“I’ll report on the plastic bags first,” Verona told the others. “Four of them bear fingerprints matching Cynthia Ernst’s.” As they all knew, police officers had their prints recorded, and they were not removed from the files when someone left the force.
The ID chief continued, “Then there’s the handwriting on the labels. We have a couple of handwritten memos in our files from when Commissioner Ernst was a major, and our handwriting expert says it’s a perfect match.” He shook his head. “To be so careless … she must have been crazy.”
“She never intended any of this to be found,” Knowles said.
“Keep going,” Newbold told Verona. “There was a gun.”
“Yes, a Smith & Wesson .38.”
One by one, the ID supervisor listed the checked items and results:
The revolver bore the fingerprints of Patrick Jensen. Several years previously his house had been broken into, and he had let himself be fingerprinted to compare his prints with others left by the thief. Routinely, Jensen had received his fingerprint card back, but what he and other non-suspects were not told was that copies often were retained on file.
The gun, sent to the firearms lab, was loaded and fired into a tank of water. Immediately after, the bullet was placed in a double microscope along with one of the two original bullets removed from the dead victims. The distinctive markings on both bullets, put there by the rifling of the gun barrel, were identical. The same was true of the second crime-scene bullet. “There’s no doubt whatever,” Verona declared, pointing to the box. “This is the gun that was used to kill both those people.”
Bloodstains on a T-shirt and sneakers found in the box showed the presence of both Naomi Jensen’s and Kilburn Holmes’s DNA.
“Then here’s the clincher,” Verona announced, producing an audiotape cassette. “This is a copy; the original is resealed and back in the box. Apparently it’s a statement by Jensen of how he did the killing. But there are gaps. It looks as if someone else’s voice was originally on the tape, but has been wiped out.”
He produced a portable player-recorder, inserted the tape, and pressed PLAY. As the tape ran, there were several seconds of silence, then sounds like objects being moved, followed by a faltering male voice, at moments choking with emotion, though the words were clear.
“I didn’t plan it, didn’t intend … but always hated the thought of Naomi with someone else … When I saw those two together, her and that creep, I was blinded, angry … I’d been carrying a gun. I pulled it out, without even thinking, fired … Suddenly it was over … Then I saw what I’d done. Oh God, I’d killed them both!”
A silence followed. “Here’s where someone wiped the tape,” Verona said. Then, again, the same voice from the player.
“… Kilburn Holmes … He’d been seeing Naomi, was with her all the time … People told me.”
Verona stopped the tape. “I’ll leave you to listen to the rest. It’s bits and pieces, obviously answers to questions that were erased, and all the same voice. Of course, I can’t say for sure it’s Jensen speaking; I’ve never met him. But we can run a voice test later.”
“Make your test,” Ainslie said. “But I can tell you right now, that was Jensen.” He was remembering their encounter at Elroy Doil’s execution.
When Julio Verona had left, there was a silence, which Leo Newbold broke. “So, anyone have any doubts?”
One by one the others shook their heads, their expressions somber.
The lieutenant’s voice was distressed. “Why? In God’s name, why would Cynthia do it?”
Ainslie, his expression anguished, raised his hands helplessly.
“I could make some guesses,” Curzon Knowles said. “But we’ll know better when we’ve talked with Jensen. You’d better bring him in.”
“How do you want us to handle that, counselor?” Ainslie asked.
Knowles considered, then said, “Arrest him.” He gestured to the box that Verona had left. “All the evidence we need to convict is here. I’ll prepare an affidavit; one of you can take it quietly to a judge.”
“It was Charlie Thurston’s case,” Newbold pointed out. “He should make the arrest.”
“All right,” Knowles agreed. “But let’s have as few people involved as possible, and warn Thurston not to talk to anyone. For now, we must continue keeping a lid on this, screwed down tight.”
Newbold asked, “So what do we do about Cynthia?”
“Nothing yet; that’s why we need a tight lid. First I have to talk to Montesino. Before we arrest a city commissioner, she’ll probably want to go before a grand jury, so Ernst mustn’t even hear a whisper.”
“We’ll do our best,” Newbold acknowledged. “But this stuff is red hot. If we don’t move fast, word will fly.”
By early afternoon, Detective Charlie Thurston had been called in and given the arrest warrant for Patrick Jensen. Ruby Bowe would accompany him as backup. Newbold told the balding veteran, Thurston, “We don’t want anyone else knowing about this. No one!”
“Fine by me,” Thurston acknowledged, then added, “For a long time I’ve wanted to collar that prick Jensen.”
From Police Headquarters it was only a short distance to Jensen’s apartment. Ruby, at the wheel of an unmarked car, said to Thurston on the way, “You got a problem with Jensen, Charlie? You sounded pretty intense back there.”
Thurston grimaced. “I guess bad memories got to me. When the case was running, I saw a lot of him, and from the beginning we were positive Jensen killed those two people. But he was arrogant as hell, all the time acting as if he knew we’d never nail him. One day I went to ask a few more questions and he laughed, told me to beat it.”
“Do you think he’ll be violent?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Thurston chuckled. “So we’ll have to take him in unmarked. Looks like we’re here.”
As Ruby stopped the car a few yards from a six-story brick building on Brickell Avenue, Thurston surveyed it. “Guy’s come down in the world a bit; had a fancy house when I last knew him.” He checked the warrant. “Says here apartment 308. Let’s do it.”
Moments later, at a push-button panel by the main glass doorway, the third-floor number was confirmed, though neither detective had any intention of alerting Jensen from below. “Someone’ll come soon,” Thurston said.
Almost at once a slight, elderly woman wearing a tam, tweeds, and high boots appeared in the hallway inside with a small dog on a leash. As she released the door, Thurston held it open and showed his identification badge. “We’re police officers, ma’am, on official business.”
As Ruby produced her badge, the woman peered at both. “Oh dear, and just as I’m leaving! Is this going to be exciting, Officers?”
Thurston responded, “’Fraid not. We’re just delivering a parking ticket.”
The woman shook her head, smiling. “I read your badges. Detectives don’t do that.” She tugged at the dog’s leash. “Come, Felix; it’s plain we’re not wanted here.”
Thurston rapped twice on the door of apartment 308. They heard movement inside, then a voice. “Who is it?”
“Police officers. Open up, please!”
In the door a small circle of light appeared as a peephole was used, followed a moment later by the sound of a latch, and the door opened. As it did, Thurston pushed it wide open and strode in. Patrick Jensen, wearing an open sport shirt and slacks, stepped two paces back. Ruby, entering behind Thurston, closed the door.
Thurston, arrest warrant in hand, spoke crisply. “Patrick Jensen, I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murdering Naomi Mary Jensen and Kilburn Owen Holmes … I caution you that you have the right to remain silent. You need not talk or answer questions … You have the right to an attorney …” As the Miranda words rolled on, Thurston watched the other man’s face, which seemed strangely unperturbed. It was almost, the detective thought, as if this moment had been expected.
At the end, Jensen said quietly, “May I phone him from here?”
“Yes, but I have to check you for a weapon first.” While Jensen held up his hands, Thurston patted him down, then announced, “Okay, sir, you can go ahead and use the phone. One call.”
Jensen went to it and tapped out what was plainly a familiar number. After a moment he said, “Stephen Cruz, please.” A pause, then, “Stephen, it’s Patrick. Remember I said a day might come when I’d need your help? That day is here. I’ve been arrested.” Another pause, then, “Murder.”
Jensen listened with the phone to his ear; obviously Cruz was giving him instructions. He replied, “I haven’t said anything, and I won’t.” Addressing the detectives: “My lawyer wants to know where I’m being taken.”
Thurston replied, “Police Headquarters—Homicide.”
Jensen repeated the information, said, “Yeah, see you soon,” and hung up.
“We’ll have to handcuff you, sir,” Ruby Bowe said. “Would you like to put on a jacket first?”
“Actually, I would.” Jensen sounded surprised. Going to a bedroom, he buttoned his shirt and slipped on a jacket, after which Ruby swiftly secured his hands behind him. “You guys are being pretty polite about this,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Doesn’t cost us anything,” Thurston acknowledged. “We can go the rough route when we need. We prefer not to.”
Jensen looked at him intently. “Haven’t we met before?”
“Yes, sir. We have.”
“I remember now. I was pretty obnoxious at the time.”
The detective shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“Not too long for an apology—if you’ll accept it.”
“Sure.” Thurston’s voice became coolly matter-of-fact. “But I think you’ve got a lot more than that to worry about right now. Let’s get moving.”
Ruby Bowe was speaking on her radiophone.
“They got Jensen and they’re on the way,” Ainslie told Leo Newbold and Curzon Knowles. Since their earlier session Knowles had been away, consulting with his superior, State Attorney Adele Montesino, and had just returned.
“Jensen’s already called his lawyer,” Ainslie added. “Stephen Cruz. He’s on his way, too.”
Knowles nodded. “Good choice. Cruz is tough, though he can be reasoned with.”
“I know him,” Newbold said. “But however good he is, nothing can argue with the new evidence we have.”
“I have an idea about that box of evidence,” Knowles continued. “Before Jensen gets here, why don’t we take that box to an interview room, open it, and spread everything out on the table? The moment Jensen sees it all, he’ll know he’s cooked, and maybe start talking.”
“Great idea.” Newbold glanced at Ainslie. “Malcolm, will you set it up?”
At Police HQ, Jensen was in the course of being processed—fingerprinted, photographed, his pockets emptied, their contents stored and recorded, other paperwork proceeding. He was, he knew, enmeshed in the cogs of an impersonal machine. Who knew when he would be free from it, if ever? While concerned, at this moment he found himself not worrying all that much.
Ever since the detectives’ arrival at his apartment, his thoughts had been in a curious limbo. He had long feared what had so recently occurred; at moments in the past it had been a haunting nightmare. But now that it was reality the immediate fear was gone—perhaps, he thought, because of the inescapability of whatever lay ahead. In a foolish moment of passion and emotion he had committed a capital crime, and now, according to the law and in whatever way the judicial system chose, some punishment was likely. Being human, he would use every possible means to escape or diminish that punishment, though only later would he know how good those chances were.
Of course, at this point he still did not know what had changed to prompt his arrest so suddenly, but he knew enough of the system to realize it was something important and compelling. If it were not, he would have been brought in for questioning before a warrant was procured.
After the routine processing, Jensen, still handcuffed, was taken in an elevator up several floors to Homicide. There he was escorted to an interrogation room—nowadays, in official “soft-speak,” referred to as an interview room.
Jensen was hardly through the doorway when he saw on a table ahead the opened box bearing Cynthia Ernst’s personal blue sealing tape. And, beyond the box, its contents—laid out one by one in a neat, highly visible, condemning row.
Involuntarily Patrick stopped, all movement frozen, as enlightenment, despair, and a sudden hatred of Cynthia exploded in his mind.
Moments later, having been pushed forward by his uniformed police escort, he was directed to a chair, handcuffed to it, and left alone.
It was a half hour later. Malcolm Ainslie, Ruby Bowe, Curzon Knowles, Stephen Cruz, and Patrick Jensen were all, by now, gathered in the interview room. Leaving Jensen alone for the intervening time had been deliberate on the detectives’ part.
“I’m quite sure you recognize all of this,” Ainslie said to Jensen, gesturing to the assortment on the table. Everyone was seated except Ainslie, who circled the table as he spoke. “Especially the gun that killed your former wife, Naomi, and her friend Holmes. Incidentally, the gun has your fingerprints all over it, and it fired the bullets that killed them both—all of that has been certified by experts who’ll testify in court. And, oh yes, there’s a tape recording, unmistakably your voice, in which you describe exactly how you killed them both. Would you like me to play that?”
“Don’t answer that question,” Stephen Cruz advised. “If the sergeant wishes to play a tape, let it be his decision. Also, you do not need to respond to those other things he said.”
Cruz, a small-boned figure in his late thirties, with a sharp, decisive voice, had arrived soon after Jensen was delivered in custody. While waiting, he had chatted amiably with Knowles and Newbold, then was brought to the interview room.
Jensen, visibly distressed, looked directly at Cruz. “I need to talk with you alone. Can we do that?”
“Sure.” Cruz nodded. “That’s your privilege anytime. It’ll mean transferring you to—”
“No need for that,” Knowles interjected. “The rest of us will go, and leave you here. Okay with you, Sergeant?”
Ainslie answered, “Of course.” He collected all of the evidence and followed Knowles and Ruby Bowe out.
Jensen shifted uncomfortably in his seat; earlier his handcuffs had been removed. “How do we know they’re not listening?” he asked.
“Two reasons,” Cruz informed him. “One, there’s something called lawyer-client privilege. Two, if they listened and got caught, they’d face disciplinary action.” He paused, surveying his racquetball partner and new client. “You wanted to talk, so go ahead.”
Jensen took a deep breath and released it, hoping his muddled thoughts would clear. He was weary of concealment, and here and now at least he wanted to disclose the truth. Also, in whatever way the police had obtained the damned box, he decided, the blame was Cynthia’s. Long ago she’d led him to believe she would destroy it all. Instead, despite all he had done and risked to protect and aid her, she had kept it, and it had betrayed him. In return, he knew that he would hold true to a promise of his own.
Jensen looked up at Cruz and began, “You heard what they said just now. Well, Steve, those are my fingerprints on the gun, I guess those bullets really match, and on the tape you didn’t hear, it is my voice. So what do you think?”
“My strong impression,” Cruz answered, “is that you are in deep shit.”
“Actually,” Jensen said, “it’s deeper than you think.”
2
“I’m going to tell you everything,” Jensen said, still sitting in the Homicide interview room with Stephen Cruz.
As Jensen poured out his story, Cruz listened, his face trying to mask shock, incredulity, and finally resignation, yet not succeeding. At the end, after a long and thoughtful pause, he said, “Patrick, are you sure you’re not making all this up, that it isn’t just another no
vel you’re about to write? You’re not bouncing the plot off me to find out what I think?”
“There was a time when I might have done just that,” Jensen replied dolefully. “Unfortunately, every word is true.”
Jensen felt some relief that at least in this limited sense everything was out in the open. Even sharing seemed to ease the load he had carried alone for so long. Common sense, though, warned him that the feeling was an illusion. Cruz’s next words confirmed it.
“I’d say that your first need isn’t so much a lawyer, but a priest, or someone of that ilk to say a prayer.”
“That may come later if I get so desperate,” Jensen said. “Right now I have a lawyer, and what I want from you is the bottom line: Where do I stand? What should I aim for? What are my chances?”
“All right.” Cruz had risen from his chair and began to pace the length of the small room, glancing at Jensen as he talked. “According to what you’ve told me, you are heavily involved in the murders of five people. There’s your ex-wife and her man; and the guy in the wheelchair, Rice. Then there are Gustav and Eleanor Ernst, who were important people, and don’t think that doesn’t make a difference; also, that Ernst case is clearly murder one. Certainly for the Ernsts, and maybe also those first two people, you could face the death penalty. How’s that for a bottom line?”
Jensen started to speak, but Cruz silenced him with a gesture. “If you’d killed only your ex-wife and the man, I could have claimed it was a crime of passion and have you plead manslaughter, which, in cases where a firearm’s used, carries a maximum sentence of thirty years. Since you’d have had a clean record, I’d have argued for less and maybe got fifteen, even ten. But with those other two killings in the wings …” Cruz shook his head. “Those change everything.”