Split Second skamm-1 Read online

King shook his head in disbelief. “It’s Joan,” he said. “She’s been kidnapped.”

  Joan had been staying in a cottage set in the rear grounds of the Cedars Inn. Her purse and phone were on the floor of her room. The tray of food was untouched. The pair of shoes she’d been wearing the day before were lying on the floor; the heel of one of the shoes was broken off. The cottage had a rear door that opened to an area where a car could have been parked and Joan taken out without anyone seeing anything. When King, Michelle and Parks arrived, Chief Williams was there with some of his men, taking statements and collecting the scant evidence available.

  The room attendant who’d set out to bring her food had been thoroughly questioned. He was a young man, employed at the inn for a couple of years, and was visibly shaken by what had happened. He explained that as he was bringing the food to Joan’s cottage, a young woman approached him. After confirming that the food was for Joan, she identified herself as Joan’s sister just arrived for a visit and said she wanted to surprise her sibling by delivering the food herself. It had all seemed innocent enough. And the girl was very pretty and had given him a twenty-dollar bill for his troubles. He’d turned over the tray and gone back to the inn. That was all he knew.

  Chief Williams came up to them. “Damn it, I’m running all over the place with murders and kidnappings. This was a peaceful place not too long ago.”

  With the chief’s permission they took the box of Bob Scott’s materials Joan had been going through, and the three held a quick conference in the parking lot. Parks repeated verbatim the discussion he’d had with Joan.

  “She must have been snatched pretty soon after I hung up with her. She filled me in on Bob Scott. I said Scott certainly could have turned traitor, and he would have been a perfect mole for anybody plotting to kill Ritter, although I know you’re not convinced he did it. We were going to wait for you two to get back from your meeting with Kate Ramsey before planning our next steps.”

  King walked over and looked at Joan’s BMW while Parks went inside to speak to Chief Williams. The police had already searched the car and found nothing.

  Michelle walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “I should have seen this coming,” he answered.

  “How? You’re not psychic.”

  “We’d talked to a lot of people. Mildred Martin was murdered right after we were with her. It’s not a stretch that they’d go after Joan.”

  “Or you! And what were you supposed to do, baby-sit her? I don’t know the woman all that well, but I don’t think she would have stood for that.”

  “I didn’t even try, Michelle. I wasn’t concerned about her safety. And now…?”

  “We still have a shot at finding her. Alive.”

  “No disrespect, but our track record for finding people alive isn’t too good.”

  Parks returned. “Look, I’m going to get a fix on this Bob Scott in Tennessee, and if it’s the same guy, we’re going down there with a bunch of folks and have us a talk. You can join us if you want.”

  “We want,” answered Michelle for them both.

  56

  While Parks went off to investigate Bob Scott, Michelle and King returned to King’s home. Michelle made lunch for them both but then couldn’t find him. She finally spotted him sitting on the dock and joined him there.

  “I made some soup and sandwiches. I’m not a big domestic type, but they’re edible.”

  “Thanks,” he said absently. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Michelle sat down next to him. “Still thinking about Joan?”

  He looked over at her and then shrugged.

  “I didn’t think you two were really friends anymore.”

  “We’re not!” He added more calmly, “We’re not. But a long time ago we were more than friends.”

  “I know this is hard for you, Sean.”

  They sat there for a bit until King said, “She flashed me.”

  “What?” Michelle said sharply.

  “On the elevator, she flashed me.”

  “Flashed you. How?”

  “Trench coat and nothing much on underneath. Come on, admit it, you were probably thinking it was something like that after you found out about her panties on the ceiling.”

  “Okay, maybe I was. But why would she do that? You were on duty.”

  “Because she got a note she thought was from me asking her to surprise me, on the damn elevator. And after the night we spent together, I guess she assumed I meant a suitable follow-up to that show.”

  “If they wanted to set up a distraction with Joan, how would they know when she’d be coming down?”

  “The meet-and-greet was from 10:00 to 10:35. She knew that. So at least whoever was plotting to kill Ritter would know the time window they were working with. The note said to come around 10:30. But even if she didn’t do it, I’m sure they’d have still attempted to kill Ritter.”

  “That was pretty risky for Joan. It’s not like she had to.”

  “Well, sometimes love makes you do crazy things.”

  “So you think that was it?”

  “That’s what she pretty much told me. All these years she suspected I was involved in Ritter’s death somehow. She thought I’d set her up, again somehow. When she saw the note that was pinned to Susan Whitehead, she realized maybe we’d both been used. That note on Susan Whitehead clearly indicated the person was involved in Ritter’s killing. The note slipped under Joan’s door was designed to use her to distract me, under the pretense of being written by me. But she couldn’t tell anyone about the note and what she’d done on the elevator because it would have wrecked her career.” He paused. “She asked me why, if I suspected her and I was clean, I’d never told anyone what she’d done.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t tell her. Maybe I don’t know why.”

  “I think you never really believed she was guilty of anything other than bad judgment.”

  “I saw the look in her eyes when the shot was fired. I never saw anyone more shocked. No, she wasn’t part of it.” He shrugged. “But what the hell does it matter now?”

  “Like you said, love can make you do strange things. And it looks like whoever was behind this knew how you felt about Joan. That you wouldn’t betray her. In effect, both your hands and Joan’s were tied.” She looked at him questioningly. “It’s not a crime to care about someone, Sean.”

  “Sometimes it feels like it is. It’s a little unsettling to have someone come back into your life who you thought was gone forever.”

  “Especially if what you thought eight years ago turned out to be wrong.”

  “I’m not in love with Joan,” said King. “But I do care what happens to her. I want her back safe.”

  “We’ll do all we can do.”

  “That still might not be enough,” he said grimly, and then rose and headed up to the house.

  As they were finishing up lunch, King’s phone rang. When he answered, he looked puzzled and then said to Michelle, “It’s for you. He says he’s your father.”

  “Thanks. I gave him this number. I hope you don’t mind. The cell reception is a little spotty around here.”

  “No problem.” He handed the phone across to her.

  Michelle and her father spoke for about five minutes. She wrote some information down on a sheet of paper, thanked her dad and hung up.

  King was rinsing out the lunch dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher. “So what was that all about?”

  “I told you most of my male family members are police officers. My father, the Nashville police chief, belongs to all the national fraternal police organizations, and is high up in a lot of them. I asked him to do a little digging on this D.C. incident. To see if he could find out anything about an officer being killed around 1974 during a protest.”

  King wiped his hands dry on a towel and came and stood next to her. “So what’d he come up with?”

  “A name. Only
one name, but it might lead us somewhere.” She glanced at her notes. “Paul Summers was on the D.C. police force back then. He’s retired now but lives in Manassas. My dad knows him, and he’s willing to talk to us. Dad says Summers could have some information for us.”

  King pulled on his jacket. “Let’s go.”

  As they were heading out, Michelle said, “Sean, I don’t agree with your keeping what Joan did secret all these years, but I admire you for doing it. There’s something to be said for loyalty.”

  “Really? I’m not sure I agree. In fact, sometimes loyalty really sucks.”

  57

  Paul Summers lived in a thirty-year-old split-level rancher in Manassas, Virginia, that was being infringed on all sides by new housing developments. Summers answered the door dressed in jeans and a burgundy Redskins football T-shirt. They sat in the small living room. He offered them something to drink, but they declined. Summers looked to be around sixty-five or so, with fine white hair, a wide smile, freckled skin, big forearms and a bigger stomach.

  “Damn, so you’re Frank Maxwell’s girl,” he said to Michelle. “If I told you how much your father bragged about you at the national conventions, it’d make you blush redder than this T-shirt I’m wearing.”

  Michelle smiled. “Daddy’s little girl. It does get embarrassing sometimes.”

  “But, hell, how many dads have a daughter like you? I’d be bragging too.”

  “She does make you feel kind of inferior,” said King with an impish glance at Michelle. “But then you get to know her and realize she’s actually human.”

  Summers took on a somber expression. “I been following this stuff about Bruno. It stinks. I worked with Secret Service before, lots of times. And the stories I heard about protectees doing crazy stuff and leaving the Service boys high and dry. You got screwed, Michelle, plain and simple.”

  “Thanks for saying that. My dad mentioned you might have some information that could help us?”

  “That’s right. I was sort of the unofficial police historian when I was on the force, and let me tell you, those were some exciting times. People think America’s gone to hell these days? They should check out the sixties and seventies.” As he was talking, he pulled out a file. “I got some stuff here I think might help.” He put on a pair of reading glasses.

  “In 1974 Watergate was tearing the country apart. Folks were going after Nixon with a vengeance.”

  “I guess some of those events got a little out of control,” said King.

  “Oh, yeah. The D.C. police force was pretty used to large-scale demonstrations by that time, but still you never know.” He adjusted his glasses and read over his notes for a few moments. “The break-in at the Watergate happened in the summer of 1972. It was about a year later that the country found out about Nixon’s tapes. He claimed executive privilege and wouldn’t release them. After he fired the special prosecutor in October of 1973, things really started to snowball and folks started talking impeachment. In July of 1974 the Supreme Court ruled against Nixon with regard to the tapes and he resigned in August. But before the Court handed down its opinion—it was around May of ’74—things got really hot in D.C. There was a huge protest planned along Pennsylvania Avenue with thousands of marchers.

  “We had riot squads out, dozens of officers on horseback, the National Guard, hundreds of Secret Service agents, SWAT teams, even a damn tank; you know, the works. I’d been on the force ten years, had seen my share of riots, and I remember still being scared. I felt like I was in some third-world country and not the U.S. of A.”

  “And a police officer died?” said Michelle.

  “No, a national guardsman,” said Summers. “Found him in an alley with his head bashed in.”

  “And someone was arrested for it,” said King. “But how could they have known for sure who did it? It sounded like chaos out there.”

  “Well, they did make an arrest and they were going to prosecute, but then everything just went away. I don’t know why. I mean the National Guard kid was dead, no doubt about that, and somebody had killed him. The story made the papers, but then the Supreme Court ruled against the president and Nixon resigned in August of ’74, and that dominated everything from that point on. People seemed to forget about the death of the national guardsman. The whole thing just faded away. After RFK and Martin Luther King, Nam and Watergate, I think the country was tired of it all.”

  King leaned forward. “Do you have the names of the people charged, arresting officers, prosecutors?”

  “No, I’m sorry I don’t. You’re talking thirty years ago. And I wasn’t involved in the case at all. I just heard about it afterwards. So I wouldn’t recognize any names you might have in mind.”

  “How about the papers? You said there were stories?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t believe any of them named the parties charged. There was definitely something weird going on there. To tell the truth, the media didn’t trust the government back then. Lot of unethical stuff going on. And I hate to say it, since I was a member of the force, but some of the men in blue did some stuff they shouldn’t back then. They crossed the line sometimes, especially with the longhaired hippies coming to town. Some of my brethren didn’t have a lot of patience for that. It was a real ‘us against them’ mentality.”

  “And maybe something like that happened here; you said the charges just went away,” said Michelle. “Maybe they’d been trumped up.”

  “Maybe. But I really don’t know for sure.”

  “Okay,” said King. “We appreciate your help.”

  Summers smiled. “You’re about to appreciate it a little more.” He held up a piece of paper. “I do have one name for you. Donald Holmgren.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Michelle.

  “Public defender back then. A lot of the protesters that day were really young, and half of them were spaced-out on stuff. It was like all the war protesters—hippies and people like that—had switched their focus to Nixon. So I’m thinking the odds are good that whoever got charged was one of them. If they had no money for a lawyer, they’d be initially represented by the P.D. office. Holmgren might be able to tell you some more. He’s retired now too but he’s living in Maryland. I haven’t talked to him, but if you approach it right, he might open up to you.”

  “Thanks, Paul,” said Michelle. “We owe you.” She gave him a hug.

  “Hey, tell your old man everything he said about you was true. Wish my kids had turned out half as well.”

  58

  Donald Holmgren lived in a townhouse on the outskirts of Rockville, Maryland. His house was filled with books, magazines and cats. A widower now, he was about seventy and had a full head of gray hair and was dressed in a light sweater and slacks. He cleaned some cats and books off his living room sofa, and King and Michelle sat down.

  “We appreciate your seeing us on such short notice,” said King.

  “No problem. My days aren’t that busy anymore.”

  “I’m sure they were much busier when you were at P.D.,” commented Michelle.

  “Oh, you can say that again. My tenure covered some interesting times.”

  “As I mentioned on the phone,” began King, “the incident we’re investigating is the death of the national guardsman around May of 1974.”

  “Right, I remember that case well. It’s not like national guardsmen get killed every day, and thank God for that. But that was some day. I was arguing a case in federal court when the demonstration started. They stopped the court proceeding, and everybody went to the TV sets and watched. Never seen anything like it before and hope I never do again. I thought I was in the middle of the storming of the Bastille.”

  “We understand that initially a person was charged with the crime.”

  “That’s right. Started at first-degree murder, but as details followed, we were looking at getting it knocked down.”

  “So you know who handled the case?”

  “I did,” was his surprising reply. Michelle and King
exchanged a look. Holmgren explained, “I’d been at the Public Defender’s Service about sixteen years, started back when it was just the Legal Aid Agency. And I’d defended some high-profile cases too. But to tell the truth I don’t think anybody else wanted it.”

  “You mean the evidence was so strong against the accused,” said Michelle.

  “No, the evidence wasn’t overwhelming by any means. If I remember correctly, the person charged was arrested because he was coming out of the alley where the crime took place. Dead body, particularly one in uniform, and a bunch of hippies running around throwing rocks, well, that’s a recipe for disaster. I think they arrested the first person they saw. You have to understand that the city was under siege, and nerves were frayed to the breaking point. If I remember correctly, the defendant was some college kid. I didn’t necessarily believe he’d done it, or if he had, that he’d meant to. Maybe there was a scuffle, and the soldier fell and hit his head. Of course, the prosecutor’s office back then had a reputation for trumping up cases. Hell, we had police officers lying under oath, writing up false charges, creating evidence, the works.”

  “Do you remember the name of the defendant?”

  “I’ve tried to think of it since you called, but I can’t. It was a young man, smart, that I do remember. Sorry, I’ve handled thousands of cases since then, and I didn’t work on that one very long. I remember legal charges and defenses better than I recall names. And it’s been thirty years.”

  King decided to take a shot. “Was his name Arnold Ramsey?”

  Holmgren’s lips parted. “Why, I couldn’t swear to it but I think that’s right. How’d you know?”

  “It would take too long to explain. That same Arnold Ramsey, eight years ago, shot and killed Clyde Ritter.”

  Holmgren’s mouth gaped. “That was the same guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, now maybe I’m sorry he got off.”

  “But you weren’t sorry back then?”

  “No, I wasn’t. As I mentioned, back then certain people weren’t so much concerned with the truth as they were with getting convictions any way they could.”