The Clip Killer, page 10
The funny thing was, I didn’t believe everything Emerson was telling me, but I believed the story about his wife. I’d heard about her minor stroke a few weeks earlier, so I knew that much was true. But I also knew there was a lot he was leaving out. He’d been out of town when she was stricken, and the word around the courthouse was that he’d been in Aruba with a gorgeous and much younger girlfriend for a weekend getaway following a five-day conference of trial attorneys in Miami. Apparently they were staying at a remote resort with private beaches, and Emerson hadn’t bothered taking along his cell phone that morning as the two of them went off for a day in the sun. So the resort had to send out an employee with a message for him to phone home, and the staffer reportedly came upon Emerson and his lady friend frolicking in the surf, both of them sans swimsuits.
So once again I knew more about Emerson than I was letting on. And once again I decided to let him think I was none the wiser.
Meanwhile, he had the same look he sometimes gets in court after closing arguments. It’s an expression of confidence, satisfaction and finality, like he’s said everything there is to say, and now there’s nothing more to do but sit back and wait for a favorable verdict from the jury. Which in this case was a jury of one, me.
Instead I asked, “Mr. Emerson, where’s your son this morning?”
“Excuse me?” he said with surprise, and for the first time since we sat down his expression seemed genuine. Honestly, I think he’d been expecting me to start gushing about what a great husband and father he was, and maybe even to shed a few sympathetic tears of my own.
I simply repeated, “Where’s your son this morning? And how come he’s not here with you now? You’ve come to see me and to speak on his behalf, which is commendable. But I’m also wondering why he’s not here, too.”
I was watching him closely, and it took only a few seconds to get the reaction I was looking for. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and it was like he’d suddenly figured out that I wasn’t going to be a pushover after all. Hence his plan to win me over with affecting words and a grieving expression was out the window, and now he was scrambling to think of something more plausible to say.
And with all the time in the world, I just waited.
Finally he said, “Well, I believe he had other business today. The last few weeks he’s been very busy with work.”
It was a ridiculous response and I wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. Our eyes remained locked for several seconds and then I cocked my head questioningly. I didn’t believe him, and it was important that he knew I didn’t believe him.
Sensing his error, he said quickly, “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Crowley. It would’ve been much better if he was here, too, and I see that now. If you’d like, I can call and have him join us. He could probably be here in about 20 minutes. Would that help?”
I paused as if considering his offer, but then shook my head.
“I can always call him later if necessary,” I told him. “But since you’re here now, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
He sat back in his chair and eyed me warily. “What kind of questions?”
“Well, for starters, where was your son the night before last?”
I didn’t go into detail. I didn’t have to. I was obviously asking where Harland Emerson Jr. had been on the night Jenna Tomlinson was attacked.
He was frowning now, and for a few seconds I couldn’t be sure if he was jogging his memory or merely stalling again, this time to concoct a convincing lie.
Finally he said, “I can’t tell you.”
It was my turn to frown. “You can’t tell me?” I asked. “Or you won’t tell me?”
“I can’t tell you because I don’t know,” he said curtly, and his eyes flashed with real anger.
“My son is an adult, Mr. Crowley,” he went on. “He has a life of his own. Yes, I’m his father, but that doesn’t mean I know where he is at all hours. We see each other at the office most days, and he usually joins my wife and me for dinner once or twice a week. But the rest of the time he lives his own life. As, I might add, he should. I love my son very much, Mr. Crowley, but I understand and respect that he has a need for privacy in his personal life.”
Of course you do, I thought. Like father, like son.
We spent the next several seconds just looking at each other like two kids in a staredown. I’m not sure who blinked first, but it was Emerson who broke the silence.
“Mr. Crowley, let me be frank,” he said. “I obviously know of my son’s history with Cathy Hyde, the young woman who was killed last week. But as regrettable as his involvement in that earlier incident was, I also know how easy it is for people in the media like yourself, not to mention the police, to rush to judgment and assume that somehow a long-ago mistake on my son’s part should now make him a primary suspect in Ms. Hyde’s tragic death. Or for that matter, in the assault that occurred two nights ago.
“But since that seems to be where you’re going with these questions, let me tell you unequivocally that my son had nothing to do with either of those terrible attacks. And if you persist in investigating him, you’ll simply be wasting your time.”
“How can you be so sure, Mr. Emerson?” I asked.
“Because I know my son,” he shot back.
By now his attitude had changed completely. He was no longer fidgety, sentimental or on the verge of tears. He was flat-out mad, and I knew that because his face was suddenly flushed. I could just make out the pink beneath the residual tan from his Aruba vacation.
“I must say, Mr. Crowley, that I don’t appreciate either your questions or your attitude,” he said pointedly. “You’re suggesting that my son was somehow involved in these incidents, and it’s an insinuation I greatly resent. Yes, he had some problems a few years ago, as was reported excessively and sensationally by the Press-Tribune — and, more to the point, by you personally — and those stories were a source of great anguish and embarrassment for my family. But he’s put all that behind him now. He’s been sober for several years, he’s got his personal life in order, and at this point he cares too much about his career to ever get involved in that kind of trouble again.”
Emerson’s sarcastic chiding of the Press-Tribune — and, more to the point, of me personally — was almost enough to make me laugh out loud. His son’s legal problems got exactly the news coverage they deserved, and it was absurd for him to suggest otherwise.
I was about to tell him so, too, but I never got the chance. Because the moment I opened my mouth he cut me off.
“Aside from the earlier incident involving Ms. Hyde,” he said, “can I ask why you think my son should be a suspect in these cases?”
“You can ask, but I won’t answer,” I replied. “Not yet anyway.”
I thought that might get his goat and I was right. Because in the space of two seconds his expression went from a frown to an outright scowl. Emerson’s a man of enormous power and prestige, not to mention ego, and he’s accustomed to deference from subordinates, which in his world includes pretty much everyone. He certainly wasn’t used to being told no by inferiors like me.
In fact, he opened his mouth to put me in my place, but this time it was my turn to cut him off.
“Your son is being investigated by the police, Mr. Emerson, and you’re welcome to question them about their findings,” I said. “Of course, whether they talk to you or not is up to them. But as for my own investigation, those findings are confidential. And at this point I’m not yet ready to share them with you or with anyone else.”
He didn’t like that remark either, and I could tell because the color in his face promptly went from pink to rosy red. Indeed, he had the look of someone about to explode which, I’ll admit, I was sort of hoping to see. Emerson might be a model of poise and decorum in the courtroom, but I had a hunch his private demeanor was different. In fact, I was wondering just how many more of his buttons I’d have to push to make him go off.
But as I was sitting there trying to think of something else to say that might make him snap, a funny thing happened. As I watched his face relaxed, his flush receded, and the angry glare in his eyes faded to a cool, calculating look. He was back to being the savvy lawyer, and I had no doubt that his nimble brain was once more at work.
“I believe you told me earlier that the police have other suspects,” he said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So the fact that you haven’t already written a story about my son, and likewise the fact the police haven’t already arrested him, it would seem that no one’s come up with any strong evidence against him. Or, for that matter, against any of the other suspects either, which is why the investigation is still continuing. Is that also correct?”
I said nothing, which he seemed to take as a confirmation.
“Then I’m also going to assume there’s nothing whatsoever that links my son to these recent crimes other than the earlier incident involving Ms. Hyde. Which is really no link at all. In fact, it’s entirely speculative. And a good attorney” — he smiled, no doubt thinking of himself — “would have little trouble tearing that case to shreds.”
Well, your son also dated Jenna Tomlinson, I thought. But since I wasn’t sure he knew about that, and since I’d just finished vowing to keep my findings confidential, I remained silent.
Meanwhile, he was still smiling at me. It was only a slight smile, but there was no mistaking its meaning. In a showdown of wits, Emerson knew that I was no match for him and he wanted to make sure I knew it, too, my earlier gibes and petulance notwithstanding.
He went on regarding me for another few seconds before sitting forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the table and saying in an even voice, “Mr. Crowley, I want to be very clear about something. I understand the importance of a free press. I also understand that you and others in the media have a job to do. So believe me, none of that is in dispute. But there’s something else I want to be very clear about and at this point you need to listen carefully. Because I’m telling you here and now that if you malign my son in one of your news stories — and I’m talking about libel, as defined by law — I’m coming after you. Even if your reporting only strays into a gray area, be forewarned, I’m still coming after you.
“Take my word, Mr. Crowley, you don’t want that to happen. Because if it does, your professional reputation and the reputation of this newspaper will be in my hands. And I can promise you that won’t be a good place to be. Not for the Press-Tribune and certainly not for you.”
By now he was wagging a finger at me. Clean and manicured, to be sure, but menacing nonetheless.
“You should also understand that court cases are never personal for me,” he said. “During a trial, and even during the many proceedings leading up to a trial, I always do my best to provide the highest level of representation for my clients, which is why I never allow personal feelings to interfere with my work. My legal reputation is one of absolute integrity and decency, and that type of pettiness is, quite frankly, beneath me.
“But this will be different, Mr. Crowley. I’m putting you on notice that my family is out of bounds, and you need to remember that before you engage in any reckless or egregious reporting involving my son. If that should happen, I can assure you that I will respond swiftly, vigorously and without leniency or restraint. Because at that point, Mr. Crowley, it will be personal.”
By this time he’d stopped wagging his finger, but he kept it out there like a weapon aimed at my heart.
“Very personal,” he said.
CHAPTER 10
Two minutes later I walked Emerson to the door. And, no, he didn’t shake my hand on the way out either.
Back at my desk I sat for a time, thinking about our conversation. And it didn’t take me long to realize that his threats, pointed though they were, were mostly bluster. Every first-year journalism student knows what libel is, and at that point in my career I could pretty much recite the statutory definition verbatim. If I ended up writing about his son — which was by no means certain, as I’d tried to make clear — I’d make sure that my reporting was accurate, fair and, above all, legally defensible.
Moreover, even if he kept his vow to come after me I wouldn’t be going it alone. The Press-Tribune is represented by the prestigious Seattle law firm of McIntosh and Associates, and to the best of my knowledge we’d never been on the losing end of a libel lawsuit. A few folks have tried over the years, but our legal team has always been able to get the cases dismissed or, in one instance, taken to trial where the result was a favorable verdict for the paper (the plaintiffs later appealed, but the appellate court didn’t grant a hearing and thus it died).
Bottom line, Emerson’s menacing words weren’t going to stop me from doing my job. I wasn’t going to forget our little chat, but I wasn’t going to fret about it either.
And with that in mind, I reached for my notepad.
My plan was to spend the day working the phone, which is a tedious but essential part of my job. Being an investigative reporter might seem exciting, even glamorous, but that perception is only about 10 percent true. Yes, there are adrenalin-filled moments, but there’s far more drudgery. Like phone work, which is probably the most mundane thing I do. But it’s also one of the most important things I do. The foundation of good reporting is good information, and the phone is simply the most efficient and practical way of getting it.
I took a few moments to list the calls I wanted to make on my notepad, and then got ready to check them off one by one.
The first call was to Al DiPietro. He surprised me by answering right away, but said he was just wrapping something up and asked if he could call me back, which he did about five minutes later. I asked for an update on the police investigation and he obliged, both on and off the record. On the record he said his detectives were making progress, but their findings were confidential for now. Off the record he admitted they hadn’t come up with much, though not for lack of trying. They’d been over all three crime scenes and had interviewed dozens of people who knew the victims. Alas, they’d still come up with no solid leads and no good suspects.
He also said the homicide division was reeling from the mistaken and highly embarrassing arrest of Benny Walser, with word coming down from the top — including a stern missive from SPD Chief Roger (Rex) Belinsky — to avoid any similar missteps.
“We’ve been told to find the killer and to quit screwing up,” DiPietro grumbled. “Great advice, huh?”
Wanting to be helpful, I related my conversation with Shirley Tomlinson the day before, and specifically her mention of the three men who’d once been in relationships with her daughter. In her opinion, I told him, all three men were capable of committing a violent act against Jenna.
“Guess who one of them is,” I said.
“I don’t like guessing games, Crowley,” he replied sharply. “Just tell me.”
“Harland Emerson Jr.”
“Hmmm. I guess we’re going to have to talk to him,” DiPietro said, and he fell silent. I figured he was making a note to himself.
Then he asked, “What about the other two?”
“I don’t have their names,” I said. “One is a former football player and the other is a mixed martial arts fighter. Mrs. Tomlinson can tell you who they are.”
“OK, I’ll check with her.”
I waited for him to tell me thanks, but I guess he had too much on his mind for any expressions of gratitude. So I asked about the rest of his day and he told me the cops would be doing additional interviews with family and friends of the three victims. Someone out there knew something, he said, and now it was just a matter of finding the right person. And the sooner the better, he added wryly.
I wished him luck and asked if I could check back later in the afternoon. He said sure and we hung up.
My next call was to Shirley Tomlinson, who’d given me her cell number at the hospital the day before. She also answered right away and we chatted for about five minutes. She said that Jenna’s condition was unchanged. It was a relief that her daughter was no worse, she told me, but also discouraging that she was no better.
“But I’m not giving up,” Mrs. Tomlinson said, sounding weary and emotional. “Because one of these days she’s going to open her eyes and talk to me, I just know she is.”
“Keep believing that,” I said. “Because I believe it, too.”
I also mentioned that I was planning to stop by the hospital again the next day. I figured she could use another dose of moral support, and the immediacy of her reply — “Yes, please come” — told me I was right.
We said good-bye and I checked another name off my list.
With those two calls out of the way, I was ready to start on my story about the Clip Killer’s victims. When Harvey and I discussed it earlier in the week, there’d only been two victims. Now there were three, but the story idea was still the same. I’d be interviewing family and friends of Julie Bedard, Cathy Hyde and Jenna Tomlinson, and then putting together a single article profiling all three. Since initial crime stories often have scant information about the victims — they typically include only the names, ages and hometowns — I thought it was important to portray these women in a more personal and comprehensive way. And to do so, I’d lean heavily on the words of those who knew them best.
I began by calling the nursing supervisor at the Renton hospital where Cathy Hyde had worked. We talked for about 10 minutes and for the first minute she was fine. She spent the remaining nine minutes sniffling and crying as she recalled a woman who was, she said, “a wonderful nurse and the sweetest, most caring person in the world. She shouldn’t have had an enemy in the world, and it just makes no sense that someone would do this to her.”
I jotted her comments on my notepad, knowing they’d add poignancy to my story.
Over the next few hours I made other calls, including two to people who were close to Jenna. Shirley Tomlinson had given me the names of the studio owner where Jenna had recently begun working as an acting instructor, and a fellow actress who also happened to be one of the women Jenna was with on the night of the attack. The latter, whose name was Nora Felber, was likewise tearful as she said, “Jenna is the most amazing person I know. I just can’t imagine something like this happening to her. Thank heavens she’s still alive.”
