Wentworth pointed to a paragraph mentioning Carlos’s record of three arrests, two escapes, a reputation as a dashing cavalier. He’d obviously had no difficulty slipping past Canadian immigration. Presumably he was benefiting from some manner of cover-up by the LeGrand family. The likely engineer of that was Shawn Hamilton, still on the counsel bench, with his trademark deadpan look with its touch of misery, as if life had dealt him a hard hand.
Time to strategize must wait; court was in session and a young officer was testifying, in the stolid manner taught in the policing academies, as to her “attendance” at the scene of “an apparent collision between a vehicle and a tree.” Constable Gaynor and her partner “responded to a call issued at 3:15 hours” and arrived just as an ambulance pulled in. About twenty neighbours were milling around an Aston Martin and a badly wounded cypress.
Swerving tire marks scarred a driveway and described an S-shape on a lawn, allowing Constable Gaynor to conclude the brakes had been applied “in a forceful manner.” The impact crushed the right front fender and bent the passenger door. The sole occupant was fully dressed and shod but minus poncho, and was snoring behind an air bag. When aroused, he appeared to be intoxicated, and assistance was required to place him in the patrol car.
“I had conversations with several neighbours, and consequently proceeded on foot approximately two hundred metres to an address at 2 Lighthouse Lane, where I found the driveway gate open and one of three garage doors open as well. I was about to radio the major crimes unit for instructions when a motor vehicle braked in front of me with emergency equipment on.”
That was Detective Sergeant Henry Chekoff, unaccountably late in responding to the 911 call from Astrid Leich. More emergency vehicles, crime scene personnel. Gaynor’s account of the ensuing melee prompted images of a travelling carnival setting up at Lighthouse Lane. Two 911 calls four minutes apart, Chekoff slow to bring order from chaos, uniformed and forensics officers meandering up and down the street, getting in one another’s way.
Chekoff sent Gaynor back to the accident scene to help officers loop quarantine bunting around trees and fence posts. “The accused was transferred to a department vehicle, at which point I observed a Breathalyzer test being administered, after which he was taken away.”
“Your witness,” Abigail said.
“And do you know the result of that Breathalyzer test?” Arthur asked.
“Point two four, I believe.”
“Enough to bring an elephant to its knees, do you agree?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Intoxication at that level would manifest itself how?”
“Slowed reaction time, slurred speech, lack of coordination, impaired judgment.”
“Exactly. According to your telling, Mr. Brown couldn’t even walk unaided.”
“I would say he had difficulty, yes.”
“Double vision, nausea, tremors, memory loss, those are also indicia?”
“He’d be grossly impaired, sir.”
Given that Cud had found his way into the garage and taken the Aston Martin for a two-hundred-metre joyride, Arthur didn’t see much profit in portraying him as too immobilized to perform the basic tasks of murder. But it didn’t hurt to draw from Gaynor that Cud, when asked to produce his licence, dropped it, lost his footing while bending to retrieve it, toppled onto his face in the grass, and vomited.
Her partner added little. He’d patted the accused down, given him the customary warning, accompanied him to the police station. There, a further Breathalyzer was administered-point two three. Cud was booked and shown to a cell.
Arthur asked if Cud’s belongings were catalogued, and the officer checked his notes. “Wallet with eight dollars, sixty-three cents in pocket change, six Tylenol tablets, three Cuban cigars, one peace medallion, one half-smoked marijuana cigarette, and I think they removed his ring.”
“He was wearing a ring at the time?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t remember seeing it earlier.”
“Please describe it.”
“Gold or imitation gold, with a big oval stone, kind of yellowish-orange.”
“An opal.”
“Could be.”
Arthur nudged Wentworth to write all this down-he seemed inordinately fatigued. There was Vogel in the back, the old farmer bamboozled by Clearihue. Arthur didn’t know how to build that defence, a murder to abort a judgment. Clearihue lived a twenty-minute walk from Whynet-Moir, so there was opportunity and motive but not much more.
Detective Sergeant Chekoff took the oath. Bull-like, with a razor-resisting muzzle, a suit that hadn’t known pressing for a week. An old-style cop from the ranks, not a bad fellow, though an exemplar of the Peter Principle and out of his depth here.
Roused from bed by his dispatcher shortly after 3:00 a.m., he’d “jumped” into his car and “raced off” to 2 Lighthouse Lane. Given that Gaynor easily beat him there, this effort to imply he leaped buildings with a single bound seemed suspect-maybe he’d got lost or stopped for a coffee and doughnut. Two more detectives arrived on his heels and were directed to Astrid Leich’s home. Then came the forensics unit, another ambulance, two more patrol cars, sirens howling, neighbours congregating.
In the LeGrand manse the windows remained dark, only a few exterior lights burning. While officers fanned out along the deck and directed beams onto the rocky shore, Chekoff buzzed the front door. Twice. Three times. Then he was summoned to an area of the deck where a metal chair lay on its side. Officers were gaping down at a “human form, male, partially clad in a dressing gown.”
At this point Abigail began to thrust exhibits at Chekoff: pictures of the house exterior, the yard, the decks, the fallen chair, the sprawled body thirty feet below, shots of intrepid climbers lugging up the corpse on a stretcher. House plans, a landscape architect’s drawings, diagrams showing distances, elevations.
The fingerprint people went inch by inch over the railing and fallen chair but found nothing to place Cudworth near the critical area. Towels were seized from around the pool, as well as a bottle of Hennessy VSOP, nearly empty. Cud’s prints were lifted from the bottle and the door. No clothing strewn about, though Cud claimed he and Flo had stripped by the pool.
Chekoff made another fruitless effort to arouse someone, knocking and yelling, “Police!” Probably because he knew these were the diggings of local nobility, he’d shied away from radioing for a search warrant or attempting forced entry. Instead, he posted two guards on the grounds until morning.
Unfortunately, Chekoff’s only instructions to the constables, both rookies, were to forbid anyone leaving the house, and before he showed up again at 8:00 a.m. they’d let the maid and gardener in and given fawning admittance to Florenza’s father, Donat J. LeGrand, as well as an entire medical-legal entourage. Chekoff and his crime scene team were guided to a bedroom doorway where “I observed Ms. LeGrand in bed, apparently ill, and under treatment by a doctor and a nurse.” He did not venture in.
He was then led to a drawing room and introduced to “a lawyer named Shawn Hamilton, whom I identify as sitting right over there.” Shawn nodded, unsmiling. “As a result of that conversation, I did not make further inquiries of Ms. LeGrand, but I produced a search warrant and told them I intended to enforce same.”
That search turned up nothing but Cud’s cigar butt, overlooked by the maid, who had already done the living room, dining room, and tidied up what the caterers hadn’t. Assuming her employers were still abed, she hadn’t entered the main bedroom. The gardener was also on duty, raking leaves.
Chekoff looked uneasy as he related this fiasco, especially with Kroop muttering under his breath. Arthur could read his lips: “Nincompoop.” He caught the forewoman’s eye and couldn’t help smiling-but he felt sorry for Chekoff.
The sergeant next made inquiries of the Haitian maid, Philomene Rossignol, who escorted him to her suite. The bed had been tidily made and its linen washed. She’d set aside a backpack and male toiletries for whoever was the rightful claimant.