A Death In Beverly Hills, page 34
"Detective Katz, you have been a police officer for over thirty years, correct?"
"Yes," Katz answered, a hint of prided leaking into his voice.
"And you have been a detective for over sixteen years?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you have been a homicide detective for more than twelve years?"
"Yes."
"You have investigated hundreds of homicides in your career?"
"Yes, I have."
"In fact, you are one of the LAPD's most experienced homicide detectives aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"And you believe that Tom Travis murdered his wife?"
The D.A. stared at Markham as if he had lost his mind. Why would he want the jury to hear Katz's opinion that Travis was guilty?
Katz paused a moment, also confused. "Yes, I do," he answered finally.
"And you think he personally killed her?"
The judge looked at Hamilton but if Burris thought the D.A. was going to object, he had another think coming.
"Yes, I do."
"Did you ever seriously think that Tom Travis had paid or conspired with someone else to have them commit the crime?"
Where the Hell was Markham going? Hamilton wondered.
"No," Katz admitted.
"Why not?"
Katz was confused but mentally shrugged and began to explain. "If Mr. Travis had arranged for someone else to commit the crime he would have made sure to give himself an alibi for the time of the murder. He would have made sure that the body was found right away and that at the time of death he had witnesses to prove that he was a hundred miles away."
"Out in the desert riding a dune buggy at the time she was killed in Beverly Hills or Marina Del Rey or some other place far away from the desert?"
"Something like that," Katz agreed.
"But in fact, Mr. Travis has no alibi at all because the body was hidden and by the time it was discovered it was impossible to determine the exact time of death."
"Yes."
"Do you believe that she was killed the day she disappeared, December 31st?"
"Yes."
"But you can't be certain?"
"No."
"All right. Is there another reason why you don't believe that Tom Travis conspired with someone else to kill his wife?"
Katz paused but when there was no objection, he forged ahead. "Because the body was discovered in the desert near where Mr. Travis was known to have been on the day in question."
"You're saying that if Tom Travis had used someone else to kill is wife, he would have made sure that the body was dumped anyplace other than two miles away from where he was known to be that day?"
"Yes."
"So, to summarize, based on your years of experience as both a police officer and as a homicide detective and your familiarity with this case, either Tom Travis personally killed his wife or he had nothing to do with her death?"
"Objection, misstates the witness's testimony."
Burris gave Markham a long look, then did something that completely surprised the defense attorney.
"Overruled."
Startled by the Judge's ruling in his favor, for an instant Markham just stood there then looked at the witness. "Detective?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" Markham asked, pushing it.
"Yes, it's my opinion that either Tom Travis killed his wife himself, or he wasn't involved at all."
Hamilton gave Katz a dirty look and bent over his legal pad where he wrote "Idiot" five times.
"Let's talk about the Travis house. You personally investigated that house, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Good locks?"
"Very good locks."
"In the movies burglars seem to be able to pick locks at will. Could these locks be picked."
"Not easily."
"And if the locks were picked, would there be evidence of that?"
"Almost certainly."
"Scratches, pick marks?"
"Yes."
"And did you examine the locks on the Travis house for scratches or pick marks?"
"Yes. There were none at all."
What the Hell was Markham doing? Hamilton wondered.
"So, if anyone entered the Travis house on the day in question, they almost certainly used a key?"
"Without any doubt."
Markham scratched his head, looked at the jury, and repeated, "Without any doubt. . . . Is there a gate across the driveway at the Travis house?"
"Yes, a full steel gate, eight feet high."
"How is it operated."
"At the sidewalk is a kiosk where you can turn a key which will slide the gate back with electric motors. Inside the wall is a button that closes the gate. The same key operates a door in the fence and also opens the front and back doors to the house itself."
"One key opens both gates and both the front and back doors?"
"Yes. The gate can also be opened and closed with a remote control device like a garage door opener. Other remote control buttons for the gate are mounted inside and outside the front door as well as the one near the gate itself."
"The remote devices you mentioned, I assume, are for the vehicles, so that when Mr. Travis drove home in his Hummer, he would just press a button and the gate would open and once inside, he would press the button again and the gate would close behind him. Correct?"
"Yes."
"And in fact," Markham turned and headed for the defense table where his assistant handed him a sheaf of papers. Markham dropped one copy on the D.A.'s table and then approached the witness. "I have here the official police inventory of Mr. Travis's Hummer. If I may, Your Honor?"
Burris waved his approval and Markham handed the document to the witness.
"On page two, item seventeen -- what's that?"
"Gate remote control opening device," Katz read.
"And there was a similar device in Ms. Travis's SUV?"
"I'm sure there was."
"Hmmmm," Markham mumbled and picked up a second set of documents, again handing a copy to the D.A. "Detective Katz, I have here the official police inventory list for Ms. Travis's SUV. It seems very complete, even to the point of listing an empty Diet Coke can found in the back. Is such careful attention to detail standard practice?"
Hamilton's antennae began to vibrate and he hurriedly began leafing through his own copy of the list.
"Yes, it is."
"I thought so. Tell me, then, Detective Katz, why is it that no remote control gate opener is listed as having been found in Ms. Travis's vehicle?" Markham handed Katz the list. Simon scanned the pages rapidly, reached the end, then went back to the beginning. Markham made no effort to hurry him.
Finally, clearly frustrated, Katz looked up from the report. "It's not here."
"No, it's not. Do you think the LAPD was so sloppy that the technicians noted every detail of that vehicle down to an empty soda can and just missed the remote control gate opener?"
"No," Katz said emphatically.
"I agree with you. I don't think the police missed it, especially since they noted a similar device in Mr. Travis's car. Like you, Detective, I think it's not on that list because it was taken from the vehicle."
"Your Honor, counsel is testifying."
"Ask a question, Mr. Markham."
"Ms. Travis's car was found at the Beverly Center mall, correct?"
"Yes."
"Are there surveillance cameras in the parking area of that mall?"
"Yes, but the coverage is incomplete."
"In fact, her Escalade was parked in one of few places in that lot where it cannot be seen by the cameras, correct?"
"Yes," Katz admitted.
"As the investigating detective, do you think that was a coincidence?"
"Cops don't believe in coincidences."
"So, you think the killer deliberately parked her car in that location so that he would not be captured on film?"
"I think that's likely."
"All right. Let's see where we are. You tell me when, in your expert opinion, you disagree. The killer used a key to enter the Travis property." Markham paused and looked at Katz and when Katz made no objection, he continued. "The killer used a key to enter the Travis house." Another pause. "The killer murdered Marian Travis and wanting to divert suspicion and lead the police in the wrong direction, he drove Ms. Travis's SUV to the mall. . . . He deliberately parked in an area out of range of the cameras. . . . He removed the gate remote control device from her Escalade so that he could easily gain entrance back into the Travis home without having to stop and use the key on the exterior lock. . . . He somehow, cab, bus, rental car, bicycle, whatever, got himself back to the Travis house where he pressed the button on the remote control device. The gate opened and he entered the property. . . . Then he loaded Marian and her daughter, Sarah, into another vehicle, and drove away. Is that your view of the case, Detective?"
"If the other vehicle is Mr. Travis's Hummer, yes."
"What happened to the remote?"
"I don't understand."
"Mr. Travis's Hummer already had a remote. He no longer needed Marian's if he was the killer. Did you find Marian's remote in the house?"
"No."
"But you searched the house?"
"Yes."
"Thoroughly?"
"Yes, but he could have thrown her remote away."
"Or a killer other than Tom Travis could have used the remote to open the gate for his vehicle when he left with the bodies."
"Objection, Your Honor. Speculation."
"Sustained. Move on."
Markham glanced at his Number Two at the defense table in case he had missed something and got a little head shake back. Greg picked up his pad and scanned his topic list then looked at the clock. It was only three-thirty. Too soon. Markham turned back to Katz and stared, puzzled.
Katz's eyes were unfocused, his stare blank. Had he just had a stroke? The detective's attention seemed a million miles away. Suddenly Katz picked up the SUV report and started flipping the pages.
There it was near the bottom of the last page. "Trace of yellow paint on the rear driver's side seat belt anchor bolt." What was it Markham had said -- somehow or other the killer had gotten back to the mansion from the mall parking lot. He had mentioned a bicycle. There were no yellow bicycles at the Travis house. But there was . . . . Are you crazy? he asked himself. It's not your job to help the defense. But he couldn't get Janson's smug face out of his head. You ignored the evidence, old man, and you let the real killer get away with it. He had never knowingly ignored evidence and never, ever, would he allow a guilty person to go free. Katz looked at Hamilton. Never volunteer, that was the rule. Shit!
"May I see the inventory for the search of Mr. Travis's garage?" Katz asked. Markham hesitated then nodded to his assistant. Katz ignored the D.A.'s angry stare and paged through the report. There it was.
"You asked me something about how the killer got from the mall back to the house?" Katz asked.
It was now Markham's turn to be confused. What was going on here? Well, he needed to find some way to stall . . . . "Yes, Detective, do you have an opinion about how the killer got from the mall parking lot back to the Travis house?"
"Yes, I do."
From day one lawyers were taught never to ask a hostile witness a question to which the lawyer didn't already know the answer. Too late now.
"What is that opinion?"
"The lab found traces of yellow paint on a bolt in the back of Ms. Travis's SUV." Katz held out the report and pointed to the entry.
"Yes, I see it. Please continue."
"The report of the search of Mr. Travis's garage lists a yellow dirt bike, a small motorcycle."
"Small enough to fit into the back of Ms. Travis's Escalade?"
"I think so. We'll need to measure it to be sure."
"Your Honor, the defense requests a recess so that Mr. Hamilton and Detective Katz and myself can visit the Travis house, inspect the dirt bike for scratches, measure it, and take a paint sample for comparison by the police crime lab. We can report back tomorrow morning, hopefully with a stipulation as to what was found."
Burris frowned. He didn't like surprises this late in a trial. Still. . . .
"Very well," he said reluctantly, "Court's adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Mr. Hamilton, you and Mr. Markham come up with a stipulation on what you find."
Katz walked back to the D.A.'s table.
"Are you out of your mind?" Hamilton demanded. "What the hell did you think you were doing going off on your own like that?"
"You don't get it, Ted. That motorcycle . . . ."
"Yeah?"
"It's no good without a key. If the jury believes that the killer rode the bike back to the house, then the only guy who could have done that is the one guy with a key. Tom Travis."
For the first time that afternoon, Ted Hamilton began to relax.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Greg had investigators from the Foster Agency sitting on Barry McGee to make sure that he didn't decide to skip the state. Steve wasn't worried. He figured McGee couldn't wait to get back on the stand and be the center of attention not to mention having another chance to twist the blade in Tom Travis's heart. Steve's only task tomorrow was getting Delfina to court and making sure she and McGee did not meet. Other than that he was at loose ends. Tonight he drank his beer in front of the TV watching an old episode ofBabylon V.
He had just drained the bottle when a knock sounded on his front door. Steve checked the peephole and pulled it wide. Carlos Arriaga in a black t-shirt and jeans stood nervously in the hall.
"Carlos? Come on in. What's up?" Arriaga fiddled with a scrap of paper then shoved it into his pants. "You want a beer?"
Carlos nervously shook his head. "No thanks. . . I didn't have your phone," he said uneasily, pulling out the scrap of paper again, "just your address from the sign-up sheet." Steve took the easy chair and Carlos settled into the couch. "The league's cancelled Thursday's games, in respect, you know."
"In respect? What do you mean? What's happened?"
"You didn't hear?"
"Hear what?"
Carlos shifted uneasily. "It was Mike," he said and looked away.
"Mike Leahy? What happened?" Instantly Steve wondered if, overcome with alcohol or depression or both, Mike had eaten his gun.
"God damn bastards!" Carlos cursed and glared. "They shot him, they just shot him down like a dog!" His fist made a muffled THUMP against the sagging cushion.
"What happened?"
"It was a routine traffic stop. Mike was driving by and saw a Chippy had stopped a car full of gangbangers so he pulled over as backup. It wasn't even his collar. Then it all went to shit. Maybe they figured Mike was bringing a warrant or that he had recognized them, who knows what passes through their excuses for brains. Mike got out of his unit and when he was five feet from the bastards one of them pulled out a nine and went Dodge City. Mike's vest stopped most of the slugs but one round caught him in his neck and he bled out right there on the asphalt."
Carlos cleared his throat and looked away. After a few seconds he was able to continue. "The Chippy blew up two of them and the other two hit the deck. The son of a bitch who killed Mike is still sucking air in the jail ward at County. I'd like to go down there," Arriaga said with sudden heat, "and stick my piece up against that bastard's head . . . ." but when he saw the sick look on Steve's face he shut his mouth. "Sorry," Carlos said finally.
"Yeah."
Carlos sat there for another five or ten seconds, staring at this hands, then stood. "Anyway . . . ." he held out his hand. "The service is Saturday at ten at St. Marks."
"The guys won't mind if I . . . ."
"You're part of the family," Carlos said, gripping Steve's shoulder. "You took care of business when you had to."
"Don't say that!" Steve almost shouted, pulling back.
"I didn't mean . . . ." Carlos waved his hands.
"You don't know what it's like," Steve muttered, talking to himself as much as to Arriaga. "You think you do, but it's the stuff you don't expect. . . ." He looked up and saw only confusion on Arriaga's face. "You remember things, the sound the bullet makes when it goes through the bone, the smell of hot blood cooking off the lead, the little pieces of brain that stick to your shirt and you want to get rid of them but you don't want to touch them because you know what they are." Suddenly he grabbed Carlos's shoulder. "You think you're ending something, closing a door, but it's just the beginning of something worse. As much as you try to make the memories go away, they won't!"
Carlos looked into Janson's face and took a step back.
"You know the last thing Mike said to me? 'Anger and fear will do terrible things to a man. They'll burn him up from the inside out.'" Steve put his hand back on Arriaga's shoulder. "You've got to let it go, Carlos, before it makes you crazy."
"Yeah, sure," Arriaga said uneasily, stepping away and looking at his watch. "Well, I gotta go. I just wanted to make sure you knew, about Mike."
"Yeah," Steve agreed in an emotionless voice. "Thanks. Mike was a stand-up guy. . . . So, Saturday, St. Marks?"
"Right."
"I can't wear my uniform, you know, after . . . ."
"Yeah, that's okay. Mike won't mind." Awkwardly, they shook hands and a moment later Carlos was gone.
Steve sat on the couch and thought back to the last conversation he had had with Mike Leahy. What was it Mike had said? "Fear does awful things to a man. It makes him do things he shouldn't do and afraid to learn what he needs to know."
Steve glanced at the desk drawer, the repository of rubber bands and cellophane tape and three by five cards and an eight and a half by eleven manila envelope with Lynn's autopsy report inside. And the card Lynn had left for him on that terrible day. It would be so easy to just toss them both in the trash. Or, he could read them. Or, he could continue to do nothing.
What are you afraid of? he heard Mike saying, a tough guy like you.
I'll make you deal, Mike, a little voice inside Steve seemed to say, If we get that bastard who murdered Marian, if we get Sarah back alive, I'll read the damn reportand the card both.
Bargaining with a ghost? Steve asked himself. Negotiating with God? Trying to give yourself an excuse to stop living in fear? Or stop living a lie?
