Harry and I, Tannery and the investigating detectives huddle this morning in Judge Coats’s chambers to gather the facts. Tannery’s face reveals that from the state’s perspective it is not good.
He has already delivered something to the judge in a sealed manila envelope. Printed on the front in large red block letters the words:
SDPD
POLICE EVIDENCE
Coats opens the envelope in front of us, removing the contents, what appears to be two printed pages, eight and a half by eleven. Coats holds them at an angle, reading.
The judge finishes one page, reads the other, only a few lines at the top, then places them facedown on the desk.
“Where did you find these?”
“They were in the victim’s printer, at his apartment,” says Tannery. “We dusted the pages for prints.”
“And?” says Coats.
“Nothing. The original document was in his computer.”
The judge would not have touched any of this, an open homicide investigation, suicide or not, except that the matter now threatens to wind up in the middle of a murder trial over which he is presiding.
“You haven’t shown this to Mr. Madriani, I take it?”
Tannery shakes his head.
“I think he should see it, don’t you?”
“I would question its admissibility,” says Tannery. “It’s not signed.”
“That may go more to the weight of the evidence,” says the judge.
“Your Honor. .” Tannery is not happy.
“Is there a legal reason we should not share this with counsel for the defense?” asks Coats.
“No,” says Tannery.
The judge hands me the document. Harry reads over my shoulder. For two days it has been rumored that there was a suicide note. Until now, we had not seen it. It is dated the third. I look at the calendar on the judge’s desk; the previous Thursday, the day Epperson died.
It is neatly typed, a few misspelled words. I quickly flip to the second page without reading all of it. Harry reaches over as if he isn’t finished. I want to check for a signature. Tannery is right. It is unsigned, but Epperson’s name is typed neatly in the center of the next page.
I flip back to the first page, and there in the center, two graphs down, is the bombshell, almost buried in the middle of a sentence, a confession by Epperson that he could no longer live with himself after having killed Kalista Jordan.
“Shit.” Harry says it out loud. The judge doesn’t bother to chastise him; I suspect because he is thinking the same thing.
“It’s a little too neat, Your Honor. The night before he’s to testify he hangs himself. It should not be allowed in.”
“What do you mean by ‘too neat’?” I ask.
“What he means is a tensioning tool, and cable ties, just like the ones in evidence, were found on the table by the computer in Epperson’s apartment.” The answer doesn’t come from Tannery, but from behind us. Jimmy de Angelo, the homicide dick in Kalista Jordan’s case, is seated on the judge’s tufted leather sofa, squeaking every time he moves.
Harry’s eyes get big as saucers. He turns to look at de Angelo. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. Defense lawyer’s wet dream,” says de Angelo. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble. There was just a little too much at the scene,” he says.
“That may be your argument,” says Harry.
“Where were you last night?” de Angelo asks him.
“I was busy with my partner working.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Enough,” says Coats.
“I would ask Mr. Madriani whether his client knows anything about this. But I don’t think there’s a need, seeing as he would be aware of the requirement that he disclose it. There is no attorney-client privilege for a felony in progress.”
He would ask, but he won’t, since he just has.
“Your Honor, my client knows nothing.”
“Yes, and if he did he wouldn’t tell you,” says de Angelo.
“It’s possible Mr. Epperson didn’t want any questions about the authenticity of the note,” I tell the judge. “So he left physical evidence along with it.” I’m referring to the cable ties and the tensioning tool.
“Then why didn’t he sign the note?” asks Tannery. “That would have been pretty good authentication. Could it be that whoever killed him couldn’t get him to cooperate?”
“You have evidence that it was murder?” I ask.
Tannery doesn’t respond.
“You say the note was still in the printer?”
De Angelo nods.
“There’s your answer.”
“Why didn’t he take it out?” asks de Angelo.
“We can debate why he did or didn’t do a lot of things,” says Harry. “A man about to string himself up is not always rational.”
“What about fingerprints?” I ask. “Did you find anybody else’s on the computer?”
“No.” De Angelo says it flatly, grudging response. “But anybody could have known about the tensioning tool. It’s in evidence. Been in all the papers, along with the cable ties.”
“Then Mr. Tannery can argue it to the jury,” I tell him. “The fact remains that without some perpetrator, a face and a name to hang on it, and somebody to tie that person to my client, Dr. Crone is going to walk and the state knows it. He was conveniently in jail at the time of Mr. Epperson’s death. Unless they can tie Epperson’s death to my client, that suicide note cries reasonable doubt.”
“What about the physical evidence at the scene?” asks the judge. “The area around the cross?”
“We found some tire marks that didn’t match the victim’s van,” says de Angelo. “We’re still trying to make a match. Checking them against tire impressions from some suspects.”
“What suspects?” asks Harry.
“Persons of interest” is all de Angelo will say. My guess is they are checking out anybody and everybody who’s had contact with Crone in the last months, jail inmates who have been released who rubbed shoulders with him inside, and people from the Genetics Center. The cops will be spending their nights wheeling every vehicle they can find through plaster of paris trying to make a match they can somehow tie to Crone.
“Have you checked the gardeners, the groundskeepers at the museum?” I ask.
De Angelo looks at me, not certain what I’m talking about.
“They probably drive the service roads in the park all the time. Have you checked their tires?”
“Not yet,” he says. “I’ll make a note.” He doesn’t write it down.
Coats wants to know if they have another witness for their offer of proof, somebody to verify Tanya Jordan’s testimony.
Tannery tells him he doesn’t.
Coats can give them a day, maybe two. My guess is Epperson was their case. Without a witness to verify the racial evidence, they have no motive for the killing. They have already given up on the twisted-romance theory, and now they are faced with a suicide note-cum-confession from Epperson.
“Your Honor.” De Angelo wades in. “This is screwy,” he says. “That this man would take his life like this.”
“Maybe he was afraid he couldn’t hold up under questioning,” I tell Coats. “He had an appointment in court, day of reckoning. Nothing strange about that.”
Coats considers his options. A long sigh.
“We have a problem,” he says. “I don’t like it, but if you can’t come up with another witness, evidence to corroborate, I’ll have to strike the woman’s testimony.”
Tannery starts to say something, but the judge holds up his hand. “No other choice,” he says. “It’s all hearsay. And I’m not sure it makes a lot of difference at this point.”
“What do you mean?” asks Tannery.
“I mean you’re holding a confession there. Unless you have some basis to show that it’s not what it purports to be, I can’t keep it out.” By this time Epperson’s suicide note has made the rounds back into Tannery’s hands. He holds it like some burning ember.
“I want a copy of that,” I tell him. “And I would like an order from the court that the state keep us informed of their investigation as it progresses. I’d like to know what other evidence they found at the scene. For example, fingerprints on the van? I saw them dusting it at the scene.”