The Silent Places (3 page)

Rhodes looked briefly at Hastings. Hastings nodded and then Rhodes told them about it.

Rhodes said, “I got into the courtroom and took the stand. They swore me in and the prosecutor, Ms. Delaney, conducted her direct examination. She went through the intro—my rank, how many years I’ve been a detective, and all that. Then she asked me about the night of the Ochoa murder. We went through it slowly and then at one point she asked me about the search of the Medeiros residence—”

“Medeiros?” Murray said.

“Yes, sir. Eloise Medeiros. That’s the name of Cavazos’s girlfriend.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“And I said, at some point, I testified that we knew she had been associated with the Furia gang. La Furia. And then I told her how we knew about Cavazos’s role in that. And that was when the defense attorney objected.”

Murray said, “Why?”

“Well,” Rhodes said, “at first I thought it was a hearsay objection. I had been told about Cavazos’s prior threat from a friend of mine at narcotics. In fact, I was sort of ready for that. But that wasn’t what it was. It wasn’t a hearsay objection. The defense attorney objected and approached the bench.”

“Where were you when this happened?”

“I was still on the stand. They didn’t excuse me.”

“So you could hear what they were saying?”

“Yes, sir. They were whispering so the jury wouldn’t hear them. But I could hear.”

“And what did you hear?”

Hastings said to the deputy chief, “You know what he heard.”

Murray raised a hand to Hastings, shushing him and keeping his attention focused on Rhodes. “What did you hear?”

Rhodes said, “I heard the defense lawyer say we had violated the order in limine, you know, the pretrial order, that the judge had previously granted. We weren’t supposed to bring up Cavazos’s gang association or his previous threat to Ochoa—he was the murder victim—over dealer’s territory.”

Captain Brady said, “Then why did you?”

Rhodes said, “I didn’t know about the judge’s order.”

Murray said, “The prosecutor didn’t tell you?”

“No, sir. No one told me.”

Murray shook his head, and that gesture alone almost made Hastings lose his temper. It was unspoken, but it was a clear sign that he did not believe what Rhodes had said. Murray said, “That’s not what she says.”

Then Hastings spoke.

He said, “How do you know? Did you speak to her about it?”

Deputy Chief Murray finally acknowledged Hastings. His expression was angry. Murray said, “I spoke with someone about it.”

“Who?”

Murray gave him a look that told him he’d better watch his step.

Hastings said, “Was it Jaffe?”

Herb Jaffe was the district attorney.

Hastings said, “Or was it the chief?”

Murray said, “That’s not important.”

“Well, it certainly is,” Hastings said. “The issue here is whether or not Detective Rhodes was advised about the order in limine before testifying. He says he wasn’t. You tell me the prosecutor says he was. Well, I’ve discussed this with Detective Rhodes and he’s told me he was not advised.”

“And you believe him.”

“I do.”

“Lieutenant, I can appreciate your loyalty to your man,” Murray said, “but what I’m dealing with—”

“I know what you’re dealing with. A district attorney who’s angry and embarrassed and looking for a scapegoat. If there’s a question about who’s telling the truth here and who’s trying to cover up their own mistake, I think it’s just as likely it was Ms. Delaney as it was Rhodes.”

“So what, then?” Murray said. “Marla Delaney’s lying?”

Hastings said, “I’m not trying to call anybody a liar. I’m just suggesting that—”

“That Marla Delaney is lying about this. There’s no way around it, Lieutenant. Say it or don’t.”

“It’s possible she’s mistaken,” Hastings said. “Why don’t we put it that way, if it’ll make Mr. Jaffe happy? All I know is, Howard is not lying.”

Captain Brady and the deputy chief gave Hastings their serious looks. Feeling comfortable and strong with their authority.

Hastings said, “Look, in an administrative investigation, you have the authority to request that Howard take a polygraph examination. He’s willing to do that. And prove to you that he’s telling the truth.”

Murray smiled and seemed to suppress a chuckle, like it was a juvenile idea. He said, “That’s not going to fix this. What are we supposed to do if he passes? Ask Marla Delaney to take a polygraph?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary.”

Rhodes said, “Sir, I don’t mind taking a polygraph. Whether or not she does.”

Murray gave Rhodes a sharp glance. Now he felt Rhodes was beginning to work with Hastings, boxing him in. His irritation showed, and when he spoke again, he went on the offense.

Murray said, “I must say I find your attitudes very … disappointing. The defendant, Gregorio Cavazos, was a vicious gang leader and murderer. A very bad man and a serious menace to this community. The city of St. Louis would have done well to get him off the streets and into prison. Yesterday, the district attorney’s office was very close to securing a conviction against Cavazos for murder in the first degree. And then Detective Rhodes got on the stand and blew it clean out of the water. The defendant’s motion for mistrial was granted, and now Cavazos walks. He’s a free man. And you two come in here concerned about blemishes on a career. I expected better.”

“So did we,” Hastings said.

The deputy chief caught Hastings’s meaning. He lowered his voice to a warning tone and said, “Excuse me?”

Hastings said, “Sir, we’re sorry that Cavazos was freed. But it is not the detective’s fault. He was not advised of the order in limine. Ms. Delaney probably just forgot to do it. You know how overworked the prosecutors are. But that doesn’t mean we should stand by and let one of my people take the rap for it.”

“Do you have any idea how angry Herb Jaffe is?” Murray said. “The dismissal has been on the news. This is very, very embarrassing to him and to his office. He wants action.”

A moment passed and Hastings said, “You mean he wants this man fired?”

Karen Brady and the deputy chief exchanged looks.

Murray said, “That’s not going to happen. But we do need to do something.”

Hastings said, “You mean you’re actually considering formal discipline?”

Murray didn’t answer him. Neither did Captain Brady.

“Are you serious?” Hastings said.

“George—” Murray said.

“Now wait a minute,” Hastings said. “The district attorney’s office screws up, and instead of admitting it, they’re going to blame it on a cop. A black cop. And you’re allowing this?”

Murray said, his voice almost a shout, “What the hell does his being black have to do with anything?”

Hastings said, “It
shouldn’t
have anything to do with it.”

“Sir—” Rhodes said, suddenly very uncomfortable.

Murray continued staring at Hastings. He was as angry as Hastings had ever seen him.

“Are you implying, Lieutenant, that Herb Jaffe is a racist?” Murray said. “Are you suggesting that
I
would be complicit in such a thing?”

“I’m suggesting, sir, respectfully, that certain people at the district attorney’s office
may
be cynical enough to believe that a prosecutor should be believed over a … detective who doesn’t have the kind of clout others in the department do.”

Captain Brady looked down at her desk. Rhodes looked at Hastings. Hastings looked back at Murray. Murray glared at Hastings.

“Lieutenant,” Murray said, “I’m going to give you a chance to retract that.”

An awful silence filled the room. Moments ticked by.

Then Hastings said, “I’ll retract it, sir. If you will agree not to issue any discipline to Detective Rhodes.”

The deputy chief tightened, and for a moment both Rhodes and Karen Brady wondered if he was going to rush Hastings. But he didn’t.

The deputy chief said, “This meeting is adjourned. Get out, both of you.”

He rubbed the wrist bindings on a sharp rail in the cattle truck. He was patient and thorough, and eventually the friction got them off.

The cattle truck got him to Chicago. He took this as a good sign. It was a big city, easy to hide in, easy to steal from. He had thought about stealing a car at the truck stop. It would have been warmer and more comfortable than the back of a truck. But he knew the theft would be reported and he would probably have been caught. North Dakota was too wide and open—not enough cover. It was better to hide among crowds.

In Chicago, Reese made his way to Marshall Field’s and bumped into a man coming off the elevator. Reese said he was sorry and the man said that was okay and Reese moved off. The man was not aware that his wallet had been taken until he tried to pay for dinner later that evening. By then, Reese had bought a change of clothes and a decent meal.

The meal, he had at an old German restaurant on State Street he had always liked. He ordered the veal and fried potatoes. Accompanied with two bottles of Bass ale. Twelve years since he had enjoyed a good meal, and it was so good, it was almost worth waiting for. Reese knew something about war and combat and he knew that men in battle reminisced more about good food than they did women.

Afterward, he caught sight of himself in a bathroom mirror and stopped and looked at his reflection. It took him aback. A man looking back at him: thin, with short blond hair, graying at the temples. Himself, but someone else. Or maybe he had been someone else before and now he was himself again. Wearing corduroy pants that fit, a crew-neck sweater, and an oxford shirt beneath. A white-collar fellow, an urban professional. To most, an entirely nonthreatening figure. He could be a college professor or a doctor. Was this him? Had a good meal and decent clothes given him a rebirth?

No, it hadn’t.

Reese left the restaurant and walked north. It was a cold, blue-sky Chicago day. The air clean and crisp, the architecture a welcome sight. Reese enjoyed the walk, letting the day and the sights unfold for him. What a pleasure it was to walk outside of a prison’s dog run, a street stretching out long and far, no wall at the end of it. A few blocks of walking and he was no longer cold. He continued for another mile and a half and then he was in a residential area. Tall marbled condominiums and apartment buildings. He saw a city truck pull an old Chevy van out—sideways—from a parking space so it could be towed away. He enjoyed the sight and sound of the friction of the tires dragging across the pavement. Near the tow truck, a woman walking her poodle smiled at him and said, “It’s been there for weeks.” Letting him know the owner of the van had it coming. Reese smiled back, showing friendly agreement. The woman was looking at his clothes and his appearance as if he were a neighbor.

Reese walked another block before turning a corner. There he saw a car he knew he could steal and that he liked. A late 1990s Mercedes-Benz S-Class.

He switched the license plates with those of another Illinois vehicle at a rest stop outside of the city. Then he drove to a small town called Madison, Indiana.

The small white-brick house sat on a cliff overlooking the Ohio River. Reese had left a key to the house under the large brown stone near the front porch. He found the key and let himself in the house. Everything was as it had been. He had not been there for thirteen years. He found his tools in the garage, next to the boat and a Pontiac Bonneville he had left there. He took the tools and returned to the utility room in the house. He pulled the washing machine away from the wall. Then he visualized a sort of square in the wall. Using a hammer and chisel, he knocked out a patch of wall. He pulled the broken bits of wall loose and then out.

Then he illuminated the dark compartment with a flashlight. In the hole, there was a bag containing $114,000 in cash. There was also a passport and other documentation identifying him as Paul Bryan. There was another set of documents for his wife. He left them there.

His hair was darker in the Paul Bryan photos. And he would be over a decade older now than when the photo had been taken. But this could be updated easily enough.

The battery in the Pontiac was dead, so Reese drove into town to buy another one. After replacing the battery, he backed the Pontiac out of the garage and put the Mercedes back in its place. The Pontiac was registered to Paul Bryan.

Reese had dinner at the local Golden Corral. He decided it wasn’t as bad as prison food, but it wasn’t much better, either. After eating about half the entrée, he had a piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee. He enjoyed that part of the meal.

After that, he drove to a movie theater. He thought he would enjoy seeing a movie after all this time. But he only managed to sit through half of it. It seemed like it had been written for teenagers and he didn’t understand why all the people in the theater were laughing. He also found that he missed being outside. He left the theater and went for another walk.

And as he walked, he thought again of time. Units of time. How he used to battle those units. Him on one side, time on the other. He had been thinking about time during the movie, wondering how much longer the movie was going to last. Maybe that was why he had left.

That night, he walked along a country road. Between cornfields and under starshine. He walked and he thought. And he planned.

The next morning, he drove the Pontiac to the local convenience store and picked up a copy of
Auto Trader
. Then he drove to a local diner and paged through it while he ate. He circled three cars, all of them being offered by private sellers.

The first seller was a housewife, whose husband was at work when Reese showed up. She was lonely and unattractive. She was also curious about him, asking him questions about his family and where he came from. Reese, the ex-spy, handled it well enough. But he made an early decision not to do business with her or her husband.

The second seller was an elderly, retired couple wanting to unload their Lincoln Continental. They lived in a house next to a massive RV. In the driveway next to the Lincoln was a small SUV that could be hooked up to the RV. The couple seemed decent enough and didn’t seem overly curious about him. But the old man wore a blue cap bearing the insignia of the USS
Enterprise
. Reese asked if he had been in the navy. The old man said he had. A retired master chief with thirty years in. It was enough to spook Reese. He’d never met a dumb master chief. The old man might be very good at remembering him, remembering things about him. Reese told the old man he’d give the Lincoln some thought and get in touch with him.