expected, hoped, that Gault would say this was all a joke.

“Puts you in a predicament, don’t it? Stafford rots in prison because you folded at trial…”

David’s head jerked up and he started to say something, but Gault raised his hand.

“Hey, old buddy, I’m not being critical. It’s just the word goin’ around. I do a little reporting, remember. That means interviewing. There are a lot of lawyers who figured that you could have kept Johnson off the stand if you wanted to. But you didn’t, did you? And we both know why, don’t we?”

Gault winked and David felt his heartbeat quicken.

“What do…?”

“It’s okay, old buddy. We all have our little secrets. And yours is safe with me. I got a tad suspicious when I ran into you and Stafford’s old lady in that cozy dinner spot, so, in the interests of good journalism, I decided to follow you. It turned out to be pretty easy, especially at night.

“Hey, don’t get uptight. I’m nonjudgmental. Shit, a guy who’s murdered a couple of people can’t go around throwing stones at someone for dickin’ a married woman, can he?”

“You son of a bitch,” David said hoarsely.

“Hell, I’m worse than that. But there’s no reason to take this personally, and as I said, your secret is safe with me, just like I know mine is safe with you.”

“You’d let an innocent man stay in prison for something you did?” David said, immediately feeling ridiculous for asking the question of a man like Gault.

“What choice have I got? To get him out, I’d have to put me in.”

Gault walked back to the desk and replaced the wig.

“Tom,” David said cautiously, “I think you need help. It’s a good sign that you’ve decided to talk to me and—”

Gault shook his head, amused.

“None of that psychiatric horseshit, please,” he said, wandering out of David’s line of vision. “I’m not crazy, old buddy. I’m a sociopath. Read your textbooks more carefully. See, I know what I’m doing, I just don’t give a shit, because I don’t have the same moral structure you have.” Gault was directly behind David and the writer’s voice was low, soft, and vaguely menacing. “In fact, Dave, I don’t have any moral structure at all.”

Gault stopped speaking. It was completely quiet in the
house. David’s heart was racing with fear. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move.

“A sociopath operates on a pleasure-pain principle,” Gault continued. “If you and a sociopath were all alone in a dark house with no one around for miles, a sociopath is the type of person who could kill you, just for kicks, if he thought he could get away with it.”

David heard a click near his ear, and he remembered the jagged slash that seemed to divide Darlene Hersch’s neck in two. He dived forward, putting as much distance between himself and Gault as he could. There was a chair across from him and he crashed into it, twisting to face Gault and bringing his hands up to fend off an attack.

Gault watched motionless from the fireplace. He had a switchblade in his hand and he was smiling.

“Not a bad move for a fella who’s not in tip-top shape. Of course, you should never have let me get behind you in the first place.”

David stood up. He was looking around desperately for a weapon.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gault said, “but a weapon wouldn’t do you any good. If I wanted to, I could kill you anyway.”

Gault paused, and David knew it was true. He felt defeated and strangely calm, now that he knew he was going to die.

“But I don’t want to kill you, old buddy,” Gault said, his grin back in place. “Hell, you’re my friend and my lawyer. Why, you saved my life, and it would be plumb ungrateful of me to carve you up the way I did Darlene.”

Gault pocketed the knife and David started to shake all over.

“Being egotistical,” Gault continued, “I have great faith in my ability to judge people, and I made a little bet with myself. Tom, I said, Dave is your pal and an honorable man. If you tell him something in confidence, you can count on Dave’s sense of professional ethics and his friendship to keep your secret. You can trust a man like Dave to die rather than reveal a client’s confidence. Even if it means that an innocent man has to spend the rest of his life in prison. That’s what I said to myself. Now, am I right?”

David wanted to answer Gault, but he couldn’t speak.

“Am I right?” Gault asked again, his mouth a grim line and his eyes hard and cold.

“Why are you doing this to me?” David asked.

“Maybe I’m just a modern-day Diogenes, looking for an honest man. Or maybe I just want to see you squirm.”

“You bastard,” David said, his anger momentarily conquering his fear.

“Now, that’s the wrong attitude, Dave. Getting angry isn’t going to help you out of your predicament. Look at this as if it were a chess problem. White to move and win. Maybe there’s a mate, maybe there’s only a gain of material, or”—and Gault paused—“maybe the person who constructed the problem cheated and there’s no way white can win.

“Now, why don’t you go home and get some sleep? You look worse than I do.”

O
rtiz sat in the back row of the courtroom listening to Judge McIntyre decide the motion to suppress evidence that had been filed by Cyrus Johnson’s attorney. The law was clear, the judge said, that in order to search a person without a search warrant, a police officer had to have probable cause to believe that a search would turn up evidence of a crime, and no time to get a warrant. When Cyrus Johnson was searched, the judge continued, Officer Ortiz did have time to get a warrant, and he did not have probable cause to believe that Johnson would have narcotics on his person. Regretfully, he concluded, he had no choice but to forbid the State to introduce evidence in a trial where the seizure of that evidence violated the mandate of the United States Constitution.

Johnson’s attorney smiled and shook his client’s hand. Johnson did not return the smile. Instead, he looked toward the back of the courtroom at Ortiz. Ortiz was standing to leave. The narcotics officer had known all along what the result of the hearing would be. He had tailored his testimony to fit the latest Supreme Court opinions, so that the evidence against Johnson would have to be thrown out. He had also contacted the district attorney in charge of the case and told him that he had probably acted too hastily in searching Johnson. In light of Johnson’s testimony at Stafford’s trial, he and the DA had both agreed that the drug case should not be that vigorously pursued.

“Hey, Ortiz,” a deep voice called. Ortiz turned and saw Kermit Monroe sitting on a bench by the courtroom door.

“What can I do for you, Kermit?” he asked.

“T.V. wants to see you. He asked me to make sure you didn’t go nowhere before he had the chance to talk.”

“Tell T.V. some other day. I’m busy.”

“Hey, man,” Kermit said, getting slowly to his feet, “why you always have to make things difficult? T.V. said this was important and for you to wait. He got some kind of tip for you. So why bust my balls when he wants to do you a favor?”

Ortiz was about to answer when Johnson walked out of the courtroom.

“You want to see me?” Ortiz asked.

Johnson grinned. “Yeah, I want to see you.”

T.V. shook hands with his lawyer and they parted.

“Let’s go down to my car where I know there’s no bugs,” Johnson said, still grinning. Ortiz shrugged. Maybe Johnson had decided to turn informant. It wouldn’t be the first time a big operator had got scared after some real heat.

They took the elevator downstairs, then walked to the parking structure across from the courthouse. T.V.’s car was parked on the fifth floor, and Monroe slid into the driver’s seat while Ortiz and Johnson got into the leather-covered rear seat.

“Now, what’s so important?” Ortiz demanded.

“You fucked me up, Ortiz. You planted shit on me, then made me stool to get rid of the rap. You made me sit through that court case and spend a lot of money on a lawyer. And you perjured yourself and broke the law. Why did you do all that shit? One reason, right? To get that poor honky Stafford. To nail his butt to the jailhouse door. Am I right?”

“Go on, T.V. You either have something to say or you don’t. I don’t have all day.”

“Oh, this won’t be no waste of your time, Ortiz. See, I wanted you to know that I lied. That bullshit I testified to was just that—bullshit.”

He stopped to let what he had said sink in. Ortiz looked puzzled.

“Oh, Stafford tried to buy a little action and he hit Mordessa, but it didn’t happen the way I said. That white boy wanted some dark meat, but he didn’t ask for nothing kinky. When he got up in the room, Mordessa, that dumb cunt, tried to boost his wallet. He caught her and she started wailin’ on him.

“Mordessa is one mean bitch and she packs a wallop. Stafford had to hit her a good shot just to keep her off him.”

“What about the story you told the police?”

“Hey, I had to think quick when the pigs arrived. I decided to tell them the dude had done somethin’ that
would really embarrass him so he wouldn’t press charges. I just said the weirdest shit I could think of. But that Stafford ain’t no sado-what-you-call-it. Shit, he wouldn’t a done nothin’ if Mordessa hadn’t hit him so hard.

“So you see, my man, the very words which you solicited by illegal means and forced me to say was lies. And you know that jury would have acquitted Stafford if it wasn’t for me. But you can’t tell nobody that I lied without gettin’ yo’self in trouble, can you? Which means you got to live the rest of your life with what you done, while Stafford spends the rest of his life at the state pen.”

Ortiz leaned back in his seat, trying to think. What did it matter if Johnson had lied? Stafford lied, too. He had sworn under oath that he had never gone with a prostitute. Ortiz knew who he had seen in the doorway of that motel room. Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch.

“You know somethin’, Ortiz. You white boys are real sick. That’s what I come to learn, bein’ in this business. You plantin’ that dope on me, Stafford havin’ to buy pussy, and that writer…”

Johnson shook his head and Ortiz looked up at the pimp.

“What writer?”

“The one that beat up Mordessa and wanted her to do all that kinky stuff. Shit, he already got away with murder. Mordessa’s lucky she ain’t the one that got killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mordessa seen him in the papers when he got off. Didn’t recognize him at first, ’cause he was wearin’ this wig when he beat on her. That’s where I got the story from. She was a sight. Said he wanted to tie her up. When she said no, he started kickin’ her and hittin’ her till she cried.
And it takes plenty to make that woman cry. He hurt her bad. Then he kills his wife.”

“Who are you talking about?” Ortiz asked slowly.

“I can’t remember the name. His wife was rich, though, and she was beat to death in that mansion by the lake.”

“Thomas Gault?”

“That’s the one.”

Ortiz stared at Johnson. “You mean that story you told on the witness stand did happen, only it was Thomas Gault that beat up your whore?”

“That’s what I been sayin’.”

“What kind of wig did he wear?”

“I ain’t got no idea.”

Ortiz opened the car door and got out. He felt as if he were drowning.

“Where you goin’, Ortiz?” T.V. asked with a laugh. “You goin’ to church or you goin’ to tell the law that that Stafford boy is in jail, only he ain’t guilty? Only you can’t do that, can you, ’cause you’d have to tell on yo’self.”

Ortiz walked away from the car. The motor started, and Monroe drove as close to Ortiz as he could, squealing his tires as he headed down the ramp. Ortiz didn’t notice.

Just because Johnson lied, it didn’t necessarily follow that Stafford was innocent. But the wig…Gault and Stafford had similar builds. With a blond wig…

Then Ortiz remembered the mystery man that Gault swore murdered his wife. He had been described as being athletically built, of average height, with curly blond hair. A description that would fit Gault if Gault’s hair was curly, blond. And Stafford.

Ortiz remembered something else. Grimes, the night
clerk at the Raleigh Motel, testified that the man he saw driving away from the motel had brown hair that was a bit long. Gault had brown hair, which he had worn long at his trial. If he had removed a wig after killing Darlene, that would explain how Grimes could see a man with brown hair, and he, a man with blond.

Could he have been wrong about Stafford? It seemed impossible for two men to have the same build, shirt, pants, and car. Yet Gault and Stafford were built alike and the pants were common enough.

The shirt? While it wasn’t the most common type, there had certainly been enough of them in Portland. And the car? That was simple enough to check on. Too simple. Ortiz felt his gut tighten. He was afraid. Afraid he had made a terrible mistake. If Gault owned a beige Mercedes, then Larry Stafford might very well be innocent.

G
REGORY WAS FINISHING
some dictation when David entered.

“You’re on the bar ethics committee, right?” David asked, sinking into a chair.

“Yes. Why? You haven’t done anything unethical lately, have you?” he asked, half joking.

“Let me give you a hypothetical and tell me what you think.”

Gregory turned off his dictation equipment and leaned back. His eyes narrowed with concentration and he cocked his head slightly to one side.

“Assume that a lawyer represents A in a bank-robbery case and A is convicted. Later B hires the lawyer to represent him in an unrelated legal matter. While the lawyer’s client, B tells the lawyer, in confidence, that he committed
the bank robbery for which A has been convicted, as well as several other robberies. When the lawyer suggests that B confess to the authorities so that A can be released from prison, B refuses. What can the lawyer do to help A?”

Gregory sat thinking for a moment, then took a book from the credenza behind his desk. He rifled the pages until he found what he was looking for. He read for a few more moments. David sat quietly, staring past Banks through the window toward the foothills. He felt a wave of pain in his stomach and placed his hand over his belt line, gently massaging where it hurt.

“I’d say your lawyer has a problem,” Banks said. “According to
Wigmore on Evidence
and the Canons of Ethics, a client’s confidential communications can be revealed only if the client sues the attorney, in which case the attorney can reveal those confidences that bear on his defense of the client’s charges, or if the client tells the attorney that he is planning a future crime, in which case the attorney can make those disclosures necessary to prevent the future crime or protect those against whom it is threatened. If the communication is in confidence and made while the client is seeking legal advice, the confidence is permanently protected.

“I’m afraid that the lawyer can’t help A in your hypothetical.”

David sat quietly, thinking. Gregory had confirmed what he had believed all along.

“What if the lawyer decided to violate the Canons of Ethics and breach the confidence?”

“He could be prevented from revealing it in court, and the client could successfully resist being forced to corrobo
rate it. You’d have a tough time convincing the authorities to let A out of prison under those circumstances.”

The pain in David’s stomach grew worse. David took a deep breath and hoped that Gregory would not notice his discomfort.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Gregory asked.

David desperately wanted his friend’s help but knew he could not ask for it. How could he reveal what he had done and still maintain Gregory’s respect?

“No, Greg. It was just a hypothetical question.”

Gregory wanted to pursue the matter, but, instead, he asked, “Shall we go to lunch, then?”

“I’m sorry, Greg, but I’m going home. I don’t feel well.”

“Dave, are you sure I can’t help you?” Gregory asked. “If there’s anything bothering you…”

David shook his head. He smiled weakly. “No problem. Just an upset stomach.”

He stood up.

“See you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Banks replied. His brow furrowed, and he did not move for several minutes after David left the office.

“W
HY ARE YOU
interested in Thomas Gault?” Norman Capers asked.

“I’d rather not say, Norm,” Ortiz answered.

Capers shrugged.

“Hell, what do I care? If it will help put that bastard away, I don’t care if I never find out.”

Ortiz was surprised by Capers’s reaction. Norm was an experienced, professional prosecutor who had been in the
DA’s office a long time. He rarely let himself get emotional about a case.

“You don’t like his writing style?” Ortiz inquired lightly, hoping to egg Capers on.

“I don’t like that bastard, period. I’ve prosecuted a lot of people, but he…I don’t know how to put this. Julie Gault…Whoever did that really enjoyed his work.”

Capers paused and examined a thumbnail.

“You know, he was cracking jokes all through that trial,” he continued. “Treated the whole thing like it was a comedy put on for his amusement. Oh, not when the jury was around. Shit, as soon as they filed in, he’d sit up straight and put on this sad look. And on the stand…You know, he actually broke down and cried.

“It was all phony. After the jury went out, he turned to me and winked. But he was terrific on the stand and that’s all those people saw.”

“You think he’s capable of killing someone?”

“Gault? He’s some sort of whiz at unarmed combat. Don’t you know his background?”

Ortiz shook his head. “I wasn’t involved in the case, so I didn’t pay that much attention to it. Just scuttlebutt around the station house and the articles in the papers.”

“Our Tom is a killer, all right. You know he was a mercenary in Africa all those years. There’s a screw loose there. A big one. When he was living in Hollywood, he got into some pretty nasty fights, and I hear he’s been in a few here.”

“Is he a womanizer?”

“Gault? If it moves, he’ll fuck it. And he’s mean there, too. We spoke to a couple of ex-girl friends during our
investigation. He’s beaten up more than one. Very vicious and with a smile, like he was really enjoying himself. That boy is very sick and very clever.”

And, Ortiz thought, Motor Vehicles lists him as the owner of a beige Mercedes.