Lack of Evidence--Pt3

Chapter 3

Julie and I pulled up to the synagogue slowly and the closer we got to the building, the more beautiful it became. We exited the car and walked down a cobblestone path flanked on either side by freshly cut grass to the front entrance, a massive cherry-wood door with an ornate brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Without knocking, I stepped inside.

Judging by the outside, I expected to find beautiful wooden pews covered with expensive padding, hand painted portraits of various religious figures on the walls, perhaps upward lighting to produce an ambience of calm reverence. The synagogue did have pews, but these pews were just rows of chairs, twenty chairs to a row. Each side of the room had thirty rows, the end of each row touching the wall, leaving a walkway in the center of the room. Cheap metal folding chairs. The walls were white and barren. The lighting was low and poor. What a joke.

Sam and my brother Jeff were talking together at the front of the room. I walked in front of them and neither one acknowledged my presence. They were too involved in the conversation they were having, which was like an argument though they smiled every once in a while between breaths.

It seemed as if they were both talking at the same time, but not one word was lost between them. Not once did they appear confused. Since I was being ignored anyway, I sat and listened.

(Approx. 10 lines, 5 sentences each, perhaps recounting the story of Moses striking the rock rather than speaking to it…)

This could take a while, I thought. I stopped listening altogether and waited patiently for the end of this. There wasn’t much that I could do until Caleb called anyway. When they finished talking they hugged as two great friends would upon seeing each other for the first time in years, and then they both trained their eyes on me. I guessed they were wondering why I was here and I was beginning to wonder the same thing. Maybe it was a mistake to bring Sam here, I thought. There were maybe twenty people in the synagogue and it seemed as if every eye was staring at me. I looked around at each person, but no one was looking at me at all besides Possible Killer Sam and my religious nut of a brother. I wondered if people were purposely avoiding looking at me. I was clearly not supposed to be there: an outsider.

(Explain why John is an outsider. Where’d he grow up, what religion did he grow up in. What his relationship like with Jeff.)

I broke the silence. “Sam, you need to turn yourself in. The badge you found isn’t from the Tampa police department. Caleb is a good friend of mine in that department and he will keep you safe.”

“No, I can’t do that,” Sam said. “I don’t know how much you understood of what I told you at your office, but I can’t go to the police. We don’t know who’s involved.”

I argued with Sam for almost as long as he and Jeff had discussed their religion, but Sam wouldn’t change his mind. I said, “Jeff, can he stay with you?”

"What if I just stay here and keep him occupied? John, you’re my bro and I love you, but the wife will be a little uncomfortable with the idea of aiding and abetting a murder suspect."

Before I had a chance to answer, Sam said, “No. As much as I appreciate the surroundings, you can’t keep me here overnight. I am not safe.”

Tyler walked in the door, mad as hell. He was sweating like a fat man that had stayed too long at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Meat Sweats. Tyler wasn’t really obese, although he could lose a few extra pounds and noticeably decrease in size. “Let’s go,” he said, storming up to the front.

“I agree,” I said to Sam, ignoring Tyler.
The lawyer moved to stand directly in front of Sam. He was a pain in the ass, but he was also the best criminal lawyer I knew. I continued to ignore him. “Jeff, just don’t tell Margie the circumstances. We need to get Sam out of here.”

Sam said, “I know the perfect place to stay. It is heavily guarded by pass codes and such, all of which I happen to know. I don’t want to inconvenience you or your wife.”

“Where is this place?” Tyler said.

“The Medical Lab at USF. I was a janitor there once. It was the quickest way to get extra money to pay for my education there.”

“The semester isn’t over,” I said. “Won’t you be caught if the current janitors decide to stop by?”

“I am sure their routes haven’t changed that much. The lab is the worst place to clean and only a masochist would clean it more than once a week. The smell is awful.”

“Did you graduate?” Julie said.

“No, but it didn’t matter. I’d decided to work to become a rabbi and wanted to start as soon as I could. I was raised as a Jew, mind you, but I wasn’t thinking clearly when I was younger and I left my faith to find something more tangible to hold onto.”

“Was that what Michael was doing when he started studying law?”

He chuckled a bit, sadly, “Yes, I suppose it was. Like father, like son. He straightened out all right though. He went into philosophy. In fact, the night he died he was telling me that he had discovered the truth of the Torah.”

Tyler said, “You can’t hide. Like it or not, you need to turn yourself in.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Julie, would you go with Sam to keep him company and keep him out of trouble?”

“Chutzpah!” Sam said. “I am not letting a babysitter tag along with me.”

“If you don’t let her go with you, I drop this case and forget I ever met you. I already told you that I have friends in the PD. If the police were involved, do you think they would be more, or less likely to leave my name out of it when I give you over to them? I want to find your son’s killer, but I need you to cooperate with me.”

“Chutzpah!” Sam said again. I wasn’t sure what that meant --it didn’t sound like a compliment-- but I was sure it was an indication that he would cooperate. He needed me on this case. Any other detective would have had his sorry butt brought into the station already. God only knew why I didn’t.

“Do what you feel you have to Sam. I can’t force you to go to the police and if I told the police you were here you’d run away. So, whatever.”

Tyler scowled and said, “Asking your partner to be an accomplice to a crime, John, fits right in with your sleaze ball reputation. Sam, as your lawyer, I am telling you it is not a good idea. I think you should turn yourself into the police.”
“A warrant for his arrest has not been issued. I agree, he needs to turn himself in, but not right now.”
“I am wasting my energy talking to you.” He shoved a chair in the first pew row back, clanging it back against the others. A wave of pain spread through my skull; the squeak of the chairs against the wood floor and the clang of metal pressed against my eardrum. Tyler walked out.

Everyone in the sacred building heard his tires squealing as he left. A woman in the back of the room walked out the door shaking her fist at him, but no other worshipper else seemed concerned. The party broke up quickly after that.

Julie left with Sam. I headed to the Marlowe residence, picking up Carlos from the station on the way. It was small, brick, with neat shuttered windows and an old rusty doorbell, a stark contrast to the synagogue. The doorbell didn’t appear to be functional, so Carlos knocked on the door. A young woman answered. She was wearing pink cotton pants and a white tee shirt. I expected to see fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet, but she had on tennis shoes. I was amazed at her subtle, natural beauty. I was also pleasantly surprised that she was tall. She could look me in the eyes when she spoke, without straining her neck. I wasn’t a world-record holder, but at six-foot-seven I didn’t often meet many who didn’t have to look up to me. Her eyes were a clear green. Her long, dark brown hair highlighted her mocha-colored skin. If she wasn’t a suspect, I would have asked her on a date.

“Miss Marlowe? I said.

“Yes, can I help you?”

I said, “My colleagues and I are working with the Tampa police. May we come in?”

“Of course. Come in. Wow, I watch COPS all the time. I can’t believe this is happening to me. My name is Raisa.” She said it all in one breath, as if she’d just won the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes and was talking to Ed McMahon. Her guiltless response was unnerving.

We stepped inside the house. For a coffee shop waitress, she lived well. The front room was decorated with many items that, when combined, would have cost a year’s worth of her wages. The centerpiece on the coffee table was an ornate ceramic vase, properly stored in a glass case, which probably dated back several hundred years. I moved from the front room to the adjoining kitchen. The stolen VCR was sitting on top of the refrigerator. Raisa, I thought, could you be a little more obvious? “May I ask where you were at about eight this evening?” I said.

“This evening?” She said. I noticed a South American accent. She frowned and glanced at a pink watch on her left hand. She shook her head. “I was very tired when I got off work at 7:30. I walked home and went to bed. I am fully refreshed now though.”

“I see,” I said. “Do you normally get off at that time?”

“That is my normal shift.”

“What can you tell me about where you work? Common Grounds, right?” I didn’t really care about Common Grounds. She’d already given what I came here for. Now I was just hoping she’d do my minor legwork for me too.

“Yeah. What do you want to know?”

“We are currently investigating something that happened that indirectly is connected with Common Grounds, so I appreciate all the information you can give me.”

“It is a 24-hour joint. Coffee is always hot and good, plus they’ve got donuts and other stuff, so it has kind of become the local hangout for all the college students, especially right before finals when everyone is staying up all night cramming. This is the place they do it. We pour coffee down their throat all night long. It is owned and operated by a Christian church that meets on Sunday evenings. On most weekdays the church rents out the building to the college for study groups, club meetings, and college-sponsored events. My shift is probably the busiest. Our shifts are set up so that there are always two workers in the shop. Virginia Reese takes over for me when I leave. What else would you like to know?”

“You were in the vicinity of Michael Koontz’ residence on your way home. Did you go into the house?”

“Uh.” Raisa hesitated. She put her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth on her heels. “Well, I did walk by last night on my way home from the coffee shop. I didn’t go in.” She took her hands out of her pockets and planted her feet. Then she shrugged slightly. If it wasn’t one nervous habit it was another.

“Walked by? But that was it, right?” I smiled, trying to act as if I saw that this was all a big misunderstanding. I didn’t do very well in the required acting class.

Raisa shrugged again. “Yes.” She frowned. “I see a young man outside the home sometimes, but he never invites me in. I hate him. I mean, how friendly do you have to be to simply say hi to your neighbors once in a while and he doesn’t even do that.”

“Well of course you’re willing to make a written statement, right? That you simply walked by, rather than actually going into the house?”

Raisa frowned. She swallowed hard. “Am I being accused of something? Could I see some sort of identification, please?”

I offered my detective badge. “You are not being accused of anything. I would simply like to talk to you, Miss Marlowe.”

Raisa studied the identification carefully for what seemed to be a very long time, then handed it back. “I’m really sorry, detective, but do I need a lawyer or something?”

“I am not charging you with anything, but you still have the same rights as a person under arrest. You still have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can still be used against you in a court of law. You still have the right to have an attorney present now and during any future questioning. In fact, Miss Marlowe, right now you can tell me to leave your home and I will be forced to leave, but I simply would like to hear your version of the events. Would you like me to leave?” Advising a suspect of their rights was a necessary evil. Suspects often pursed their lips and refused to say another word after the Miranda. When she was actually arrested, I was sure Raisa would clam up.

“Promise you won’t arrest me?”

“At this time I have no such intent, but I don’t promise anything. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary as you passed the Koontz residence?”

“I would like you to leave.” Raisa held her breath a bit.

“Sure thing, Ma’am. I’m done here anyway,” I said. I decided to pay Caleb another visit and tell him about a thief and a liar.